Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“My days are long, my memories full of yearning

My saz is worn; forgive me if you can’t hear it

My face hasn’t smiled; don’t wait for me, my love.”

For years, Jimin had been living with a massive dagger embedded in his chest. How many years had it been? He’d stopped counting, but he couldn’t forget the pain that flared up every time the dagger twisted, nor the way each calendar page stoked that ache anew. A person couldn’t forget pain without first forgetting that they were in pain.

They told him he’d get used to it. He supposed he did get used to living with a dagger slicing through his heart. It was there, reminding him constantly, a weight he carried with him always. Somehow, he went on living. Mornings still arrived, and his eyes would open to face the world. He even grew accustomed to eating and drinking, though something always felt stuck in his throat. Every night, he adjusted to the mind games, to the nightmares, and worst of all, to the dreams that were still beautiful. He had no choice.

Climbing mountains, crossing seas, letting the days sink only to rise again made no difference. Was the wound growing, or shrinking, or was it simply there, refusing to heal as it was? He didn’t know. But day by day, he kept living with a rusty dagger in his chest—a dagger with a black hilt, streaked with dried blood.

Did anyone think he had never tried to pull it out? Or tried to burn the wound shut when it tore through him? He did try. But every time, he ended up drowning in his own blood, collapsing back into the hollow of his chest. And so, he gave up. What would it change? Some people were simply marked—some wounds may have scabbed over, some may still be bleeding, but they were always there. He was one of those people. He was always bound to it; that’s what happened when someone believed they could take on every blow. When someone opened their arms to every sorrow, eventually, a knife would find its way in.

He had learned this the hard way.

He hadn’t been born with scars, but he was condemned to bleed forever. Like Sisyphus.

He had to leave behind his language, his country, his home, his very identity, and push himself into a life that was utterly foreign. His punishment was clear—to live with a heart that had been struck down the middle, a heart forever impaled by a dagger.

As he said, he was getting used to it. At first, everything was so hard. He stuffed whatever he could grab into a carry-on suitcase, snatched his passport, and threw himself into the airport. Nowhere felt like a fit; he didn’t even know where he was going until he left. The first flight he found was to Naples, and he booked it without a second thought. There was no one to protect him, no one to arrange anything for him. He booked a hotel for himself, and when he landed in Naples, he rented a car.

For the first few days, he didn’t even stick his nose outside his hotel room, keeping to himself with only the shards of his broken heart for company. His blood boiled in his veins, his head ached like it would split open, and his stomach churned endlessly. He didn’t care. All he did was force a few bites of bread down just to stop the retching, washing it down with whiskey even though he hated it.

Days and nights blurred together, and his anger grew more intense. The pain was so consuming he couldn’t find the strength to gather up the broken pieces of his heart. Finally, when he woke up on the carpet one night without even making it to bed, he realized it was time to pull himself together.

But by “pulling himself together,” he didn’t mean returning any of the hundreds of calls or messages on his phone, nor trying to restore himself. Everything was still too fresh, and all he wanted was to leave everything behind.

He’d woken up on the carpet, found by the hotel housekeeper. His blood was so thick with alcohol he hadn’t even woken up. When he opened his eyes in the hospital, they told him he’d nearly poisoned himself with alcohol. That night, spilling what was left of the bottle had accidentally saved his life.

Another result of his hospital visit was that, by sheer luck, his manager Ophelia was finally able to reach him while he was in the ambulance. When he came to, he found her at his bedside. She used the strength of her frustration to argue with him for being unreachable for so long. Eventually, they came to an agreement.

Ophelia, with those ice-blue eyes that always unsettled him a bit, fixed him with a silent gaze before taking his hand in her small one and squeezing it. Even now, he could feel the firmness of her grip, the warmth of her skin, and the unspoken love she conveyed.

When he was discharged from the hospital in Naples, Ophelia, who now understood what had happened, took charge of preparing his new life. First, she found him a small but charming house in Amalfi. She chose the furniture herself, signed the lease under her own name to keep his identity private, and paid a year’s rent upfront so that he wouldn’t have to deal with anyone.

Despite his objections, she stayed with him for a while to make sure he wouldn’t end up in the hospital again. She never let his phone sit idle, fielding calls and calming everyone down. By the time he was done with all this, he realized he’d been in Italy for two months, even though he felt like he’d reached the end of the world.

When Ophelia finally returned to Korea, she made him swear on his favorite thing that he’d call her at least every other day. She wanted that promise from him. He only told her he’d call, and she said that if she couldn’t reach him, she’d come back here.

Those first few days alone were harder than he’d anticipated. Just remembering them, remembering what he did to himself back then, would make the dagger in his chest twist anew. Above all, he owed himself an apology for how much he’d hurt himself.

He didn’t even visit the famous Amalfi beach until his third month there. Even then, as he sat on his tiny balcony, watching the sea, he often caught himself sobbing, and he was afraid of mingling with people, of being recognized. But he decided it was finally time to focus on his new life.

After living in Busan and then Seoul, Jimin had almost forgotten the scent of iodine, but in Amalfi, he had gotten used to it again. Still, as he walked barefoot along the warm sand, listening to the crash of waves, he sat down on the wet shore, letting the Mediterranean toy with his toes, and made a few decisions he knew he would never carry out.

He would survive.

He would keep on living.

Despite everything.

That day, after swearing on his favorite thing that he wouldn’t overdo it, he picked up a cheap bottle of Italian wine from a market. He remembered his promise to Ophelia and tried to choose a cheese to eat with it. Suddenly, he noticed a very familiar silhouette beside him.

Of course, the man hadn’t recognized him or even noticed him. Jimin had managed to stay somewhat unnoticed in Amalfi. It was the end of summer, and despite his pale skin that only Koreans seemed to have, he wore a short pair of shorts and a linen shirt. Maybe the hat helped obscure him a little, too. The man probably hadn’t paid enough attention to recognize him by silhouette, but Jimin recognized him instantly.

“Woosung hyung?” he said in surprise.

Despite reminding him of his favorite thing, Jimin was genuinely glad to see him. Maybe it was because he hadn’t heard a word about his favorite thing since he left. Honestly, he didn’t know anything about what had happened after he disappeared. He’d banned himself from the internet.

He was alone. Aside from Ophelia, whom he spoke to every other day as promised, he was completely alone. It would be two more months before Namjoon hyung appeared at his door. He was more alone than he’d ever been, maybe since the day he was born.

“Park Jimin?”

Woosung’s beautiful eyes met his, wide with surprise. It was his first time seeing Jimin so far from where he usually saw him—on the other side of the world, separated from everything. He hadn’t been expecting it, and neither had Jimin. Maybe it had been a mistake to speak to him that day, while everything was still so fresh, but now, standing in front of the lemon stand, about to promise him a lemonade, Jimin was grateful. Grateful that they’d seen each other that day, that they’d talked, that they’d sat on his tiny balcony until morning, sipping their second glasses halfway down and still talking.

“My beautiful.”

Jimin knew that’s what Woosung would say when he pulled out his phone. My beautiful. A lazy smile spread across Jimin’s face, and the vendor turned to help an elderly woman beside him. Jimin always came to this stand, a bright yellow canopy set up at the corner of the building covered in vines.

Even though the vendor could tell Jimin was foreign from his slanted eyes and broken Italian, he was like all Italians—ready to respond in Italian, regardless of Jimin’s own attempts at language.

“Hyung,” Jimin replied, stretching the word a bit and letting out a small chuckle. “I only went out to buy lemons.”

“I know.” Woosung’s voice sounded a bit distant, meaning he’d put Jimin on speaker. Most likely, he was sitting on the floor with his guitar in his lap, sheets of his new songs scattered in front of him. “But I need your voice.”

Jimin chuckled again; Woosung always made him laugh. Maybe because he’d gotten him to smile again after all that time he’d spent scowling, Jimin couldn’t stop anymore. “I’ll be back soon.”

“No, I need it right now.” Jimin knew he’d be pouting, and he could picture it perfectly—his eyes sparkling, head tilted slightly toward his shoulder. “Sing last night’s song, please.”

“Hyung, can’t you wait until I get there?” Jimin asked, pouting himself, and knowing Woosung would only tease him if he were there. If he were beside him, he’d pinch his lips between his fingers until Jimin laughed.

“I told you,” Woosung said, his voice softening to a pleading tone, “I need it right now. Come on, beautiful.” Jimin was beautiful to him—so beautiful, Woosung would lay his heart at his feet, ready to give up everything just for one smile. Every time Jimin told him goodbye, even if only for a short while, Woosung would close his eyes tightly and say there was no reason to open them if he couldn’t see Jimin again. My beautiful one—that’s what he called him, and Jimin knew he meant it deeply, in his bones.

“You know I can’t say no to you, hyung. But here, in front of all these people?” It had been a long time since Jimin had sung in public, much less performed on stage. After they chose separate paths and everything he’d gone through, he had completely stepped away from it. He was fading from people’s memories, and he had chosen not to do anything to stop it. But Woosung, as if he wanted the world to see Jimin again, would call him suddenly, just like this. He’d show his beautiful one to the world, and Jimin couldn’t refuse him.

He had every intention of dragging this out a little longer. He couldn’t help it. He’d tease Woosung all the time, and Woosung would let him. Jimin picked up one of the lemons from the stand and brought it to his nose, breathing in its scent. Maybe he’d try making lemon cake, even though he was terrible at zesting.

“Yes. Come on, my beautiful.”

“All right then.” Jimin gave in quickly this time, setting the lemon back on the stand. “Can you send me the lyrics? I can’t remember them all.”

“Wait, I’m sending them.”

When the photo came through, Jimin put his phone on speaker and glanced over the words. He remembered more than he’d expected. As he began to sing, he saw the vendor and the elderly woman beside her raise their eyebrows and turn to watch him. He didn’t mind; they must have liked his voice since they didn’t say a word.

“I was a carefree, wild bird, resting on your branch

I had soared high, now landing at your feet

I was deep like the sea, but shallow to the eye

I was cold as snow, then close to you, I burned.”

When he reached the chorus, he could hear Woosung strumming along on his guitar. A smile spread across Jimin’s lips, and he repeated the chorus one more time. He knew Woosung would add this song to their next album. He didn’t know why Woosung made him sing it, even though he’d be the one to record it, but Jimin didn’t dwell on it too much. He’d banned himself from thinking too much. Overthinking hadn’t done him any favors, as Woosung had pointed out.

“Lovers, what should they do with you? Whose lips should kiss you?

You’re a strange wine; I was already drunk before I tasted you.

I’ve endured endless trials, shed bloody tears

I was an example for the wise, now a fool in love.”

As he murmured the last verse, Jimin continued filling the paper bag with lemons. And as he caught that familiar scent, he repeated the chorus once more. That scent, that unmistakable scent of his favorite thing. A smile froze on his face, and a chill ran down his spine. That scent he knew too well.

“My tongue never forgets your name; every path I take leads to you

I’m a tainted, sinful soul, cleansed by gazing upon you

Lovers, what should they do with you? Whose lips should kiss you?

You’re a strange wine; I was already drunk before I tasted you.”

He was filled with the urge to turn around, but he resisted. That scent mingled with the iodine and filled his nose, as if it were right there. But he couldn’t let himself look. In all those long days and painful nights in Italy, he’d replayed this moment so many times. Now, he forbade himself from turning around, knowing nothing would be there. Nothing ever had been, and each time he turned, facing that emptiness only hurt him more. He wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t face that absence again. So he didn’t.

Closing his eyes, Jimin dropped the lemon into the bag and took a deep breath after finishing the final words of the song. Then he took his phone off speaker and brought it back to his ear.

“Magnificent,” Woosung said, brimming with enthusiasm. The vendor and the elderly woman must have enjoyed it too, because they, along with a few passersby who’d overheard, began to clap. Jimin didn’t turn around to see them. He wasn’t going to turn around. The scent was fading, leaving only the scent of iodine and lemons behind. “You’re amazing, beautiful. Are you still sure you don’t want to sing this with me?”

Woosung wanted him to duet on this song, but Jimin was determined not to. He’d left the world of “superstar Jimin” behind, long ago. He wasn’t that Park Jimin anymore; he’d disappeared, faded away. Now, he was just Jimin—Amalfi’s new Korean resident, with sun-kissed skin, hair falling into his eyes, freckles more prominent than ever. He was just an ordinary man. Just Jimin.

“You know I won’t,” he replied, forcing himself to smile. He shook his head slightly, trying to erase that scent from his mind, even though it still lingered after all these years. This time, Woosung didn’t tell him that fans were still waiting for him, hoping for new songs. He didn’t need to say it anymore.

“Well, at least I’ll have a fantastic lemonade. Hurry up; I miss my beautiful one.”

“Why don’t you just say you’re thirsty?” Jimin teased with a chuckle. Woosung always found ways to make him laugh whenever he was down. And he’d meet Jimin’s laughter with a smile that reached his eyes. “Beautiful,” he would say, “the world is a better place when you smile.”

When Jimin opened the door to his small apartment, carrying nearly a kilo of bright, fragrant lemons, he was greeted by the familiar scent of Woosung’s cigarette and the gentle strumming of his guitar. Not wanting to disturb him, Jimin set his keys in the bowl by the door, placed the lemons in the kitchen, and left his bag on the table. He entered the living room, where, as expected, Woosung was sitting on the floor, wedged between the couch and the coffee table.

“Beautiful,” he said with his usual smile when he saw him. “Welcome back.”

Jimin returned his smile and began clearing some space on the coffee table so he could sit. Woosung took a few last puffs from his cigarette, quickly stubbing it out in the ashtray before setting his guitar aside and placing his hands on Jimin’s knees.

Jimin didn’t mention the scent to him. When a few stray strands of Woosung’s hair fell from the bun, he tucked them behind his ear as Woosung pressed a warm kiss to his knee. Before, Jimin would have run to him every time that familiar scent reopened old wounds, but now he kept it to himself. He used to turn to him, pouring out his hurt and crying on his shoulder, only to face the emptiness of what wasn’t there. But Woosung had taught him to turn away from the things he didn’t want to face, and that’s what he did now.

He didn’t look back whenever the scent of his favorite thing mingled with the iodine in the air, didn’t linger if he caught the scent in the lemon grove or outside his favorite little cafés. His favorite thing was no longer his favorite. It never would be again.

As Woosung placed his chin on Jimin’s knee, he looked up with a pouting smile. Jimin traced his fingers over his cheekbones, and his touch made Woosung smile. After resting his head against Jimin’s leg, he kissed his thigh softly and pulled him closer.

“How did I live without you? You were gone for half an hour, but I missed you already.”

He missed him; he wanted to spend every moment with him. Jimin had run here, to hide on the Amalfi coast, but Woosung hadn’t run. He had chosen to stay, to settle here for Jimin. While Jimin felt like he had no other choice, Woosung had come without a second thought. He had chosen to settle here, for Jimin. To be near him, to see him whenever he wanted, because he couldn’t bear the idea of being without him. While Jimin was hiding, Woosung had made this place his home, just to be close.

Their home.

“This is the most beautiful place in the world,” Woosung would say, because his “beautiful one” lived here. “The most beautiful place,” he said, “because I can sit right here, at your feet.”

“Hyung,” Jimin protested softly, “you’re exaggerating.”

Woosung just laughed, leaning up to rest his head against Jimin’s chest. His forehead touched his skin where his linen shirt was unbuttoned, and Jimin could feel the warmth of him. While Woosung wrapped his arms around his waist and held him close, Jimin brought his hands up to Woosung’s hair, gently removing the tie from his messy bun and letting his fingers comb through the strands. As he stroked him, Woosung nestled closer, breathing him in deeply. Jimin leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

“You’ve never known what it’s like to be far away from yourself,” Woosung murmured, breathing him in again. When he pulled back to look into Jimin’s eyes, the faint smile on Jimin’s lips wasn’t enough to fool him. “You smell like sadness; your eyes look sad. What happened to my beautiful one?”

He placed his large hand on Jimin’s cheek, brushing his thumb over his cheekbone. When Jimin tried to force a wider smile, his thumb drifted down to the corner of his mouth. “What did we say?” he reminded gently. “No wasting that beautiful smile by forcing it.”

“Nothing happened,” Jimin mumbled, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “It’s just… I caught that scent again today.” His gaze drifted away from Woosung’s without meaning to. He hadn’t planned to say it out loud, but Woosung had already sensed something was wrong, and hiding it—or lying—felt pointless.

Woosung pulled him closer, gently lifting him into his lap. Jimin didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around his neck, his legs on either side of him. Woosung wanted to know everything he felt, everything he was. He wanted Jimin to hold nothing back, to let him share in his grief, his pain, his joy, and his peace. He never shied away from Jimin’s sadness; his pain didn’t anger him. He wanted to know his scars, to heal them with his warmth. And so Jimin kept nothing from him, hoping that one day he’d be able to love Woosung as he deserved, giving him all of himself in return.

“Just be yourself,” Woosung would say to him, “just be yourself, beautiful, and I’m ready to share everything with you. I’m here for it all, whatever you can give, however much you have. You are enough.”

He cradled Jimin’s face in his hands, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his forehead. He took in the scent of his hair, then pulled him close and held him tightly, and Jimin clung to him just as tightly, his arms around his neck. After a moment, Woosung pulled back and looked into his eyes, waiting for him to speak. Jimin shrugged.

“Where were you this time?” Woosung asked gently. He wasn’t judging, wasn’t scolding. He was just asking, with all the kindness he held for him. And, just to avoid telling him that it had happened while he was singing, Jimin allowed himself a small, harmless lie.

“On my way home,” he murmured in response. He didn’t like lying to him, but after everything Woosung had done for him, it felt like the least he could do. “But I didn’t look back.”

“How did it make you feel?” Woosung asked softly. Every time Jimin told him about the scent, he asked how it had made him feel. He wanted to know. And every time, Jimin answered truthfully, without holding back. Except for the times he hadn’t told him about the scent at all. Woosung deserved better than him, so much better. But somewhere along the way, he had fallen for Jimin. He deserved a love as pure as he loved, a heart he could hold in his hands, not one that was shattered and scarred from being struck by so many unseen blades.

Jimin wasn’t worthy of his love.

He wasn’t worthy of him.

“I didn’t look back,” he repeated. As Woosung’s hand on his waist began to stroke gently, Jimin slipped his fingers into his hair and combed through the strands he’d just freed. “I knew it wouldn’t be there.”

“Did you wish it was?” Woosung’s voice was neutral, stripped of judgment. He was, as always, just there, just listening. Could a person truly be so selfless?

Trying to be worthy of him, Jimin stopped to think about how he truly felt. Once, he’d definitely wanted it to be there. He’d wanted it so badly that every time he turned around, his disappointment hurt all the more. He’d wanted it to be there, but it never was.

But this time, he hadn’t turned. He hadn’t tasted the bitterness of that disappointment. Did that change anything? Not turning, knowing it wouldn’t be there, did that mean he no longer wanted it? Or had he simply accepted it? What did it mean? Was he still hoping to see it one day if he turned? He still had things to say, things he’d kept unsaid. Didn’t that mean that, in some way, he was still hoping to see it? The fact that part of him wanted it to hurt, just as it had hurt him, did that mean he still wished for its presence?

Maybe it did. He didn’t know.

And he didn’t hesitate to tell Woosung exactly that. “I don’t know.”

Woosung tightened his hold on him, pulling him close to his chest before resting his face against Jimin’s. “My wounded bird,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Jimin’s heart through his shirt. His warm breath touched his skin, and Jimin realized, even though he had felt cold as ice a moment before, he was starting to feel warm. “I wish I could kiss away every scar and make them disappear.”

When Jimin’s lips began to tremble, he grew angry with himself for not being worthy of Woosung again. He hated the sting in his eyes. Woosung didn’t deserve someone like him, someone as broken as he was. He wasn’t his “beautiful one” or worthy of any of the beauty the world had to offer. Woosung was the beautiful one, the one who deserved everything wonderful in this world. He deserves someone better than someone as broken and damaged as Jimin.

“One day, you won’t catch that scent anymore. I promise you.”

Woosung always kept his promises, doing whatever he could to make them real, and if he couldn’t, he wouldn’t make them at all. But this time, he’d made a promise, believing he could make it happen. And Jimin believed him too. Neither of them knew that it wouldn’t be possible.

That this was one promise Woosung couldn’t keep.

*** 

Okay, l need to clearified that the song which Jimin sing is not belong to me. It's a Turkish poem by Sabahattin Ali (which is the world wide famous author who wrote Madonna in Fur Coat. I highly recommend it to read btw. His poems also beautiful if you find the translation you can check them. The poem is called Hey and it was adapted into a song by an artist named Tucinella. If you’d like to listen to it, you can find it here. I did my best to translate the poem myself  sorry if it lost some of its beauty along the way. The quotes in the beginning is one of my favorite song by Can Bonomo called 'Ölesim Var'. And finally, I’ve create a playlist on Spotify for this story, feel free to check it out if you’re interested. 

Just a quick note if I forget to credit any quotes in later chapters, please know they’re all from songs and poems that mean a lot to me. I’ve included most of them in the Spotify playlist I made for this story, so feel free to check it out or simply ask me if you’re curious.

twitter: yoonierkives 

Chapter Text

he won’t come, you know that, don’t you?

you have to love a second time, look to tomorrow, move forward in life

never look back

🍋

Every time Jimin visited the famous Amalfi coast, he was reminded of why it was so beloved. There was something truly unique about watching the sun plunge into the depths of the Mediterranean. And yet, even in his fifth month in Italy, he still wasn’t well enough to turn around and take in that view while climbing the steps to his home.

He had a small but charming house and a beautiful view of the sea. Over time, he had picked up enough Italian to get by, though he rarely needed to use it. Ophelia called every other day, somehow always finding ways to make him talk, filling the silence with stories or gentle questions.

Aside from her voice through the phone, he was alone. Woosung had returned to Korea a week earlier and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks. Though the original plan was for Woosung to stay only a fortnight, he had remained for a month and a half, never once tiring of Jimin’s company. It was he who had coaxed Jimin out of the house—on long shoreline walks, through the lemon groves, up the café-lined steps near his home, to Tasso Square, and on quiet strolls through Amalfi’s narrow streets under the stars.

They all knew—Woosung, Ophelia, and Jimin himself—that his departure would hit hard. And yet, surprisingly, it hadn’t been as devastating as Jimin had feared. He was lonely, achingly so. But he was getting used to it.

As he walked past one of their favorite spots with the best view, he kept his head down, avoiding eye contact or small talk with locals and tourists alike. Without Woosung beside him, he felt more exposed. When he heard faint Korean behind him, his chest tightened at the possibility of being recognized.

Some had recognized him. In Tasso Square, it was impossible to remain completely anonymous. Still, Amalfi allowed a certain distance, a gentle barrier between him and the world. It felt as though his heart had been exhausted, or perhaps his favorite person had drained every last ounce of love from it. There was barely a crumb left to offer anyone else. Running away had been his only option.

One mild October evening, in the fifth month of his self-imposed exile, Jimin came home to find Namjoon sitting on his doorstep. They hadn’t spoken in months—Jimin hadn’t returned a single call or message. It was likely Ophelia who had helped him track Jimin down.

When their eyes met, Jimin wasn’t sure what to feel. There was anger in Namjoon’s gaze, but underneath it was something else. Seeing him, Jimin couldn’t help but think of the one person he was trying to forget. And that, more than anything, frightened him.

But as Namjoon looked at him, there was no condemnation—only longing. Without speaking, he spread his arms, inviting Jimin into the embrace of the strong chest that had only grown broader in the time they’d been apart. His lips curved into a bittersweet smile, dimples appearing on either side.

Jimin hesitated, then fell into his arms. It felt good, comforting. They stayed like that for a long moment, easing the ache of separation. Namjoon had only two days to spare, yet he made the time—coming all the way for Jimin’s birthday, which Jimin hadn’t even realized had arrived.

He didn’t know whether Namjoon truly understood his condition, or if Ophelia had briefed him. But none of the things Jimin had feared happened. Namjoon didn’t press, didn’t question. He didn’t speak the name Jimin dreaded most. And perhaps, that silence was more difficult to bear. To say Jimin didn’t think of his favorite person every day would have been a lie. It had been five months. Nothing had changed. He was simply getting used to it.

Whether that meant acceptance or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure.

One way or another, Jimin had built a life in Italy. Back then, it had seemed impossible—far from comforting, barely survivable. But now it was real. When Namjoon arrived, Jimin never imagined happiness could touch him again. Yet here he was. Not joyful, not whole—but not unhappy. Sorrowful, perhaps. Fragmented. Unsure of what was left of his old self or how completely that one person had ruined him. But still—he was okay.

In the kitchen with Woosung, lemons freshly bought and washed, Jimin listened to the radio crackle to life as Woosung fiddled with the old dial. Eventually, he tuned into one of their favorite local stations. The familiar melody of Amami drifted through the room, and a soft smile formed on Jimin’s lips. He could smile, and it no longer felt unnatural.

When the chorus arrived, Jimin had already finished washing the lemons and was slicing them. Woosung, ever playful, pulled the juicer from the drawer, then slipped behind him and wrapped his arms around Jimin’s waist. He moved Jimin gently away from the counter, turned him around, took his hands. Then, with the space between them just right, he spun Jimin under their joined arms. Jimin laughed, the sound bubbling out of him freely.

Woosung spun him again, then released one hand, placing the other firmly at Jimin’s waist. He pulled him close, their bodies aligned, Jimin’s hand resting on his shoulder. They danced until the song ended. Jimin couldn’t stop smiling, swaying with him, hugging him, brushing fingertips and hearts together.

He was healing.

Maybe it had taken nights of unbearable silence, weeks of numbness, months of trying. Maybe it would still take years—slow and aching—to truly accept, to surrender.

But healing was there.

Later, they sat on the tiny balcony, sipping iced lemonade. For the hundredth time, they reminded each other that one day, they really needed to learn how to make limoncello. Their legs stretched toward one another, Jimin’s toes resting in Woosung’s hand. He could feel joy again. Even with a dagger in his chest, he could live.

The next morning, when Jimin opened his eyes, he realized the discomfort he had felt the previous day while buying lemons—the one brought on by a scent he couldn’t shake—had vanished. He felt… cleansed. Or at least, that was the best way he could describe it.

Though, perhaps it wasn’t the right way to describe it. After all, the rusted dagger still remained lodged in his chest, his heart no bigger than a fist, held together with nothing more than metaphorical band-aids. To say he was healed would have been a terrible injustice.

He lay in Woosung’s arms, his bare back pressed against his chest. The weather was still stiflingly hot, but Jimin didn’t mind the warmth. He’d been awake for a while, simply breathing, taking in the moment. He didn’t know if Woosung was awake too, but when he turned slightly to check, he found his eyes already on him. It wasn’t the first time.

Jimin understood. He’d done the same.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

Woosung reached out to touch the corner of Jimin’s mouth, as though mesmerized by his smile.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

When Jimin’s smile widened, Woosung’s did too. His fingers trailed from the center of Jimin’s lips to the freckles dotting his nose, then up to the eyes he always said made him feel like the universe had been built just for them.

Jimin often laughed at that sentiment. If everything had been created for his gaze, why had the world burdened him with so much pain? But he had learned to steer his thoughts away from that path. Like many things, he had stopped fighting that internal war, knowing there was no victory in wrestling with God over his misfortunes—only more wounds.

“Have you been awake long?” Jimin asked, shifting slightly to face him more fully. When he turned toward Woosung, the older man let his cheek fall to the pillow and closed the space between them so their breaths met softly in the space between.

“Mm-hmm,” Woosung hummed, eyes never leaving him. He didn’t say why. Jimin didn’t ask. He already knew. If he had, Woosung would have told him he was memorizing every detail, so that if they were ever separated, he could recall everything—every line, every freckle, every shadow. Jimin knew the feeling. He’d done the same. Carved Woosung’s image so deeply into his own mind that even if he tried, there would be no scraping it away.

He couldn’t tell him to stop. He knew it would only hurt them both.

Woosung’s fingers returned to his face, stroking his cheeks, running through his hair, twirling dark strands around his fingers.

“You’re so beautiful. So lovable,” he whispered, his voice full of breath and awe. “You leave me no choice but to fall in love with you again, every day.”

“Hyung,” Jimin murmured, his voice touched with shyness. Woosung’s words warmed him, comforted him, and yet still managed to ache in the places he was broken. He didn’t feel worthy. Not of this love. Not of this man.

“I wish I could open my chest and show you how much I love you,” Woosung added, the corners of his mouth lifting again. He looked so happy, even with the incomplete love Jimin could offer him.

Unable to meet his gaze, Jimin glanced down to the tattoo running along Woosung’s sternum.

“I love you, hyung,” he whispered, pressing in closer. “I really do love you. I just wish I could give you more.”

But Woosung didn’t falter. He didn’t wilt at Jimin’s limitations. If he was hurting, he hid it so well Jimin couldn’t see it. Instead, he pulled him in closer, an arm curling under Jimin’s neck, fingers returning to his hair. He held him as if trying to absorb him into his own body. Jimin held him back just as tightly.

Maybe he couldn’t offer his whole heart. Maybe it was too shattered, too scarred. But he offered everything else: his presence, his affection, his arms, his laughter, his silence, his sorrow. And in return, Woosung offered all of himself without hesitation.

“Sweetheart,” Woosung murmured, kissing the crown of Jimin’s head. “Don’t be sad. My love is more than enough for both of us.”

Jimin pressed his lips to Woosung’s chest and closed his eyes, his arms winding tighter around him. And maybe—just maybe—if he whispered all the remnants of his love into that embrace, it would be enough. Maybe it could be enough.

*** 

This was his life now.

Years passed without him noticing, each day lived quietly in Italy. After more than a decade of grueling idol life and all the staggering wealth it had brought, Jimin had settled into a modest life. He didn’t need to work. He didn’t want to.

Most of his days were spent with Woosung, who, despite Jimin’s persistent suggestions, still refused to officially move in. Their days were filled with long walks along the coast, oversized sunhats, unfinished songs hummed between sips of coffee, and Jimin’s best attempts at small talk in broken Italian.

He hadn’t left Amalfi since the day he’d arrived. Not once. He hadn’t visited another town or boarded another plane. Even years later, the idea of stepping into an airport made his stomach twist. He hadn’t checked into a hotel room since. He hadn’t even driven the car Ophelia had bought him—except when she visited and insisted. He had never made the trip to the grand hotel in Ravello, the one said to echo with the memories of Gore Vidal and his lover.

That afternoon, while Woosung was away recording a demo at a studio Ophelia had rented—still holding onto the hope that Jimin might one day return to music—Jimin watered the flowers on the balcony and the lemon tree that stubbornly refused to bear fruit. Then, he set off on another walk.

He had no destination, simply followed the rhythm of his feet. Over time, he had crafted a preferred route, having walked these streets so often. Certain places were off-limits, and he didn’t so much as glance at them.

Italians loved lemons. Not just because they grew the best and brightest here, but because lemons were seen as protectors against malocchio, as healers, as fresh starts. Jimin sometimes wondered if he would only be truly healed when his lemon tree finally bloomed.

Outside a stranger’s home, a lemon tree’s branches spilled over the wall into the street. Jimin stopped for a moment and breathed in the sharp, sweet scent of a ripe lemon. He resisted the urge to speak to it—to ask if its kin was waiting for him to heal before it would fruit.

If he had known what would happen next, he might have lingered a bit longer.

A breeze swept through the street, carrying a scent he hadn’t smelled in years—one he had spent years trying to forget. The blood drained from his face as he froze under the tree. His fingers dropped from the fruit.

Was he imagining it?

He held his breath.

It’ll pass, he told himself. Just give it a minute.

But it didn’t pass.

The breeze carried the scent stronger, more vividly. His limbs tensed as though they were made of paper, slashed by thousands of razor-thin cuts.

He should have walked away. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe the scent was from someone’s open window. But it was so precise, so him , that Jimin didn’t dare breathe.

He shut his eyes. The scent didn’t fade. It strengthened. It filled his lungs even when he tried not to breathe.

And then came the panic.

He stumbled forward, heart pounding. He turned corners, crossed streets, hoping distance would dissolve it. It didn’t. The farther he walked, the closer it clung.

He fumbled for his phone, his pace erratic.

No matter what, he knew Woosung would answer.

And he did.

“Sweetheart?” came Woosung’s voice, immediately laced with concern. He knew Jimin wouldn’t call him during a recording session unless something was wrong. Jimin could hear the tension under the surface, and it frightened him too.

“Hyung…” Jimin whispered, as if the scent that haunted him might hear him speak its name. Step after step, corner after corner—it followed him, clinging to his breath, his skin, his very being. “Hyung, that scent is back again… it’s following me.”

Saying it aloud only made it more real. His voice trembled, and his footsteps began to falter. He couldn’t walk with confidence anymore. He couldn’t even breathe properly.

It had been a long time since he’d felt this way—since a scent had triggered this level of panic. Since his own memories had cornered him so completely. His chest constricted, breath coming in shallow gasps, and he tried to keep moving even though the world tilted around him.

“Try to get away from there, darling,” Woosung said gently, though Jimin could still hear the panic he was trying to hide. There was a door opening, then closing, somewhere on Woosung’s end of the line. He was leaving to come find him. “Maybe you’re just—”

“I tried,” Jimin interrupted, his voice hollow, almost childlike in its helplessness. “I tried, hyung. It feels like it’s chasing me.”

There was a pause—just long enough for Jimin to feel like he might shatter entirely. He could imagine Woosung on the other end of the line, already running, already trying to reach him.

“Take a breath, darling. It’s not real,” Woosung murmured. “Your mind is just playing tricks on you, you know that.”

“I know…” Jimin whispered, but he couldn’t breathe deeply enough to believe it.

“Did you look?” Woosung asked, cautiously.

Jimin didn’t answer.

“Maybe you should. Maybe if you see it’s not there, you’ll feel better. Do you want to look?”

Even though Woosung couldn’t see him, Jimin shook his head. His eyes remained tightly shut as he stood in the middle of the street, head bowed like someone surrendering in silence.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, barely audible.

“Where exactly are you? I’m coming. I’ll take you home, okay?”

With great effort, Jimin managed to say the name of the street: “Riavvicinarsi.”

The word barely made it out of his mouth, as if saying it too loudly might summon the ghost he feared.

“Can you hold on?” Woosung asked softly. His voice cracked ever so slightly. He had believed Jimin was getting better. He had thought he was keeping him safe. And now…

Jimin couldn’t answer. His steps slowed to a stop. The scent—undeniably, unmistakably familiar—still clung to him. His mind spun with memories he had sworn never to recall. And yet, they returned now, sheet by sheet, fluttering through his thoughts.

Maybe Woosung was right. Maybe Jimin needed to look, to prove to himself there was nothing there.

“I’ll look,” he said, barely a whisper.

There was silence on the other end of the line. Woosung was listening.

“There’s no scent,” Jimin said to himself. “I’ll see. I’m making it all up.”

“It’s just your mind,” Woosung echoed, his voice soft and steady. “Don’t let it hurt you.”

They were wrong.

So terribly wrong.

This time, there would be no comfort in the emptiness. No peace in proving it was all in his head. Because this time—it wasn’t.

Jimin took a deep breath and raised his head. He tried to focus on the sky, on the scent of the sea and lemons.

And then, slowly, he turned around.

He was there.

He had become so accustomed to being met with absence that his mind refused to believe it. Maybe this was his mind playing one last cruel trick, creating a presence where there was none.

But Min Yoongi was standing there.

A few steps away, silent and unmoving, with an expression that Jimin couldn’t decipher. His hair was longer, flowing around his face and neck. His skin was pale under the sun, and his eyes—those eyes—were locked onto Jimin’s with a weight that rooted him in place.

He didn’t move. Neither of them did.

Jimin’s lungs forgot how to function. His blood ran cold, his limbs turned to ice, and somewhere deep inside, the dagger was twisting.

Yoongi was there.

After all these years, after all the pain, after everything—he was there. Not in a dream, not in a memory. He was there. And Jimin couldn’t breathe.

The fire started then.

In his chest, where the dagger had never truly left, it ignited. It spread to his limbs, to his throat, to his vision. The fire spread beyond his body, beyond the street, engulfing Amalfi in invisible flames. No one would know that Park Jimin had burned from the inside out, right there on Riavvicinarsi Street.

And no one would know that it was Min Yoongi who had lit the match.

His phone slipped from his hand.

“Here,” Jimin whispered, just before it hit the ground.

Because Min Yoongi was here.

Min Yoongi was here.

🍋 

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Chapter Text

Because fire has no boundaries, no rules.
Fire is simply fire

🍋

As Jimin approached the first year of his life in Italy, the second familiar name to appear at his doorstep was his soulmate, Kim Taehyung. The sight of him sent Jimin’s heart somersaulting with fear, yet alongside it, there was a sliver of happiness too—proof that he was still capable of feeling joy. Taehyung’s now much-longer jet-black hair fell softly over his deep-set eyes, with some strands tucked behind his ears. It was twisted in a bun at the nape of his neck. His lips were their usual shade of dark red, marked faintly by his teeth. He was angry—Jimin could feel it in the air—and that anger hit him with the force of a slap, delivered in a single, scathing glance.

Fear clenched Jimin’s throat; for a moment, he wanted to slam the door shut. He wasn’t strong enough to face Taehyung yet. This was the person who had witnessed every drop of pain that had spilled from his heart, who had cleaned those wounds time and time again—until Jimin had shattered too completely for even Taehyung to hold together. Kim Taehyung was his soulmate, the one the gods had created to complete what was missing. Just seventy-seven days separated their births. Jimin had always believed the gods, after crafting him, recognized their errors and spent seventy-seven more days perfecting Taehyung to make up for what he lacked. Jimin was fragmented; Taehyung made them whole.

Taehyung was furious. He had followed the blood trails of Jimin’s wounds to find him and had made his emotions unmistakably clear in the final message he sent before disappearing without a word. Since then, there had been no calls, no questions. But now, he was here—at the door.

Despite the fear, Jimin knew in that instant that having his other half near would make the unbearable easier to carry. His first year in this new life was nearly complete, and he had grown accustomed to many things. Only two days had passed since Woosung had tearfully confessed his love. Once again, it seemed the gods had sent Taehyung to fill in the spaces left hollow.

Taehyung didn’t stay long—just a few hours—likely thinking Jimin didn’t deserve even that. But he stayed anyway. In those brief hours, he crushed Jimin completely, only to lift him back up again with those same hands.

He kissed Jimin goodbye before leaving, and with his parting words said, “I leave a rose on your lips, so that you may smile.”

Taehyung knew everything—his wounds, the ones who inflicted them, those who tried to heal them, and the ones who walked away. He knew who had driven the dagger in. But he never mentioned Jimin’s favorite thing. And Jimin never told him about Woosung. That was a secret kept only between them—one Taehyung would come to understand months later on his next visit.

After Taehyung left, Jimin sank to his knees by the door, pressing his fingers to his lips, as if to keep the rose he’d left from slipping away. He stayed there as the apartment darkened with nightfall. Then, he stepped out onto the balcony, lit a cigarette, and inhaled the smoke—and Taehyung’s kiss—with it. That was the day Jimin stopped keeping track of time. It had only been four months since Woosung had moved to Amalfi.

He flicked the ashes off the balcony, ignoring the ashtray beside him. After extinguishing the ember with his nail, he crushed the butt in the tray. But when the crushed cigarette began to feel too much like himself, he stood up and left the apartment. Only after shutting the door did he realize he’d forgotten his key and had to pick his own lock with a black card engraved with his initials. It was the first and last time that card would ever serve a purpose.

Woosung hadn’t answered his door that day, so Jimin circled around to the garden and entered through the open gate. No lights were on. He found Woosung only by following the scent of his cigarette. He was lying across his bed, gazing at the ceiling, a cigarette slowly burning between his fingers. Jimin didn’t announce his presence, didn’t warn him. He leaned against the doorway, watching. Woosung listened to his breathing.

When the cigarette burned down, Woosung pulled another from the pack beside him, tossed the empty box aside, and lit it. Then, wordlessly, he offered it to Jimin. Jimin accepted without hesitation. It wasn’t their first time sharing a cigarette, but it was the first time he felt Woosung’s lips graze his.

“Did I hurt you?” Woosung asked.

Of course, Jimin was hurt. He knew too well the pain of unrequited love. He hurt for Woosung too—for leaning on him while pulling him under. But he lied.

“No. Why would you hurt me?”

“Don’t be sad,” Woosung replied, taking the cigarette from Jimin’s lips. He inhaled, once, twice, three times. Each drag crackled in the quiet room, like the sad ambiance of old films.

“I’m not sad,” Jimin whispered back.

He didn’t want Woosung to be heartbroken. He didn’t want him to suffer. They hadn’t seen each other in two days—two days apart, and that alone had hurt. Jimin knew it, because he’d felt it himself. Even a single missed day scorched like fire.

“You know, don’t you?” Woosung said gently. “I just wanted you to know. Why I get lost in your smile. Why I get along with you so well. Why I murmur your name when I’m drunk. Why I write songs for you. Why I fall silent.”

Jimin frowned slightly. He didn’t ask what Woosung had left unsaid. Instead, he asked softly, “You wrote a song for me?”

“I wrote many songs for you,” Woosung replied.

Jimin hadn’t known. Not truly. Woosung always showed him his work, always asked him to sing the melodies. Jimin never agreed to enter the studio, but he had no objection to humming them for him at home. Woosung would close his eyes as he listened, head resting on Jimin’s shoulder, fingers gently intertwined.

Jimin had always thought it was about the music. He hadn’t realized Woosung was in love with him.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Instead, he let the silence wrap around them. Not for his sake—but for Woosung’s. His cheek rested on the edge of the bed. He watched the tear clinging to the corner of Woosung’s eye, the smoke unfurling from his lips, his chest rising and falling.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin said quietly. “I didn’t want it to be this way.”

“Don’t be,” Woosung answered. “I have no regrets. You know… I didn’t even try to stop myself. Yoongi—”

“Hyung,” Jimin interrupted, panicked.

Just hearing that name made the dagger in his chest twist deeper. His breath caught. His chest flooded with old blood.

Woosung didn’t press. Maybe he feared crossing a boundary. Or maybe he simply wanted their moment to stay untouched. That moment was his. Jimin was his. And he wanted even his thoughts to remain there with him.

“Even though we weren’t friends, even though I knew everything between you two… I never tried to stop myself from falling. Does that make me a traitor? A bad person? Let it. I’d still do it all again.”

Before Italy, they had crossed paths only a handful of times. And yet here, Woosung had become Jimin’s most faithful support, his only true companion. Of course, he loved him. If he hadn’t already been shattered when they met, he would have loved Woosung more openly, fully. A man like Woosung deserved to be loved.

“Did I drive the dagger into you too, hyung?” Jimin asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“No,” Woosung said instantly, sitting up. “Never.”

He reached out to touch Jimin’s cheek. He wasn’t afraid of being close. He never had been.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispered. “My beautiful world. Even if I had a thousand hearts, I’d give them all to you.”

“Hyung,” Jimin said softly, “look at me. I couldn’t even hold on to my own.”

While he lay curled up on Woosung’s bed, still in the throes of pain caused by another man, Woosung pulled him closer. His fingers, scented with the lingering sharpness of cigarette smoke, slipped through Jimin’s hair, and he pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of his head.

Jimin’s tears fell silently, soaking into the bare skin of Woosung’s chest and tracing thin lines over the blade tattooed across his breastbone. He cried for both of them—for his own hurt and for Woosung’s bravery. While Jimin had abandoned his one and only heart, let it be pierced and fled to the far side of the world, Woosung had charged toward him at full speed, heart in hand, recklessly surrendering. Jimin’s tears belonged to both their grief.

There were nights when the dagger in Jimin’s chest would swell so unbearably that it barely fit within his ribcage. Those nights, he felt like he’d drown in his own tears—but they never came. All that filled his eyes was the sting of dry salt, the ache of withheld release. He had long believed that if he ever saw Yoongi again—if he ever came face to face with that searing image burned into his memory—he would be consumed by tears, blinded by emotion. That he would collapse, dizzy, unable to hold his gaze.

But there he had been.

Min Yoongi.

Standing before him on that cursed street, not a vision, not a ghost, but real—too real. Jimin had seen his face, the one he thought he would never see again. He had inhaled that devastatingly familiar scent, and it had scalded his lungs with every breath. His body had shivered with cold, then burned with fire. Frozen and ignited all at once.

What was he supposed to do?

All the “what ifs” he’d conjured in his solitude melted in the face of that moment. His mind had gone silent, unable to even whisper a coherent thought. His heart threatened to tear itself apart, and it felt as though the dagger had finally burst through his back, tearing skin and soul alike. Blood surged into his mouth, and his limbs shook with unbearable tension. His knees barely held his weight.

If either of them had reached out, Jimin would have shattered where he stood.

Yoongi had looked into his eyes, and Jimin had seen the subtle trembling in his. His vision was already blurring, his breath unsteady. Jimin knew Yoongi could see it—that he was so pale, so empty, that one glance from him had drained every last drop of life. He watched the small crease between Yoongi’s brows deepen. That same crease Jimin had once longed to kiss away—back when he still believed he was allowed to.

Yoongi took a step forward.

Jimin flinched and stumbled backward.

He looked like a ghost in his dark, worn clothes, part of his ribcage exposed beneath the fabric. Who knew how much weight he had gained or lost since they last saw each other? Jimin hadn’t regained the fullness in his cheeks. He hadn’t regained anything. And Yoongi’s hair—it was too long, falling around his face and ears. It had once been short, and Jimin had kissed the skin just beneath those strands, thinking he’d do it for the rest of his life.

Now all he wanted was to disappear into that hair and never return.

That dagger—the last piece of Yoongi he still carried—had never hurt like this. The blood was everywhere. In his lungs, in his thoughts, flooding Riavvicinarsi Street.

Jimin saw Yoongi’s lips part as if to speak, but he couldn’t hear him. His own heartbeat was too loud, and besides, he didn’t want to hear that voice. Not that voice. Not the one that had never once told him he was loved.

When Yoongi took another step forward, Jimin backed away again. Just like that time, long ago, when he’d fallen from the top of the world. Just like then, he collapsed.

He barely felt the pain in his knees when they hit the ground. He barely felt the sharp stone pressing into his palms. He couldn’t even smell the lemon trees anymore. There was only Yoongi.

He was coming closer.

Jimin couldn’t run.

He couldn’t breathe.

Where would he go? This was supposed to be his safe place. His faraway corner of the world. And now Yoongi was here.

“Are you al—?” Yoongi started to say, his voice breaking into the moment like a curse.

Jimin clamped his hands over his ears. He couldn’t hear that voice. He couldn’t. He had buried it—along with all the words it had never spoken—and he had no strength left to exhume it.

Yoongi fell silent.

He understood.

He didn’t speak again.

Instead, he knelt. The same white hand that had once driven the dagger into Jimin’s heart reached toward him. The other braced against his knee as he lowered himself. He was close now—too close.

Jimin couldn’t look him in the eye.

He stared at the outstretched hand. Open. Waiting. Steady.

It was the same hand that had once held him only to let go. The same hand he had dreamed of for years, and now it was there, offered to him again like nothing had happened.

Time passed. Jimin didn’t move. The heat of the pavement pressed into his legs, or maybe it was the fire inside him—he couldn’t tell anymore.

Finally, as if guided by something outside himself, he lifted his hand. His fingers met Yoongi’s palm.

The contact was soft. Familiar. Searing.

Yoongi’s grip tightened just slightly—reassuring, grounding. He helped Jimin to his feet. Jimin stood, but the moment he found balance, he pulled his hand away.

He didn’t know where the strength had come from. It wasn’t courage. It was something wild and animalistic, buried deep within him.

And then—he ran.

He didn’t stop.

He ran until the scent no longer suffocated him. Until the heat of that hand had faded from his skin. He ran even when the streets curved toward the places he had sworn to avoid. He ran until he could no longer remember how it had felt to see him again. And even then, it wasn’t enough.

When Jimin returned home, the only person he had left to hold onto was himself. He sat curled up on the floor beside his bed, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, his forehead resting on his knees. His hand trembled slightly as it hovered over his lips, brushing the ghost of a warmth that had once been there.

If he brought his fingers to his nose, would the scent still linger?

To anyone else, his knees might have looked smooth—unmarked. But he could see the bruises, the invisible ones, still there. He had fallen to them that day when his world collapsed, and they had never healed. That was why he hadn’t taken a step forward since.

“Beautiful? Are you here?”

Woosung’s voice echoed through the apartment, breaking the silence like a thread pulled too tight. Until that moment, Jimin had been clenching himself so tightly it felt as if his chest might crack open. His palms were red with the half-moon marks of his own nails. Though he knew Yoongi hadn’t followed him, hadn’t run after him through the streets, he still trembled like prey expecting to be chased. As if the moment he relaxed, the knife would strike again.

He stayed hidden in the narrow space beside the bed, tucked between the wall and the mattress, where the light couldn’t reach him. He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His throat was dry, salt stinging at his eyes, yet no tears would fall. He had escaped—barely. Perhaps only for a few more hours.

Woosung moved through the house, calling out gently as he searched. The sound of his footsteps was distant at first, then closer. Still, Jimin couldn’t bring himself to answer.

When Woosung finally found him—curled and quiet, knees drawn in as if trying to disappear—he didn’t say anything. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he could see the outline of everything in Jimin’s face: the meeting, the moment, the breathless shock of it all.

So he sat beside him. Two grown men in a small, shadowed space.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Their silence wasn’t empty—it was heavy, pulsing between them like a wound reopened. Woosung knew exactly what had happened, or at least enough of it to not ask questions. He didn’t need details. He only needed to be there.

Both of them were bleeding. Both of them scarred.

Jimin had been wounded by the man he once called his favorite thing.

And Woosung—he had been wounded by Jimin.

One had run from his killer.

The other had come willingly to his own.

🍋

Chapter Text

 

“This is how they asked perhaps it was only the lost who found you.

Yet we said it before we would meet again, sudden and unannounced.

It’s been so long, and still the whole neighborhood smells like ash.”

Despite the scorching heat of the southern Italian summer, the cool breeze of the air conditioner had become their only salvation. They spent the entire day curled up on the couch in the small living room, neither of them intending to head down to the beach and immerse themselves in the warm waters of the Mediterranean. Perhaps the occasional soft kisses they exchanged played a role in that. It had been a few days since Jimin had kissed Woosung hyung.

Most of their days followed this routine: lying indoors until the heat eased, venturing outside in the early evening to wander aimlessly. Jimin had lost track of time long ago, but he knew he had been living this new life for over a year. Sometimes Woosung hyung would head to the studio to work on demos of songs he had Jimin sing. In his absence, Jimin would numb his thoughts by watching broadcasts in a language he didn’t fully understand.

After years of relentless effort, working tooth and nail through nights and days, Jimin had adapted with unexpected ease to this life of doing nothing. Maybe it was easy to get used to things; maybe the real struggle was in not getting used to them. It took a kind of stubbornness—to stay still, to avoid pushing oneself forward, to fall to one’s knees at every step, to always step on the same shifting stone. Jimin had grown accustomed to that. He had stopped trying. He no longer looked around when he tripped, nor at himself. He had stopped blaming and scolding himself. After realizing that the internal fights he waged brought him nowhere, he simply gave up.

What remained was a man who survived—who brushed off the dust from his scraped knees, took another step onto another stone, and let himself fall into a kind of half-hearted surrender.

When he opened the door that day to find Seokjin hyung standing there, he wasn’t even someone who had managed to shake himself fully free. Woosung hyung had just left for the studio minutes before, having covered Jimin’s lips and face with soft kisses. He had been happy—radiantly so—and that joy had reached Jimin too. They had laughed, celebrated, as if there weren’t a dagger lodged in Jimin’s chest.

He felt like a marionette who had taken the strings back into his own hands—slumped from abandonment but clutching his cords, made of wood and hollow. Seokjin hyung had shown up right then. At first, Jimin had thought Woosung had forgotten something or had returned for one last kiss.

“Ooo, Park Jimin,” Seokjin had greeted him brightly, as if they had just left the practice room together the night before. The sight of him—his curly hair, doll-like lips, eyes crinkling into crescents when he smiled, that beautiful face—brought tears to Jimin’s dry eyes. Was everyone growing out their hair? His own wasn’t even that long. There was no reason not to throw his arms around Seokjin’s neck, and he hadn’t even noticed the bags in Seokjin’s hands until his arms wrapped around his waist. He held Jimin tight, as if they hadn’t seen each other in months. And they hadn’t.

Everything felt so beautifully ordinary that Jimin forgot many things. They drank the wine Seokjin brought, devoured the cheese platter they prepared together, and talked about everything except what Jimin loved most. Nestled into Seokjin’s shoulder, giggling from the wine and the warmth of his scent, Jimin laughed like a child.

Sending Seokjin off had been hard. Jimin couldn’t bring himself to accompany him all the way to the airport. Yet even after the car door closed and the vehicle disappeared from sight, he had kept waving, eyes fixed on Seokjin until the very end.

Seokjin had left with the first light of morning. Another dawn found Jimin stepping outside again, just as the sun began to kiss the cobbled streets of Amalfi. He and Woosung hadn’t slept that night. Fingers interlaced, they sat leaning against the bed. Jimin had pressed Woosung’s hand to the dagger in his chest, trying to keep it hidden.

Woosung knew Jimin was leaving. Still, Jimin had closed the door behind him so gently, afraid of waking the world. The seagulls screamed above, and he feared even the faintest sound might ignite something again, just like before.

His steps took him to Riavvicinarsi Street—the place he had last seen him, the place he had run from yet again. He hadn’t planned to go there, but his feet had brought him back. It felt like reentering that same orbit, drawn in by a single glance, a single touch.

But what was the point? What good had any of it done? Denial was useless. He had run, and still he had been caught. There was nowhere left to run. Of course he wasn’t there—what would he be doing, waiting for Jimin to come back? Still, witnessing that absence, watching the sun brighten the empty street, gave Jimin no peace. None of his absences ever had.

The scent that clung to his lungs yesterday had been replaced today by lemons hanging from the trees. But he wasn’t cleansed. The Italians believed lemons purified the soul, protected them from the evil eye. Jimin wanted to believe. But that scent, the one that had soaked into his very lungs, remained.

He didn’t know how long he stood there—where he had collapsed again just yesterday—where that voice had filled his ears for the first time in years, where that skin had brushed his. Watching absence. Feeding fire with kindling. It helped no one, and he knew it. Still, he did it. What use was denial? What had happened, had happened.

The earrings he once designed—the ones he had presented with childlike pride—still hung from his ears. He took one out, held it in his palm, and without knowing what he was thinking, threw the silver ring to the spot where he had fallen yesterday. He listened to its clink as it echoed through the street, then dissolved into silence and gull cries. He looked at it one last time—glinting in the sunlight, the red line across it vivid amid the many absences.

As he passed the streets he had forbidden himself to glance at, the ache in his lungs from breathlessness echoed the drip of blood from the hilt of the dagger in his heart. That day, he made a promise: to be brave, not to flinch, not to fear. What was the use in delaying the inevitable? Sooner or later, their paths would cross again—or he would chase after Jimin once more. His footsteps would echo behind Jimin’s. Jimin would run again, nose full of his scent, looking for a place to hide. Until he could no longer run, until he was found in the place he had fled to—he would not stop.

How long had he been here? How long had they been watching the same sea? How long had their days ended and begun together?

Why had he come? For Jimin?

But why would he come for him? If he hadn’t come all this time, hadn’t even thought of him, why now? Where had he been when Jimin was trying to survive because of him? It wasn’t fair—for him to show up now, just as Jimin was trying to move on.

Then again… Jimin didn’t even know why he had come.

Maybe he hadn’t come for him.

Maybe he—

No. He wouldn’t let himself think it. He hadn’t managed to erase that face from his mind, hadn’t pulled the dagger from his heart, couldn’t scrub the scent from his memory—but he wouldn’t rewrite him from scratch. He wouldn’t think about him, wouldn’t let the scent on his breath seep back into his lungs, wouldn’t let that blazing skin touch his again, wouldn’t allow those strands of hair to tangle into his lifetime once more.

He was wearing that same shirt again—the one Jimin had bought him after ruining his own. Just as Jimin’s colors had faded, so had he. Jimin was a pale sketch now, and he was a piece of fabric that had faded on someone else’s skin.

If only it hadn’t turned out this way. If only he had never—

But he came. He hadn’t expected him, yet he came. Or had he been expecting him? Was that why he’d been sitting for hours at one of those small tables outside the coffee shop he always visited? Had he been waiting, hoping, subconsciously preparing?

He came. Wearing that same shirt, but this time he had pulled all his hair back so Jimin wouldn’t get caught staring. He had tied it into a bun, smaller than Jimin’s clenched fist. The hands that had held Jimin just yesterday were buried deep in his pockets now, his steps disjointed, lost. Were his thoughts as scattered as his feet?

He came, eyes fixed on the cobblestones, one hand balled into a fist in his pocket. He lifted his gaze slowly, as if sensing Jimin’s stare. His eyes were clear—everything was clear. Nothing was blurred. Jimin, on the other hand, was in pieces. But when their eyes met, when the scent of his presence, just a few steps away, mingled with Jimin’s breath, his gaze sharpened. He wasn’t surprised. It was as if he’d known Jimin would be there. But Jimin, despite anticipating he might come, was still stunned. His skin was pale—he didn’t belong here. Yet everything about him was so complex.

Jimin wanted to look away, lower his gaze, but he didn’t. He didn’t break eye contact. The dagger in his chest dug deeper, the blood it spilled quickened—but still, he didn’t look away.

One foot on the curb, one on the street, he paused for a moment, as if weighing something. He looked at Jimin, and for a brief second, Jimin thought he could see into his thoughts. Then, slowly, as if afraid of startling him, he stepped fully onto the curb. Then took another step, and another—but he didn’t stop at Jimin.

Instead, he pulled out one hand from his pocket—the one that hadn’t been clenched—and reached for the back of a chair across from Jimin’s table. The other hand remained hidden, as if protecting something inside his fist. He straightened the chair, then carefully sat down, still hiding whatever it was in his pocket. His eyes never left Jimin’s. He looked like a stranger, and yet deeply familiar.

Chiara brought him his coffee in a porcelain cup, placing it in front of him as if he came here every day. Had he? Why hadn’t she said anything? Not him—Chiara.

He didn’t look away from Jimin. His rose-colored lips never met the cup. They didn’t part from each other. Once, Jimin had felt like his entire life depended on the words that would fall from those lips. The coffee Jimin had been turning around in his fingers had gone cold—and so had his. He hadn’t taken a single sip. Not once had he raised the cup to his mouth.

Jimin didn’t know how long it was—whether it was the weight of his gaze or simply the growing desire to hear his voice—that made him finally set his cup down. He pushed his chair back; the scraping metal made no sound to the other man’s ears.

A few steps—right, right, left—and Jimin reached him. He pulled the other chair closer, the one resting against the table, and sat down with careful precision. He wished for a deep breath, but feared it would only mean breathing him in deeper, so he didn’t dare. The man finally removed the hidden hand from his pocket, laced his fingers together. Jimin mimicked him.

Between them now sat only a small table, a potted primrose placed for decor, a porcelain cup, and a countless number of years Jimin had long stopped keeping track of.

Once, they had been so close—like the tip of his own finger. Now they sat not across a small table, but across the ends of the earth.

The man’s pupils quivered as he drew in a deep breath. Jimin could see the flare of his small nostrils. His eyelids drooped halfway for a moment, then lazily shut. He breathed in deeply, calmly, savoring it—taking his time before reopening his eyes. Jimin just watched him.

He wanted to do the same—he didn’t dare.

When he finally opened his eyes again, it was as if a firestorm had ignited across the world, with Jimin at its center. Flames licked at his skin, yet the other remained unmoved, like a wrathful angel—untouched. He stared directly into Jimin’s eyes. What was he seeing? What held his gaze so firmly? What detail was he studying so closely between Jimin’s eyes?

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Jimin asked eventually, barely managing to find his voice. He wanted to clear his throat, but didn’t. What would be the point of pretending? Everyone knew he had run from this. Why pretend to have a strong voice? His voice was tired. He was tired. He was bleeding—constantly, maybe in floods, maybe in drops, but every day, without end, his heart was bleeding.

One of the man’s eyelids fluttered briefly, a flicker of movement. His rose-colored lips trembled, one corner twitching. Was he smiling? Forcing himself to smile? Or trying to hide it?

“I thought you didn’t want to hear my voice.”

Ah. Maybe he shouldn’t have.

Jimin wanted to groan. His soul ached. That voice—its echo flooded every hollow room in his heart, reverberating, swelling, becoming enormous inside him. No memory, no imagination had ever done it justice. It grew and grew inside him. Just like before, he wanted to cover his ears like a frightened child. His heart cried. And as a smile trembled on his lips, a piece of his soul slipped away.

“For yesterday…” he whispered. He used every bit of strength not to weaken, not to lose his voice entirely. “I’m sorry.”

“You were just surprised,” he said gently. Talking to him wasn’t wise. Facing him was a mistake. No, Jimin shouldn’t be talking. He should run—as far as he could. If he had to, he should go to that godforsaken airport that terrified him and start a new life in a new country. Erase himself all over again. Begin anew. He should have run, run far away, and never heard that voice again.

“Yes,” Jimin agreed, nodding a few times. He wanted to look away, but didn’t have the courage. If he looked away now, he feared he wouldn’t be able to look back again. The man kept staring at him, as if he could read Jimin’s thoughts again.

“It was… inappropriate, maybe.”

“What about us has ever been appropriate?”

He was telling the truth. With that voice—the one that always left him in ruins—he looked back on the past and spoke words that struck straight through Jimin’s heart. Again. He was right: nothing about them had ever been seen as proper. Even their faces didn’t match. That face, which still looked barely over twenty despite the years since he’d turned thirty—paired with hands that were unmistakably masculine, veins hinting at quiet strength, and brass-tinted teeth that lit up like heaven when he smiled—none of it fit. None of it was proper.

Jimin’s lips were always too full next to his soft rose-colored mouth, his pinky finger embarrassingly small compared to the other’s long, slender hands. His fingers were short and thick, his personality too outward, clashing with the other’s reserved demeanor. What part of them had ever been a fit? His blunt honesty and Jimin’s years of silence and secrecy—none of it matched. Even the way they had shared their bodies had felt inappropriate. But he had always been the most improper of all.

“You’re right,” Jimin murmured, forcing himself to hold his head high despite the heaviness that tried to bend his neck. He had been the one living all these years with a heart broken, stabbed through the middle, bleeding endlessly. How could he bow his head now? How could he complain? He couldn’t do anything. That longing—so much a part of him that he could no longer separate it—had wrapped its fingers around his throat. All he could do was stand tall. He had been the one to run.

Though really, what would have changed if he had stayed?

Would he even have survived?

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he murmured after a long silence. His gaze dipped briefly into the tar-like darkness of his thoughts. He shifted in his seat, straightened his shoulders. The reflection of the other’s brow—now visible with his hair tied back—rested on the surface of his coffee. That was when Jimin saw it. Something hiding there, waiting for a chance to escape.

“Are you here for work? You never liked traveling this far just for vacation,” he added quickly. He realized his voice trembled with nerves. Waiting for an answer scared him—terrified him. Hearing that voice again, letting it ring in his ears, knowing it would stir the dagger in his chest—what else could he feel but fear? “Are you on vacation? You missed the season a bit, but it’s still beautiful here.”

“No,” the man murmured, smiling now—really smiling. Jimin’s heart melted. His blood raced. His skin burned.

“The beach here is famous,” Jimin went on, trying to ground himself. “You should go one day. I know you don’t like sand much, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

“Will you come with me?” the other asked, cutting in softly.

Jimin frowned. What did he mean? Go with him to the beach? Back to Korea? Why wasn’t he being clear? Why did he speak in ways that only unsettled Jimin more?

“Me?” He didn’t try to hide his surprise. There was no point. Especially not with that intense gaze watching him so closely. Surely he could see the furrow in Jimin’s brow, the widening of his eyes—things Jimin hadn’t even noticed himself.

“Yes,” he said, without shame, without hesitation. Just yesterday, Jimin had fled from him without even looking back. And now he spoke of going somewhere together. Both ideas were terrifying. Going to the beach. Going back to Korea. “You said the beach is beautiful. I’m sure it would be even more beautiful with you.”

“It wouldn’t,” Jimin said, unaware that only days later, he would find himself standing with him on that very beach. Then, worried he had sounded rude, he softened. Why was he like this? “I mean… I don’t think it would be that nice with me. You should probably go alone.”

“Why?” he asked, as if he didn’t know. As if he didn’t see. As if Jimin’s wounds weren’t visible right there on his skin. Why was he doing this? Why was he pretending?

It should have been Jimin asking him why. He should have been the one demanding answers. It should’ve been the other who squirmed under the weight of unanswerable questions. Jimin bit down hard on his tongue, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, just to keep himself from screaming everything in his face.

Wasn’t it you who stabbed me? Who left me bleeding for all these years?

“Didn’t you come here alone?” he asked instead, catching himself, biting his tongue once more. “Maybe it’s better if you go by yourself.”

He didn’t say he was alone.

He didn’t say he wasn’t, either.

Why didn’t he say anything? Why did he let Jimin’s thoughts spiral like this? Was he alone, too? Had loneliness rattled him as well? Had it touched him as deeply?

“I didn’t come for vacation.”

Why were his answers always so simple? Jimin filtered every word through heart and mind before letting it pass his lips, and yet this man—this man silenced him with such ease. Then again, what had he ever done fairly?

“Then why did you come?”

“To see you,” he said. Just like that. Eyes locked on Jimin’s. No hesitation. No shame. As if Jimin hadn’t come here to escape him . As if he had every right to chase him. As if finding him in this place he had run to was justified.

“Am I not allowed to?”

“Now?” The question escaped before Jimin could stop it. His skin went cold. His voice sharp. The breeze that had carried his scent now turned to frost. “You came now ?”

“Does it matter?”

“…Right,” Jimin said. He hadn’t thought about it. He never had. “It doesn’t.”

Nothing would change. Maybe once he left, Jimin would have to leave too. Now that he had been found, he needed to find a new place to hide. Start over. Again. Maybe the man would follow his burned footprints. Maybe he’d find him again. All Jimin could do was hope he wouldn’t.

Maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe he wouldn’t look for him at all.

Maybe after this, nothing would be the same again.

His smile grew, but Jimin saw the sadness in it. For the first time, he looked away—down to his now-cold coffee. He wrapped his long fingers around the cup and took a sip, as if nothing could taste worse. His face didn’t even twitch. But they both knew it tasted terrible.

Maybe that was why he didn’t mind.

Maybe they’d both forgotten what it meant to taste anything at all.

Their eyes met again. Once more, he looked into Jimin’s eyes with a gaze so unreadable it left him unsettled. He just kept looking, as if searching for something—maybe trying to slip into Jimin’s mind. Or maybe he was injecting something instead, some silent poison. Did he know how hard Jimin had tried to rid himself of him? Did he know he hadn’t succeeded—that he was still living with the dagger the man had once driven into his heart?

He looked into Jimin’s eyes. He never used to—not like this. It was as if he was making up for all the years he had avoided doing so, all the centuries that had passed since they first met. He was searching. But what could he possibly hope to find? What was even left?

“Don’t drink that. It’ll taste terrible now. Let’s ask Chiara for a fresh one,” Jimin said, not giving him a chance to argue. He looked away for the briefest moment, and in the strange relief of it, caught Chiara watching them from inside the café. With a small smile—half a distraction, half a plea—he asked her to bring them new coffees.

Then, almost in a panic, he turned back—just as he always did whenever he thought he smelled the other’s scent and found nothing there. He feared finding absence again. Which was worse—his presence or his absence?

The man’s brow was furrowed, his eyes tightly shut, his rose-colored lips pressed together. There was something in his expression that resembled pain—but Jimin couldn’t decipher it. Since his arrival, Jimin hadn’t been able to read anything on his face except the burning intensity of his gaze. But now, now there was something in his face that reminded Jimin of his own reflection—distorted by sorrow.

As his lashes stirred and his eyes opened again, whatever he had been hiding behind those lids seemed to disappear, leaving only a hollow shadow behind. He slipped his hand quickly back into his pocket, thinking Jimin wouldn’t notice, but Jimin could tell—he was balling his fist again.

“You come here a lot,” he murmured, his pupils darting back and forth between Jimin’s eyes. A loose strand of black hair had fallen from his bun and rested gently against his pale cheek. Jimin’s heart ached.

He hadn’t asked. He already knew. Maybe he had guessed from the way Jimin addressed Chiara by name. Or maybe… maybe he had been following him for longer than Jimin realized.

He hadn’t asked—but he had come here for a reason. He had known he’d find Jimin here. Maybe this was where he had started tracking him.

“Yes,” Jimin said, confirming what they both knew.

“You take long walks.” He hadn’t asked this either. Jimin didn’t answer—he just looked into his eyes, carefully, the same way the other man did to him.

“What else?” he continued. “What do you do here? You’ve stopped dancing.”

Had he? Had he really stopped? How could he dance with the weight of the world on his shoulders, when his knees could barely hold him up? How could he sway even slightly, when not even Woosung hyung’s hands wrapped around his own were enough to lift him anymore?

The realization that he hadn’t even thought of Woosung until now stung. Was he being unfair?

How did he know?

Jimin didn’t answer. He just looked at him. Had their roles reversed now? Was the other going to speak while Jimin remained silent?

“You don’t sing either.”

Still no question. Still no answer.

They fell into silence—both staring into each other’s eyes. Maybe there were no more words to be said. Maybe trying to speak without mentioning the past could only go this far. Jimin didn’t want to be asked why. He couldn’t explain. He couldn’t tell him why he had left without a word, without goodbye. Not because the man didn’t know—he surely did. But to look into his eyes and say it aloud required a strength Jimin no longer had. His heart was wounded.

He kept looking at Jimin. Jimin held the gaze, then finally asked, “What are you looking for?” even though he wasn’t sure he’d get an answer. There was something in the way the man looked—so focused—that made Jimin think he had to be looking for something. Maybe an answer. Maybe a question. Maybe hatred. Bitterness. Anything.

He knew the man had heard him. His gaze drifted to Jimin’s brows, his hair, his nose, his lips, his jaw, his cheeks—but he still didn’t answer.

“Your hair’s gotten so light,” he murmured instead.

He hadn’t asked. And Jimin didn’t know why he was giving him an answer anyway.

“It lightened from the sun,” he muttered. He’d prepared himself for silence, but it still stung. Why was he giving answers to someone who wasn’t saying anything in return? Were his old habits resurfacing that quickly? Wasn’t it enough that he’d spent years questioning himself because of this man?

“What are you trying to see?”

He couldn’t say he’d ever truly hidden himself—not from him. He had always been like an open book, its cover cracked and pages spread wide. And the other had read him easily—or at least, Jimin had thought so. Maybe he never had. Maybe Jimin just fit into the stories the man had written for him.

The man parted his lips, and Jimin braced for impact—ready for the way his voice would tear through his heart. He licked his lips first, considering his words.

“What’s changed.”

Jimin frowned. He could feel the crease forming in his brow even without seeing it.

“Did you find the answers you were looking for?”

The man shook his head, pulled his hand from his pocket, and laced his fingers together on the table. He leaned back slightly in his chair.

“Did you?” he asked. “Did you find what you were looking for when you came here?”

“I didn’t come here looking for answers.”

“Then did you find what you were looking for?” he asked again, rephrasing—thinking maybe he’d asked wrong the first time. But he hadn’t realized that asking at all had been the real mistake.

“I didn’t come here searching for anything, Yoongi-shi.” His voice came out sharper than intended, but he didn’t try to change it. What would’ve been the point? Would he start repeating the injustice he’d inflicted on himself for all those years? He had thrown himself into the fire with his eyes wide open—of course he had become nothing but flame by now.

Yoongi’s voice rose slightly, pushing closer as if he wanted to ensure not a single cell of Jimin’s being could miss it. “Then why did you come? Why di—” He cut himself off. His once rising voice settled, followed by a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to bear something heavy. “Why did you leave everything behind and come here?”

“We both know the answer to that.”

Now it was his turn to be unreadable. Holding his voice steady was easier than controlling his eyes, and he wasn’t sure if he was succeeding. Yoongi’s scent had already embedded itself into his chest—now he was battling his gaze.

“I know,” Yoongi replied quietly. Whether his eyes had stayed or strayed, Jimin didn’t want to know. And yet, he looked closely enough to see every flicker of those pupils.

“Then why did you come?” Jimin asked softly, stripped of bitterness, stripped of the anger and blood filling his chest. It was only curiosity. Why now, after all this time?

“To see you.” Their eyes locked. A small, hollow laugh slipped from Jimin’s lips. How could Yoongi expect him to believe that? Where had he been during all those endless nights Jimin had spent torturing himself with the thought of him returning? Where had he been when he could’ve saved him from that helplessness?

“Now?” Jimin wanted to scream, but didn’t. He might have, once—but not now. He had grown too used to the dagger lodged in his chest, to the way his blood burned like acid, to encountering that vast absence around every corner. He didn’t scream. Not anymore.

“Did you expect me to come sooner?” Yoongi asked. Sitting there was already hard enough. Jimin felt like a spark sitting on a pile of gunpowder, his soul halfway out the door of his wounded body.

“Did you want to come?” he asked back.

“Would it have changed anything if I had?” Yoongi’s voice trembled.

“I don’t know.” Jimin shrugged with exaggerated indifference. His lips threatened to curl, but he held them still. He was trying to convince himself it didn’t matter. What would’ve changed if Yoongi had come earlier? “Probably not.”

“And now?”

Jimin pushed back his chair. He wouldn’t let Yoongi do this. “It was nice seeing you, Yoongi-shi. Enjoy your vacation. Amalfi is a beautiful place. Try the limoncello before you leave—they make it especially well here. And you should visit the gardens.”

“Jimin,” Yoongi said, reaching across the table. His hand brushed Jimin’s just as he was about to pull away, and Jimin jerked back like the touch had scorched him. How could he touch him so easily? When Jimin still carried the echo of that previous touch like a ghost in his skin?

Yoongi lifted his hand slowly. “Don’t go.”

“I have to,” Jimin said. He had to. All the swallows in his chest were crashing into the dagger one by one, bleeding out. If he didn’t leave now, he would lose them all. Yoongi would take the life he’d sparked back out of them without even realizing it.

“Wait,” Yoongi said suddenly—more panicked than Jimin had ever seen him. Jimin hesitated, barely settling back into his chair when Yoongi added, “I have something of yours.”

Jimin frowned.

Yoongi pulled out the earring—the one Jimin had thrown like a white carnation onto a grave in Riavvicinarsi Street hours earlier. The one he’d once proudly shown him when it was first made.

“I must’ve—” His voice faltered, too quiet. He cleared his throat. He didn’t want to sound weak. “I must’ve dropped it. Thanks.”

He reached for it, his first gesture toward Yoongi. But this time Yoongi pulled his hand back. Even with Jimin reaching for it, Yoongi’s fingers closed tightly around it, then shoved it back into his pocket.

It was then Jimin realized that the thing he’d kept hidden in his fist all day was the earring.

Why? Why had he picked it up? How had he known? Had he seen the empty space in Jimin’s ear? Or had he already found it earlier and waited for the right moment? Had he been following him again?

“I didn’t say I’d give it back,” Yoongi said.

Was this a joke? If it was, Jimin couldn’t find a trace of amusement in Yoongi’s eyes or voice. Was he just too far removed now to read him, or had they both simply aged?

Jimin’s brow furrowed once more—he could see the shadows falling across his eyes. He was angry. And of all the things, it was this that made him angriest. “If you weren’t going to give it back, why show it to me?”

“I wanted you to know I had it.”

What good would that do? Did Yoongi remember that day, the things they’d said, how he had looked at Jimin? Why hadn’t he thrown it away? Why remember at all?

It was foolish. Jimin’s desperate hope had been nothing more than him chasing gold beneath every rainbow.

“I really need to go now, Yoongi-shi.” He cleared his throat again before speaking. After all this time, even saying his name aloud was shocking. Yoongi had no idea Jimin had forbidden himself even that much. He didn’t know that speaking his name now felt like destroying everything he’d built to survive.

“I’m ‘Yoongi-shi’ now?” he asked, noticing it only after Jimin had said it for the third time.

What did it matter? Jimin didn’t answer. Let him be the one to face silence this time.

“When will I see you again?”

“This is a small town,” Jimin murmured. As if Yoongi hadn’t found him already once, hadn’t just appeared as if by fate. Jimin was angry at himself—for wanting to see him again. For making room for that desire in his heart, even while the dagger still twisted in his chest.

“Maybe our paths will cross.”

“Maybe,” Yoongi echoed, a crooked smile appearing on his lips. “Maybe.”

A breeze carried his scent again. Jimin had thought he’d gotten used to it, breathing it in since the moment Yoongi arrived. But now, mingled with the sea air and striking him full in the face, he knew—he would never get used to it.

It would always ache like this.

As long as that rusted dagger remained in his chest, no matter how far he ran, his heart would always, always long to see him again.

The world was small. Too small. And it didn’t matter how small he was within it.

Chapter Text

we say, to live and to die

what more is there to say?

there’s much to say, I know.

life will surely pass through us someday

the childhood of something

we believed in so deeply,

then its youth,

then its settling into itself,

and then,

life will become

just like life.

It was a cold winter day when he smoked his first cigarette. The smoke he exhaled from between his lips mingled with the vapor of his breath. It was a Thursday, for some reason, he never forgot that detail. It wasn’t a special day. Nothing else had happened except that, for the first time in his life, he had willingly drawn poison into his lungs. He had simply wanted to smoke. He had gone and bought himself a pack — one he would only finish months later — and climbed to the rooftop of the office building so that no one would see him. He was twenty-two.

He often remembered that day, without ever knowing why. Perhaps, instead of holding on to one of the many days worth remembering, his mind had chosen this one — as a gift, or maybe a punishment. He couldn’t tell. He never really knew much, anyway. Decisions came hard. Choosing what to eat was a challenge. He always doubted which bag matched his clothes better. He could never pair shoes properly with his outfit. Even one of his teeth hadn’t quite decided which way to turn. That was simply how he was made.

On a cold winter morning, standing on his small balcony overlooking the Amalfi coast, wrapped in a knitted cardigan, he smoked his cigarette while seagulls cried in the distance. The scent of burning coal drifted in from somewhere. Perhaps, for the first time, he truly took pleasure in the poison. It was an ordinary morning. His fingers throbbed from the cold, and the bare skin beneath his cardigan shivered uncontrollably. And yet, in the seagulls’ cries, the crackle of his cigarette, and the coal-scented air, there was a strange kind of peace. Perhaps, as that Proust fellow once said — the man whose book he had tried to read but could never get far with because he kept losing his own thoughts in the character’s stream of consciousness — he was inside one of those precious, timeless moments. Who was to say he wasn’t?

He was in some unknown winter, in some unknown month of his life in Italy. Once he had given up on everything, he found himself with plenty of time for many things. He had made a notebook for himself, only half-filled — pasting in supermarket receipts, the tags from clothes Ophelia had ordered for him when she suspected he wasn’t taking care of himself. He had tried painting with a few different kinds of paint. Gained a little weight at one point. Tried his hand at pottery — clay now forgotten in a corner, glazes never opened, bowls and vases that never made it past their beginnings. He had even gotten excited about reading for a while, bought a few books with pleasant-sounding names, but after meeting him , had given up by page one hundred and shelved them all.

He had tried many things, but in the end, found comfort lying in front of the television, watching soap operas in a language he couldn’t understand. No matter what he did, he couldn’t keep his mind steady. The television numbed him the most — and so he chose that.

Numbness. Sluggishness. That was what defined him best. He lived a lazy life, dulled his mind, and surrendered to the tides he couldn’t stop. He drifted through his days, unable to prevent what was coming, taking sluggish steps to stub out his cigarette and return indoors — nothing but a slow, languid man. He was numb.

With trembling fingers, he shut the balcony door behind him. He didn’t want to drag the morning chill into the house. Just like his hands, his bare feet had turned ice cold. He couldn’t even recall what possessed him to step out onto the balcony so carelessly dressed. He returned to his room — a room mostly swallowed by a large bed — and looked at the man sleeping there, peacefully, as if he hadn’t been stabbed right in the chest by the one now standing over him.

His black hair was a tousled mess, rebellious in its waves, splayed across the white pillowcase. All the tension had left his face — at least, as much as could be seen from where he stood. As he slipped back into bed, pressing his lips to the birth year inked at the nape of the man’s neck, he wrapped his ice-cold hands around his bare waist. He knew that the jolt his freezing skin would send through both of their bodies would be impossible to ignore.

“You’re freezing,” the man murmured sleepily, barely able to open his eyes. And yet, despite the cardigan soaked in cold air and cigarette smoke, despite the winter lingering in his hair, he was pulled into a warm embrace. The man turned his bare body toward him, slid one arm beneath his neck, and rested his cheek against his shoulder. His face found its place nestled in his hair. He gathered his knees, slid his aching cold feet between the man’s thighs — and the man didn’t flinch once at the sensation of frozen skin against his own.

Woosung held him tight. Tighter than anyone had ever held him in his life. His larger frame wrapped around him like a blanket, and the warmth trapped under the heavy quilt now belonged entirely to him.

“You’ll warm me up,” he whispered in return, burrowing closer, trying to melt his frozen body into the heat of the one he loved. Woosung held him tightly — tighter than anyone ever had. He pressed his chest to the man’s, dagger to dagger. Just like their arms had wrapped around one another’s bodies, so too had their knives — invisible, buried deep — found each other.

“My beautiful,” Woosung whispered again, pressing a kiss into his hair before tightening the embrace. They clung to each other — one seeking shelter, the other, peace. Neither of them understood it, but in a way neither could explain, they were everything the other needed. A warm place to collapse. A broad shoulder to lean on. They were companions.

Later, when his footsteps returned once more to the narrow street of Riavvicinarsi, and he found himself back at his little Amalfi apartment, he felt like a man who had lost everything at the gambling table. Was talking to him a gamble? Perhaps.

He didn’t know how long he’d been on the balcony by the time Woosung arrived. The sun had long since set. He sat, smoking one cigarette after another, staring out at the Mediterranean toying with the Amalfi shoreline. In front of him was a half-finished glass of lemonade from their last time together — the ice inside it long since melted.

He hadn’t thought of anything. He couldn’t choose a thought even if he tried. There were too many voices in his head, each one screaming to be heard, and he was simply sitting there, hands over his ears, trying not to listen — just like he had the day before on Riavvicinarsi Street.

When Woosung hyung finally knelt down in front of him, his gaze wasn’t even on the sea anymore. His eyes had dropped to his own empty, worn-out palms. “My beautiful?” Woosung whispered, wrapping his calloused fingers — calloused from the strings of his guitar — around his hands. He didn’t dare lift his gaze.

It wasn’t fear of anger. It was fear of seeing how much deeper the knife had gone today. His knife had already drawn blood — his own — and he had drowned in it.

When he didn’t respond, Woosung leaned in and pressed a warm kiss into his cold, cigarette-scented palms. He hadn’t even realized how frozen his hands were. But that warmth… that was enough. He could shelter in it. Let it melt the frost in his veins. Maybe he wouldn’t bleed as easily. Maybe his own blood wouldn’t fill his mouth. Maybe, just maybe, that warmth would help his lemon tree bear fruit. The sun was hot, but Woosung hyung was warmer.

“Hyung,” he whispered.

He didn’t force a smile — he knew Woosung would only wipe it away. His lips didn’t even try. His eyes didn’t rush to meet Woosung’s, not yet. “Welcome back,” he murmured.

Should he tell Woosung what had happened?

Did he even know, himself?

Now that he was back, now that he had distanced himself by more than a few steps, it all felt like a trick his mind had played on him. Could he really sit across from Woosung as if nothing had happened? As if he hadn’t?

Wasn’t the empty hole in his ear proof enough? Wasn’t the earring — the one that now shimmered between Woosung’s fingers, that had traveled with him, lived in his pocket — the truest witness of all?

“How was your day?” Woosung asked, placing another kiss in his palm.

This time, he smiled. Smiling at Woosung had become easier. He had learned how.

Woosung rose from where he had been kneeling and sat down on the chair across from him. He took a sip from the glass of lemonade — the one whose ice had long since melted — and didn’t seem to mind the silence or the lack of an answer. He didn’t push, didn’t demand. Just waited, the way he always did.

Should he tell him? Could he even put it into words? How could he explain something whose truth he himself hadn’t yet grasped, even with the proof — even with that earring, the one glinting in Woosung’s fingers, the one that had left his ear but never truly left him?

“My love,” Woosung murmured as he set the glass back down. A wistful smile curled on his lips — one that softened his whole face and curled painfully into the heart of the man across from him. “I know you saw Yoongi. I just want to know how you’re feeling.”

For the first time in what felt like years — years during which they had silently outlawed that name between them — he heard Woosung speak it aloud. He didn’t react. How could he, when he himself had already whispered that name earlier that day, letting it spill from his own lips like a broken prayer?

“I don’t know,” he replied softly. And he didn’t.

He never really did. Even when he tried to truly examine his own feelings, he always wondered whether the answers he gave were honest, or simply what he hoped was true.

“Nothing happened that upset you, right?” Woosung pressed gently. Was he asking because he had chased the sunset across the Amalfi coast, trying to outrun something only he could name?

He shook his head.

“Why was he here?”

He couldn’t read anything from Woosung hyung’s voice or expression. It was as if the man who had once been his closest friend had become a complete stranger — someone whose face he no longer recognized.

“To see you.”

That voice — hoarse from absence, echoing in his ears and reverberating through his mind — still sent chills down his spine. To see you.

He wanted to say, Well, you’ve seen me now. So go.

But he didn’t even know if he truly wanted him to leave. Just when he had finally gotten used to his absence, just when the scent of him no longer made him turn around searching, why had he come back? Why had he appeared at all? Now that he had found him again — now that his absence had already carved deep wounds in his chest — could he really endure being burned by his presence too, only to be left once more?

The world was small. Far too small. In a universe so vast, how could he run to the edge of a world that was still somehow too close to him?

He had nowhere left to run. And how was he supposed to endure his absence all over again — in this new way?

But he needed to leave. He had to. He had to let him continue the life he had somehow pieced together in this unknown year of his new beginning. He had already tripped him, made him fall face-first into the ground — now he needed to walk away so that his bruised knees could finally scab over.

He couldn’t go on wondering if every step would bring him back. Couldn’t keep pausing at street corners in case their paths crossed again. Couldn’t keep wishing to see him again. He wasn’t Sisyphus — he couldn’t keep pushing the same boulder up the same hill for the rest of his life.

He told Woosung hyung everything. Every detail. Every word, every step, everything that had happened. He had decided he didn’t want to hide anything from him — didn’t want to carry the guilt of that too. The knife lodged in his chest was already heavy enough. Already consuming him.

Woosung hyung first took his hands into his own, then pulled him into his lap. “Should I take you away from here?” he asked. “Let’s go to the other side of the world. I’ll hide you from everyone. We’ll build a new life from scratch — somewhere no one can find us.”

But they both knew he couldn’t go. That even if he found the strength to run again, Yoongi would find him there too. Because he always got what he set his mind on. He didn’t believe in impossibilities. And whatever the world called “impossible,” he would always find a way to make it real.

His coming back was proof enough of that.

They sat together late into the night. Woosung’s arms were wrapped tightly around him — whether to keep him from falling again or slipping through his fingers, he couldn’t tell.

When the final chime of the midnight bells rang out, they decided to head to the kitchen to feed their empty stomachs. He hadn’t told Woosung hyung he hadn’t eaten properly all day — but the way his stomach growled while nestled in Woosung’s embrace betrayed him. Woosung insisted on making the gnocchi waiting in the back of the fridge.

As he made the basil sauce, it almost felt like it wasn’t one of the hardest days of his life, but just a normal evening. With a half-filled glass of wine in hand, Woosung gave him little tasks and rewarded him with kisses as he completed them.

Was he trying to remind him of their life together? Of what they were like? He didn’t know. But he was grateful nonetheless. While his mind kept looping Yoongi’s words, shouting and echoing them in every corner of his brain, Woosung was dragging him back to reality. His large hand at his waist helped him plant his feet firmly on the ground. He was anchoring him in the moment — in their life.

Even though Woosung poured him a glass of wine too, he didn’t drink it — his thoughts were already tangled enough. Instead, he watched Woosung as he drank his own. His face softened with each sip, his elbow resting on the table, chin in his palm. He smiled at him — looking right into his eyes — and didn’t stop until he made him smile back. And when he did, it was the kind of smile Woosung loved most.

The next morning, he woke to find Woosung hyung’s head resting on his stomach, his arms and legs tangled around his own. He lay there for a while, watching him — and their life. Thinking about how they had ended up here, all they had been through. For the first time in a long time, the curiosity he had once lost about what came next began to stir again. He let himself sink into those thoughts for a while, gently running his fingers through Woosung’s hair, massaging his scalp.

Woosung wanted to spend the whole day with him. Maybe he was trying — consciously or not — to keep him from running into Yoongi again. But a phone call pulled him away; he had to go to the studio. Before leaving, he kissed his hair again and again.

It wasn’t easy, managing the band’s schedule while staying here. With the time difference, keeping things running smoothly was a challenge. Sometimes, work called him away without notice, and he spent long hours in front of a screen, his passion still burning across the distance. He had to return home for weeks at a time, of course. But he always came back — always returned to him.

After he left, all that remained was figuring out how to spend the rest of the day. A stirring he couldn’t name—something long forgotten—moved faintly inside him, paired with a dull sense of nausea. He wandered aimlessly through the house, wiping down surfaces even though someone from the cleaning company Ophelia had arranged—like everything else in his life here—came regularly to take care of it. He tried to numb himself with television, killing time. But somehow, he ended up out on the streets again, his keys in his pocket, his footsteps carrying him without much say.

At least the day’s heat had passed. At least evening had come.

Just as he’d feared, he caught himself glancing over his shoulder again and again. As he walked down the street, he checked the shop windows for reflections, trying to see if anyone was behind him. Sometimes, when he turned a corner, he’d glance sideways—twice, three times—checking if anyone was following.

The streets of Amalfi were the same as always. He wasn’t there.

Still, his feet carried him—almost of their own accord—to the narrow street of the café they had sat at the day before. Maybe he just wanted to see if he was there again. His eyes, unprompted, swept over his shoulder, scanning behind him as if he hadn’t already done that enough. He even leaned slightly, checking as much of the street as he could see.

He wasn’t there. His scent wasn’t mingled with the smell of salt in the air. But still, the unease lingered. Even if he never admitted it out loud, part of him wanted to see him again—while another part feared it just as much.

When he took his first step down the alley, his gaze dropped to his toes peeking out from his sandals. Anyone who had gotten used to seeing him around here must’ve been wondering what he was doing, if they even noticed. But he hadn’t spared them a thought. And yet, even after all this time, he still made an effort not to draw attention to himself—just in case someone still remembered him. He usually wore hats to hide his face, not just from the burning sun, but from recognition. Just like the day before, he had forgotten to put one on again.

He forced himself to keep walking, step after step, and with each step he felt just a little bit stronger.

And then, when he approached the café, he saw him.

Sitting in the same chair he himself had occupied the day before. But this time, Yoongi’s hair—which had once wrapped around his neck and stolen his breath—was tied up completely, revealing the full expanse of his milk-white nape. He froze.

Right there on the spot, his eyes locked on the back of his neck. He went still, entirely. A chill passed through him, deep under his skin. His knees trembled uncontrollably. All the strength he thought he had gathered vanished the moment Yoongi slightly lowered his head, exposing more of that nape to his view. He bit down on his lip—hard—just as—

Yoongi lifted his head.

He leaned back in his chair and reached toward the edge of the table. That was when he saw it: a Montblanc pen held in his hand. He knew that pen. It was a gift from Yoongi’s father, given after his first album. A gold-nibbed pen with a black body, engraved with his full name: Min Yoongi . Just like his skin in the afternoon light, the letters shimmered in the sun.

He twirled the pen between his long fingers, then suddenly gripped the edge of the table as if it might slip away from him. His head tilted back slightly, and the hair he had tied up now fell like a curtain over the nape of his neck. It made the other uneasy — as if it were a signal, a reminder that he should move. But all he wanted was to stay right there, watching the milky white nape of his neck, the broadness of his shoulders, the way his long legs were crossed over one another like he wasn’t sitting on a cheap metal chair but something more regal. A throne, perhaps.

There was something about his presence — a kind of pull, a gravity so intense it seemed to drain all strength from the body. Observing him from the outside was nothing like being in the direct current of that force. Watching him from a distance, resisting the ropes that dragged him forward, was all he could do. All he wanted to do.

But he moved. Again.

He fought to gather whatever fragments of strength were left in his body. Eyes dropped to his toes peeking out from his sandals, and he took one step forward. Toward him. Then another. And another. A few more, and he was there.

Right in the middle of it. Within the radius of his presence. At the center of the web.

He was just behind him.

On the table in front of Yoongi sat a yellow-paged notebook, covered in that familiar, tangled handwriting — nearly illegible to anyone else. Once, he could’ve read it effortlessly. Now, he couldn’t make out a single word.

He stepped around to face him. Yoongi’s eyes were fixed on the backrest of the chair he had occupied the day before. He didn’t look up. But even without meeting his gaze, the smile spreading across his face was unmistakable. He saw it — the way those rose-colored lips, painted delicately against his pale face, stretched into a grin.

He pulled back the chair, his heart pounding in his chest, his blade aching, his fingers trembling. The chair Yoongi had sat in yesterday — this time, it was his turn. And though Yoongi didn’t turn to look, he had entered his orbit again.

“Welcome back,” Yoongi said, still smiling. As if he’d spent all his silence the day before, today he smiled freely. Why? Why did he look so at ease?

The questions rose like barbs, hooking into him instantly. With Yoongi, he never knew anything. His mind filled with nothing but questions, his body a constellation of knots.

And there he sat — without the earring he had failed to replace, while Yoongi had the real weapon. The pen in one hand, the dagger in the other.

He felt it again. That blade buried in his chest. As if he could ever forget it, as if he could ever pretend it wasn’t there — it twisted suddenly, slicing fresh through old wounds. Yoongi was still smiling. He wanted to wince in pain, wanted to twist his face and let it show. That smile — blooming on those rose-petal lips — burned like he had bitten his own cheek from the inside.

How much more was he supposed to burn?

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said, telling a lie they both knew too well. Of course he had expected it. Of course Yoongi knew he would come.

“I knew I’d see you,” Yoongi replied, widening his smile. He didn’t want to look at him.

Couldn’t he just not smile? Every time he smiled, it hurt. His stomach, his lungs, his heart — all twisted and tore themselves apart. His blood boiled, his fingertips ached.

“Coffee?” Yoongi added, as if they were simply catching up.

He said nothing. And Yoongi didn’t expect him to. Instead, he raised the hand holding the pen, motioning toward the waitress with a small flick.

“Chiara, possiamo avere due cappuccini?”

And he wanted to cry.

Right there, in front of him. The sound of that smooth Italian slipping so effortlessly from Yoongi’s lips — richer, fuller, clearer than his own — struck him like a bell tolling his ruin. He wanted to fall to his knees. To wrap his arms around himself. To sob until his voice broke. Right there on the cobblestones, under the judgment of three or four strangers — he didn’t care.

He wanted to fall. Break. Collapse. He wanted to scream, to spit it all out, to purge whatever was rotting inside. But all he could do was swallow hard, choke on his own silence, and sit there — with the dagger still lodged in his chest.

He turned toward him. Slowly lowered his hand, capped his pen with care, and rotated it between his fingers before setting it gently down on the table. His eyes followed the motion, hypnotized by the elegance of those long fingers. He still hadn’t recovered enough from the shock to look Yoongi in the eyes.

Yoongi placed the notebook in front of him, closed its cover, and moved it—along with the pen—to a safe distance on the table, as if to ensure nothing would spill or disturb them.

“Were you writing a song?” he asked, his voice disinterested. And it was true — he didn’t really care. He had long stopped being curious about such things. He was tired of trying to decipher meanings hidden beneath Yoongi’s lyrics, tired of twisting himself into knots over things he could never quite grasp. Just like everything else, he had let that go, too.

The truth was, he didn’t know. He hadn’t known for a long time. He had stopped counting the years — had no idea what Yoongi had written, sung, or done since.

Did they really think it was easy? Craving the sound of his voice so desperately it made his chest hurt, while simultaneously wanting to scrape his image from the walls of his memory. Wanting, needing, just one more glimpse of his face — as if he might go mad without it. Wanting to see him, even if only behind a screen.

And yet somehow… somehow, he had resisted. At least at first.

Eventually, like everything else — like the dagger in his chest, like the tears that had long since dried in his eyes — he got used to it.

He didn’t even know a single word of his recent songs.

“Yes,” Yoongi replied, his tone still full of that familiar enthusiasm, even in the face of his indifference. “Do you want to sing it?”

The way his eyes lit up as they met his own — it wasn’t fair. None of it was. Not the way those eyes still sparkled, nor the way they pushed him another step closer to ruin without even realizing it.

And that eagerness — that infuriating belief that the same Jimin still sat across from him — it was absurd.

“I don’t sing anymore,” he murmured, voice dry, barely audible.

Even if Yoongi still bloomed green with spring, he had become scorched, cracked earth — desperate for a single drop of rain.

He had once thought Yoongi was everything. But looking back now, he realized he had given up so much he loved just to give him up. And it had taken things from him. Singing was one of them.

It had been survival. Either keep breathing, or keep singing and wither in silence. Somehow, he had chosen to breathe.

“Why?” Yoongi asked, frowning slightly — as if it were a question too difficult to answer. “I heard you singing the other day,” he added.

Now it was his turn to frown. The world began to spin faster — so fast that his stomach couldn’t keep up. Faster and faster — and then suddenly, slower, slower — until everything stopped, like the spinning wheel of a broken carnival game.

“You were there?”

“Yes.”

Yoongi looked at him differently then. More directly. He shut his eyes. He couldn’t bear it.

His lungs constricted.

“You heard me?”

Was he really there? While he had been too afraid to look back — too scared that his scent would trail him once again — Yoongi had simply stood there, listening?

“You were wonderful.”

“How long have you been here?” he asked suddenly, the question surprising even himself.

What did he want to hear? That Yoongi had come straight to him the moment he arrived — or that he had waited, circling from afar, before finally showing his face?

Which answer would hurt less? Which would he choose, if he could?

Would he even want to know?

“For a while,” Yoongi replied, as if discussing a serious matter.

But was it? Did it really matter how long he had been in town?

Weren’t all his answers already too late?

“All this time, have you been following me, Yoongishi?”

His brows had furrowed so deeply that the wrinkle between them felt as heavy as the wound within his chest.

“Hyung.” Yoongi said instead, ignoring the question. Ignoring the part he most wanted answered. “I didn’t catch that.”

“You don’t call me hyung anymore.” He couldn’t understand how Yoongi spoke of the past so easily. How could it not scare him, not hurt him? How could he speak of those memories without hesitation? Didn’t it burn? Didn’t it open old wounds? Maybe it didn’t. Maybe he didn’t bleed the same way. Maybe that was the difference. Yoongi had never feared pain, neither his own nor the kind he caused. And perhaps that was why it all came so naturally to him — because he had never been afraid of bleeding or making others bleed.

“I don’t do many of the things I used to, Yoongi-shi,” he said, his head falling slightly toward his shoulder. From that angle, he looked at him differently, watched the soft white of his skin in the fading light from a perspective that was unfamiliar and too familiar all at once.

“Hyung,” Yoongi said again. “Call me hyung.”

“Why?” He fell silent, and Yoongi allowed him that silence. He drew a deep breath into his lungs, one that caught slightly as it left. His voice had come out harsher than intended, almost scolding, and it wasn’t what he wanted. He couldn’t lash out at Yoongi for everything he hadn’t done. This was his own burden to bear. And like always, even when he tried to change the subject, he circled back to the same point. “How long have you been following me?”

“For a while.” He grew angry. Furious, even. Angry enough to want to rise from the chair and leave him sitting there. He was angry that Yoongi, even while present, had made him feel so deeply his absence. Angry that he had come at all. Angry that he had reappeared after all this time. Angry that he had been around for days, weeks maybe, but had only just now shown himself. Angry — at him, at himself, at everything. And yet, here he was, sitting in the same chair Yoongi had occupied just the day before. “So you’ve been here all this time.”

“Yes,” Yoongi said, giving a subtle nod. Was he expecting praise? Gratitude? Did he want him to be upset for not showing up sooner, or thankful that he had shown up at all? He couldn’t tell. He wanted to understand, but the harder he tried, the further away clarity drifted.

“You said you came to see me.” He took another deep breath, this one quieter. He didn’t want to act on emotion. Didn’t want to move too quickly. Once upon a time, he had held himself back to avoid hurting Yoongi. Now, he had to hold back for himself — to stop his heart from shattering all over again.

“Yes.”

He didn’t believe Yoongi had come with the same restraint. Every word from those rose-colored lips felt like a blade pressed to his ribs, and still, he couldn’t make himself leave. After all these years — years he had stopped counting — he had ended up right here. Opposite him. In the same café, the same chair. And still, somehow, always in his place.

“Now that you’ve seen me, why didn’t you go back?” He had the right to ask. If Yoongi had lingered, orbiting him in secret, then he deserved to know why. If seeing him was the goal, then why remain? He had followed him through the city, ghosting through his days like a scent in the breeze, making him tremble at the idea of confronting a loss already too deep to name. And now — now he sat across from him like no time had passed. If he had seen him, truly seen him, why hadn’t he simply turned around and gone?

He had seen him. He’d even heard him sing. So why hadn’t he left? He didn’t need to be here. He didn’t need to haunt him. He didn’t need to pull him back into a fire he’d barely crawled out of. Why now, after all these years, after forgetting the sound of his voice, the shape of his face — why allow himself to be heard, to be seen, to take up space again? His strength — his restraint — was being watered by his own blood, dripping silently into the ashes beneath his feet.

He had seen him. So why hadn’t he gone?

Yoongi’s eyes were fixed on his. There was something in that look — so sharp, so deep — that even when he wanted to pull away, he couldn’t. His gaze moved helplessly between Yoongi’s pupils like a moth fluttering against glass. He knew better. He shouldn’t have been there. Shouldn’t have spoken. Shouldn’t have looked. Yoongi had never looked at him like that before — never with such unbearable intensity — and now, he shouldn’t have returned the gaze. “This time, I couldn’t.”

“What?”

The word came slowly, as if there were mountains and oceans between them, as if his voice had to travel a whole world to reach him. Even his own voice felt far away, foreign. This time, I couldn’t. What did it mean? The words had fallen from his lips before he could stop them, and now he hated himself for it. What was Yoongi trying to say? That he had come before? That he had been here before? When? Maybe he only wanted him to think that. Maybe, just like he had taken everything from him once before, now he wanted to take what little was left — the scraps of a life he had pieced together alone. Maybe he wanted to take that too. And he couldn’t let him. He shouldn’t have asked. Shouldn’t have looked. Shouldn’t have spoken.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said after all the years—years neither of them had counted properly in a long time. “I thought it was time.”

But he was too late.

Or maybe he never should have come at all.

“There’s no time left, Yoongi-shi,” he replied, his voice like ice. So cold, in fact, that even he could feel the chill pass between them. How was Yoongi not shivering? His hands, clasped tightly in his lap, had turned into fists. His nails dug into the flesh of his palms. It hurt, but he didn’t let go. Nothing ever came without pain, without endurance, without holding your breath through the worst of it. That’s what it took — to survive anything at all.

“Hyung,” Yoongi said again, insistent. “Call me hyung.”

He ignored him. Again. He wasn’t going to say it.

“What did you mean when you said ‘this time I couldn’t’?” he asked instead. He didn’t want it to sound like a reaction, not something impulsive or wounded. He wanted to form the question clearly, to speak without exposing that he still wondered. That he still cared. He would’ve preferred not to know that himself — would’ve rather lived without the knowledge that curiosity still lived inside him. But he had already asked, so what harm was there in asking again? He didn’t need more questions to loop endlessly in his mind. Every word Yoongi uttered already gave him enough to agonize over.

“Come,” Yoongi said, like none of it mattered. “Let’s walk for a bit.”

It sounded too casual, too familiar, like he was offering his hand not to be held but to soothe. His voice, which he hadn’t heard in months—years—reached for him again. Reached forward like it wanted to take his hand. As if he could forget. As if the sound of it didn’t tremble the dagger still lodged in his chest. “We’ll talk more about everything later. Let’s just enjoy this beautiful evening together.”

Later. Talk more later.

Would he still be here later?

Was he not planning to leave?

He couldn’t help it. Every part of him that still ached for Yoongi quivered with excitement, and that excitement seeped into his blood like venom. Enjoying a beautiful evening together. It sounded lovely, even though it was exactly the kind of thing that would turn his night into hell. Walking with him — not being chased by a memory, but moving beside him, hearing his voice, his breath, his laugh. After so much absence, his nearness was unbearable.

Do you know I almost died because of you? he wanted to say. I thought I was going to die.

He took a deep breath. The scent of the sea, laced now with the scent of Yoongi, entered his lungs. Once again, he was filled with Min Yoongi’s presence. Once again, his heart shriveled around the place where the dagger had pierced it.

He wasn’t going to leave. He was going to walk with him.

Was his staying worse than his leaving? Or was his leaving the better outcome? He couldn’t tell. All he could feel was the rising excitement he didn’t want. And that excitement — to see him again, to cross paths just one more time — felt like a betrayal to himself.

Their paths had split long ago. They weren’t supposed to intersect again. And now that they had, he didn’t even know how to act. Should he pretend nothing had happened, or should he hold Yoongi accountable for all of it? Was it his fault? Or was the fault in himself, for letting Yoongi exist so deeply in his world? Could he blame him for simply existing? But then, why had he come back? Why?

“Yoongi-shi, are you making fun of me?” he burst out suddenly. The words escaped before he had time to filter them. He barely realized what he’d said until Yoongi looked up to correct him again.

“Hyung.”

He wasn’t answering him. His questions hung in the air, left unanswered, dismissed. Yoongi wanted everything to unfold the way he envisioned. That was always his way — polite, deliberate, insistent on respectful language and expecting the same in return. But with him, it was different. He knew that. Yoongi’s concern wasn’t the questions. It was the dynamic — the desire to return to what once was. But the old Jimin was gone. He hadn’t survived. And Yoongi didn’t seem to realize that.

“I’m leaving.” He stood up from his chair with a suddenness that startled even himself. He hadn’t planned on leaving. He hadn’t even considered it. The idea of walking away had always felt too much like a threat — something he had been afraid to do, afraid of what kind of answer it might provoke. He had never threatened Yoongi with distance. He had always feared the consequences of that choice. And yet, before his mind had decided, his body had already moved. Anger had carried him to his feet faster than thought.

“Wait, wait—don’t go.” Yoongi’s voice sounded rushed, shaken. He reached across the table, as if he could catch him, hold him there. This time, he truly reached out — and this time, he managed to do the only thing he had ever truly been good at: he ran.

For the second time, he had managed to escape him.

And for the second time, Yoongi followed.

He had stepped out into the street again, ignoring whatever Yoongi might’ve been saying, the sound of his cheap sandals slapping against the pavement as he moved forward. Yoongi didn’t hesitate to follow. He didn’t seem to see anything wrong with chasing after him. So they walked — he in front, Yoongi just a step or two behind. Yoongi’s scent drifted into the sea air, blending with the salt and the warmth of the Amalfi evening. He held himself back from muttering curses under his breath, refused to acknowledge the way Yoongi kept calling his name from behind him. He simply shrugged it off each time.

The worst part was that he could hear Yoongi laughing.

He was laughing — like nothing had happened, like this was some kind of game.

He was laughing, following his aimless steps without a destination, without resistance.

He was laughing — and though he longed to see that smile again, he couldn’t bring himself to turn around.

He was laughing, and with every note of that laughter, his heart ached more sharply.

The dagger in his chest twisted again. As if freshly embedded. As if it had never left.

Chapter Text

just the way you like it—

while wine, beds, kisses, and dreams float through the air,

i am hurt by you; you’ve fooled not only me, but yourself as well.

i am hurt by you, and never before have i been hurt quite like this.

 

Spring begins with a single flower.

At least, that’s what they say.

If they say so, perhaps they know something. Then again, people generally say things without truly knowing. Thinking back now, what did they ever know to justify all that talk? Everyone always had an opinion, everyone was always right about everything. Everyone except him. He was the one who made the mistakes, he was the bad one. In his earliest youth he, too, fancied himself special, believed he knew best. But it wasn’t so. As he grew, he realized what a tiny speck he was in the universe; afraid of being crushed, of being hurt, he withdrew further and further into himself.

As if he hadn’t already been hurt.

As if his heart hadn’t been stabbed right through the center.

They say spring begins with a flower; after a long winter, his spring began with the snowdrop that opened in his heart. It was so beautiful he couldn’t bring himself to step on it, to grind it into mud. It was pure white— as if his chest weren’t full of blood, as if he hadn’t watered it with his own. It was delicate and tender. He couldn’t do it; the seed had been sown in his breast by Woosung hyung. Then another, and another, and another. His heart, slick with blood, suddenly turned into a garden, the area around the dagger bedizened with a thousand kinds of flowers. He had watered them all with his blood, and each time the dagger shifted he ruined them. Now they were all stained, reddened with blood.

How does a person love? With a single glance? Why do we love at all? How does the thing we call love take shape? With a look? How does it multiply within us? How does the first seed that falls into the heart sprout? Why do we love? He had no answer to any of it. How could he?

The omniscient eye sees he truly didn’t know how Woosung hyung had turned his heart into a flower garden. Why had he loved him; how had he been loved in return? He didn’t know. He didn’t know why the dagger had embedded there, so he couldn’t devise a remedy—couldn’t pull it out and heal, even if it meant drowning in his own blood.

His dagger.

His dagger.

One day that dagger would drive him mad. Whatever part of him remained would be burned to ash, and with himself he would set the whole world on fire.

He was asking himself all of this that day as well. Why, he asked—why? Why do we love? How do we love? How do we grow until we lose ourselves inside it? In one of those hours when the sun sinks toward the horizon, they were sitting in their camping chairs on the Amalfi coast, straw hats on their heads, toes buried in sand, beer bottles nested between their fingers. He had promised Ophelia; he wasn’t exaggerating.

Woosung hyung had told him he needed to return to Korea for a collaboration. For some reason, Jimin had not asked with whom, yet he still helped write the lyrics. He didn’t know, of course; he only knew that Woosung preferred the words he had written and would use only those—but he would learn.

“World beauty,” Woosung hyung had said. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, but for a moment Jimin felt like a true beauty. He turned his squinting eyes toward him—the sun on his face because his sunglasses were perched on the crown of his hat—and even knowing it wasn’t true, he felt beautiful. For the first time in months, maybe years—just once—he felt beautiful. Perhaps that was why? “Don’t pout, that lovely face. I’m only going for a few weeks.” A storm would add a few more days to those weeks. “Then I’ll be right back.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.” His lips puckered of their own accord; he feared that, like Jimin, Woosung hyung might run and not return. Jimin was like that too—acting fine until the last moment, smiling until the final shared breath. But when the doors closed, when the smile faded from his face, hadn’t he fled? And if Woosung hyung fled from this place, from him, as he himself had—what then?

He didn’t know. A moment later, a small child running in front of them stumbled headlong into the sand, and when Jimin saw the mother rushing from afar, he added yet another unknown to the long list of what he didn’t know. He would also realize the child was not so distant from him—nor was the mother.

They leapt from their chairs at the same time. When the child began to roll in the sand and cry, they forgot they were in Europe and rushed over. Woosung hyung reached him first, kneeling to help him up and murmuring something in Italian; the child, not understanding, cried even harder. Jimin didn’t recognize him—no surprise; Woosung hyung didn’t either.

When the mother reached them, she scooped the child into her arms, pushed the hair from his face and behind his ear, and thanked them over and over. Jimin was the first to see, the first to recognize.

“Ashley?” he blurted, eyes widening on their own. Her eyes widened too when their gazes met while her child—Ender—rested his head on her neck. “Jimin?” she said, still rocking the crying boy and expressing her astonishment.

That she spoke to him at all, asked how he was—even looked at him—surprised him. She had always been closer to the thing he loved most than any of them. Perhaps that’s why she had noticed first. Despite all the people around them, despite the ones with whom they’d spent their lives, only she had seen. “Ah, Jimin,” she had said back then, sitting beside him before the mirror where he slumped during a rehearsal break, squeezing his knee gently. “Ah, Jimin.” She had understood—seen everything. “Ah, Jimin,” she had told him, as if he hadn’t told himself the same a thousand times. She was close to him—closer than to the rest—but had kept their secret, a tiny thing on the surface that overturned his world.

That day, after soothing Ender and leaving him with the babysitter, Ashley returned, and they chatted about this and that until Woosung hyung, giving them a little privacy, drifted away. She told him what she’d been doing, asked about him, spoke of Ender, and—knowing—carefully never mentioned his favorite thing. He didn’t want to hear it anyway. After Woosung left, she asked how he truly was. He’d told her he didn’t know—the leading question atop the list of questions he could not answer. She nodded, looped her arms around his neck, and hugged him farewell. Her hand slipped into his hair—exposed because he’d removed his hat—and kneaded gently.

Seeing Ashley felt good in the moment, but afterward—once Woosung hyung flew back to Korea—things did not go well for Jimin. In those first days, he barely got out of bed, staring into the void. Then, slowly, he rolled those suffocating feelings down into the deep hollow of his chest and adjusted. As he adjusted to everything, he adjusted to this—let it settle in his lungs. With all he lacked, with every part of him that felt unfinished, he took to the streets—long walks, breath-stealing hills, standing on precipices to watch the sea.

If he returned now, he knew he would not be leaving behind an empty absence but a painful presence. The scent of the Mediterranean, the drift of lemon trees lining the streets, and now—not some trick of the mind—the actual scent of his favorite thing would mingle in the air. The laughter ringing in his ears, the voice telling him to stop—these would come from the man himself. After years of absence, he knew a few days of presence would follow him, just as he knew that presence would not let go. Even so, with a sweet anger, he could not stop his steps from trying to flee. The man laughed at him; each time Jimin imagined seeing that smile, the ache of the dagger made it hard to breathe. The more that laugh chimed in his ear, the more each step away bled.

He was angry.

How could he not be?

Yoongi’s hair was pulled tightly back, laying his whole face bare—nape, neck, ears. Each part made Jimin’s fingertips prickle with the need to touch. He felt as if he stood in a museum, staring at a bust carved from fragile porcelain. He wanted to touch, to feel every detail against his fingertips; knowing he must not, he clenched his hands.

If they were seen together, they would be remembered.

If seen, people would not be silent.

If seen, people would deceive.

He would be deceived.

Even with anger multiplying at every step, his inability to endure more than a few minutes felt childish—though he was well past thirty. Yoongi, a few steps behind, was also a few years ahead. “Jimin,” he called again; after the years Jimin had spent not speaking the man’s name, Yoongi said it easily, as if he did it every day. “How long will you keep running?”

Jimin’s wet feet slapped inside his sandals, slowing and then stopping; Yoongi did not stop, closing the few steps he imagined between them. Jimin paused, pulling a deep breath into his lungs to contain the fire burning there—but laced with Yoongi’s scent, the breath fanned the flames instead.

“What do you want?” His voice came out louder than he’d meant, maybe a touch hysterical. What was there? So what if he ran? If Yoongi knew he was running, why had he come after him? After all this time, why now? His coming changed nothing—it hadn’t changed a thing. It had only made it worse: Jimin had set himself to walking his own path and the man appeared from nowhere and upended everything. Was even this too much to ask? Was Yoongi blameless? What gall—this pursuit, as if he were innocent of anything. Where had it come from?

He filled, and filled, and overflowed—until his eyes met Yoongi’s. He hadn’t even noticed his steps returning them to the narrow street of Riavvicinarsi. A flood burst forth to wedge his breath in his throat. He went silent, and silence only enlarged his anger. The larger it grew, the more he choked; the more his heart’s hollow widened; the flood crashed in, wrecking everything. The flood rose; he splintered; Yoongi smiled.

“Wait for me,” Yoongi said simply, smiling. A lock of hair slipped free of the tight bundle and fell across his eyes; while Jimin ached, Yoongi smiled. “Let’s walk side by side.”

Too late, Jimin couldn’t say.

He couldn’t turn his back and go.

I don’t want to, he couldn’t say.

He couldn’t even move.

“Are you making fun of me, Yoongi-ssi?” He clenched his teeth so hard it felt they might shatter. The heat of his anger burned through his eyes; the tip of his nose throbbed. Yoongi only smiled, dreamy-eyed.

“Hyung,” Yoongi corrected him—again. Jimin’s stabbed heart could not bear such closeness; he stepped back, but because he wasn’t looking, he stumbled on the cobblestones. He recovered quickly, but the warm palm that closed on his forearm, the long fingers that circled it, turned his skin to ice. There was a sleeve between them, but he could feel the heat of that palm as his gaze locked into Yoongi’s—brows drawn, eyes crumbling with tension. He found his balance in an instant, but in that instant the world flared and burned anew. On Riavvicinarsi, the world burned a second time, and a second time was remade.

“I want us to walk together,” Yoongi said. His shoulders gave a tiny shrug; his smile broadened; his eyes narrowed, flitting between Jimin’s; he tucked the stray lock behind his ear with long fingers. “May I not want that?”

You may not, Jimin couldn’t say.

“Fine,” he said only, a little sharp. He was shaken. “Walk, then.”

His sandals squelched as he started again. Yoongi remained a step behind, and until he spoke, Jimin could only set one foot before the other, acutely aware of the nearness at his back and repeating to himself the feel of that palm’s heat.

“I’ve been here before,” Yoongi murmured. “But I won’t deny I didn’t have the courage to face you.”

Once more, Jimin couldn’t absorb that Yoongi had come here—at some unknown time—had found the refuge where Jimin hid from him. When Jimin thought he was losing his mind, when he thought he felt a presence and then met absence, perhaps Yoongi had been here. Perhaps he had truly gone mad—conjuring small presences out of a vast absence for comfort—while the man had never been here at all.

Why was he doing this to him? Why was he driving the dagger into his heart again and again? Why add more questions to a head already crowded with them? If Yoongi had come—at the very moments Jimin longed for him—why had he allowed Jimin to refuse absence, to scour the streets looking for him?

“What changed this time?” Jimin managed, keeping hold of his voice. “Why not stay hidden again?”

“You,” Yoongi said, as if Jimin had asked something simple. Jimin wasn’t sure he wanted an answer; he wasn’t sure he needed to know; yet Yoongi said it so easily—you. Was there any him left to cause anything? “I realized I don’t want to live in a world where I’m not walking beside Park Jimin.”

Jimin stopped. As if expecting it, Yoongi closed the half-step between them and stood at his side. “I didn’t want to live in a world where I didn’t know Park Jimin,” he added. This time they began to walk in sync, side by side.

“We’re not in some other universe; it’s still the same world,” Jimin murmured, struggling not to look at him, fixing his eyes on the path ahead. “You know me.”

“You’ve changed, Jimin-ah,” Yoongi murmured back. The way his name fell from Yoongi’s lips—the Jimin-ah—had not lost its effect. His heart, as if it hadn’t been stabbed, went wild against his ribs, stealing his breath. “You’ve changed.”

“People change,” Jimin said after swallowing hard. His voice came out smooth, though he didn’t know how. Perhaps he had learned something from absence, protecting himself against presence. Or perhaps it wasn’t smooth at all, and anyone could hear he was drowning in his own blood. “After so many years, can you say you’re still the same man?”

“You’re right.” They both fell silent. Jimin struggled to find his voice; Yoongi seemed lost in thought. He matched his steps to Jimin’s, their arms brushing now and then as they walked. Even those tiny touches made Jimin want to drop where he stood and sob—like a child whose candy had been taken. If he screamed, if he howled, perhaps he would be free of this feeling. As if he hadn’t already screamed enough before falling silent—as if it had done any good.

“Not as much as you, though,” Yoongi said when they came to the foot of a steep hill. Neither hesitated; knowing there was no going back in time, they began the climb that would steal their breath. They didn’t even pause.

“I had to,” Jimin said—not accusing. His voice sounded calm, as if he weren’t describing how he’d been torn apart and fashioned a half-formed man out of the wreckage of his own disaster. He didn’t spend breath; he didn’t want to draw more of Yoongi’s scent into his lungs.

“Why?” Yoongi asked, and though Jimin wasn’t looking, he was sure Yoongi was hiding a smile. He was laughing again without knowing what he was doing—his scent mingling with sea-iodine, and Jimin’s breath was already short.

Jimin didn’t answer. He only turned his face to Yoongi.

“I told you,” Yoongi said, smile widening as he turned to him too. “I didn’t want to live in a world where I didn’t know you.” This time Yoongi stopped. He looked into Jimin’s eyes—as if he could read what moved through the other’s mind. “I’m going to learn you again, Jimin. From the beginning, if I have to—as if I never knew you at all.”

“Why?” The word slipped out of Jimin on its own. Even if he hadn’t said it, the way he looked at Yoongi would have been enough.

“I think you know why.” Hands in his pockets, Yoongi began to walk again. Jimin did not rush to follow.

But he did not know.

He didn’t know—he couldn’t. How could he? He didn’t even know how many seasons had passed since he’d last seen him. He didn’t know what had changed in the man, what kind of person he was now. He knew nothing, and Yoongi spoke to him as if he were the old Jimin—telling him he knew the reason. Jimin didn’t even know himself. He couldn’t untangle the reasons for his own actions; how could he untangle Yoongi’s?

“I don’t know,” he called, lengthening his stride to close the distance between them. Oddly, though Yoongi had tailed him for so long, he didn’t wait now; hands in pockets, he kept climbing. By the time Jimin drew alongside him, he was breathless from the hill, but the quickened pace felt good for once. He was excited—a surprising thing. For the first time in a long while his insides felt lively, as if the spirit once ripped out of him had returned.

“Hey—wait up,” he heard himself say. “Weren’t you the one who wanted to walk next to me?”

By the time the sky darkened, they were still side by side, sitting atop a hill. There wasn’t much around; they had left the town behind and were watching the lemon groves from above. Jimin had thrown himself onto a broad slab of rock to rest about half an hour earlier. Yoongi had only sat beside him ten minutes ago—hesitant at first, then settling quietly as if he had resolved his questions. He left a gap a little less than a hand’s width between them. From this close Jimin could feel him in his very marrow; Yoongi’s warmth seemed to lick his skin. The wind blew stronger here than by the shore, but its soft caress carried Yoongi’s scent to him. That scent which tore his heart to pieces seemed to take his whole body hostage; he knew he was trembling, but he didn’t know whether it was the lingering excitement or something else.

“Have you been up here before?” Jimin asked, barely above a whisper. Yoongi’s eyes wandered the panorama below. Jimin glanced sideways for a reaction. Yoongi didn’t turn; Jimin shifted his gaze to the glittering lights along the Amalfi coast, just as Yoongi had.

“No,” Yoongi said, equally soft. The humidity and mild wind had freed more strands from his tie; little hairs clung to his damp forehead; longer locks swayed with the breeze.

“You can see everything from here.” Yoongi nodded. Then he lifted his long fingers and pointed at a spot below. Jimin followed the fingertip to see where he meant. Yoongi tilted his head.

“You can see your house too.” The smile that had never left his face all day curved crookedly now. “That’s the only place that matters to me.”

“You know where I live?” Jimin was a little surprised, though he knew the surprise was empty. He knew Yoongi had followed him; of course he’d seen where he lived. Still, picking it out from up here, over the city, was odd. Yoongi didn’t answer—only shrugged. He lowered his hand, reached into his pocket, and took out a slightly crushed pack. From the writing, Jimin understood the cigarettes were from Korea. Yoongi took one and set the pack carefully on Jimin’s bare knee. Jimin took one as well. Yoongi flicked his lighter. He looked for a second at the cigarette between Jimin’s lips, then leaned toward him, shielding the flame with one hand against the wind. Jimin cupped the other side—careful not to touch—and let Yoongi light it. Yoongi lit his own without help and set the lighter on his knee.

“You didn’t smoke this much before,” Yoongi murmured after a few crackling draws.

“You’re the one who said I’ve changed,” Jimin murmured back, taking his time with a pull.

They fell quiet again. They kept their eyes on the lights until the cigarettes burned down. Yoongi kept looking toward Jimin’s home. After a while, Jimin stopped watching the lights and watched Yoongi instead—his small nose, the corners of his eyes, the heavy brows, the cheeks stretched before him, the rose-colored lips. He didn’t hold back—even knowing Yoongi knew he was looking.

“Yoongi-ssi,” Jimin said to draw his gaze.

“Hyung,” Yoongi corrected again. He still didn’t turn. Only then did Jimin realize how close he was—closer than propriety allowed, far, far too close.

“Why are you so insistent about this?” Jimin asked, pulling back and setting his eyes, like Yoongi’s, on the lights where his house stood. Only then did Yoongi turn to him.

“Because it makes me feel like a stranger,” he said. As their gazes held, it seemed the city’s lights burned inside Yoongi’s eyes. His face was expressionless; lips a single line; eyes simply looking—waiting to be understood.

But there was nothing to understand. Sometimes, however little we liked it—however much it hurt—we couldn’t run from the truth or deny it. Jimin had faced the truth and fled—thinking he could rise like a phoenix from his ashes. Yoongi, however, fled from the truth, rejected it, pretended it wasn’t there. “Aren’t you a stranger?” Jimin asked. Yoongi had said it himself: Jimin had changed; Yoongi had changed. Jimin was another man now; so was he. Yoongi had said it himself—Jimin was no longer the Park Jimin he recognized nor the one he wanted to share a world with.

“I don’t want to be.” The smiles that had hovered on his face all day were gone now—Jimin didn’t know where. The entire city had settled in Yoongi’s eyes—the haze, the sorrow, the joy, the ache. Looking into them, Jimin felt as if he were walking the backstreets of a city, seeing the lives tucked beneath each speck of light. He was both curious about everything and afraid. The need to know and the fear tangled, and his heart beat as if to hurt him; the dagger spun like a pinwheel in his chest; Yoongi’s scent flooded his nose and settled in his lungs; he was tossed like a madman who had lost his god, from one corner to the next. He was light enough to be carried by the wind, heavy enough to sink into the ground—all at once. Looking into those eyes, flowers bloomed in his blood-filled chest, in the soul he didn’t even have enough left of to sell to the devil.

They fell silent again. He didn’t know what to say—whether to comfort Yoongi or keep forcing the truth onto his face. Yoongi believed they could learn one another from the beginning; Jimin thought it was far too late. However lively he felt inside, the man would leave. He would go, and Jimin would be alone again. The first to leave had been Jimin—running, leaving everything behind—but he had abandoned his whole life, everyone he loved, everything. Of course Yoongi would return to his life; now, just as Jimin had accepted the absence, even seeing him again was dangerous.

He laughed—at their pathetic state—without meaning to. He felt Yoongi’s eyes on him; he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the slight tilt of his head. Yoongi’s neck was exposed now; Jimin was afraid to turn to him. He wanted to rest his face there, breathe his scent from skin, feel the warmth on his own.

“The first time I saw you,” Yoongi began, after Jimin’s smile faded and the last notes of his soft laughter still hung in the tense air between them, “you were over there—” He pointed again, this time to a slope like the one they’d climbed, but running along the shore. “—walking.” He pocketed the lighter and crossed one leg over the other, fingers interlaced around his knee, leaning forward. A fresh smile bloomed on his rose lips. “I was looking for you—and I found you when I least expected it.”

“When was that?” Jimin asked, feigning disinterest—one of those questions whose answer would change nothing.

“It’s been a while,” Yoongi said, without specifying. His smile dimmed; his brows knit like Jimin’s. “My first trip here.”

Jimin said nothing.

“I was driving. No one would tell me anything, so I wanted to see with my own eyes that you were all right,” Yoongi continued. “You were walking so slowly. I followed you in the car, and you never even noticed.”

“Why?” Jimin was no longer indifferent.

“Because everyone knew everything,” Yoongi shrugged. “And I was angry then.” Jimin didn’t ask why again. His brows drew tighter. “I didn’t understand back then and…” He fell silent. His eyes dropped from Jimin’s face to his own hands. “When I saw you weren’t well, I got angrier.”

“Did you ask me?” Jimin snapped—perhaps stung by the idea that even from the outside he looked like a walking disaster.

“You came to get better, but even after days of trailing you, you didn’t notice me once. You hadn’t taken care of yourself, and as far as I could see, you still weren’t.” This time Jimin was the one to shrug. Those days were past; he took better care of himself now—he’d even put on a little weight. In the mirror, despite the lifeless eyes, his cheeks had rounded. Perhaps he’d grown so used to hollowed cheeks that this seemed better now.

“It isn’t easy to build a new life,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure Yoongi heard; he didn’t try to make him. He wasn’t in shape to soothe or console. No one had consoled Jimin for a long time; Yoongi could learn to console himself, too.

Yoongi shifted slightly toward him, and their legs drew close. Jimin didn’t pull away. Constant resistance was exhausting; he had no strength left.

“You should have been well anyway, Jimin,” Yoongi said—brows drawn, looking at him with a severity he hadn’t yet shown. Jimin wanted to scold him, but when he opened his mouth not a word formed. So he fell silent again. Yoongi did too. With his eyes still on Jimin, he withheld that voice that scalded the other’s heart.

“I didn’t know you’d stopped dancing,” he murmured at last, facing forward. He picked up the crumpled packet from Jimin’s knee—angry, it seemed. His fingertips brushed the bare skin of Jimin’s leg for an instant—enough to send a shiver through Jimin’s entire body. Yoongi pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

“I don’t feel like it,” Jimin said with another shrug. His voice sounded indifferent—but he wasn’t sure whether he truly was. Dancing lived now as fogged memories. It was as if he’d forgotten everything he knew—or perhaps his body was so rigid that no trace of old grace remained. Yoongi only nodded.

This time Yoongi didn’t offer, but Jimin reached and took the battered pack without fuss. He put a cigarette to his lips and turned for the lighter, and Yoongi, without looking, extended it. Before Jimin could take it, Yoongi lit his own with both hands, cigarette still between his lips. They sat a while, each alone with the man in his own mind. They didn’t turn toward each other. Yoongi’s crossed leg stretched before Jimin, and together they watched the lights of Amalfi.

“Shall we go?” Jimin asked, grinding his butt out against the rock’s edge. Yoongi pinched his out with his fingertips, sending tiny sparks around them. “I don’t want to,” he said, calm now. He turned and looked into Jimin’s eyes. “Let’s stay a bit longer.”

Jimin had been about to object—say it was getting late—but the words refused to gather on his tongue. He nodded, helpless. He didn’t intend to fill the silence either. There was no need.

“I missed sitting like this with you,” Yoongi said, fingers lacing again around his knee. He leaned forward; to look at Jimin he had to turn his neck. A smile alit on his lips again; as annoying as it sometimes was, Jimin had to admit he’d missed that curve of the mouth. “More than I imagined.”

“It’s been a long time.” Yoongi nodded this time.

“I never thought we’d go so long without seeing each other.” Jimin’s blood ran cold while Yoongi gave a crooked, half-mouth smile. “Nor did I think I’d have to follow Namjoon to find out where you were.”

“You followed Namjoon hyung?” Jimin said—plainly surprised. He’d assumed Yoongi had bribed someone or tricked them. Yoongi actually laughed and nodded.

“Yes,” he said, almost grinning. “A few little detective tricks. I even snooped his passport.” Jimin’s eyes went wide; Yoongi’s grin widened. “You like that kind of thing.”

So he’d come after Namjoon. How long after, Jimin didn’t know; whatever the case, his stabbed heart smarted to hear it had taken so long. “Don’t sulk,” Yoongi said, straightening up and loosening his fingers. “He didn’t even realize.”

“I’m not sulking,” Jimin said, frowning. He didn’t smile much anyway; sure, they’d laughed a little—but his face was as usual.

“You are,” Yoongi insisted. “Are you mad Namjoon got here before me?” Jimin’s brows drew tighter. “No. Why would I be?”

“Yes,” Yoongi said happily, clearly heartened to see the man he recognized. The black energy of a few minutes ago was gone. “That’s why your face fell.” Jimin rolled his eyes; Yoongi only grew more delighted, wriggling to face him fully. “Don’t let that beautiful face fall,” he repeated. “It just took me time to beat my anger.”

“Your anger?” Jimin raised an eyebrow. He was irritated. He was angry? While Jimin was dying—facing death in a hotel room in a city where he knew no one—Yoongi had been angry at him? Those had been Yoongi’s happiest days; even thinking of Jimin might have come only after how many days.

“Don’t get mad,” Yoongi blurted. “I was hurt you left without saying goodbye.”

“So that’s why you—” Jimin bit off the rest. Yoongi hadn’t called or written. Not once—not even a short message. And on top of it, Jimin was the one to blame, the one who’d angered him? Every time Jimin had wondered whether Yoongi might feel even a little bad, it seemed he hadn’t. On the contrary—Yoongi had been angry at him.

“Jimin,” Yoongi said, reaching for his hand. Then, hesitating, he held it close enough that Jimin could feel the warmth of his palm—but drew back without touching. “Don’t get mad at me right away.” He wrapped his own fist with his fingers. “It never occurred to me that you’d want out of my life. I lost everything at once; of course it hurt.” He smiled ruefully—knowing it would soften Jimin. “You know how cruel I get when I’m in pain—and how stupid I can be when it’s about you.”

“Stupid—no doubt about that.”

He chuckled. Jimin didn’t want to look at him, but he couldn’t help watching the shake of those shoulders as the laughter was suppressed. Jimin found himself joining in; because it wasn’t belly-deep it didn’t last.

“Come on,” Jimin said—as if they hadn’t been separated long, as if they wouldn’t part ways immediately. Perhaps Yoongi didn’t want to leave because he liked the view—or perhaps because he didn’t want to leave Jimin’s side. “Let me walk you to your hotel.”

“You can’t,” Yoongi said, pressing his lips together, so endearing that Jimin’s stabbed heart skipped—then soured in confusion. “I’m staying in a hotel in Ravello. How are we going to walk there from here?”

“Ah,” Jimin said, nodding. “Right—we can’t walk that.”

Yoongi rose slowly and patted dust from his hips. “Let’s get you home first. I’ll go after.”

It wasn’t a short walk from there to Jimin’s place, and he knew it. But he didn’t want to tell Yoongi to go—or say he could manage alone. He stood as Yoongi had, brushed dust from himself, and they descended the hills they had climbed—almost shoulder to shoulder.

On the way, Yoongi laughed and talked about life without Jimin—how whatever he did felt incomplete. With a smile on that face, it was hard to believe, but Jimin could sense it—Yoongi truly felt the lack. One part of Jimin rejoiced that even after so long, the man felt it; another part stung. Yoongi missed the little bird that used to flit around him; Jimin had been alone—utterly alone. He had given up his whole life, everyone he loved, everything.

“Do you remember that book I read,” Yoongi began, “the one with the willow tree on the cover—upside down? Remember?” Jimin, still amused by something else Yoongi had said, only nodded. “Jungkook teased me for months because I couldn’t finish it.”

“I remember.” Jimin turned to him instead of watching his step. “The cover was blue, right?” Yoongi nodded. In the yellow light of the sparse streetlamps, his milk-pale skin shone like porcelain; his loosened hair swayed softly in the breeze. He was beautiful—so beautiful it made Jimin’s stomach ache.

“The author lived here for a while, you know,” Yoongi said. Jimin’s brows rose a little. Perhaps, like Jimin, the author had fled from himself, from life, from everything, to take refuge here. Yoongi went on carefully. “In fact, he ran here.” Jimin’s brows drew together; Yoongi continued anyway. “Once upon a time, he’d go to an island to tutor at the home of a wealthy family,” he said. Part of Jimin measured the distance left to home; part of him was glad Yoongi had settled into a long story. “The master of the house died; the woman and her son were left alone.”

“That’s very sad,” Jimin said, lips puckering without meaning to. But Yoongi smiled wider and shook his head.

“Don’t be sad yet,” he said. “It isn’t really a tragic story. The man also taught at the boy’s high school. Going to the house again and again, he and the lady fell in love—but the boy didn’t like it one bit.” He chuckled to himself. “Once, a friend of the boy asked permission to speak in class and told their teacher that the boy would shoot him.”

“He hated the man that much?” Jimin asked. Yoongi shook his head.

“No—on the contrary, he liked him. But he told him, ‘You may have entered this house as my teacher, but you will not leave it as my father.’” Jimin’s eyes went round; his steps stalled; Yoongi halted with him. “If I remember right, the boy later became a great poet. And the friend who warned the teacher he’d be shot also became a poet.”

“What kind of school was that?” Yoongi’s gaze roamed Jimin’s face, over the astonished smile that spread there. They both fell quiet again—watching each other’s smiles—until Jimin began to walk once more.

“Yes—quite the cradle of literature,” Yoongi said, nodding.

“So what happened? Did the lady and the man marry?”

“No,” Yoongi said, hands sliding into his pockets. “The man later changed his mind.”

“What?” Jimin had expected a man who stood by his love, who wouldn’t bow to threats—and instead heard a coward’s tale. He didn’t know why Yoongi was telling him this—what he expected Jimin to feel. “Was he afraid of the threats?”

“I don’t know. Some say so.” Jimin was about to speak on the man’s cowardice when Yoongi continued, “That’s when he ran here—to Amalfi. But the boy didn’t leave him be.”

“Seriously? Did he shoot him at last?” Yoongi shook his head again. From here they could see Jimin’s street. His steps slowed on their own; Yoongi slowed too without comment. Now they swayed along, short slow steps—arms brushing now and then, holding them as close together as possible. They both knew—and Jimin couldn’t pull away from his warmth, his skin.

“He didn’t shoot him. He sent a book—hollowed out inside—with a blind bullet fitted within,” Yoongi said. Jimin stopped again; Yoongi stopped as well. From here he could easily see his tiny balcony. Yoongi took a long step and moved in front of him—as if to show he recognized they’d reached the end of the road. “Inside the man had written a note—saying that even if he went to the other end of the world, the bullet would still find him.”

“Why would he do that?” Jimin asked. Yoongi pursed his lips and shrugged. Jimin couldn’t see what he was meant to take from this story. He couldn’t even tell if Yoongi wanted to tell him something by it. “I don’t know. I told it in case you might.”

“How would I know?” Jimin said, stuffing his hands into his pockets as Yoongi had. He rocked on his toes; Yoongi rested his weight on one leg.

“Then let’s both think on it tonight,” Yoongi said with a sweet smile. “Tomorrow we’ll compare what we came up with. What do you say?” He looked excited—shifting his weight from one leg to the other, impatient. Jimin couldn’t tell how many seconds he’d been staring into that face, but he felt the smile fading from his own. Yoongi didn’t seem to mind—still smiling, more impatient now, silently waiting. He offered no other alternative. “We’ll go to that beach you praised so much.”

Jimin swayed between accepting and refusing. He knew he shouldn’t see Yoongi again—especially while feeling like this—he needed to stay away. Because once the man left, everything would be worse. After accepting the absence, he mustn’t get used to presence again. But he couldn’t help himself. Even after all these years, he was still drawn into Yoongi’s orbit. He didn’t even know why the man had come—couldn’t understand. “I told you it’s better if you go alone,” he said.

“And I told you I’m sure it’ll be better if I go with you.” Yoongi pressed his lips together. He knew Jimin would agree. Even if Jimin said he wouldn’t come, he’d find himself on that beach tomorrow. He’d slog through the sand from one end of the shore to the other until he found him—maybe without even realizing what he was doing. Yoongi knew he hadn’t changed as much as he thought. Still, he wanted to hear it from Jimin—wanted the concession from Jimin’s own mouth.

“All right,” Jimin said at last. The small narrowing of distance between them set his heart fluttering again. Could Yoongi hear how that stabbed heart beat? Could he see how the dagger kept cutting, how every smile pulled it out and thrust it back in? “If you insist so much, we’ll go together tomorrow.”

“Good,” Yoongi said with a broad grin—the kind that nearly swallowed his eyes; the lifted lips exposing pink gums and rice-grain teeth made Jimin’s heart stutter. The painful beauty seemed to tear him open. “I’ll pick you up from your place tomorrow.”

Leaving Yoongi behind to enter the building felt strangely hard—as if Jimin weren’t the one who had abandoned the man’s world seasons ago. Before going in, he turned for one last look; Yoongi waved—and Jimin couldn’t help smiling. Inside, he sat on the stair to calm his shaking knees and catch his breath. Unlike the whole day, now when he inhaled he did not draw Yoongi’s scent into his lungs; his mind seemed to clear.

At his apartment door, he rested his forehead against it, the key poised in the lock. His phone rang. Just as he forgot the world when he was with Yoongi, he’d forgotten that Woosung hyung existed. It was Woosung calling.

A cramp twisted his stomach and stole his breath for a moment. He slipped inside, closed the door, slid his back down it, and crouched small.

“World beauty,” Woosung said when he answered. His voice sounded tired; he must have been cooped up in the studio for hours. Jimin could picture the strands fallen across Woosung’s face, the way he’d rake them back with his fingers, the deep breaths—without needing to see.

“Mm,” Jimin said—guilty for not having asked about Woosung’s day, not having wondered about him. He hadn’t even asked if he’d gotten home or when he’d finish. After everything, being near Yoongi had made him forget everything—made it seem there was nothing in the world but him.

He was being unfair to himself.

“Are you home?” Woosung asked. Jimin hadn’t told him he’d been out, but Woosung knew—as if he knew everything even if Jimin didn’t say it. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m grabbing burgers, those cheesy snacks you like, and the last of that lemonade you made. Sound good?”

“Okay,” Jimin said—tentative. He wasn’t ready to talk to Woosung yet—not with Yoongi still clinging to him like a mist. Maybe Woosung wouldn’t say a word; maybe he wouldn’t ask anything. He wouldn’t want to know about Jimin’s day unless Jimin told him first. But Jimin’s mood was erratic; his heart was rough; his mind was in tatters. He didn’t want to face him immediately. “The key’s where it always is, right? I’m going to shower.”

After Woosung agreed, Jimin hung up and went straight to the bathroom. The suffocating heat still lingered though evenings had cooled, and he stepped under ice-cold water. The water knifed his skin; minutes later he found himself shivering, but he felt this was the only way to calm down. As if cold water might seep through the cuts on his skin and reach the wounds in his heart; as if it might disperse the blood filling his chest. As if it might still the excitement fluttering inside.

He knew his lips would be purple; he didn’t want Woosung to see and worry. So he stood under hot water awhile, then wrapped himself in his soft bathrobe—lemon yellow, a gift from Jungkook on a visit.

Just as he stepped out, he heard Woosung call, “I’m exhausted.” Then the door closing. It had taken longer than expected; still, it gave Jimin time to steady himself—to rinse away the sense of Yoongi clinging to him, the lingering warmth on his skin. Or so he thought. How could a few minutes rinse away what years had failed to?

“I’m coming,” he called back. “Just out of the shower.”

By the time he joined him, Woosung had unpacked the food on the coffee table and was pouring lemonade into glasses. Jimin tightened the robe’s belt and took his place. Woosung glanced sideways, chuckled to see the rarely worn robe, then pressed his lips to the crown of Jimin’s head. Jimin froze.

“A brutal rain just started outside,” Woosung murmured as he drew back and sat beside him. Only then did Jimin realize he hadn’t really looked at him yet. Woosung’s short-sleeved shirt was spattered with fat drops; his shoulders were soaked. Wet strands clung to his forehead. “You got home just in time.”

Jimin hadn’t told him—but he knew anyway.

“Ah—did it?” The first thought that leapt up—shamefully—was whether Yoongi had found a taxi without getting drenched; whether he’d reached his hotel easily. Jimin hated himself for thinking of him. He turned a forced smile on Woosung, preparing to ask how the day had gone. But seeing Jimin’s expression, Woosung swallowed without chewing properly, took a sip of lemonade, tilted his head, and looked into his eyes.

“World beauty,” he said, rolling his eyes softly, “we agreed about forced smiles.” Then he wet his lips and, holding his burger in one hand, set the other on Jimin’s knee over the robe. “I know,” he said gently. The sudden seriousness sent another cramp through Jimin’s stomach. “I know everything.”

He didn’t know that Jimin’s insides were alive again—that he and Yoongi had bickered like old times, walked for hours, even forgotten they were hungry. Unable to bear his eyes, Jimin lowered his gaze to the food. “I’m always here for you,” Woosung said, just before turning back to eat. “You can tell me anything.” Jimin could only nod, still not daring to meet his eyes. As he reached for the lemonade to wet his dry throat, he saw Woosung return to his meal.

“Let me tell you what that idiot Dojoon did.” He didn’t wait for Jimin to speak first, as he usually did; maybe he was tired—his voice and face both showed it. Whether it was work that wore him down or Jimin himself, the omniscient eye cannot say; there were too many unknowns for both of them.

Perhaps he did know everything, as he said. Perhaps he knew more than Jimin himself.

Chapter Text

“How did we drift apart like this?

Why did we grow distant — why did we fall silent at all?

My wound may ache, but I swear, I won’t move from where I stand.”

He had already crossed the most intricate years of his life.

His early youth had slipped through his fingers like a handful of sand. His first love, his kindness, his soul so many things had long since abandoned him. And he, somehow, kept going.

Though his tears had been his only companion most nights, now he lay in bed, staring at the same freckles on the ceiling he had counted countless times, and grinning as if all the years he had lived had never really been lived. As if his youth had returned to him, as if his first love had kissed his lips again, as if he could still call himself a good man, as if his soul could once more bloom into a garden of flowers. He smiled like that, a smile that made his cheeks ache, watching the freckles on the ceiling of the home he had lived in for who knew how many years.

When had he last been like this?

He couldn’t remember.

He could feel Woosung-hyung’s eyes on him, lying beside him, yet an arm’s length away. It was enough to make him want to stop smiling, to compose himself, but the swallows fluttering in his chest tickled their wings against his heart, and so he kept smiling, just like that.

Until his dagger reminded him of itself, until a single, sudden tear welled up and slipped from the corner of his eye, brushing his cheek. When the salt of that tear met the sting of his smiling cheeks, it felt as though he were gathering in his palms the tiny swallows whose wings had bloodied themselves against the edge of his dagger. He clutched the thin blanket around him, clenched his teeth, and tried to hold back the next tears that threatened to fall.

Woosung-hyung saw it all. Jimin knew he did. He saw everything, his fingers half-raised to wipe the tear, ready to enclose Jimin’s trembling hands within his own. But he didn’t. It was as if he sensed that Jimin needed to be alone with himself, and so, he kept silently watching, eyes steady beneath his lashes.

Everything had changed. They both knew it.

Everything would keep changing.

When had it begun?

Was it when his favorite thing stepped into this city, or when he appeared before him? Was it when Jimin looked into his eyes, pretending nothing was there, ignoring the truth both of them already knew?

Or was it that day, when he let him follow, when they sat side by side watching the city?

He didn’t know.

Things were changing; that much was clear to both of them. Nothing would ever be the same.

And surely, they would bleed.

Unable to bear being seen any longer, he turned his back to Woosung-hyung.

He shut his eyes tight, and even as he drifted into a restless sleep, feeling as though he were in the middle of a great betrayal, Woosung never moved, never looked away, and kept watching him still.

Perhaps it was betrayal.

Perhaps he was betraying both himself and Woosung by seeing Yoongi, by wanting to see him, by agreeing to meet him by the sea, perhaps he was ruining everything.

Who could say?

He wasn’t in any state to know.

He was too dizzy even to notice the shame he committed against himself before anyone else.

And how pitiful that was, that all he could think of, in that moment, was seeing him again. That he tried not to cry, not out of strength, but because he knew his eyes would swell and Woosung would ask why.

Once again, he pulled himself back into the center of his own life, as though no one else existed, just because he had seen his face a few times, breathed in his scent, heard his voice.

How pitiful.

How shameful.

How small.

The morning that followed his uneasy sleep, that half-conscious drifting born of self-pity and the sound of rain outside, was no different from the night before. He was still blaming himself. And yet, deep down, though he couldn’t have admitted it even to himself, there was a trace of sweetness hidden somewhere within. Despite all the dull bitterness pressing against his chest, he had woken like a child fallen asleep with candy in his mouth, cheeks sore, lips faintly curved.

He was alone in bed. Woosung-hyung must have already been awake. Perhaps he hadn’t slept at all. Maybe he had left quietly once Jimin drifted off. He couldn’t be angry at him. He couldn’t even be hurt.

He was still seeing Yoongi even though he knew Woosung didn’t want him to. Even though he knew he shouldn’t. Yet something unseen, some nameless gravity, kept drawing him toward him. Woosung was worried; he could tell. Only a few days ago, Jimin had flinched from even the faintest trace of Yoongi’s scent, and now here he was, preparing to walk straight to him. Woosung couldn’t understand it. He was afraid, afraid that Jimin would fall again, that this time he wouldn’t recover.

Jimin knew that fear well.

And truthfully, he was afraid, too.

Afraid — and yet, with the reckless courage of someone who had already lost too much, he couldn’t stop himself from moving toward him. Couldn’t stop himself from running.

The thin blanket he didn’t remember pulling over himself was soon pushed aside, and when the cold air brushed against his skin, he shivered. He didn’t know what time it was. The sky, still crying as if trying to warn him, sobbed softly against the window. Somewhere between those tears of the world, he caught a faint scent of coffee. If he listened closely enough, he could hear the distant gurgling of the coffee machine.

He sat up in bed and let his feet dangle off the edge. The cold floor kissed his skin, and a tremor spread through him. His feet ached, no doubt from walking far more than he should have the day before, even if only in his slippers. He slipped on a thin hoodie over his short shorts and moved quietly toward the living room, afraid that a sound might send Woosung fleeing into silence.

He wasn’t there. But now the sound of the coffee machine was clearer, and the scent stronger, sharper, warmer, bitter.

He found him in the kitchen, standing before the window, cigarette smoke curling up into the pale light. His hair, tied loosely atop his head, had a few strands falling across his forehead. He wore one of his usual linen shirts. From the hem of his shorts peeked the outline of the moth tattoo on his leg.

Jimin’s eyes caught on it, the gray wings, the stillness of it. He didn’t know why, but his gaze lingered there, as if drawn in the same way Woosung seemed lost in whatever he saw beyond the window.

He stepped toward the counter and pulled down two mugs. The clock on the wall pointed to noon. He poured coffee for both of them, and the smell filled the room, thick and soft.

“Good morning, hyung,” he murmured, his voice still hoarse.

Woosung stubbed his cigarette into the marble ashtray on the sill and turned around. He took the cup, leaned against the rain-streaked glass, and smiled a small, tired smile.

“Yoongi’s downstairs,” he said after taking a sip.

His voice wasn’t angry, though Jimin flinched at the name. There was no reproach, either, even if he was hurt, he hid it well. The tone was almost expressionless, the same one he had used years ago when Jungkook had come on another gray day like this one.

Jungkook had come at noon, too. The sky had been heavy but dry. He’d been pacing the wet pavement outside, cigarette between his fingers, looking as though he couldn’t decide whether to come up or leave. His long legs crossed over each other restlessly; when one cigarette burned out, he lit another. Every so often, he ran a hand through his hair, longer now, unkempt, like a storm.

Jimin had watched him from this same window, the very one Woosung leaned against now. It had been like Jungkook knew he was being watched, though he never looked up. His eyes traced the pavement, his steps marking time. Minutes passed before he vanished from sight, only to appear again at the door, knocking.

The house had been crowded that day. Woosung’s friends were visiting laughter spilling from every corner. By the time Jimin reached the door, Hajoon-hyung had already opened it. Jimin had frozen in the kitchen doorway as Jungkook entered, silent.

No one had needed to ask who he was.

Everyone knew.

Jeon Jungkook, the name alone was enough to hush a room.

Jimin had missed him. Missed him in a way that ached behind his ribs.

Jungkook’s eyes had swept the room, restless, sharp until they found him. He looked older, broader; his dark hair tied back, his skin painted with new tattoos. When their eyes met, Jungkook’s gaze narrowed, as though afraid of what Jimin might see reflected there.

His thoughts had always lived in his eyes. Jimin used to tease him for it.

“Everything you think shows right there, Jungkookie.”

And Jungkook would wrinkle his nose, laugh, maybe stick out his tongue, or hurl a creative curse that still made Jimin laugh even when he was angry.

He wanted to go to him to wrap his arms around him, to rest his head against that chest broader than his own, but Jungkook’s face gave him nothing. So he stayed still, looking, waiting.

Jungkook was angry. That much he knew. The messages said it all, the late-night bursts of fury, the long silences. Sometimes he’d send voice notes, his voice rough, sometimes slurred with drink, sometimes singing, sometimes just breathing, before ending with a half-muttered curse.

It had become a pattern:

He would write, block him, unblock him, write again, block him once more.

Share everything, then shut him out.

It was his way of keeping Jimin close while punishing him for leaving.

Jimin couldn’t be angry back. Not with him. He didn’t have the heart. He was only surprised it had taken this long for Jungkook to show up.

The Jungkook he knew would have come sooner, would have demanded answers, shouting, laughing, crying all at once. But maybe Jungkook didn’t exist anymore. Maybe Jimin’s disappearance had hurt him too deeply. Maybe he couldn’t bear to see what had become of him.

He wasn’t angry with him.

Just as he hadn’t been angry with the others, he couldn’t be angry with Jungkook either.

He was only surprised — he hadn’t thought Jungkook would take this long to come.

The Jungkook he knew would have shown up long ago, demanding answers, shaking him by the shoulders if he had to. But maybe that Jungkook no longer existed. Maybe his disappearance — his abandonment of everything — had hurt Jungkook just as deeply as he himself had been hurt.

Maybe Jungkook couldn’t bear to see him in this broken state.

Jungkook’s gaze slid off him and drifted somewhere behind him.

Then, when his eyes caught on the refrigerator a few steps away, he moved, stepping into the kitchen. He turned sideways so he wouldn’t touch Jimin as he passed, and Jimin, in turn, stepped back to give him space. Without a word, Jungkook opened the fridge and took out one of the beers Woosung-hyung and the others had brought — the ones Dojoon-hyung had teasingly stacked on the shelf.

He chose one of the glass bottles. In that old, effortless way Jimin still didn’t understand, Jungkook popped it open with his fingers and took several long gulps before turning toward him again.

Jimin stayed silent until he spoke — but Jungkook didn’t seem to intend to. He ignored him completely, drinking quickly, halfway through his beer before ever meeting his eyes. His brows were furrowed, his head tilting slightly to one side as though trying to shake off thoughts that wouldn’t let him rest.

Then, with a sharp clink, he set the bottle down on the counter and opened the fridge again, this time pulling out two.

From the other room came Dojoon-hyung’s voice calling their names, inviting them to join the rest. Woosung-hyung said something too, but Jimin couldn’t make out the words — he was too focused on Jungkook, too consumed by the ache rising in his chest. He wanted to say something — anything — but no words would come.

All he could hear was the sound of blood dripping in his own ears, a steady, heavy pulse like water on stone.

Jungkook said nothing. He opened one of the bottles, set it on the counter, and took the other — along with his own — into the next room. He moved like someone who already knew the layout, as if this house had once been his. But Jimin knew — Jungkook was just following the sounds.

As he passed by, he turned his body slightly away, careful not to touch. That small restraint — that distance — cut deeper than anger.

Jimin picked up the beer Jungkook had left for him — he was sure now it had been meant for him — and followed him into the living room.

When the others saw Jungkook, someone shifted to make space without a word. He took the empty armchair, set his bottle on the floor beside him, and went on drinking. Jimin, unsure what to do, let Dojoon-hyung’s gentle tug guide him to sit next to him.

For a while, no one spoke. The silence was sharp, almost physical. Then Hajoon-hyung, who couldn’t stand silence, threw out a joke. One or two chuckled. Conversations began to creep back in.

Jungkook said nothing. He opened his second beer and drank.

Someone tried to include him in the talk, but he only swept his gaze over them — once, twice — and kept drinking.

Something in the air shifted. Woosung-hyung, sensing it, moved a little closer to Jimin — as if to shield him from the invisible arrows Jungkook kept firing with his eyes. As if to keep Jimin from spiraling too far into the darkness that was already forming between them.

Just as he always did.

Then, without warning, when Hajoon cracked another joke and the room filled with scattered laughter — even Jungkook, who had been watching too long, let out a small, reluctant laugh — their eyes met.

And that was when Jungkook spoke.

“Jiminie-hyung,” he said, his tone sharp as a bite, like a dog baring its teeth.

“So you’ve found yourself a new crowd.”

The laughter vanished at once.

The air went still.

Jimin froze — his mind went blank, his chest hollowed out.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came. Not even breath.

“Jeon Jungkook—” Woosung began, but Jimin reached for him, catching his hand, silently begging him to stop. It was all he could do. He couldn’t even stop the tear that slid down his cheek.

He just stared at Jungkook, helpless, as the venom in his words seeped into his veins.

He knew Jungkook needed to let his anger out — he had expected it — but he hadn’t known it would hurt this much.

Jungkook was family.

They all were.

“Why are you getting so defensive?” Jungkook said, glaring at Woosung. “Am I wrong?”

He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, spreading himself out like he owned the room.

“Congratulations, then,” he said coldly. “You’ve managed to make him one of you.”

“Jeon Jungkook,” Woosung tried again, his voice a warning.

But Jungkook only smirked. “Careful, though. He might leave you too.”

“Get out,” Woosung said — his tone sharp, cutting.

There wasn’t much difference between them in size, but when it came to his hyungs, Jungkook always started with an advantage. He had a way of making even his anger feel like strength.

“You asking me?” Jungkook replied, voice dripping disdain.

Before Jimin could react, Woosung stood. Jungkook rose too, beer bottle still in hand.

“If you came here to hurt him,” Woosung said, “then leave. Now.”

Jimin stood too, his pulse racing, trying to wedge himself between them as they puffed up like two fighting cocks. The others scrambled to intervene, chairs scraping against the floor.

Then Jungkook hurled the bottle to the ground.

It shattered — glass bursting, beer spilling across the floor.

He shot them one last venomous look — at Woosung, at the others — and walked out without glancing back.

He didn’t even look at Jimin.

Jimin ran after him. He knew it was useless, knew Jungkook would vanish before he could reach him — but he ran anyway. By the time he reached the street, Jungkook was gone. The moment his knees hit the wet pavement, his body broke. He sobbed — loud, ragged, unrestrained — and when Woosung found him, he pulled him close, holding him as he cried into his chest.

He knew things with Jungkook would be hard.

But he hadn’t expected this.

The next day, the others gathered again, maybe to cheer him up, maybe to pretend things were fine. They went to the shore. The weather was gentler now, though they still wore light raincoats. They sat in folding chairs, their laughter competing with the sound of waves.

And somehow, Jungkook appeared again.

He came from behind. Jimin didn’t see him, but Woosung did.

Jaehyeong-hyung’s subtle nod made him turn, and in an instant, he was on his feet, stepping forward to block Jungkook’s path.

“What are you doing here?” Woosung asked, voice low, steady.

Jungkook’s eyes were darker now. He looked past him straight toward Jimin.

“Mind your business,” he said flatly.

And once again, the air trembled that same sharp tension, that same pull between love and fury, the thread stretched thin, waiting to snap.

“What are you doing here?”

No one needed to be a genius to guess whom Woosung was talking to. Even so, Jimin turned lazily, almost dreading what he’d see.

“Hyung!” he called out, but Woosung had already heard Jungkook’s cold, clipped reply.

“Mind your business.”

Jungkook brushed past him, circled around, and dropped himself into Woosung’s chair. Then, without hesitation, he reached for the beer Jimin was holding and took it for himself. His eyes fixed on Jaehyeong-hyung sitting across from them, and he lifted the bottle to his lips.

As Woosung walked past Jimin to stop him, Jimin caught his wrist.

If Jungkook needed to bleed his anger out again, he would let him.

It didn’t matter — he was already hurting. A little more pain would change nothing.

If Jungkook needed to spill a few drops of his own rage, Jimin would take it. It would harm no one.

Woosung’s fingers closed around his. He gave them a light squeeze — a silent question.

Are you sure?

Jimin answered with a faint, broken smile.

Woosung moved past him and sat down beside Jaehyeong-hyung on the cold sand. Jaehyeong handed him a cigarette; Woosung took it quickly, lit it, and inhaled deeply.

This time, the silence between them lasted longer than before. Only the faint crackle of cigarettes broke through the sound of waves — nothing else.

Then, surprisingly, it was Jungkook who spoke first.

“Your vibe was better last night.”

He took a long swig from the half-warm beer he had stolen, grimacing slightly at the taste. His eyes flicked toward Jimin’s hand — the one that had been holding the bottle — as though he knew it had warmed from Jimin’s touch.

“That was before you fucked it up,” Hajoon-hyung said flatly.

Whether he meant last night’s outburst or today’s arrival, Jimin wasn’t sure.

“I thought you’d be more fun,” Dojoon-hyung added.

Jungkook shrugged. He knew he wasn’t fun anymore — not when he was angry, not when he was hurting. They didn’t know what he was like when his heart broke.

He was furious.

He was wounded.

And the only way he knew how to ease that pain was by hurting Jimin back.

Just like before — when he’d block him so he couldn’t reply, when he’d leave him voiceless — now, too, he was cutting off his breath, punishing him in silence.

It was fine. Jimin was punishing himself too.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Jungkook said, waving his hand lazily, as if they’d been mid-conversation. “Go on. Pretend I’m not here.”

Woosung took a deep drag from his cigarette, then turned his eyes away from Jungkook’s glare and looked at Jimin instead.

“Jimin,” he said softly this time, his voice wrapping around him like warmth. “My beautiful one — if you want, we can leave. I’ll take you home, hmm?”

Before Jimin could answer, before he could even say it was fine, Jungkook cut in. He seemed determined to speak to everyone except Jimin, to reach him only through the others.

“Hey,” he said sharply, taking another swallow of beer and grimacing again. “Kim Woosung. You in love with him or something?”

Woosung pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, sighing deeply.

“Does it concern you?”

Jungkook shrugged again, his lips twitching. “Can’t blame you if you are. ‘World’s most beautiful,’ and all that — you’re right.”

Jimin could feel where this was going. He could sense the shape of the trap before it even snapped shut.

He tried to step in.

“Jungkook,” he called softly.

Jungkook didn’t look at him, only cast a sidelong glance his way.

“Wait a second — we’re having such a nice talk, aren’t we?”

Those were the first words he’d spoken to Jimin since his cruel greeting.

They cut deeper than any insult could have.

Jimin could feel the sting of salt at the corners of his eyes — maybe from the sea air, maybe from tears that refused to fall.

Jungkook noticed, of course, but ignored it. He turned back to Woosung.

“Come on then,” he said. “Tell me — do you love him?”

“Would it be a problem if I did?” Woosung asked, his elbows resting on his knees, leaning back slightly. “Can’t I love Jimin?”

“Ck.” Jungkook’s tongue clicked against his teeth.

“Jungkook, let’s talk,” Jimin said, wiping his eyes quickly with the back of his hand.

“Don’t worry,” Jungkook said, turning more toward him now, his tone half-mocking. “Your turn’s coming.”

“If you came here just to hurt Jimin again,” Woosung said, studying him, measuring how far he might go, “I’m warning you — leave now.”

“I won’t hurt him,” Jungkook said simply. “If you just admit it.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?” Woosung replied, not backing down. His crooked smile spread, and the others laughed softly around them.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. “I’m not trying to scare you.”

“Fine,” Woosung said, exhaling smoke into the air. “I am.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “Of course you are.” He smiled without warmth. “With all those ‘world’s most beautiful’ things you say — you don’t deserve him.”

“I know,” Woosung answered quietly. “No one does.”

Jungkook nodded slowly. “Good. At least you know that.”

Then his eyes turned to Jimin. His expression softened, but only slightly — enough to make it worse.

“You happy?” he asked.

Every inch of Jimin’s skin prickled. His breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t know.

He truly didn’t know.

Was he happy — or just alive? Was he breathing, or just surviving?

Jungkook didn’t wait for the answer.

He turned to Woosung again, his voice low, almost kind.

“You’ll never know the answer to that,” he said. “You can wonder for once.”

Then he looked back at Jimin.

He finished the rest of the beer in a single swallow, grimacing at the taste, and stood up.

“Come on,” he said.

As Jimin rose, uncertain, Jungkook threw one last look at Woosung.

“We’re going to talk,” he said. “Alone. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stick your nose in.”

And before anyone could stop him, he started walking toward the waves, toward the horizon that waited beyond all their silence.

Jimin followed.

They had left Woosung-hyung and the others behind that day and begun walking along the shore. Neither of them said a word.

Jimin had wanted to — his lips parted once, almost daring to break the silence — but Jungkook lifted a finger to his lips, the way nurses did in the old hospital posters from their childhood, and shushed him without a sound.

At first, his face was hard, cold, but with each step they took, it was as though he was shedding that angry shell — piece by piece — until only the Jungkookie Jimin knew remained: soft, familiar, unbearably dear.

Then, suddenly, Jungkook stopped.

He opened his arms wide. His large eyes glistened with tears, his lower lip, marked by a small piercing, trembled.

“Jiminie, I missed you so much.”

Jimin threw himself into his arms, pressed his face against that broad chest, and the two of them wept together. The weather was kinder than the day before, but the beach was still quiet — almost deserted. They were aware of it, aware that no one was there to see them fall apart in each other’s arms. They cried, and they held on, and they didn’t stop.

Then Jungkook spoke — haltingly, in fragments — about how hurt he’d been, how much it had crushed him. He told him how he’d worn down Ophelia’s doorstep just to hear a word about him, how they’d fought countless times until she finally told him what he needed to know. He told him how, when he’d heard what happened at the hotel in Naples, he’d panicked — how he hadn’t wanted Jimin to stay here alone, how he’d even thought about sending one of his own guards to look after him.

Ophelia had already tried. She had sent someone.

But by the end of the first month, Jimin had sent him back to Korea.

He couldn’t stand the thought of another person witnessing his misery — especially someone who knew him.

When they finally returned to Woosung-hyung and the others later that day, Jungkook was calmer — quieter, more subdued. His eyes were still red from crying, just like Jimin’s.

Before rejoining them, he’d stopped by a nearby stand, buying beer for everyone. He handed them out one by one, his movements careful, almost shy, under their stunned gazes.

Woosung-hyung, though, didn’t take his eyes off Jimin.

He didn’t say a word — didn’t let any of his thoughts or fears surface — but his steady gaze said everything.

He looked at Jimin the same way he would look at him much later, in another silent morning — holding back all the things he wanted to say. His worries, his quiet heartbreak, his love, all sealed behind the stillness of his expression.

And then came the words that pulled Jimin out of the past — Woosung’s voice, quiet and level:

“Yoongi’s downstairs.”

He said nothing.

What could he say?

He hadn’t told Woosung that he’d see Yoongi again today.

He didn’t need to.

They both knew that as long as Yoongi was here, Jimin would see him.

It was inevitable.

He knew Woosung was trying to protect him — trying to keep his dagger from carving another wound in his heart. He knew that Woosung was doing everything in his power not to hurt him, even if that meant hurting himself in the process. But there was only so much he could do.

And Jimin — he was already orbiting him again like a helpless moth around a flame, aware of it, ashamed of it, unable to stop.

Every time he heard Yoongi’s name, his stomach twisted, his heart thundered. The sun had brushed his skin, but he could feel the color draining from his face.

Woosung saw it too.

It must have hurt him.

Of course it did.

But he said nothing.

“I told you we were supposed to go to the shore today,” Jimin whispered, his eyes lowered. “At first, I said no, but he kept insisting. You know how good he is at getting what he wants.”

Woosung nodded. He did know.

He also knew — perhaps better than Jimin himself — that Jimin’s refusals were never truly refusals. That even when he said no, he was really just afraid. He knew that giving in wouldn’t take much.

“Don’t let him hurt you,” Woosung murmured, his voice almost breaking.

He took a deep breath before pulling Jimin gently into his arms. His nose found its place in Jimin’s hair, and for a moment, he just breathed him in.

Jimin hesitated, then slowly wrapped his arms around him too.

“My beautiful world,” Woosung whispered dreamily, half to himself, half to Jimin. “My beautiful world.”

He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t have to.

There were a hundred things he wanted to say — but he didn’t.

Jimin pulled back slightly, his voice barely audible.

“The weather’s bad. I’ll just go tell him we can’t go.”

Woosung nodded, a faint, melancholy smile tugging at his lips as he followed him toward the door.

Just as Jimin reached the steps, he heard Woosung’s voice behind him again. The door didn’t close. Instead, he turned — and saw him holding out a thin raincoat from the hook by the wall.

“Take something with you,” he said softly — as though he already knew Jimin wouldn’t be gone for just a minute.

Jimin took it, draped it over his shoulders, and started down the stairs two at a time.

Each step made his heart beat faster — guilt giving way to anticipation, shame blurring into longing. By the time he reached the ground floor, he was certain his cheeks were flushed.

And there he was — waiting under a black umbrella, eyes lifted toward the kitchen window.

Was he looking for Jimin, or for Woosung still standing behind the glass? Jimin didn’t know. He didn’t dare look up to check.

The moment he heard his footsteps, Yoongi’s gaze dropped to meet his.

That same faint smile — half wound, half temptation—spread across his lips.

“Just woke up?” he asked, his eyes sweeping down Jimin’s figure.

Jimin had forgotten how unguarded he looked — hair uncombed, in a loose T-shirt and short shorts under the raincoat Woosung had handed him. He slipped into his old sneakers by the door just before stepping outside.

The rain wasn’t heavy — only a soft drizzle — but Yoongi moved closer, tilting the umbrella over him, pulling him under the same shadow.

“I slept late,” Jimin murmured with a small smile. Then, looking up at the umbrella above them, he added, “I don’t think we can go today. The weather’s too bad.”

Yoongi tilted his head, eyes warm but steady.

“I’ve got an umbrella,” he said. “Big enough for both of us.”

For both of us — not us, not together. Just enough space to pretend.

Jimin hesitated. “It won’t be nice in this weather,” he whispered, still avoiding his gaze. “You shouldn’t have come all this way.”

Yoongi shrugged. His raincoat was heavier than Jimin’s, his shoes white and far too clean for the wet sand they were about to meet.

“It’ll be nice,” he said quietly. “Anything’s nice with you.”

“Hy—”

But before Jimin could finish, Yoongi bent his head slightly, that same soft smile curling wider.

“It’s been a long time since we walked in the rain, hasn’t it?” he murmured. “Come on.”

A long time.

Too long.

Jimin should have said no. He knew that.

Maybe he even wanted to.

But he couldn’t.

Didn’t want to.

The rain might ruin everything, but walking beside him again — breathing the mix of rain and sea and the scent of Yoongi’s skin — felt like something worth ruining for.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice small, surrendering. His shoulders dropped. “Just for a little while.”

He lifted his eyes toward the window one last time. Woosung was there — cup in hand, watching. Their gazes met. Woosung’s lips curved in that same soft, broken smile.

And in that moment, Jimin knew — he already knew he would go.

When he turned back, Yoongi was looking at him too, still smiling.

He knew as well.

They both did.

And no matter how much Jimin tried to resist, no matter how much he denied it — after all these years, after all that pain — Yoongi was still the gravity he couldn’t escape.

And Jimin — helpless, human, and hopelessly drawn — would always fall.

He took the raincoat from Woosung’s hand, slipped it over his shoulders, and hurried down the stairs two at a time.

The guilt that had filled him only moments before was already fading, replaced by a quiet, pulsing excitement that quickened with each step. By the time he reached the door, he was sure his cheeks were flushed.

Under a black umbrella, Yoongi stood waiting — his gaze fixed on the kitchen window above.

Jimin didn’t know whether he was waiting to see him, or still looking at Woosung, who might have been standing there. He didn’t dare lift his head to check.

When Yoongi heard his footsteps, his eyes drifted lazily downward, and that familiar half-smile — the one that always cut deeper than it should — began to spread across his lips, widening the wound.

“Just woke up?” he asked, his eyes traveling over him slowly, deliberately.

Jimin had forgotten he was still in his home clothes — the raincoat Woosung had given him thrown over a loose T-shirt and a pair of short shorts. On his feet were old sneakers he’d pulled on by the door. The rain was fine and steady, soft enough to blur the world but not enough to stop him from stepping closer.

Yoongi took a step forward, tilted the umbrella, and drew him in beneath it.

“I overslept a bit,” Jimin murmured with a faint smile. His eyes flicked away from Yoongi’s gaze, up toward the umbrella’s canopy where the rain whispered its rhythm. “I don’t think we can go today,” he added softly, not daring to meet his eyes. “The weather’s too bad.”

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, a teasing curve ghosting across his mouth.

“I’ve got an umbrella,” he said. “Big enough for both of us.”

For both of us.

Not for us.

Still, Jimin couldn’t be sure what he meant.

He had told Woosung he’d only step out to say they couldn’t go.

He hadn’t told Yoongi that.

“It wouldn’t be any fun in this weather,” he said, this time meeting his gaze. Yoongi’s eyes were the same deep, steady, the kind that made him feel exposed, seen all the way through. “You shouldn’t have come all this way.”

Yoongi shrugged. He was wearing a raincoat too thick for Jimin’s, and on his feet were white sneakers that would be ruined if they touched wet sand. He shouldn’t have gone, not if he cared about keeping anything clean.

“It’ll still be nice,” he said quietly. “Everything’s nice when you’re there.”

“But, hy—”

Yoongi bent his head a little, smile deepening, cutting him off just as easily as always. He had insisted Jimin call him hyung, yet never once hesitated to silence him mid-word.

“It’s been a long time since we walked in the rain,” he said. “Come on.”

A long time.

Far too long.

He felt like he should say no — maybe he really should have.

But he couldn’t.

Didn’t want to.

Even if the sky was gray and the air smelled of storm, he wanted to walk beside him.

To feel the brush of his sleeve against his own, to breathe in the mingled scent of rain, sea, and Yoongi. To let it seep into his lungs, into his skin, until he could no longer tell which part of him belonged to the air and which to Yoongi.

“Alright,” he whispered at last, surrendering. His shoulders fell, the word leaving him like an exhale. “Just a short walk.”

Before stepping out, he lifted his eyes to the kitchen window.

Woosung was there — coffee cup in hand, watching. Their eyes met through the rain.

Woosung smiled — faint, resigned, heartbreak tucked beneath it.

In that moment, Jimin understood.

He already knew Jimin would go.

When he turned back, Yoongi was still looking at him.

Smiling.

He knew too.

He knew Jimin would go, no matter how much he fought it, no matter how many times he told himself not to.

Because even after all these years, Yoongi was still the one gravity couldn’t pull him away from.

And Jimin — fragile, flawed, still reaching for light through the rain — would always, inevitably, fall.