orange | yoonmin ✔️

chapter two.

| ..jimin.. |

Six forty five prompted a ping from Jimin's phone. The boy raised his head and peeked out of his bathroom and into his room, where his phone sat on his bedside table, a rectangle of light in the dark room.

Even after drawing his curtains, his room remained dark. 

Jimin headed over to his table, toothbrush dangling from his puffy lips, and picked up his phone.

1 message:

gukkie: one of my friends says he met you yesterday? his name is yoongi and he wants your number.

Confused, Jimin opened up his texts, and typed back to his friend, who he hadn't texted in a while. 

jimin: who's yoongi

The response was almost immediate.

gukkie: maybe it wasn't you. or do you not know him?? he's short and has black hair and a set of anger issues? 

gukkie: actually i think he's taller than you 

gukkie: sorry hyung but that's yet another(!!!) person taller than you

Jimin remembered. The pretty boy with no filter. The boy he met before he went to the cemetery. He had a name now, and it delighted him. Yoongi, Jimin whispered to himself, and a smile played across his lips. Yoongi. He liked it. It fit him, the boy. 

jimin: oh shut up jeongukkie. 

jimin: but okay you can give me his number, i don't really care

He did care. Jimin cared very much. His heart was almost racing, and he was ecstatic. He didn't know Jeonguk knew the boy- or rather, Yoongi. It was a small world, really.

Then again, Jimin hadn't hung out with anyone in ages, even when school was still in. He was always sitting alone in the library, or on the school's front steps, or anywhere where he could be alone. It would, in reality, be no surprise if Jeonguk knew the American president. Jimin just didn't care for anything except the sky and the silence.

The sun was shining into Jimin's room, glazing his bed and wardrobe with a pinkish light, and Jimin couldn't help but stand at the window for a moment, admiring the colors that were splashed across the sky's canvas. It was like watercolors- flowing together with no lines or boundaries, just together and bleeding into each other with no rules. 

Jimin took quite a number of pictures before the sun was fully out, and stretching across the sky, it's yawn of pinks and oranges long gone. The pictures were beautiful, but it didn't quite capture what his eyes saw. He frowned, disappointed, and headed back to the bathroom to wash out his mouth and set down his toothbrush. 

It was six fifty six now, and Jimin cursed at himself(as close to a curse as he could get without cursing, anyways, as cursing was a terrible thing). He threw on an outfit- fuzzy sweater, pastel blue skinny jeans- and headed downstairs, stopping only to wave at his still asleep mom, and headed out the door as quietly as he could.

The cold seemed to have calmed, and Jimin was grateful for it, as he was in a thin striped long-sleeve that would've frozen if he had worn it the previous day. He hurried down the street, almost getting hit several times, and twenty minutes later, he arrived. Jimin rushed into the supermarket and plucked a yellow rose from the display basket, paying for it in a hurry.

After completing his daily routine, he spotted a familiar head of black hair on his bus back. He stood up and waved at the boy, who didn't seem to notice.