Jimin woke from sleep, his forehead damp with sweat, his body tangled in the thin cotton sheet as it twisted around his legs. He kicked until he could free himself and sat up his hand pressing against his chest, his heart thundered against his palm. He knew he'd been dreaming, but the more seconds that passed the farther the dream pulled away. Something yellow, a metal charm, was it curved somehow? Damn it, he thought miserably, he couldn't hold onto the memory and then it was gone.
He turned looking behind him as Tae still slept, his limbs wrapped around a pillow, his breathing relaxed. Jimin felt a softness for him but at the same exact time there was also the emotion of mistrust. He couldn't put a definitive name to why he felt that way, he just knew with his gut things weren't what they seemed.
Everyone seemed to dance around him like choreography, and he knew they were all trained skillfully in that art. The problem was he always seemed slightly out of step. How could he, one of the strongest dancers, fail to keep up? Was he supposed to believe that?
As his heart calmed, relegating itself back to a slower pace, Jimin stood. He felt like he'd done nothing but lay in bed for weeks. He wasn't used to being so inert. His normal days had been full of dance practices and studio time. He'd worked out, spent time with friends, had parties and hung out. His calendar was never ending with social engagements, interviews, meetings and plans for the future.
No one felt like doing any of that anymore, himself included. In the very least what was the point of doing any BTS business? The group was missing its center, the very life and soul of BTS torn out of it. Could they go on as six? Certainly lots of groups lost a member for any number of reasons and continued. The question was, did they want to?
Namjoon didn't. Jimin thought their usually invariable leader felt personally responsible for Jungkook's death, saying he should have known the kid was in no mindset to drive. Jimin could understand that Joon had been closer to the maknae than anyone, they all understood that the fissure was greater in his life. The problem was not even Sujin could talk him off the ledge most of the time, so everyone just said nothing.
Jin was a ghost, never showed up anywhere, didn't answer his phone. It seemed only Tae could draw him out, which triggered Jimin, he just couldn't nail down why. There was something resentful that built up in him every time Tae said he was swinging by Jin's house or mentioned he'd spent the afternoon there. It wasn't that he didn't want Jin to be comforted, of course he did, so why was he irritated?
Yoongi and Hobi weren't much better, but at least they'd leaned on each other. Yoongi wasn't writing, he couldn't remember a time he hadn't seen his hyung with a notebook or humming a beat stuck in his head. Hobi seemed a shell of himself, his eyes vacant in a way that he'd not seen since Jjille's death.
Jimin guessed he and Tae had an advantage like the two of them, togetherness and cohesiveness that Jin and Namjoon lacked. Before he would have suggested they spend time together, find closeness again. The problem was if they all gathered it would be blatantly obvious that someone was missing.
Jimin stood and stretched, his back and joints popping with the effort, he didn't think he could go back to sleep. The time on his phone when he brushed a finger across the screen said three in the morning. He paced toward the closet and found himself in the bathroom. Why did every room feel familiar but unrecognizable all at once? All the bottles lined up along the sink were not positioned correctly, Tae's feeling out of place.
He shook his head reaching into the shower to turn it on, he had to get control of himself. This suspicion of Tae had gone too far, his boyfriend had been nothing but loving and supportive the entire time since he'd woken up. If he was a bit jumpy that could be understandable, they'd all gone through so much a reasonable explanation.
After a quick shower Jimin wrapped a towel around his narrow hips and looked at himself in the mirror. He'd lost muscle mass, his usually tight abs a soft pooch. On Tae he'd found it adorable and charming, on himself, he almost recoiled at his reflection. Was that the indoctrination from years of Irene prodding his body and calling him disgusting?
Jimin froze. Prickles of something rushing up his spine raising his hackles. Irene. She'd not reached out to him at all, he'd not heard from her even once since waking in the hospital. He found that incredibly odd, while she did occasionally disappear when she found something particularly interesting she never just ghosted.
A dom could lose control of their pet if they didn't check in and reassert control. Irene kept perfect control, even when he liked to think he could sometimes grasp at the upper hand. So where had the cunning demon slunk off to, or should he say slunk off with? He'd almost died in the hospital and she hadn't come to check on him? If that wasn't enough to get her attention in her own way Irene had cared for Kookie, she didn't message about him at all? Okay, she didn't truly care for anyone but he couldn't imagine she wouldn't attempt to use his death to her advantage.
Jimin filed this information away, he'd ask Tae when he woke. There was an explanation for this as well, perhaps Joon had managed to get SM to bar her from contacting them. It didn't seem plausible but he knew he couldn't solve this mystery alone.
He wandered into the closet to change into something comfortable, he planned to try to do some stretching, maybe even some yoga in the other bedroom. When he reached his dresser he tripped on a shoe that had fallen from it's spot on the rack and bumped into it. He winced watching the pictures on top of it's surface topple, the sound clamorous in the silent space. His head turned toward the bedroom hoping he'd not disturbed Tae.
Holding his breath he waited, eyes straining in the dark to make out his form on the bed. After half a minute he'd not stirred and Jimin allowed himself to breathe again. Turning back to the disaster he gathered up the mess, his fingers fumbled one of the pictures and he groaned as it slipped behind the tall wooden wardrobe.
"Fuck." The word was a hiss from his lips before he'd even thought about preventing it from escaping. Another glance into the bedroom, another held breath.
When he was in the clear again he shut the door to the closet and flipped on the light. Somehow he needed to just wiggle it a tiny bit forward and maybe he could reach behind it. Jimin pushed the clothing on the rack beside it backward until he could wedge his body against the side of the heavy dresser. After taking a deep breath he shoved, a grunt slipped out when he realized it hadn't budged.
Jimin moved to the other side, his hip pressing against where the wall and the dresser met and tried again, another louder sound coming out of him. This time however he was more successful, two inches of space opening where his body had been. He felt like cheering, this menial task had felt like a victory. He re positioned and with all his might shoved again, the scraping sound against the floor reassuring him he'd made even more progress.
When he finally stopped he'd turned the huge piece of furniture slightly and given himself nearly six inches of room to reach for the fallen frame. Jimin dropped to the floor and immediately sneezed, years of dust assaulting his nose as he picked up the picture. Thankfully on inspection it hadn't broken it's delicate glass, but before he could stand and think about how he'd push it back he noticed something else peeking from under the dresser.
Jimin stretched to grab it, the corner of white more than halfway into the delta he'd created with his incessant pushing. He twisted sideways tucking himself as small as he could until the tips of two fingers made contact with what he realized was an envelope. He was breaking out into a sweat again with all the effort, for a second he thought about just giving up. It was probably empty, the remnant of a card he'd been given on a birthday or anniversary a long time ago.
He finally got his shoulder between the wall and the back of the dresser and when he shoved his body he was rewarded with the last few inches of purchase he needed. His fingers swiped up the envelope and he pulled it free. Jimin scooted from behind the wardrobe and sat in the middle of the closet, the envelope in his lap.
It was sealed, still crisp and not discolored or worn like something forgotten usually looked. Inside he could feel what felt like a Polaroid, the distinct shape and slightly layered texture unmistakable. Why didn't he open it? Something in his stomach turned and he couldn't bring himself to rip open the flap.
This felt like something that wanted to be hidden and the singular act of uncovering it would be a betrayal to whoever had slid it beneath the heavy furniture. Had it been him? Tae? Was it worse than that? A disturbing little love letter from Irene?
Jimin held it up to the light overhead, but the envelope was lined refusing to reveal it's secret. He shook it, the contents shifting in the slightly too large space. He let it fall back into his lap and rest against his legs, he was still wearing the towel, a miracle it hadn't come undone and left him naked in his tussle with the dresser.
He decided he wouldn't open it. He'd show it to Tae in the morning and they'd open it together, maybe Tae would even know it's contents and the anxiety over it would be erased. He stood putting it on the top of the dresser, replacing the fallen frame and arranging everything once more. Tomorrow the two of them would easily move it back into place and address whatever was within the paper walls of the envelope.
Jimin quickly tugged on some cotton shorts and a plain shirt and turned out the light. Quietly he opened the door and waited for his eyes to adjust before making the short journey back to bed. He probably wouldn't sleep but he'd lay down for a while, he didn't really feel like yoga.
Laying on his back listening to Tae's easy breaths he closed his eyes. In a few months, or a year, everything would feel normal again, memories would continue to build, familiarity with his surroundings would return and he'd feel at home in his life again.
Jimin sat up, looking over his shoulder at Tae, then stood walking back into the closet. He had the sudden resolute feeling that if he showed the envelope to Tae he'd never find out the contents. Before he could talk himself out of it he shut the door, flicked the light on and tore it open. The picture was facing down when he pulled it out, he almost smirked at how cliche it felt, but when he flipped it over he didn't feel like smiling anymore.
It was a nude photo of a woman tied to his bed. He recognized the bed, the cloth ties, the velcro restraints. He didn't recognize the woman, her limbs spread, the curves of her form laid out in the perfectly aligned shot. Perfectly aligned except her head wasn't in the frame.
(A/N Please vote? Everyone still with me?)