VMIN / THE GUTTER

17

There's a certain kind of anxiety that comes to Jimin before a basketball match. It's something that patters, pours and spills; it's something that takes ahold of him, and isn't quite uncomfortable, but is rife with anticipation. It's as if his body is hollowed out, his bones transfigured into a hive for bees, for them to bundle under his skin and buzz around his endorphins, exciting them to the extent that they can convey nothing but nervousness.

That's the kind of anxiety he feels now. As he sits in Kim Taehyung's room, with said boy downstairs with his grandmother.

Jimin doesn't think he's ready. The more time that passes by, the more he contemplates jumping out of the window and shooting down along the guttering, escaping off into the midday sunlight. It's a beautiful thing, he comes to observe, the way the sun hits the panelling just right, spreading a bountiful display of soft, apricot delight across the room. Everything seems so bright, with the tie-dye bedsheets beneath him, and the ripened flowers dribbling from their pots all across Taehyung's desk.

This room is a cesspit for creation.

Everything reeks of life.

He decides to bathe in that crest of the beating heart; he allows himself to slip his limbs into this warm space, this chamber wherein life pounds and pulses. He reminds himself of existence, reminds himself of sanity, and he allows himself to breathe in that sweet caramel scent that clusters in any space Taehyung occupies.

The room is so distinctly him, so Kim Taehyung, and Jimin hates that there's something a tad comforting in that feat.

When the boy finally re-enters, he's smiling, almost in a sense that seems guilty, and his slim fingers wrap around a mug of oolong tea. Slightly sweater-pawed, with his obnoxiously violet knitted jumper, with stupid stitchings of cats dotted across it, he hands the mug to Jimin.

Taking it gratefully, Jimin tries not to let his hands shake, as his curious eyes bore into Taehyung's skull. "He's not coming?" He asks, as he feels the aching hot liquid burn across his fingers through the china cup.

Taehyung seems a tad surprised by the question, as his eyes go a little narrow, and he carefully says, "he'll be here." It's so damn reassuring, it almost hurts.

Jimin nods his head. He chugs down some of the tea, ignoring how the boiling liquid scalds his tongue and the back of his throat. The pain forces him to reiterate the point he was alive. This was really happening.

He glances at his socks. Curls his toes. Uncurls them. His fingers tap at the mug. A dog barks outside. A cat frowns on Taehyung's sweater. The sun rolls across the sky. The air is still and hollow. His foot bounces. His heart beats. He pinches himself.

"You're nervous."

The statement shocks him out of his nightmarish stupor and he shudders to glance back at Taehyung, who's now sat on the bed beside him. It's not a question, and Jimin resents that. Taehyung knows him well enough to detect the fact he is distinctly fucking terrified.

"Can you blame me?" He asks back. He taps aimlessly at the piping hot mug in his hand.

Taehyung shakes his head, but remains quiet for a moment. He hums and runs his fingers over his baggy brown jeans that drown his legs and swallow his whole figure.

"Your fashion sense is hideous." He says, out of the blue. It had meant to be a passing thought, but it slipped out, comes out a little pathetically. Jimin has always thought so, and he supposes he has voiced it before, but, sitting here, he can't help but stare at it more closely, stupidly finding something solacing in the constant distracting ugliness of his choices.