Archive of Our Own

Where did it all go wrong? It’s impossible to tell, but Taehyung knows it was him.

He rolls around in his sleep, from side-to-side, flushed cheeks and nape damp with sweat. His eyelids flicker, mouth pulled tight at the image of Jimin, memory still so vivid and flourished, even after all this time.

Jimin smiled at him, kissed his lips. Again and again. The snow fell around them, and the mulled wine from the street buffet was all around him, but he could only smell Jimin, his cologne—the one Taehyung watched him unwrap that morning, the one Taehyung knew would smell so good on him—and people stared at them as they passed by but they were in their own little world where it felt like even the cold couldn’t touch them as Jimin pulled him in closer.

They passed people with smiles, and danced when people danced in the street, and ate everything offered to them as they walked by, samples of this and that they always ended up sharing, even when Taehyung said he couldn’t eat any more. Jimin’s reddened cheeks sparked a light in Taehyung’s eyes, a warmth in his heart, and he thought, stood there between the vendors, with the children running by with candies and the couples who didn’t have anything—anything—on them: I want to hold you forever.

And Jimin looked to him, as though he could feel Taehyung’s gaze, and smiled as if he knew, as if he always wanted to be held.

Taehyung wakes with a start. Breathing, panting. His sweaty palm reaches across the bed, his lips just a mumble, but all he finds is cold sheets. Cold, empty sheets whose white stares and mocks him, scrapes at his skin when they feel too heavy and too harsh against him.

He stands in almost a panic, his hands in his hair, to the window where he opens it ajar and allows the winter chill to hit his face. But all he can smell between the ice and the apartment is mulled wine and soft breaths and remnants of cologne that still, still linger, even after so many years.

He rests his head against the window, heat becoming cooled on his cheeks by slow flushes of delirium. His skin is tense and bumped in the hazy night, and the blind cuts an indent into his face, but he doesn’t care. Taehyung glances to the bed, sheets stripped in alarm, dazed, and back to the window, into the night, where he could be anywhere. Anywhere, but here.

Taehyung wishes he was still dreaming. This nightmare would be an easier reality.

He brushed snow out of Jimin’s hair. His hand trailed down from forehead, to cheek, to neck, and up again. Jimin watched him, still and observant, and leaning into the touch. Taehyung curled his fingers around Jimin’s face and pulled him in.

And that wicked compliance on Jimin’s face turned to a bright grin as he pulled his arms from behind and displayed his weapon. Taehyung’s eyes were already closed, too unwitting and pathetic to the assault of Jimin’s snowball, which landed perfectly on his face.

And Jimin just laughed as Taehyung stood there, spitting snow from his mouth, unable to catch a breath, until pulled out of his humour by Taehyung’s hands digging deep into the snow, and he ran. He ran, and he’s always been faster than Taehyung, but the snow slowed him, and Bisan-Dong equipped Taehyung from childhood in the snowy villages to be better, smarter, with his feet.

Jimin cried out as they collided, and their bodies half but disappeared in a pile of snow. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, weak and mundane at the sight of Jimin, open-mouthed in laughter, his face bright and wide, and he dropped the snow in his hand, laughing too.

“I told you not to do that,” Jimin said through a breath. “I don’t want a repeat of last year.”

“Ah,” Taehyung replied, “that’s why I planned for us to land perfectly on this snow.”

The memory popped in, and he pushed it out. Jimin’s pained face, hours in the hospital emergency room on Christmas, Jimin’s fractured knee elevated on Taehyung’s with a pillow beneath it. Of course he was careful—he’d only just forgiven himself for it.

“Don’t be so arrogant. You just about caught me,” Jimin said.

“That’s not true,” Taehyung said, “I could have caught you from the beginning. I just wanted to see you run through the snow.” He laughed. “You looked like a cute, little dear, learning to walk.”

“And I bet you looked like a big beast, chasing after me like that.” Jimin sat up. “What would everyone else think?”

“They’d think that I loved you, or something ridiculous,” Taehyung said, without thinking as he always did. He was glad his cheeks were already red from the cold, otherwise, at Jimin’s pause, he might have caught fire.

Jimin brought his finger under Taehyung’s chin and kissed him, softly, slowly.

And Taehyung didn’t learn from his mistake. Or perhaps, Jimin was always good at holding them tight until the right moment and then letting them go.

He was too slow in opening his eyes, and he found, that time, at such close proximity, Jimin’s cry of happiness wasn’t enough to block out the mortifying admittance of being hit in the face with a snowball. Again.

But he didn’t let Jimin run away that time, pushed him back down to the snow by his hips when Jimin tried to stand. He grabbed both of Jimin’s wrists and pinned them in his hands. Soft snow in Jimin’s hair, almost unseen by the dye, like stars in the sky, and Jimin’s eyes, bouncing with rebellion and child-like happiness, and Taehyung didn’t stop the adoration that soared through him like a love shot as he looked down. 

“You shouldn’t have trusted me,” Jimin said, giggling.

Taehyung loosened his hold of Jimin’s arms, brushed his fingers over Jimin’s knuckles affectionately, kissed them. “I’ll always trust you,” he said, quietly, eyes down. “Sometimes, I’m stupid. And I make mistakes, and it always takes me longer to learn. And I’ll always trust that you know what’s best, even when I think I know, too, but ’ll always trust you, Jimin. I’ll—”

Jimin leaned up to kiss him, and the words on Taehyung’s tongue dissolved as their mouth met. He didn’t need to say it. Jimin didn’t need him to say it. And that was how they were different, because Jimin could go the rest of his life never saying a single thing but the world would still know, every moment, that he was telling it something; and Taehyung, he was clumsy and foolish and inarticulate, and he never knew the right thing to say until he did, and it was always at the wrong times, too early or too late, but the words would bounce around in him until he could say it, until Jimin allowed him to say it, and him in return.

But he’d wait, because he loved Jimin, and even if those words became pricks that pierced him, he’d wait. Because the words were nothing if the concept of everything Taehyung could give wasn’t concealed within them.

I love you.

He pressed down into the snow to keep them where they were, and Jimin’s fingers wound into his hair, and they melted the snow with their bodies until clothes became soaked with it, and he loved him.

He’d wait because not waiting meant losing Jimin, and that wasn’t something he wanted to face. If that day came, Taehyung thought, he’d rather die.

“Jimin,” he calls as his body jolts upright, his skin like ice. Tears stain his cheeks from his sleep which have not yet dried.

In a daze, he waits for the answer, expecting the voice to come.

A chill creeps in through the window and greets the silence.

The room is pitch black, but he sees where everything is. He sees where everything should be, in the dark his mind able to wander. Jimin’s clothes in the drawers against the far wall, which still sit empty—Taehyung couldn’t bear to replace them; the vanity, bare, apart from dried out cologne he no longer touches; through the open door of the bathroom, the place which Jimin’s hair comb should sit; the bed, and how lonely it sits, no matter how often Taehyung sleeps in it, no matter how much he refuses to change the pillow case.

Th assortment of all things Jimin left behind in a small broken box underneath the bed. Taehyung moves on his knees along the floor to reach it, and he wipes away the layer of dust on it with delicate fingers. In his haste to hide it away, he hadn’t covered it up.

A mite crawls from the pages of Jimin’s favourite book—the first copy he had, with the annotations in the margin and the highlights of his favourite lines. How many times had he sat on their bed, the sofa, and read aloud to him this very book? Taehyung takes it into his hands with shame. How many times had he read the same lines, the same favourite lines, that Taehyung now can’t remember? How many times had he not listened enough? He flicks through the book and finds nothing familiar but Jimin’s soft breath between the pages. Mint and honey.

Jimin took the book down from the shelf, it’s pages worn at the seams, blots of tea left like birthmarks of passion on the paper. He placed his tea down on the coffee table and swung his legs over Taehyung’s lap.

Taehyung remembers the velvet of his skin, and the prurient length of his shirt down Jimin’s thighs, where he stroked his forefinger and thumb. Jimin opened up the book—Taehyung didn’t look to see which it was; he was staring only at Jimin and the delicate idea of a smile that was on his lips.

“Why are you staring at me?” he asked, his eyes still to the book.

Taehyung grinned. “It’s your fault.”

He moved the book aside. “My fault.”

“If you weren’t so beautiful, I wouldn’t look at you half as much as I do.”

Jimin rolled his eyes and returned to his book; as Jimin’s usual smile didn’t appear, Taehyung also allowed his to slip away.

“Have you had a bad day?”

“No particularly worse than usual,” he mumbled. “As of late, anyway.”

Taehyung looked down Jimin’s legs, the smoothness of his skin turned sour from marred ankles and purplish hue. He grazed his fingers over them gently, and Jimin flinched.

“Your toes are red,” Taehyung said, moving Jimin’s foot, “and your soles.”

“I practised more today, that’s all.” Jimin lifted his foot to take it from Taehyung’s hand and re-settled it. He looked down, still, to his book. “I did it yesterday, too.”

“I know.” Taehyung turned his eyes to his lap. “You’ve been spending more time there, coming home later.”

“I’m surprised you’ve noticed.”

He frowned and shifted so that he was more upright, more inclined towards Jimin. “Of course I have. I’ve been making tea at 7pm and it sits there, going cold.”

“How is it, after so long, you still get the amount of sugar wrong?” he asked.

Taehyung held his offence in. “I thought you liked two,” he said.

“I changed to one last year,” Jimin replied, “after I got that bad tooth.”

“So, it hasn’t always been like that,” Taehyung defended.

“I thought you’d know by now.” Jimin dropped his book down. “Do you remember when I had my tooth out?”

Taehyung hummed as he thought. “September?”

Jimin remained quiet, his eyes on Taehyung for a moment, before returning to his book. Taehyung waited but was only met with silence.

“Well—when was it?”

“April.”

“Oh.”

Had it really been that long? Time often flies by without us knowing where it’s gone, but Taehyung thought he was getting better at grounding himself to days instead of holing himself up in his studio and letting time pass with frustrated breaths.

Paint still lingered underneath his nails, and a part of him that festered in the quiet craved to return to the studio to paint, if not out of spite for his lack of inspiration but to escape from the awkward silence between them.

Taehyung looked to Jimin, shrunk now into himself, his legs slowly inclining away so that he wrapped himself into a ball. His fingers wrapped around the edges of the book pages so that they wouldn’t escape, and Taehyung knew—could just imagine, with such vivid memory—how cold they felt. And he wanted to kiss them, to reach out and touch them and make them warm, but he knew that wasn’t what Jimin wanted.

He should have. He should have reached out.

Despite his beauty—his all-encompassing, heart wrenching beauty—there was something about Jimin that often provoked sadness. Like a lost dear, perhaps, or a cold child. Something clouded and unsure in his eyes, as if afraid the weight of the world might crush him.

Taehyung remembered the first time he saw him, in the warm summer but still curled into himself, waiting at that station, having missed his train. Taehyung fell for him there, he thought, in the damp of his hair from the heat, and the clamminess of his palm as it touched Taehyung’s arm when they passed through the crowds of the festival to find something to drink.

For a while, maybe even just one moment, Jimin hadn’t looked lost, and he hadn’t looked found, but rather as if an understanding passed through them, hand on hand, skin on skin, as Taehyung caught him.

Taehyung looked to him now. The fire crackled with the only sparks in the room. How many days had Jimin returned home lately, just needing someone to greet him with a smile, instead of with a back to the door, or have a bath running for him, or someone to wisp him from the floor and into a pair of arms that carried him from front door to bedroom to stop any more pain in his feet. How many times had he needed the little things?

Taehyung couldn’t count the new number of calluses on his hands from the too-tight hold of new brushes; Jimin’s bruises and marks and scars could perhaps only compare to the quantity of pointe shoes he’d gotten through that summer alone. He couldn’t even use the excuse that his own wounds were more obvious because they were his: he had always been concerned for Jimin’s health more than his own. When had that changed? Better yet, was it only Taehyung who had finally noticed?

“Are you hungry?” Taehyung asked.

“I already ate with a friend.”

Quiet.

Taehyung turned to sit facing Jimin and rested his elbow on the back of the settee, his chin on his hand, the other stroking circles in Jimin’s lower thigh. He waited for Jimin to look up to him, to look curiously at what he was doing, but their eyes never met.

“Read to me,” he said.

“You never pay attention,” Jimin said, and turned the page.

“I’m listening now, I promise.” He reached out for Jimin’s hand and brought the fingers, cold-tipped and soft, to his lips. He said, quietly, “Read to me.”

A slow smile drew along Jimin’s lips, but his eyes didn’t spark. He took his hand back to hold the book in confidence, straightened his back, lifted his chin slightly, and when he spoke, it seemed like all the honey that he drank in his tea came spilling back out slowly, in a sweet treacle that broke Taehyung’s heart.

“I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
If I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
If I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
If little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me—”

Jimin turned his eyes up to Taehyung, glimmering, patient with fury and kindness.

“—for I shall already have forgotten you.”

He remembers the way Jimin pulled his legs so quickly away from him and stood and left the room before Taehyung had taken a breath, though it seemed that the power of Jimin’s breath had already taken his away.

He remembers the loneliness that followed, and how cold that night was, with only the thin blanket and the fading heat of the fire; the burnt, impalpable ash. That autumn was merciless, and the wind howled through the apartment vents, and the hail turned too quickly into mush hitting the window panes like bullets, and the revving of the building heater from the ceiling above, in it’s old complacency, not caring that it’s fatigued circulation of heat was slowly freezing them all; and the loss of Jimin next to him, the terror of knowing he could have taken a few steps, a few breaths, and touched him but couldn’t, not really—not without the sting of rejection added to the ice of his bones.

The quiet and the dark had consumed him that night.

Now he stares up at the bed, the sheets rumpled in an inconceivable way, and he realises that it had never been the autumn wind or the hail or the old apartment heater that made it all cold—it was him.

As opposed to Taehyung, Jimin had always hated seafood. For the majority of their relationship he’d avoided it because of this—or more specifically because Jimin refused to kiss him if he went near the stuff and deduced that Jimin’s kisses, in the scheme of things, no matter his cravings, were always more important, and so he complied.

But he couldn’t deny that on those days they argued, he craved fish even more, and sometimes relented—and that is, and maybe always has been, the problem—and enjoyed it all the more, that he found himself returning home guiltily to a regretful Jimin who he couldn’t kiss, whose own face turned from guilt to annoyance, to cold nights, too.

They were few and far between. Except for the end. Taehyung tries to block a lot of it out but it only seems to make him more mad. He wonders if it’s easier to remember or forget.

Fish had never been the problem, but it’s easier for Taehyung, even just for now, as the smell of Namjoon’s oysters from across the table push him further away, his nose turned up, to pretend that it was.

“What’s wrong?” Namjoon asks.

“I don’t like the food,” Taehyung replies.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Taehyung looks to him and quickly away again. “Nothing.”

“How is your art coming along?”

“The same as it usually is.”

“A fickle bastard, then,” he says.

Taehyung can’t help but smile, as small as it is. “Right.”

His fingers pick at a fray at the end of the table cover, and he wraps his finger into a loop around the thread and pulls until it comes loose and the thread leaves a red line on his finger.

“Are you going to pay for that?”

Taehyung looks to him; away. He smooths the cover out and takes a sip of his wine. “There’s no point leaving loose threads everywhere. Might as well cut them.”

Taehyung doesn’t look to him—partly because Taehyung knows he is already aware, because Namjoon has always been intuitive, and Taehyung has always been terrible at hiding things—but from the corner of his eye he sees Namjoon set down his cutlery, bring his hands together, rest firmly against the table. He can’t look up to it.

“You miss him,” he says.

A crack echoes against the walls, the room splits down the middle, straight through the centre of Taehyung’s head, and out pours that banging tension he’s been trying to dull down with Adderall for years, that, with the slow descent of the weather, has become insistent and pesky to control.

“Am I so pellucid?” Taehyung asks.

“No,” Namjoon says, “I just know you.”

Taehyung puts a hand through his hair and straightens in his seat. He takes a deep breath but his chest pinches. “I’m fine.”

“You look like you haven’t slept. In a while.”

“I’ve slept.”

“For how long?”

Taehyung opens his mouth to sigh but doesn’t get there.

“I know that this time of year, it’s going to be difficult for you. It is for all of us, in a way. Empty beds and dark days, colder nights. If you’re struggling financially again—”

“I’m not,” Taehyung says quickly, insulted.

“I’m only trying to be there for you,” Namjoon defends.

Taehyung returns to the table cloth and finds another thread. “I know you are,” he mumbles. “I’m not in the mood to hear it.”

“Are you ever?”

Taehyung feels his face contort with frustration, his turned lips and deep brows. “Hyung—”

“It’s my job to tell you things that you sometimes don’t want to hear,” Namjoon begins. He leans further in. “I never do it to hurt you. It breaks my heart to see like this. And the past few years… I’ve felt your pain. Jimin was my friend, too.”

“I know that,” he replies, jaw tight.

Namjoon pauses, sighs. “Taehyung, maybe it’s time you think about letting go.”

Taehyung turns his head harshly in a hot moment of anger. “Don’t you think I—” he pauses, changes his tone. Quietly. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” Namjoon presses his hand across the table in reassurance. Taehyung doesn’t take it—he doesn’t need to. “You know that I’m here. I know I’m not who you want, but I’m here.” After a moment, he stands and re-does the button on his blazer. He walks around the table, in front of Taehyung.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Taehyung whispers, eyes to his lap, to the floor, to his shoes, anywhere else so that he doesn’t have to look, doesn’t have to admit.

Namjoon raises a hand to Taehyung’s hair and pushes his fingers through it gently. He kisses Taehyung’s forehead. “Call me if you need anything.”

He leaves Taehyung alone at the table, and Taehyung watches him walk away, watches the waiter open the door for him as he exits, watches him walk across the sidewalk, their eyes meeting through the glass windows of the restaurant, until Taehyung can’t bare it anymore and listens instead to the thumping of his heart, the blinding of his thoughts that tell him he’s alone again.

The first snow of the year, Taehyung is walking down the street. He feels the first flakes of it in his hair, on his cheeks. He tries his best to ignore the world around him, the people who cast him a glance as they pass, the children that speak zealously and awaken in him something tired he wanted buried.

He pauses to wipe the snow from his hat under the shelter of a building roof, when his eyes catch sight of the poster. Hung up recently on the outside lining of the entrance wall—a woman in a tight, black dress with her flayed out tutu, arms raised up in the air in perfection, face posed, eyes narrowed and sultry.

Her waist is held by a pair supple hands that are too familiar for Taehyung not to lose his breath at the sight.

Taehyung’s body can do nothing but stumble back as his eyes lock on to the heartened expression of Jimin’s face, pressed so vividly into the poster that Taehyung thinks if he touches it, just scrapes it with the barest of fingertips, it might come to life. The air is already gone from him but he gasps, and his hand comes over his chest like he’s frightened.

And maybe he is. Maybe he’s terrified of the thought of Jimin being so close to him, despite having dreamed of it for months, back in this town, the place he left behind, the place where Taehyung decided to stay.

He fumbles in his pocket for his phone and dials it quickly. It rings, it rings. His fingers itch and buzz.

“Did you know?” he asks Namjoon.

“What?”

“Did you know he was here?”

“Taehyung, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies. “Is everything—”

He shuts the phone, ends the call. His mind moves too quickly to try and explain to Namjoon what he’s seeing. A part of him thinks, perhaps, he’s not seeing it at all; that any moment now the tender face of Jimin might suddenly dissipate or transform into a man that looks nothing like him at all except the paleness of his skin or his bright eyes.

In the picture, his hair is dark, not his natural black that Taehyung always adored, but a soft rich chocolate, fit for a prince. It makes him almost unrecognisable, but that doesn’t matter to him. Not to Taehyung.

He stares, and he stares, and the suspicion that the cold air, or the oneiric state of world that comes when sleep evades, is finally getting to his head diminishes until it’s only a wisp of condensation above his lip that layers itself in quick succession with Taehyung’s harsh breaths.

He stares. The air does not warm. The face does not change. It’s Jimin. On the poster there, he sits. Taehyung holds his hand with the other to stop himself from reaching out to touch it.

He’s here, so close.

Taehyung could spot Jimin in a crowded room in just one moment, hear his voice carry like it was a crescendo, smell his air as if it was the only scent in the world to exist. There is not one doubt in Taehyung’s mind that he wouldn’t have recognised Jimin—not doing so would be to not recognise his own heart. The beat of it. The very existence of it that lived, right now, just for this moment, to see Jimin there, to feel this. And to know.

His feet move quickly, and he isn’t sure where until he stands outside of opera house, staring up at the large lights, the bright letters of: Swan Lake, 7:30pm. He checks his watch—despite only minutes before the show begins, a steady flow of people make their way in.

He pulls the collar of his coat up and slips in between a mass of people, continuing in a confident pace as he walks straight past the booth, no ticket in hand. A worker calls to him to stop, but pretends as if he hasn’t heard and quickens his pace until he’s around the corner. He takes his hat and coat off so that they won’t recognise him.

He makes his way into the amphitheatre, where he knows there will be a spare seat half-hidden behind a pillar or a safety railing. People bustle through the steep pathways to make it to their chairs in time, pushing past him in impatience. Taehyung stays where he is pushed—in a narrow corridor of standing spaces to the flank of the level, where the stage is half blocked by the tier.

Taehyung leans against the wall behind him, his mind returning to Jimin, as he waits.

How does he feel about being back here, in this city, where they left everything uncovered, collecting dust? Is he nervous for the show? Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? Jimin was always a professional overthinker and, at times, Taehyung realises just how much that rubbed off on him, too. He’ll be worrying over his movements, and his timing, and that the time for practise is over, and his dancers, and his outfit, and—Taehyung looks to his watch—the fact that the performance is already two minutes late.

Will he be afraid? Will he know that, somehow, Taehyung has found him, found this room, and sits in between the coddled cracks of an old opera hall waiting to call out to him?

Taehyung stands there now, his head lulled back, realizing as he watches the stage and waits for the lights to dim. That, in this sea of strangers, that’s all he’s really become.

But how can he be? He thinks, how can he be so easily a stranger? Why is it Jimin that gets to decide? Unlike all of these people who will wait and watch the show and fall in love with Jimin, too, none of them know Jimin like Taehyung does. They don’t know how hard he’s worked, every bruise and every fracture, every misstep and every perfect moment. They won’t know that this was the dream, the goal that Jimin always believed in (and all the moments that he didn’t—those were only Taehyung’s to bear).

They won’t know everything that went right, and that one disastrous loop of things that came undone. They’ll know the heartache, but they won’t bear it for long. And when the final curtain comes down, and the stage turns dark, and the chairs become cold with phantoms of amazement and wonder and applause, they won’t have to watch their whole world walk away from them.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment, to stop the tears from falling.

Taehyung stood in doorway of the studio, watching Jimin watch himself in the tall mirrors as he moved. Always one to stay after everyone has left, his bones worked a little harder, feet a little more tender to touch. Jimin was so desperate to make it work, and Taehyung couldn’t help but admire him, couldn’t help but come here on the days where he couldn’t work, his mind a jumble, to the floor where he knew Jimin would be, and just watch.

He moved, always, with the elegance of a bird. His hands short wisps of feathers in the air, his feet gentle taps against water that rippled along the surface. He often practised the positions of the female leads, too—to understand their grace and power, to feel how they did, gliding through the air, being lifted, to be able to fly.

On a fouetté with slanted footwork, he spun off balance and looked up, waving shyly when he saw Taehyung in the doorway.  

“How long have you been stood there?” he asked.

“Only a few minutes,” Taehyung replied. He thought of something to say, and Jimin waited patiently. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Dinner?” he asked.

He always thought of himself so meagre and plain, and often went unnoticed in a room. Jimin was the opposite in every way. He was the centre, always, whether he liked it or not, as if an air around him itself was magnetic and drew people in. Taehyung was no exception to his charm and had no luck of being so. But Jimin had smiled back at him and, in a room of people to choose from, hadn’t turned his eyes away.

Jimin smiled at him then, too, with that same charisma that made Taehyung’s heart beat faster.

“I’d love to,” he said. “Do you mind if I cool down first?”

“Of course not. I’ll wait for you.”

Jimin returned to the centre of the room to stretch. He took his time, of course, and glanced at him in the mirror often and with a low grin, and Taehyung watched him the whole time with soft, affectionate eyes.

He shouldn’t be here, really. They’d only been on three dates, and although they went great—better than Taehyung ever thought they would go, and he still sort of wanted to pinch himself just to see if it was real—Jimin didn’t seem like the type to tell him if he was overstepping, even if he was. But he couldn’t help himself, and more than that, he couldn’t sit in his apartment any longer, staring at a blank canvas without going insane.

Taehyung almost averted his eyes as Jimin bent over, stretching his legs. He did for a moment, anyway, and at least it was something. But the way Jimin looked at him in the mirror as he returned upright told him he wasn’t supposed to look away, at all.

Jimin turned to him, reflection gone, eyes to eyes. Taehyung wasn’t sure if Jimin was smiling, but his lips moved, and Taehyung’s eyes were focused on it. Bitten, and red, his cheeks flushed from quick movement.

“Could you come and help me?” he asked. “Please.”

Taehyung’s feet moved without thinking. Jimin turned back around, to face the mirror, and watched Taehyung walk toward him.

“Closer,” he said, and Taehyung complied.

Taehyung stood behind him, so that he could just see his own head and neck in the mirror, and the twitching of his fingers, sitting with pushed patience behind Jimin’s thighs. His eyes met Jimin’s, and they stood there for a moment, longer, longer, watching with their bodies, daring not to turn their eyes away.

His gaze didn’t waver as he brought his arms into a static position, crossed adjacently in a stretch across his chest. “Pull my arm back for me,” he said, “just gently.”

Taehyung moved as close as he could, so that he could feel the heat of Jimin’s body, the smell of passion on his skin. His hair just missed the tip of Taehyung’s nose, his lips too close to the open collar of Jimin’s shirt. He reached his hand carefully around Jimin’s lower arm and pulled back in a slow and careful motion. When Jimin’s body leaned back with the pressure, Taehyung placed his free hand on Jimin’s hip to steady them.

Thoughtless, and an unthinking breath from Jimin’s lips.

For a moment he thought of the consequence, of the boundary struck dead. Then again, what thought would cross Jimin’s mind if he were to remove his hand now? Would that awkward air come between them and force Taehyung to leave? Would he prefer that to the intense tightness—that only comes from being on the edge of something wicked—he felt now, pulling their bodies impossibly closer?

When Jimin turned his head toward him, Taehyung let go. They switched to the other arm, their skin touching again. And again, Jimin turned his chin toward him, his eyes where they should be connected, if Taehyung would only look up.

“Taehyung-ah,” he whispered.

Taehyung slowly brought his eyes up, and when he did, Jimin brought their lips together.

It wasn’t the first time they had kissed—Taehyung was not so patient, and Jimin too excitable and eager. But their lips on each other—and, perhaps, on one occasion, the fertility of Taehyung’s wandering hand—was the only familiar that they knew. And so this passion, now, the energy and the heat, and the daze which came from Jimin’s skin on his, as Taehyung let go, and Jimin turned and wrapped his arms around Taehyung’s shoulders, was new ground that they both travelled together.

And, perhaps, Jimin had travelled it before, with others more successful and experienced than Taehyung, but Taehyung’s shyness had kept him always as somewhere to explore, and to be explored. And he wished to do it with Jimin. There wasn’t anyone else. And, in that moment, he never wanted anyone else again.

Jimin pulled away, and Taehyung wondered if he had done something wrong until Jimin smiled at him.

“I’m going to get my things, and then we can leave.”

Taehyung nodded and watched as Jimin walked away, his fingers raising to his lips to feel their swollen attitude.

They took the elevator down—because Jimin’s teacher wasn’t there to scold him for not taking the stares and so he wanted to, because he thought it would be a rush, and Taehyung could feel it, too. And because it was late, and no-one was around, and they were the only ones in the elevator—and Taehyung always said that hunger made him cranky—he placed his arm around Jimin’s waist and rested it on his hip where it had been earlier, where the mark of him was still warm.

And Jimin didn’t shrug out of it, he didn’t move away: he leaned in and placed his head on Taehyung’s shoulder.

Not even the receptionist was at the desk when they reached the bottom floor. Jimin saw this, having taken one step out, and, double-checking, pulled Taehyung the opposite way into a small cleaning cupboard without giving him a moment to think.

Maybe that was the point—to not think—because he’s always said that he wasn’t an overthinker, and he’s always been one to lie to himself so he doesn’t have to confront things, and maybe, even though they didn’t really know each other at all yet, Jimin knew this too, and knew that if Taehyung thought about it for more than one moment, he wouldn’t have gone along.

And Jimin was right: about most things, he usually always was.

Just long enough for a breath, and Jimin’s lips were on his. Quick and sensual and thoughtless, as if only a glimmer of time in the world was theirs. The door shut behind them, and Jimin pushed him up against it, his finger wound already around the top button of Taehyung’s shirt.

Taehyung moaned and kissed back, part because he wanted to, because there was nothing else in the world that he wanted, and part because Jimin wouldn’t allow him to pull away—partly because he enjoyed that, too. Jimin’s fingers were nimble around his buttons, and he pulled the shirt open and pushed a slow hand up the bare plain of Taehyung’s chest.

“You’re so beautiful, Tae,” he said, quietly, his eyes on Taehyung and away again. He pulled his finger over Taehyung’s nipple and watched him move to it instinctively. “So pretty.”

“Do you want to do this?” he asked, unsure. “Right now?”

“Do you?”

Yes, he thought. There wasn’t anything else he wanted, except Jimin. He hadn’t made it clear enough. He wanted to feel Jimin’s thighs in his, feel the soft skin of his lower back as it arched towards him, feel their tongues together as he made Jimin moan. But he couldn’t help, as he looked quickly around the cupboard, dimly lit only by a small window at the top of the wall, and frown.

“You want to do this here?” he asked.

Forgive Taehyung, but he lived alone. And when alone, he often fantasized about things he shouldn’t. And if Jimin hadn’t have walked into his life, trust him, he wouldn’t have thought this at all. But the thing is, his mind was too pent up in a haze to think of anything other than Jimin, that he couldn’t help himself.

And on those lonely nights when he needed someone, and his hand alone wouldn’t do, he had thought of Jimin in secret. For the first time, on soft sheets, and candles, and rose petals, and maybe, if he was brave enough, if the time was right, if he could pull from that enclosed space within his heart through all the barriers he had made; a whisper, a declaration.

In a way, he had already done this. He had thought obsessively where to touch, where his hands would fit, where his lips would mark, where his teeth would graze. But stood there, truth and reality and beauty in his grip, he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. Because it had been different. It had been so different than a stingy cupboard.

“That doesn’t matter, it’s just you and me.” Jimin kissed him gently, his hands cupped around Taehyung’s face. “I want this, no matter where we are. I want it with you.”

And Taehyung kissed him, because his eyes filled up and he didn’t know what else to do except pull Jimin closer. Their tongues touched and teeth grazed, and Taehyung realised, as Jimin’s hand slipped into his hair and pulled and made him moan, that Jimin had, from the beginning, wanted this just as much, if not more, than him.

In his haste, Jimin pulled away from Taehyung’s lips and pressed them to his jaw, his throat, his neck, until he bit teasingly at his collarbone. His moment of lust was partially broken when, as he lulled back his head, his eyes landed on a camera in the corner of the ceiling.

“Jimin,” he said, tensing, “there’s a camera.”

Jimin lifted his head to look, but only chuckled. “So?”

Taehyung looked to him, perplexed. “So? What if someone sees us?”

“The receptionist wasn’t at her desk, and the guards go home when everyone else does,” he assured. “We’re alone.”

“And if we’re not?”

Jimin smirked. “Would it matter so much to you if we weren’t?”

Taehyung’s mouth parted wider, but words didn’t come. He’d spent many nights alone since he met Jimin. Had he thought about it?

Jimin kissed him again, but Taehyung didn’t respond. He looked up at the camera, watched their figures in the black glass, moving away only when Jimin hooked his finger under his chin to kiss him again.

“Don’t think about it,” he whispered, kissed him again. “You can’t. You have to dance like nobody is watching.”

The curtain pulls up from the stage. Taehyung startles straight as applause fills the room. He doesn’t bring his own hands together, and instead pushes as close to the railing as he can to look over, his mouth parted, dry, as he waits.

The music begins. Ladies and lords and court people fill the stage in celebration of the Prince’s birthday. They dance along the stage in rhythm, poses and movements Taehyung has seen before but waits tediously to pass. He zones out, looks across the levels of people watching the performance, all of them also waiting to see the prince, the moment where things finally begin.

And Taehyung sees when it happens, in the eyes of the spectators, in the shift in their seats, eyes—like his—that looked away and back; even through the darkness, he sees. When Taehyung turns back to the stage, there he is. Prince Siegfried assumes his place on the stage, his tutor, Wolfgang, beside him, his friend, Benno, on the other. He walks in with his steps—steps that Taehyung has watched him perform over and over, despite them never being his. Now they are, and he owns them.

Jimin always danced on the stage as if he was born to do it, each single step, each move, each flex. And he had said so to Taehyung before, that he felt as if nothing in the world but this would feel right. As Taehyung watches him now, everyone’s eyes glued to that speck of light which he flourishes under, there isn’t a single part of him that could disagree.

“Jimin,” he whispers to himself, unaware.

He moves impossibly closer, and the stage blurs until his eyes empty down to his cheeks. I love you; he wishes to say it. I love you. He does. The words are lost between the lights and the crowd’s applause as the act ends and the dancers disappear from the stage, and Taehyung finds himself leaning over the railing, up as high on the balls of his feet as he can go, just so he can get one more glimpse.

The curtain falls with a plangent thud to the floor.

Don’t go. He almost gasps.

The interval from act one to act two almost destroys him. Half of the room leaves for refreshments, but nothing Taehyung tries to do could rid of the slick dirt he feels all over him. His fingers won’t sit still if he isn’t tearing them apart with his teeth. The red curtain hangs low on the proscenium, but he watches the stage as though, if he looks away, it might all start again without him.

A group of workers enter the hall to assist the guests remained in their seats. Taehyung dips down to sit on the floor, below the railing, so that they won’t see him. He couldn’t bear to be kicked out now, not when he’s seen Jimin, not when the show has just begun, not when there’s so much more to see.

A luminaire from the stage lighting flashes through railing and shines, in peaks and shadows of pattern, on his face, and it’s blinding but he can’t look away. He closes his eyes and feels it’s warmth, and a touch of nostalgia bursts through his blood like a blossom.

Warm days and stormy nights, and the sun flashing down on his skin. Arms around him, holding him even in the heat because they couldn’t bear to be too far from one another. Iced drinks and cold seas.

Taehyung opened his eyes to the stroke of a finger down his cheek. He turned to Jimin, who watched him, smiling, his skin both tanned from yesterday’s sun and pinked from today. He kissed Jimin’s finger as it pulled along his lip.

“You fell asleep,” Jimin said to him.

“So I did.” He took Jimin’s hand in his. “You’re all sweaty.”

“I don’t know anyone who doesn’t sweat under the sun. Try holding a book, too,” he said, and picked up his book to show the crinkled edges where he held it with his hand. “The pages are wet. I’ve ripped a couple of them.”

“Why are you reading?” Taehyung asked and shut his eyes again, face to the sky. “Just enjoy the sun.”

“I can enjoy both at the same time,” he replied. “Books are effective sun protectors, did you know?”

“Have you not got a headache from reading in the light? My eyes hurt just lying here.”

“Takes a long time for my eyes to hurt from something, nowadays,” he said, dropping his book on the chair. “Though, sometimes, your hair in the morning is a good competitor.”

Taehyung picked the chair pillow from the sand and playfully hit Jimin with it, who laughed. Taehyung posed, raised his chin. “How does it look now?”

“Beautiful.” Jimin reached a hand out to comb through Taehyung’s hair. “You’re beautiful.”

Taehyung brought Jimin’s hand in his and pulled him in close to kiss him. Lips on lips, damp palms on skin. He wound his hand around Jimin’s neck, one on his waist, and encouraged him over, so that their hips were aligned, knocking.

When Taehyung rocked up against him, Jimin gasped, as if finally realising what it was they were doing. He pulled away and looked down to the beach, but all he found was what Taehyung already knew.

“No one’s here,” he said, pulled himself up to kiss Jimin’s neck. He rubbed a hand over his exposed chest, a hardened nipple. “I promise, no one’s here.”

“They might come, though.”

Taehyung hummed. “Their coming isn’t really the point.”

“I’m serious, Taehyung,” he said, and their eyes met. “It’s a public place.”

“We’re right at the end of the beach. For anyone to see us, we’d have to see them first, from further away.” He brought his lips to Jimin’s jaw, his throat, suckling. He moved their hips again.

“What if someone does see?”

Taehyung paused at the vulnerability of Jimin’s voice. He raised a hand to Jimin’s cheek, stroking the flushed skin. “Come on, baby. We’re alone,” he said lowly, “would it matter so much if we weren’t?”

Jimin brought his lips together tightly to stop from smiling, but it was no use. He giggled and fell into Taehyung’s neck.

“That was different,” he mumbled.

“Was it?” Taehyung asked. “Was it so different? I’d argue that here is ten times safer.”

Jimin stayed there for a moment, and Taehyung waited patiently for him to raise his head, and brought their lips together as soon as he did. He pushed up again, into the friction of their hips, and they moaned into each other’s mouths, and this time Jimin didn’t need any encouragement to move along, too, their movements in line with the waves that toppled over the sand, only they were more eager.

“Taehyung,” he moaned, setting himself back on Taehyung’s knees.

Taehyung shifted to pull his shorts down, and Jimin with him, and Jimin took him in his hand, already so hard, so ready, that he couldn’t help but bend down and pop him into his mouth, just for a quick taste.

But Taehyung didn’t want him there. He loved Jimin, but he didn’t want him there. He wanted Jimin, on top of him, looking down at him, moving confidently like he knew how beautiful he was, the sun a halo around his head as he moaned, titled back just to hit that sweet spot, just to feel more of him. But his tongue didn’t work, and he was never good at initiating these things—and it must have been the sun, the delirium of the heat, that gave him the courage.  

“Jimin,” he said, his tone strong and already strained in the heat, his hand through Jimin’s hair, softly on his hand, pulling him up.

And then, as if they were dreaming, as if the waves paused in the ocean and sound muted and they were still as if one movement would shatter the very thing held between them, just for them, in their little corner of paradise, time stopped still. They paused, and Jimin took two gentle hands around Taehyung’s jaw and leaned in to a kiss so delicate and so mouth-wateringly pure, that Taehyung felt the barest of touches to his skin.

And Jimin did it again, and again, until he couldn’t take it anymore and whined—this arbitrary, carnal roll from his tongue—and Jimin grinned, so beautifully wicked, and slowly eased down onto him.

Their mouths parted together and came back as one. “Jimin,” he said, over and over again. “Jimin, ah.”

Jimin moved as if Taehyung was born to be there, in between the softness of Jimin’s thighs, strained from movement and pleasure, their skin slicked with sweat. Taehyung lapped at Jimin’s mouth until, through his moans, Jimin couldn’t keep up, mouth parted, gasping and moaning, and Taehyung winded down to every inch of skin he could find with his mouth.

He bucked his hips up to meet Jimin, hands everywhere in a desperation to cling on as long as they could, his hand wrapped tightly with Jimin inside it.

He always knew when Jimin was going to come. That devilish side to him that enjoyed it all, whose epicurean eyes gazed down to watch the greeting of their bodies, moving away and together again, the stroking of his fingers along Taehyung’s skin, who smiled as he watched Taehyung’s composure come undone until there was nothing, was changed so capriciously into a sweet animal whose sybaritic nature came only to be about holding Taehyung as close as he could.

He wrapped his arms around Taehyung’s shoulders, fingers deep into his wet hair, their lips together and then away when he couldn’t bear to hold the sound in.

“Tae,” he said, gasping, one after the other, his moans uninhibited until they became shouts of love. He moved quicker, with desperation, his skin slick, echoing into the ocean.

And then, a wave crashes over him.

The crescendo. The curtain has already drawn up, the dancers are back on stage, and the crowd has already applauded them. The rest of the people in his area have returned, and one glances at him when he stumbles quickly to his feet to watch the stage.

Jimin isn’t there—from only a glance he can tell. He winds his coat further around himself as he thinks of how he had missed it, already. How long had they already been dancing? Taehyung should know—the times Jimin listened to the music, remembering the queues; Taehyung should know, too—but he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t.

Then, Jimin is there, dancing. He’s so beautiful, Taehyung thinks—it’s the only thing he can think. Everyone else on the stage dissolves until it’s just him, moving, his arms gracefully seeking out the air as if the movements themselves were made for Taehyung.

The music slows, and Taehyung finds it in himself to clap along with the audience this time. They leave but Jimin returns, alone under the moonlight, surrounded by the trees and the night. The orchestra doubles; fortissimo, and Rothbart appears. They dance around one another, unseeing, and he disappears, and the music slows—and Taehyung’s heart flourishes when he recognises the queue.

The swans appear on the lake—Rothbart has drawn the Prince right to them. The prince takes his crossbow, and the lights flash up, and the vibration of the music through the walls makes Taehyung feel as though he’ll fall through the floor. The prince moves to the swan, aiming, ready to take their life, and then… through the darkness, the moon comes through the clouds, and the swans raise their wings, and the magic fills the air, and the inundated prince retreats back so he can see the swan, now transformed into the beautiful Odette.

They confess their love to one another; Odette is in fear of Rothbart and his spell. The Prince dances with her in motions of passion, sequences of promise that he will keep her safe, that he won’t leave her.

Rothbart appears, and the Prince takes steps to kill him, but Odette will be lost forever if he does.

Taehyung rests his back against the wall and watches with pain in his chest. He couldn’t count the times he’s watched Jimin, how many times Taehyung has seen him fall and rise up, dance, stand still. And he could never admit to the shame he feels now, of never understanding Jimin’s potential in the way he deserved, of not understanding, until this moment, what Jimin meant when he felt underestimated and unloved. His chest almost tears at the mortifying truth of it.

He knew, always, that Jimin was right. But he could never admit to it. And, perhaps, if he never came here tonight, if he never saw with his own eyes—despite watching for years—how good Jimin was, if he never saw the performance between him and Odette, the beautiful swan, and allowed that suspicion of wondering if their practised glances and tender touches were more than just stage chemistry—and, though he has no place to, felt crushed by the ordeal of it—he would never have admitted it, at all.

He sees it now, only a mere passing thought of humiliation. It couldn’t be more undeniably vivid. Nothing murky stands in his way of disregarding the truth, in all its pellucidity, for what it is.

Though he tried, Taehyung did not love Jimin enough.

The prince, his heart torn, leaves the stage, and Taehyung does, too. He doesn’t have to watch the stage to see the beautiful Odette slowly transform back into the swan—he remembers it now, now that it’s too late.

He doesn’t stay to see the curtain fall.

His feet carry him down the stairs, and further, further than he’s supposed to go, through doors that should be guarded, through dimly lit hallways that begin to flood again with dancers and composers as he walks through them. He moves, and he lets his feet carry him, because he trusts they know where he should be, even if he doesn’t.

His mind is just a blur of confused faces and lights, until he sees Jimin. Stood in front of him, his back turned. He pulls a jacket over his arms and sips from a bottle of water. A few lingering eyes from the other dancers in the room look to him, but Jimin doesn’t notice. Not until Taehyung takes a step forward, and his name rolls off Taehyung’s tongue before he can hear it himself.

He turns. He pauses, as if for a moment not recognising Taehyung at all. Then, the fear in his eyes of seeing Taehyung stood there, weak, face shining with sweat, a churning in his stomach at the thought of Jimin turning him away, is what keeps them still. Their eyes locked to one another. Taehyung’s desperate face on Jimin’s dazed expression of not knowing what to do.

“Taehyung,” he says.

And Taehyung finally takes a breath. How long has it been since he heard his voice? In anything but old videos and voicemails.

“Hi,” he says in return, because ‘I need to see you, and I need to see you every moment, otherwise I’m afraid I might die’ doesn’t quite seem to fit the moment.

Jimin turns to the other dancers, some of them staring, others too busy in their off-stage peace to notice, and turns back to Taehyung with embarrassment in his eyes.

And Taehyung, again, realises what he’s done. You’d think he’d learn.

Quickly, Jimin walks towards him, and for a moment Taehyung thinks he’s going to be slapped—though, he thinks, he wouldn’t shy away from it; an insane part of him might accept it because at least it’s something.

Instead, Jimin takes his hand and leads him with rushed steps into a bathroom at the end of the room. He locks the door behind him, and stands facing the door for a moment before turning to meet Taehyung.

“I had to see you,” Taehyung says quickly, his mouth dry and his eyes sore, “I’ve been going mad.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t have guessed,” he replies, and looks Taehyung up and down.

Taehyung grips the insides of his pockets tighter. “Jimin I—” he pauses, loses his train of thought. “You look so beautiful.”

Jimin looks away to the floor, to his hands. “Taehyung, you can’t be here.”

“I know,” he says, but neither of them make an effort to move.

Whilst he isn’t looking, Taehyung takes in every part of Jimin’s face, because he knows it might be the last time. Sculptured with makeup that looks immaculate underneath the lights, but what lies underneath is so much more perfect. He’s changed since they last saw each other—and Taehyung has, too—and yet he hasn’t, at all. His eyes are the same, except perhaps dulled with a tint of sadness. Has Taehyung caused that—again?

“Jimin-ah,” he begins, “you’re amazing.”

He finally meets Taehyung’s eyes. “Is that what you came to tell me?”

Taehyung opens his mouth but pauses as he struggles with the look in Jimin’s eyes. Uncertainty, but hopeful. Maybe it’s just the lights again. Maybe it’s just the reflection of his own eyes.

Jimin’s shoulders fall, and Taehyung panics. He’s taken too long to respond.

“I thought that—” he begins quickly, but falls short.

Taehyung steps forward; Jimin looks weary, as if to touch in this small space would be to combust.

“What is it?” Taehyung asks.

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, “You don’t have anything else to say?”

So much, he wishes to tell him. So much that I don’t know where to begin, that I don’t know where to find the words. But his tongue ties and his mouth becomes a black void where words become lost. There’s nothing but silence between them. Taehyung feels the rising of pressure in his throat, heaviness in his nose as he tries not to cry. But Jimin blurs in front of him, anyway.

“I’m trying,” he strains out.

Jimin sighs. “You always tried,” he says, “that was never the problem.”

He can taste the words. He can taste them. They tease him and taunt him, knowing that they won’t give him their time. He watches Jimin stare at him—seconds, minutes—waiting for him to say something, and Taehyung swallows to try again but nothing comes up. Just empty, violent air that deceives him.

“Please, don’t ruin anything else,” Jimin says weakly, and turns away.

A group of Ballarino’s startle as Jimin opens the door. They pull away, as if their ears had been to the door. Jimin looks behind him, watching Taehyung in his peripheral with his chin to the ground.

Taehyung still says nothing. He can’t. Not even as Jimin storms away, his head low; not even as he stands there, some of the Ballarino’s staring at him for a moment before they disperse as he returns to a broken-hearted man standing aimlessly in the middle of nowhere.

He rushes from the room and back where he came from, stopping in the doorway to look at Jimin once more. He stands at his section in the room, beside his costume and belongings, refusing to look up at Taehyung even though he knows he’s there. How could he not? Taehyung wouldn’t forget what it felt like to have Jimin’s eyes on him, to be the only one.

Had Jimin forgotten already?

He returns to his place to the side of the stage as though he’s a blind man stumbling through the dark. Only once he’s in the secluded area of his seat, where no one else has yet to return, does he finally compose himself.

He closes his face into his hands and leans forward on the railing. He breathes in and out, in and out, to focus on getting the dull ache out of his every breath.

He’s forgotten, he thinks and winces again. And perhaps the hardest part was that Taehyung hadn’t forgotten—not at all.

The sound of applause lifts his head, and he watches the curtain rise. All the dancers are posed on the stage, ready. Jimin is in the centre with his tutor, his friend, Benno, beside him, the peasants and courts people scattered across the stage. A party of princesses prance around the Prince as his mother sits to the side, waiting for him to pick one.

He moves with the same elegance that he did before, from pace to pace on the stage. Only Taehyung sees it—and he’s sure that no one else in the room can, but he sees it—the hesitance in Jimin’s footwork, the misshape of his confidence, as if that one shard of glass he needs to piece the mirror back together again eludes him. And Taehyung is the one who broke it.

No one else can see it but him. His fingers grip tighter around the railing, and he leans forward to be closer.

Taehyung almost hears the horror in the audience as Odile arrives. She crosses the stage like a shadow, but the Prince sees her as a shining star. He dances towards her, but she evades him and takes her place on the centre stage and begins her fouettés. Her spins are flawless, and the crowd cheers enthusiastically as she finishes.

Jimin takes her place, and Taehyung can see on his face that he feels the pressure. He begins his fouettés, and his speed and technique are better than Odile’s. But halfway through, his smile falls away and turns into a frown, and he loses his balance, and his applause comes slow and undeservingly small.

“Jimin,” he says to himself.

He recomposes himself quickly and finishes the remaining set of spins. He catches Odile in his arms and they dance together along the stage. The other suitors become silent to the side as their rejection sets in; they know the Prince’s choice.

Odile dances around the hall to flaunt that she has been chosen, and Rothbart appears in the corner, awaiting for his plan to succeed. They come together again in the centre of the stage, all eyes on them.

In the final moments, Taehyung remembers how this goes. He remembers Jimin talking vividly about it, and how passionately he believed that the final scene needed a lift. He had, on occasion, tried to get Taehyung to practise it with him, to a miserable defeat.

He watches now, as the steps become familiar to him, as he watches Jimin prepare for the lift. Odile spins and takes a step towards him, and Jimin’s hands come to her waist, and their knees bend, and he lifts her, and his face falters… and they fall.

The gasp of the crowd cracks the room in two.

It’s his fault, he thinks. It couldn’t be anyone’s fault but his. He knows Jimin would have practised this religiously, and he knew the steps long before he was given the opportunity to perform them. If he hadn’t trespassed backstage, if he hadn’t have distracted Jimin, this wouldn’t have happened. Taehyung can feel Jimin’s humiliation exuding from him, even from all the way up here.

They stand quickly and recover, a limp in her leg as she stands for the final movements. Jimin falls to his knee in front of her and confesses his vow of true love. Odile looks to Rothbart, to Jimin, and throws her head back in victory.

The curtain falls on Jimin. Taehyung can’t bear another moment.

Jimin shivered as they walked down the street, and Taehyung unwound their hands to wrap his coat around Jimin’s shoulders.

“It’s nearly winter,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be wearing a coat?”

“I am wearing one.” Jimin smiled at him cheekily.

Taehyung kissed him and wrapped their arms together again. They walked down the quiet street, in their own little bubble, giddy from what had happened not long ago. They glanced at each other every now and then and giggled, like young lovers at the precipice of something new. Taehyung’s face was still warm from Jimin’s words, the feel and taste of his breath in the small room.

He wasn’t sure when that warmth would fade—and he’s not quite sure that, from that moment, it ever did—but he was glad that his apartment was just around the corner, less so because he cared about himself being warm, and more to do with the idea of sitting in front of the fire with Jimin, of making him hot tea and holding him in his arms.

“It wasn’t on, you know,” Jimin said, as they entered his apartment building.

“What?” Taehyung asked.

The stairs were steep—and Taehyung had a scar or two on his knees to prove how treacherous they could be—and Jimin didn’t give him an answer until they reached the top and were walking along the landing.

“The camera,” he said, a grin on his face. “It wasn’t on.”

Taehyung frowned. “How would you know that?”

“There was an electrical shortcut. All the power from the first three floors is out. I heard the receptionist telling one of the ballerina’s this morning that the engineer wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow,” he explained. “There was no one watching. No one but me.”

Taehyung dropped the keys from out the door, his shoulders slumping, mouth parted. Jimin laughed, head thrown back, though Taehyung could see the shyness, still, in his expression.

“You lied to me,” he said.

Jimin stepped closer and flicked his eyebrows. “You still did it, though, didn’t you? Even when you thought someone was watching.”

Taehyung opened his mouth to speak, but Jimin kissed him instead.

“You didn’t think I’d share you, did you?” he whispered and kissed him again, pulling back when Taehyung moved in closer for more. “I told you: dance like nobody is watching.”

He leaned up on his tiptoes to kiss the cold tip of Taehyung’s nose and sauntered into the apartment.

Taehyung slams the door behind him and falls against it, down to the floor until his elbows are on his knees and his head is in his hands, and he cries. He lets it out; every sob and every tear and every angry shout of hurt he’s felt since the moment he first saw Jimin.

He shouldn’t have gone. He shouldn’t have set a foot near the stage, because he’s ruined it all. It’s been over a year since he’s last seen Jimin, and he still hasn’t learned a goddamn thing. To be so selfish… why had he not listened? Why had he not seen?

He cries, and he cries, and on the other side of the city, in the dimly lit corners of the ballet quarters, in a taxi ride home, behind a closed door where no one can see him, he can feel Jimin crying, too.

They were in Greece, he remembers—Namjoon helped them pay for the trip because Taehyung couldn’t afford it and he couldn’t let Jimin down for his birthday. Their affection seemed to have an affinity for warm places and beaches, and though they frequently enjoyed the long beaches in Busan where they’d spend most of their time when the sky was up, Jimin’s birthday fell just outside of summer and by that time was too cold to take to the beach.

Taehyung knew Jimin still craved the warmth of the sun and the fresh fruit. And when he saw the tickets going cheap online, how could he not have taken them up? The Airbnb they stayed at was cheap, and the rattling of the fan kept Taehyung awake in the night, but Jimin was smiling. That was enough.

Jimin drew closer to the edge of the rock face, looking down to the sea.

“Be careful,” Taehyung said. “If you fall, you know I’ll jump after you.”

“And die, too?” Jimin asked.

“Yes.”

Jimin smiled at him, squinting in the sun, as he approached closer. Just one glance over the drop made his legs feel weak, and Jimin laughed at him when he stood back. He raised a hand over his eyes to see: Jimin stood at the edge of the rock, one foot elevated up a step that kept them from the edge, his billowy shirt riding in the cool breeze, and he gazed over on the horizon, at the dipping of the sun that painted the sky, slowly, into a masterpiece, looking as if he stood on top of the world.

“You’re so beautiful,” Taehyung mumbled to himself.

Jimin glanced behind him. “What?”

He smiled. “What do you see?”

“Seagulls, and children on the beach, and the waves crashing at the end of the world.” He reached both his hands out beside him and lifted his chin to the sky, as if asking the world to take him. “I could stay here forever.”

Taehyung stepped forward and hooked his arms around Jimin’s waist, to keep him safe. “Could you?”

He thought about it for a moment. “No,” he said, “I’d miss home, and the food, and the beaches there, too.”

“I’d miss you.” Taehyung kissed his neck. “A lot.”

“You’d stay here with me, silly.”

“I would?”

“I’m sure they’d love your art. The bright colours and your obsession with beautiful skies.”

Taehyung followed his eyes to the wide expanse above, painted the first tones of auburn and pink and gold from the parting of the sun.

“It’s not them that I need to love me,” he said.

Jimin turned his head and kissed him, a hand folding into his hair. Then, the absence of him, and Taehyung opened his eyes to Jimin leaning forward, letting go completely of his balance. He fell for only a second—not even that—before Taehyung caught him.

“What did you do that for?” he asked, alarmed.

Jimin was laughing. “Why are you so afraid?”

“Because you’re being reckless with your life,” he argued. “Are you insane?”

“No,” Jimin replied, casual as if it were nothing, “I knew you’d catch me.”

“And if I hadn’t?” he asked.

Jimin smiled, and his eyes sparkled like the first sky in the star. “You’d jump after me. Right?”

They found a spot further down the cliff face, where a patch of grass and a sparse tree had grown far out. They lay a blanket down on the ground, and Taehyung pulled out the strawberries he’d bought from the market and a bottle of wine. Jimin popped the cork—it was always his favourite thing to do—and Taehyung laughed as he tried to fit all of the fizz in his mouth.

Their drank their wine, and lay under the evening and watched the stars pour into the sky, and Jimin looked so beautiful, and he hated that it was the only word that came to mind because Jimin was so much more, so much more that he didn’t know, but it was only because all he could think was, ‘I love you. I love you and I want to say it, and I want to scream it, but you don’t want that. You want this peace here, this quiet, where things don’t have to be spoken, things don’t have to be said.’

Jimin always saw the beauty in the quiet. He said, things that truly need to be said by people who need to hear often don’t have to speak at all, because what needs to be said is already known.

Taehyung knew that, he knew that Jimin knew. But Taehyung wasn’t that man, and no matter how many times he didn’t say it, he always wanted to say it more.

Was it such a bad thing, to speak it even though it was known? Did people so commonly note that the stars were glorious, or the ocean was rich, or the spark of indignation was hot, even though, with one glance, or one touch, these things were already too obvious to deny? Was he so different?

“Jimin,” he began.

But Jimin was soon there. “Don’t,” he said, understanding already, “you don’t have to.”

“I want to.” Taehyung pulled himself desperately closer, rolled onto his stomach to look down at Jimin. “Why can’t I?”

“You don’t need to. I already know.”

“And you don’t need to be afraid,” Taehyung replied. “They’re just words.”

“If they’re just words, then why do you want to say them so badly?” Jimin asked.

“Because when they come from someone who feels love, they’re no longer just words,” he said, and his mouth dried. “It’s everything. Everything in that moment that encapsulates what’s in between those two people. It lifts the air, makes it smell like roses. The stars become golden, and everything is just a perfect void where only those two people and their love exist, as if there’s nowhere else on earth for them to be.”

“You always said you weren’t good with words,” Jimin said, and poked him. “You’re a liar.”

“Please,” Taehyung said quietly, “don’t change what I’m saying.”

Jimin sobered, his lips pinching together, and he sat up onto his arms. His eyes were to the view, to the darkness of the Greek coast. The waves crashed below them, and Taehyung could taste the salt in the back of his throat.

Taehyung followed him, keeping his gaze on him, but Jimin wouldn’t meet him.

“Can you say something?” Taehyung asked.

“The sea looks even more beautiful at night.”

“Jimin,” he whispered. He pulled a strand of hair, pulled rogue from the breeze, behind Jimin’s ear. “I love you.”

Jimin closed his eyes, swallowed, and Taehyung reached his thumb across Jimin’s cheek as a tear fell. Who had hurt him so greatly? So much that he felt like he couldn’t say those words, as if some part of him that snagged on an old scar and could not escape told him he didn’t deserve to.

“Taehyung—” he said, and choked on the word.

Taehyung shushed him, moved closer, kissed him. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say it. You don’t have to.”

“It’s not that I don’t,” he said, quickly.

“I know, baby.” Taehyung brought him into his arms. “Just promise me one thing, just one.”

Jimin sniffled. “What?”

“Don’t ever forget that I mean it. No matter what happens, no matter how far apart we are, no matter if the world separates us…” he swallowed. “Promise me you’ll never forget that I love you.”

Jimin pulled himself in closer, held Taehyung’s arm tighter. “I promise,” he said, and he held the sky on his tongue as it trembled. “I promise, Taehyung.”

Taehyung’s eyes open to the cracks in his ceiling. He blinks away the sleep, tries to open them, because the thought of falling back into another dream terrifies him.

How could his dreams of Jimin ever become nightmares? How could his memories haunt him like they do?

His eyes open again, head lulled back up, to knocking. At first he thinks it’s in his head, the pounding of his skull from too much pressure, not enough sleep. But it continues, and then again, and he lies awake listening to it for a moment before realising it’s the door.

He stands from the sofa and walks to the door, and the reflection of the snow outside tells him it’s too light to be 1am. He opens the door, and the hinge creaks slightly, and any numbness or haze he felt in his soporific state is wiped away when he sees Jimin standing on the other side of the door.

“Hi,” he says. His eyes are red, like Taehyung is sure his are, too. “Can I come in?”

Taehyung stands there for a moment as if shocked. Then, without speaking, moves to the side so Jimin can step in. He takes his shoes off and walks further into the room, eyes scanning.

“It’s dark in here,” he says.

“It’s 1am.”

“Ah, that’ll be why,” Jimin says with a low smile. “A little light, maybe?”

Taehyung, for once, was glad that Jimin was so adamant on lighting candles, always. He often didn’t agree with the scents, and Jimin’s favourite smells—rich cherry, and cinnamon, and sandalwood—always gave him a headache. And he could see the purpose of these candles, to freshen up a room and mark it as home.

What he didn’t understand was all the odd church candles and taper candles that Jimin collected, placed on the fireplace or on singular candelabra’s around the place that he never lit. ‘For decoration’, he said, of course. But Taehyung could never wrap his mind around it. Would you put food out for décor and not eat it?

“So, for future reference,” Jimin said, holding a tealight in front of him, “the next time there’s a power outage, you’ll thank me for my candles. And every other day of the year, when there aren’t power outages, you won’t moan at me for it.”

“I don’t moan at you,” Taehyung said. “I just don’t understand.”

“I like to look at them.”

“That’s it, though?”

Jimin lowered the candle, softly defensive, “They’re pretty.”

“They’re pretty when you light them.” He reached up to place the candle on the highest shelf.

“Do you have to light all of them?” Jimin asked. “We don’t know how long the power’s going to be out.”

“I’ll buy you some more. I’ll buy you a whole box for Christmas.”

“Christmas is nine months away.”

“We can stick some oranges on the candelabra’s until then.”

“I’m not having this argument with you again.” He sat at the kitchen counter and sighed, his hand holding his chin. “We were going to watch Ponyo.”

“We can watch it later, if the power comes back on,” Taehyung said.

“How are we going to charge our phones?”

“I’m sure the power will come back on before our phones die,” Taehyung said.

“My phone has 11%.” He held his phone up for Taehyung to see.

“You can use my phone if you need to.”

“And how are we going to cook dinner?”

“I think we still have gas. The stove is in use.” Taehyung brushed Jimin’s hair away from his face and kissed him. “Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m just uselessly moaning,” he replied. “I hate it when things like this happen.”

“We should get the blankets out. It’ll drop too cold without the heating on.”

Jimin’s cheeks slowly turned up as he smiled. He edged closer; Taehyung grinned to himself and sat straighter.

“No.”

“Why not? It’ll keep us warm.”

“We’re not even cold yet.”

Jimin shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with being pre-emptive.” 

Lightning shot across the window, and Taehyung looked out at the harsh rain as a crack of thunder roared above them. Taehyung’s heart quickened. Jimin took his hand, pulled his attention back in.

“It’ll take your mind off it.”

He shook his head. “I’m not in the mood.”

Jimin stroked his hand softly with his thumb. “How about we make hot chocolate and make puppets on the ceiling with a flashlight? Like we did in Italy.”

Taehyung smiled at him, raised Jimin’s hand to kiss it. He handed Taehyung his phone and turned the light on. “Lead the way for me?”

Jimin flashes the light around the apartment, following Taehyung to the light switch. Even though Taehyung already knows where the light switch is—he’s lived here long enough, now—he couldn’t imagine Jimin being disheartened by him.

“Were you asleep?” Jimin asks.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

Taehyung looks to him, turning on the light. With the shadow, he sees it more—the bags underneath Jimin’s eyes, the soreness from pulling on skin. His own eyes feel heavy, like if they shut they won’t open again.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, and moves into the kitchen. It takes him a moment to remember that it’s not their old apartment, and Jimin hasn’t followed him because he doesn’t know the way. He pops his head back out the doorway. “Do you want a drink?”

“Yes, please,” he says.

He thinks about making hot chocolate. How stupid would that be—in his tiredness, Taehyung almost laughs. Instead, he grabs two glasses and a bottle of soju. Jimin sits on the opposite side of the island, waiting. Taehyung fills the bottom of the glass and slides it over to him.

“It’s me who should be sorry,” he says, and swallows the soju; grimaces; reiterates, “I am sorry.”

Jimin doesn’t touch his yet. “Why were you even there?”

“I saw you, on a poster. I saw that you were in town,” he says. “I—I had to. I shouldn’t have.”

“You have the right to go to the ballet, Taehyung,” Jimin replies. “But, yes, you shouldn’t have. And you definitely shouldn’t have snuck backstage into a private area, and disrespected the privacy of the other ballarino’s, just to see me.”

“I know.”

“I… I didn’t need for you to do that. You really, really shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry, Jimin-ah,” he says. “I know it was my fault, that you fell.”

Jimin’s eyes fall to the marble counter. “It’s not about fault.”

“But it is my fault. I was reckless, and sleep-deprived—I still am,” he begins. “I only brought you more pain.”

Jimin huffs and looks up. “Don’t do that. Please, don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Taehyung asks.

“Don’t just stand there and pity yourself.”

Taehyung pulls his head back, as if being dealt a blow. “What?”

“You always do it. Always,” Jimin says, more agitated. “It’s just you and your pity until everything is forgotten.”

“Jimin, I—”

“It’s not about fault, Taehyung,” he says. When he continues, his voice is quieter, “It took me a while to realise that, longer than it should have.” He looks to Taehyung, eyes hard. “It’s about responsibility.”

Is there a difference? He doesn’t say it—a part of him knows it’s the wrong answer to give.

“Fault only causes pain. It just gives people the allowance to push blame from one person to the next, without thinking of the consequences,” he says. “It’s about putting your hand up and saying, ‘yes, it was me, and maybe not just me, but only I control what I do, and only I can control change.’”

Taehyung lets the silence settle. He sits on his words as he looks to Jimin, thinking, picking them through, wondering what words will fix change and what will cause a storm. Jimin was wrong—Taehyung isn’t good with words, because words are not easy. They’re cruel, and twist things, and hide themselves in fickle spots in your mouth that make them unreachable when you need them.

Why couldn’t Jimin see now—without having to say?

Jimin swallows his drink in one and slides the glass back over. Taehyung pours it, and he closes his eyes and thinks of the waves, of the raindrops tapping against the window, of the gentle snow and the bitterness it brings; of Jimin’s dark eyes that couldn’t be anything but soft if they tried.

“How do you know where I live?” he asks.

Jimin untenses; sighs. “One of the ballerino’s has seen you before. He lives in this apartment building.”

“Have you…” he pauses. “Have you been here before—to this building?”

“Yes.”

Taehyung pours their glasses again. He’d been here, in the same building, perhaps even the same floor. Had he really been so crazy on those days where he swore he could smell Jimin’s aftershave in the empty rooms, in the hallway like a ghost.

“Are you friends?”

Jimin looks him in the eyes. “Yes.”

More than what friends should be?

He doesn’t say it; he doesn’t dare. But it’s in the air, and Jimin can feel it, too, and it doesn’t need an answer because Jimin was always better at that unspoken thing than he was, and Taehyung already knows without either of them having to move, as if Jimin is unwilling to give any other answer, but: yes.

Taehyung takes a breath.

“Why did you come here, Jimin?”

After a moment, he shrugs. “Everyone else seems to have someone else. I didn’t know where else to go. I can’t show my face around them at the moment.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Jimin’s lips draw tight, a hand through his hair. “Will you stop saying that? Just stop it.”

“I’m only trying to—”

“Yes, I know. I know you’re trying,” he snaps. “But I don’t want you to try. It doesn’t matter how many times you say you’re sorry, it won’t change anything. You’re only saying it for yourself.”

“For myself?” He frowns.

“To make yourself feel better. So you can still run.”

“I’m not running away.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not,” he says, voice raised. “If I was running, I would have slammed the door on your face. If I was running, I would never have come to see you. Because, if I’m being absolutely honest, because I have to be…” he shakes his head. “I couldn’t be more terrified. Because you’ll leave, if I don’t. And I’m more afraid of that than anything else.”

Taehyung stands and takes a step around the island to Jimin, who tenses at his presence.

He swallows, and again, and he feels as though he might throw up, or explode—at least that way, everything he wants to say will come out, and not be stuck in an amalgamating ball in his throat that tries to choke him.

“I am so lost,” he says, strained. “And I don’t know where to go, what to do, who to turn to. I wake up most mornings not wanting to move because I ache, I feel it as deep as it can go into my bones, that you’re not there. And all I know, right now, in this moment, is that as soon as I saw you, on that stage and now, I felt found.” He takes a breath, places a hand on the counter to steady himself. “Please, believe me. I won’t know what to do if you don’t.”

It’s not like before. It’s nothing like before. Jimin looks at him, as though if he looks away everything around them will shatter. And maybe it will; and maybe Taehyung will be left to pick up the pieces on his own; and maybe that’s what Jimin wants in the end. But he doesn’t look away. Not for one second.

He downs his soju like a shot. Pauses. Shifts a hand through his hair. And then, the chair squeaks along the floor, and Jimin’s eyes travel from Taehyung’s navel, up his chest, his neck, his eyes that tremble, until they close. And there are Jimin’s lips, on his, just off in rash movement but centred by Jimin’s hand in his hair.

There is no other instinct in him but to react quickly, in the same way he’s desperate for. But he doesn’t move—he recognises that the ball is in Jimin’s court—and lets Jimin push him up against the counter, move between his legs, feel the craved sensation of their touch-starved hands against one another.

“Jimin,” he moans, between a breath.

And then Jimin pulls away, to the other side of the counter, eyes closed hard, hand over his mouth as if in pain. As if Taehyung’s voice has broken him from whatever stupid delirium made him act in the first place.

Then, it all shatters. Taehyung wishes he hadn’t said anything, at all.

“Jimin,” he says again. “Are you okay?”

He stays quiet, moving only to flinch as Taehyung steps towards him.

“I can’t be here,” he says, and rushes from the kitchen.

“Wait,” he says, panicked as Jimin grabs his coat, “please, Jimin, wait!”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Why are you apologising?” Taehyung asks.

Jimin pauses, his hand on the door knob.

“Do you think you need to apologise again?” Taehyung doesn’t dare move. “I think I hurt you enough that one little scar you make means nothing.”

He says, roughly, “That doesn’t make it right.”

“It does to me,” Taehyung says. “Please, stay.” He looks to the clock. “It’s two in the morning, and the snow is heavy. You won’t get a taxi. Just… please stay, until the morning. We don’t have to speak; I’ll give you your space. But I won’t bear to see you walk out into the cold.”

Jimin turns around slowly. His eyes shine under the light, and Taehyung doesn’t want to do anything but hold him. He would, if he didn’t know it would make things worse.

“Where do you want to sleep?” he asks. “You can have the bedroom, if you’re comfortable with it.”

Jimin sniffs, brings his hand to his hair again—an old habit. “Will you stay there, too?”

“If you want me to.”

He gives no answer. There’s no need for one.

And it doesn’t dawn on Taehyung until Jimin is already in the bed, and he’s on the floor beside him, a little bit away, on his makeshift bed, and he’s sat up until he hears the first cars on the street of people leaving for work, that Jimin could have left if he wanted to. He could have gone, back down to that door in this very building—Taehyung feels sick at the thought—where someone would be waiting for him, would open the door for him, and everything else behind it would become a mystery.

He could have left.

In his sleep, Jimin’s arm falls from the bed, inches away from him. It takes everything in Taehyung to not reach out and take it.

After the injury, Taehyung had made sure to be extra careful.

He inquired insistently about having the elevator fixed, and, even though it had been broken for over a year, he was adamant to have it done. Jimin had to walk on crutches for up to two months and using the stairs wouldn’t be as big of a problem as it was if they weren’t so steep. But either so, there was no way Taehyung was letting Jimin use the stairs during that time, unless Taehyung was carrying him.

“The doctor said seven weeks,” Jimin said to him, his arms wrapped around Taehyung’s waist.

Taehyung shifted him on his hips carefully. “We’ll make it eight, just to be sure.”

“I’ll be fine, Tae.” He kissed his cheek. “You looked so afraid when you came in.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever run that fast before,” Taehyung said.

“Thank you,” he said, “for coming to get me.”

Taehyung pulled a face at him. “Who else would have picked you up?”

“No one else I wanted to.”

He placed Jimin down to unlock the apartment door, and helped Jimin hobble in when he refused to be picked up again.

“It’s a few steps to the sofa,” he’d said, “just let me walk.”

“The doctor said no walking. Not without assistance.”

“The doctor also said I should try and walk to keep it awake.”

“After a few weeks,” Taehyung replied. “You injured it a few hours ago.”

“There’s nothing wrong with getting a head start.” Jimin grabbed the arm of the sofa as soon as it was in reach and rested gently into it, a pained look on his face. “I think I need some more medication though.”

“I’ll get it, hold on.” Taehyung rushed to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, and handed it to Jimin, along with his medication and a snack. “He said to not take them without some food.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jimin said.

“You don’t have a choice, baby.”

Jimin rolled his eyes playfully and ate his snack. Taehyung watched him, trying not to smile.

“Are you going to be like this the whole time?” Jimin asked.

“Like what?”

“Doting and annoying.”

“I didn’t realise my care was annoying,” Taehyung mumbled, though he was grinning. “You know I have to take care of you. You’re not going to be able to do much yourself.”

Jimin sighed. “I don’t want to be treated like a child.”

Taehyung frowned. “You won’t be.”

“I’ll feel like one, though.”

“Jimin, you tore a ligament. You’re in extreme pain. I don’t think this is the time for pride,” he said, and leaned up on his knees to kiss Jimin’s cheek. “I’m going to take care of you. And you’re going to enjoy it.”

Taehyung wakes. He sits and pushes his back against the bedside table. When his heart slows again, he shuts his eyes and tries to sleep, the sky lighting a deep grey from the sun.

This time, he takes Jimin’s hand.

Taehyung knocked the door shut behind him with his foot, eyes on his phone. Jimin waited for him on the sofa and stood as he entered, clearing his throat, a nervous step towards Taehyung.

Taehyung looked up, surprised. “Jimin,” he said, “it’s 2am, what are you doing up?”

“I was waiting for you,” he replied, calmly.

He’d had a few drinks—Taehyung couldn’t recognise that Jimin’s calmness was cause for concern. Instead, he took Jimin’s tired eyes as a doting, an act of kindness. Beyond the alcohol he should have seen this, but in Taehyung’s case, it wasn’t just the alcohol that drove him drunk.

He walked towards Jimin. “You didn’t have to do that, baby.” He leaned in to kiss Jimin, but Jimin turned him away. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s two am. I thought something happened to you,” he mumbled. “But you were just drinking instead?”

Taehyung frowned. “I had a few drinks with Namjoon-Hyung, that’s all.”

He reached out for Jimin and once again found rejection.

“I think you should go to bed,” Jimin muttered and turned away.

“Yeah,” he said, “okay. Are you coming?”

Jimin didn’t respond. Taehyung watched him move to the kitchen and pour a glass of water. He sipped quietly. Taehyung had the feeling that Jimin was on the point of saying something, but minutes passed by and the quiet remained. He turned around to walk from the hallway and into the bedroom, and that’s when he spoke.

“I had a ballet performance today.”

Taehyung turned back around. “You did?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Taehyung looked to the floor and back to Jimin. His brain was loopy. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did.”

Slowly, “I would have remembered if you’d told me.”

“Would you?” Jimin asked. He sipped his water, eyes unmoving from Taehyung. “Like you didn’t forget my doctor’s appointment? Or our anniversary.”

Taehyung straightened his back, and a part of him sobered when he realised what was happening. He pushed a hand through his hair and rested it on his head—it hurt too much already.

“Jimin, I don’t want to fight with you,” he said, almost in a plea. “I’m drunk. We’ll talk about it in the morning, okay?”

He turned away again. He should have known it wouldn’t have been that easy.

“Are you not going to apologise?” Jimin asked.

He stopped, still turned away. “For what?”

“For missing my performance.”

“If you had told me, I wouldn’t have missed it.”

“So, it’s my fault?”

“Well, if I didn’t know…” Taehyung raised his hands in a shrug, a facetious smile on his lips.

Jimin hummed, clicked his tongue. His head cocked to the side, like an animal before it attacked. “That’s so strange, because I could have sworn—no, I remember exactly—having the conversation with you about it. And I remember—do you even remember what play it was?”

“Nope,” Taehyung said, popping his lips.

“Right, I thought so.” Jimin’s eyes were like daggers. “Anyway, I remember specifically having the conversation with you because you told me you were going to book tickets, and I remember specifically thinking that you were going to forget.”

Taehyung turned to him. “If you knew I was going to forget, why didn’t you remind me?”

“I wanted to prove a point,” he said.

“A point?”

“Yes.”

“And that point—” he looked to his watch— “you want to make at two-thirty in the morning?”

“Rather now than later.”

Taehyung rubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed. “Alright. Give me your best shot.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “Don’t speak about it that way.”

“What way?”

“That way. I’m trying to tell you how I feel about you missing my ballet performance, and you just—”

Taehyung looked to him, raised his eyebrows. “I just what?”

Jimin paused, repositioned himself to be taller, held his head up. Hurt slashed across his face. “You didn’t remember something really important to me,” he said quietly. “And you haven’t even said sorry.”

Taehyung took a breath. His head began to spin. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, baby. I’m exhausted, and I want to go to bed. Just come with me and we’ll—”

“Do you know how embarrassing it was to tell everyone that my boyfriend was going to be there to see me, and when they asked me why he wasn’t there I had to tell them that he’d told me he went Christmas shopping, only to find out that he lied to me because he wanted to go to a football game, instead?”

Taehyung was quiet. In a moment where the room stopped spinning, he noticed his mistake, and for the first time, clearly, he saw the insult true on Jimin’s face.

“Jimin—”

“You remembered football tickets,” he said.

Taehyung swallowed. He had no excuse. He knew that. “Namjoon-Hyung invited me.”

“And you’re incapable of saying no?”

He frowned. “Jimin, if I had known that your performance was today, I wouldn’t have—”

“But you did know,” he said, “because I told you. Weeks ago.”

“Allegedly.”

Jimin pulled his chin back, his face contorting. “Allegedly?”

“I told you, I wouldn’t have forgotten.”

He could see it then, in his mind. It was raining that day, just a few degrees off snow. The fire drew tall, soporific flames, and the wind howled. Jimin had come in late from practise again, and Taehyung noticed only meekly that he had done so more often in the last few weeks. He remembered when Jimin told him; the kettle boiled in the background; he was stressed from not landing the movements. Taehyung’s fingers throbbed from a too-hard, frustrated grip on his paint brush.

Why was he being so prideful?

“Don’t speak to me that way, Taehyung,” he said. “Don’t make me feel like I’m mad.”

“Aren’t you?” he asked. “You look pretty mad.”

Jimin opened his mouth only to pierce his lips together, as if changing course of action. “We can’t afford football tickets right now.”

“Don’t worry about it. Namjoon-Hyung said he’d pay me back for them,” he said.

“Is that really the point?”

“You’re making a lot of points.”

“And?”

“And I’m drunk, Jimin. I want to talk about it in the morning.”

“And I want to talk about it now because I know the morning never comes,” he said.

Why didn’t he go? It was easy enough. Being a part of the show, Jimin received free tickets with every performance. He had only encouraged Taehyung to book the tickets himself because he knew that Taehyung would fall into his own rope. And all he’d done was hang himself.

Why didn’t he go? Perhaps a part of him didn’t want to. Perhaps a part of him didn’t care enough. What shame filled him made his head pound twice as fast.

“Jimin,” he said, and took a step forward, “I’m sorry. I should have been there.”

Jimin nodded. “And what else are you sorry for?”

Taehyung struggled with his tongue for longer than he should have. “For lying. I didn’t have to lie; I don’t know why I did.”

“Yes, you do.”

Taehyung looked to him, eyes that bore the threat of turning him to stone. He had seen those eyes targeted at others’ backs. But never his. Jimin had never been so angry at him, even though Taehyung, before now, had given him many instances to be so.

“Jimin—”

“Why did you decide to go to a football game over my performance?”

“I’ve said I’m sorry, Jimin,” he said. “Please, let’s drop this.”

“Answer the question.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because after this question, there will be another question, and another question, and I don’t want to do this right now,” he said, frustrated.

“Did you stop to think that if you’d been more honest with me, there wouldn’t be so many questions to answer?” Jimin slammed his glass on the side. “You always do this. You always make me feel like the bad guy for having an issue with something wrong that you’ve done. I’m tired of it, Taehyung.”

“You know I don’t mean to make you feel that way,” Taehyung replied, taken aback by Jimin’s anger. “I’ve been selfish.”

“Yes, you have.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “for missing the performance. I promise, I’ll come to the next one.”

Jimin almost laughed, instead he sounded pained. “You think it’s just about the performance? You still think that it’s just about the performance?” He sighed. “Where have you been?”

“At a football game, I told—”

“No,” Jimin interrupted, shaking his head. “For months, you haven’t been here. I don’t know where you’ve been, but it’s not here, with me, where you should be.”

Taehyung’s expression deepened. “I’ve been right here. Where else would I have been?”

“I don’t know, Taehyung,” he said, and he took a breath that turned into a gasp. “But lately, I talk to you, and it’s like you don’t see me. Like you don’t even pay attention.”

Little sparks ignited in Taehyung’s brain as Jimin spoke. Small moments, even smaller things that he should have paid attention to but chose to ignore. Jimin had been so short with him, and instead of asking if something was wrong, he’d dismissed it because it was easier. It was easier for him to hide away in the studio until Jimin left for practise.

“Sometimes, you look at me, and I swear you see nothing. It’s as if…” he paused, and his eyes filled, his voice steep and heavy with emotion but so fragile it might break. “As if I’m not there,” he said, “right beside you.”

“Jimin, I—” Taehyung fell short. Then, anger filled him, too, and it was misplaced, and he hated that it was there, in his chest for Jimin, but he couldn’t swallow it. “You were here, too. You left. When I tried to speak to you, you shut me down. You leave earlier for practise and come home later, and all you want to do is sleep.”

“Because I’m tired, Taehyung,” he said. “I’m exhausted. And I hate that the people I work with make me feel more seen and understood than my own boyfriend.”

“Just…” he sighed. His fingertips riddled with something that squeezed them tight. “Just talk to me. Let me know how you feel.”

“There’s no point,” Jimin’s voice rose as he spoke. “You never listen! You never hear what I’m saying.”

“How am I supposed to listen if you don’t talk at all?” Taehyung argued. “You shut down and don’t tell me anything, and I never know what to do. You just look at me, and my tongue ties in my throat, and I know nothing I say will be good enough.”

“Don’t pity yourself.” Jimin pushed his fist down onto the marble counter, and Taehyung felt the pain through his own hand. “This isn’t about you. You haven’t been there for me. I feel lost when I’m around you.”

“You think I don’t feel the same? You think I like not having anyone to talk to?”

“But you have me.” Jimin walked desperately toward him. “You have me. I will listen whenever you want me to. But you don’t. And when you do, you listen only when you want to, care only when you think it’s right.”

“You know that’s not true,” Taehyung said quietly. “You know I care, all the time. And maybe I don’t tell you how I feel because you’ve made me ashamed of feeling that way, of not even being able to tell the man I love the most that I love him.”

“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t, Taehyung. You know that’s a hard line. Don’t you dare. Don’t make me feel that way, Taehyung. Don’t make me feel like I can’t trust you. I…” he faltered. “I won’t stay here if you do. I can’t do it, Taehyung.”

Taehyung pulled both hands through his hair. He closed the space between them, and every step ricocheted off the walls as if they were the last to come between them. If he had known, he would have listened more carefully to how they broke Jimin’s heart.

“Baby,” he said, his voice a plea, “please, don’t say that, okay? Just talk to me.”

“I do speak to you,” Jimin began, his voice broken and heeded like thunder, and he pulled their hands apart. “I tried to speak to you so many times, but I never—I could never say it in the way you wanted to hear, so you didn’t listen. It’s like going around in circles with you, and I get dizzy, and I forget where I am and what I was doing, and you do it all over again.”

“Jimin—”

I was so afraid of losing you that… so many of the times I planned to speak to you, I gave up because I didn’t want to risk losing you. And I can’t do it anymore. I can’t do it to you, to pretend that I’m happy. I can’t do it to myself. And I’ve felt so guilty for so long.” His lip trembled, and then his face twisted as anger imposed.

“And then, I thought, how dare I. How dare I be mad at myself because of you. How dare I rip myself apart, convincing myself it’s fault, when I’m not in this relationship alone, I’m not the only one. How dare I take the responsibility for it all when it’s on you,” he says. “And maybe I could have done things differently, maybe I could have spoken to you. But in the end… I have this feeling in my chest that no matter what I do or say, it wouldn’t have made a difference.” Jimin took a breath, his eyes hard and fixated on him. “How dare you.”

Taehyung felt as though he withered where he stood. He opened his mouth to speak but no thoughts returned to him. Jimin watched him, waiting. And all Taehyung could do was stand there until Jimin could no longer bear the silence.

“You don’t have anything to say?” he asked, angry and hopeful. His eyes welled with tears.

“I—” he paused. We can work through this. We can make it work. I love you. None of it meant anything, and Taehyung cowered into himself as he saw it; the conviction in Jimin’s eyes, pouring out.

Like every human wound into the extraneous ordeal of emotion, he had thought his story the only to exist. He hadn’t—perhaps for more than one second, but not merely long enough—taken into account half of what Jimin was feeling, had not even considered it an option that whilst he was seeing things in pastels and rosy tints, for Jimin there had always been that shadow at the edge that grew every time his attempt to confront it had been dismissed by Taehyung himself, until it had eventually swallowed everything, including them.

Jimin had already made his decision.

He made for the door, shaking his head: tears, a whimper, the cowardice and bravery of Taehyung running after him. The door hit the wall as it slammed open in Taehyung’s rush to get out. He hurried down the stairs, Jimin’s name falling from his lips, but Jimin didn’t stop. Not until Taehyung caught up, until he pushed the weight of himself on the building door so it wouldn’t open, so Jimin had no other option but to look up to him to tell him to move.

“I’ll do anything,” he said, desperately. He tried to take Jimin’s hand, but he retreated. “Jimin, please. I’ll do anything, anything. Just… please, stay.”

Jimin paused, pained, as if he wanted to like nothing else in him, but his eyes shook, vindication in his lips as he pulled them in tight, a fierce spite on them that drove Taehyung further away.

“All I hear, is that you’ll say anything to make me stay,” he said. “How many times have you said and never done? How many times will you promise that it’ll be different? They’re just words, Taehyung.” He shook his head. “And you’re right: you’re awful with them.”  

He opened the door so suddenly that Taehyung stumbled forward, and Jimin left through the only gap in time that he’d been given. A taxi already waited outside for him, and Taehyung paused as if stunned still.

Jimin knew he was leaving before Taehyung walked through the door.

He stumbled up to the window. “Please,” he whispered. “Jimin.”

Jimin looked at him one last time, and the taxi drove away. Taehyung watched until it was out of sight, longer still, longer still, hoping Jimin would come back around the corner to him.

He had never thought himself to be such the selfish type. Perhaps this is what people mean when they say that love his blind.

Taehyung wakes in a sweat. He calls Jimin’s name in the dark, and reaches for his hand but finds only an empty space. The bed lays cold, the sheets unmingled. In the darkness, a light peaks through, and as his eyes adjust, Taehyung realises it’s morning.

He leaves the bedroom, and the floor is cold on his feet but the air is warm. Jimin stands in the kitchen, watching the steam come from the kettle as it boils. Taehyung pauses in the doorway just to watch him for a moment. The padding on his feet on the floor in rhythm, humming to himself, in his own little world.

It’s the same Jimin, he thinks, and yet there’s a stranger in his kitchen.

Jimin turns with two cups of tea in his hands. His face lifts as he sees Taehyung, though the awkwardness remains. “I was going to wake you,” he says.

“What time is it?” Taehyung asks.

“Just before noon.” He holds a mug out for Taehyung. “You still like one sugar?”

“Thank you.”

They stand in the quiet for a moment. Taehyung sips his tea and has to stop himself from smiling. He wonders if all the cups of tea he’s had since they’ve been apart even comes close to just this one. He wonders if he’s had a cup of tea, at all. He doesn’t take sugar anymore, but he says nothing: Taehyung suspects it would be sweet even without it.

“Are you hungry?” Taehyung asks.

“A little.”

Taehyung grins behind his cup.

“What is it?” Jimin asks.

“Do you want to go out for breakfast?”

Jimin pauses. “With you?”

“Well, I—” he pauses, rethinks. “I thought you might like to go to the café we used to go to. I know you like their food.”

“I haven’t been there since…” Jimin looks up to him and quietens.

A moment passes. In the quiet, Taehyung regrets ever speaking. He wishes the ground would swallow him whole as Jimin looks to him, and then away as if he can’t ever look at him again. He opens his mouth to speak, to correct himself, when Jimin beats him to it.

“Okay,” he says, “why not?”

The café is considerably quiet to say that it’s Christmas Eve. The festive lights hang from the windows, and the workers wear small bells and Santa hat pins, and a small Christmas tree sits idly in the corner that catches Taehyung’s eye from time to time with its twizzling baubles.

Jimin sits opposite him, reading quietly through the menu of the few items they have. He used to love the blueberry muffins.

“Don’t order one,” Taehyung says, seemingly out of nowhere. His cheeks redden at Jimin’s surprised expression. “They changed the recipe. They aren’t as good anymore.”

He’d know. How many has he ordered since they were last in here, just to remind himself of Jimin on those colder days?

“Oh,” Jimin says, “that’s disappointing.”

“They still do the cheesecake you like,” he says.

“I don’t really want to eat cheesecake for breakfast,” Jimin replies.

“Right.”

He decides on the pancakes, and they come to the table steaming hot. And Taehyung uses the warmth of the open fire in the room as an excuse for the sweat on his forehead, and not because Jimin offers him the strawberries and cream that come with his food because he remembers that Taehyung doesn’t like pancakes.

“I’ll have the syrup,” Jimin says when Taehyung is worried about him not having enough food.

Taehyung only eats half of it anyway, because he knows it’s Jimin’s favourite part, too, and the look on Jimin’s face as he hands it back to him, for a moment, makes him think he’s done something wrong.

“What is it?” he asks.

Jimin composes his expression. “It’s nothing.”

They stay quiet for a while. The ambience of the café keeps Taehyung’s anxiety at bay. He rests his hands in his lap, then on the table, then in his lap again, takes his hat off, readjusts his coat, takes it off because he’s warm, and decides that the end of the tablecloth needs some fiddling with. If Jimin notices his restlessness, he says nothing.

“So,” Taehyung says after a while, “Swan Lake.”

 Jimin grins brightly. “Yes.”

“When did you find out that you would lead?”

“A year ago,” he says, and takes a sip of his coffee. “They held auditions at the ballet studio, and I entered not thinking that I would get a main role, but I didn’t have anything to lose. I auditioned, and they got back to me a week later, and I landed the role.” Jimin’s smile falters. “Not as special as you’d think.”

“What do you mean, it’s not special?” he asks. “Jimin-ah, it’s amazing. You looked incredible, up there.”

There’s something pained that twists in Jimin’s expression, and if his smile is true, he holds it just for Taehyung to see before it simmers away. And it dawns on Taehyung that it’s him—a trauma from all those months ago, a seed in his head that still told Jimin that Taehyung didn’t care, and that voice in the back of his head that tells him, even though Taehyung is showing interest, that it must be false because it was before.

But it was never false. Taehyung always cared. And he never stopped.

“I’m—it won’t be what you want to here, but I’m proud of you,” he says.

There’s that smile again; it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll save those words for when I’m feeling less pitiful. Though, I suppose, pity is justified when you train a year for a ballet performance and then get switched out on the first date.”

Taehyung’s stomach drops. “What?”

“It’s only for the next two weeks. They’re giving me a break, to recover from injury and to clear my head,” he says. His eyes drop to the table, his fingers painting circles in the table cloth. “But it’s still disappointing. A lot of important people come to the beginning and end shows. It’s an opportunity missed.”

It’s his fault, he thinks. It’s not about blame or pity, but it’s his fault. “Jimin, I’m—”

“Don’t,” he says, like all those months ago, only softer, more at peace. He looks to Taehyung. “I don’t need an apology.” He looks away. “Besides, it’s my responsibility. I’m the one that fell, I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be distracted. I trained hard for that very reason.”

That quiet resumes between them, and it makes Taehyung’s throat tight. If there was any essence in him that knew what to say, it’d find itself lodged between the lump in his throat and the tie in his tongue, and it would swell so much it’d make him cry.

“How bad are the injuries?” he asks after a breath.

“Just a slight sprain, and the area is bruised. I can still walk on it.” Jimin reiterates, after seeing Taehyung’s concern, “Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

“We could have taken a taxi here.”

“I like the winter air,” he says. “It’s clean.” Jimin looked to him, and Taehyung sees the uncertainty in his eyes. “You were dreaming last night.”

The thought of confessing something humiliating in his sleep grabs him tight. “I was?”

“Yes. It was bad, I think.” Jimin pushes the plate away from him. “I can’t eat another thing. Do you want it?”

Taehyung shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

Each person that walks past on the street catches Taehyung’s eye. Mothers with their children, women with their lovers, friends that laugh as they walk together, men buying last minute gifts for their partners.

He tries not to think of what it all means, but Jimin is sat opposite him and the air is thin between them as if it might snap any moment, and since Jimin showed up at his door last night he feels like hasn’t taken a right breath.

He turns to Jimin, whose own eyes were out to the street, too, and their eyes meet as they return to their young bubble. They stay that way for a moment, longer; and Taehyung feels both frozen in fear and as though he’ll melt to a puddle on the floor any second if Jimin keeps looking at him like that.

“It’s the day before Christmas Eve,” he says.

“Yes,” Jimin replies in a quiet voice.

“They have the Christmas market in the city centre today.” Taehyung swallows. “Would you like to go?”

Jimin pauses, sips his coffee. “Okay,” he says, and shrugs, “I have nothing better to do.”

Taehyung hides his insult. Jimin was always good at acting impassive, and Taehyung found that in those moments where he did so, Jimin always cared the most. It was easier for everyone to believe that he was sometimes emotionless, but Taehyung knows better.

He doesn’t miss the way he stands from the table, as if urgent with excitement; he doesn’t miss the spring in Jimin’s step as they walk into the city, or the way he chuckles when Taehyung insists more than once on a taxi.

Jimin had once told him, it was his favourite place on earth to be. The energy soared through him, and the mulled wine brought him to life.

Taehyung is glad that he seems to be the only one, even if so partially, hindered by the memories they have here, in between the stalls, and on the snow, and glasses of warm smiles. And if Jimin is, like him, dreading the resurfacing of those memories, he doesn’t show it.

He always was stronger than Taehyung.

Jimin sniffs the mulled wine out first. Tucked back into a small corner of the stall maze, where it always used to be.

“Do you remember the first time we came here?” Jimin asks.

“Yes,” he mumbles.

“The face you pulled,” Jimin says, laughing. “You looked like you’d eaten the sourest sweet in the world. I’ll always remember it.”

Taehyung pulls a face just thinking of it. “It was disgusting.”

“I haven’t been here in so long.”

Jimin sighs, and when he looks over, Taehyung looks away as if he hadn’t been staring the whole time, seen the nostalgia in Jimin’s eyes, or wanted to wipe the speck of glitter from his cheek, or feel as though the only thing he wanted was to bring Jimin into his arms because he’s doing that thing where he scrunches in his shoulders when he’s cold.

The stall worker hands Jimin a cup of mulled wine, and he takes it in his hands greedily. Taehyung gets a cup, too, even though he doesn’t like it: he knows Jimin will want it later, even when it’s gone cold.

Has it really been five years since they’ve been here?

“So, the art is going well,” Jimin says. He glazes his eyes over stalls as they walk by.

“Uhm, yeah,” Taehyung says, “it’s okay.”

“The apartment says that it’s a little more than okay.” Jimin nudges him. “It’s better than the last one, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.” Taehyung looks down to the cup, watches the swirl of spice begin to separate on the top.

He still preferred the other apartment.

Jimin would skip hurriedly across the cold floors in the early mornings of their old apartment. Taehyung used to love watching him from down the hall, still in bed; watch Jimin run down the hallway with the hot water bottle filled and jump into bed again, cuddle up against him.

Taehyung thinks, how could a heated floor be better than that?

“It’s not all that great, the fancy apartments,” he says.

“Mine’s a piece of shit,” he replies, “worse than ours, only the heating is better. But it doesn’t really matter; it’s down in Busan. I don’t stay there much, anyway, between practise and touring. It’s enough.” He sips his wine. “I have to apologise, though.”

“For what?”

“I took a peak at your artwork when you were asleep.” Jimin grins guiltily at him.

“You don’t have to apologise for that,” Taehyung says. “If there’s anyone in the world I want to see my art, it’s you.”

Jimin’s cheeks are warm; Taehyung can’t figure out if they were like that before.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “I’ve seen your work before.”

“You have?” Taehyung asks.

He nods. “When I was in town a few years ago, I went to a modern art exhibition on my day off. I didn’t realise why the pieces looked so familiar until later on, when I saw your signature on one of the paintings. The wide, green one, with the—”

“The fermented bells,” Taehyung finishes.

Jimin smiles. “Yeah.”

Taehyung wants to ask what Jimin thought, more than anything. It’s the only opinion he cares about.

As if reading his mind, “They were beautiful, Taehyung-ah. I’ve known since the beginning that you’re talented. I’m glad that it’s paying off for you.”

“Thank you,” Taehyung says. “And you. You’ve come so far, Jimin. Seeing you perform the lift…” he pauses and looks to Jimin, “it was like a dream came true, in that moment. For me, too.” More quiet, “I wish for you to believe me.”

Jimin glances at him; away again. “I do.”

Taehyung opens his mouth to speak but stops himself. Even though there’s more, so much more, that he wishes to tell Jimin, there’s nothing more that needs to be said. He lets the moment be, and they aren’t brave enough to bring their eyes together in risk of reviving something lost and buried between them, but the truth is this: Taehyung never buried it, it’s always been there, sitting inside him like a broken shard that needs it’s other piece. And perhaps Jimin has already let it go, but to Taehyung, letting it go would be to pull up the anchor of his ship with the promise of sailing into nothing.

“Jimin, I—” he begins, but when he looks beside him, Jimin has been taken away by his curiosity to a stall on the opposite side of the walkway.

He turns to the stall beside him. He sips the wine, and it’s as disgusting as he remembers. He walks a few stalls ahead, but not too far as to be careful to keep Jimin in his view. And it’s then, as he’s returning his eyes from glancing at Jimin, it catches his eye: a necklace, sat on the cloth of the stall. It’s chain made of pure sterling, and it’s pendant, as Taehyung looks closer, is a ballarino shoe with the tied ribbons made from wreaths of engraved flowers.

He buys it without thinking, maybe because he’s never been good at controlling his impulses. Maybe because he loves Jimin, and it’s like the world was made just for this moment, where he’s here with Jimin, and he got distracted by a stall of cute, little trinkets just so Taehyung could buy this necklace for him. But that’s all that he needs.

“What did you buy?” Jimin asks him as he returns.

“Nothing much,” he replies. “Just an ornament for Namjoon’s tree I know he’ll like. Find anything over there?”

“Yes, but I can’t buy everything.”

They walk around for a while longer. Taehyung doesn’t remember Jimin taking the cup of wine from his hands but he’s glad he doesn’t have to think about spilling it anymore. Jimin probably knew all along it was for him, anyway.

“Look,” Taehyung says as he spots it, pointing, “isn’t that your cup?”

They approach the stall. The worker greets them, but Jimin is already too focused on taking the cup into his hands. The white ceramic with the red berries and birds balanced on the wreath. He never understood why it was Jimin’s favourite thing, and he’d never before seen someone use a Christmas ornament all year round.

But it was strange, looking at it now, in Jimin’s hands. If he tried hard enough, for a moment he could probably pretend that nothing happened; that they were still normal, that things were still okay. But the last time he saw that cup, it was on the ground, and the splinters of ceramic glass sometimes still prick into his fingers.

Jimin puts it down quickly, as if it burns him. His face has fallen, and the Christmas lights always bring out the glossiness of people’s eyes in the night, but Taehyung is sure it isn’t that.

“Jimin,” he says softly.

He turns to Taehyung, mouth parted. And Taehyung doesn’t have time to do anything but stand there before Jimin’s lips are on his, quickly and away again, and Taehyung feels himself spiting Jimin for not staying there longer, to at least give him a chance to kiss back.

But he feels it; the horror, and the realisation, and the impending feeling of having done something you shouldn’t. They shouldn’t be here, together—he knew this from the start, and so did Jimin. But sometimes it takes a while for the stones to reach the ocean floor.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin says, and he rushes past Taehyung and into the crowd.

Taehyung calls after him, but he’s gone, hidden behind the growing crowds and the high stalls, and he doesn’t chase after him. If Jimin is even a fraction of the person Taehyung used to know, he’ll want to be left alone.

He stands there, until the confusion subsides and things come crashing down. The worker at the stall stares at him, and he feels her guilt. The bag in his hand begins to burn at his thigh, as if calling for Jimin to come back.

But out of the crowds, no one shows. Without Jimin, its nothing but a ghost town.

The next morning, Taehyung sits at his desk with every intent of writing a letter to Jimin. And he does: seeming as he doesn’t know an address for Jimin, sending it is a problem. More so, the idea of stamping the letter scares him so much that the idea of Jimin makes his fingers shake.

Namjoon and Jin laugh together in the other room. Taehyung doesn’t understand why they were so adamant to put a tree up, but he won’t complain, not as long as it gives him this moment alone.

He gathers paper on the desk, and picks up a pen, and doesn’t realise until he’s about to begin writing that it’s the fountain pen Jimin bought him six years ago for his birthday. He hesitates for a moment, before bringing the pen down to the paper.

Jimin, he begins, I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I’m sorry for, except that I’m sorry for everything. He thinks. We’ve both been wrong in this. No, not true. I love you. He shakes his head; too true. He pauses. He’s never been good with words. Jimin always was. I never wanted to hurt you. Yes. I never want to hurt you. He’s not lying—he could never lie to Jimin. But it’s not good enough. I’m trying—No, he’s said that. I am doing all that I can to be a better man for you. And I’m not sure a lot of the time what it is that I’m doing, and I don’t know if it’s working, and if your expression to me last night at the stall was any testament to the ways that I’ve changed, then I hate myself more for failing you again.

He takes a breath, wipes his eye as a tear falls.

I love you more than anything. Goddamn it. He curses to himself, brings the pen back down. I don’t—there isn’t— Think, Taehyung. I don’t know what I can say to you, to make you see, and you’re not here for me to try and show you. I’m not good at first impressions, you know that more than anyone. There isn’t anyone else in the world that knows me like you do, and I used to be able to say the same for you… but I don’t know if there’s someone else for you now.

The pen shakes in his hand. Blots of ink fall on the page. He begins again beside them.

I want you to be by my side, day and night. I want to hold you. I want you to hold me. I want to run you baths when your limbs grow tired, and rub your ankles when they pain from dancing too long. I want to touch your skin, and kiss every part of you. I want to love you. I’ve felt your anger, and I want to feel your forgiveness. And I’m afraid because I think Fate has grown tired of me and I don’t know whether she’ll let me see you again.

But.. more than any of that, I want you to be happy. And even if the idea of that happiness not being with me kills me every day for the rest of my life, I won’t let that stop me from knowing, with every beat of my heart, that you deserve love and happiness and peace from whoever you choose to let into your heart. And I’ll hold the regret of not being enough for you in my heart until I die.

He sets the pen down and stands from the desk, staring at the words on the paper from afar as though, if he comes closer they’ll strike him down. His chest pulls up and down quickly. Has he really wrote it? The penmanship seems foreign and as he thinks about it longer, he doesn’t remember writing it at all, individual word to the other.

A knock on the door pushes him from his dazed bubble, and he shuffles the paper together quickly and slams them into the top drawer of the desk. He turns around just in time to see Namjoon walk in, pausing, frowning.

“What are you doing?” Namjoon asks.

“Nothing,” Taehyung replies.

Namjoon motions to the desk. “What’s behind you?”

“A desk.”

“I can see that. Anything on the desk?”

Taehyung steps to the side. “Nope.”

Namjoon nods, though his suspicion is undeterred. Then, he remembers what he entered the room for. “I need to head out for a few things. Will you be okay here?”

“Of course I will.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, why?” Taehyung asks.

“You’re acting weird.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Don’t be disrespectful,” Namjoon says, sternly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m fine. You can go.”

He watches Namjoon leave from the window, and when his car had disappeared down the street, Taehyung pulls the letter back out. He brushes his fingers against the words. Could he ever give this to Jimin? He shoves it back in the drawer without another thought and leaves the room.  

“Taehyung-ah,” Jin says as he turns around. “We’ve almost finished with the tree.”

“It looks lovely,” Taehyung replies. “Do you want a drink?”

“I have water, thank you.”

“Where did Namjoon say he was going?” Taehyung asks.

“Well, the tree is bigger than we thought so he’s on ornament and bauble duty. Also, he said something about meeting a friend for coffee before heading back. He said he’d bring dinner,” Jin says.

“Right.”

Taehyung pours himself a glass of water. Through the open-plan of the kitchen, he still sees Jin, pushing up on his tip toes to reach the highest branches of the trees.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, and tell me if you do,” Jin begins, “but I heard that you saw Jimin.”

Taehyung holds the water in his mouth for a moment, his heart picking up, and then swallows. “Yes.”

Jin walked to the entrance of the kitchen and leans on the doorframe. “How is he?”

“He’s good,” he says. “He’s the lead in the rendition of Swan Lake.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung mumbles. “He’s taking a few weeks off, for an injury.”

“Oh.”

Taehyung doesn’t know why he continues. He has no one else to talk to.

“We went to the Christmas market in town and drank mulled wine,” Taehyung said with a smile, “and I still hate it.”

“You always did,” Jin muses.

“We walked through the stalls, and Jimin looked happy.” Taehyung’s smile falters. “And, for a moment, everything felt normal, like it had never changed. And it scared me. And Jimin felt it, too, and he…” Taehyung brushes his fingers over his lips and falls quiet.

“You and Jimin, you’re good together.” He adds, “Maybe things went wrong, and maybe you made mistakes, but… if it’s real, that chemistry, and that love, doesn’t ever fade. It’s not meant to.”

Taehyung doesn’t speak. He sips his water when his mouth goes dry, and Jin watches him as if waiting for an answer, as if knowing, with that expression of his, that Taehyung won’t reply.

“Would you like to put the star on the tree?” he asks.

Taehyung shakes his head. It’s all he can do.

“I think I’ll have that coffee, now,” Jin says and walks back to the living area.

“What coffee?”

“The one you’re going to make me,” he calls back.

Jin texts Namjoon when he’s gone for longer than an hour. In the quiet of the studio, he hears when the front door opens, hears Jin’s high-pitched voice, and Taehyung wonders why he would be so excited about ornaments.

He rests his paintbrush against the easel shelf and exits the studio, paint underneath his nails, on his hands, underneath his chin when he stood in thought with his fingers holding his head up.

He squints in the bright lights through the hallway. And he takes a moment to believe that he’s dreaming, that the lights are too bright, that the walls crush him, when he sees Jimin stood in the doorway of the apartment, his eyes having landed on Taehyung, head to toe and up again.

Jin quietens when he notices. They all wait for him, but his feet can’t move.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Hello to you, too,” Jimin replies.

Quickly, “Hello.”

Quiet. Jin looks to Namjoon, as if a queue, and offers Jimin a drink. They take his coat, and Jin brings him to the sofa, and Taehyung finally sees the limp in Jimin’s step from his sprain. He follows Namjoon to the kitchen when he leaves.

“A friend?” Taehyung says to him through gritted teeth.

He glances to Jimin, whose eyes turn away as Taehyung’s do.

Namjoon takes a glass and pours the water. “I didn’t lie, did I?” he says, and returns to the living room.

Jimin is here, in his apartment again, when Taehyung thought only an hour ago he might not see Jimin again. Now he’s here. He’s here, he thinks. He goes to take a breath, but then Jimin is beside him, and he turns quickly and startles them both.

“Are you okay?” Jimin asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“No, neither was I,” Jimin mumbles. “Namjoon was always persuasive.”

It turns quiet in the living room: he knows Namjoon and Jin are listening. Jimin seems to be unaware—or he simply doesn’t care. Maybe Taehyung shouldn’t, too.

“About the other day—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Taehyung says.

Jimin nods, though Taehyung can see he wishes to say more. But he’d rather not; not with company.

“It is okay, isn’t it—that I’m here?” Jimin asks. “I wouldn’t have asked myself, but Namjoon said it would be good, and I’d rather not stay in a hotel over Christmas.”

“You’re staying in a hotel?” Taehyung asks.

Jimin shrugs, as if Taehyung should know. “Where else am I supposed to go?”

Taehyung tries to keep the pinch in his heart in, but he can’t help frowning. “Of course you can stay. You know that.”

“Thank you.” He brushes his fingers along the counter and looks up. “Taehyung, about the—”

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Namjoon says, “but we’re starving, and Jin will go cranky if he doesn’t get food soon.”

Taehyung looks to Jimin, who smiles at him as if to say: we’ll talk about it later. But Taehyung hates when people say that. The anticipation always eats him alive, and he’s been chewing on it for over five years.

“Jimin-ah, how are things?” Jin asks.

Jimin pushes his plate away from him, like he did in the café when he was finished with his food. Come to think of it, he’s always done it, Taehyung thinks.

“It’s going well, thank you.”

“Namjoon, did you know Jimin-ah is the lead in the new production of Swan Lake?”

“I did,” Namjoon says, and waits until he’s swallowed his food. “I booked tickets.”

“You did?” Taehyung asks.

“Yes.”

“I hope you didn’t book them for any time in the next two weeks,” Jimin says, smiling ruefully. “I’m taking a break. It’s just a small injury. It’ll heal in a few days.” He glances to Taehyung.

Jin doesn’t miss that.

“I think we can work it out,” Namjoon says. “The production houses usually allow exchanges for tickets. We can switch the date.”

“I wish you would have told me before. I could have got you free tickets,” Jimin says.

Before? Taehyung frowns to himself. He knew that Namjoon and Jimin had always been friends, and perhaps he shouldn’t have expected that to stop just because of him. But he didn’t know they’d been in such close contact before now.

And it dawns on him then: Namjoon knew that Jimin was in town the evening they went to dinner, when he tried to persuade him to move on.

He looks to Namjoon, and their eyes meet. Something else to talk about later, he guesses.

“They were more of a Christmas present, anyway.” Namjoon kisses Jin’s cheek. “You know this one loves anything artistic.”

“It’s a guilty pleasure,” Jin sighs.

Taehyung zones out the rest of their conversation. He pushes his food around his plate mindlessly, until he knows it’s appropriate to take it away. Namjoon follows him to the kitchen with his empty plate.

“Why didn’t you eat?” he asks.

“I’m not hungry,” Taehyung replies.

“Save it for later, you might get hungry.”

Taehyung empties the plate into the bin and rinses the plate in the sink.

“You’re mad at me,” Namjoon says.

“No,” Taehyung says; it’s not all a lie. “I… I didn’t know that you’d been talking with Jimin, that’s all.”

“And you would like to have known?”

Would he?

“I don’t know,” Taehyung says.

“I think you would have, but it wouldn’t have been a good idea,” Namjoon says. He moves closer to Taehyung and lowers his voice. “You’re both my friends, but I won’t force you to come together again. You have to do it on your own.”

“Then, why did you invite him here?” Taehyung asks, and he can’t help the bite in his tone.

“Because you already came together,” he says, eyes sympathetic. “And he hasn’t got anywhere else to go. I don’t think you would forgive me if you knew I let him stay in a hotel for Christmas, all on his own.”

“Why didn’t you invite him to your house?” he asks.

“And then, what would you do, knowing he was with us on Christmas and I didn’t tell you?” Namjoon pauses. “What would I do, knowing I let you spend Christmas alone?”

The image of Jimin sat in a hotel room on Christmas, flicking through the old channels of the tv, alone. Taehyung shakes his head as if to rid of the thought, and Namjoon takes it as an answer.

“If you want him to leave, just say.”

“You know I won’t. You know I don’t want that.”

“So, what’s the problem?” Namjoon asks. “Don’t let your fear get in the way.” He turns to walk out, but pauses. “I know I brought him here, but if you hurt him again, your Hyung will show you what happens when you treat his friends that way.”

Taehyung wants to smile. Instead, he nods. He watches them from the doorway of the kitchen. Jin and Namjoon bickering between them, and Jimin laughing at them, his eyes crinkled at the edges that makes Taehyung’s heart flutter.

Jimin looks to him, and Taehyung walks towards them as if he hadn’t stopped mid-way to admire him.

“Taehyung-ah,” Jin says, “we were thinking of putting a film on. What do you think?”

“Actually,” Jimin says first, “I think I’m too tired to focus on a film.” As if to prove it, he yawns.

“You can rest in the bedroom,” Taehyung says to him.

“Ah, a good idea,” Namjoon chimes. “I always fall asleep during films, too. Especially if the fire is on.”

“If Jimin wants to sleep, we best leave,” Namjoon says and stands. Jin follows him.

“You don’t have to leave,” Taehyung says. Then, he’ll be alone with Jimin again.

“It’s getting late, anyway. And you never know when the snow will pick up. Best to leave while the roads are safe.”

He watches them retrieve their coats. Jimin hugs them both tightly.

Namjoon turns to him. “No hug for your Hyung’s?”

Taehyung smiles lazily. “When will you be here tomorrow?”

“Early afternoon.”

“We’ll bring cake,” Jin says.

The door lets a cold draft in as it opens and closes. Taehyung watches out the apartment window until he knows they’ve left safely.

“It was nice to see them,” Jimin says.

“They’re as annoying as usual,” he says, and Jimin chuckles. “Don’t tell them I told you that.”

“I’ll use it as leverage,” he jokes. “You fixed the floor heating.”

Taehyung frowns. “It wasn’t broken.”

“Right.” Jimin waits, his eyes are confessing. “I thought I broke it the other day. I just didn’t tell you.”

“Ah,” he says, “I wondered why the knob was all the way around the wrong way.”

Jimin laughs, and Taehyung’s chest blooms with pride.

“Would it be okay if I rested?” he asks.

“Of course not. You can take the bedroom.”

“Will you sleep on the floor again?”

“I might take the sofa,” Taehyung says. He looks out to the snow. He wonders if the hotel Jimin stayed at was as warm as this. “I’m going to stay out here for a while. I’m not tired, yet.”

“Okay.” Quiet. “Thank you for letting me stay, Tae.”

Taehyung turns around quickly, but Jimin already walks away, his eyes low. Was that his intention—to leave Taehyung’s heart racing like this? He hasn’t heard the nickname in so long he almost forgot how it sounded. No, that was a lie—he wished to forget, only because it often haunts him.

He closes the curtains and sits in front of the fire. He grows tired, and the heat curls in his skin from being too close, but he doesn’t move away.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, but when Jimin comes to sit next to him his eyes are sleepy as if he’s just woken up.

“It’s three am,” Jimin says. “Have you not slept yet?”

“Not yet, no.”

He feels the phantom of Jimin’s fingers on his neck. “Come to the bed.”

Taehyung turns his gaze away from the fire. Jimin flows under the flames, his eyes like stars.

“With you?”

Jimin leans toward to kiss him. And Taehyung learns from his past mistake and kisses back, not knowing when Jimin will be gone again. He takes solace in knowing Jimin can’t walk away this time, not without freezing in the snow, and Taehyung would never let that happen.

Taehyung brings his hand to Jimin’s cheek, and Jimin wraps his arm around Taehyung neck, and they’re pulled closer, if only by sheer force to do so, Jimin up on his knees, Taehyung twisting towards him more by the second.

He moans into it, breaths Jimin’s name through the gaps, the gasp for air. Jimin doesn’t shy away this time, or reject him as if Taehyung were a flame that burnt him; he leans in, kisses Taehyung deeper, as if the very air between them is all that’s left.

“Jimin,” he says, gasping.

“I’m not sorry,” he says. “I should be but I’m not.”

Taehyung brushes his cheek with his thumb. “Don’t be.”

He kisses Jimin one last time, gently, as if the touch isn’t there at all.

Jimin stands away, but this time not in regret, not in indignation. Calmly, and with all the sincerity that what he did was right.

“Don’t be long, okay?”

Taehyung nods because he can’t find the words. He thinks Jimin is wearing his shirt.

He stares back into the fire, and wonders if the flames have drugged him. He wonders if he’s dreaming. Most likely; all of it seems to good to be true. And yet, he’s terrified. Will Jimin push him away now? Will he pretend it didn’t happen.

Taehyung switches the fire off and quietly enters the bedroom. Jimin is fast asleep, as if not having moved at all. Under the sheets, Taehyung can’t tell if it’s his shirt. He climbs into the sheets, and Jimin stirs but doesn’t wake.  

He wakes on the sofa in the living room, the air cold and lonely. The smell of the burnt wood on the fire lingers in the air. Taehyung touches the sofa and half expects them to be as soft as sheets.

Did he really dream it?

“Good morning,” Jimin says in a quiet voice.

Taehyung stands to greet him. He stands in the doorway of the kitchen, hair a mess. He’s wearing Taehyung’s shirt.

“Merry Christmas,” he says.

“Merry Christmas.” Jimin fiddles with his fingers; the sleeves are too long for him. “I was making breakfast. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No.” He follows Jimin into the kitchen. “Did I…”

“You were sleep-walking,” Jimin says, “in the night. You got out of bed and came to the living room. I thought I’d leave you.”

“So, I was in the bed, with you?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jimin says slowly, and turns away.

Taehyung’s cheeks flush. His fingers on Jimin’s skin; Jimin’s tongue in his mouth. Come to think of it, he hasn’t dreamt since Jimin stayed the first time.

“Would you like breakfast?” Jimin asks.

Taehyung smiles at the jug of mix. “Pancakes?”

“It’s sort of tradition, isn’t it?” he says. “I only eat them at this time of year. Might as well take advantage of it. Though, you don’t have any syrup.”

“I’ll go get some,” he says quickly, and already begins walking away.

Jimin follows him. “Taehyung, it’s minus two degrees, and you’ll get lost in the snow.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and zips his coat up. “I won’t be long, heat the pan.” He opens the door but pauses and turns around. “You’ll be here when I get back, right?”

Jimin looks taken aback, as if it were an option anymore to leave. “Yes.”

But Taehyung can’t spite his better judgment, and as he walks back into the apartment, only a few minutes later, to the smell of cooking pancake mix, he can’t help but smile.

He places the syrup on the side. “For you.”

“You like syrup, too,” Jimin says.

“Okay, fine. But—” He places the pot of cream and strawberries on the side.

Jimin grins. “You also like those, too.”

“That’s true,” Taehyung says, “but if you weren’t here, I wouldn’t even be making pancakes.”

“Well,” Jimin says, and flips the pancake in the pan, “I guess you better whip the cream.”

Taehyung isn’t sure his whisk even works anymore until he takes it from the cupboard, and even then Jimin has to swap pancake-flipping duty with him because he’s useless at these things.

When the cream is whipped, Jimin dips his finger in it and wipes it on Taehyung’s nose as he turns around; and Taehyung’s shocked face turns from one of humour to sincerity when Jimin leans up to kiss it from him.

And even Jimin turns away then, neck turning red like it does when he’s embarrassed.

“I don’t know why I did that,” he says, quiet.

“Don’t worry about it,” Taehyung assures.

They continue in quiet, with the looming air of knowing their little bubble at some point will burst, and the seams are already shredding, and everything they haven’t confronted, that still lingers and festers outside of the borders, waits for them.

“It’s Christmas,” Taehyung says after a while, plating the pancakes, “that’s all it has to be.”

Jimin nods. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “okay.”

Taehyung finds himself waiting for the creaking of the chairs as they sit at the dining table, but it never comes, and they laugh about it as they sit down. They eat in quiet, not because it’s awkward, but because there’s simply nothing to say.

“I burnt the pancakes,” he says after they’ve eaten.

“I sort of like them that way,” Jimin replies.

“Don’t lie.”

 “I’m not.” He collects the plates together and takes them to the kitchen.

As he waits, Taehyung remembers the necklace he bought and sneaks to the bedroom to retrieve it. It’s where he left it, hidden underneath a pile of clothes in his cupboard he’s lucky Jimin didn’t find last night when he went looking for a shirt.

When he returns, Jimin is finished rinsing the plates and leaving them to drain.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Taehyung says. “You’re my guest.”

“I don’t mind.” He turns around, his smiling slowly dropping as he does so. “What’s the matter?”

Taehyung brings his eyes back up from Jimin’s bare legs—his shirt reaches only to mid-thigh; higher. The scars and the redness and the bruising: if he knew Jimin wasn’t so proud of them, he’d kiss them all away.

“Nothing,” he says, “why?”

“You look worried.”

Taehyung swallows and walks forward. “It’s Christmas.”

“It’s not, is it?” he jokes.

“We didn’t say anything about presents,” he begins, cautious of Jimin’s expression, “but I bought this for you, and I didn’t know if I was going to see you again. And I want to give it to you now, just in case tomorrow…”

“You thought you weren’t going to see me again?” he asks.

“You left.” Taehyung voice falls short. “I thought it was answer enough.”

Jimin’s eyes follow him as he looks away, back, a hand through his hair. He brings the box from behind his back and presents it with both of his hands to Jimin, who stares at it.

“It’s for me?” he asks.

“Who else would it be for?” he replies sarcastically, and he’s never felt a punch as soft as the one Jimin lays on his arm. “Open it? Tell me if it’s ridiculous.”

“I haven’t got you anything,” he says.

“I didn’t expect you to. I bought you this because I wanted to, not because I wanted something in return.” He gestures the box to Jimin again. “Take it.”

Jimin takes it from him and rests it gently on the kitchen counter. He unwraps the bow and slides the lid from the box. And then he pauses, his mouth slightly parted.

He hates it, Taehyung thinks. He hates it. Why did he ever think Jimin would like it?

“If you don’t—” he pauses. “If you don’t want it—”

“Why are you so ridiculous?” Jimin asks him, his eyes hazy with emotion Taehyung can’t figure out. “Taehyung-ah… it’s beautiful.”

Taehyung’s smile is nervous. “Really?”

Jimin reaches out and touches the pendant with his fingertip and pulls it away quickly. He looks to Taehyung. “The Christmas market?”

“How’d you know?”

“I’d recognise the bows anywhere.”

Taehyung grabs the corner of the box. “Let me put it on you?”

Jimin turns so his back is to Taehyung; Taehyung takes the necklace from the box, unclasps it, and sets it nicely around Jimin’s neck, the chain resting in his collarbones. Jimin reaches up to holds the pendant in his hand. And Taehyung can’t help himself as he reaches his arms around Jimin’s waist and pulls him close. Jimin sighs against him.

“It’s just Christmas,” he says, more to himself—Taehyung thinks—than anyone.

“Christmas hasn’t felt right in a while. But it feels good here, with you” Jimin admits, and turns his head to look at Taehyung. “It shouldn’t be like this.”

“You’re the one that came back,” Taehyung says.

Jimin brings his hand to Taehyung’s neck. “You came to find me first.”

“And you stayed.”

“Only because you said—”

“I don’t want to do this,” Taehyung interrupts. “It’s not about blame, right? Where here together. If you want to walk away, I will, too. And if you stay… you know I’ve always been here. But we’ll do it together.”

Jimin goes quiet, just their eyes meeting. He curls his fingers around the nape of Taehyung’s hair. “I don’t want to go anywhere. Not today.”

He’ll take that—he has no other choice. “Okay.”

“But I didn’t get you a present,” Jimin says.

“You don’t need to get me anything, baby.” He kisses Jimin’s forehead. “Just you being here is enough.”

“We really shouldn’t do this,” Jimin whispers.

“I know.”

He does; he knows it’ll only cause more hurt in the end, if this doesn’t turn out right. But he’s far, far too selfish—and maybe Jimin is, too, for being here, for doing this—to let this go now. Not when Jimin kissed him before, and not now, as Jimin pulls Taehyung closer by his neck and brings them together, and he tastes the syrup and everything he’s missed since they’ve been apart on Jimin’s tongue, and Taehyung can’t help but gasp as they pull away for breath but Jimin is too greedy and brings him back in quickly, and all Taehyung can do is moan because he knows he doesn’t deserve this, for Jimin to be here in his arms, to share this warmth with him, for the snow to be falling outside, and for them to be there, together, as if nothing happened.

Maybe that’s the point, Taehyung thinks—when the cards are laid out on the table, is it not easier to see someone’s hand?

In the wall connecting the kitchen to the living room, a wide window sits. Through that window, a clear path from the kitchen to the front door. And to Taehyung’s luck—a luck that so often runs dry—when Namjoon and Jin enter, they find themselves in the middle of their moment.

Namjoon clears his throat.

Taehyung and Jimin pull away, and Jimin’s cheeks are already red from Taehyung’s touch, but Taehyung feels his shame.

“Sorry,” Jin says. “We should have knocked.”

“You’re early,” Taehyung says croakily.

“We didn’t say a specific time,” Namjoon replies.

“You’re still too early,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Taehyung looks to Jimin, who had his back turned away from him, rested on the counter in front of the sink, sipping a glass of water. “Coffee?”

“Tea, please,” Jin says.

“We’ll put the presents under the tree,” Namjoon says.

“Oh,” jin begins, a delight on his face as he remembers, “Merry Christmas.”

Taehyung sighs, but he smiles. “Merry Christmas, Hyung.”

After dinner, they sit down in front of the fire to open their presents.

Namjoon and Jin gift Taehyung some new paints they knew he wanted to try, which he argues are way too expensive but is shut down quickly; Taehyung’s tie for Namjoon goes celebrated—because he knows Namjoon can never get enough of them—and Jin jokes that Namjoon might replace him with a tie one day; and Taehyung suspects the hair products he buys for Jin are a slight too obvious by his glance to Namjoon before him.

He can see Jimin, though appreciative, feels uncomfortable when Jin passes him a gift. It’s last minute, Jin says, and Jimin unwraps the layers to show the fine silk of the shirt. He pulls it up so that the whole length of it can be seen. Taehyung pulls at the tag to read it: raw silk.

He imagines Jimin in it, the fabric falling just over his thighs, the embellishment and shadow of what needs to be shown catching his eyes just perfectly. Jimin’s tanned skin against the white glow of the fabric, against sheets instead as Taehyung pulls it off.

Taehyung swallows and rids the thought before it can swell any more.

“You didn’t have to,” Jimin says.

“We wanted to,” Namjoon replies. “And before you comment on the expense, that’s not something you’re supposed to think about when it’s a gift. And if you do have a problem with it, it was all Jin’s idea.”

Jin smacks him gently on the chest.

“I could just see you dancing in it,” Jin says. “I couldn’t not buy it.”

“It’s beautiful, thank you,” Jimin says. “I feel so guilty that I didn’t get presents for anyone.”

“No one expects you to,” Taehyung assures him.

Jimin takes his hand.

“Does anyone want pudding?” Jin asks.

Everyone objects. Namjoon places an exaggerative hand on his stomach and pushes it out; Jimin shakes his head humbly. He didn’t eat much at dinner either, Taehyung thinks with a frown.

“A film, then,” Jin says. “I still have the one I rented yesterday. It’ll go to waste, otherwise.”

They all shift a few paces to be in front of the television while still feeling the warmth of the fire. Jin and Namjoon cuddle up to one another on the sofa; Taehyung sits on the floor, his back leaning against the foot of the sofa, and he doesn’t expect it when Jimin drops a cushion next to him and leans in, and he puts his arm around Jimin to bring him in further before he can overthink it.

If Jimin didn’t want to be near him, he wouldn’t have come so close. He would have stayed seated in the arm chair adjacent to him now, far away enough so that Taehyung couldn’t reach him. But he’s here, and he pushes his knees up and curls into Taehyung’s side as if he’s cold.

Maybe without Taehyung’s touch, he is. Taehyung likes that—a lot.

“How long do you think before one of them falls asleep,” Jimin whispers to him.

Taehyung smiles. “It’ll be Namjoon, I bet.”

“I heard that,” he mumbles from the sofa.

Only ten minutes go by before they hear Namjoon snoring. It’s the coziness of watching a film, he said to Taehyung once—it makes him sleepy, probably because he watched films to go to sleep when he was younger, because he needed the sound to fall asleep.

Taehyung has always been the opposite. Complete quiet is all he needs to fall asleep, and he wakes at the smallest sounds. Even sometimes when Jimin would turn over in the night and pull the blankets with him, Taehyung’s eyes would open at the sound of the springs in their old mattress. Sometimes even the humming of their broken refrigerator would keep him awake.

“What is this film about again?” he asks Jimin.

“We’re forty minutes into it,” Jimin replies.

“I still want to know.”

“It’s a Christmas Carol,” he says, “Dickinson said it was about capitalism and it’s effects in England. The Muppets say it’s about singing, apparently.”

“I like the songs,” Taehyung says.

Jimin laughs quietly. “Of course you do.”

He looks to Taehyung, and Taehyung is already looking at him. Jimin’s eyes dip to Taehyung’s lips and up, and Taehyung hopes that Jimin can see in his eyes—even just a little—how much he loves him.

“I haven’t had a Christmas like this in a while,” Jimin says.

“No,” Taehyung says, lowly, “neither have I.”

Jimin kisses him, and that fear in the back of Taehyung’s mind that tells him it might be the last time is too strong, too loud for him not to kiss back, to take Jimin’s throat into his palm, to bring him closer.

Jimin pulls away and stands to his feet. He holds his hand out, and nothing needs to be spoken; Taehyung understands. He can see the hesitation trying to be pushed back in Jimin’s eyes, and knows it’s reflected into his own, but he understands. He’s selfish and greedy and he wants this, and the only reconciliation he’ll find in the morning is that Jimin wants it, too.

He walks them to the bedroom. Taehyung checks one last time if Jin and Namjoon are still asleep before he closes the door. And as soon as it’s closed, Jimin pushes him up against it.

His tongue is frantic, and his fingers work at Taehyung’s top as if he, too, fears their time is limited. Namjoon or Jin could wake up any moment, could break their scene, could shatter it completely.

There’s only now, and this.

Taehyung walks backwards until they fall on the bed. Jimin giggles, and holds onto Taehyung so he doesn’t slip. He moans into Taehyung’s mouth. “Tae,” he says.

He pulls awake to slip his shirt off, to take off his trousers which Jimin had already unzipped. He helps Jimin pulls his own shirt over his head, too, and their chests meet. Just skin on skin, warm skin to cold fingertips, and Jimin gasps as Taehyung brings his hands over the sensitive peak of his nipple, and he slips into Jimin’s parted mouth to kiss and suck and tease.

He brings his hands down the curve of Jimin’s hips, the band of his trousers. Jimin bucks his hips so Taehyung can take them off him. He impatiently strips both layers off and stands straight to look down at Jimin.

His tanned skin, bare, aroused and waiting for him. Taehyung has painted this before, and even his camera had been privy to their intimate moments.

But nothing could come close to this, to be able to lift Jimin’s leg, kiss his skin, trail his finger from foot to thigh and further, to hear Jimin’s gasp, to feel his fingertips wrap around soft flesh and squeeze. To feel the incessant pump of desire inside Jimin until he couldn’t stand to be away any longer.

“Jimin,” he says, in wonder.

“I missed you looking at me like that,” Jimin confesses.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m the most beautiful person in the world.”

Taehyung slowly leans back down, so their chests are flush, so their cocks, hard and ready, push together, so he can take Jimin’s mouth on his and swallow the sounds that are just for him. Sweet like honey.

“You are,” Taehyung whispers to him.

He begins to trail back down Jimin, down between his breasts, his chest, over the soft skin of his stomach that arches and twitches in pleasure as Taehyung leaves his lips all over him, but Jimin stops him.

“No,” he says.

Taehyung stops immediately. “You don’t want to?” he asks.

“Not that,” Jimin says, “I just want you, here.”

Taehyung repositions them on the bed, brings them close. Jimin wraps his legs over Taehyung’s waist. Their lips relentlessly on one another, with that type of desperation that makes teeth clash with moans.

He reaches over to the bedside table for the lube.

“What?” he asks, when Jimin laughs.

“I hope it’s only you, you’ve been keeping entertained,” he says.

“Possessive?”

Jimin bites his lip. “Maybe,” he says softly.

And Taehyung feels that bloom in his stomach that almost makes him come.

He warms it up in his fingers and brings his hands down between Jimin’s thighs, lower. Jimin’s hand grips onto Taehyung’s arm as he sticks a finger in, just gently, just to make Jimin want more and moan as he pulls away.

“Tae,” he whines.

“Baby.” He brings his hand around Jimin’s cock to stroke away the rest of the lube. “I love you.”

He doesn’t give time for Jimin to object. Slowly, but with all the impatience of missing him for so long, of only having memories and daydreams, Taehyung pushes inside him.

Jimin gasps, brings his hands around Taehyung’s neck, fingernails in his back as the pace picks up.

And Taehyung groans into Jimin’s neck, wonders how he even survived all of those nights alone where he could do nothing but think, nothing but palm himself underneath the sheets.

But the truth is, this is his release. No desperate touch or violent delight could bring him to it. It was Jimin’s to own, and he’d always had it. And now he’s brought it back, and all the years it had been pent up, screaming to come back, has only made it so much more painful, and so much more sweet.

Taehyung has to stop himself from coming too quickly.

“God, Tae,” he moans, bringing his hips up in meeting. “Ah.”

He knows Jin and Namjoon are only down the hall, but he can’t find it in him to tell Jimin to be more quiet. He wants this; he wants Jimin to scream, to moms his name until his voice gave out. He bites down on Jimin’s neck to stop himself from morning too loudly.

He brings Jimin’s legs further up his waist to hit deeper, to feel more of him. Their skin makes the most perfect sound as it comes together, over and over again, faster and then slower; faster again.

It had been so long, he thinks. It’s the only thing he can thing. Except, ‘I love you’. God, but it doesn’t count because Taehyung doesn’t think there’s been a moment he hasn’t thought that since they met.

“Jimin,” he moans, his pitch higher. Jimin’s voice has become nothing but gasps and breaths as he reaches higher.

“Tae, I’m gonna—” he cant finish.

“Come, baby.” He slows as his orgasm comes, his legs shaking. He dips his hand between them to reach for Jimin, who he feels tighten around him.

Jimin loses his voice as he comes, and Taehyung can almost see the stars in his eyes, watches Jimin’s head lulls back onto the pillow.

Taehyung collapses on top of him, panting. Jimin rolls a hand through the sweat my nape of Taehyung’s hair, kisses his forehead.  

He lifts his head quickly. “Did I hurt you?”

Jimin looks at him surprised. “No.”

Relief washes over him. “Good.”

He pushes his hand through the front of Taehyung’s hair. “You are such a wonder,” he murmurs, and trails his fingers down Taehyung’s neck, his shoulder, to his arm where he taps on a set of red imprints. “I think I hurt you, though.”

“I can’t even feel it,” he says. Not with those sparks still electrifying his blood stream.

“Good.”

Jimin reaches down to kiss him. Just briefly, just once; long and drawn out and gentle. There’s something in Jimin’s eyes he can’t make out, something that had disappeared for a moment but returned. Or perhaps, Taehyung had just decided to be blind.

He rolls over into the bed but comes in close again, so he can lay his head on Jimin’s chest, and Jimin brings his to lay above, so Taehyung can feel the warmth of his jaw and his neck as he swallows, as if he’s nervous. There’s a hammer in Jimin’s heart as Taehyung presses his ear to his chest, a harmonious synchronisation of his own, and there’s no wonder anymore whether he did that. If he makes Jimin’s breath all frantic and unsure.

When he hears it calm down and he presses his fingers across Jimin’s chest, over the lineation of some stranded hair, pushing a little too close to the sensitive peak of his nipple, and Jimin’s heart picks up again, his breath too heavy of someone who isn’t bothered by the touch.

“Goodnight, Jimin,” he says, already half asleep.

“Goodnight, Tae.” His lips ghost through the unruliness of Taehyung’s hair, and his toes curl in the sheets. “Sweet dreams.”

Tonight, he dreams softly, quietly, as if his mind rests on a bed of clouds. Jimin is there, and the sun too, and they’re happy, and nothing could break the spell of the moment. He dreams of stars, and I love you’s, and Jimin close in his arms. And Taehyung’s foot falls through a cloud when there’s a movement in the night, and Taehyung’s eyes are half open, following the path of light in the room when the stars bring him back.

He wakes with a smile. It’s the first time he’s done that in a while. And how cruel it is, for his smile to be so ephemeral, for it to be ripped away from him when he reaches into the sheets to hold Jimin but finds only the cold linen reaching back out to him.

He sits up quickly. “Jimin?” he calls out, but the silence greets him.

Taehyung finds Jin in the kitchen making tea when he turns the corner. He looks around the living area first, double checks just in case sleep makes his brain hazy, but all he sees is Namjoon, still sound asleep on the sofa.

As Jin turns to him, his expression is all Taehyung needs to know.

“He’s gone?” Taehyung asks quietly. As if he doesn’t already know.

“He left a few hours ago.”

Quiet. Namjoon stirs in his sleep but doesn’t wake. Taehyung is glad for that, at least—to share this humiliation with only Jin. Though his heart feels heavy in his chest, he doesn’t cry. He must have known all along—he did—that this would happen. But to admit it would be to take a hot iron to his own heart.

Taehyung has never wanted to be more wrong.

“He asked me not to tell you, though what I’m not sure,” Jin says. “I didn’t think that you’d take so long to miss him.”

“It’s not Christmas,” Taehyung mumbles to himself.

“What?” Jin asks.

“Nothing.” Taehyung keeps his eyes on Jin, on the guilt of his countenance. “I—” he begins, but can’t complete.

Jin sets his cup down on the counter. “If I were Namjoon… He’s practical and logical, and he’s never been able to wrap his mind around how all of the pain and the confusion is worth it. But that’s because he’s always had it easy—with me, at least.” He rests himself against the side, crosses his arms over his chest. “He’s emotional and sensitive, but he can cut off quickly. He doesn’t understand… that after everything…” he pauses. “He doesn’t understand how the things keeping you apart couldn’t destroy how you feel for one another. He doesn’t understand, despite how smart he is, that magnets sometimes have to pull apart to come back together again; that a band must be stretched to it’s limits before it can spring back to its true shape. If I were Namjoon, I’d tell you to let him go.”

“But you’re not,” Taehyung says.

Jin shakes his head. “No. I’m not.” He looks to Taehyung. “But I’m often persuaded by him, and if I wasn’t I would have woken you up the moment Jimin left. I’m sorry, I don’t know where he is, where he’s gone.”

Taehyung looks to his hands, watches them curl until his nails leave imprints on his palm. He wants to cry—instead there is numbness. He nods to Jin. “Thank you, Hyung,” he says. “I’m going to take a walk.”

“It’s minus two degrees—” he begins, stops himself when he sees Taehyung’s expression and sighs. “Make sure you wear your scarf.”

Snow had only ever been his favourite when Jimin was walking through it with him. Otherwise, it was just powder; powder that melted into rain, and turned to sludge, and people slip on the ice, and there’s nothing fun about it. Not even the cold is bearable against his fingers that turn pink as he walks.

The cars can no longer get through the nearby streets, and the children play in the snow. They follow him to the park, through the trees and out into the clearing, where the lake sits frozen, blades conforming the ice into swirls.

He remembers the winters here. Taehyung couldn’t forget them if he tried. His old worn boots, and Jimin’s perfect balance.

“I don’t know about this,” Taehyung mumbled.

He and Jimin walked hand-in-hand across the field to the frozen lake. A pair of borrowed skates hung in Taehyung’s hand, and he knew he was squeezing Jimin’s palm far too tight in the other, but he had to, otherwise he’d shake with nerves. The idea of falling on his face made his cheeks red, and he knew it was ridiculous because Jimin wouldn’t care, at all.

“You’ll be fine,” Jimin assured.

“You say,” Taehyung muttered, “you’re good at ice skating.”

“Actually, I’m not very good, but I like feeling the wind on my face,” Jimin said.

“You do all of those twirls,” he said. “And I’ve seen you land a Lutz.”

Jimin raised a brow as he looked to him. “You know what that is?”

“I looked it up so I knew what you were doing,” Taehyung confessed, lowly.

“That’s a very Taehyung thing to do.” He swung their hands between them. “It’ll be fun. And you’ll find most people spend the majority of the time falling over or trying to stand so still that they fall over, anyway.”

They passed under a banner and into the sitting area of the rink. Jimin helped Taehyung lace up his boots, waiting patiently for Jimin to tie up his own before they made their way to the ice. Taehyung held onto the barrier built around the edge of the lake and took a deep breath. He watched as Jimin took a quick step-start and glided off onto the ice effortlessly, looping around the faux ring and halting in front of Taehyung again with a gleaming smile.

“How was that?” he asked.

“As beautiful and elegant as ever,” Taehyung replied, though half-concentrating on keeping his feet under him.

“Come on.” Jimin held out his hand.

Taehyung didn’t move. “I’m going to break a bone.”

“Been there, done that. It’s not that bad,” Jimin said.

Taehyung looked up to him with harsh eyes. “That isn’t helping.”

“I told you, you’ll be fine.”

“You might not know this yet,” Taehyung began, “but my balance is awful.”

“I do know it. And I believe in you,” he replied. “It won’t be the end of the world if you fall over.”

“It will be for me,” Taehyung said.

Jimin laughed. “You’re so dramatic sometimes.” He pulled Taehyung slightly out from the border, but Taehyung pulled back and his feet slipped underneath him. “See? The more you hesitate, the more likely you are to fall over. If you just skate, you’ll find your feet.”

“I know where my feet are, and they don’t like the ice.”

“Taehyung.” Jimin laughed, head to the sky. “You trust me, right?”

Taehyung looked up slowly. “Of course I do.”

“Then, take my hand.”

Jimin raised his hand out again, and that time Taehyung took it.

Taehyung remembers how they ate yakgwa for dessert, because Jimin’s mom had told him when he was younger that it would stop his feet from hurting. He tastes it now on his tongue, as he watches the children skate on the lake. How young they had felt then, five years ago. How aged heartbreak has made him feel.

As if he feels the stare, the heat and the intensity of it, Taehyung looks beside him to find Jimin. Stood a metre away, two—the snow makes it difficult to tell. He stands, red-cheeked and red-nosed and rhubarb-lipped as if he’s bitten them, letting the snow fall over him.

Taehyung walks slowly towards him, his heart a pinball in his chest. Though his mouth is open, parting for breaths as if he’s ran, he says nothing. Taehyung begins to speak when he spots it: the snow had concealed it before, the white on white. But now he sees the lines of ink on the paper, the ink blots from rushed scribbles and a frantic heart, hanging low in Jimin’s hand, parts of the ink running from the wet of the snow.

Taehyung’s handwriting.

He hadn’t even thought to check if it was missing.

“When did you write it?” Jimin asks, finally.

 “Not long ago. After I thought…” Taehyung swallows, “…that I wouldn’t see you again.”

Jimin raises it, as if to read over it again. His eyes are red at the seams as he looks up to him. “Why didn’t you show me?”

“Because I didn’t know if you’d want it,” Taehyung says. “I wrote it impulsively. I wanted to be sure.”

“Sure of what?” Jimin asks.

“That I meant it.”

 “I wish you would have shown me,” he says after a moment. “Shown you before—”

“Before what? Before you ran away?”

Jimin’s brows pull harshly. “I ran away because you didn’t show me.”

Taehyung swallows again, his mouth falling dry. “How did you even know where it was?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I sat at your desk, and I—” he stops. He doesn’t need to say any more.

“I forgive you,” Taehyung says. “There’s… there’s nothing to forgive. There’s no one else it’s for but you.”

A pause. Jimin asks, quieter, “Do you? Do you mean it?”

“Every word.”

Jimin takes a breath. He nods shortly, and his lips pull tight in that way Taehyung knows can mean so many things. He’s seen those lips angry and contemptuous, refrained and tongue-bitten, holding back a laugh. But Taehyung knows this time it’s sad. He knows he caused it.

He takes a step closer. Jimin doesn’t move away.

Taehyung touches his cheek, gasps in a small breath. He sees now the tremors of Jimin’s hands, his body as it racks with it.

“You’re freezing,” he says.

“I didn’t come to Korea equipped for the snow,” Jimin says. “I forgot how cold it got here.”

As his eyes fill with tears, Taehyung suspects it’s not the only reason.

Jimin lets him come closer, pull him in, and Jimin’s sobs fall into the pool of Taehyung’s neck. Taehyung brushes his hair back, kisses the side of his forehead. The mark he left on Jimin’s neck last night sits as a clear marker where skin should be covered: he takes his own scarf and wraps it around Jimin, and he knows Jin won’t mind.

“I don’t have a home here, anymore,” Jimin says.

“Well,” Taehyung says, “I have a house. It’s never felt like a home, but… I think it could.”

“Is it warm?” he asks.

Taehyung can’t help but smile. “You know it is. Heated floors and everything.”

Jimin’s hair brushes Taehyung’s chin as he nods, and Taehyung nuzzles into it. Anywhere he could be home, anywhere.

“It’s been nothing without you,” he whispers.

When they return to the apartment, Jin and Namjoon are gone. Despite spending the last view days here, Jimin stands in the doorway as if he’s unfamiliar with it. Perhaps he is, Taehyung thinks. Perhaps he’d seen it as some other place, like his hotel room, until now.

A house, Taehyung thinks. A home.

They take their shoes off and leave their coats on the floor. Taehyung unwraps the scarf from Jimin, and they laugh when he spins around and gets caught in it. And Taehyung can’t help but lean forward and kiss him because he looks so beautiful when he smiles.

“I’m going to run you a bath,” he murmurs, kisses him again. “Wait here.”

He sets the tap on to run and adds bubble bath. He places tea lights on each corner of the bath and dims the light into a soft glow. And he places the fluffiest towel he can find on the side because he knows Jimin likes fluffy towels, because how could he forget?

Taehyung leans back on the sink and watches the bath fill. He doesn’t think he’s forgotten anything about Jimin. And yet, over the past week, Jimin has surprised him so much. To think that he had no hope, and now Jimin is here with him, perhaps even for good.

And he knows he’ll forgive Jimin if he decides to leave tomorrow. Or if it were the next day, or the day after that. In his mind, Taehyung will always be the one that needs forgiveness. He brings his fingers to his lips and slowly smiles.

If jimin left tomorrow, he’d be thankful for at least this moment. Because he thought Jimin was gone, and now he’s here. Because that’s what he has to do—to treat every moment as if it’s the last. Because Jimin deserves that much.

When he returns to the living room, Jimin isn’t there. The panic is quick, but even more quickly stymied when he hears a bang from down the hallway.

He slowly pushes the studio door open to find Jimin picking up his easel from the floor. He turns to Taehyung, his face surprised.

“I’m so sorry.”

His painting is on the floor. The corner of the canvas is broken.

He grins. “How can you dance for a living and yet be so clumsy?”

Jimin’s laugh is relief. “I’m only elegant when dancing.”

“That’s not true,” Taehyung says, “not at all.”

He picks the painting up and sets it on the easel. He takes the paintbrush from Jimin’s hand and holds it up—the bristle end is missing.

“That might be a problem.”

“It’s here somewhere, I promise,” Jimin says. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Taehyung shakes his head. “Do you not think it came off so easily because I’ve already broken it before?” he asks. “I’ll invest in some better super glue.”

Jimin looks to him, not smiling but not sad, his eyes a whirlwind of countless thoughts. “I love you,” he says.

Taehyung pauses, still, open-mouthed. “I—”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I could count the amount of times on my hand you’ve said that to me since I’ve met you,” Taehyung says.

“I know.” His eyes are shameful as they frown. “It seems ridiculous now, to have been so afraid to say it,” he says. “I want to say it more. I think you deserve that. You always did.”

“Apart from that one time I was a huge asshole,” Taehyung says.

“Oh, yeah.” Jimin nods. “But it was just one moment.”

“It was one big moment.” He thinks, “and a few other small ones.”

“In the scheme of things, we shouldn’t prioritise them,” Jimin replies.

“We shouldn’t forget them, either.”

“I’ve spent nearly five years thinking about them,” Jimin says. “I’m not sure I want to.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung says, quietly. “Learn from them, then?”

“I think we’ve already done that. We would be here, otherwise.”

“Yeah,” he says again. “You’re so smart.”

Jimin grins. “Am I smart, or are you just a little dense?”

“Could be both.”

He laughs, his head thrown back. Taehyung didn’t spend enough time trying to make this happen, to make Jimin happy, before.

It won’t be like that, he thinks, not this time.

“I know it won’t,” Jimin says, still smiling. “You haven’t changed, really, have you? You’re still my Tae.”

“Always embarrassing myself at the right times? Sure,” he says. “What’s not to love?”

“Not much.” Jimin leans up to kiss him.

“Your bath is done.”

Taehyung almost wants to look away when Jimin drops his clothes to the bathroom floor. It’s stupid, he knows. But he wants to make sure Jimin is comfortable, always.

He has to remind himself that Jimin wouldn’t be here, otherwise. That last night would have happened.

He steps into the bath first, gasping at the heat of the water, and slowly lowers into it. He looks to Taehyung.

“Will you get in with me?”

“If that’s what you want,” Taehyung says.

Jimin nods, and Taehyung can’t help the flush on his cheeks as Jimin watches him undress. He moves forward so Taehyung can sit behind him. Taehyung wraps his arms around Jimin’s waist.

“Will it be okay, you being here?” Taehyung asks.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Jimin asks.

“Your friend, downstairs…”

It takes Jimin a moment to understand. “Oh,” he says. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

“You don’t?”

Jimin hums. “I have to admit, I really was only trying to make you jealous.”

“Oh.” It worked, he thinks.

“We slept together once. It didn’t mean anything—not to me, anyway.”

“You don’t have to explain to me,” Taehyung says.

“I think he might be in love with me.”

“Can you blame him?” Taehyung brushes Jimin’s hair behind his ear and kisses the skin below. “How many other men have you made fall head over heels for you?”

“A few,” he teases and turns to Taehyung. “There’s only one that matters.”

Their tongues meet as they kiss. Jimin brings a hand around to Taehyung’s neck, the water rolling around them. And there’s something just sweet enough in the air that tells them it doesn’t need to be anything more than this.

“I might ignore him for a while, though,” Jimin says, “until I can tell him.”

Taehyung grabs the shampoo from the side and lathers it up in his hands, before rubbing Jimin’s hair softly in circles.

“I think these things are better confronted,” he says, “don’t you?”

“You’re right. I’ll tell him.” Jimin hums. “That feels so good.”

He cups water in his hands to wash away the suds, and Jimin leans back so he doesn’t get any soap in his eyes.

“You still use my conditioner,” he says.

“Yes,” Taehyung admits shyly. “I hoped, one day, you’d come back to use it.”

Jimin stays quiet. Taehyung can almost see the questions in his head. What else does he do to remind him of me? And if he asked, Taehyung would say, ‘Everything.’

“I still use your body wash, too,” Jimin says. “I hate mint, but I always liked that it reminded me of you.” He takes a breath at the admittance. “On the lonely nights, it made me feel like I was lying next to you.”

Taehyung glances to the bottle on the side. “Do you still want to use it?”

“Yes.”

Jimin stands in the water, and Taehyung washes his body; from neck—he rubs his finger gently over the bruise his mouth made—over the plains of his chest, his stomach, his thighs—and Jimin puts a hand on his shoulder when he gets too close—over his legs, and he kisses each bruise, each scar until they’re concealed with love.

Jimin offers to do the same, but Taehyung objects.

“I want to take care of you,” he says, and kisses Jimin’s hand.

He washes himself quickly as Jimin dries; he pauses for just a moment to watch Jimin slip on his long shirt, and Jimin seems to smile to himself as he looks down and takes the fabric into his fingers.

“This bed is so comfortable,” Jimin says as he sinks into it.

“I had our old one here for a while, before my back couldn’t take it anymore,” he says. He touches the end of the bed. “I didn’t want to get rid of it.”

“Not to worry, we’ve already christened it.” Jimin wiggles his brows.

Taehyung giggles, hides his face in his hand.

Jimin shimmies down the bed and takes Taehyung’s hands. “I’m here now,” he says. “Come lay with me.”

Jimin leads him to the pillows, and he waits for Taehyung to get comfortable before snuggling in beside him. He wraps himself into a ball, his knees resting on Taehyung’s stomach, his arm stretched wide across Taehyung’s chest.

“I haven’t felt this comfortable in a long time,” he says. “Beds are so cold when you’re alone.”

“It’s not the bed,” Jimin says, “it’s who you share it with.”

When Jimin pulls in closer to him, Taehyung brings the duvet over them.

“It’s 3pm,” Jimin says.

“Yes.”

“Are we really going to nap?”

“Do you have anything better to do?” Taehyung asks.

He feels Jimin’s smile against his neck. “No.”

They let the comfort of the quiet sing around them. Taehyung plays with the ends of Jimin’ hair until his eyes grow tired. He thinks Jimin is asleep, and startles awake when he hears his voice.

“What do you think this means?”

“I don’t know,” he says, “but I’d like to find out with you. I’d like to do it right, this time.”

Jimin curls up closer to him. “I don’t want anything else but to be here now, beside you.”

“And tomorrow?” Taehyung asks.

“And every day after that.”

He wakes a while after and pushes the duvet off them. Jimin is still sound asleep, but as Taehyung lays awake and watches him, he finds his own tiredness subsides. 

He reaches over into the top drawer of his bedside cupboard and brings the velvet box into his hand. He dares not peak inside, though he’s seen the ring a thousand times, imagined it on Jimin’s finger a hundred more.

For the first time, he’s glad that the ring stays in the box. He’s glad he doesn’t open it. He places it back where it’s been all these years, the circle of dust around where it sits.

Jimin stirs in his sleep and pulls himself closer. Taehyung wraps his arms around him.

He’ll give it to Jimin, one day. Maybe one day won’t ever come. This time he’ll wait until Jimin wants it, until he’s ready.

He’s waited six years already. He’d wait forever, if he could.