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Jimin liked this time of night - 3am, when it was dark and quiet. By this time, the guards were half asleep at their posts, and he could practically move undetected, like a shadow slipping past in their peripheral vision. He barely made a sound as he slid between the museum’s large wooden doors, and past all the exhibitions he’s already seen.
He’d heard there was a new display near the back, something about recently-discovered 18th century paintings. Of course, he’s been throughout the 1700s almost a million times - seen a few revolutions, attended a few Bach symphonies, and has probably watched enough Go competitions in Japan to replay each and every players’ moves on the board. But with each discovery came with a new experience, and it wasn’t like he had anything else to do.
He made his way through the familiar halls, following the signs with the words, “New Exhibit” in calligraphic lettering. Eventually, he was led to a room that was filled with pieces portraying gardens, castles, and forests. But at the very centre was the portrait of a (handsome, he wasn’t gonna lie) young man, standing in the courtyard of a palace, in typical royal clothing with a sword fastened to his hip. The title read: KNJ, (Oil on Canvas, 1789) , credited to an unknown artist.
“KNJ,” Jimin mumbled, reaching through the protective glass casing and feeling the texture of the paint under his fingertips. He brushes his fingers of the image of the sword, and under further inspection, notices the smudged script of the words, “K-- N-mjoon” along the hilt.
K Something-joon… K Namjoon? Kim… Namjoon? He works out in his head, and he figures it would have to do for now. He’d find out when he got there.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed his hand against the portrait, slowly feeling himself sinking through the canvas like he’s done a thousand times.
When he opens his eyes, he finds himself on the steps of a palace he’s never seen before. There’s a botanical garden as far as the eye can see, with the spare fountain here and there, birds and other wildlife high and low. It’s peaceful, and he could probably live in a place like this had it not been for the fact that there’s zero sanitary precautions and there’s nothing to do but read books and watch duels.
“Who are you?” He hears a voice ask from behind him, and as he turns around, he’s met with the form of the young man in the portrait, himself.
“Oh, hi! Nice to finally meet you, you’re Kim Namjoon, right?” Jimin asks with a smile.
“Where do you come from? How do you know my name?” Namjoon questions, one hand gripping the sword on his hip.
“Enough about me, let’s talk about you,” as Jimin takes a step towards him, Namjoon takes a cautious step back. “Are you real? I don’t think you’re real, because I would’ve read about you somewhere. Also you’re really hot. People in the 1700s were really ugly, but you’re not, so you’re probably somebody’s dream guy.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Jimin shrugs, “You’re really cute, though.”
“You have spoken a considerable amount, but have answered none of my questions.”
“I get that a lot.”
Drawing his sword, Namjoon places the tip of the blade just below Jimin’s chin. “As prince and future king of this land, I demand you to respond to my inquiries.”
Jimin paused. This was the part where he got to have fun.
“... And if I don’t?” He asks slyly, his wide grin directly contrasting Namjoon’s intense glare.
“Guards!” Namjoon calls, and in less than a second, two men in heavy armor grabs him by the arms and drags him into the palace.
-
For one thing, Jimin’s never been in a dungeon before, so that’s a first. He was placed in a wooden chair, tied to it with chains around his chest and ankles. Now, he could very, very easily escape this situation by stepping out of the portrait, but where was the fun in that?
Namjoon and the two guards stood before him, Namjoon with his chest puffed out in an attempt to make himself bigger and more important. Jimin would laugh in his face had it not been for the fact that he had just let him tie him up.
“I’m going to ask you questions,” Namjoon says slowly, as if Jimin had trouble comprehending. “If you answer them, you’ll be fine. If you don’t, my guards will hurt you. Is that clear?”
“Sounds kinky,” Jimin states, but the smile is instantly wiped off his face when a fist swiftly makes contact with his stomach.
“Holy fuck, you weren’t kidding,” Jimin groans, doubling over. “Mother of God, this is like BDSM on crack.”
“I’m not going to ask you what that means,” Namjoon says, “But I will ask you, once again, your name, where you come from, and why you’re here.”
Sighing, Jimin figures he could tell the truth. After all, it wasn’t like he was ever going to see these people again.
“My name is Park Jimin,” he begins, “Born in the year 1995, about two hundred years from now. Here because I can’t die, so I hop around time periods and hang with people who are already dead, before they die. It really makes the years fly by, you know what I mean?”
“You’re lying,” Namjoon says. “That isn’t possible, you’re lying.”
“I really wish I was,” Jimin responds, “But at the same time, I don’t. Imagine if I was born in 1766 and had to speak in a posh accent like you all. I’d literally lose my mind.”
Namjoon momentarily falls silent, eyes scanning every inch of Jimin’s being. Jimin thinks that this is probably the part where they accuse him of witchcraft, drag him out to the city square in a brown bag and burn him at the stake. In that case, he’s ready to pull a disappearing trick at any moment.
He’s pulled out of his witch-burning daydreams when Namjoon says, “You both are dismissed,” and the guards bow and leave. Namjoon waits a few moments after their footsteps disappear, before taking a step closer and kneeling in front of Jimin.
“So you are a time traveller,” Namjoon whispers. “You can really traverse through time?”
“Yes, I said that already, why are you whispering like it’s a secret-”
“That’s amazing,” Namjoon says, and Jimin almost gets whiplash.
“... What?”
“That’s amazing,” he repeats, “To be able to visit any year you want? To witness the rise and fall of Rome, to experience the intricacy that is the history of East Asia, to have the capability to know what the future holds right there in your very hands… that’s a dream of mine.”
In that very moment, Jimin forgets everything he’s learned. Every rule, every warning, every lesson goes out the window. He should know better - because he does - but critical thinking escapes him in an instant.
Smiling, he says, “Have you ever been to Tokyo?”
-
Ilsan, 2018
He’s been to just about every corner of the world a million times over. Nothing changes except the day, the month, or the year, and just about nothing is brand new to him. However, with Namjoon by his side, it feels as if he’s seeing the world through fresh eyes.
There’s a certain spark in Namjoon’s eyes akin to that of a kid seeing snow for the first time. Everything he sees, he falls in love with. Jimin had never seen someone be so fascinated with the concept of a movie, or the contents of a museum. With every skip through time, Jimin was finding something new to love about the world.
“It’s so different,” Namjoon whispers. He stood on the weathered stone steps of his own home, watching hundreds of people looking up at the palace in wonder, taking pictures to save for later. “This is where I’m born… more than two hundred years in the future. Can you believe it?”
When Namjoon turns to smile at him, Jimin nods, with a bright smile back.
-
London, 1999
It was a request of Namjoon’s to visit England, having never been.
“I heard there were palaces bigger and taller than ours ever were. Is it true?”
Jimin nods, and together they walk, side by side through the streets Jimin’s navigated a thousand times. He shows him everything, like a guide hosting a tourist. It awes Namjoon that the queen still lives in Buckingham Palace, that the London Eye can take you so far up into the sky that you can see for miles, and that there were vehicles two stories high that could transport you from one end of the city to the other.
Stepping off the bus, Jimin takes him to a place he knows Namjoon would love; the bookstore.
And he’s right. The second they step foot inside, Namjoon’s jaw drops, and it takes Jimin patting the underside of his chin for him to realise. Namjoon immediately takes to the shelves, picking up book by book and flipping through the pages.
“God, there’s so many. The libraries in my time never had so many,” Namjoon breathes, picking up a murder mystery novel.
“Try not to piss yourself when you find out there’s a second floor,” Jimin mumbles, and he almost jumps out of his skin when turns towards him at the speed of light.
“There’s a second floor ?”
Namjoon all but sprints up the wooden staircase, leaving Jimin breathless trying to keep up with him. It feels as if his lungs are going to burst, and he wonders how this two hundred-year-old fossil can possibly be more in shape than he is.
He bumps into Namjoon, who suddenly decides that the top of the stairs is the place to stop and stare, but he can’t blame him. The walls were lined with tall, looming bookshelves filled with hundreds, if not thousands of books, and chandeliers hung from the mile-high ceiling. The air smelled strongly of vellum paper and coffee; the latter due to the fact that there was a café in the corner. Immediately drawn to it, he says, “I’ll be at the café if you need me,” and leaves Namjoon to his own devices.
Jimin sits for more than an hour, observing Namjoon floating around the bookshop shelf by shelf. There’s a certain peace to it; drinking warm Arabica with three sugars, watching as Namjoon piles book by book onto his arm. He wonders when Namjoon will ever find the time or energy to read them all, considering they were all at least three inches thick. But the smile on his face when Jimin gives him £30 to pay for it all warms him up more than the coffee ever could.
When Namjoon finally sits in front of him, paper bag of books in his arms, it’s hard not to smile at the sight of him. After taking a sip of Jimin’s coffee and deciding that he, too, wanted a cup, Jimin willingly went up and ordered another Arabica with three sugars.
Namjoon held the cup with both hands, taking small sips every now and again, gazing wide-eyed and entranced outside the floor-to-ceiling windows at the busy streets below.
“Have you ever read Jacques le Fataliste ?” Namjoon asks, eyes still glued to the world outside.
Jimin shakes his head. “Mm-mm. I’ve heard of it, though.”
He remembers sitting in a café somewhere in France, and it was one of the books sitting on the borrowing shelf across from his table. Being that he isn’t fluent, he read its summary and maybe the first few pages before placing it back on the shelf.
“It’s my favourite book,” Namjoon expresses. “It was new when my father brought it back from his European trip for me. He brought a French dictionary for me, as well, so that I could read it. I spent the better part of a week translating it from French, to English, to Korean. I was ecstatic when I finally got to read it from start to finish.”
“What’s it about?” Jimin asks, and he swears he could see Namjoon’s eyes sparkle at the question.
He listens intently as Namjoon goes on about Jacques and his maître embarking on a seemingly endless trip to nowhere, Jacques telling stories about his life to pass the time. “It’s comedic,” he says, “Because Jacques is repeatedly interrupted, and the narrator, himself seems to get tired of it as well.”
“But I learned very recently that it is a philosophical book,” he continues. “‘ Tout ce qui nous arrive, de bien et de mal, ici-bas était écrit là-haut ’ - that is a quote I memorised from the book. It means something along the lines of, ‘ Everything which happens to us down here, good or bad, has been written up above ’. I believe that to be true, as well. Just think of it - amongst all the timelines you traverse, amongst all the faces you see, all the conversations you hold and all the history you have the inexplicable privilege of participating in… somewhere in the story we are living, it is written that you cross my path. That is a liberty that I should not take for granted.”
Jimin’s at a loss for words.
“Do you have a brush or a quill?” Namjoon asks when they enter Jimin’s apartment, back in modern day Busan.
“A quill?” Jimin giggles. “Quills don’t exist anymore, unless you go to some vintage shop or a museum and buy them.”
Namjoon’s eyebrows knit together. “Then what do people use to write with?”
“Pens,” he replies simply. “Or pencils. But I prefer pens. Here.”
Placing a piece of paper on the dining room table, Jimin clicks the pen and begins to scribble in the corner. It’s comical the way Namjoon gasps, like it’s the best invention known to man.
“And you can just write? You don’t have to keep dipping it in ink?” Namjoon takes the pen from Jimin’s hand, and immediately begins to write random words onto the paper. “That’s astounding. Why didn’t this exist before?”
Captivated, Namjoon clicks the pen in and out a million times per second. Jimin has to forcefully take it from his grasp to save his sanity.
“Keep abusing my pen, and you’ll never see it again,” Jimin jokingly scolds, but sighs when he sees the disappointed look on Namjoon’s face. Upon returning the pen, Namjoon instantly brightens.
“Thank you, Jimin-ah.”
His heart skips a beat or three.
-
Venice, 1882
Namjoon took to the gondolas faster than the speed of light. Despite Jimin’s absolute disdain at ever rowing a boat into the middle of a river as big as the Grand Canal, Namjoon was adamant about it, and Jimin doesn’t know how to say no.
After only a minute and a half of rowing, Jimin grows tired, and puts a spell on the oars to make them row themselves. Namjoon smiles at the sight of the unmanned oars, laughing when he pushes one of them and Jimin makes it wiggle as if it’s frustrated.
It was a cloudless night; the moon was full and the stars were out in full force. They pointed out a few constellations, and Namjoon made note of Jupiter.
“Jimin-ah,” Namjoon calls him. He pretends not to love the pet name as much as he does. “How old are you?”
“23, I think,” he replies with a shrug. “If we’re going by the timeline I'm from.”
“So I’m older than you, correct?” he asks.
Jimin laughs. “Yeah, by a couple hundred years.”
“I didn’t mean by those terms,” Namjoon breathes a laugh, and Jimin finds himself reeling over it.
“Then by what terms, my lord?” Jimin jokes, playfully bowing towards him.
“I’m 24. Or I was, when you met me,” Namjoon says. “Your power is the most fascinating thing I’ve seen. It’s amazing how I can be 24 in my timeline, and 250 in yours. Can people live that long in your time?”
Jimin giggles. “If anyone lives past 80 years old in my time, they’re cheating.”
“80 years old…” Namjoon repeats softly. “I want to live that long of a life.”
Jimin spares him both the truth and a lie, choosing to say nothing at all.
-
Haeundae Beach, Busan, 2002
Out of nowhere, Namjoon asks him to take him to his favourite place in the world. So he does.
They walk along the empty beach, shoes in hand. They arrived just in time to see the sun setting over the Pacific, shades of orange and yellow washing over them and reflecting off the water.
“I can see why this is your favourite place,” Namjoon states. “Even though I wasn’t often allowed to go to the beach, I loved it the few times I was here.”
Eventually, they find a spot, and sit shoulder to shoulder. Namjoon bravely picks up tiny crabs he finds scuttling around them, putting them in the palm of Jimin’s hands and laughing when Jimin freaks out.
“You never talk about yourself,” Namjoon says. “It’s selfish of me to ask so many favours of you, and only speak of myself.”
Jimin shrugs. “I’m not as interesting as you think.”
“Am I supposed to believe that?” Namjoon looks him dead in the eyes, and Jimin falters under his gaze.
Pulling his knees to his chest, Jimin mumbles, “I wouldn’t be as interesting if I didn’t have this power. I would probably be some normal guy working a desk job right now if it weren’t for the fact that I could run away from that life.”
“Everyone’s story is important. And right now, I’d like to know the story of the man that fate allowed me to meet.”
Jimin takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Well… even though I was born in 1995, my story starts here, in 2002…”
He’d never spoke so much in his life, far less about himself. He told Namjoon everything; from the first time he travelled at age seven, to travelling becoming a regular thing for him. “Once I figured out I could hop into paintings and photographs, I was so happy. Every school field trip to a museum was a dream come true.”
By age 17, travelling had become his form of escape. School stressed him out more often than not, and whenever the pressure became too much, he’d imagine a place and transport himself there. “For one thing, I never failed a history test,” he jokes.
“If I can be honest… I don’t know where I’d be if I didn’t have magic,” he passively traces lines in the sand. “I wanted to be a dancer for a short period of time in my life, but dancers don’t make it in this world. So I would’ve been stuck, trying to live up to my father’s dreams of me becoming a doctor or a scientist or a businessman, hating my job and stressing myself out over something I never wanted to do.”
“So you’re a runaway,” Namjoon says.
“I guess you could say that,” Jimin gives him a small smile. “Life is a lot better this way. I don’t have to worry about getting a job because I buy everything with money I make with magic, which is technically really illegal, but it’s not like they can catch me.”
For a moment, they sit and watch the waves roll and crash on the beach, leaving seafoam and smooth sand behind.
“You said you danced?” Namjoon questions, and Jimin nods.
“I took a couple classes in high school before I dropped them. Why?”
There’s a look on Namjoon’s face that he’s all too familiar with - not that he’s particularly seen on Namjoon himself, but on everyone he ever told that piece of information to. Like a knee-jerk reaction, he instinctively says, “No, absolutely not.”
“How do you know what I’m going to say?”
“I just do. Namjoon, I love you, but I’m not going to dance for you.”
Jimin almost doesn’t realise what he said, but it catches up to him not even three seconds later when Namjoon says, “You love me?”
He finds himself stuttering, desperately searching his mental dictionary for any word that exists, but the pages turn blank. He’s only pulled out of his stupor when Namjoon rises to his feet, extending a hand to him.
“Dance with me?” Namjoon asks, and Jimin thinks Namjoon really ought to feel lucky that he just can’t say no to him.
Namjoon leads them in a waltz to a Vivaldi song Jimin plays on his phone. He steps on Namjoon’s toes a bit, being about five or six years out of practice, but Namjoon doesn’t seem to mind. He rests his head against Namjoon’s chest, smiling from ear to ear.
He tries not to notice the little chip in Namjoon’s shoulder.
-
Within the last four weeks of his life, Jimin has been enough places to last him a lifetime.
Paris, 1960, where Namjoon walked through the Louvre and mimicked every stone statue and painting to make Jimin laugh.
Anaheim, 2011, where Namjoon looked every bit of a tourist from the floral shirt to the Mickey Mouse hat, dragging Jimin by the hand throughout the various attractions at Disneyland, and not once listening to Jimin when he warned him that the roller coasters would make him sick.
China, 1822, where Namjoon forced Jimin to walk almost 30 kilometres down the Great Wall, before Jimin nearly passed out and had to be carried on the back of Namjoon for half the trek back.
Rome, 44 BC, where Jimin has to physically hold Namjoon back from interrupting the assassination of Caesar before he tears a hole in the fabric of time, no matter how “cool” he thought it was.
New York City, 2018, where Jimin saves Namjoon’s life about a million times from getting hit by a car because he can’t refrain from stopping and staring at the large LED screens of Times Square.
Ireland, 1897, where Jimin sees Namjoon drunk for the first time after visiting a pub, and it doesn’t exactly go well. (Re: Anaheim 2011, where Jimin warns him, but he doesn’t listen).
Athens, 400 BC to 2000, because Namjoon so desperately wanted to see what the Parthenon looked like at the time of its construction, and eons afterwords. It was the first time Jimin had ever done a time lapse, and with how lightheaded it made him, it would probably be his last. (Namjoon took it upon himself to make Jimin some herbal tea that night, dismissing whatever Jimin had to say about aspirin.)
Tokyo, 1998, where Namjoon has “the best food he’s ever eaten,” and consumes enough candy that he should be dizzy and doubled over vomiting right now, but maybe his stomach’s gotten stronger since Anaheim and Ireland.
Iceland, 1923, where Namjoon sees the Northern Lights for the first time, and couldn’t stop saying, “Jimin-ah, look!” They sat for hours, Jimin’s back to Namjoon’s chest, with Namjoon’s arms wrapped around him. No matter how much he blushes, or how often Namjoon massages the back of his hands with his thumbs, Jimin tells himself it was to keep each other warm.
Those were only to name a few. He’d go crazy trying recount every single visit in the past 30 days, not to mention the times they hopped three or more times within the span of 24 hours.
He wished he could remember them all. Maybe then, he wouldn’t feel so horrible watching the crack form along Namjoon’s cheek, the greying of his skin, or the rip in his torso. Maybe then, it would’ve all been worthwhile.
-
Marseille, November 1786
Jimin is quite familiar with the phrase, “all good things come to an end.”
He didn’t know why Namjoon was so specific with his request, nor was he going to ask.
They stood in the east tower of one of the castles, overlooking the sunset falling upon the town. Namjoon stood by the railing, Jimin placing himself a few feet to his left.
“Tokyo in your time is beautiful. The lights, the vehicles, the music…” Namjoon trails off. “But my father used to tell me about how beautiful France was. He visited frequently. Marseille was his favourite city.”
They stood in silence, Jimin unsure of what he was supposed to say, or if he were to say anything at all. He watched Namjoon scan the city, rubbing his hands together to fight off the chill air.
“I haven’t seen my father in a long time,” he whispers, and the despondency present in his voice makes Jimin’s heart ache. “I want to believe he is alive and well, and that he is here in Marseille, living in the city of his dreams.”
Devoid of words, Jimin fits himself between Namjoon and the railing, latching himself onto him. Like muscle memory, Namjoon wraps his arms comfortably around Jimin’s shoulders. They remain that way, Jimin’s head against Namjoon’s chest, and Namjoon’s chin resting on the top of Jimin’s head.
“Jimin-ah,” Namjoon murmurs, “What’s happening to me?”
Jimin opens his eyes to Namjoon holding up his hand, and watches as his fingers crack and chip away into feather-like pieces of canvas.
“I… don’t know,” Jimin’s voice cracks as he lies. “I don’t know, I’m so sorry, Joon.”
“Nothing for you to be sorry for,” Namjoon shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry,” Jimin reiterates, holding Namjoon tighter. It is his fault, he has everything to be sorry for, and he’s too much of a coward to say it. He let this happen, and now he has face the consequences.
“I suppose I should tell you this sooner or later,” Namjoon begins. “At your home, I left you something. It’s a journal that I bought London 1999, along with all the other books. In the nights I couldn’t sleep, I wrote in it. However, the pen you gave me ran out of ink, and I didn’t want to ask you for another one, so I couldn’t write as much as I wanted to. But… when you read it, I want you to tell me what you think of it. Will you do that for me?”
Jimin nods fervently, sniffling. “Yes, I promise.”
“Thank you,” Namjoon says. “This was really fun, Jimin-ah. I hope we get to do this again sometime.”
“No, no no no, God, Namjoon, no…”
Jimin doesn’t know when the tears started slipping from his eyes, or when his grip on Namjoon began to falter. He found himself grasping at the pieces of Namjoon as they chipped and tore away, and taken with the wind. But no matter how much he tried to put the pieces back together, he knew it wouldn’t work that way.
He just didn’t want to be alone again.
He sunk to his knees, and for the first time in a long time, let the sobs overtake him.
-
The first thing Jimin does when he enters his apartment is tear the place apart.
He looks in the bedroom Namjoon stayed in, flipping drawers over, scouring the shelves, and ripping the bedsheets from the mattress. He looks in the living room, looking in and under couches, clearing the coffee table, and sweeping the DVD and CD rack clean until it’s bare. He looks in the bathroom, because he doesn’t know, maybe Namjoon was writing on the toilet, because that’s a completely plausible thing to do.
He looks up and down the apartment until there’s only one place left to look - his own room. And of course, when he all but breaks the door off its hinges, it’s lying there, undisturbed on top of his pillow.
Sprinting across the room, he lands on his knees on his bed, fumbling with the latch of the side of the journal. When he finally manages to get it open, he’s met with a title page that reads, “The Traveller” over a small drawing of a pocket watch, under which says, “Dedicated to the one who bent time for me,” in scribbly, outdated Korean.
He could feel tears forming from the title page alone. Wiping the corners of his eyes with his sleeve, he flips through the pages. Each chapter contains pages upon pages of paragraphs, all of their adventures, all of their conversations, all of Namjoon’s thoughts written along the lines.
Day I
This is the story of a Traveller, whose name and age may change depending on where you meet him, but you can never forget his face.
Upon our first encounter, he possessed the glinting eyes and mischievous smile of a charlatan who had discovered his next victim. In that moment, I believed myself wise to be wary of this newcomer, but had I not hearkened to his tale, had not taken his hand… I would have been a fool.
A sad smile spreads across Jimin’s face. Namjoon had described him as a charlatan . He made a mental note to add that to his resumé, if he ever made one.
Day V
In a matter of five days, I had become more well travelled than the likes of any sailor of the seven seas, any transatlantic trader, or any landmark enthusiast. This man gave me the promise of having the entire world at my very fingertips, and within five meagre days, I had received the capability to know more than any peer of mine ever will, and for that, I am grateful.
Day XI
New sides to this Traveller are slowly being revealed to me, piece by piece, like an endless game of Mahjong. I wonder if I will ever make it down to the last two pieces, or if I should feel fortunate enough that I only have 1,200 left to go. What waits for me at 1,000? 800? 600? Only time will tell. This, I know, will not be anything short of difficult; but the best things in life are not so graciously given.
He flips near the end, noticing where the ink began to run dry. The chapter is headed with Day XXVII , and Jimin skims through it, trying his best to make out the disconnected letters on the pages.
I always viewed love objectively. For the greater part of my life, it had been a passing thought; it held the significance to that of the life of a mouse, or the journey of a lone feather carried by the wind. If ever I thought of love, it was tiresome, and weighed me down.
As lights glowed above me and the bitter cold stole the warmth from my core, I had a thousand revelations disclosing themselves to me all at once. I’d never said the phrase, “I love you,” except the few times they were directed towards my parents. It felt natural then, and I had meant it. So why, when I meant it now, could I not say it? Why could I mouth the words, but not voice them? I became a coward in that moment, but contented myself with the thought that some things were better left unsaid. I’d hoped my actions would speak the words for me, but I forget that not a single man on this Earth can speak all the languages in this world. I know that even a Frenchman from Lourdes would have trouble speaking Basque.
The words hit him like a train. He loved him. He loves him.
With a pain in his chest, he turns to the last page that had been written on, reading the short paragraph that was Day XXX .
I’ve become aware of my own mortality. I can tell my graceful Traveller has, as well, but generously spares me the trouble of mentioning it. At any given moment, I will be at the mercy of nature - forced to say the parting words that no man desires to speak. However, I do not believe this is the end. I don’t think he has realised, but in more ways than one, my Traveller has allowed me to live forever. Thank you, Traveller, for giving me a second life that I could never imagine to be possible.
For the remainder of that night, Jimin never dared to put the book down. He fell asleep with it close to his heart, fingers gripping its spine.
-
He hasn’t stepped foot in another museum in months.
He hasn’t travelled to any other timeline. He hasn’t travelled anywhere but his own home.
He doesn’t care that the museum he visited is all over the news because of the “Mysterious vandalism of a two hundred year old portrait”. He doesn’t care that they lost seven million dollars due to its destruction. He doesn’t care.
Jimin tries not to miss him, but it goes without saying that it doesn’t work. There’s not a second where he doesn’t wish that he could go back, or that things could be different, or that he could’ve just followed the damn rules . He spends his days sketching pictures of Namjoon, all the scenes they experienced together committed to memory and immortalised on paper.
Jimin doesn’t realise it for weeks .
In more ways than one, my Traveller has allowed me to live forever...
Of course. How could he be so blind? The answer, the solution to everything was right in front of his face, and he’d been ignoring it for so long. Of course. Of course. Of course .
He bought a canvas for the first time in his life. He had had oil paints from when his mother bought him a beginner’s art kit about twelve years ago, stashed away somewhere on one of the shelves. He rummaged through some old pencil cases, finding charcoal and splintered wooden paint brushes. He’d never used any of this before, and never thought he would, but he knew he kept it for a reason.
For days on end, Jimin went without sleep, stopping just about every twenty four hours to eat something. After what was probably the eighth day, he was finally finished adding the last detail, down to the engraving on the sword’s hilt.
Impatient, Jimin placed a drying spell on the paint, varnished it, then dried it once more. Eagerly, he pressed his palm to the canvas, and fell through.
Once arriving on the steps overlooking the recognisable botanical garden, he spun around, and as expected, came face to face with the one and only.
“Namjoon!” Jimin shouted, startling the young man.
Namjoon eyed him suspiciously, tilting his head sideways. “Who are you?”
Just when Jimin’s entire world was about to come crashing down, Namjoon smiled. “I’m just kidding. Where were you, Jimin-ah?”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Jimin ran up the stone steps, and connected his lips with Namjoon’s.
“I missed you so much, I missed you so much,” Jimin repeats against Namjoon’s lips.
“Did you read my story?” Namjoon asks, voice muffled by Jimin’s attack of kisses.
“I did. I loved it more than anything in the world. I love you more than anything in the world.”
Namjoon smiles. “I love you, too.”
-
When Jimin returned to his apartment that night, he placed a spell of protection on the portrait. From then on, he was never truly alone.