Work Text:
I'm not a good person
Ask anyone who loves me
I never write, I never call
I never think about anyone at all[I’m not a good person - Pet The Bunny]
It starts with Jimin sitting on the other side of a white table, with a woman with dark hair and thick glasses in the chair at the far end, but not really.
It started long before she asked, “What brings you here, Jimin?”, in a serene voice.
It began years ago, perhaps, in some lost moment among the distortions of minutes, in some drop that made a glass of unpleasant moments overflow — was it the twentieth trickle or the hundredth? Jimin doesn't know.
All he knows is that it started long before he became aware of its shape, of the tenuous line that delimits its limits.
But he only truly recognizes it when he replies, "I think I'm depressed."
And it's only when the psychologist nods sympathetically that he releases the breath he's been holding for, perhaps, his entire life.
He doesn't know exactly when it all went wrong, but it's not like he hasn't spent exhausting hours trying to figure it out.
More times than he could count, his emotions had been stretched and analyzed, poked and covered, reopened and saturated. At some point, half of Jimin's conscious hours were spent sifting through his memory, sifting through his feelings — looking for the source of the pain, so he could contain its metastasis.
It was useless, and he always came out of these moments of torture with even more punctual pain.
It seemed logical, then, for him to draw an illogical line of reasoning: if acknowledging his pains only hurts him more, it's better to ignore it.
For most of his life, Jimin was just someone clinging to the wrong answers he thought he got right.
It wasn't until Jungkook said "Jimin, I'm worried about you", with his brows furrowed and lips drooping down in an unconscious worried pout, that Jimin realized that none of this could be ignored.
It was at another week of rehearsals, one of many that preceded big performances.
Jimin, a dancer, grew up with the awareness that he shouldn't let his worries follow him into the dance studio — whatever bothered him, it should wait on the other side of the door.
At times, it was good to make that separation: the studio became his refuge, a small space of calm and prolonged moments of peaceful silence that did not exist in his mind. It was where he went when he felt too sad to breathe, and the psychosomatic repercussions of his emotional pains rippled through his entire body, reliving old muscle aches.
It was in those moments of greatest absurdity, with sore muscles and a lethargic pain spasming in different parts of his body, that Jimin would feel that he reached the peak of his talent. He would dance with greater determination, with sharper moves and more pulsating dedication, and there was something about that exchange that both pleased and terrified him.
After all, in the tiny space between each thought, there was an old worry — what would become of Jimin outside the dance studio, being nothing more than a dancer himself?
He spent his entire life looking for a suitable label. He wasn't a best friend, he failed at being a good son, he tried too hard to be a good student, and he was too disinterested and complicated to be a good boyfriend. There was a long list of roles he was not suited for.
Instead of being something, Jimin was simply not many things.
It was only in the extracurricular dance classes that he felt he had any purpose. His grades were good, sure, but Jimin wasn't as interested in being a software engineer or a lawyer — not as much as he was in being a dancer.
Even though his parents never verbally objected to Jimin's enthusiastic announcements that he would one day dance in the Seoul dance company, there was still a palpable misgiving weighing on the air of their interactions. His parents would look at each other carefully, shoulders raised in the air and brows furrowed, and then take small peeks at a teenage Jimin's face while nodding, almost as if they were afraid to look at him, really look at him, and say what they truly thought about it — but they were too busy in their good parenting roles, and Jimin was too busy dreaming about his dancing role, and neither of them seemed willing to break that harmony.
When he passed Seoul University, it wasn't hard to say goodbye to Busan. His network of friends only spanned the confines of the school, and his intimacy with them didn't go beyond bantering that were generally torn between being harmless and accusatory, when it was still funny to poke fun at Jimin's shyness and laugh at suggestions that he was insufferable, terribly boring and with lack of social skills — and Jimin's participation was a shaky smile, which it hurt to keep stretched, as he tried to draw attention away from his flushed cheeks and unfocused eyes, with tears that always pricked at the corners.
In those years, Jimin danced around the question — “Is this what having friends is like: this eternal discomfort?” — and every day, with him being the recipient of the joke, when none of his so-called friends noticed or seemed to care about his hurt feelings, his answer always leaned a little more toward yes.
But the high-pitched, sobbing laughter from friends who relished his discomfort was always better than loneliness, so Jimin learned to accept it and stopped asking them to stop.
They were right, after all. Jimin was, in fact, insufferable, terribly boring and with poor social skills (his own parents had already told him that, six or seven times!).
The jokes only hurt because they revealed the truth of his nature, not because they were lies — if they were lies, it would be easier to accept them, laugh and play along. If they were lies, Jimin wouldn't come home every day and, locked in his room, sometimes crying and sometimes being torn apart by a dry rage, try to understand where he went wrong and what he could do to change.
If they weren't the most absolute and painful truth, he wouldn't be so blinded by the desperation of trying to change.
(Perhaps this is the source of Jimin's pain: the emphatic awareness of his flaws and the recognition that, even though he knows he is wrong in so many things, he cannot change, he cannot improve, he does not want to break a vicious cycle of harmful behaviors)
He took all the teasing as a teenager and continued to take it as an adult. Maybe if they pointed out enough times what they didn't like about his personality, he could hide those irregularities, prune himself accordingly.
The origin of his pains may be a mystery, but the ramifications of their stems that extended through all areas of Jimin's life were not — he knew that extreme feeling of inadequacy, as if he was worthless and should not bargain for love or care, having to accept what was being offered, wasn't normal, even if he couldn't stop it or trace its length.
Jimin's life was marked by non-experiences: he still wasn't a boyfriend, he wasn't a good son and he still wasn't a good friend — even if Taehyung, a guy he met at university and with whom he started hanging out frequently, liked to contradict him, saying that he was, yes, a good friend, and that any divergent thinking was absurd —, but at least he was a good dancer.
And he was only a good dancer because, at the moments he danced, it was as if nothing else mattered: it didn't matter that he hadn't called his parents in nine days, dreading the pauses in conversation, the disappointment that would escape through their muffled voices, the questions that wouldn’t be vocalized (Why don't you call us more often? Why don't you ever want to talk to us? Why don't you love us the way we love you? Why aren't you trying? Why have you never tried? What's wrong with you?); it didn't matter that his conversational utterances were increasingly hesitant and uncertain, stuttering between syllables, getting lost in trains of thought and in a memory that, getting worse by each day, sometimes abandons him in the middle of a sentence; it didn't matter that he couldn't eat because he was rarely hungry and food settled in a strange and unpleasant way in his stomach; it didn't matter that his romantic connections didn't last more than two months of conversations and a few hookups, until he would get bored and, giving in to the fears of his treacherous mind, would convince himself that it wasn't worth starting something that would surely end, just to getting hurt when every one of them managed to move on and make lasting connections with other people — everyone but him.
He often forgot the time — how long it had been since he entered, how long he had been dancing without proper rest and ignoring the pain in the tugging of his exhausted muscles, how long it had been since he'd eaten and how many days he hadn't had a good night's sleep. Nothing mattered.
The pain seemed very small, inside the studio. Very pathetic.
It was on one of those days, then, that Jungkook came to visit, bags of food dangling from his fingers as he looked, worried and terrified, at a Jimin hunched over on the ground, head on his knees and lungs struggling to work.
Jungkook has always been a mystery to him. Maybe it's the mystique of his existence, the magic that surrounds his aura, as if he were the main character of a grand book, with a defined plot and problems that would only be explored towards the end, only to be quickly resolved.
(But, of course, Jimin knew that deep down that wasn't true. He'd heard enough stories of Jungkook and his family problems to know that Jungkook has his own share of worries. Still, what dazzles Jimin goes beyond the extent, amount or degree of difficulty of Jungkook's problems. What fascinates him is the attempt to understand why, even with so many events, Jungkook still seems satisfied and happy, composed. Whole)
(He doesn't understand what sets them apart. Doesn't understand why he feels like he's already given up, with huge chunks of himself missing and being ripped off and given away until there's nothing left to flaunt, while Jungkook holds tight and glued)
Jungkook came alongside Taehyung, and brought Hoseok with him, who dragged Seokjin, who brought Namjoon, who brought Yoongi, until they were a vast group of seven — one of which Jimin, curiously, had not been expelled as it grew up, on the contrary: his presence seemed more in demand with each addition of a new member, and where before there had been comments about his lack of social skills, it was now filled with praise and comments about how friendly and cute he was.
It was both a frightening and pleasant surprise, one that Jimin found himself struggling to accept. He had a good relationship with Hoseok because they were dancing buddies, with Seokjin because they were cooking buddies, with Namjoon because they both enjoyed deep conversations, with Yoongi because their introspection was similar at times and they never made each other feel inadequate at times when one of them would preferred silence to conversation, and with Taehyung because he seemed to be the missing part of Jimin, the correct answer to his question — No, discomfort should not exist in friendships.
But he and Jungkook didn't really have anything in common — and yet he was the one Jimin found himself spending more time with, sharing more of everyday life. Maybe it was the comfort in Jungkook's presence, for whatever reason, or the fact that he always listened attentively to his speech and Jimin didn't have to worry about stuttering or straying lines of thought because Jungkook always waited for him to finish talking, and always tilted his head as if everything Jimin said was important.
Maybe it was the heat that spread in his stomach when Jungkook touched him, or the times that it was like sparks exploded every time a piece of his skin brushed against one of Jungkook's. Maybe it was Jungkook's smile, his big, bright eyes, the way he didn't seem to doubt himself, and all his words came with an enviable certainty.
Jimin doesn't know exactly how, why or when, but he started to have a different admiration for Jungkook. One that wasn't just friendly or brotherly.
One that couldn't exist.
And, based on the looks Jungkook let linger on his face, his insistence on always touching and being close to Jimin, how quick he was to placate him when he noticed his worries and comfort him when his mind held him hostage, Jimin suspected that Jungkook felt the same.
The possibility of a confession left Jimin more terrified than happy. If Jungkook confessed, what would be in it for them? Jimin imagines a few pleasant months of a serene relationship, with Jungkook kissing away all the worries that leaked between the expressions on Jimin's face. But what about later, when Jimin couldn't contain his bad moments of heavy sadness and aggressive moodiness? In the moments when Jimin will no longer be cute and would let that insufferable and terribly boring person that he really is slip away?
Does Jungkook deserve the eventual pain that will come with Jimin's ugly parts?
No.
Nobody deserves this.
All Jimin could do in the limited months of their relationship would be push Jungkook away and ruthlessly cut him, taking large chunks of his professed love and converting them into an ugly feeling of hurt and pain, and their relationship would be reduced to an endless loop of rancor and regrets, until everything would give way to disappointment, when Jungkook would realize that Jimin always asks too much and always offers too little (almost nothing) in return.
In this scenario, Jungkook will be forced to evaluate what everyone else in Jimin's life has at some point wondered or will wonder: after all, is he worth keeping and nurturing with his love, only to have Jimin repay him with ingratitude of being inability to be fully reciprocated, too trapped inside his own mind and too surrounded by his own problems to notice that he's taking away from Jungkook everything he once admired about him?
And then he will realize, as everyone in Jimin's life has or will one day realize: no. It's useless.
So, to prevent this scenario from happening, Jimin hooks up with other people and has shallow, boring conversations that only last two months, and he never admits his feelings or lets Jungkook admit his.
They remain in this skeleton relationship longer than Jimin deserves, and he's always sore at himself for not completely pushing Jungkook away, completely untying him from that mess — but Jimin is selfish.
It would hurt so much a life without Jungkook.
He already has too many regrets; he doesn't want to hurt Jungkook and create some new ones, some more painful ones, that will make him feel even more guilty.
(Guilty, guilty, guilty. Jimin is guilty of so many things: the distance he insists on keeping between him and his parents, because he doesn't know how to return their love or satisfy their expectations, because his parents' hopeful gazes always seem suffocating, filled with a misguided faith in Jimin, one that is constantly broken because Jimin is not at all what they want him to be, what they ask him to be; he is guilty for the distance between him and his friends, for the few things he chooses to share and all the messages he leaves days unanswered because he is too tired of himself and the world to respond. Guilty. Guilty)
(This may not be the root of his pain, but it is one of his nodes: all his hurts tighten in guilt. Guilt for how Jimin handles the pain. Guilt for how he chooses to avenge it)
He and Jungkook remain friends even through the obvious strain of their feelings, and it was one of those extreme emotions that Jungkook embodied when he walked over to a bent-over Jimin, legs pressed to his chest and head on top of his knees, and knelt down at his height.
Setting the food bags aside, he carefully pulled one of the arms that Jimin used to tighten the circle around his legs, and placed his palm on the back of his neck.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low and filled with concern. “Hyung— Jimin hyung, what happened? Did you get hurt?"
Jimin didn't want to lift his head because he couldn't explain the tears that were falling. He didn't know what he was crying for. Maybe it was the jump that he kept missing no matter how hard he tried, or the placement of his feet, which never seemed right. Maybe it was the times he stumbled or the pain that tugged at his muscles. Maybe it was because of the pain in his stomach, because of all those hours he had gone without eating — he couldn't even remember when his last meal had been.
Maybe it was because he hadn't called his parents for nine days, and each day was a reminder of what a terrible son he was, who kept hurting the only people who still cared about him, who, for some reason, loved him, even though that love was confusing and demanding, judgmental and suffocating, with a reminder that he would never be as good as the son his parents imagined and whose existence they continued to hold in their fantasies and insisted on comparing to the real and unwanted version.
Maybe it was because he couldn't give Jungkook what he needed: a free and uncomplicated love that he didn't even know if it existed. Maybe it was because Jimin always felt cornered and a romantic relationship with someone always felt like a reshaping of his relationship with his parents: the same demands and disappointments, the same failures where there should have been simple fixes, the same criticisms to a terribly disinterested Jimin. Maybe it was because, even with his clear inability to commit, he still couldn't let Jungkook free to relate to someone else.
Maybe it was because Jimin was everything bad there was, because he was selfish and mean, irritable and stubborn, and there was very little to be praised about him. Maybe it was because Jimin knew the extent of his flaws and, even though he was aware of the repercussions, he didn't change, he didn't improve, and he continued to hurt other people.
Maybe it was life, always so tiring and demanding, always an effort that never seemed worth it. Maybe it was everything, from the past to the future, from the moment Jimin took his first breath of air to the day he would take his last.
Maybe it was nothing.
He didn't know why he was crying, but Jungkook must have noticed the way his shoulders shook or the way his breath came through bursts of air, because he soon wrapped his arms around Jimin, rubbed his back, and didn't ask any more questions until Jimin stopped crying.
When Jimin felt composed enough to lift his head, he met Jungkook's worried eyes.
"Have you eaten today?"
Jimin tried to remember. His last meal had been an apple, which he'd swallowed with difficulty between bites that weren't tasty… in the late afternoon of the previous day. With a quick glance at the clock on the wall, he saw that it was already 8:49 pm.
Jimin's silence seemed to be all the answer Jungkook needed.
“I brought ramen,” he says, eyebrows knitted together. “How about we go to my place? We eat there while watching a movie. That one you like, how is it called? The…”
“The notebook. Thanks, Gguk. That would be nice,” Jimin tries to smile.
They got up, Jungkook's hands still on Jimin's back, and walked towards the door, until Jungkook stopped. Jimin, confused, stopped as well.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, scanning Jungkook's face for any clues.
“No,” he denied, and Jimin felt his stomach drop. When he was about to ask what was wrong, Jungkook said, "Jimin, I'm worried about you."
Maybe it was Jungkook's fearful tone, how raw his emotions sounded at that moment. It might have been his sad look, the way a strand of his bangs covered his left eye, the way he continued to touch Jimin's back, as if he feared he would fall and once again curl into the ground.
But maybe it was all Jimin, the tiredness of his dull feelings, of all the lethargic pain that accompanied him every minute of every day, all the guilt that he carried in his chest and grew every time he unconsciously did something that only reinforced it.
Either way, he knew that Jungkook was right and that the situation had reached an intolerable point, dangerously crossing his boundaries.
He knew because perhaps he had always been aware of the mismatch of his emotions, the way they trickled into a reservoir whose full storage capacity he didn't know, but which he knew was leaking.
He knew.
And because of that the appointment with the psychologist was scheduled for Monday, five days later.
In a session, she helped Jimin understand that his core beliefs, responsible for behavior cycles, gave way to maintenance addiction, when he unconsciously sought ways to reinforce a negative thought.
He linked this new discovery to the fact that he ended a relationship with Jungkook before it even started, under the justification that Jungkook would see the defects that he believed to outweigh the qualities. He left him before he was left, suffering from pain that might not materialize only to reinforce the belief that he was unwanted, that Jungkook would be better off without him.
It is difficult to deal with this clarification. He cries for the rest of the session, recounting times he has behaved similarly.
He breaks down his life and days in high school, in that school with gray walls and stuffy rooms, and talks about the jokes and laughter that filled the air, how they made him feel. He talks about friends who weren't friends, about all the things he endured and swallowed for fear of being alone, because even before Jimin already feared and disliked his own company, so he would accept any treatment to not be left alone with his own thoughts.
He understands that his chain of similar reactions were manifestations of the trauma, after all, and that its waves made up a sea of pain. He knows emocional trauma has been dictating his life this whole time.
Jimin needs to take back the reins.
The healing process is neither easy nor entirely pleasant. Jimin has gone months without going after hearing something he wasn't ready to find out, until he realized he needed therapy to get back on his feet.
He has been trying to get back on his feet his whole life — he has not been successful.
He is tired of being thrown on the ground that he once tripped over.
He's tired of getting up on his own.
Things with Jungkook got even better after Jimin, in a sudden surge of courage, confessed his feelings and tried not to anticipate any disastrous scenarios.
Jungkook smiled a wide, happy smile, and kissed every corner of Jimin's face a hundred times.
"I love you too, hyung. I love you so much”, he murmured between kisses and, this time, love didn't feel like a burden that Jimin had to carry, nor another demand that he would fail to fulfill.
This time it came light, like a breath of air, a peaceful breath he hadn't known he needed.
It was good, unlike anything Jimin ever imagined.
“I love you”, he would respond shyly to Jungkook's declarations and bite his tongue so as not to apologize for not saying it sooner, for wasting so much time.
Even with the confessions and feelings exposed, they agreed to take things slowly, one step at a time.
It felt sacred, that relationship.
It felt right.
In time, he discovers that his own company is good and pleasant, and that he has a number of good qualities that he previously overlooked: he is a good listener and does not fail to empathize; he is patient and careful, and always willing to give good advice; his memory, which, before, he thought was slow and terribly inefficient, is actually great, capable of storing a huge picture of information; he is funny after all.
He is a good friend. He is Taehyung's (and Jungkook's) best friend. And he's trying to be a good son, which is good enough for now.
Ultimately, he actually is a great lover, if the dazed looks Jungkook continues to throw him is any indication.
Jimin, at the end of the day, has more strengths than faults: he was just too busy letting others give him an answer he should've been looking for to truly notice.
It was Jimin who asked Jungkook to be his boyfriend, two months after the confession.
But it was Jungkook who proposed, five years later.
All Jimin did was say yes.