If Memory Serves [YoonMin]

01

a/n 

y'all, I haven't written a BTS fic in a hot minute, I apologize. but here's a yoonmin fic that will be updated on saturdays unless I get overly excited and impatient and decide to update more than once. 

*

PAST

A silence looms over the station, taut.

His heart beats at a pace his ribs are displeased with, that he's certain if bones could bruise, his ribs and lungs would be black and blue. His knuckles whiten from the death grip on the straps of his bag, sweat causing his dark hair to stick to his skin. His breath hitches when the conductor calls for passengers to board.

He can't breathe. What is breathing, he asks himself as he follows the queue.

"Ticket please."

He fumbles for his ticket, hand shaking as he hands it over. The ticket collector looks it over, a brow arching as he checks it back-to-back. He's thorough in his check, punching a hole in it, handing it back and letting the kid on board without question.

He gets on and immediately searches for an empty room. He doesn't want to be stuck with people he doesn't know. What if they aren't kind? What if they try to talk to him? He can't risk that. As he passes by rooms, people greet him, invite him to join them or scowl. He politely declines, on the brink of tears when he finally finds an empty room at the end of the hall. He sets his bag on the bottom bunk, hands still trembling as he fumbles with the zip.

The room is small with hardly any space for more than one person, but there's a bunk bed that says it has to fit two. There are worn woolen blankets, a table by the train window and a dresser with weird lines engraved on the top. Jimin doesn't know what to do so he stands there, looking at the chipped paint in the corner walls and the ugly red of the carpet floors. He wants to take off his shoes, but he would rather wait until the train starts moving because then he'll know for sure if he's alone.

If he hadn't come here, he'd be dead. He's certain of it. His dad yelled long enough for him to catch on that he's no longer welcome there. His mom did nothing but cry. He's an only child so he has no siblings he can run to for help.

If only he did, it would be easier than this.

"Is this room full?"

The voice is young, not having hit puberty yet just like his. When he turns, he's taken back by the cutest face he's ever seen. The boy has a blank look on his face, eyes dull and green hair sticking up at all ends from the dreadful wind outside. He must realize because he lifts a hand to pat the strands down, pursing his lips.

"N- No."

The boy nods, exuding an air of confidence he wishes he had, rocking a leather jacket far too big for him and ripped pants.

"May I?" His eyes flicker up. "I can do the top bunk if you feel better."

He stands still beside the bed, staring at the boy with uncertainty. He would very much like the bottom bunk if only because he's afraid of falling off the bed and the top bunk would make the fall so much harder. The boy also looks to be around his age, maybe only a couple years older and it would feel safer rooming with someone his age than older.

"Y- Yes, you may." The stammer identifies in his voice, refusing to leave. He steps aside as the boy comes in and tosses his bag onto the top bunk.

The boy turns, lifting the leather sleeve to his elbow and extending a hand. "Min Yoongi."

He's surprised because the boy- Yoongi - doesn't look like the sociable type yet here he is, making the first move. His lips thin into a line, his face emotionless, but not unkind.

"Park Jimin." He takes Yoongi's hand into his own, sees the way his eyes flicker.

"You're shaking."

"Cold," Jimin lies.

He's afraid. He's never been further than school and now he's on a train heading miles away from home. The only bright thought that keeps him sane is that he's alive. The only reason he is that he's here.

At least he's alive.

Yoongi's eyes are dark and warm, sliding up and down as he looks at Jimin. His tongue pops out, settling on his lips in decision, arms crossing over his chest, and he takes a small step away, toward the bunk where he starts climbing the ladder.

"You're a shit liar, Park Jimin."

The way Yoongi says his name is like a flutter that Jimin can't stop thinking about. Not even as he climbs into the bottom bunk and pulls out a book with wrinkled pages and a faded spine. Oliver Twist.

He's not big on reading, bad at reading books like this, but it was the only one he could grab on his way out. The good books that he likes when he must read were upstairs and he couldn't risk being found. He doesn't like the big words or the way his brain hurts after two sentences. It's easy to distract himself through the words, looking up from the book as if there were something there. He would check the time, but he hasn't got a watch and he was never lucky to get a phone.

He listens to the shifts at the top bunk. There's the sound of a pencil on scratchy paper. Jimin imagines it's a drawing or something cool. Surprise spins through him when the silence is filled with a soft hum. It takes him a moment to realize that it's his roommate.

Jimin dozes off to the humming.

*

There's a tv on when he wakes. The image doesn't fit, and he doesn't know where it came from, but it's there, playing an episode of SpongeBob.

Jimin's heart leaps in his chest when the door creaks open. His head whips around, hands gripping the edges of his blanket, mentally preparing himself for nothing that comes in a room so small that if something did come, he would have no space to run anyhow.

"You're awake," Yoongi says, nudging the door closed with his foot.

He's got a tray full of sandwiches and juice in one hand, in the other is the sketch book he must have been drawing in before. Jimin's eyes stay on the tray, following it as Yoongi crosses to the small table in the corner where he puts everything down. Turning to check where Jimin is, he juts his chin for him to move.

Jimin joins him reluctantly. They sit at the table.

"Where did the tv come from?"

"Ticket collector brought remotes to all the rooms. There's a button that brings it up for space." The funny engravings on the wood. That's what they were for?

Yoongi reaches for a sandwich and doesn't hesitate to take a bite. His lashes are long, his cheeks are puffy and Jimin thinks he's kind of cute. "Eat up. Have to give the trays back in time for supper."

"Is it just afternoon?"

"Yeah. It's three." Yoongi's forehead scrunches, but he doesn't say anything more.

Jimin doesn't bother answering, reaching for a sandwich. There's cheese and tomato and lettuce between soft white bread and it's the best thing he's eaten in weeks. His eyes prickle as he goes through three sandwiches before stopping, not wanting to eat it all and leave his roommate starving.

"Well, I'm full," Yoongi announces. There's still a sandwich on the tray and Jimin's caught staring. He thinks he sees the hint of a smile at the edge of Yoongi's mouth. "You can have it if you'd like. There's always supper."

He doesn't say no because it's the kindest action he's received, and he doesn't know how to decline kind actions. He eats the sandwich, watching as his roommate climbs up to his bed. The silence that had been there before is gone, filled with the laughter of SpongeBob and the pencil on the scratchy paper.