Chapter Text
“Yoongi?”
A deep voice and a hand on his hip stir him awake, and as soon as he opens his eyes he wants to just go back to sleep. Namjoon is looking down at him, eyebrow raised in either concern or annoyance that his roommate has fallen asleep on the couch again, and the taller man clears his throat. “You alright?”
Yoongi grunts and rolls over.
“Right, well, Tae and Jeongguk are coming over once their classes are done. I thought you could maybe help me,” he gestured around at the mess in the living room, “you know… Tidy up”. Namjoon smiled politely, but that did little to relieve the guilt that settled firmly in Yoongi’s stomach. Clothes, dirty dishes, and old wrappers littered the floor and coffee table. Blankets and pillows had gradually migrated from bed to couch as his energy levels dipped low enough that he couldn’t make it to his room anymore.
But hell, he’d do nearly anything for Namjoon. Clearing away his shit is a small price to pay for his best friend looking after his sorry ass.
“Shit, yeah, sorry man.” His throat feels like shards of glass and he grimaces at the taste in his mouth. It could be 3pm or 3am for all he knew; the curtains hadn’t been opened for days. He desperately needed a shower.
“No need to apologise. Sorry I haven’t been here, if I’d have known you-“
“Joon, leave it. I’m fine. You had college stuff to finish, don’t blame yourself.”
Namjoon sighed quietly, stepping back as Yoongi threw the blankets off him and forced himself to his feet. “Anything I can get you? Run you a bath or whatever?”
“Some serotonin?”
“All out of that at the store, I’m afraid. A bath it is. Dump the plates in the sink and I’ll do them after.”
Namjoon headed to the bathroom before Yoongi had time to process what he had said, then began gathering the dishes without much care.
If you asked Min Yoongi to describe himself in three words, the first one would be useless without hesitation. Some days he managed to function fine, despite the lingering voice in the back of his head constantly telling him to give up and take a nap instead, but other times he was reduced to a cocoon of blankets and 25-year-old man on the couch in his and Namjoon’s apartment. He was eternally grateful for his friend. No doubt he’d have grown into his sheets without Namjoon there to give him a slap around the head occasionally and insist that he pulled himself together. And he knew that Namjoon loved him, didn’t mind that he needed help, understood that for him living was a tiny bit hard sometimes. But that didn’t make him feel any less pathetic.
The second word would be tired. He was just so tired all the time: physically, mentally, emotionally exhausted and for little reason since the only obligations in his life were showing up to work at the gym reception on time and phoning to pay rent once a month. Namjoon handled grocery shopping and giving lifts to friends. Yet fatigue had long since made its bed in Yoongi’s bones and he could barely remember the last time he felt alive.
The third word would be trying. A verb rather than an adjective, but an accurate one, so it didn’t really matter. God knew he tried so hard, even when his brain was in the middle of shutting down. He forced himself out of bed to go to his job, he tried to do the bare minimum household chores to prevent both of them from living in filth. He grasped to reality by the skin of his teeth whenever he began to dissociate. He was trying, and as long as he recognised that- as long as Namjoon accepted that and didn’t eventually become exasperated- he would keep pushing on, he supposed.
The sound of the water running in the bathroom was a pleasant background hum that soothed him as he slowly transferred cups and bowls and cutlery from coffee table to kitchen sink. Thankfully the trash can didn’t need to be emptied yet, so he could stuff the wrappers into it without problem. He couldn’t bring himself to open the curtains just yet but that was okay, Namjoon would understand.
Lovely, kind, understanding Namjoon who Yoongi didn’t deserve, who was collecting Yoongi’s clothes in his arms to deposit them in the hamper. He smiled when Yoongi came out of the kitchen. “Hey. Bath’s done. Do you wanna shave?”
The smaller man ran a hand over his face and grimaced again. “Yeah. Got work tomorrow.”
“’Kay, let me get the stuff.” And he disappeared to retrieve the razor and dump the bundle into the hamper.
Yoongi walked into the bathroom, squinting a little at the sudden bright light, and began slowly taking his gross t-shirt and sweatpants off. Namjoon placed the shaving stuff on the top of the toilet with a small smile and a reminder to not lock the door. Yoongi didn’t have any choice but to agree.
That was a strict rule they had between them: Yoongi wasn’t allowed to lock the door whenever he went into the bathroom. To other people this might have seemed strange, but Yoongi understood. He couldn’t be alone for long periods of time when he was feeling like this.
Not after last time. That was probably why Namjoon kept the shaving razors somewhere unknown, too, Yoongi acknowledged with a humourless smirk as the grabbed the stuff he needed and slid down beneath the bubbles. Namjoon had thrown in a sparkly green bath bomb and if Yoongi was currently feeling anything other than melancholy apathy he would have been touched.
He welcomed the slight burn of the water and the scent of the oils- lemongrass and rosewood, he noted and remembered that one rant Namjoon went on about aromatherapy and the benefits of herbs. Apparently lemongrass was used as a natural anti-depressant. Maybe that’s why he chose this particular bath bomb. Namjoon’s mind was complex and fascinating but also a bit chaotic to the extent that Yoongi was surprised the man didn’t have a migraine 24/7 just from thinking.
With aching arms he reached for the shampoo, the body wash, the soap and eventually the razor to shave with. Dealing with depression also meant taking shortcuts because every extra minute spent doing mundane tasks was a pound of weight on his shoulders: sometimes it was getting dressed while still lying in bed, sometimes it was brushing his teeth and washing his face while in the bath or shower. So after twenty minutes, he got out of the water with his toothbrush still in his mouth and pulled the plug.
Namjoon had laid a fresh change of clothes out for him, and he pulled them on without drying himself off properly. Now that he was at the very least clean he could admit that he felt marginally better- more human, at bare minimum, instead of a walking bacterium. His eyes still felt like he had grains of sand in them and his stomach was cramping from barely eating anything of value but he could deal with that.
“Hey hyung. Feel better?” Namjoon was sat on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table and a plate of food in his lap when Yoongi re-entered the living room. Of course he had made a plate for Yoongi too, being the angel he is, and he sank next to his friend on the cushions.
“Yeah.” It was mostly a lie, they both knew it was, but Namjoon never pushed him. He knew that lead to nothing, so he just smiled that kind smile Yoongi didn’t feel like he deserved. “Thanks for the food. And the bath.”
“No worries. Have you been taking your meds?”
Ah, damn. Yoongi should have seen that question coming. He winced a little.
“Yoongi…? Why haven’t you been taking them?” Namjoon was looking concerned now and that familiar feeling of guilt poked its fingers at Yoongi’s stomach lining.
“I, uh, ran out a couple days ago. Meant to go pick some more up but… yeah.” He shrugged, not finishing his sentence, though they both knew what he meant. Bad days were usual, but really bad days reared their ugly head now and again and to him going outside was the equivalent of travelling to the moon. He’d just pick them up on his way to work in the morning and told Namjoon this.
“Okay. But don’t do it again, dumbass.” A familiar smirk graced the younger man’s lips and he ruffled Yoongi’s black hair.
“Respect your elders.”
“Respect yourself first.”
Yoongi couldn’t push back a small smile, throwing a “touché” in Namjoon’s direction while checking the time on his phone. 19:54. Was it socially acceptable to go to bed yet?
“I’m off. Tell Taehyung and Jeongguk to keep the noise down or I’ll kick their asses.” He groaned, standing up and stretching. Namjoon chuckled next to him.
“Yeah, will do. Night hyung. I’ll text you a reminder to pick your meds up tomorrow.”
“Night Joon.”
Walking into his room, Yoongi realised that Namjoon had even changed his sheets for him. He really did not deserve him as a friend and roommate. But that wasn’t specific with Namjoon, not really; Yoongi just generally didn’t believe he deserved anyone who was kind to him. Didn’t understand why they would waste their time with him when he could barely smile in their direction.
His thoughts threatened to consume him, but eventually fatigue won, and he slipped into a thankfully dreamless and uninterrupted sleep.
The route to the gym was boring, uneventful, and made Yoongi pretty grumpy. It was half past 6 in the morning and the winter chill was biting at the tip of his nose and his fingers. Times like this had him wondering while he still held his job as the gym receptionist that had him working stupid hours at minimum wage, but then he reminded himself that he was a college drop-out with few valued skills and nowhere else would hire him, so he grit his teeth and carried on.
It wasn’t too bad, he supposed. At least he didn’t have to do anything active- ironic since he worked at a gym. But he wasn’t a personal trainer or anything like that, he simply sat behind the main desk and signed customers in, dealt with membership cards, pointed them in the direction of the equipment hall or the shower rooms. And most customers were in too much of an energy-drink-induced buzz to have an actual conversation with him.
Despite being tired and achy, Yoongi was proud of himself for getting up with his 5:30am alarm. It would have been so easy to turn over and sleep for a further 12 hours, let his depression envelope him for another three days, but work called. Bills needed to be paid, he needed to function in society, not to mention Namjoon would be disappointed. So he dragged his limbs out from the safe comforts of his duvet and left the house running on several mugs of coffee and a granola bar.
Namjoon needed the car to get to college, so he had to walk to work in the morning. It wasn’t so bad because barely anyone was awake at this hideously early time other than other early starters and maybe a jogger or two, but it wasn’t like he would run into them on his route. He quickly decided that he would rather avoid the main road and weave in and out of smaller streets; yeah, it took a little longer, but it was quieter, and he got to walk down the well known ‘ghost town’ that most avoided.
The ‘ghost town’ wasn’t as sinister as it sounded. What had once been an active area in the city began to gradually die as shop owners went broke or moved away, residents left, the council stopped maintaining the foliage and let the grass grow long and wild. A few families lived in the apartment buildings and a corner store was refusing to give up, but other than that it was empty. And quiet. And a bit of a mess, but that was why Yoongi liked it so much.
But just as he entered the ghost town, he frowned and slowed his pace slightly. He wasn’t alone today after all.
A man was leaning against the abandoned florist, holding something in his hands, surrounded by a heap of blankets and a backpack. He was too far away for Yoongi to see his face, but he was certain he was a man. A homeless man, most likely, because who else would make bed in a street when the sun was barely up?
Hesitation flooded Yoongi’s veins. He would have to walk past him, or turn around and take the main road route, but that would result in him being late to work. So he had to chalk his hesitation up to needless anxiety and continue on his way.
He kept an eye on the man as he neared him, prepared for the worst. Yoongi wasn’t one to believe in stereotypes but the homeless around these parts had a reputation for being unpredictable and he couldn’t afford to let his guard down. The first thing he noted was that he had black hair that was probably in need of cutting judging by the way it was pushed back with a bandana. The second thing he saw was that he was holding a notepad in one hand and a pencil in the other, and he occasionally glanced up to look at the building opposite: an old café which had ivy growing up the walls and peeling pale pink paint. He was drawing it.
The third thing Yoongi noticed was that the man was young. Surprisingly young, because most homeless men he had seen possessed the same qualities of greying hair and a greying beard. But this man couldn’t have been older than Yoongi himself. If it weren’t for the look of exhaustion on his face, the faded bruise that wrapped around his right cheekbone, or the scruffy clothes he was wearing, he could have easily been mistaken for a college student.
Yoongi didn’t think he had ever seen someone so young who was obviously homeless. Regret twinged in his heart as he walked past the man- boy?- without acknowledging him further, but he was already running late and he was sure the stranger didn’t expect conversation. Probably wouldn’t appreciate it, either, judging by the way he was so immersed with sketching the old café.
The awkward getaway was going so smoothly until Yoongi’s foot got caught in one of the blankets. He tripped, arms flailing in a vain attempt to stop him from faceplanting the floor, and he eventually caught his balance, but not before a very pathetic-sounding squeak forced its way out of his throat. Yoongi’s bad mood was further soured and he turned to face the man with a string of complaints already on the tip of his tongue.
And paused. The man was looking up at him through his eyelashes, brown eyes widened in an expression that could only be described as… fear? Yoongi blinked, hesitated, not knowing if he was seeing correctly.
But yep, the man must have expected Yoongi to turn around and start yelling at him- or worse- since he had curled in on himself with his hands raised to protect his face. Those brown eyes glimmered slightly, but not in the way that Namjoon’s favourite poets would describe; instead of bewilderment and beauty, they were frightened and anxious. Yoongi could only stare right back.
Slowly, hesitantly, the man reached out to tug his blankets out of the way. He kept eye contact with Yoongi the entire time as if he were assessing his every breath, every twitch of muscle. Of course he was worried over nothing- Yoongi was no doubt shorter than this man and he didn’t have the energy to get into a fight- but the man didn’t know this. All he knew was that most people didn’t take well to the homeless interrupting them, let alone being the cause of them nearly smashing their face against the concrete sidewalk.
After a minute or so of tense silence Yoongi came back to himself. “Fuck, uh… Sorry. You good?” He raised an eyebrow and tried to twist his face into something that looked less intimidating. His so-called ‘resting bitch face’ as Jeongguk described it as wasn’t doing anything to help the situation.
“I… Yeah!” The man seemed to relax and Yoongi could practically see his sigh of relief. “I’m good. Are you good?”
His voice was a little nasally and filled with a vibrance that Yoongi didn’t expect. In comparison to his sleep-deprived croak, someone could have mistaken Yoongi for the down-on-their-luck homeless man curled up in the florist’s doorstep. Now the fear had left his eyes Yoongi could see the man’s face in its usual expression and was nearly taken aback by how kind he looked.
Kindness confused Yoongi. Fascinated him. It wasn’t that it was a foreign concept to him- he experienced kindness all the time, whether it was Namjoon being the saint he was or their other friends being nice to him, and Yoongi regarded himself as a relatively kind person- he just didn’t understand it always. Especially when it was directed towards him when his brain told him he didn’t deserve it. And especially when it was spread across the features of a man who no doubt had every reason to be hardened by the world and tell Yoongi to get the fuck out of his space.
“Yeah, I’m- I’m good. Just… tripped.” He finally stuttered out and internally punched himself for being an awkward idiot.
“Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to.” The man gestured to his blankets and smiled in a way that showed two symmetrical dimples above the corner of his lips. Yoongi couldn’t decide if it was amusing or depressing that a homeless man on the streets radiated more sunshine than he had in years.
“’S alright. Don’t worry about it.” He nodded once, still confused by that smile, and turned on his heel to continue his journey to work.
His day progressed as it usually did, with customers annoying him and his boss glaring at him every now and then for being ten minutes late. The homeless man didn’t leave Yoongi’s mind. There was something about him and he interested Yoongi- perhaps the way he went from being scared and apprehensive to portraying an out-of-place happiness that left Yoongi perplexed.
Or, most likely, he was grabbing onto every stimulus that made him feel any type of emotion and self-projecting onto a guy who’s name he didn’t even know. The latter was probably the most accurate but knowing that didn’t stop Yoongi’s brain from running off with daydreams about asking for the man’s name or buying him a coffee to see that dimpled smile again.
So he let himself daydream and dissociate the hours at work away. He forgot to bring lunch like an idiot and by the time 7pm rolled around he was all but ready to snatch the sandwich out of his co-worker’s hands and make off down the street.
When Yoongi entered the ghost town on his way back from work and the doctor’s office after collecting his meds, he honestly didn’t expect the man to be there. Homeless people moved around a lot (or Yoongi assumed they did, anyway) so he hadn’t considered the possibility of him still sitting huddled on the florist’s doorstep. Yoongi was ready to never see him again, and he would remain as a weird memory in his head of that time a stranger was kind to him at 6 in the goddamn morning on a day when every cell in his body just wanted to die.
But there he was. Form illuminated by the street lights that had only just turned on, holding that same notebook and pencil, but he must have finished with the café as he was turned in the direction of an old cottage with messy brickwork and a door that was half off its hinges. He was in pretty much the same position as he was nearly 12 hours earlier, but he must have moved, right? To eat and go to the bathroom and do whatever it was that homeless people did? Yoongi slowly approached him, not sure if the man would see him in the dim twilight.
“Hello again.” That same dimpled face smiled up at him when Yoongi was close. The blankets were pulled a little closer around his body, either because he didn’t want to trip anyone up again or because he was cold. Probably both, since Yoongi could feel his cheeks burning in the chilly air even when he had the privilege of a thick winter coat. And a warm apartment to go back to, most likely a plate of food left for him on the counter too if Namjoon was back from class on time.
“Hi.” Yoongi tried to smile back. “You alright?”
Stupid fucking question, and Yoongi knew it. What homeless person was alright? It was expected to get really cold at night this upcoming week, and this man was obviously in need of a shower and some basic provisions. Yet the man just nodded in reply, eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled, fingers holding protectively onto his notepad. Yoongi couldn’t see what was scrawled on the pages but it looked nearly full up if the dog-eared corners and torn edges were anything to go by. “Yeah. Have a nice night.” He said, his voice once again holding a bounce that confused Yoongi.
Luckily, by some miracle he refrained from answering “you too” and settled on raising his eyebrows in recognition as he stepped past him.
He didn’t know why he felt so guilty that he couldn’t offer him more, a coffee or something to eat. He wasn’t obliged to, he didn’t have any trust for this man, didn’t even know his name. Yet that same persistent voice in his head whispered to him whenever his mind wandered back to those brown eyes, insisting that you could have done more, you try to tell yourself you have value as a person, yet you walk past someone so young and vulnerable?
And, like always, the voice followed him to sleep at night.
