UNIVERSE / BTS.

39: ghost / jihope

GHOST
( part 2 )

WORD COUNT 1.9K
OVERVIEW "you're not real!"; where hoseok is still there, but jimin refuses to acknowledge it. ( angst )

PLAYLIST lay me down / sam smith, if i believe you / the 1975

∆

JIMIN'S APARTMENT WAS cold. it was cold, empty, simply devoid. devoid of all the happiness, all the love, all the fun times and laughter that used to occupy the four walls, filling up the empty space. hoseok's death had just sucked the life out of the house, of their home.

jimin didn't do much in the week after hoseok's death; he was too trapped in his own misery to even change his clothes, although he showered every day. it was like hoseok's blood was still on him, a phantom itch, an invisible sheen of sickly red that he needed to erase. he spent a lot of time just sitting, just existing, but barely even that. when the phone rang or someone knocked at the door, jimin wouldn't, couldn't answer. he was simply wrecked. he just couldn't work without hoseok.

it was the eighth day after hoseok died. jimin was sat on the sofa, a bottle of beer clutched limply between his small fingers, eyes dull as he stared at a picture of hoseok on the mantelpiece. prom night in korea, back before they moved to compton: hoseok's brown hair was styled perfectly, his grey suit clung to him like a glove, but best of all, his smile was as big as it always had been, while he looked at jimin, his jimin, with so much love and adoration in his eyes. jimin quietly cried at the memory, tears slipping out as he downed another mouthful of beer, sorrows drowned in alcohol.

"god, i miss you, hobi," he said, voice hoarse. "why did you have to go? fuck, why?" he bit hard at his lip, which was bleeding and torn from so much biting and maiming from the boy. "why, hobi?"

it was faint, the last part of his sentence, whispered as gentle as the rain that fell outside. hoseok had been buried three days ago, and it had rained ever since. jimin's tears fell along with it, the bottle dropping to the floor as jimin pulled a sweater - hoseok's sweater - around him tighter, burrowing into the sofa. he was cold, so cold, so empty.

"i love you, hobi." he whispered into the cold, dark apartment.

for a moment, he swore he heard an "i love you too" whispered back. he dismissed it; he'd been drinking too much as of late, his mind could conjure anything up. especially seeing as he'd taken a few hits from hoseok's bong that day, sweet maryjane addling up his brain and making him feel light and hazy. it was nothing.

little did he know, it was so much more than that.

∆

BEING DEAD WAS shit.

hoseok had realised this on the day of his funeral; the day he'd stood beside jimin as the younger boy wept and wept, floods of tears, and hoseok had wanted to comfort him, wanted to take him in his arms and tell him he was there, but no one could see him. he was present, still in his blood stained ramones shirt and too-tight jeans, but he was transparent to the people standing over his grave, saying their condolences while his physical form was lowered into the dirt.

hoseok hated everything about the funeral. there was the obvious reason for hating it (he was dead, for fucks sake), and there were others. the funeral had clearly been organised by hoseok's parents - who had flown in from korea by the looks of it, and who stood stiffly in their mourning clothes, not even bothering to offer a kind word to jimin - as it was religious as all seven hells, something hoseok didn't ever want, and they'd just made it so formal; hoseok wore a suit he'd never wear, shiny loafers that shouldn't have gone into the dirt, and his hair was styled so stiffly. they were treating his death as if it were natural causes, not a hate crime committed against him and his boyfriend.