My Light, My Jimin

Chapter 31: Teamwork

"Is that why you ran off?  Because you were scared of what you saw?"

He hesitates, and I can read in his silence that he's worried he's said too much, but he must realize it's me he's talking to.  "Sort of. . . I ran because I told my Eomma a lie that involved Professor Kim Namjoon calling me beautiful. . . like you did. . . I said it to see what her reaction was, and she didn't like the idea of a teacher calling me that."

His confession turns my mood sour.  He used my friend to deflect attention off of us.  A smart move, if I didn't care for Namjoon, but I do.  I frown at the floor and say nothing. 

"I'm so sorry," he says.  "I shouldn't have said anything in the first place.  It's all my fault."

"No," I say.  "It's not."  Or perhaps it is.  I'm not sure.  "Confiding in a parent is a natural thing we all do."

He says nothing, which leads me to believe he agrees.  When he speaks again, his voice is low.  "He asked me about you.  He asked about what's going on between us."

"And what did you say to him?"  My tone is deep enough where it's impactful, but also leads with emotions that I can't separate. 

He is quiet for a long moment, then frowns and looks at me.  "I told him we were close."

There are so many things that enter my mind, so many things I want to say to him.  Earlier today, he didn't dare look me in the eye, and I believed it was because of me, but it was really his own guilt that weighed him down.  I want to scold him that it was a stupid thing to be truthful, but that's exactly what he is.  Jimin is nothing if not honest.

I exhale deeply.  "It was bound to happen."

"I'm sorry."

I take a step closer to him.  He goes still, but it's not so dark that I can't see his glossy eyes. 

"I've fucked it up for both of us," he says.  "Please.  Please forgive me."

I have nothing to say to that.  The weight of my own failures holds equal to his, both heavy on the scales of balance.  If Namjoon suspects, Jin must be right behind him. 

Jimin is staring at me, waiting for a reaction.  Maybe he's expecting me to explode and yell.  Maybe he wants me to give him the silent treatment and toss him away.  Neither of those options are me. 

What I do, instead, is link my fingers with his and pull him close.  I don't know how many moments we have left together, where we can breathe in each other and live peacefully.  After everything we've endured, I can't picture my life without him. 

He sniffs.  "Yoongi. . . "

It's the first time he's ever said my name, and I instantly hold him tighter.  He whimpers, burying his face in my chest, using me as his own shield.  His hands are fisting the fabric of my shirt, clenching and releasing, like he can't decide whether he wants to drag me closer or push me away.

I keep my voice even.  "We will figure this out."  It's more of a vow than a promise; something to comfort him and something to keep me grounded.  It's ironic how five words can change the meaning of reality, as if the sentiment itself will protect us from fate.  As a professor of literature, I've read enough stories to know that nine out of ten times, the promise of a better life unravels. 

But as all other characters do, I ignore it, choosing to focus on the boy in my arms, wet and frail and so beautiful. 

Then Jimin says, "We could run away.  You could drive and I'd get a job."

"You wouldn't like being cooped up on the road."  I have no doubt.

"But it would be with you.  I'd be happy."

I sigh.  His optimism springs up and it fools me into believing that maybe we could live our own adventure, away from everyone.  "Do you really want to throw away your plans to graduate for me?  I would have hoped I made it clear that I want to see you succeed."

"I will if I'm with you."

He is breaking my heart.  "And I, too."

"You could play us songs on the guitar and I'd sing for—"

I lean in and kiss him. 

I'm slow, and gentle, and it's all I can do in this moment.  I pull him against me, tangling my fingers in his hair, losing myself in the sweetness of his mouth and wishing this never has to end. 

"Please," I whisper into his ear, "dance with me in the dark."

He takes a breath and looks up, his dark eyes boring into mine.  "Lead me."

I do.  My hand finds his waist.  Stroke the length of his side.  We sway without music; there's no need for it.  We are just here, together, with the rain pattering its own song outside, soft and rhythmic. 

His hand slips up my neck and cups my cheek.  Holding me and pulling me down to him where he presses a kiss to my lips.  I taste something salty and open my eyes. 

He's crying.  Tears silently stream down his face in lines.  He's blinking back the ones that want to follow. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers.  "I'm sorry for ruining this."

I lift a hand to brush the tears off his cheeks.  Oh, Jimin. 

"Shh," I whisper.  "You haven't ruined anything."

I'm terrible.  I'm selfish.  I'm disgusting.  But I hold him anyway because this is real.  There is no need to be sure.  This is sure. 

"Loving you ruined me," I say, and he opens his mouth before I add, "it was a torture, and I enjoyed it all too much."

He says my name again and kisses me, tears finding their way into my mouth.  I don't care. 

I never want this to end.