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When Jimin crashes into the land of waking, it’s with a jump. He doesn’t know what wakes him up. Yoongi’s still next to him, sleeping with his mouth agape, lips pressing down on Jimin’s bare shoulder and soft puffs of breath crashing against his skin. He thinks about it, waits a little fuzzily as his thoughts clear enough to make way for the sound of scratching and gentle thumps coming from the ceiling.
It was probably that damn cat again. Yoongi had been complaining how the couple upstairs had the nerve to adopt animals when they were barely capable of looking after themselves.
Jimin sighs, heart calming down from the thrumming pace it had been keeping from the sudden burst of adrenaline. His eyes drift across Yoongi’s smooth, bare and porcelain pale skin, bathed in the dim moonlight and the sheet barely covering his ass, like some kind of black and white art drawn by a painter who dabbled with the most careful of touches with their brush strokes, enticing and slow.
Jimin should probably go home.
He should have left a long time ago, when Yoongi had been drifting off on his shoulder after the dinner (take-out that Jimin spent ten minutes trying to convince a staunchly adamant Yoongi into splitting the cost), tuckered out easily after the fifth time he tried to shake himself awake for Jimin. Jimin had carried him easily - Yoongi was all but skin and bones – but Yoongi drifted in and out, trying to fruitlessly coax him into losing his – Yoongi’s – sweatshirt and pants and get into the bed with him.
Yoongi had been painfully irresistible, voice sleep hoarse and hazy eyed, limbs insistent in a way he’d never allow them to be if he was fully cognizant. Jimin had fallen into bed with him, allowed it helplessly the same way his Yoongi’s ink-stained fingers curled a little on his bare chest - right over his heart - and its marching drumbeat quickened its pace, sensing its only home.
Jimin covers Yoongi’s long fingers over his chest, breath catching a little and shuddering.
Too quick, too easy.
It had been barely five weeks since Jimin and Yoongi had started seeing each other, and five weeks since Jimin had fallen in love with the small curve that rested in the corner of Yoongi’s smile from across the room.
He looks at the clock glowing in the dark, mounted on the wall. Five a. m. Definitely time to go.
His limbs don’t agree with him so easily. It takes an awfully reluctant eternity till he can extract his limbs from under Yoongi’s, and he almost regrets it when he stands upright. His calves miss the cold, poor circulation touch of Yoongi’s toes, and his throat feels a little too tight, when he pulls up Yoongi’s sweatpants.
His clothes are a mess of them, in the hamper Jimin had come to fondly familiarize himself with, come to feel warm that he was allowed to toss his clothes in it, a silent, implicit promise within the gesture that ensured Yoongi would allow him over again. Jimin finds the corner of his mouth lifting when he picks up the sweatshirt from the floor, too big on Yoongi, and definitely too big for Jimin, and pulls it over his head.
It’s soft and warm against his skin, a little worn and faded as if Yoongi has loved this sweatshirt for a long time. It smells a little of fabric softener, and perhaps the most important of all, Yoongi. It’s Yoongi’s aftershave clinging to the neck of the fabric, it’s Yoongi’s citrus soap and musk woven into its threads. Jimin kind of just, lets himself stand there and breathe it in for a second.
He’s probably got it pretty bad, for him to be getting off to Yoongi’s scent like this, especially with Yoongi sleeping just a few feet away.
Fuck. He really needs to go.
Picking his way through the dark apartment when his eyes had adjusted to the faint moonlight is a little bit of a challenge, but the cat above thumps down encouragingly sometimes and Jimin doesn’t sigh at the cold ground beneath his feet. It’s probably sheer luck he doesn’t fall over something and brain himself, considering how messy Yoongi lets his house get, but he manages to slip his feet into his shoes without bothering with the socks and grab his keys off the hook on the door.
It’s just a few steps out of the door, just a few steps to the elevator to take him down and Jimin just—
He’s reaching for Yoongi’s small, delicate jaw, something wistful curling in his chest and thumping against it. His fingers stop shy of touching skin, and he exhales quietly to just look at Yoongi.
It’s so stupid, it’s practically impossible – but here they are – and its them together. People who know them both have started calling them YoongiandJimin and JiminandYoongi and Minnieminmin – as if that’s the easiest thing in the world – to jump from being just Yoongi and just Jimin to something so impossible, so fragile that it sets Jimin’s heart alight. To have Yoongi glance at him, see him when no one else does, to see into him and give him that private uptick of a smile he reserves just for Jimin as if he knows – how can he possibly know—
The world feels like it’s hung on the one inhale Jimin never really let escape fully, letting him take in Yoongi unabashedly. Jimin doesn’t usually allow himself the luxury to bask in Yoongi’s beauty, cannot bear to have the world watch along as he takes in Yoongi’s beauty. But in the silent moonlight, yearning seethes within him the strongest and seizes hold of his heart.
Dark hair falls across Yoongi’s forehead, falls over his ears, tickles his neck and casts shadows. Jimin leans in closer to look at Yoongi, finds a bruise nestled near his collarbone, where Jimin had kissed a little too sharply. Yoongi always bruises easy, and Jimin doesn’t know why, but it brings a savage satisfaction within him that should be out of place. But it isn’t. It never is.
He tucks Yoongi’s hair over his ear. “Hey,” he whispers softly. “Hyung. I’m gonna take off.”
Yoongi opens his eyes a little, and there’s none of the sleep-irritable scrunch to them Jimin had expected to see. “Yeah. Alright,” Yoongi rasps out, shifting with barely an exhale and closing his eyes again.
That easy? Something uneasy makes itself known in Jimin’s stomach.
“Okay. Alright.” Jimin swallows. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He gets up.
He doesn’t expect the grip on his wrist, nor does he see the hard tug that pulls at it. So he crashes right back down, onto Yoongi. He barely just manages to throw a hand out to catch his weight on the bed, before Yoongi’s hand slinks up into his hair and tugs hard. Yoongi doesn’t even open his eyes; he just settles Jimin comfortably between his legs like he belongs there.
“Your nose is cold.” Yoongi hums, nose knocking into Jimin’s in small gesture that sends Jimin’s heart fluttering. “Why?”
“Guess it’s the October chill outside,” Jimin replies breathlessly.
“So, why’d you go out?” Yoongi asks, as if he suspects Jimin’s been dropped on his head one too many times as a baby.
“I don’t know,” Jimin whispers, finally getting his elbows underneath him. This way him and Yoongi are sharing breaths together, and it aches. Jimin doesn’t even know why. “I guess it’s time.”
“There’re no trains this time, stupid,” Yoongi says, sounding almost fond. Jimin’s breath catches.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Um. Thought I’d call a cab.”
“Hmm. Okay,” Yoongi says, and presses a kiss to his nose. Presses a kiss on his lips, presses lazy kisses wherever he can reach. Jimin knows he can’t allow himself to enjoy this, because it’s going to ache when he finally leaves Yoongi.
“You’ve got to let me go, hyung.”
“Can’t,” Yoongi slurred between his kisses, pausing to press little nips to Jimin’s lips. Licks them over. Presses close again. “Can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Jimin asks quietly, heart thudding.
“Can’t,” Yoongi shrugs a little under him. Curls a leg around the back of Jimin’s knees as if to keep him from moving. As if Jimin was capable of movement when Yoongi holds him like this. His hand tickles at the back of Jimin’s neck, playing with the collar. “Can’t let you go with this.”
“My clothes are in the trash…” Jimin starts, and Yoongi takes it as a cue to kiss his way into his mouth, shut him up like that.
“Pity,” Yoongi says, not really sounding all that sorry. “Totally means you can’t leave, though.”
“Or I can totally wash it up and return it later, hyung,” Jimin argues, because someone needs to bring in reason. “I won’t even charge you the obligatory 5000-won laundry fee.”
Yoongi doesn’t reply, and before Jimin can even register it, Yoongi’s tugging off the sweatshirt from his body and toppling him over deftly. Jimin pants in surprise when he looks up at Yoongi, who has a hint of a smirk on his face as he holds up the sweatshirt and sets it aside.
The smirk falters when Yoongi looks down at him, and Jimin’s heart stutters in his chest when Yoongi doesn’t say anything for a long time.
“Hyung.” Jimin bites his lip, feels the need to hide his face under his forearm, feels the need to get away from Yoongi because he’s more than naked. He’s been caught unprepared, vulnerable and this way Yoongi is definitely going to know, because Park Jimin doesn’t have control over his own reactions –
And then Yoongi’s kissing him everywhere, warm and soft skin of his chest sliding against Jimin’s bare skin and fingers pressing down roughly, as if Yoongi wants to ruin him. Jimin’s hands find their familiar spot across Yoongi’s back, wander downwards below the sheets – and Jimin can’t help the cries that fall from between their lips, plaintive and desperate.
“I really can’t let you have that one,” Yoongi rasps into his skin. “It’s my favourite one.”
“Right,” Jimin laughs breathlessly, nerves singing when Yoongi slides down to nip along his chest. His feet rub across Jimin’s thighs and he pauses for a moment to look down at the sweatpants bunched up along Jimin’s calves.
“Aren’t those mine too?”
Jimin hums. “Possibly. Why, those a favourite too?”
“Hmm,” Yoongi replies, licking around the hickey he’d left on Jimin’s clavicle. “You could say that.”
Jimin throws his head back when Yoongi closes his mouth around a nipple. “I kind of get possessive.” Jimin’s cock rubs against Yoongi’s, through the sweatpants and Jimin lets out a high pitched moan, nearly missing the trailing end of Yoongi’s words. “Usually when it comes to things I consider mine.”
Jimin stops breathing. Yoongi unfolds himself and kisses him again, all teeth and amusement as his other hand wanders further south, slowly drawing the waistband of the sweatpants down and allowing their hardness to come in contact. But Jimin’s head refuses to let go of the words, tosses them around over and over; and in the blinks of his eyes when he can keep them open to look at Yoongi, there’s a softness in his eyes that leaves him trembling.
“Do you even know?” Jimin asks plaintively. “Do you even know what you do to me? Every time you say something like that?”
“What?” Yoongi sounds a little breathless, smile curling upwards and widening and Jimin falls again. Again and again and again. Jimin’s doomed for Yoongi, because there’s possibly no one else on this earth who can make him feel like this.
Jimin brings his trembling hands up to cup Yoongi’s face between them, holding him steady, even as he grinds down. There’s heat rising in his stomach, a telltale sign of him about to lose it, but Jimin can’t—
“Do you?” Jimin whispers again.
Yoongi looks down at him, eyes light and soft in a way Jimin has never seen before.
But he has, he thinks, he has. Everytime he’s caught Yoongi looking at him when he thinks Jimin doesn’t know, every time he wanders off into his thoughts and Jimin can now tell Yoongi’s thinking about him because he gets this same look in his eyes. As if Jimin’s the most precious person Yoongi has ever seen in his life, as if Jimin is what keeps him together.
Yoongi huffs slightly, smile so bright Jimin can barely look straight. Blinded.
He leans down and slots their lips together.
“I do,” Min Yoongi answers softly, finally, and holds Jimin as he comes apart.
Jimin’s heart stops aching.