Yoongi's Traditon: A Narrative Fiction

"Fuck you, Yoongi!," Jimin shouts, raising his voice, swearing for the first time in ages. "You can't keep doing this!" Yoongi doesn't look up, doesn't take his hand away from the cigarette at his lips. Jimin glances at the veins in his arms. "You told me you were clean," he says, his voice pitches like a ship in a storm. "I was," Yoongi says, and takes a long drag off of his cigarette. "Now I'm not," he blows the smoke at Jimin, trying unsuccessfully to blow smoke rings. Jimin coughs, tries to remember where he left his inhaler. Yoongi's face softens. "I thought you were going to stop for us," Jimin mumbles out. Yoongi shrugs, that asshole actually shrugs. "You're never home anyway, didn't think it would be an issue." "I can't stay with you if you're going to do this," Jimin shoots back. It's an empty threat, it's always empty.

It stings worse than that time Yoongi actually hit him. At least then he was on LSD, tripping out. At least then he didn't know what he was doing. "This is my apartment," Jimin spits back. Carefully. He doesn't know what Yoongi is on. He doesn't know if he'll get