He was curled up on the blue, cold bench. Small and pathetic, he sat with his toes hanging over the edge, his knees pulled to his chest, shivering, the frigid air fighting its way under his sweater and leaving swirls of goosebumps over his skin. The unforgiving winds tinged the tip of his nose and his cheeks a light pink, gentle features shining over the silver moonlight, phone shaking in his small hand.

He held it up to his ear, the heat radiating from the device sinking into his palm, stuttered breaths and quiet whimpers falling from his parted lips, and into the glowing screen. The warm, reassuring comfort of Yoongi's voice the only thing keeping him together.

His clothes weren't nearly thick enough for this cold evening, but he was allowed nothing when he told him to get out, get out of his sight, he couldn't stand to see him anymore.

Far too ugly, far too fat, too much of a slut, never enough.

Not even the new scars underneath his sleeves and the fabric of his jeans would be enough for him.

And he was almost blue from the low temperature, almost the same dull color that resided in his washed out eyes and torn heart, the subtle yet ever present ache resting in the crevices of his heavy bones.

He didn't know what do anymore, and the pain was so sharp, so overwhelming, coming over him in this crushing wave that drowned him in its suffocating water, and it had nowhere to go. It sliced under his skin, only escaping him in those crimson petals he was so incredibly sick of.

Every time he thought too much about those twisted words that had been thrown at his helpless body and mind, the hole in his chest grew, and he was left wishing that he'd given himself to gravestones years ago, for then he would not feel the agony of his wretched existence.

His "precious hyung's" softly spoken promises were the only thing he was holding onto, grasping them tightly between his trembling fingers, because he was right, Yoongi was his precious hyung, his precious, precious hyung, and he always caught him when he was falling.

When he pushed him over the edge.

"I'm almost there baby, I'm almost there, just hold on a little longer, I'm literally pulling up, don't move, it will be okay."

He made a small noise of agreement, and of relief, knowing that with Yoongi came warmth, and came safety, comfort and love, and a breath for his collapsing lungs.

His hands were shaking so hard, he dropped the phone in his lap, shrinking into his fetal position, keeping the tears at bay.

Please Yoongi, please come and stop the pain.

He was so tired of this fall.

But then Yoongi was there, his sugar white, elegant paleness illuminated by the night sky, beautiful eyes wide, dark waves of silky hair shifting over his forehead, tousling with the wind, his name falling from those tempting, candy lips.

So sweet.

So safe.

"Jimin!"

God, he was crying again.

Yoongi always made him cry.

And just by saying his name, saying his name like it was beautiful, like he was beautiful, like he was seeing him, and not like a warning, not like a premonition for pain, or a promise of misery, followed by an empty apology, by countless "do you trust me"'s.

His warm hands were caressing his face, warm arms folding around his body, nose nuzzling into his head, lifting him up, under he knees, his ear against his chest, intoxicating scent wrapping around him, heartbeat thudding against his damp cheek, carrying him when he couldn't walk, holding him when he was falling apart.

"I'm here now angel, I'm here, it's okay, I'm here."

And Jimin cried, and cried, and cried.

"You're here, you're here, you're here."