Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kim Taehyung was the type to check behind him every twenty minutes or so, always looking for the invisible that you couldn’t manage to see at the first glance. The rules were simple, freedom was the only thing making his heart beat : there was no rules. Taehyung was the master of his own little world, secretive and yet so great; wandering in the crowd and the incessant streets with what seemed too good to be true. He spends his nights on the back seats, in the bus of the line 49; that starts from the Michigan stop to the Rosa Park Transit Center.

He’s a loner in a cramped world, sending sharp looks to the ones who stare and don’t notice him enough at the same time; his steps powerful and collected. Detroit’s greedy throat ate everyone’s brilliance, it seems; but Taehyung knows, has always known more.

“One dollar and seventy three cents please,”

Taehyung pays for his mint flavored gum in silence, burying the little pack in his jacket before engulfing himself in the peace of the night. And his leather coat’s edges brush on his hips; he chews the sweet flavor energetically and tastes the fresh air of the evening. The night is his, as always.

In a city like Detroit, things only get alive at night, and Taehyung takes this indescribable and euphoric time to try, try to understand more : it’s like everyone’s minds switch at midnight; the debauchery wakes up, the prostitutes’ high heels smacking on the piss covered sidewalk; the damp smoke that seem to invade everybody’s personal space; the smell of the old chips, that roll on the poker table’s dirty velvet with a macabre perfection.

Every two or three days, Taehyung likes to meander between the tables to watch the cards and the cash flowing and being traded on the red fabric; it’s better than TV, more exciting than anything else and safer than playing and risking your own money. Though Taehyung would be good at it, really good; as he observes and guesses the probabilities in advance.

“I don’t deal with human greed.” He had answered, when the cards dealer had seen his potential in the lively sparks of his eyes.

The bus he takes has a green glow, tiring and ugly but also very much representative of Detroit’s inhabitants. It takes thirty minutes for him to reach his stop, and the ride of the line 49 almost seems accidental, made by mistake; as it rides along the walls of dozens of pretty disused buildings, turning right when you don’t expect it to, keeping straight ahead when the road doesn’t allow it; even with his eyes shut Taehyung knows the tour by heart,

“He puts on the brakes just after the warren street; it skids, then he races to fifty till the york road,”

The dusty vehicle was just mimicking a strange snake, slithering in the night and never stopping; it seemed like all the drivers looked the same too. And he used to believe that his apartment was an extension of that god damn bus, as dirty and as damp as the transports company of the restless city itself. A glitching TV and a weird sized bed being his only furnitures, Taehyung liked his fifteen square meter room like people liked the flu, that is to say not that much.

Over his bed, the washed out orange wool cover was scratching the skin, and Taehyung would let it run under the palms of his hands, when staring at his weirdly spacious and mint colored bathroom. It seemed like the hideous colors had planned everything in advance to create something grotesque; the apartment was situated at the 23th floor and yet nothing could be heard, Taehyung sometimes wondered if the whole thing wasn’t a conspiracy.

At the end, there is nothing else than a perpetual emptiness; Taehyung has no idea if there is an outside world beyond the city walls, somewhere else. He doesn’t know how it feels like to feel alive, his childhood memories don’t really seem real either. He can see the humanity sinks down in its own sweat, with no fantasy; no dreams.

Out of everything, he should’ve known that his life would change when he was the least expecting it to; in that particular bus of the line 49.

“He puts on the brakes just after the warren street; it skids, then he races to fifty till-” He whispers and pauses, his eyes opening wide because the driver just turned left after the Warren Street, and it never turned left before.

Taehyung sees an abnormal glance from the driver, their eyes meet two seconds in the rear view mirror; like a message that he barely has time to see because it’s already gone and the vehicle keeps racing.

He doesn’t know what to expect when it stops twenty minutes later, half relieved to be alive because it’s just the two of them and it’s 3am and half worried because it seems like they’ve stopped in the middle of nowhere. Brushing his mustache, the driver stares at him like he’s waiting for him to get out.

“That’s not my stop,” He gets up anyway to take few steps, his voice unsteady. “It is.” The other answers, “Gotta give it back earlier than expected, sorry,” he adds, and it takes a moment for Taehyung to understand that he’s talking about his bus, he really want to laugh at how ridiculous the situation is.

“But you can’t let me here, it’s the perished area,” Taehyung tempts, glancing at the darkness and disused factories that seem to swallow the entire vehicle. There is a spark of annoyance in the other’s look, and Taehyung finds himself alone in the middle of the old quarters, the ones left behind in the sixties. There is not a single light in the streets, and the rays of the moon reflect in the pieces of broken panes that rest on the floor, cracking under his shoes.

It’s so dark and so silent, yet Taehyung believes hearing the elder workers’ painful wailing coming out from the factories’ smokestacks. He’s always thought his shitty room would be the perfect depiction of hell, now he’s considering revisiting his standards.

He walks for a while, wondering if he hasn’t died in a car crash or something because it seems like the road he’s stepping on has no end, nor has a beginning. Pushing back his bangs with a clammy hand, he watches the cloudy sky more than he watches his feet and Taehyung has never felt this close from sharing a conniving friendship with the universe.

It’s a melody that take him out of his scary reverie; more than everything else ever could, Taehyung feels dragged by a force that run down his spine and course his entire skin, carrying him inside an abandoned mansion like he was supposed to walk in since the beginning of all things. It looks like another dimension, when the ceiling’s engravings get higher and when the piano notes get closer and it’s so loud, that at this point he’s sure it’s not his brain playing another trick on him.

He leans against the wall, just behind the room where the piano is and for the first time in his life, he cries; feeling things he’s never felt before because the music is just too much, submerging his entire being. A hand covering his mouth to keep his sobs silent; he makes the promise, to consider the maker of this beautiful sound, whoever it might be, as the savior of his whole existence, the love of his life.

Chapter Text

Beauty has never been an option, really, the idea of it so far and so unacceptable. It has never been a part of the equation, the plain equation of Taehyung's life; and yet, it's a sudden beauty, coming out of nowhere to unexpectedly be here; stand where it never did and change fate, change everything.

And soon what was supposed to be extraordinary becomes Taehyung's guilty pleasure, a nice and creepy routine of his. He doesn't really think at first, when he steps out the bus at the Springwells' stop again. The Perished Area has never seemed this bright, when he follows the melody and let himself be carried by the beautiful notes. It's his little secret, his eyes fluttering shut when the music reaches its peak and it really feels like he's the only one knowing about it, the only one in the world.

The poker chips don't seem so fascinating anymore, nor the alcohol, nor the simplicity he used to like so much. Taehyung watches them all move in slow motion with disinterest, all his cells craving to hear the delicious notes again. He finds himself in the early morning, staring at the curious rays of sunshine passing through the dust that drift in the air; crouched against the wall and he's sure his hoodie has started leaving a mark behind; the terrible, wonderful melody making its way down his head.

Wishing sometimes that the songs could be recorded in his tiny tape player, he changes his mind and cries harder at the idea; realising that carrying them in his dirty jeans and bringing them back in his bedroom would ruin them somehow. It's like a dream, a punishment; something he doesn't deserve because it's too beautiful.

A few months later, Taehyung is almost convinced the whole thing isn't real; never daring to peek inside to see who is it, who the hell plays days and nights and is always that good, that different from everything else ?

“It can't be real,” he murmurs in his fist, shaking because the slow, sad notes are literally dripping on his skin. “It can't-”

He knows it won't be long until he checks- and really, he won't be disappointed if it's a man, or a woman, or just a sweet hallucination; he'll be grateful for all these moments, all the minutes that seemed so short and the seconds so long. And deep inside he's frightened, that it might just disappear when he sees it, vanishing in front of his eyes because it's not his destiny to cross beauty's path, it never was.

He sees the opportunity on a cold day, when the icy air has biten on his knuckles and he bets his lips are blue at this point; it seems that the cold froze the pianist's fingers as much as it froze his brain because for once it's silent, for once it's empty. Taehyung can't help but worry, “What if they're not here ? What if they've stopped coming ?”

Feeling like he might just break the dusty parquet and its layer of ash if he attempts anything too fast, Taehyung wipes the sleeve of his thick coat awkwardly to get rid of the dust and gets up, his heart pounding in his chest realizing what he's about to do.

In the middle of a spectacular and bright hall, a young boy and a black piano. And Taehyung's breath stops, like he's just entered a forbidden dimension by mistake. The mysterious boy has his eyes closed and his hands on the keys, white digits half protected by fingerless gloves. It's only at this moment that Taehyung gasps, wondering if he's okay, if he's not falling asleep like that. And he almost move, either to rush over and hug the boy or to run away forever, he'll never know which because,

“I'm sorry,” He hears the small, shivering voice echoing in the cold space. Taehyung's jaw clenches. “I can't play today.” He apologises and the way he says it, it sounds like he knew about Taehyung's little routine since the first day; like he was playing for him all along.

“It's- It's okay,” is all Taehyung finds to say back before it gets too weird, and the need to go and just protect him is almost stronger than the need to hide this time. He believes catching an amused smile, the corner of the other's lips curving slightly.

“I was wondering when you'd come up y'know,” the pianist whispers but it's loud enough for Taehyung to catch it. He feels exposed and so filthy suddenly, but the other seems to sense his sudden nervousness, finally opening his eyes to face his not so secret admirer.

Taehyung sees a deep luminosity in his eyes, something more than intelligence and more than kindness. They stare at each other like that, Taehyung feels the world spinning around him. But then he comes back to reality when the other's teeth chatter loudly, he looks like he's about to faint. Taehyung can't wait any longer, putting his shyness aside and rushing over him to sit next to him just before the boy falls limp on the floor, catching him in his arms.

And now, it feels like Taehyung is holding the entire universe, the only thing that really matters. It lasts a while, his hands running on the sleeping boy's back to warm him up as flakes of snow pierce through the old ceiling to gracefully spiral around them. Distant melodies engulfs him, coming from far away because he owes him that at least; if he can't play today, he'll imagine the notes for him instead. What was a simple gift then becomes an exchange.

Moved by a new necessity to taste, discover him more, and knowing the other is soundly asleep, Taehyung allows himself to lower his head until his chin is resting on the cute boy's black hair. He kisses his head delicately and stays there, just to hum the smell of his hair and permitting himself to get a glimpse of the forbidden.

When he wakes up it's almost as if nothing changed, except that Taehyung is sitting on the black velvet seat now and not on the dusty floor in the opposite room like before; he's a bit too close, his arms steady around the other's waist thanks to a burning confidence because he knows they'll maybe never see each other again.

Looking like an angel who's just fallen from the sky, rosy cheeks and innocent eyes, the other doesn't seem to care about the sudden proximity, blinking for a few seconds before looking away with a blush. Taehyung almost apologises, but then,

“What's your name ?” His voice is clear and careless, like he's just curious and not affected at all that he just took a nap in a stranger's arms.

Taehyung hesitates, then says, “Taehyung,” his voice clearer than usual because he wants his name to be remembered and special.

“Korean,” the other says and shakes his head pensively, just to confirm what he already knew. “I'm Jimin.”

Taehyung wouldn't lie saying he felt his heart pass through his guts and drop onto the floor at the words. Jimin. Jimin is his name. His name is Jimin.

“I like the way it sounds,” he admits with a rushed and uncontrolled admiration.

“The way my name sounds ? You like it ? More than my music ?” Jimin teases.

“No !” Is what Taehyung replies a bit too fast and too loud, betraying maybe, the genuine innocence of his personality. It has Jimin chuckling a bit, and their eyes lock for a few seconds before falling on Jimin's fingers. Only the tips can be seen, the rest covered by the fabric and Taehyung's heartbeat goes faster at the realisation that's he's finally seeing the sacred hands, the hands that can do magic.

“Do you want me to play ?” He offers, out of the blue, or at least Taehyung should've expected it but he didn't. He never thought he'd be lucky enough to have a real demonstration.

“Oh,” he gasps, blushes harder “Yeah- I mean, if you want to- aren't you cold ?” He stutters a bit pathetically, one of his large hands grabbing Jimin's one to check if they aren't cold and then- they're holding hands, this simply, on the frozen and smooth keys of the black piano.

Their eyes lock for what feels an eternity, Jimin is the first one who breaks the eye contact, letting go of the other's hand to settle on the keys with a comfortable and professional demeanor. “I'm okay, I want to do it.” He admits and clears his throat, aware that the moment they're about to share feels like a first time, like Taehyung will hear him for the first time again.

Taehyung would usually close his eyes when listening to him, focusing on nothing but the notes. But now's different, and he can't help staring at Jimin's hands almost expectedly, waiting for something to happen. Just before it starts, all he can hear is their steady and loud heartbeats, all he can see is the steam coming out from their mouths.

Beauty has never been an option but it is now, it seems,

breaking all his standards and all his beliefs;

and it doesn't vanish away like he thought it would, it remains forever.

Chapter Text

“Will you come back ?”

Jimin's voice had sounded like a melody that day, pleasant and kind, genuinely asking him to come back and listen to me play again, talk to me, hold my hand and you'll see how good it feels,

And Taehyung had shivered at the feeling, the compassion and the humanity in Jimin's request catching him off guards completely, making him blink and blush and look away beyond the stained glass windows.

The four words were stuck in his head ever since. Will you come back, will you come back, will you come back. Taehyung felt like turning insane, finding himself repeating them out loud in his bed and stretching his hand toward the ceiling to observe it and remember the way Jimin's hand had slipped into his own.

“Will you come back,” he sighs “Will you ?” a pause “Come back !” He changes the intonation on purpose, trying to have it rolling differently on his tongue. “Jimin, will you be there, if I come back ?”

He hopes the other could hear his personal and tortuous pray, it'd be easier to have an answer. But the silence and the way his hand dances in the air are the only things that stay. “Come back, watch me, play again, kiss me. Will you ?”

They meet again the next day, sitting on the black velvet seat and legs brushing as Jimin plays for them. Taehyung realizes that things have never felt this natural, this honest.

“You knew I was here, listening, and you didn't do anything,” Taehyung says later when the cold gave way to a comfortable instant.

Jimin grins mischievously as he plays ( Spring Time by Yiruma he said earlier ), his playful eyes glancing at Taehyung then back on the keys. “I wasn't sure,” he admits “I just knew that it felt different when I was playing.”

“How so ?”

“Like it had a purpose, me being here, my music, and you listening to it, I just knew.”

Taehyung watches and listens, moved by a deep sense of gratitude. He thinks that Jimin playing a Korean composer today, is probably not a mere coincidence. It means it's just the two of them, in a world where they don't fit; the piece is just theirs. He learns that Jimin's personality is the most genuine thing he's ever seen, between a selfless perfectionism and a bright care for every little things.

A nascent complicity flows with ease between them, and they laugh, and they talk. They even forget about the cold.

“Tell me your name again.” Jimin would ask random questions like that, ones that don't seem very important or relevant, except that they are. His hands never stop dancing on the keys, like he secretly knows Taehyung likes to watch him.

“Taehyung.” Long silence “Tell me yours too.”

“Jimin.” He says with a sort of nonchalance “You told me you liked my name, why ?”

“It reminds me of the things I don't know, like the raindrops I never got to touch, and the stars I'll never be able to see.” Jimin chuckles, the warm sounds invading the hall.

“Why are you laughing ? I'm serious.” Taehyung pouts, wanting to sound offended.

“How do you know which stars you'll be able to see or not ? Your confidence, that's what made me laugh.” He explains, leaning to rest his head on Taehyung's shoulder for a short instant, giggling then pulling away. Quick gesture, fond and reassuring.

When Taehyung leaves, he doesn't know anything about Jimin's personal life except his name. He doesn't know where he lives, how old he is and who he'll be in ten years. And it doesn't matter, because he knows Jimin likes rainy days, music, snowflakes and holding hands.

“Don't go,” he had said something like that, their bodies pressed together to say goodbye. “Just stay with me, I like you, the way I like to feel the rain die on my cheeks,”

And Taehyung knows Jimin didn't mean it this way, it's just the way he talks, it's a bit raw, too real.

He had squeezed back Jimin tighter, in the middle of the great hall, to show him how big his love was.

“I changed my mind, go away, go home. And when you'll come back it'll feel like the rain again. Don't wait for me and I won't wait for you, because the rain never wait.”

Jimin's last words had been murmured shamelessly into his ear, and Taehyung couldn't help but smile dumbly on the way back to his apartment, stopping sometimes to grab grass and throw it in the air happily.

Every single day is a brand new century with Jimin. Every passing minutes get more intense, more surprising, as his fingers travel amazingly to create beautiful, meaningful notes.

“Where did you use to hide before ?” He asks one day, standing up to lead them out of the hall. Taehyung realized rather quickly that they'll never stop holding hands. He shows him, with a slight shame and a strange melancholy, coming from far away.

“I would sit here, against the wall, days and nights.”

They crouch down, Taehyung remembering how it was to stay hidden here, remembering the way white ash would fly in the thick air and stain his clothes. Jimin tries to understand the memory, so he can know what Taehyung felt during all this time.

“I wanted to know, what you went through when I was playing,” he explains before Taehyung can ask, lodging his head on his shoulder to close his eyes. Strangely, wonderfully, they can hear the piano playing in the hall, and the Jimin from the past, carefree and untroubled.

“I used to think you were a hallucination,” he admits.

“Maybe I am ?”

Jimin's lips tickle over the sensitive skin of his neck when he turns his head to kiss his collar, Taehyung's heart stopping completely; and then it gets worse, when Jimin's hand, playful as he is, brushes past his thigh to take a handle of ash and open his fist in the air. They watch the particles fall in slow-mo like it's a painting, and Taehyung has never felt this tense in his entire life.

“I want to kiss you.”

The tension turns into joy. And in the noisy silence of the moment, the words will you come back? appear again like the most evident thing. I'm back. They stare, not sure if the words have been said out loud, and then; Taehyung places one of his hands to cup Jimin's soft cheek, already tilting his head to take him better.

They kiss for the first time on a rainy day, hiding against the wall like Taehyung used to do, Jimin's shivering lips brushing onto his; they stay still at first, then immediately pull closer as soon as the thunder of the sudden contact travel down their guts, the strength of the moment having them trembling with a sort of shyness.

When he pulls away, Jimin still has his eyes shut, his hand clutching and loosening around Taehyung's collar as if he's about to sink in a frenetic lake of unknown sensations.

“Good ?” Taehyung murmurs onto his lips, kissing him again as their mouths collide and their heads arch together.

“Good,” Jimin sighs back, “Good as the rain.”

And Jimin was right, the rain, the rain never wait.