11:02 p.m.

They climbed the corridor of stairs leading from the entryway to the wooden front door of the home. Yoongi's voice bounced off the walls, only to be caught amidst the reverberating waves of hip hop that shook through each surface on every side them.

"You'll be fine. I like you, so they'll like you."

"You sure they won't think I'm a cold prick?" 

"... Well, no. But we go forward." 

Yoongi smiled, and the door swung open. 

"Mandem ah come bearing gifts. Frankencense, myrrh," said the buzzed-cut man who answered in a booming London accent, "and tequila! "

The man accepted their bottle of pure agave tequila and pulled Yoongi in for a hug-- the kind that included an audible smack on the back with his free hand. Jimin let out a chuckle, not sure what to do with the breath in his lungs or his now empty hands. 

Normally, he was pretty quiet in social settings. He never cared to speak much to people he didn't already speak to. But this wasn't like that. He decided from the moment that Yoongi had invited him to his friends' get-together, that this was more important, more stressful somehow.

Their voices had been audible, but their words and laughter unintelligible all this time. Jimin only began paying attention when Yoongi tore his attention away from his friend to rest his hand on his shoulder. 

"Oh, um," He said, in a by the way kind of way, "This is Jimin."

Jimin hardly had time to think about the platonic implications of the gesture when the man shifted his eyes to him. He smirked, a little more playfully than Jimin was comfortable with because what was that about?

"Ah, you're Jimin. From the train station." The man said, his voice now stripped of the whimsical accent. 

"Yeah, that's me." 

Jimin's thoughts fired, clinging onto any information that would help him push the conversation. He vaguely remembered the time that Yoongi showed him this man's Instagram-- the way he was in awe of what was apparently the major black-to-blond hair transformation that stood before him now. What was his name? Ah! "And you're Namjoon from..."

"Middle school."

Namjoon turned to lead them into the space, guiding them toward a kitchen island where he resumed drinking a dark liquor. Yoongi, no stranger to the space, began pouring two glasses of something that started out clear and slowly turned a ruby red. 

Jimin surveyed the room: a lanky man with a pornstache and what he assumed was a Wasian girl stood by the entryway, a dark-skinned man in blacked out sunglasses playing Uno with two people who looked identical to him, a fluffy cat wisping around his feet with its tail, and some guy in a beanie already making himself a plate. That's what he could see without his glasses, of course.

"And that's Hoseok from Zara," Namjoon nodded his head into the apartment toward another man, one who piled his plate full of noodles.

"I used to work there before I started culinary school," Yoongi mentioned without looking back at Jimin. Then he darted his eyes around at what couldn't be anymore than seven other people there yet. In acknowledgment of the dissonance between the bass of the beat and the calmness in the room, he asked Namjoon, "When did you get here?" 

"Too fucking long ago. Naya told me to be here at 10."

"You forgot she runs on POC time? You fall for this every time," Yoongi sipped.

"Doesn't matter now. I'm toasted," replied Namjoon. And if eyes could slur, that's what his did.

"I told you we didn't pregame enough, Jimin."

If it weren't for the lumpia, pancit, and rices laid out on banana leaves across the dinner table by Hoseok, it might actually smell more like the home it looked like. Green plants hung lazily from the ceiling and sat in large pots near the seating areas. There were many mirrors and many lamps of varying sizes and dimnesses. The feelings was cozy, familiar almost. And everyone in the party felt it, sprawling over his sofas, ottomans, the kitchen island, the windowpanes.

Traipsing toward them as if he felt Jimin's thoughts, Hoseok smiled and chewed with a plate in one hand. The other prepared to dap Jimin up, who, could not possibly look less ready for it. It came anyway, making Yoongi chuckle. 

"Jimin, right? Wassup, man. I heard you out here making delicious birthday cakes and shit."

"How many people you do that for?" Namjoon quipped, and when Jimin looked his way, Yoongi was already glaring. He continued, a mischievous smile forming, "Sound like you should start catering. Could be a good side hustle."

"Personally, I feel like the only birthday cake Yoongi needs is six shots of Don Julio but that's just me," Hoseok munched.

"After this, I'll be halfway there."

Wait, didn't he make my drink too? Jimin looked down at the liquid in his cup.

"Last time you said that was the night after graduation. You remember the next morning you woke up--"

"Alive. Exactly. Cheers to that," Yoongi said.

The others sputtered with laughter. The two of them waited for Namjoon and Hoseok to collect themselves for a moment before a smile grew on even Jimin's face. A question finally took root in his mind and Yoongi smiled back, suspicious but curious.

Jimin took a healthy sip from his glass and looked at Namjoon.

"What was he like in university?"

2:14 a.m.

The rain had turned all the asphalt to mirrors, reflecting the light of every pink neon sign and green traffic light. At the crossroads of 12th and Essex, it was as loud and as quiet as ever. 

"Your friends are funny," His own voice broke the crisp air like glass.

"That's cause incarnations of me," Yoongi grinned.

"Give it up."

The air was crisp, but still settled softly over them them. It amplified the faint rolling of car wheels toward the crosswalk. High beam lights hit them, stretching their silhouettes far out into the intersection. The rain would fall again soon. Jimin walked fast and Yoongi walked faster still. His calves burned as he licked his lips, his tongue too bashful to nudge the words past his lips. 

He'd been looking at the back of all of him for a while-- the cream puffer, the jeans, the desert boots-- before he said it. It was like fireworks shot out of him.

"So you told them about me?"

"Of course I did. I kinda had to after I started bailing on boys' night. Plus, you're my best friend slash situationship. Best frienduationship."

Underwhelmed somehow, he replied, "Yeah. Namjoon didn't seem too excited about me."

"He's my guy. I've known him longest," Yoongi stopped to face him, playfully raising his register, "And you haven't always been nice to me."

"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.