Taehyung stares at himself in the mirror, studying the tattoos littering his body. He smiles. Every spot of ink is significant; he has made himself into a book of memories. He touches the little anchor on his wrist, the very first tattoo he ever got, when he was eighteen, to always remind himself who it was keeping him from drifting into oblivion.

It had all started when Taehyung was six. He had been suddenly and quietly uprooted and planted into a new neighbourhood in a new city and found it difficult to find any friends. He had a tendency to drift off and make strange faces when someone was trying to talk to him and that coupled with his strange accent had the other children convinced he had fallen from the stars, and so they had avoided him.

That's how Jimin had found him, sulking alone in the corner of the neighbourhood playground. The boy had stopped in front of him and asked, with a big wondrous smile on his face "Did you really fall from the stars?"

Taehyung had regarded the boy quietly and carefully whispered "No, but it's not like you'll believe me anyway."

The other boy's shoulders had slumped a little "Oh. I've always wanted to know what the stars looked like up close. I was hoping you'd tell me."

A pause. Then the boy sat down next to him. "Well, maybe you could pretend? And then I could draw your home for you, mummy says I'm good at drawing."

Taehyung's eyes had doubled in size and he had fallen in love on the spot. At least in the way that little six year old boys can fall in love, with a fierce sense of possessiveness and easy jealousy.

Jimin had kept to his word, and the next day presented Taehyung with a drawing of his "home star" as Taehyung had let himself imagine it.

Through the mirror he sees the twin crosses on his middle finger, one of them facing down, as a remnant of deep rooted pain and longing stabs his heart, making him close his eyes at the memories.

Their friendship had run a smooth course for four years without any disturbance to their happy existence. Then Taehyung's father had found where they lived and everything came crashing down on his small shoulders. The police, along with a social worker, came to see him at school, and Jimin's hand clung to his as the news were relayed to him of his mother's death.

He had been taken from school and all he could think of was Jimin's screaming face as he was held back by the teacher, not being allowed to go with Taehyung to the police station. After all the questions were done and the explanations over it was discovered he had no further family that could be contacted, and so he was reluctantly released into the custody of Jimin's parents after much begging and several safety checks, with the promise - a big honking warning, to his mind - that the social worker would come by early to start the work on finding him a foster home.

That night he had curled up against a sobbing Jimin, soothing the boy to sleep with lullabies, the cold tendrils of numbness starting to clutch at his own heart.

Taehyung shakes his head clear and runs his right thumb over his index finger, almost absentmindedly, glancing away from the mirror at his own hand. The teardrops tattooed there bring a smile to his face, as he thinks of the piles and piles of papers he has kept locked in a box all these years.

Taehyung spent his teenage years being passed from one foster home to another. It was always the same: the foster parents were so happy and hopeful to welcome him in, reassuring him that it would work out this time, that it would take time but they'd become a family. He never found a family. When his depression became too much for his foster parents to handle they would shed crocodile tears as they let him go.

Jimin was the only constant in his life, fiercely by his side through the good and the very, very bad. His drawings and paintings of other worlds and beautiful things a promise of a better time. It just wasn't enough.

At the age of seventeen, Taehyung had packed Jimin's drawings into a box with a note to the boy, ink heavily smudged as his tears ran down his hand and pooled at the tip of his pen: a request to keep them safe, he'd come back for them soon. He had dropped the box by Jimin's front door, and ran away.

For three years he had lived homeless in the city, staying close so he could watch over Jimin but never contacting the boy other than through tear stained letters, the postal stamps paid for by money gained by begging or, when that wasn't enough, performing 'services' for punters.

Jimin got accepted to art school and Taehyung would watch him flourish as he poured his pain onto the canvas. He was among the youngest exhibitors at a national gallery and spent a semester in Paris, during which, as he would later reveal, he drew secret scenes of their younger selves on the walls of random buildings with a promise to show them to Taehyung one day.

The cool air makes him shiver but he continues to study his form, thankful that he doesn't look like what he had gone through for so many years. He runs his fingers gently from his thigh up to his ribs, following the stitch pattern to the tip of the two dimensional needle and from there to the small gap of the tattooed open wound, a reminder that there's always more healing to be done.

It was during his fourth year of homelessness, when he had given up trying to scrape money for anti depressants and given his body over to punters without care whether he lived or died that everything turned around. It had been a hot and sticky summer night when he had stumbled his way to Jimin's door, bleeding from his lip and his , and collapsed against it with a bang, wishing to die near something that still mattered to him.

He hadn't died. He had simply passed out before Jimin could open the door. He was rushed to hospital with a half hysterical Jimin never letting go of his hand. He woke up the next morning, hooked up to IVs and staring into the eyes of a wild looking Jimin. He had cried then, loud heart wrenching sobs doubling him over despite the physical pain it was causing. He had passed out from a shot of tranquilizer to the sound of Jimin calling his name.

The next time he woke up he had gone over what happened to him with a doctor who asked him if he wanted them to help him report his . He had said no, watching Jimin shake his head at him in disappointment and sadness. Once he was deemed full enough of nutrients he was discharged into Jimin's care with specific instructions for medicines and a new dose of anti depressants. He had tried to protest but one look from the young man was enough to shut him up. Jimin had not said a word until they got to his flat and even then only to show him around, helping him into a hot bath and making sure he took his meds, telling him he'd be staying home with him until he was well enough to manage by himself.

This continued for days, Jimin quietly helping him in the bath, turning around to give him privacy, and helping him back out again. He made Taehyung's food, cleaned up after him, and gave him his meds. He did all this in perfect silence, unaware of what it was doing to Taehyung.

He had found Taehyung collapsed on the bathroom floor one morning, pulse a faint echo. Taehyung had woken up in hospital, hooked up to more IVs and glanced around, his eyes hitting Jimin's form furiously scratching a sketchpad with his pencil. "I'm sorry." He had whispered. Jimin had shot up violently, his chair making a loud jarring noise against the tiles of the sterile room, making Taehyung grimace. Then Jimin had taken his face in his hands and kissed his forehead, his tears flooding out and hitting Taehyung's cheeks as he whispered "No. I'm sorry. Please, don't leave again, I love you. Even if you do leave I'll still love you, but please don't. I miss you."

They had clutched at each other until they were interrupted by a doctor. She had been sympathetic and given Taehyung leaflets and numbers of several support organizations and ordered him attend months of therapy. Once everything was sorted he was released back into Jimin's care, and this time the older boy made it clear, constantly, how much he was loved and missed but always careful of not making Taehyung feel guilty.

Slowly but surely he had begun to heal, Jimin had gone back to his studies and his job. Jimin's mother visiting every day to make sure Taehyung was okay, making sure he knew she would always welcome him into their family.

His eyes cloud over at the memories of those first few months back in the safety of a warm home, with secure arms that would wrap themselves around him when he needed them. It had saved his life many times until he finally learned to accept himself and take responsibility for his own survival. He looks at the treble clef on his left bicep and the notes twisting and curling around it like fire.

At first he was reluctant to go to therapy, not only was Jimin paying for it with commissions of his art but it made Taehyung feel more vulnerable than living out on the streets ever had. His therapist was the good sort, however, and soon helped him understand his feelings and how to use them, how to gather the strength to let people in again, and how to stop being afraid of asking for help. She had given him the tools and his support group had helped him put them to good use.

He had started learning how to play the guitar and self taught how to write music. He wrote and wrote, about his parents, about his childhood, about his . Mostly he wrote about Jimin. Two years into his recovery he had a job at a youth centre and he would play for the kids, occasionally helping them learn too. It wasn't much but it meant the world to him.

If the youth centre was his world, then Jimin was his universe. He had always known he had been in love with his best friend, in as much as a child or early teen can, and had quietly accepted that he would only ever be a friend. Sometimes he thought he could feel Jimin stare at him when he wasn't looking , that he could see the same ache in Jimin's eyes, the ache to touch, the ache to have, but he had convinced himself it was his desperate imagination.

It had been a surprise to him, then, when Jimin swooped in for a kiss one ordinary, rainy Tuesday night. Adoration visible in dark orbs, dimpled smile ready to confess long hidden feelings. Taehyung had been sure he would pass out from happiness that night, from the feel of Jimin's body against him pressing open mouthed kisses on his burning chest and whispering endless affirmations of love into Taehyung's skin.

He rubs the pad of his thumb over the permanent kiss on his skin under which his heart beats. He glances at the still sleeping form of Jimin on the bed, a barely visible lump hidden under rumpled sheets and pillows, snoring gently. He smiles as he remembers the incredulous look Jimin had given him when he had shown him the tattoo on his chest, gotten a year after that Tuesday night, the infinity symbol between Jimin's lips.

A small grunt escapes Jimin's mouth as he feels around the empty bed and then sits up, his bed head the most adorable thing Taehyung has ever seen, even after all these years.

"What are you doing up? It's only..." Jimin glances at his phone by the bedside table "Okay, sure it's nine in the morning but still. Why are you there and I'm here alone?"

The pout that forms on Jimin's plump lips sends the butterflies crazy in Taehyung's belly and he thinks it's ridiculous that Jimin can still have this effect on him. He turns back to the mirror and looks at all the tattoos staining his skin instead.

"Just reminiscing. " He answers as his gaze flits to the tattoo of a child's hand gently enveloped by a larger one, turning back to Jimin with a smile. "Remind me to call your mother and thank her."

Jimin pads his way across the room, draping his ness over Taehyung's back and planting a soft kiss to his neck.

"Why my mother? What do you need to thank her for?"

Taehyung twists his head to look at Jimin and smiles. "Everything." He whispers. "You."

Jimin grins and brings their lips together, making Taehyung's toes curl and gut twist with desire. He whines a little when Jimin pulls away making them face the mirror again and Jimin chuckles delightedly, intertwining the fingers of their left hands and bringing them on Taehyung's chest, giving him a smile with a million meanings behind it. Taehyung follows the gaze to their ring fingers, to the identical stars tattooed on them where wedding bands would sit were this world a fairer place.

"So then, my Taehyung from the stars. What's your next tattoo going to be?" Jimin grins with a glint in his eyes, naughty hands roaming Taehyung's body in a manner suggesting the question is already forgotten.

Taehyung answers it anyway. "Oh, I don't know. But we are in Paris, I'm sure I'll be able to find us a new memory."

Jimin murmurs against his skin as he pulls him into bed.

"Let's start here."