daybreak | yoonmin

may 20th.

"That's true," Jimin twisted his lips.

It was quiet, and then he said, "I don't hold it against you. At least, I don't think I do. But... I would hold it against you if you decided to walk out of my life. Because I never tell my friends about people. And you just met a bunch of them. Like in real life. I usually'd rather fail in private. So if you ever think we're done, no we're not."

"That's toxic."

"I know. I'm owning it, though," He smirked.

"I kinda like that."

"I know. You're more toxic than I am."

Jimin laughed, "I know you like that about me."

Yoongi slowed so he and Jimin could be shoulder to shoulder. His side profile was telling; maybe a joke like that tugged too harshly at his heart strings. The smirk that was so deep set on his features softened into something else and his eyes dropped to their feet. 

Why would I say that?

Unsure, Jimin only hoped he could reassure him by slipping his arm through the loop left by Yoongi's hands in his pockets. Side by side they ambled, desert boots and Nike Blazers, all out of sync with their step. But then he let air out of his nose. A laugh?

Yoongi looked at him, and now Jimin could smell the soju when he spoke. 

"How drunk are you, my love?" 

My love. 

Emboldened, heart thundering, he knew that within the split second that he let his eyes drop to Yoongi's lips it would be obvious.

"Would you like to know?"

Yoongi would. He truly would. And if the liquor was stronger, or if he wasn't still suturing himself back whole, he'd let his face move closer. 

Comfort and calamity. The soju made it hard to tell which he was looking at. If he dug deep enough into the recesses of his brain, there was still only one resounding echo:

Please.

He couldn't trust himself around Jimin. Wanted Jimin to practice restraint so he didn't have to. One misstep and he would be torn apart again. Did he really even mind? Sometimes pain was good, right?

Jimin, and brown hooded eyes. Jimin, and Burberry cologne. Jimin and a fantasy of respite on  plump lips-- one so old, he let his own eyes drop to them with want. 

Stop. 

Yoongi snapped the thread connecting their gaze. And he felt Jimin wondering, hurting at the reason why. Yet he said nothing. He only walked, praying that the squeeze of his arm around Jimin's would be enough reassurance. That the silence of his touch would say, It's not you.

But it was. They both knew well enough. 

He gazed into Jimin, reminded of God a little bit while he looked at him. Remembering all the things Jimin didn't know. 

Please.

How he did not know that Yoongi would never let him know as much of him again as he had in February; was oblivious to how much Yoongi prayed him closer and still prayed him away; how until God himself talked to Yoongi through storm clouds, he would never let himself dream of permanence between them again. 

At least, not without punishing himself for it.

For in this life, Yoongi knew one thing to ring true: that peace is synonymous with certainty. And oh, how improbable, uncomfortable, unsure, and ambiguous life had become since the 24th of January. Even if he had dreamed of this moment, was it like this? 

Stop.

Certainty. It was at the exact moment that Jimin slid free from the armlock that Yoongi knew with certainty that in thirty days, he would let go of Jimin for good. No matter what it took. There were no hard feelings. It was nothing personal. It was just that, this time, he had to stand on his word. 

"Stop looking at me," Jimin muttered, rolling his eyes.

"I can't."

Because the sight of him now was all he might get. One day he might forget which of Jimin's eyelids was the droopy one, and exactly how many silver rings he kept in his ears. So he prolonged it. He pushed that day away, far as he could. He stared and--

"Give me a fucking break," Jimin picked up his pace, voice acrid. 

It hurt to know he hurt him. 

But who hurt who first? 

It felt good to know he could do things that hurt him. 

I'm only so cruel when I'm with you.

His torturer. His remedy. Jimin made him write love letters and tear them up. Smile and then scream. He made him read more. He helped him find joy in winter days. He made him creative; sparked a fire in his belly, a light behind his eyes, electricity under his skin in the places he touched. He was his mirror, everything wrong with him reflected and refracted. He was inspiration. His muse. 

Muse.

Between him and God, the word would stay secret. A password. Thirty more days. If Jimin said it, there would be certainty. If he did not, indifference... however feigned. This was his covenant.

Muse. Obscure enough that he couldn't just say it. Maybe even so obscure that he might never think to use it out loud. None of this, or all of this, as Yoongi intended.