The early morning sun peaked shyly through his window, hitting his back and draping Yoongi in shadows as narrowed he his eyes at his reflection. A black t-shirt that he paired with a white, long sleeved undershirt hung loosely over his top half, ironed and pressed to near perfection. His favorite pair of distressed, light wash jeans clung to his legs, showing off the pale expanse of his thighs and were haphazardly tucked into a pair of tan, fuzzy boots. He turned to his right, turned to his left, did a 180 degree spin.

And grumbled.

Usually he doesn't care too much for his appearance, but ever since he confronted his father last week in what he refers to in his head as The Day Min Yoongi Grew Some ing Balls - while it felt like a ton of bricks had been lifted off his chest and the feeling was absolutely phenomenal - a restless void had also awoken within him and refused to go back to sleep no matter what he tried to fill it with.

Today, it was fashion.

Objectively speaking, he looked good. He'd even say really good, but that void was poking insistently at the back of his head, telling him that something was missing but he couldn’t put his finger on what. He tried adding a beanie, and it probably would've granted him a couple double takes but it didn't feel like him. Today he needed something different what that was exactly, he had no idea.

He grumbled at it one last time and shuffled to the bathroom - glancing quickly at the clock on his nightstand to see how much longer he had until the bus arrived - to brush his teeth. Maybe the minty flavor of his toothpaste would tell him what was missing.

It doesn’t.

He passes his mom’s bedroom door walking out of the bathroom. It's cracked, allowing him just make out the silhouette of her shadow on the carpet. He peaks in to find she’s standing at her vanity, fighting with diamond she's trying to put in her ears. A navy sweater hangs loosely on her shoulders, paired nicely with a pair of elegant black slacks, but the most breathtaking part about her is her skin. It's milky, like his, and glows as the sun hits it, casting a golden ring around her as if she was radiating from the inside out.

She changed after the divorce, but it wasn't until a few weeks after that he noticed it. He was walking in from school one day, exhausted and in need of a nap and got halfway stairs when he heard a soft lilt from the kitchen, and froze. It took him a few seconds to realize it was his her, and a few more seconds to realize it was her singing. She hadn’t sung in forever, but her voice was still as sweet and soft as it was when he was little. He took a seat on the bottom step, leaned his head against the wall and listened to a song he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. She also laughed a little louder at his jokes, let her silly side out more, and now, instead of the it hanging dull and limp from stress, her hair shines, a midnight black speckled with the occasional gray.

“You look really pretty,” he says from the door.

She pauses in the middle of putting in her left earring to smile shyly. “Thank you, Yoongiyah. But,” her hands finish putting the ring in her ear, and firmly plant themselves on the vanity in front of her, “I feel like something’s missing.”

He snorts. “You and me both.”

She her head to the side, just before a light bulb goes off in her head. Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, and she makes a small “aha!” noise that puts a grin on Yoongi’s face.

“Yoongiyah, in my jewelry box, there’s a black pearl necklace. Can you get it for me?”

He nods, and walks toward the small white box located on her dresser, digging through it until he finds the necklace buried under a pile of hoop earrings. A flower hair clip falls onto the floor as he pulls it out, and he goes to put it back after giving her the necklace but right as he’s about to drop it back in the box but pauses.

Slowly, he brings it back to his face, and turns it over in his hand. It’s a pale pink, with alternating white and black beads lying in the middle, and specs of glitter decorating the petals.

The small inklings of a probably bad idea take root in his brain. It scares him. It damn near terrifies him what he’s thinking, because the Yoongi from just last week wouldn’t have even looked twice at the pink hair clip in his hands. The idea grows until it’s trekked across every valley and field of his mind. It grows until it presses up against the inside of his skull, refusing to be ignored and leaving no room for an internal debate.

Cautiously, he calls out, “Mom?”

“Yes sweetie?” she answers.

“C-can I wear this?”

She whips around, throwing her hair over her shoulders. He tries to ignore the way her face changes when her eyes land on the hair clip in his hands, and then when it changes again when they land on his face. They switch rapidly between the two as Yoongi stands there, internally feeling like a pinball machine but externally as still as a windless desert.

When she finally stops, her face is unreadable, contrary to his mother’s usually expressive personality. It shakes him even more. He could laugh. He should laugh, play it off as joke, say he was just kidding and that there was no way he’d possibly-

“Of course.”

He blinks. And blinks again, and again, but it doesn’t get rid of the burning in his eyes. Everything in front of him turns dewy and shiny as his vision blurs, as if he’s looking through sculpted glass. He blinks again. There’s something wet dripping down his cheeks, and the sound of a broken hiccup vibrates his ear drums, and it takes him a second before he feels the scratchiness in his throat and realizes it was him. He made that noise because he’s crying. Why is he crying?

He feels her before he sees her, wrapping her arms around him and pressing soft, tender kisses into his hair, muttering comforting words that he can barely hear.

She places her hands on his cheeks, and lifts his face to hers. “Shh, Yoongiyah, it’s okay,” she consoles him, taking the soft skin of her thumb to wipe away his tears.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying,” he tries to say through his sniffles.

She presses her lips into a line, and her face softens. “I think I know why,” she says tenderly, and brushes a hand through his hair. “You know…you know I’m not your father, right?”

He nods as he sniffles again, wet and ugly. “I know.”

“And you know I would never, ever judge you, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

Gently, she caresses his hands in hers, and stands behind him once she’s led them to the vanity mirror. His eyes are tinged red, as was his face but both were starting to regain their usual color with the deep breaths he took. She takes the hair pin out of his hands, and in the reflection he can see her pull back a lock of blond hair on the side of his face, can feel the brush of her fingers on his skin, and neatly pins the hair clip in place.

The warmth that spreads through him as he looks at himself isn’t harsh or burning as he expected it to be, but rather soft. It starts in his chest and blooms outward, wrapping itself around his bones like vines and planting seeds in his blood, and he knows.

This is what it feels like to finally be at peace.

-

The wind is biting cold as Yoongi waits at the bus stop, blowing the leaves up in front of him, in his face and around his body. They're mostly brown now, crunching under his sneakers with a few speckles of orange and red that were still hanging on for dear life in the branches. He tightens his gray knitted scarf around his neck, and his flimsy jacket around his body but it does nothing to fight against the wind chill. He should probably invest in some heavier clothes, now that he thinks about it. It was still only November, and he wasn’t too keen on freezing his of until March in loose t-shirts because his old clothes didn’t fit him anymore.

His bus stop is the last one, so the bus is already full when it pulls up in front of him. He’s not anticipating the stares he knows he’s going to get, he really isn’t, but ironically he feels the most secure and safe he's ever felt. The flower clip in his hair, though will be the cause of all the unwanted attention, acts like an armor, protecting him from the raised eyebrows and the tilted heads. Eyes follow him until he sits in his reserved (not really reserved) seat at the front of the bus behind the driver, and burn holes into the back of his skull, but they don’t bother him nearly as much as they used to. He hears someone whisper “” under their breath before he slips his headphones in, and it stings, but it doesn’t cause an avalanche in his mind like it might have in the past.

He felt different, but at the same time not different at all because he’s always been like this. This was always who he was, locked away in a closet in a basement somewhere, just waiting for the day Yoongi would come downstairs, unlock the door and let him out, let him be free.

He leans his head against the window, watching the world go by as the bass bumps in his ears, smiling particularly when the bus is at a stop light and he sees two boys, too young to have started school yet, at the park across the street playing on the swing set.

Taehyung’s waiting for him at their usual spot, red hair freshly dyed and fanning neatly over his forehead with his hands stuffed into the pockets of a white fluffy coat. His eyes fall on the flower clip, and he eyes it with wonder before asking, “Where did you get that? Can you get me one, too?” to which Yoongi chuckles.

Jimin’s bus pulls up a few minutes later. Jimin, as usual, is the last off, bundled up in a heavy jacket and a beanie resting on his head, wheeling himself out with the help of the bus driver. And only the bus driver.

“Where’s Ms. Choi?” Taehyung asks when Jimin reaches them.

“I had a nice, long talk with my parents. And we both decided that her services weren’t needed.” he says with his hands neatly folded in his lap.

“But what about you? Who’s going to protect you?”

Jimin’s eyes went hard set. “I don’t need protecting,” he enunciates, and flicks his gaze to Yoongi. More specifically, the flower clip. He stares at it for a few moments until the corners of his lips tugged upward as his eyes locked with Yoongi’s. He blushed underneath his scarf, sporting a similar expression to Jimin’s as they met each other’s gaze sharing a silent conversation, a secret between the two of them.

Neither boys noticed Taehyung’s knowing smile.

The youngest takes his place behind Jimin, grabbing onto the handles of his chair to push him up the ramp, getting half way up when Yoongi, to his surprise, feels fingers repeatedly brush against his. One finger wraps itself around his pointer, and another around his middle, until a small, fleshy hand slips itself almost shyly into his own, and squeezes. With his head down to hide his face in his scarf, heart beating wildly, Yoongi squeezes back. Even if this was just Jimin giving him comfort, he could still pretend it was something else.

Things were finally beginning to feel...right. His underlying layer of anxiety that constantly left him with something to be desired was melting, and it was overwhelming but also exciting, so when they reach the first platform, he feels compelled to look back over everything. The grass is covered in a layer of frost, turning it white, and the sidewalk is littered with brown and red leaves, but the sun is shining, reflecting off the copper statue in the middle or the lawn so weathered down it was almost completely brown. It gives off a dull luster, from the head all the way down to it’s toes-

Yoongi freezes. There’s someone standing next to the statue, already looking at him - at them - before they locked eyes.

It was Jiho. Jiho was back in school.

“Yoongi, you okay?” he hears Jimin’s voice next to him, and snaps his head in the boys direction, looking down at his innocent, unknowing face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

-

“Dad, can you help me with this problem?” Jimin calls to his father in the kitchen from the living room.

“You know I’ve taken algebra II before and I can help you too, right?” Yoongi asks, planted on the sofa sat next to Jimin.

“Yes, but I want my dad to help me,” he answers indignantly.

Mr. Park appears from the kitchen then, maroon apron still secured around his waist with a plate of cookies in hand. “You’re lucky I had just finished whipping up something for you and Yoongi to eat and was just about to bring it out to you.”

“Hmm, must have been my father-son senses tingling.”

“I don’t think that’s a real think, Jimin-ah.”

“Sure it is.”

Mr. Park snorts and playfully rolls his eyes, and scrunches his nose and leans over Jimin’s shoulder. Yoongi watches them, playing with the flower clip in his hair that’s now become a staple in his wardrobe, remembering how he would help them both with their homework when they were younger. Yoongi would always struggle in history and sciences that didn’t involve math, while Jimin always had trouble with maths and languages. He was always patient with the both of them, working through everything one step at a time until they finally got to the answer and he would call them his “little geniuses.”

Funny how Jimin's dad was more of a dad to him than his own was.

“So I would multiply these two-”

“No no, these two first. Remember, first, outside, inside, last.”

Jimin jutted his bottom lip out, before diligently working through the problem again. Yoongi pretended it wasn’t the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

“Yes, and now you combine the like terms.”

Yoongi ignores his homework completely in favor of settling into the couch and watching them. He knew they had talked and worked through their feelings since that day they came to blows, but to anyone watching them, stranger or not, it would look like they had never had an argument in the first place. The interacted so seamlessly. Nothing was strained, and when Mr. Park smiled down at Jimin when he got a question right, even a blind man could see that it was nothing but genuine. In the past, Yoongi might have been jealous. But now Yoongi’s just glad Jimin never had to experience what he did.

Jimin absentmindedly took a cookie from the plate Mr. Park brought out, and chewed on it.

“And I would graph it like this, right?” he asked with his mouth full, scribbling something down on his paper.

“That’s right! See, not so hard is it?”

Jimin blushed. “No, I guess not.”

“Good, because I have to go clean up the kitchen,” he said, and with a light tap on Jimin’s back, left the living room. Jimin continued munching on the cookies as he worked through the problems, occasionally crinkling his eyebrows when he got confused again before it would make sense and he’d hastily jot down his answer. He picked up another cookie, and this time shoved the whole thing in his mouth, puffing up his cheeks until he resembled a baby chipmunk. Yoongi chuckles, and Jimin looks up at him with doe eyes.

“Wha?” he muffles.

Yoongi fondly shakes his head. “You’re cute.”

Jimin turns red, and hurriedly swallows the cookie. “I’m not cute. I’m a man, damn it.”

“Whatever you say, Jiminie.”

Yoongi focuses his attention back to his homework in front of him, but after about twenty seconds in feels a pair of eyes on him, and looks up to find Jimin staring at him curiously.

“Yes?” he asks.

Jimin opens and closes his mouth a couple times. “Can I ask you something?”

His voice trembles, and Yoongi notes it immediately and sits up, closing his textbook as he does so. “Of course,” he answers. “What is it?”

It falls quiet. Jimin looks away, and bites at his lips as he repeatedly runs a hand through his hair. He looks to the pictures on the walls, the fireplace, into the kitchen, anywhere but at Yoongi. The silence is so pressing he can feel it in his bones. Whatever was on Jimin’s mind, it was troubling him deeply, so Yoongi waits as patiently as he can with his hands folded over his knees, not wanting to rush him.

Finally, Jimin looks at him with fingers brushing at the back of his neck, and in a breathy whisper, says “Yoongi hyung?”

“Yes?” Yoongi, answers back just as quietly.

Jimin runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and takes a deep breath. “How did you-”

“I have more snacks!”

Both boys jump out of their seats. Mr. Park walks back over to the table, this time with apples slices and celery neatly arranged in a wheel around a small bowl of peanut butter.

“Dad, I thought you said you were cleaning the kitchen,” Jimin whined.

“I was, but then I felt guilty not feeding you anything healthy so I whipped this up, too. You were obviously hungry,” he adds, gesturing at the empty plate that used to hold the cookies. He goes to grab it, but Jimin’s hand on his arm stops him. “Wait. I can take it back,” he says, suddenly determined and also seeming to have forgotten about his question.

Jimin and his father lock eyes, Jimin giving him a pointed look and after a moment, Mr. Park nods in understanding. “You can take it back,” he agrees.

Jimin grins and grabs one of his crutches resting next to him and tucks it under his left armpit and grabs the plate with his right. He struggles a bit getting to standing, but he gets their eventually. His body was still strong from the years he spent dancing.

He’s starting to make his way into the kitchen when Yoongi calls out to him, and the younger turns his head to face Yoongi, still sitting on the couch.

“What were you asking me?”

Jimin’s eyes grow wide. “Oh um, don’t worry about it. We’ll talk about it another time.”

Yoongi deflated a little, but didn’t press the issue. He settles for simply watching Jimin instead, hobbling on his crutch into the sink and then placing the plate in.

Jimin tries to hide his proud smile and blush under a lip bite under the shadows of the miniature chandelier over the island, but Yoongi still sees it.

-

Something was off today.

It was unusually warm for late November, Yoongi only having to go out in a long sleeved shirt, jeans and jacket to keep warm. The sun beat on his face, brushing his cheeks and painting them a slight red. At the time he was grateful, glad to be able to take a break from the bone chilling cold that had settled over Daegu in the last month in exchange for what could only be a sign of good omens, but that thought changed as soon he got to school.

He went about his day as usual, with his head straight ahead and his nose in his own business but this time with odd, prickly sensations crawling along his skin as he walked through the hallways. It felt like everyone was watching him. Or more specifically, watching him and Jimin, and Yoongi was willing to bet it was because the younger, consciously or unconsciously, had taken to putting his hand in Yoongi’s more often. It seemingly found it’s way there naturally, seeking warmth, comfort or simply to have something hold that wasn’t one of the wheels on his chair. And from what Yoongi could tell it definitely didn’t go amiss by the other students, as he’s caught a handful of them staring at their conjoined hands until they realized they had been caught, and quickly looked away.

Being in the classroom didn't stop it either. From his preferred seats in the front, he sensed everyone’s eyes on his back, heard the occasional whisper of his name before hearing a hushed panic and then quiet again, but despite the odd looks and the hushed gossip, Jimin continued to boldly and proudly slip his glove clad hand in his, either not noticing it or choosing to ignore it.

All three of them were on their way to lunch, Jimin with his hand in Yoongi’s, and Taehyung pushing his chair behind him, when Yoongi decided to ask.

“Hey Jiminie? Does anything about today seem weird to you?”

Jimin turns his head to Yoongi, wide eyes filled with innocence. “What do you mean, hyung?”

“Yeah, what do you mean?” Taehyung added.

“Everyone’s staring at us,” Yoongi says lowly, gesturing to their hands.

Something flashes through Jimin’s eyes and disappears just as quickly. Tentatively, he turns to Taehyung.

“Hey Tae, can you give us a minute?”

It took less than a second for Taehyung to catch on. Bless him.

“I had to pee anyway,” Taehyung says with a shrug, but walks in the opposite direction of the bathroom.

Once they were alone, Jimin leads Yoongi away from the hustle and bustle and into an unoccupied corner, and folds his hands in his lap, folding and refolding his hands there before speaking.

He clears his throat. “When you…when you came out to me, I can’t really explain what I felt,” Jimin starts, “but I felt something really warm in my chest. Like,” his right hand grips his chest, wrinkling his shirt. “Honored, I guess. Honored that you trusted me enough with that. And also really proud. Because that wasn’t an easy thing to do, and it really got me thinking that I want to be that brave, too.”

Yoongi nodded once with a question on his tongue, but didn’t get to ask it because Jimin was already speaking again.

“So yeah, I noticed the stares, but look at me.” He gestures to his wheelchair and amputated leg. “People stare at me all the time. But I’m learning to not care about it.”

Yoongi’s opening his mouth to ask his question, but Jimin already has his hands on the wheels pushing himself ahead of him. Curiously eyeing the back of his head, Yoongi follows closely behind as Jimin’s words mull over in his mind, rolling over each other like water. ‘I want to be that brave, too,’ he said. They were simple words, but put in context, it wasn’t so simple. Because they were talking about Yoongi being gay, and holding hands, and if Yoongi didn’t know any better he would say it sounded a lot like Jimin was trying to tell him that-

He quickly shook that thought out of his head.

But if that’s not what he meant, then what did he mean?

The thought plagues him all the way to the lunchroom. It’s not quite crowded yet, only a handful of students at their tables so the lines are still short, and Yoongi hops in, still tossing and turning Jimin’s words over in his head.

He’d be a liar if he said he never entertained the possibility, but it was always just that, a mere possibility. And a small one, as Jimin never showed signs of being interested in boys. Actually, as he comes to think of it, Jimin never showed interest in any girls either. When he thinks back to a few years ago when Jimin was in his earlier teens, the prime age for that sort of thing to start showing up, he can’t recall any conversations about crushes, or dating, and maybe that was a bit odd because shouldn’t best friends talk about that sort of thing? Surely the opportunity of the another person showing up in their lives should have presented itself by now, but it never has. It was always just...them.

Yoongi grabs his trey of food and sighs, scratching the back of his head and exits the line with his head down. Jimin and Taehyung, who’s finally gotten back from the "bathroom," wait patiently for him on the other side Jimin with a smile on his face. When he reaches them, Jimin slips his hand in his and squeezes, not letting go until they’ve reached their lunch table.

-

“Jungkookie,” Taehyung started, “Can you pass me the bowl of chips?”

Jingkook, slumped into the couch on the other side of the room, looks up from his phone. “You can walk 20 feet to get it yourself.”

Taehyung pauses in the middle of arranging his pillows to roll his eyes. “Or you can just be a good cousin for once.”

Jungkook his head, pretending to consider it. “No thanks.”

Taehyung throws down the pillow from his hands and stomps over to the table in front of Jungkook, snatches the bowl off of it and walks away. But not before harshly plucking at the younger’s forehead.

“Ow!” he exclaims, clutching his forehead. “That hurt.”

“You deserved it.”

Jungkook pouts, making Jimin and Yoongi laugh from their spot on the couch across from Jungkook.

They were all staying at Jimin’s house for the night, setting up a pile of pillows and blankets in front of the tv to watch a movie together, or at least Taehyung was. Jungkook was only pretending to help. Jimin obviously couldn’t do much, so he stayed on the couch, and Yoongi stayed with him. He tried to help, but Jimin hit him with the kicked puppy look that he could never say no to. Plus he’s been unusually clingy to him all night, so he decided to stick to his side.

He doesn’t regret his decision in the slightest.

“Would it honestly kill you to stop being a brat, Kookie?” Jimin asked.

Jungkook brought his hands to his throat, making exaggerated choking sounds before falling to the floor. This time it was Yoongi who rolled his eyes.

Taehyung ignored them all, minding his business fluffing the pillows for all of them, periodically sticking his hand in the bowl of chips and his salty fingers before letting out a puff of air and slumping to his knees.

“This is boring,” he states bluntly.

Yoongi snorts.

“No, I mean like, really boring,” he reiterates, and gets up from his spot on the floor and back to the table. Jungkook scrambles to the couch, probably thinking Taehyung was going to drag him into helping for real, but he grabs the remote off the table instead.

“What are you doing?” Jimin asks.

“Putting on motivation music,” Taehyung answers, pressing the buttons that would turn on the radio. A girl group song with a synth beat bumps through the speakers above the fire place, and Taehyung snaps his head in the direction of their youngest friend.

“Oh my God, Kookie it’s the song!”

Yoongi had no idea what 'the song' was, but judging from the look on Jungkook’s face, it wasn’t a good thing.

“No, Taetae-hyung, please, it’s embarrassing!” he tried to plead, but Taehyung was already marching over to him and pulling him off the couch.

“Consider it your bad karma,” Taehyung said and launched into what Yoongi guessed was supposed to be the dance routine, and Jungkook grumbled loudly before reluctantly joining in. Yoongi watched the whole thing with raised eyebrows. It was probably supposed to only be a fun thing they did sometimes, but as he watched, he concluded that they were actually pretty good. Even Jungkook was getting more and more into it as the song went on, embarrassment melting away

Yoongi’s eyes flick to Jimin, and the smile falls from his face. He’s watching them, but there’s no smile. He actually looks...sad. His eyes shift between the dancing pair and Jimin, and his eyes widen and his mouth form the shape of an 'o' when he realizes.

“Should I tell them to stop?” he asks, hushed.

Jimin turns to him slowly, and with a sad smile, says, “I’m not going to ruin their fun.”

Yoongi nods, eyes lingering on Jimin before turning back to Taehyung and Jungkook, who are now at a part of the choreography that requires them to turn around and sway their hips, oblivious to the two on the couch.

They near the bridge of the song, and another voice comes in to back the harmonies. It’s soft, lilting, and it confuses Yoongi because he’s positive it hasn’t been there for the entirety of the song but it’s so clear, like it wasn’t even coming through the speakers.

Because it wasn’t coming through the speakers.

Yoongi turns his head back to Jimin, watches his mouth and move as the sound comes out and realizes belatedly that it’s him. It’s Jimin singing.

The bridge builds into the last chord, and Jimin builds a long with it , pushing his gentle yet powerful voice into a note higher, and higher and higher, belting out the high note. It’s slightly rough, because it’s untrained and cracks the tiniest bit around the edges but it’s their, twinkling like wind chimes.

The song ends, and Taehyung and Jungkook collapse into a breathless heap on the floor, laughing. Jimin is laughing with them, but Yoongi can’t keep his eyes off of him. He thought his laugh was prettiest sound he’d ever hear, but this, Jimin singing, blows that completely out of the water.

Jimin turns to him again. Yoongi can’t even say he’s embarrassed at having been caught. He can’t even say he cares at all.

Shyly, Jimin looks down with a blush on his cheeks. “What are you staring at?” he asks his lap.

The corners of Yoongi’s lips turn upward, and he fondly shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says.

-

“I want to go somewhere.”

Yoongi freezes in the middle of what he was saying. He slowly sits up from his spot on Jimin’s bed, and curiously looks over at the other boy sitting in the bay window, staring longingly to the outside. He’s not so shocked the Jimin just (rudely) cut him off, but more the fact that he wanted to go outside in freezing weather. It was only the 23^rd of November, but it was already so bitterly cold already it turned his bones to icicles when the thermostat wasn't at at least 28 degrees.

Yoongi shifted his attention to the bay window. Outside the sun was bright, but it did nothing for the little warmth it provided, the wind strong enough to overpower any warmth and pick at him through his jacket (he still needed to invest in a heavier coat). The grass was covered in a thick layer of frost, and also brown, red and orange leaves that were also scattered across the sky when the wind blew. It looked peaceful, but looks couldn’t be trusted. He's smarter than that.

Curiously, he turns back to Jimin. “Are you sure.”

“I’m positive,” Jimin answered almost immediately. “Can you hand me my scarf and gloves?”

Yoongi’s confused, but doesn’t say anything as he grabs them off Jimin’s dresser and hands them to him, who practically snatches them out of his hands in his effort to get them on his body as soon as possible.

“Somebody’s eager,” Yoongi comments.

“It’s important,” is all Jimin says.

Jimin trades out his crutches for his wheelchair when they’re at the door, and Yoong assumes position behind him, pushing him out the door and down the ramp and to the left like Jimin asked him to. At least he seemed to know exactly where he wanted to go.

The wind blows heavily as they walk down the sidewalk, blowing Yoongi’s hood off one too many times for him to care to adjust it again. Jimin kept his hands folded in his lap, wringing them together to keep them warm, or wrapping them around himself. Yoongi thought he looked like a sushi roll when he did that.

It doesn’t take long for him to realize they were going downtown, but from what Yoongi could recall, there was nothing downtown accept for a few small antique shops and their old elementary school-

Wait.

Yoongi abruptly freezes, accidentally sending Jimin jolting forward.

“Why’d you stop?” the younger asks.

Yoongi narrows his eyes the road in front of him, the trees, the grass, the house of the old lady with the really loud chihuahua. “Where are we going, Jimin?” he asks back instead of answering.

“It’s a surprise,” Jimin says. Yoongi could hear the eating grin.

Instead of smacking him across the head like he wanted to, Yoongi starts pushing him again, following his directions with a small grin on his face because he knows this route. This was the exact same route his bus driver would take on their way to school. It’s been years since he’s been down this way, but he remembers it like he was eight years old again, lonely and in need of a friend.

The elementary school comes into view after they take a right turn. With it being a Saturday, it was epmty, almost eerily so with no children in sight playing on the playground or in and around the building. It was slightly more run down than he remembered, the paint on the outside walls peeling in places he doesn’t recall it being peeled at before, cracks where it used to be smooth, but it still felt like home. Memories flood through him at once, and it's nostalgic and bittersweet, as there are memories of before he met Jimin, and spent his days in corners by himself with a pencil in his hand and lose leaf paper in his lap, writing whatever came to mind filtered in with after he met Jimin, and slowly poked his little head out from his shell and saw how nice the world could be.

The handles of Jimin’s chair slip from his grip, and he panics before realizing it was because Jimin took it upon himself to start pushing himself forward.

“Isn’t this trespassing?” Yoongi asks as they travel behind the school to the playground.

Jimin chuckles. “It’s an elementary school, not private government property. Relax, hyung.”

Yoongi pressed his lips into a thin line, but refrains from arguing. He does that a lot in Jimin’s case. Hoseok would say he was whipped, but really he just hates seeing Jimin upset for any reason.

Or maybe he is whipped. Whatever.

The leaves crunch under Jimin’s wheels as he rolls onto the playground, and scans it until his eyes land on the big tree on the far end, and his eyes light up. Yoongi’s does too. He could have sworn they would have taken the singular swing down by now, since to his knowledge they were the only ones that ever used it but it was still standing, tall and proud under the big tree now bare from the lack of leaves.

Jimin circles the swing and looks it up and down when they get to it, and turns to Yoongi. The corner of his lips turn up when their eyes meet, a secret conversation that doesn’t need spoken words They both understand. Jimin turns back to the swing, and narrows his eyes the tiniest bit before gripping the chains.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Yoongi asks. Jimin ignores him, and gives an amazing show of strength and pulls hard, hoisting himself out of his chair and to standing before carefully turning himself around with tiny hops and plopping into the seat. Accomplished, he looks up at Yoongi and grins.

“Will you push me, hyung?”

Yoongi stared at him blankly. “Is that safe?”

“Sure it is, as long as you don’t push me too high.”

Yoongi smiles smugly as he moves the wheelchair out of the way. “I seem to remember you crying because you couldn’t go as high as me.”

“Oh shut up,” he grumbled, kicking at him with his good leg that Yoongi barely dodges by a couple centimeters to the left.

He laughs on his way to behind the swing, and pushes him tentatively. He starts out with barely there touches that ghost over Jimin’s back and down his spine, not wanting to start too high and risk Jimin falling out of the seat. The younger’s right leg and the stump of his left subtly kick back and forth, his right leg lightly grazing the mulch and drawing designs with his foot.

“Can you push me from the front?” Jimin asks suddenly.

Yoongi scrunches his nose. He’s filled with a lot of odd requests today, apparently.

When Yoongi’s in front on Jimin, he goes to push him but the dig of his foot in the mulch stops him. His head is down, classic ‘I want to say something but I don’t know where to begin’ Jimin behavior. Yoongi stays quiet, and waits for Jimin to speak. After some moments, he finally says, “My parents asked me something today.”

“What did they ask you?” Yoongi responds gently.

Jimin slowly raises his head, but avoids looking in Yoongi’s eyes. “They asked me…they asked me if I would ever want a prosthetic.”

Yoongi's mouth pops open. ’ “Wow…um, what do you think about that?”

“I don’t know,” Jimin answers with a shrug. “But the more I think about it, the more I’m leaning towards not getting one.”

Yoongi raises his eyebrows.

“Really? Why?”

Jimin runs his hands through his hair. “Because. I haven’t been in a wheelchair for a long time, but the way people treat me now is so glaringly obvious I’d be able to see it from the moon. And I've also realized that there’s a stigma that surrounds people like me. Like because I’m in a wheelchair, I’m not living a full life, or something. But the thing is, I know what it’s like to be able to walk, and I know what it’s like to be in a wheelchair, and even though I was upset and angry and hurt beyond belief at first, now that the initial shock is over I honestly don’t feel like I’m missing anything. And if I got a prosthetic I feel like I would be buying into the stigma.”

Yoongi nods, hesitates before whispering Jimin’s words from the night he came out. “You want to prove people wrong.”

Jimin gives a curt nod. “Yeah, I want to prove people wrong. I want to prove that I can be in a wheelchair and still live a full life. What do you think?”

“It doesn’t really matter what I think.”

“It matters to me,” Jimin responds intently.

The wind blows, pushing Jimin’s hair into his face. Yoongi reaches up to brush it out of his eyes, and lets his hand linger. “I think as long as you’re happy, I’m happy,” he answers honestly.

The wind blows again, and Jimin tenses up against it. His hand comes up to grab Yoongi’s and they intertwine as the atmosphere around them shifts, suddenly more intense than before. Jimin’s hand is in his, and the look in his eyes is one of determination, but laced with the slightest bit apprehension. They scan his face, from his eyes to his lips, and they linger there for seemingly longer than everywhere else before moving down the rest of his body. Yoongi feels like a mannequin on display, and despite the chill, hot under his jacket.

He’s almost positive his face is beet red when Jimin’s eyes land on it again, staring at him fiercely like Yoongi holds all the answers to the secrets of the universe. Minus the whistling of the wind, it’s so quiet even the slightest movement of their feet will send the sound of leaves crunching through their ears, and the slightest twitch from Jimin will have the chains of the swing rattling and creaking.

The air is heavy on their shoulders but Jimin’s next words cut through it like a spear.

“How did you know you were gay?”

Yoongi’s heart drops to his feet, and he’s immediately hyper aware of how close they are. Jimin’s on the swing, and he’s standing between his legs with their chests almost touching, and hands intertwined beside Jimin’s face. The steam of their breath merge with each exhale, and Yoongi, not knowing what else to to, does what he does best.

“I fell in love,” he answers bluntly.

The younger squeezes his hand. “Are you still in love?” he asks quietly.

Yoongi squeezes back. “Yes.”

A lip bite. Another hand squeeze. “Do I know him?”

A shy smile. Another hand squeeze. “Yes.”

A cheeky grin. Another hand squeeze. “Is he cute.”

Another hand that comes up to cup the younger’s face. “He’s beautiful.”

It doesn’t feel real when Jimin slowly leans in. It feels like a dream that he'll wake he’ll wake up any second from in his room with the blankets bunched at his feet and an awkward half hard on in his boxers, but then there noses touch, and Yoongi can feel the tickle of Jimin’s breath a long his mouth and he knows it’s real. This was actually happening.

Jimin nervously meets his eyes, asking a question that Yoongi answers with a small nod, and they both close their eyes, tilt their heads, and close the gap.

Kissing Jimin wasn’t anything like he thought it would be. It was a million times better.

All those hours he spent laying awake fantasizing about how his lips would feel were were nothing compared to the real thing. They were soft, and plush and smooth, two pillows perfectly shaped that molded into Yoongi’s mouth like they were always meant to be there. Maybe they were.

It only lasts for a few seconds before Jimin pulls back. Yoongi holds his protests in, but it’s made easier when he sees how Jimin’s face is lit up, like the star at the top of the tree on Christmas morning.

“It’s the anniversary of the day we met, you know,” Jimin says breathlessly.

Yoongi blinks, and then lets out a laugh as everything clicks into place. “So it is,” he replies.

Jimin captures his lips again, this time more boldly than the first. Yoongi’s hands are still on his neck, and they pull him closer so they’re flush together, but Jimin’s hand still sneaks it’s way between them to bunch the material of Yoongi’s shirt at his chest. Idly, he wonders if he can feel his rapid heart beat.

A tongue pokes out from one of them, Yoongi can’t tell who’s it was, but he does know that Jimin’s tongue feels wonderful, adventurous and determined, but still the tiniest bit shy, just like him.

They dance together in the cold. Yoongi can’t recall how long, too lost in kissing Park Jimin, but when they come up for air the sun is setting, the beginnings of orange and pink scattered across the sky that reflects off of Jimin’s deep brown eyes that he can’t stop looking at, can’t stop smiling dumbly at with their foreheads pressed together but it’s okay, because neither can Jimin.

It’s the 23^rd of November, the same day they met on this exact same swing set ten years ago. Things are different now, way different than either of them had probably imagined it would be, but even with everything that’s changed, three things remained constant: Yoongi was still Yoongi, Jimin was still Jimin, and they were still together.

And that would never change.