"I'd just like to be yours and I guess I want you to be mine."
"Sweetheart, that's not weird. It's cute."
･ﾟ:* jimin is a sad ballerina, who falls for the lies of taehyung, a mysterious photographer who is nothing but trouble.
( complete )
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JIMIN .
"He texted me, Yoongi."
I stretch my arms across his bed, the pads of my fingertips brushing against the obscenely coarse material of his bedsheets.
"You've said that like ten times." He leans back against the headboard, his body recoiled into a bundle of black clothes. His posture, I would assume, is partially due to the fact I'm taking up a large proportion of the bed. Yet, I'm in such a halcyon of jubilance, I'm not too fazed about his sufferings.
"I know, but you haven't bothered to give me an enthusiastic response."
I catch him roll his eyes before smiling falsely and replying in a voice intermingled with dulcet tendencies, "wow, Jimin, this hot guy texted you, he basically asked you to marry him! Want me to sew you a wedding dress?"
"Har-har." I poke my tongue out and thwack him with a pillow, laughing slightly as he does the same.
Our friendship is one that works surprisingly beautifully. Due to our opposing personalities, one would assume our presences wouldn't intermesh. But, it's because of these dissimilar characteristics, that we find ourselves so compatible. Whilst Min Yoongi is a genius and a somewhat vicious badass, I study ballet and have been compared to a newborn kitten. But Yoongi saw the lion within me and I saw the kitten within him.
Of course, he punched me when I informed him of this analogy.
"Seriously though, should I text him back?"
"Nah, you should send him a message via carrier-pigeon." His voice is so monotone, it's hard to decipher whether he genuinely is being sarcastic. At my perplexed expression, he kicks me in the ribs and adds, "of course you should, twat."
Brushing off his patented mordacity, I ask, "what should I say?"
"I dunno, how 'bout 'hello, this is Jimin.'"
"But that's boring."
"Oh, I'm sorry, what do you want to do? Write him a full essay on your life story?"
"No- gah, I just want something interesting."
"That's stupid, just say hello to start."
"But Taehyung's interesting."
"Who the fuck is Taehyung ?"
"The pizza boy, duh." I curl my legs up underneath me, straightening my back to better communicate with my roommate.
"Wait...Taehyung?"
"Yeah, he's literally the most beautiful man I've ever seen! You claim to be straight Yoongs, but damn, you'd be bent as Pisa if you saw him."
"Bent as what?"
"Pisa..the Leaning Tower of Pisa, come on."
"That's not bent, moron, just leaning."
"Is that important?"
"Yeah, kinda, if you're going to make a metaphor at least make it half-decent."
"Simile."
"Alright, smartass." He grumbles, "I'm loosing my point."
I watch as he stretches out the midnight-tinged material of his shirt, his fingers surprisingly delicate, as his face is shaded over with an expression of deep thought.
"What's this guys full name?"
"Huh?"
"Just tell me." Tenebrous eyes skim across my being, his previously lacklustre form metamorphosing into a luminous work of concentration.
"Kim Taehyung."
His gaze mutates into an unadulterated shade of darkness, a look I had almost forgotten during our time of knowing each other, "maybe you should get a carrier-pigeon."
"Huh? What's that meant to mean?"
"Do you have any idea who Kim Taehyung is?"
"Sure, he's the gorgeous pizza boy-"
"No, Jimin, he's trouble."
"Wha- do you know him or something?"
"Not personally..." His glare falters, a sad expression glazing over his features as he loops the material of the bedsheets in between his fingers, "how long have you been living in this town?"
"Two years... almost."
"Right, and you haven't heard about Kim Taehyung?"
Apprehensively, I shake my head, not sure I want to know about Taehyung.
Yoongi sighs, all traces of that prior darkness dispersing with that sound, "just.. just don't talk to him Jim, don't get tangled up in... in all that."
"What are you even on about?" I'm slightly surprised at the aggression of my voice as I hadn't anticipated such unfathomable belligerence from my mouth.
"It's for your own good, Taehyung is dangerous, he's ... he'll hurt you."
"You're being selfish." I snap, and I'm not too sure why I'm being so apprehensive.
"I'm trying to help you." He stands up now, his socks hitting against the floor thunderously; his body now looming over me, as if a primitive species, trying to enlarge himself as a form of intimidation.
"No, why is it so hard for me to just have something good in my life? After everything that's been happening lately-"
"After every that's been happening lately, I'm the one that's been here, why are you even getting angry at me? You're being selfish."
Rage bubbles up within me, my body convulsing in an indisputable shudder of heat. In an emotional state that could be compared to a teenager's tantrum, I spit, "I hate you," toward him and slam my head against his pillow.
"Whatever, you're being immature." He doesn't say anything else, leaving a toxic atmosphere to envelop me, as he exits with a slam of the door.
"I hate you." I whisper again, slightly unsure whether my words are aimed at him or at myself.
Regardless, the gormless anger surging through my veins, is enough to govern my next decision. Limply, I pry my phone from my pocket, and type a response, transgression coursing through my being.
