𝔸𝕔𝕣𝕠𝕤𝕤 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕥

forty five

Jimin grips the sleeve of Yoongi's shirt as if it's his last line of defence. Yoongi looks at the younger sadly, their eyes convey conversations too heavy to be said out loud; for if they were, the words would collapse in on themselves and leave marks-scars-too large, too deep, too painful to hide. Mouths stay shut. Hearts stay whole. Yoongi's gaze shimmers with an unspoken apology and, even deeper, through tangled vines of golden brown, a promise. I promise I won't let him hurt you. And what a terrifyingly raw promise that is.

However, getting hurt is not what Jimin is afraid of. It's not the reason why his shoulders, tense and taut, stretch so far back that one mere accidental graze and he's catapulting forward, full speed ahead. Or the reason why his pearly white teeth grind down against each other and cramp his jaw painfully. Like nails on a chalkboard, high pitched and violent. His brain pounds with the desperate plea for its release. And it's certainly not the reason why his eyebrows are angled southward, scrunching his face as if it's a piece of loose paper begging not to be thrown out but, despite that, will still meet the bitter end laying still next to a trash can, for the person who had tossed it to its death had missed. And no matter how forcefully you unfold and smooth the paper out, the wrinkles will always remain. Permanent reminders of the inevitability of death.

No, getting hurt is definitely not what Jimin's afraid of.

What he is afraid of? What's eating at his conscience like a mouse nibbling upon a trail of cheese, unaware of the trap that lies ahead. Awaiting its demise. Awaiting its betrayal. Like the bad habit of a nervous man; biting down on his nails as if it's the only anchor to his sanity, chewing away at and wearing down the brittle appendages until they are but gross, stubby little things. Like an impatient child who has just been gifted a cherry red lollipop. Her teeth are braced but sharp and forcefully crush the sweet apart - jarring and unthoughtful. Crunch crunch crunch until there is only a chewed-up stick left as evidence. What Jimin is afraid of is losing the man he cares the most about.

What Jimin is afraid of is losing Yoongi.

How hopelessly romantic is that?

Yoongi takes a steeling breath, he feels it fill his lungs with oxygen like a balloon pumped of helium before deflating back to normal size. "We can do this." He says, more for himself than for Jimin but the pinkette still appreciates the comment. He raises a shaky fist and knocks. Once. Twice.

"Come in!"

The glazed glass door is pushed open with a crooked-y creek. Stepping into the room is like stepping into another world. A world full of stuffy, thick, suffocating smoke. At his desk sits Yoongi's father, Min Do-yun. And, surprisingly enough, beside him sits Yoongi's mother, Min Chunja.

"Son...I'm glad you're here. Take a seat, if you will." He seems unusually anxious. Yoongi and Jimin stalk their way into the room, footsteps gentle and cautious, as if walking upon eggshells. There are two chairs on the opposite side of Do-yun's desk, Yoongi takes the leftmost one, Jimin takes the rightmost one. "Park Jimin. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Min Do-yun, Yoongi's father." Do-yun extends his hand across the wood and Jimin hesitantly takes it, they shake stiffly. "The pleasure is all mine..." The pinkette says with a small, forced smile.

"Alright. What do you want?" Yoongi asks curtly, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Do-yun takes a deep breath. "Well, me and your mother here have been talking.." He cocks his head to the side, gesturing toward her. Chunja nods politely, Jimin nods back. "And... Well..." He exhales heavily. "Ah, how do I say this?" Do-yun furrows his eyebrows and pursues his lips together, as if he can't quite explain the flavour of words he's longing to bite into. As if it's at the tip of his tongue but refuses to fall any farther past that. As if he's phrasing and rephrasing his sentences because he actually cares what Yoongi will say. It is a unique sight, and a horrifying one at that.