They called them perfect, the power-duo, a match made in heaven with talents that they haven’t seen in decades. They did not hold back even the most extravagant praises; and when their words ran out, they said there were simply not enough ways to describe the magic created by Yoongi’s words and Jimin’s voice.

Yoongi remembers Jimin’s face, the way the flashing stage lights reflected in his widened eyes, the way his lips pressed tight because he still could not bring himself to believe that he was just a few minutes away from his official debut stage, the way Jimin glanced at Yoongi, as if asking for encouragement, assurance, anything that could calm the furious beating of his heart, and yet turned away when their eyes met.

Yoongi remembers walking over and squeezing Jimin’s hands in his own. He remembers feeling their pulses beating in the same bursting rhythm of excitement under his fingers, his whisper almost drowned out by the relentless chanting of Jimin’s name.

“Look at me - just breathe, okay?”

But things change when you least expect them to, and Yoongi did not see it coming, crashing into his life from miles away, his dream flickered away as quickly as it came.

Yoongi did not see it coming that one day he would be sitting here, between the sickeningly white walls, tossing into the bin the hundred and first newspaper that now defines them with but one detestable word “pitiful”.

“Nothing good in the news?”

Yoongi glances up at Jimin, who smiles as if it pained him to, so the older boy walks over to the bed and looks for Jimin’s hand among the white sheets. His stomach twists as he finds the once-chubby fingers now way too thin and shaky underneath his.

“Nothing” Yoongi forces a smile.

“So no one to replace the pitiful singer who lost his voice yet?-“

“Jimin…”

“-the one who doesn’t even get to spend his last days on the stage singing…?” Jimin chuckles sadly.

“Jimin, please.” Yoongi squeezes Jimin’s hand again.

Yoongi remembers sitting next to Jimin in the doctor’s office, staring blankly at indecipherable black and white charts and listening to explanation that he wish would stop. He remembers clutching Jimin’s hand, hard, as if the latter was slipping away.

Because he was slipping away.

Since then, there have been good days, when Jimin is happy and finishes his food, when they spend all day playing silly game on his tablet and talking about field trips they will make once Jimin recovers, because they let themselves believe that he will.

But there have also been bad days, when reality slaps them hard across their faces, when Jimin’s fever goes up and he is too tired to move, when Jimin chooses to forget everything but the fact that he is bed-bound counting down the days left, when Jimin sinks into Yoongi’s chest, sobbing, shaking and the only thing Yoongi can do is reminding him to breathe.

It has never been easy but Yoongi swears to never let go of Jimin’s hand.

“Why don’t you write anymore, hyung?”

“Hm?”

“Why don’t you write for other people?” Jimin breathes slowly, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask and his pale skin fading into the white sheets.

“Why should I write for other people when I have you to sing my songs?” Yoongi rubs circles into Jimin’s palm, trying to ignore the countless tubes and wires embedding into Jimin’s body, so thin he looks like he could snap into two at the blow of a wind.

“I can’t sing anymore…” Jimin’s eyes slide shut “…but you can’t… stop making your music.”

Yoongi brushes gently at Jimin’s arm, the little span of skin that feels way too cold even for Yoongi, and forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He can’t tell Jimin that he did try to write, but words have been evading him, his pen and notepads have been lying uselessly in his lap as he watches his muse withering away in front of his eyes; that his chest feels heavy and his eyes tired and he needs Jimin to be healthy and happy and pressing kisses all over his face in the morning and wrapping himself over Yoongi at night – he needs Jimin to be alive and breathing – so goddamn much.

“Let me worry about it” Yoongi squeezes Jimin hand, again, softly, because Jimin seems like he may break at the touch “You, Park Jimin, make sure you heal up properly and are ready for my songs when you get out of here!”

Jimin nods once before slipping back into his sleep.

Yoongi remembers the moment he finally had the courage to confess to Jimin - the latter was standing obliviously in the recording room, and for some obscure reasons Yoongi just knew he couldn’t hold it in any longer so he pressed that button and stuttered into the microphone. Yoongi remembers the way Jimin stared at him from behind the glass, hands frozen in front of his chest and red flush crawling across his soft cheeks.

“Breath, Jimin, breath.” Yoongi spoke into the mic again, minutes later, belatedly realizing that it was not the best idea because it was simply too awkward to continue recording.

But Yoongi took Jimin out for coffee afterwards and the latter slid his fingers in between Yoongi’s own. Since then, Yoongi has learnt to paint his lyrics with colour of the sky, to map his words between the stars and weave in his music that dash of pink on Jimin’s cheeks.

The tube, the wires, the mask, the machines are all gone and now Yoongi is squeezing Jimin’s hand, hard, his fingers etching themselves into Jimin’s, almost breaking the fragile skin, because he needs to stop himself from shoving his fist down his throat.

“Hyung, remember that song?” Jimin says, his eyes soften, as if he is finally at rest.

“What song?” Yoongi’s voice trembles.

“When you stopped me half way… and tell me… tell me that you liked me.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Sing it for me, hyung.”

Yoongi chokes on his sad laugh, but he presses their hands into his chest and his vision gets all blurry. Please, I would give anything, everything, please – he begs in his head.

And so he sings, muttering broken words, syllables, until it’s just hopeless sobbing, until it’s just Jimin’s trying to hum along. Yoongi’s chest feels tight and he is gasping for air, his whole body is now shaking and his lungs are paralyzed in pain. Please give us more time, one year, one month, one day, please – he whimpers.

 “Look at me, hyung…” Jimin tugs weakly at Yoongi’s thumb, so he rubs the tears out of his eyes and looks up.

“Hm?”

“… Breathe… just breath… okay?”

Jimin smiles, teeth-baring and eyes closing into little half-moons.

And Yoongi screams silence, suffocated.