Archive of Our Own ^beta

Throughout the white walled empty stairwell, music and laughter faintly echos. The green paint on the railing is chipping, and the white paint on the walls is streaked from years of small fingers trailing as children rush up and down. Late afternoon light streams in through the windows that line the outer wall, and in the pale beams dust mites float lazily through the air, in complete contrast to the hustle the stairwell typically sees. It is calm, peaceful, in a way it only ever is after hours or during class. The stairs are worn from shuffling feet, the concrete sanded smooth over time, normal wear and tear. The building is old, full of memories. It remembers the people who have spent time within its walls, the people who have laughed, cried, sweated, and screamed inside. The ballet studio has called this building home for more than thirty years, and has seen countless young hopefuls come and go. The current owners of the studio, a young couple, married nearly eight years, who have called it home for three years, have raced up and down the stairwell on sure feet hundreds of times. 

The music, faintly heard through the doors, fades, and the stairwell falls into silence once again. It’s been a long, busy day. After a prolonged silent moment, the door at the top of the three story building slams open, the sound reverberating throughout the stairwell. Children’s voices echo off the walls, chattering about their lessons and their hopes and their fears. They’re worried, they’re excited, there’s a recital coming up, and half are excited and half are terrified. As they thunder down the stairs to go home, they talk about their teacher, they talk about their piano accompanist, who was absent during the last few lessons of the day. They wonder why, they pout over their teacher’s pout - for he always pouts when the accompanist is absent. The children whisper to each other– did you know they’re married? Their parents are well aware, of course, the older students know, but the younger children giggle and gossip. It’s easy to figure out, after all. Their teacher is always giggling and gazing at their piano accompanist, and after the children leave for the day they sit together and talk and kiss, touch and whisper. Though the children don’t know it for a fact, because they’re children, their teacher and their piano accompanist love each other more than air. 

The children race downstairs, their shoes tapping and slapping in their haste. They had a good rehearsal, but they’re excited to get home, just as much as their teacher is. As the children leave through the door at the ground floor, silence reigns again. It’s getting late, and the teacher the students love so dearly, is tired. He has been feeling a little under the weather the last day or so, and he fears he’s coming down with something. He moves slowly around the studio, cleaning up in the silence, missing the ease of the end-of-day routine he shares with his husband. 

Later, as the light in the stairwell takes on the beautiful golden hue as the sun makes its way down toward the horizon, the door at the top of the stairs opens more slowly than it did when the students left. The teacher walks on soft feet across the landing and steps down on the first step, the tapping of his shoes echoing through the silent stairwell. 

He steps down, and then down again, and then the silence is interrupted as his phone begins to ring. The song, a hip hop version of a classical favorite, sounds through the stairwell, and the teacher’s steps falter as he reaches into his dance bag for the loud phone. He hopes it’s his husband calling. 

He steps down, pulling the phone from the bag, but his foot lands a bit too far forward on the next step, and the smooth sole of his shoe slides off. The teacher falls, his phone flying from his grasp as he scrambles to catch himself. He slides all the way down to the second floor landing, his surprised and frightened scream echoing through the stairwell. 

He lands on his backside on the second floor landing, his heart pounding and his blood racing. His breath comes in gasps, and his hand rests on his chest. He stands on shaky legs, and takes a deep, slow breath, and laughs softly through the fear and adrenaline coursing through him. He doesn’t notice that in the scrambling slide down to the second floor landing, his shoe came untied. 

The teacher takes a step to continue down the stairs, to reach his car and head home where he will greet his husband with a kiss and an embrace, where they will eat dinner and talk about their days before going to bed in each other’s arms as they have every night for almost eight years now, safe and loved. 

The teacher trips on his shoelace, and falls. His phone rings and rings, but he cannot answer.

~~~

When he opens his eyes the first thing he sees is a small television mounted on the wall. It’s off, and in the reflection of the black screen he sees himself, lying in a bed, something white wrapped around his head. He looks down at his body to see that he’s covered in a light blue blanket and wearing a white gown with pale green stripes. Somewhere deep down, he knows he’s in the hospital, but he doesn’t know how he knows. He frowns, his eyebrows furrowing as he casts his mind around for… anything. Who is he? Why is he in the hospital? His head hurts. He looks around, trying to see anything that might give him any more information. 

Sitting in a chair to the right of the bed is a sleeping man. He stares at him, his frown deepening. Who is he? He has dark purple splotches under his eyes, and his head rests on his shoulder in what looks like a very uncomfortable position. He has smooth looking, straight black hair that hangs to the side, covering his forehead and almost completely obscuring his shut eyes. He has a round nose, and nice lips. Who is he? Why is he in my hospital room? Why am I in the hospital?

His head pounds as he tries to push himself up in the bed. He groans softly, and the man in the chair startles awake. They stare at each other, the man in the chair’s eyes wide, his lips parted. “Jimin?” he whispers. He stands, his jacket falling from his lap to the floor, moving slowly like he can’t believe it. He steps forward. 

“Is that my name?” he responds, just as softly. The man’s face falls, light leaving his eyes as he stops. Devastation, he thinks. That’s what that look means… The man falls back into the chair.

“Ah,” the man says, closing his mouth and swallowing hard. “Um, l-let me go get the nurse.” He looks down, away from Jimin– Is that my name? It doesn’t feel familiar…– as he stands again and rushes out of the room. His black jacket sits crumpled on the floor, and as Jimin stares at it he feels sad, though he doesn’t know why. 

He looks around the rest of the room, trying to glean anything else he can, but there is nothing. A vase of flowers sits on the table across from his bed, but he has absolutely no idea who might have delivered them. Perhaps the man in the chair? Jimin frowns. What happened? Why don’t I remember anything? His face grows hot, and his breath speeds up. I should remember something, I should know my own name! Why don’t I know my own name?  

The door opens wider and a young woman in scrubs and a cozy-looking sweater walks in, the man from the chair following a step behind. He looks so tired, worry shown clear on every curve and line on his face, his shoulders slumped. 

“Good afternoon, Jimin-ssi! It’s so good to see you’re awake.” She sweeps in and pulls a small tablet from the large rectangular pocket on the front of her scrub top. She taps at it, and looks around the machines around him. “How do you feel?”

“I–um… I guess I feel okay? My head hurts.”

“That’s to be expected, you hit it pretty hard when you fell.”

His eyes widen. “I fell?” 

“He didn’t remember his name,” the man from the chair says, his voice deep. He’s standing a few steps away, his arms crossed over his chest, weight shifting from foot to foot. His brows are furrowed, creating deep lines in his face. Jimin almost wants to tell him to stop, or he’ll get wrinkles. Where did that come from? 

“Well,” the nurse says softly, glancing back to him, and then looking at Jimin. “We knew that memory loss could be a possibility with a head injury like yours, Jimin-ssi. Let’s not worry yet! I’ll go let the doctor know you’re awake, and he’ll come talk to you.” She smiles warmly, though Jimin sees something in her eyes that unsettles him. Pity, a voice in his mind supplies. “Try not to worry. Just relax, I’ll bring you something for your headache.” She pats his arm, and leaves the room. 

The man returns to the chair, picking up his jacket from the floor. He puts it on, avoiding Jimin’s gaze. “I’m sorry to ask this,” Jimin starts slowly, his voice quiet, “because I know I should know the answer but… what’s your name?” 

The man freezes in the process of straightening his jacket on his shoulders. His hands, hovering in the air, start to shake slightly and he quickly pulls them down into his lap. He takes a deep breath and when he finally looks up into Jimin’s eyes, it knocks the breath from him. He’s beautiful, Jimin thinks, staring into his eyes, glittering with tears. “My name is Min Yoongi,” he says, his deep voice shaky. “I’m your–” He stops, shoulders slumping, as if the energy to finish that sentence left him and he had nothing left inside. Jimin’s heart beats faster, his chest feeling like it’s held in a vice. “I’m your hu-husband,” he finishes, barely more than a breath. 

A small sound wrenches from Jimin’s chest, and he has to look away from Yoongi, lest he become consumed with the panic, the aching, the fear creeping through his blood. He takes a deep breath, inventorying the things he knows. My name is Jimin. I fell and hit my head. I am married. My husband’s name is Min Yoongi. It’s a short list, and Jimin’s breath shutters. “I–oh,” he breathes out. He turns back to Yoongi, swallowing hard. “What’s my family name?”

“Park. You’re Park Jimin. You’re thirty-two years old. You’re a dancer–ballet. We met in college, but we didn’t start dating until a year after graduation. We got married eight years ago, and we bought a ballet studio together. You teach, and I accompany on the piano.” 

Jimin’s brow furrows. None of it sparks anything in his mind. “I–I… I don’t remember…” the words flow out on a breath, his chest hollow. He reaches up to his forehead, glancing up to the black TV screen to take in the bandage on his head. “What happened?” he asks, touching the bandage and turning back to Yoongi. 

“Five days ago,” Yoongi starts softly, his voice shaking. He takes a breath, closing his eyes for a moment, clearly trying to pull himself together. A whisper of longing threads through Jimin, and he yearns to reach out for him but Jimin doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t know this man, he has no memories of him. He frowns, but wills his face to relax as Yoongi’s eyes open again. “Five days ago I had an eye doctor’s appointment, so I left the studio early. You were finishing up the last few classes by yourself, and we were going to meet at home. When you were leaving the studio–which is on the fourth floor of the building–you fell down the stairs. I don’t know what happened… but when you didn’t come home I called and called, and then I went to the studio and found you on the landing. I called an ambulance, and they brought you here. You had to have surgery because of swelling in your brain and it went well, they were able to fix it, but you didn’t wake up from the anesthesia.” Yoongi’s voice is strained, like it’s taking everything he has to force himself to keep speaking. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Jimin whispers, sadness washing over him. He doesn’t remember Yoongi, but that doesn’t mean he can’t see just how much it’s taking the man to hold it together. He doesn’t remember him, but he married him. That has to mean something.

Yoongi’s gaze flashes back to him and his mouth opens, but he stops himself before saying anything else. He shuts his mouth and Jimin hears how his breath hitches. He looks away, down at his feet, covered by the thin blue blanket, trying to give him some space for a moment. 

The door opens again, and an older man with a white doctor’s coat enters the room. He smiles and introduces himself as Dr. Bae. He checks all of Jimin’s vitals, asking him soft questions as he does. “How do you feel? Where exactly does your head hurt? Do you hurt anywhere else?” Jimin dutifully answers, and when he’s finished with the physical exam, he pulls the chair beside the other side of the bed closer and sits down. “So, Jimin-ssi, I hear you’re experiencing some memory loss.”

“I don’t remember anything,” Jimin whispers, finally voicing the thought that’s had his chest in a vice closing tighter and tighter since he woke up. “I only know what Yoongi told me.” He gestures to the man on the chair, sitting with his legs pressed together, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller, or trying to literally hold himself together. Jimin’s heart throbs with that phantom urge to reach out. He presses his arms, resting on his stomach, tighter against himself. 

“Okay, that’s okay. It’s very common with head injuries like yours. When you fell down the stairs, you must have fallen forward, because of the severity and placement of the contusion on the front of your skull. You’re fortunate that you didn’t crack your skull, and it’s most likely that it was the swelling that’s causing the memory loss.”

“Will it come back?” Jimin asks, and then recoils slightly from the desperation that snaked its way into his voice. 

“Brains are tricky,” Dr. Bae says, shaking his head slowly. “There is no way to know if you’ll recover any of your memories, or all of them, or just a few. There have been cases of amnesia patients recovering all of their memories, but there have been just as many cases of patients never recovering any.” 

Jimin feels like he’s been punched in the chest, the chest that already feels so hollow and empty. He can’t look at Yoongi, so he looks down. “So what’s going to happen to me?”

“Well, we want you to stay for a few more days just to observe you and make sure your brain is doing okay, and you’re recovered from your coma. But after that you can go home!” He says this cheerfully, glancing at Yoongi, as if that is supposed to be a joyous thing. It occurs to Jimin that patients usually do want to go home after a stay in the hospital. 

I don’t know where my home is. 

He knows that he has one. Obviously, if he’s married, then that means he lives with Yoongi. But… Jimin doesn’t know what their home looks like, where it is. Do they have pets? Do they have kids? Are they friends with their neighbors? Does Jimin have friends? Who are they? How long have they known each other? Do they know what happened to him? 

The questions swirl around Jimin’s mind, and the pounding increases. He squeezes his eyes shut, and reaches up with the heel of his palm to press against his eye. “Let me check on that pain med for your head,” Dr. Bae says, patting the bed and standing to leave. 

A moment after the door shuts behind him Jimin hears a buzzing sound. Yoongi moves for the first time since Dr. Bae came in, and mutters, “It’s your mother.” He clears his throat. “I have to tell her that you’re awake, and she’s going to want to talk to you. You don’t have to though,” he says emphatically. “I can tell her that you need some time.” Jimin nods. Yoongi answers the phone and starts speaking softly. “Hello eomeonim, ” he says, and pauses. “He’s awake.” Jimin hears the voice on the other end get louder. “Less than an hour ago.” Yoongi’s eyes flick up to him, but quickly move back to his lap. “He’s got some memory loss, the doctor thinks because of the swelling in his brain. Eomeonim he needs some time,” Yoongi says quietly, though the voice on the other end grows even louder. “He doesn’t remember you, or me. He needs space. No, I’m sorry.” Yoongi hangs up the phone, squeezing his eyes shut and reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Was she angry?” Jimin asks. It’s… strange. He’s talking about a woman he knows is his mother, but he feels… nothing. No attachment, aside from the vague instinctual lure towards the person who birthed him, even if he only knows this from being told. 

“Not angry,” Yoongi says. “Just upset. We- We all were. It’s been a very difficult week. Um, I need to let everyone else know you’re awake, but I’ll tell them the same thing, that you need space. Pr-probably from me too. I-I’ll go into the hall,” Yoongi says, his words halting, movements jerky as he stands once again. 

“You don’t have to go,” Jimin says before he can lose his nerve. Yoongi’s eyes whip back to him, wide, something swimming in them that Jimin identifies as hope, perhaps. “I- You know more about me than I do right now. I have more questions.”

“Okay, Jimin-ah,” Yoongi exhales, sitting back down. 

Awkwardly, Jimin gestures to the phone in Yoongi’s hand. “You can call them from in here, if you want.”

Yoongi nods, looking at his phone. “Um, the only one who might not listen to me and come anyway - actually, he’ll most certainly come anyway - is Taehyung. He’s your best friend, you’ve known each other since high school. He’s been here almost as often as I have while you were sleeping.” Sleeping, not in a coma. Jimin is grateful for that. Yoongi taps at the phone, and then holds it to his ear. “Taehyung-ah,” he says a moment later, and Jimin can only just hear the rumbling of a deep voice on the other end. He wishes it would spark something in him, some hint of recognition. But the rumble of that voice is just as foreign as that of his mother. As that of Yoongi. His husband. Jimin’s breath shakes. “He’s awake,” Yoongi says slowly, with more care than he had when speaking with Jimin’s mother. “He doesn’t remember anything, Taetae,” Yoongi whispers, not looking at Jimin. But a second later, his eyes slide up to meet Jimin’s. “He wants to know if he can come,” he asks, turning the mouthpiece of the phone away. 

That strikes something in Jimin that has nothing to do with recognition - that little piece of consideration wiggles its way into his chest, and it feels warm. He’s nodding before he can consciously will himself to do so. “Yeah, you can tell him he can come.” Yoongi does, and almost immediately pulls the phone away from his ear, as if this Taehyung hung up on him. 

Yoongi calls a few more people, and Jimin tries his best to catalog their names in his mind - Hoseok, Namjoon, Seokjin, Jeongguk. The nurse returns then with a pill in a small clear plastic cup, a paper sleeve of water in her other hand. He takes the medicine, and she promises to be back in a few minutes with something to eat. When she leaves again, silence fills the room. Jimin’s continually drawn to staring at Yoongi, and he makes it easy to do so without being observed, because Yoongi keeps looking away. Jimin furrows his brows. Why won’t he look at me? Jimin wonders, irritation pricking in his belly. 

He has so many questions, he doesn’t even know where to start. He decides to start simple, with the basics. “What city are we in?”

“Seoul,” Yoongi says immediately, looking up. His eyes are still glassy, swimming in emotion, and Jimin understands why he was looking away. 

“What’s the date?”

“September 30th. Your birthday is in a couple weeks, on the 13th. Um, 2023.” 

Jimin nods. “My birthday…” he muses. “I like birthdays,” he says, the sentiment coming to him from out of nowhere. “I don’t know how I know that I like them, but I do.”

“You do,” Yoongi agrees, laughing softly. “You always have.”

“Did we have a plan for my birthday?”

“We were going to go dancing,” Yoongi says, his tone wry but fond. Jimin watches him carefully, and huffs a breath through his nose. 

“I take it you don’t like dancing?”

“I love dancing with you.” Yoongi’s gaze snaps up to Jimin’s, his eyes widening slightly. He takes a breath that sounds more like a gasp, and says, “Dancing has always been your favorite thing, ever since I’ve known you.” Jimin nods, filing the information away. 

“You said I’m a ballet teacher?” Jimin asks after a long moment of quiet. Yoongi nods. “And we own a ballet studio?”

“Yeah, three years ago the studio where we both worked was going to be shut down, the previous owners were getting too old and wanted to retire, so we bought it. We didn’t want the kids to have to find a new school, and you love that place. I do too, but not like you. It wiped out most of our savings, but we’re doing okay now.”

“W-what happened after I fell?”

“I told the parents that there was an emergency, and we’d be closed for a few days. But two days ago our friend Jeongguk, he’s a dancer too, told me he’d oversee the classes. And a few of our more senior students are helping with the younger kids. They have a recital in a few days, and they would have been devastated to have to cancel at the last minute.”

Jimin breathes out a sigh of relief. “That’s good,” he says, a small smile curling his lips. The medicine is kicking in, and his head isn’t pounding as much. But as the pain in his head fades, the more he starts to realize just how hungry he is. As if summoned, the nurse returns with food. It’s a simple meal, rice and soup and a small kimbap roll.

“Make sure you eat it all, we don’t want your meds giving you a stomachache. After you eat we’ll see about getting you out of that bed. You might be a bit weak at first, so we’ll move slowly. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jimin echoes faintly. She leaves, and Jimin looks over at Yoongi. “You must be hungry. When was the last time you ate?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

“Come on, go get something to eat,” Jimin coaxes. He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. “You’re too skinny. I’ll be fine, go eat.” He meant it as a joke, just a tease, but the breath whooshes out of Yoongi’s lungs like he was punched. He swallows hard, and stares at Jimin for another moment before finally nodding. 

“Okay. There’s a convenience store on the first floor of the building, I’ll be right back.”

“Oh wait,” Jimin says, a thought occurring to him out of nowhere. “I have a phone, right?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says. “It was on the floor next to you when you fell, but it didn’t break or anything.” He stands and reaches over to pick up a backpack that Jimin hadn’t seen before, hidden beside the chair. “Your clothes you were wearing when you fell are in here too, but. Um. There’s blood-”

“That’s fine,” Jimin says quickly. “You can bring me some more clothes before we go home, right?” Those words sound so foreign coming from Jimin’s mouth. Almost like another language, like he has to fight to shape his lips and tongue correctly around them. Where is my home? he wonders again as Yoongi pulls a smartphone from the backpack and hands it to him. 

“It’s a new iphone, so it has facial recognition, but the password is 0309, just, y’know, in case.”

“0309. Got it. Thank you, Yoongi. Hyung? What do I usually call you?”

Yoongi’s adam’s apple bobs, and Jimin thinks that was perhaps the wrong question to ask. “You can call me whatever you’re comfortable with,” he rasps. “I- Oh fuck,” he whispers, his voice shaking. He bites his lips. He turns to Jimin and his eyes well up and spill over with tears and Jimin’s chest clenches. 

“I’m sorry,” Jimin whispers, clutching the phone in his hand. “This has to be really hard for you, I’m sorry.”

“For me?” Yoongi gasps. “You’re the one who had brain surgery!” Yoongi says, his voice not raising, but speeding up. “It’s- Jimin-ah. I-” He cuts himself off, clamping his lips shut. 

He’s barely hanging on, Jimin thinks. “Go get some food, take some time. I’ll be here, and we can talk later, okay?” Tears keep flowing down Yoongi’s cheeks as he nods, the movement jerky, and then he starts to leave, but stops himself. He turns back and looks at Jimin, and all Jimin can think is that he looks so young like this, so vulnerable. 

“Can I hug you, please?” he whispers, sounding broken. Jimin puts the phone down in his lap and holds his arms up and out, desperate in this moment to help ease this beautiful man’s pain. Jimin may not remember him, but he knows what husband means, knows the weight that word carries, the years they’ve been together. I loved him, he thinks as Yoongi sits on the edge of the bed and collapses into his arms, burying his face into Jimin’s shoulder. He’s shaking slightly, still trying to hold it together, likely for Jimin’s sake. He clings to him. “I’m so relieved that you’re okay,” Yoongi says into his skin. “I’m so happy you woke up, I love you so much, I’m sorry, baby.”

Jimin, whose hands had been resting on Yoongi’s back, slides one of them up to pet his hair. “Why are you sorry?” he asks softly. 

“Because I wasn’t there.” Jimin can feel the moment when Yoongi finally breaks, and a choked sob escapes. Jimin’s heart breaks for him, so he hugs him tighter and strokes his hair. 

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s not your fault.” 

Jimin and Yoongi hold each other for a while longer, just until Yoongi’s wracking sobs slow, and then stop, and he can take a shaking breath. He pulls back, wiping his eyes and nose on his jacket sleeve. “Gross,” Jimin comments, laughing softly, and Yoongi snorts. “Go eat,” he urges softly. “I’ll be here.” Yoongi nods, and finally stands and leaves the room. 

The moment he’s alone Jimin lets out a heavy, shuddering breath. He reaches for the tray of food the nurse brought, and eats quickly, his stomach twisting in hunger. When all of it is gone, he feels marginally better. He puts it on the table beside the bed, and then reaches for his phone, wondering just what it is that he’s going to learn about himself through it. 

He gets it unlocked easily enough, his fingers almost knowing what to do without his brain needing to tell them, and he stops when he beholds his background picture. He realizes he didn’t even see what the lock screen picture was, so he hits the lock button again and looks at it. He smiles. It’s a picture of himself and Yoongi, standing in front of a beautiful view. It looks like they’d gone hiking. He unlocks the phone again, musing on the numbers he set as his password. Were they random numbers? Are they significant? He stares down at the home screen background picture for a long time. In it Jimin stares at the camera, smiling so wide his eyes are only slits, and Yoongi is beside him, arms around his neck kissing his cheek. 

It’s beyond strange, looking at a picture of himself and having no memory of the moment it was taken. Jimin’s heart sinks, and he swipes through the pages, looking through all of his apps. He goes exploring, checking out what certain intriguing looking apps are. The one called ‘twitter’ is overwhelming and he closes that one pretty quickly. He opens the one called ‘instagram’ and discovers it’s a photo app, and after a little bit of blind button pushing, he finds what looks like his profile. His username is p_ark_jm, and he has over two thousand photos posted, and over five thousand followers. “What the fuck?” he whispers to himself. He scrolls through the pictures, staring at each one as an uncomfortable feeling grows in his chest. 

He learns what each of his friends looks like, glad that Past Jimin was so diligent about tagging his pictures. He pauses on one of Taehyung–vantae_tae on instagram–and studies it for a long moment. This is his best friend, according to Yoongi. He doesn’t know this person… the uncomfortable weight grows even heavier, and he closes the app. 

He opens the app called ‘notes’ and starts a new one. Jimin pushes past that heavy weight, determination slowly replacing it. 

• Parents’ names

• Birthplace

• How did I meet Yoongi

• How did I meet friends

• What did I study in college

He stares at the list, at all of the things that he doesn’t know about himself and frowns. He goes back to instagram and stares at the little plus sign at the top, thinking that must be how to post a new picture. He goes to his camera app and turns it on, his thumb tapping the screen reverse button almost of its own accord, and then he stares at his reflection. He looks okay, if a little tired. How can I be tired when I was just asleep for five days? he wonders. He experiments with angles, and facial expressions, reacquainting himself with his own face. He takes a few pictures, but decides he doesn’t like them, and deletes them. I probably shouldn’t post anything anyway… Jimin contends with the distinct impression that that instagram account doesn’t belong to him, but to someone else entirely. He doesn’t know that person. Doesn’t share any of the memories that go along with the two thousand pictures he posted. 

A knock on the door startles him, and when he looks up he recognizes the face from a whole bunch of his instagram pictures. “Taehyung?” he asks hesitantly. He feels bad, however, when the man’s face lights up. 

“You remember?” he rushes to stay, fully entering the room and half crossing it on long legs. 

“I– Sorry. I was looking through my phone, and I found my instagram.” 

Taehyung’s face falls, but he masters himself so quickly, Jimin almost thinks he imagined it. “That’s okay,” he says smiling, waving a hand. He finishes crossing the room and sits down on the bed beside Jimin, pulling him in for a hug faster than Jimin can say anything. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I missed you,” Taehyung says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “We all have.” He pulls back and smiles brightly at Jimin. Then he glances around. “Where’s Yoongi?”

“Um, I sent him to get some food. He– He seemed like he needed a moment.” Taehyung gives him a knowing look and a nod. 

“Hyung’s always been like that, he doesn’t like to feel his emotions out loud. He prefers to feel them in private, or–well, with you. But I can understand why he might feel hesitant right now.” Jimin files that little bit of information away. “So do you, like, not remember anything? Not even when you were a kid?” 

The casual way he asks this is almost refreshing, and Jimin relaxes slightly. “No, I don’t remember anything. I didn’t even know my own name until Yoongi told me.”

“Do the doctors think they’ll come back?”

Jimin shrugs. “He said that some people get their memories back and some don’t, but that there’s no way to know. They said I have to stay a few more days to make sure everything’s okay, but that I should be able to go home soon.” Taehyung nods, pursing his lips together thoughtfully. 

“Okay. Well, do you have any questions? I know you as well as I know myself, so I can answer probably any question you might have.”

“I do,” Jimin says, unlocking his phone with his face and opening the notes app again. “Where was I born?”

“Busan.”

“What are my parents’ names?”

“Your dad’s name is Park Youngbum, and your mom’s name is Nam Hyejin. You also have a little brother, his name is Park Jihyun.”

“I have a brother?” he asks unnecessarily, but Taehyung still nods in answer. “Okay.” He looks at the other questions. He thinks maybe he’ll ask Yoongi how they met, but the other question seems safe. “How did we meet?”

Taehyung smiles. “We met in high school. My dad got a new job in Busan right before high school started–I was born in Daegu–and we ended up at the same school. We were in the same homeroom and I was nervous, and you cut in line at lunch so that we’d be sitting beside each other. We became pretty inseparable very quickly. We both wanted to come to Seoul, so you came here to dance, and I came to study education. I’m a high school math teacher.”

“What about our other friends? Yoongi told me their names are Hoseok, Namjoon, Seokjin, and Jeongguk?”

“Well, Jeongguk and Hoseok you met at dance school. Namjoon and Seokjin are from Yoongi’s side of the family,” Taehyung laughs. “They were already friends when you two met, and after you got together we all just kind of became a big friend group.” 

“That sounds nice,” Jimin says, smiling. He thinks he likes the idea of having a big friend group. 

“I’m sure they’ll all want to come see you as soon as you’re up for it.” Taehyung smiles and hugs him again, and this time Jimin returns it. He can almost feel his body reaching out for his best friend’s touch, his comfort, in the same way that he could feel his yearning to touch and comfort Yoongi earlier. Perhaps, even if his brain doesn’t remember… his heart does?

Taehyung settles in beside Jimin on the bed and starts talking about his students, and Jimin’s grateful for a break in the new information about himself. This is all stuff that he wouldn’t have known, he thinks, even before the accident, and it’s nice to just listen to Taehyung’s voice, to re-learn what it sounds like so it starts to have a ghost of familiarity around it every time he opens his mouth to say something new. He dozes off listening, and when he wakes up the warmth of Taehyung’s body beside him is gone, and there are soft voices speaking across the room. 

“The best thing you can do for him is listen to him. I know the urge might be to tell him everything about himself to help him remember, but that might not help the memories come back, that might just overwhelm and frustrate him. If he asks questions, of course, answer them. Try not to get frustrated when he doesn’t remember things. With this kind of memory loss - the body remembers. He still remembers how to do things, he just might not remember that he does. Just be patient.” Jimin recognizes Dr. Bae’s voice from earlier, and a tiny spark of excitement goes through him that he can remember something. 

At least it seems like my memory doesn’t reset whenever I go to sleep, he thinks. He finally opens his eyes, and turns his head to look at where Yoongi, Taehyung, and the doctor are standing near the door. “Ah, Jimin-ssi! Good evening.” Dr. Bae breaks away from the group and comes over to examine Jimin again. “How’s the headache?”

“It’s okay. The medicine from earlier helped. How long was I asleep?” he asks, looking around the doctor at Yoongi and Taehyung. 

“A few hours,” Taehyung says easily. “I convinced Yoongi to go home and take a shower, so hopefully he smells better than he did before.” Taehyung laughs, and Yoongi scowls at him. Jimin takes him in, and notices that he does look a little better than he did earlier, and that his hair is much fluffier than it had been. Jimin likes it better like this.

The doctors want to keep him for three more days. It makes sense, considering Jimin still has a low-grade headache, and has trouble staying awake for more than a few hours at a time. He learns that after a coma, his body takes a bit of time to completely wake up, and on the second day a nurse helps him get out of the bed and lets him go to the bathroom–something for which Jimin is eternally grateful, because it means they can get rid of the catheter. Just that short trip tires him out, however, and he naps for a few hours. When he wakes again, Yoongi is there.

Jimin finds himself drawn to Yoongi, and though he cannot pinpoint exactly why–other than the knowledge that they’re married, and have been together for eight years–but he accepts it. It’s… strange. Everything about the last two days has been strange, and unfamiliar, but Jimin feels calm. He wonders how other amnesiacs have reacted to waking up with no memories and an obviously devoted husband at their bedside. He wonders if they freaked out, or cried, mourning the loss of their lives. He wonders, then, if that’s not the normal way of it. Maybe he’s the strange one for being so calm. But… what purpose would that serve, he wonders. 

“Hyung?” Jimin asks softly, and Yoongi, who had been dozing in his chair, is immediately alert. He hums, and Jimin asks, “Will you help me take a walk? Just a short one.”

“Of course jagi-yah,” he says, his deep voice rumbling, and he clears his throat, and freezes. He looks up to Jimin in shock. “I’m sor–”

“It’s okay!” Jimin is quick to reply, smiling. In truth that word did make him feel odd, the ease with which it rolled off of Yoongi’s tongue, as if he’s said it a million times was a little jarring. But then again, he surely had said it a million times. How many times do you call out to your loved one in eight years? Jimin doesn’t know, but he thinks a million sounds right. Still cautious, eyes wider than normal, Yoongi stands and moves around the bed to help Jimin. Thankfully he has no cords connected to him or IVs to contend with, so he’s able to stand freely on only slightly shaky legs. Yoongi helps him get his slippers on, and then hesitates, clearly not sure how Jimin would like him to help him. So, to make it easy for him, Jimin holds out an arm, and Yoongi takes his hand, gripping firmly. His other hand goes to his elbow, to help support him should he need it. 

As they start their slow walk down the hall, Jimin feels like he should say something. His only problem is that he doesn’t know what to say. There is a constant deep pervading melancholy rolling off of Yoongi in waves, there has been ever since Jimin woke up, and every time he opens his mouth to say something he feels like all he’s going to do is upset him. Every word Jimin speaks only reminds them both of what they have lost. As they make their way down the hall Jimin feels it, then. That hollow emptiness in his chest which reminds him of what was once there–surely that space used to house the warmth and love he felt for this man who is walking beside him. It aches, a little. 

The hospital is brightly lit and clean, but suddenly Jimin feels hemmed in on all sides, confined. “Hyung, could we go outside?” 

Yoongi’s steps don’t falter, and he turns his head to stare at Jimin for a moment, his expression shuttered. He sighs lightly through his nose, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Yeah. Let’s ask the nurse.” They make their way to the nurses’ station a little ways away, and Jimin leans against the counter as Yoongi asks in a quiet voice about going outside. 

“Of course! Best to take a wheelchair, though. Don’t overdo it, Jimin-ssi!” the young nurse behind the counter says, her cheeks rounding as she smiles up at them. She stands to retrieve a wheelchair, returning a moment later. Jimin, who was truthfully getting tired already just from their short walk, sits gratefully, and Yoongi installs himself behind to push them toward the elevator. 

Outside, the sun shines brightly. It’s cool, but not too cold, and as Yoongi slowly makes his way down the path leading away from the hospital toward a kind of courtyard, he turns his face up and smiles. It’s nice to feel the sun on his skin for the first time that he remembers. Another good memory to add to my growing collection, he thinks. 

“Hyung, do we live far from here?”

“No, not far. We’re in Seoul, in Mapo-gu. I can show you on a map?” he asks, hesitant, but Jimin shakes his head. 

“That’s okay.” They reach the small courtyard, which is a large square with gardens surrounding it, as well as another smaller stone square in the middle which houses a great, cherry tree. It’s beautiful, and Jimin wonders what it would look like in the spring, the flowers blossoming, petals fluttering to the ground. It’s still beautiful, the leaves not yet having fallen. “This is nice,” he says, eyes wide, taking in the garden. “Let’s sit under the tree?” Yoongi hums, and pushes Jimin toward it. There are benches on each side of the stone square around the tree, and when they reach it, Yoongi puts the wheelchair’s brakes on, and Jimin levers himself out of it and onto the bench. Yoongi lingers for a moment, but finally sits beside him. There are a few other people in the courtyard, but it’s quiet, save the sounds of the streets beyond the garden’s walls. Jimin knows that Seoul is a very big city - though he doesn’t know how he knows - and he guesses it must be loud all the time. Suddenly he wishes very much for full quiet, to ask Yoongi the questions he wants to ask. 

“Hyung,” he says, his voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Jimin-ah. Ask me anything.”

Jimin turns to he can look at Yoongi, and allows himself a moment to marvel over his face. The sun is going down, giving the courtyard, and Yoongi’s pale skin a warm glow. His fluffy black hair shines in the light of it, and Jimin has the sudden strong urge to reach up and run his fingers through it. “How did we meet?”

Yoongi stares at him for a long, silent moment. His face is unreadable, though every part of him looks like its weighted down, like gravity has a slightly stronger hold on him than it does the rest of the world, and it takes a lot of energy to hold himself up against it. He finally looks away, out across the courtyard to the flowers that line the opposite side. He picks at the cuticles of one hand, and when Jimin glances down at them he sees they’re scarred, and in some places he has small wounds, where he’s clearly picked until he bled. He once again resists the urge to reach out, to take his hand to make him stop. When Yoongi starts to speak, his voice is soft, low and measured. 

“We met after you graduated from dance school. You studied ballet, and until about five years ago, you were a principle dancer at the Seoul Ballet Company. We met when I was hired to play the piano during your rehearsals. You started flirting with me maybe a week after I started.” Yoongi stops, giving a small laugh, smiling at the memory. The hollow part of Jimin’s chest aches. “We dated for almost three years exactly before you proposed.”

“I proposed?” Jimin interjects, smiling. Yoongi nods, his smile widening slightly, though his eyes are still sad. He thinks about that fact for a moment. I’m the kind of person to propose… that’s good to know. 

“Yes. You’ve always been the kind of person who knows what you want, and you go after it. The moment you decided you wanted me, I had no chance.” Yoongi looks away again, his smile falling. His next inhale shakes slightly, but he clears his throat, and continues. “We got married on April 6th, 2015 near a beautiful park in Busan, and did our pictures under the cherry blossoms. Your mother was very sick that year, so we had it down in Busan, so she wouldn’t have to travel.”

“She was sick?”

“She had breast cancer. She’s in remission now, very healthy,” Yoongi’s quick to add, and Jimin lets out an exhale of relief. “It was beautiful.”

“Can I see some pictures?” Jimin asks, though even as the words leave his lips, he’s not sure if it’s a good idea. The look on Yoongi’s face leads Jimin to think maybe he feels the same way, but he pulls his phone out of his pocket nevertheless. Jimin resists the urge to squirm as Yoongi taps at his apps, and then swipes through his photos. Closer inspection shows Jimin that he has a lot of albums, and he stops on the album titled ‘Wedding’. He hands the phone to Jimin.

“You can swipe through them all.” His voice is soft, his words carefully measured. 

Before Jimin looks at the pictures, he stares at Yoongi for a long moment. “Hyung… If this is too hard for you to talk about, we don’t… we don’t have to…” He trails off, but Yoongi shakes his head. 

“No. No, this is– This is our life. I– It– I’m okay.” He says these words with a deep breath, as if calming himself down. Or trying to convince himself, Jimin’s not sure. He turns his attention down to the phone. “The ones in this album are all the photos I downloaded from the wedding photographer. Taehyung has a bunch he took from the reception that are a lot more candid, I’m sure he’d love to show you next time you see him,” Yoongi laughs softly. Jimin grins, despite his growing unease. 

The small smile on his face fades as he looks down at the first picture. It’s a photo of the venue–Yoongi wasn’t exaggerating, it was gorgeous. As he swipes through slowly, Yoongi talks about the pictures. “We went back and forth over how traditional we wanted our ceremony to be–gay marriage was only legalized a few years before we got married, and there was still some discrimination. But in the end we decided on a mix of traditional elements and Westernized elements. You really wanted to wear a suit, because you liked how you looked in them.” Jimin stops at a picture of the two of them standing with their arms around each other. Yoongi’s smile is wide, showing off his teeth and gums, and Jimin’s head is thrown back, laughing loudly. The next photo as them both still smiling, but their foreheads rest against each other, and Jimin’s stomach drops. 

The way he’s looking at Yoongi in this picture… That’s love. It has to be, even if Jimin doesn’t remember what love feels like, he feels certain that he’s looking at it right there in that picture, where they both look so incandescently happy, their arms around the love of their life. He hands the phone back to Yoongi, staring at the floor. 

“Hyung, I… this is so weird,” he whispers. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, his face falling to rest in his hands. He rubs his forehead, waiting for Yoongi to say something - anything. He waits a moment longer, and sits back, running a hand through his hair. He turns to Yoongi and finds him staring down at his phone again, his thumb hovering over the screen. It’s the same picture, of the two of them holding each other, resting their foreheads together, smiling, and when Jimin looks up to his face, he finds Yoongi crying. He’s silent, not shaking, the the tears are rolling down his cheeks, dripping off his chin onto his chest. 

Jimin doesn’t know what to do. So he does nothing. 

-

Standing in the bathroom, Jimin adjusts the sweatshirt on his shoulders. He takes himself in through the mirror, fussing a little over his hair. It’s shaggy enough to cover the bald patch on the side of his head where the surgeons drilled a hole in his skull to relieve the pressure after his brain swelled. His stomach churns slightly, and he grimaces. He doesn’t like to think about what the doctor told him about what happened to his head, or about the surgery. I’m squeamish? he wonders. He’s not sure about that one, but he tentatively adds it to his mental list. He shoves his hands into the front pouch of the sweatshirt and his eyes drift up. They stop on the healing gash on his forehead, surrounded by yellowing bruises. According to his doctor, this is where he hit his head. 

Jimin reaches up, his fingers shaking slightly, and touches lightly around the edges of the bruise. Irrational, creeping anger burns in his chest as he narrows his eyes slightly, leaning forward. “You’re the reason I can’t remember my husband,” he whispers to the gash. 

A knock at the door startles him. “Jimin-ah, are you okay?”

Rather than call back to respond to Yoongi, Jimin goes to open the door, smiling. “Yep.”

“A-are you ready to go home?”

Is it still home if I can’t remember ever being there? “Yep,” he repeats. He makes sure he has his phone and his wallet in his pocket, and starts to leave the hospital room. He’s anxious, and has been all morning. Ever since the doctor told him first thing that they’re letting him go home at noon. It doesn’t help that Yoongi seems just as anxious about it as Jimin does. 

Yoongi drives through unfamiliar streets toward an unfamiliar home, and it makes Jimin feel weird. He wishes he could just get over it, accept that this is his life even if he doesn’t remember, but he just feels so strange. And Yoongi’s not helping. He’s so quiet–though Jimin’s starting to think that he might just be a quiet person–and so sad. Jimin feels a strong tug at his gut to talk to him, to get to know him again, to try to fill on all the myriad gaps in his understanding of himself. But for now, he holds off. Despite the immensely strange feeling of being driven to a home he doesn’t remember with a husband he doesn’t remember, Jimin feels another intense urge to try to protect the man sitting beside him. Almost like an instinct. So he doesn’t ask all the questions he has racing through his head. He watches the buildings pass as they wend their way through busy streets. 

Their apartment is modest, but nice. It’s got one decent sized bedroom and a large living room. Yoongi gives him a tour right away, showing him where each room is, though he doesn’t truly need to. The apartment is small, and Yoongi seems to have gone through the whole place with a pad of sticky-notes. Everything in the kitchen has a label so he won’t need to search to find things like bowls and cups and chopsticks. “Do I cook much?” Jimin asks as he opens the fridge door and takes a look. It’s stocked with a lot of prepared foods in different tupperware containers. 

“Um,” Yoongi says from behind him, “Not as often as I do.”

“Good,” Jimin laughs softly. “Wouldn’t want to accidentally burn the apartment down because I forgot how to cook.” The joke falls flat, though Jimin chuckles anyway, avoiding Yoongi’s slightly uncomfortable look. Jimin makes his way out of the kitchen and into the living room. There’s a comfortable looking couch along one wall with a TV opposite. Around the TV is a huge bookshelf mounted to the wall that is absolutely covered in books, movies, and an extensive CD collection. There’s a door to a balcony, and a large window beside it. Under the window sits an old, though still beautiful brown piano. Jimin stares at the piano for a long moment, trying to summon any memories of Yoongi playing it. His memory is a chasm, deep and black and empty. It’s unsettling. 

He moves over to inspect the bookshelves. “Are these yours? Or mine?” he asks, gesturing to the rows and rows of CDs. 

Yoongi approaches slowly, stopping a few feet away. It feels wrong, though Jimin can’t quite explain why. Unconsciously he shuffles just a bit closer to him. “Those are mine. You’ve always made fun of me for it, since we can get all our music online now. But I like having the physical CDs.”

“I made fun of you for it?” Jimin asks, frowning slightly. Yoongi turns to look at him, his eyes widened just a bit. 

“Not really made fun, just teased a little. You said it’s a waste of money. You were right.”

“Oh.” 

Jimin wanders back into the bathroom, finding that Yoongi has left more post-its in there stuck to the mirror which detail Jimin’s skincare routine, as well as which shampoo and conditioner is his and which is Yoongi’s. There’s only one type of body wash, so Jimin surmises that they share that. As Jimin explores the apartment, Yoongi hovers in the background. Jimin can feel that he’s holding back, but just what Yoongi’s holding back, Jimin’s not certain. 

The rest of the day they spend tip-toeing around each other. Jimin hates it, it feels wrong, but he doesn’t quite know what to do about it. But over the next several days when they’re still tip-toeing, not talking much, and the awkward tension feels like it’s about to suffocate him, Jimin decides to act on instinct. 

It’s dinner time, on the fourth day since Jimin came home from the hospital. The most time they spend together is during meals, and at night when they sleep in the same bed, but as far apart as they can without falling out of the bed. Even if Jimin doesn’t remember his relationship with Yoongi, he knows in his bones that this is not how they are. This is not right. And he hates it. 

“Hyung,” he says, as they finish eating their soup. Yoongi looks up at him, dark circles under his eyes belying just how poorly he’s been sleeping. “We need to talk, hyung.”

Yoongi’s eyes widen, and he sits up straighter. He sets his spoon down beside his bowl and leans back against his chair, already looking defeated. It sparks a fire of irritation in Jimin’s belly. It almost feels like Yoongi’s waiting for him to say that he doesn’t want this anymore, that because he doesn’t remember their relationship he’s just done. That pisses him off, a bit. He doesn't know much about himself, but somehow he knows that’s not the kind of person he is. So he asks the most important question.

“Hyung, we have no idea if I’m going to get my memories back. So, what I need to know is do you still want to be with me, even if I never remember?”

Yoongi’s jaw drops, and he leans forward, his hand darting out to clasp Jimin’s as if by reflex. “Of course I do,” he says fiercely. “Jimin-ah, I love you, and I always will, no matter what.”

That douses the fire, leaving behind only warmth in Jimin’s chest. Some part of him needed to hear that, to hear that Yoongi’s still in this, that he still wants Jimin. Seeing that fierceness in his eyes also helps Jimin to understand this man who is his husband just a little bit more. He’s calm, almost passive about most things. But he’s fierce and passionate about the things he loves. It makes sense that if he wasn’t sure about where Jimin stood, he would try to hold back that fire. 

“You’re my husband,” Jimin says softly, turning his hand in Yoongi’s grip so that he can squeeze his fingers. Yoongi’s hand is so much bigger than his own. He likes it. “That means that you’re my person, that somewhere in here I love you, too, even if I can’t quite remember it right now. So what we need to do is make new memories, to tide us over until my old ones come back. Or if they never do, we need to make new memories so that I can fall in love with you again.”

Yoongi’s lower lip trembles, and slowly his face crumples. Without stopping to think about it, Jimin stands and moves around the table so he can stand beside Yoongi, pulling him in to hold him against his torso. Yoongi buries his face in Jimin’s stomach and cries, his arms winding around his waist and holding tight. Jimin’s heart goes out to him–this is hard for Jimin, but it’s also incredibly hard for Yoongi. He understands, in this moment, just how he must be feeling. His husband doesn’t love him, or at least, doesn’t remember loving him. Jimin regrets his words, then. Of course Yoongi probably knew, deep down, that if Jimin doesn’t have memories of their life together then he’s not going to actively be in love with him right now. But Jimin didn’t need to say it–to state it so bluntly. He reaches up and pets over Yoongi’s soft hair, wishing that his memories would just come back. 

He decides, in that moment, that he needs to put in the work. Because it would be so easy to walk away right now, to start over and build a new life for himself. He doesn’t have any memories tying himself to this place, to his life. But he won’t do that. Because in his bones, he feels that this is where he’s meant to be. Yoongi doesn’t feel like a stranger, even though he technically is. Jimin’s body remembers this life, even if his mind doesn’t. 

So he will put in the work, so that his mind can catch up to his body. Jimin’s always trusted himself, he knows this, though he’s not quite sure how. So he trusts that if he married this man, then he was worth marrying. If he loved this man, then he was worth loving. 

Yoongi goes back to work a week after Jimin came home. “I don’t want to leave you alone,” he confesses that first morning as they drink coffee together in the morning light of their balcony. 

“The school needs you, though,” Jimin says. “I’ll be fine.” Yoongi told him more about the business they run together over lunch a couple days ago, how many students they have, how many other employees. Apparently Jimin’s not the only dance teacher, but Yoongi is their only pianist. When he’s busy with one class the others dance to pre-recorded music, but he explained how it’s so much easier to dance to live music, how often they need to start and stop as the students are learning, and how easy it is for the teacher to just tell Yoongi where to start, rather than have to find it on a pre-recorded track. “Go, hyung, I’ll see you this evening.” He smiles, and though Yoongi doesn’t look happy about it, he relents. 

Once Jimin’s alone in the apartment for the first time since he got home, he goes snooping. He looks through every drawer and on every shelf, searching for any and all clues about the life he’s lived here with Yoongi for the past decade. He studies the kinds of books they have on the shelves, trying to figure out which are his and which are Yoongi’s. He has no idea what kind of books either of them like, so it’s futile, but it’s interesting nonetheless. There’s a good mix of fiction and non-fiction. Most of the fiction books are either romance or horror, and Jimin snorts, trying to decide who likes romance and who likes horror. He decides to find out the fun way–choosing one book of each genre to read and see which he likes more. He picks a battered copy of Me Before You by Jojo Moyes, and an equally battered copy of The Stand by Stephen King. He puts them on the coffee table and goes back to snooping. 

He looks through Yoongi’s piano bench, taking in all the incomprehensible sheet music quickly and then puts it all back. He has no idea who any of the composers are, what any of the songs are, and he moves on before it frustrates him. He goes back into the bedroom and opens the closet. Yoongi showed him which clothes were his, and he takes a look through it all. He owns a lot of athleisure, which makes sense considering he’s a dancer. He also owns a lot of soft sweaters, and he smiles as he runs his fingers over them. Yoongi wears a lot of dark colors, contrasting the lighter colors that fill Jimin’s side of the closet. 

Next he takes his time studying the photos on the wall. There are a few of the two of them when they were small children, chubby cheeked and adorable. Jimin stares at a baby photo of himself and smiles. He thinks that he looks the same now as he did then, and it’s almost comforting. In a time where everything is so unfamiliar to him, it’s nice to see a picture of himself from so long ago and know that his face hasn’t really changed in the last thirty years. Yoongi also looks just like he did when he was little. The other photos are of them together as adults and a pang of longing goes through Jimin’s chest. He wishes more than anything that he could remember everything that he’s lost. He wishes that he could look at these photos and see them as the reminders of lovely memories that they are supposed to be, instead of looking at them and feeling blank. 

He yanks himself away from the photos before his mood can sour further, and goes back to the couch. Instead of picking up one of the books, he gets his phone out of his sweatpants pocket and texts Taehyung. 

Jimin: hey, can i ask you a question?

Taehyung: ofc

Jimin: ?

Taehyung: of fucking course

Jimin stares at his phone, feeling a little like an idiot for not knowing what a damn acronym meant. He closes his eyes and forces himself to take a few deep breaths through his nose, trying to shove the frustration down. 

Jimin: what did yoongi and i used to do on dates?

Taehyung: ummm

Taehyung: you went out dancing, sometimes. Uhh you went to the ballet or the theater, dinner, walks through the park, the movies. I don’t really know what else you did. You didn’t go out much, you were too busy mostly, i think

Taehyung: i know you guys tried to do date night at home at least once a week

Taehyung: does this mean that you guys are staying together?

Jimin gapes at his phone. Not wanting to continue this conversation over text, he calls Taehyung, who picks up immediately. “Why did you ask me that?” Jimin asks, his voice soft, but with an edge. 

“I– I’m sorry,” Taehyung says. “We’ve been talking this week, the others and I, and we were just worried, is all.”

“Worried that we’d break up because I lost my memory?” Jimin isn’t quite sure why that cuts him so deeply. 

“No,” Taehyung says quickly. “No, not really. I–” He stops and huffs softly. “I’m sorry, we were just worried about Yoongi, honestly. He… He’s the kind of person who will set himself on fire to keep someone he loves warm. We were worried that he would push you away if he thought that you’d be happier without him now that you don’t remember your relationship. But–” he hastens to add. “Is sounds like maybe you guys talked about things?”

Jimin doesn’t respond for a long moment, ruminating on Taehyung’s words. He may not remember everything he used to know about Yoongi, but he understands what Taehyung means. Yoongi definitely seems like the kind who would sacrifice his own happiness if it means ensuring someone else’s. Then resolve hardens in his gut. “We did, I told him that I want to make new memories together, to tide us over until my old ones come back. If they come back,” he adds softly. “I want to remember what it was that made me fall in love with him. Anything you can tell me, would be greatly appreciated.”

Now it’s Taehyung’s turn to be quiet for a moment. “Hmm, I think maybe if I told you that would be cheating. It wouldn’t be authentic, that way. Do you get what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Jimin sighs. “I do. You’re right.”

“I’ve got a class in a few minutes, but you know you can text or call me whenever you need, right? You’re my best friend, that will never change, even if you never get your memories back.”

Despite the complicated storm of emotions swirling around Jimin’s chest, he smiles. “Yeah, I know. Thanks, Tae-yah.” He hangs up and slumps back against the couch. Then he leans forward again and picks up Me Before You and starts to read.

He’s nearly halfway through the book when Yoongi gets home that evening, and he likes it, but it’s not blowing his mind or anything. “Hi, hyung,” he says, putting the book down on his chest and turning his head to look at Yoongi as he takes his shoes off. “How was your day?”

Yoongi moves to the kitchen counter and puts his bag down along with his keys and his wallet from his pocket. “It was good,” Yoongi says softly. “The kids asked after you, I told them that you were at home recovering. They–They don’t know that you lost your memories.” He turns and his face is unsure, his brows furrowed slightly and his lips frowning. “Should I tell them?”

“That would probably be best, that way they won’t wonder why I’m not back yet.”

Yoongi moves across the room and Jimin moves his feet so that Yoongi can sit down on the other end of the couch. He picks up the book and dog-ears the page he’s on before putting it down on the coffee table as he sits up. Yoongi’s eyes follow the book, and his frown disappears, a small smile taking its place. “I love that book,” he says softly. 

Jimin snorts. “So it’s yours then?” Yoongi nods, looking a little confused, so Jimin explains. “I was looking through them earlier and trying to figure out which of us likes romance, and which likes horror. After reading most of this, I was starting to think that maybe I’m the one who likes horror.”

Yoongi laughs. It’s a soft, but genuine sound. “Yeah. You like to be scared shitless. I’ve never understood it.” He picks up the book, lightly running his thumbs over the cover. He stares down at it, an inscrutable look on his face. “Will you finish it?”

“Yeah, I will. It’s a good book, just not very exciting.”

“I–Well. Actually, I won’t spoil it.” He puts the book back down. “Um, okay. I’m starving. What do you want for dinner?”

“I’m okay with anything,” Jimin says, smiling gently. He doesn’t say it, but he still doesn’t know what kinds of foods are his favorite. Yoongi knows. 

Later that night, Jimin lies on his back in bed staring at the ceiling. It’s been seven nights of sleeping next to each other, but never touching. The first night that Jimin was back home, Yoongi had tried to sleep on the couch. Jimin wouldn’t let him. So every night since then, Jimin has tossed and turned, unable to get truly comfortable enough in this extremely comfortable bed, while Yoongi lay on his side, facing away, on the far side of the bed. It’s awkward, and yet another thing that just feels wrong. Jimin doesn’t know what to do to make it feel less wrong. He aches for something he cannot name. 

He closes his eyes and forces his body to relax, trying to search deep inside his feelings to identify just what it is that he wants. His fingers itch to reach out for Yoongi, like a reflex, a habit. So he gives in. He turns onto his side and moves slowly toward the middle of the bed. He reaches out and touches Yoongi’s shoulder, jerking back when Yoongi startles and quickly moves onto his back to look at him. “I’m sorry,” Jimin breathes. “I–I can’t sleep. This feels weird, like… you’re not supposed to be all the way over here. How. How did we used to sleep?”

Yoongi stares at him, his face barely visible in the dark of the room. “Are you sure?” he breathes. Jimin nods, humming his assent. Then Yoongi moves slowly, rolling so he’s facing Jimin, pressing up close to his chest, his arm wrapping around Jimin’s waist. Jimin lets him move, feels Yoongi’s nose settle against the hollow of his throat, one of his legs wiggling between Jimin’s. “You–Your arm goes around my back, your other straight out under the pillow. That’s… that’s how we’ve slept for ten years.” Jimin moves to put his arms where Yoongi said they go, and almost immediately he can feel himself being dragged under. He’s so tired, after a week of not sleeping well, and now it feels right. Yoongi belongs in his arms, his body recognizes that, even if his mind doesn’t. 

Just before he sinks into the depths of much-needed sleep, Jimin realizes that Yoongi’s shaking slightly, and there’s wetness on his neck where Yoongi’s face rests. 

Jimin finishes Me Before You, spends a few hours feeling immeasurably sad about the ending, and then starts The Stand by Stephen King. He immediately likes it better, and it feels nice, knowing something about himself again. He likes scary stories. After a few hours of reading, he decides to see if it’s just scary books he likes, or scary movies too, and he puts on the first thing that comes up on netflix when he searches for horror movies, an American movie called Get Out. It terrifies him, and he loves it. 

Feeling buoyed by his happiness at figuring out something about himself, he decides to cook dinner to have ready for when Yoongi gets home. He has no idea what to make, but he doesn’t let that stop him. Jimin spends a while leaning against the kitchen counter, scrolling through various too-long food blog posts to find recipes. He decides to go for something easy, and make fancy ramyeon–easy, but it doesn’t look like it. He ransacks the cupboards to figure out what they have and what he needs to go get, and then bundles up to ward off the mid-autumn chill, wrapping a scarf he found in the closet–they have a communal scarf drawer, he finds–putting on a beanie, and zipping up his long-padding. He searches for the nearest grocery store on his phone, and then starts the journey. It’s cold outside today, the chilly air biting Jimin’s nose and cheeks. His breath puffs around him as he walks down the sidewalk, weaving around people as he passes them. 

He’s glad that the hugeness of the city around him doesn’t intimidate him. He’d thought for a moment, earlier today, that it might feel a little scary to go out and about when he has no idea where anything is. It doesn’t feel that way, however, as Jimin watches his progress on his phone screen as it leads him to the store. His home address is already programed into the phone, so he won’t get lost on the way home. Modern technology really is a marvel.

Now he just has to hope he doesn’t drop or damage his phone. Jimin’s grip tightens around the device. 

The store is only a ten minute walk away, and it feels nice to get out and stretch his muscles. Jimin’s entirely recovered from his short coma, and his legs have been itching to get up and move–something he doesn’t quite realize until he’s outside walking and feeling truly comfortable for the first time in a couple days. Good to know, he thinks, though he also feels a little silly. Of course he would not be entirely content sitting around doing nothing–he dances for a living. Jimin speeds up as the store looms closer and closer. It’s an enormous e-mart, and there are people pouring in and out of it. His stomach twinges at the thought of being around that many people, but it’s tiny and easy to ignore. He goes with the flow of people making their way inside and his eyes widen. There is so much. 

Jimin spends the next hour and a half wandering around the store, mostly searching for the things he needs to make ramyeon, but also just wandering around, seeing what’s for sale. He lets himself simply wander around the whole store, making his way through the mazes of aisles, looking at all the food, culinary apparatuses for sale. He makes his way upstairs and wanders through the clothes aisles and then into the electronics section. It’s strange, how many things he sees that he does not recognize, but feels that he would know what to do with, nonetheless. 

Jimin leaves the store with only what was on his list, and he walks home feeling strange, almost out of place. It’s unsettling, feeling like all the knowledge he spent the last thirty-two years acquiring is right there on the tip of his tongue, but entirely unattainable at the same time. 

He makes it back home without any trouble, following his GPS without paying much attention to the scenery around him. It’s cold, and Jimin burrows down into his coat as he walks, gripping his phone tight with pink, frozen fingers. It’s only going to get colder, he thinks, and his steps falter. How do I know that?

When Jimin gets home the first thing he does is search up typical fall and winter temperatures in Seoul, just to confirm the nebulous feeling that arose while he was walking. He was right. It’s only going to get colder. It should be a comfort, he thinks, the fact that everything he used to know is still inside him somewhere, coded into his body. It is… in a small way, not nearly enough to break through the frustration of not being able to reach for the things he’s already learned and have them right there at his fingertips. 

Jimin goes to Spotify on his phone and shuffles his ‘liked songs’ playlist. He turns it up loud, tired of the oppressive silent screaming of his own thoughts, and sets to making his ramyeon. An hour later, as he’s finishing cooking the pork that will go in it, the door opens. He barely hears it over the sound of the music blasting through the tiny speakers of his phone, but he pokes his head out of the kitchen to see Yoongi shuffling in, shoulders rounded, eyes downcast. Jimin’s stomach drops. He pauses the music, and the abrupt silence causes Yoongi to whip his head up to catch his eyes. “Hi, hyung,” he says, sending a gentle smile his way. 

“Hi, Jimin-ah,” he replies. His deep voice is soft, sounds slightly elongated, dropping off at the end like they’re just too heavy to carry. Yoongi takes off his shoes and moves slowly to the couch to deposit his bag, and then he joins Jimin in the kitchen. “Smells good,” he sighs, leaning against the counter. 

“Thanks. I was bored, so I went to the store. E-mart is enormous, how does anyone find anything in there?” he asks, his tone lighthearted. He smiles over at Yoongi, but his gaze is met with averted eyes. Yoongi stares at the floor. 

“You–I guess you just get used to it.”

“What’s wrong, hyung?” Jimin asks. The silence between them stretches out for a moment longer than he’d like, and his stomach twists. He feels on edge, and he doesn’t know why. 

“Nothing,” Yoongi breathes, reaching up and scrubbing his hands over his face. “I’m just– Just tired, is all.”

Jimin stares at him for a long moment, begging him silently to meet his eyes, but Yoongi pushes off of the counter. “I’m going to take a quick shower before dinner, okay?”

“Okay.” Yoongi leaves the kitchen, and Jimin feels suddenly very, very small. 

Yoongi seems a little better after his shower. He emerges a few minutes before dinner is ready, his skin bright pink from the hot water, his long, wet hair slicked back. He’s wearing an oversized black t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants that Jimin wants to touch, to see how soft they are. He doesn’t. “Thank you for cooking, Jimin-ah,” he says as he sits down in front of the bowl Jimin places in the spot Yoongi always sits. He smiles up at him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There are dark smudges under his beautiful eyes, and something inside Jimin rears up, about to chastise him for not sleeping enough. He holds that urge back as well. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, forcing brightness into his tone. They dig in, and Jimin’s able to forget everything for a few minutes as he enjoys the delicious food he made. 

“Um,” Yoongi says a bit later, setting his chopsticks down beside his bowl and sitting back. Jimin doesn’t put his own down, but he does finish chewing and looks up at him, brows raised slightly. “Your birthday is tomorrow,” Yoongi says softly. A jolt of surprise shoots through Jimin’s stomach. Then he remembers what Yoongi told him in the hospital, that his birthday is on the 13th, and they had plans to go dancing. Realization settles over his shoulders, weighing him down. No wonder he’s been so down. 

“Oh,” he breathes. 

“Do… Do you want to go through with the plan we made? I know… I know you don’t remember the plan, but we were going to go to Telepathy and drink and dance, and everyone was going to come. We can still do that, or we do something else. Or nothing,” he adds, his voice no louder than a breath as he looks down at the table, staring at his half finished bowl of ramyeon. 

“I think it sounds like fun,” Jimin says, speaking with his full voice. He’s tired of the soft voices, the whispered words. He wants to talk. A kernel of frustration blooms in his chest. “If I wanted to do that for my birthday before, then I don’t see why I wouldn’t want to do that now.” Yoongi looks up at him, finally meeting Jimin’s eyes. He stares into them for a long moment, unveiled emotion on his face. Jimin longs to reach out, to touch him, to comfort him somehow. He has no idea how, though. Has no idea what might be welcomed. Yoongi said that he still loves Jimin, and will always love him, but there’s a gulf between them that Jimin doesn’t know how to cross. Like his memories of their shared history was the bridge that connected them, and now that it’s gone they’re stuck on either side of it, staring at each other but unable to close the distance. 

Part of him thinks that Yoongi could close that distance, if he would just reach out first. 

“I’ll let everyone know that the party is still on,” Yoongi says, and one corner of his mouth quirks up in a small smile. 

“Good,” Jimin asserts, nodding once, and going back to eating his ramyeon. 

When they’re finished, Yoongi insists on cleaning up by himself, shooing Jimin into the living room, where he puts his music back on. A song starts playing that has a nice beat, and though it’s in English and he doesn’t understand the lyrics, Jimin finds that the music makes him want to move. The singer’s voice takes him by the hand and wraps around him, urging him to sway and bounce to the beat. He lets himself go, lets himself move where his body wants to move, and he spins and sways around the living room. When that song ends another starts, and this one is even faster, even bouncier than the first. Jimin keeps moving, his arms up and hips swaying to each down-beat. 

When the second song ends, Jimin spins and catches Yoongi standing in the entryway to the kitchen, staring at him. His face is soft, relaxed, a real smile on his face for the first time that Jimin can remember. He’s beautiful, his hair fluffy as it dries, his eyes open and full of something Jimin can’t quite identify, though a small voice inside him whispers, that’s what love looks like. 

Another song starts playing and it’s a slow song this time. Jimin holds out his hand for Yoongi. “Come dance with me?” he asks, swaying slowly to the slow voice crooning in English out of his phone speakers. Yoongi steps forward, moving like a magnet, drawn to Jimin. Jimin takes Yoongi’s hand and starts to move again in the same way he danced to the other two songs, giving all control over to his body, not thinking about how he moves, just moving. 

Yoongi moves stiffly at first, hesitantly. Jimin doesn’t let him hold himself back. This feels right, dancing with his husband in the living room. This feels like something they used to do all the time. Every time something has felt right since Jimin woke up in the hospital, it was when he was touching Yoongi. For this moment they have closed that gap between them, built a bridge that might be temporary, but it’s enough for now. 

The song ends and melts into another slow song, this one even slower than the one before. Moved by an invisible force, Jimin pulls Yoongi in, wrapping his arms around Yoongi’s shoulders. Yoongi’s hands hesitantly move to his sides, resting lightly at first as they sway together. Jimin tightens his grip, reveling in how right it feels to have Yoongi in his arms and at the same time mourning the lack of the love he knows he feels for him. He wants to feel it again, to remember what it’s like to love and be loved by this gentle, soft-spoken man. 

Yoongi’s hands slide around his back, his body moving in closer, chests pressed close together as Yoongi hugs him tight, burying his face in the crook of Jimin’s neck. It feels even better to be in Yoongi’s arms, and for just a moment, right there in the living room Jimin thinks he knows what it is that he’s missing. 

The plan was for them to go out on Friday, since Jimin’s birthday fell on a Wednesday. Yoongi is at the school all day, and feeling restless, Jimin texts Taehyung. He arrives twenty minutes later, a wide smile on his face. “I’m so excited for tonight,” he says as he steps inside. 

“Will you help me get ready?” Jimin asks. “I don’t know what my style is, really.”

“Of course,” Taehyung says gravely. They put on music, Taehyung pointing out which songs were Jimin’s favorites in the past as they go through Jimin’s side of the closet. It’s comfortable, hanging out with Taehyung, in a way that Jimin didn’t even know he missed. He doesn’t treat Jimin like there’s anything missing, not like Yoongi does. Jimin doesn’t think that Yoongi means to, but he reminds Jimin constantly of what he’s lost, and Taehyung doesn’t. He doesn’t treat Jimin with kid gloves, doesn’t avoid bringing up memories that he knows Jimin doesn’t have anymore. 

“What are our other friends like?” Jimin asks after a while. They’ve got his outfit for the night picked out and sitting on the bed, and Taehyung’s lying on Yoongi’s side, stretched out scrolling through Instagram on his phone. Jimin lies down on his back, head turned toward him. 

Taehyung puts his phone down, but then immediately picks it back up again, tapping and scrolling fast. “Okay,” he says a moment later, and holds out the phone. “This is Jin-hyung. He was Yoongi’s roommate in college, they were–and still are–very close. They go fishing sometimes.” Jimin stares at the photo of the man smiling on the screen, trying to find something familiar in it at the same time as he cements the name with the face in his mind. Taehyung pulls the phone back, and goes through the rest of their friends in the same way. Namjoon was also Yoongi’s friend first, they also met in college as they both studied music, though Namjoon went a different route with it. “He’s a music producer, he works with some pretty big idol groups, it’s very cool.” 

Hoseok and Jeongguk were Jimin and Taehyung’s friends first, met at dance school. When Jimin and Yoongi got together, their friend groups merged easily. “Jeongguk and Namjoon-hyung dated briefly, but they decided that they were better as friends, and about six months after that Jeonggukie and Seokjin-hyung got together and they’ve been together ever since. They’re not married, like you and Yoongi-hyung, but they might as well be.”

“What about you? The others? Any significant others I don’t remember?” 

Taehyung laughs, setting the phone down on his chest after rolling onto his back. “No, I have no interest in dating, just sleeping around when the mood strikes. Hoseok and Namjoon have been in love for a long time, but they won’t admit it to anyone. Hoseokie-hyung is afraid of commitment, and Namjoonie-hyung wants nothing but commitment.” Jimin frowns. 

“What is Hoseok afraid of?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Taehyung says, his tone flat. “They already act like a couple, except they’re not sleeping together. At least,” he pauses, quirking an eyebrow as he stares at the ceiling. “Not that I know of.” He exhales heavily through his nose, and wiggles. “I don’t like thinking about it, it makes me sad.” He rolls onto his side once again, facing Jimin. “Anyway. How have things been with you and hyung?”

Jimin doesn’t need him to specify to which hyung he’s referring. He takes a breath, fighting against the way his heart sinks just a bit. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “He’s… holding back. I can tell, but I don’t know exactly what he’s holding back and it’s frustrating. It feels…” He exhales sharply through his nose. “It feels like there’s a chasm between us and I don’t know how to cross it,” he says, using the metaphor that’s been bouncing around in his head all week. “But like he could cross it if he wants to, and he acts like he wants to, but he won’t. It’s so frustrating because even though I can feel when things don’t feel right, I don’t know what to do to make them feel right again, except that the only times things feel right are when we’re close together or touching. But he won’t initiate.”

“Jiminie…” Taehyung says, his voice soft. “That’s Yoongi-hyung. He doesn’t initiate, he never has. He will gladly reciprocate one thousand percent, but he will very rarely initiate anything. If you hadn’t flirted so aggressively with him, you two never would have gotten together. And you never seemed to mind that you were always initiating.”

Jimin frowns. Taehyung’s words cause something ugly to twist in his chest. “Why would I have been okay with that?” he asks, more to himself than to Taehyung. 

“Honestly, I don’t know. It would piss me off. Hyung is just… he’s always been very reserved. And I know that he’s dealt with anxiety in the past. I’m pretty sure that in the last few years he’d gotten better about it–I don’t know if maybe you guys had talked it out and you just didn’t tell me, but he seemed to be initiating more. He would reach for you first, and stuff like that. But again, you told me a lot, but not everything. I don’t know everything that’s gone on between you two behind closed doors. But if I know Yoongi-hyung, I would guess that he’s probably struggling really bad right now with feeling like you’re going to leave him because you don’t remember him.”

“But I told him I still want to be with him!” Jimin exclaims. 

“That means jack shit to some people who have bad anxiety. Jeonggukie is the same, we–you, me, and him–argued a lot about it when we were younger. When we first met, he was constantly convinced that we didn’t actually want to be friends with him, even though we told him all the time. It wasn’t until you and I really made a concerted effort to show him that we wanted him there that he actually started to believe us. I bet it’s the same for Yoongi-hyung. His brain is probably telling him, Jiminie doesn’t remember me, so he’s probably going to decide to leave.”

“You’re very insightful about my husband,” Jimin says, letting an edge of hysterical frustration into his voice.

“He’s just as much my best friend as you are,” Taehyung says easily. 

“So what do I need to do to show him I still want to be with him?” Jimin asks after taking a deep, steadying breath. He sits up, leaning against the headboard and crossing his legs in front of him. Taehyung stays lying down, though he picks his head up and rests it on his palm, elbow digging into the mattress. 

“Have you kissed since your accident?” 

“No.”

“Held hands?”

“No…”

“Hugged?” Taehyung’s voice is a little strained. Jimin nods.

“Yeah, we’ve hugged a couple times. And we sleep in the same bed.”

“That’s not saying much, considering you don’t have a guest room.”

“We sleep wrapped around each other because neither of us can sleep without it. Though… I don’t think he’s been sleeping much. He looks so tired lately.” Jimin stares at his lap, his fingers playing with the fabric of his lounge pants. Taehyung shifts, the sound of his jeans dragging against the fabric of the comforter filling the room, the springs squeaking as he adjusts so he’s sitting in the middle of the bed, facing Jimin. 

“I don’t know everything that goes on behind closed doors with you two, but I do know that you had a really active sex life. You two were always touching, kissing when you thought no one was looking. I don’t know, maybe hyung is just missing touching you. But he doesn’t feel like he can, maybe? I don’t know… you should talk to him about it.” Jimin scowls, looking away. Taehyung’s right, Jimin knows that. He’s known that.

“It just feels weird.”

“Well push past the weirdness! He’s your husband! You love him, even if you don’t actively remember that right now. If there was nothing lingering between you, you would have left already. I know you, Jimin-ah. You don’t do anything you don’t want to do, you never have. If you didn’t still love Yoongi-hyung, you would have left.”

Jimin stares at Taehyung, eyes wide. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I know you better than you know yourself right now. Stop acting like a teenager, and talk to your husband.” His tone is gentle, though Jimin can hear the undercurrent of sternness hiding within it. He feels silly. He really hasn’t done much in the two weeks since he got home. Neither has Yoongi, but after hearing what Taehyung had to say, that doesn’t surprise Jimin. 

“We danced together a couple nights ago,” Jimin says, his voice soft, face breaking into a small smile as he remembers how wonderful it felt to sway back and forth in the living room with Yoongi in his arms. “It was nice. I think… I think my body remembers him, even if my mind doesn’t. That’s why I feel so certain that I still want to be with him, even if I never get my memories back. So, I just need to convince him of that.”

“Well, tonight would be a perfect night to seduce your husband,” Taehyung says, grinning. Jimin laughs. “In fact,” he says, shoving himself off of the bed. He picks up the pair of jeans that they’d selected for him to wear tonight, and puts them back in the closet. A moment later he comes back with a pair of leather pants that make Jimin’s brows go up. “Wear these. You haven’t worn these in a while, as far as I know, but they always used to make hyung salivate when you danced in them.” Jimin smirks, thinking that he would very much like to see what Yoongi looks like when he’s turned on. 

The club is dim and loud, bright lights flashing and a haze hanging over the crowd that writhes and undulates on the dance floor. It smells like beer and liquor and cigarettes and sweat, and as soon as they step inside, Jimin feels alive. He’s riding a high that he feels quite certain will carry him through the entire night–from the look on Yoongi’s face when he saw Jimin in the leather pants Taehyung told him to wear, to the way Yoongi’s hand feels in his own as he holds it tight. 

“There they are!” Taehyung shouts into his ear, pointing toward a group standing around one of the tall tables on the periphery of the dance floor. Jimin recognizes their friends from the pictures Taehyung showed him earlier, and he smiles as they notice him and their faces erupt  into pure joy. 

“Jiminie!” a chorus of voices scream as he, Taehyung, and Yoongi make their way over. Jeongguk and Seokjin get to him first, hugging him tight between them, swaying them back and forth. Jimin laughs, feeling incredibly loved in that moment in the face of his friends’ joy to see him. Namjoon and Hoseok greet him no less enthusiastically. “We missed you!” Hoseok shouts by his ear, struggling to be heard over the thumping, bass-heavy music beating through the room, the heartbeat of the club. 

“Happy birthday hyung,” Jeongguk says, slinging an arm around his neck. “Let’s get you a drink!” Jimin lets Jeongguk lead him toward the bar. He looks over his shoulder once to see the others greet Taehyung and Yoongi. He sees Namjoon lean in close and say something in Yoongi’s ear but then the crush of people around them closes again and they’re out of sight. The bar is crowded, but Jeongguk and Jimin manage to wiggle their way between some people. Jeongguk moves his arm from around Jimin’s neck to his waist and he hugs him close. “I missed you so much, hyung,” Jeongguk says. Jimin smiles, reaching up to pat the top of Jeongguk’s head. He imagines that this is the way Jeongguk would have greeted him after not seeing him for a while before he lost his memory, and it feels comfortable, expected, even if Jimin has no memories of ever meeting him before tonight. He likes the way it feels to have his friends treat him the way that they always have, like he didn’t lose all of his memories. It feels less like there’s something wrong, and more like he’s part of the group. 

He thinks about his conversation with Taehyung earlier, and resolves to talk with Yoongi either later tonight, or tomorrow morning. The school is closed on the weekends, so he has Yoongi all to himself for the next two days, and he plans to make use of it. 

The next several hours are full of loud music, hot sweaty dancing, and plenty of alcohol. Jimin gets to know his friends again in an easy, low-stakes kind of way. He learns that Hoseok cannot hold his alcohol, and is tipsy halfway through his first drink, and drunk when he finishes it. He learns that Namjoon and Seokjin are not great dancers, but make up for it with their enthusiasm. He learns that Jeongguk is a great dancer, unsurprising, considering Jimin knows that he met him in dance school. Taehyung dances against him in a filthy way after a few drinks, and Jimin finds himself looking for Yoongi when he does it to see if he’s jealous or not. Yoongi’s reaction–or lack thereof–tells Jimin that this is normal for when they’re drinking. He learns that Yoongi doesn’t dance until he’s drunk drunk, and when that happens Jimin, who’s also drunk, pulls him in close and lets his body move in whatever way it wants to, grinding hard against Yoongi’s ass as he dances in front of him. He lets his hands roam up his chest and over his sides. He wants to touch him everywhere, but with a herculean show of willpower, he resists. Deep down, he doesn’t want the first time he remembered touching his husband like that to be while drunk in the middle of an extremely crowded dance floor. 

He wants to kiss him, but stops himself for the same reason. It takes nearly everything he has, because every time Yoongi looks at him over his shoulder, his eyes hooded, cheeks bright pink from the alcohol and the heat of the club, Jimin is seized with an almost overwhelming desire to devour him. It catches him half by surprise, but by now Jimin is used to the random urges that crop up wherever Yoongi is concerned. He’s starting to think that maybe he should start acting on those urges. 

They dance until the wee hours of the morning, finally stumbling out around two, arms around each other both to keep each other close and to keep each other upright. The streets echo with their voices. Yoongi’s arm around Jimin’s waist feels so right, Jimin never wants him to remove it. He has to, however, once they decide to go eat. 

“Jiminie,” Namjoon says as they dig into their chicken, washing it down with more beer. His cheeks are bright red and his eyes don’t want to open all the way. Jimin giggles, thinking that he looks so silly. Beside him Yoongi looks just as drunkenly sleepy, and he leans heavily against Jimin’s side. 

“What?” Jimin responds, selecting the best-looking piece of chicken from one of the three baskets they have in front of them. “Here, hyung,” he says softly, holding it up in front of Yoongi’s mouth. Yoongi dutifully opens his mouth and lets Jimin feed him. 

“I have your birthday present at home, let me know when and I can bring it over,” Namjoon says, his voice slow, words slurring together. Jimin giggles again. 

“You can come by anytime, I’m not back at work yet,” he says easily, though he can feel the energy in the whole group turn down a bit, like someone turned a knob. He looks around at his friends, all of whom are staring at him as if they only just remembered that he had surgery three weeks ago after a head injury that took away all of his memories. He squirms, not liking the way the vibes have turned almost morose so quickly. “Come on, let’s not ruin our night thinking about that,” he says, feeling markedly more sober than he did a moment ago. Beside him, Yoongi presses his face into Jimin’s shoulder. He exhales softly through his nose. “Come on everyone,” he says, trying to rally the troops. “We can either dwell on the fact that I got hurt and lost my memories, or we can focus our energy on creating new ones. I mean, think about it like this: tonight has been the best night of my entire life! Who cares if that’s because I can’t remember any other birthdays or nights out.”

“That’s the spirit,” Taehyung says from his other side. He picks up his beer and holds it up. “To Jiminie’s thirty-third birthday! And to wonderful new memories together!”

“Here here!” most of the others chorus, holding up their beers. 

It doesn’t escape Jimin’s notice that Yoongi does not raise his own glass. 

The next morning Jimin wakes up alone to a dull thudding in his head. He cracks his eyes open, groaning softly. “Shit,” he whispers into the silence of the morning. He looks toward the window, taking in how bright the light peeking in around the curtains is. It must be late. He wonders where Yoongi is. 

Jimin takes his time getting out of bed, but once he does he immediately goes to pee and brush his teeth. Judging by the way his mouth feels, he did not do that before he went to sleep earlier this morning, and he needs to get the taste out of his mouth stat. Once he’s done in the bathroom, he ventures out into the rest of the apartment, looking for his husband. 

He didn’t drink enough last night to forget how dejected Yoongi looked by the end of the night, the way he ran hot and cold all night long. Jimin remembers how Yoongi had rolled away from him when they lay down last night, how the only reason he’d been able to fall asleep without Yoongi in his arms was how drunk he still was. 

He’s not mad. At least, he’s not really mad. Mostly, Jimin is just confused. He has no idea what is going on inside Yoongi’s head, and he thinks it’s about time that he finds out. 

He finds Yoongi lying on the couch, curled up on his side, fast asleep. Fire ignites in Jimin’s chest, blazing bright and angry. “Yah,” he says, voice loud. He ignores the spike of pain the noise sends through his head, and feels just a little vindicated when Yoongi startles awake. He sits up, blinking blearily. 

“What?” he gasps, “What happened?”

“My husband would rather sleep on the couch that with me,” Jimin says, crossing his arms. “What is your problem?”

Yoongi gapes at him, still not looking quite awake. Feeling merciful, Jimin gives him a few moments, sitting down on the other end of the couch and crossing his legs. He faces Yoongi, watching as he sits up all the way and mirrors the way Jimin sits, blinking hard and rubbing his eyes. He runs his fingers through his hair, and when he finally looks at Jimin again he looks wretched. The bags under his eyes have gotten worse and his spine bows, like he’s carrying too much weight to sit up straight. 

“Hyung, talk to me,” Jimin breathes, the fire burning out all at once. He slumps back against the arm of the couch, letting his head loll slightly to the side. His body feels heavy, like gravity has increased on him since last night’s weightless drunkenness. “You’re the only one who’s been treating me differently since the accident. I want to understand why.” His voice is soft, but it still feels too loud in the silence of the apartment. Yoongi stares at him, his eyes wide and glassy. 

“I–” he says a long moment later, but then he stops, swallows hard and looks down. 

“Stop looking away from me.” Jimin’s voice is hard, and Yoongi’s eyes snap back to meet his own. “You said that you still love me, and you always will, but you haven’t been acting like it.”

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi breathes. 

“What is it? What’s been holding you back?”

“I… I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Yoongi says, his voice barely audible. 

“What do you mean?”

“I just… I have so many memories of the two of us, and I worry sometimes that if I say or do something overly… familiar, then that’ll make you uncomfortable.”

“Do you hear how silly that sounds?”

“It doesn’t sound silly to me, Jiminie,” Yoongi says, a slight edge to his voice for the first time. “I’m basically a stranger to you,” he continues, sitting up just a bit straighter, his voice growing in volume. It’s still soft, but he’s no longer whispering. It’s a start. 

“I don’t feel right when you’re so far away from me. Everything feels wrong unless you’re touching me, hyung. I should have said so before now, but you’ve just been so distant the last two weeks, I felt like you didn’t want me to touch you.”

“I want you to touch me all the time,” Yoongi says, his words coming out in a rush, tumbling from his mouth all at once. “I never want to stop touching you, which is why I’ve held back, I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“We should have talked about this before now,” Jimin says, his tone softening. Yoongi looks into his eyes once again, and he huffs a humorless laugh. 

“Yes, we should have.”

“Will you tell me what things were like between us? Before?” Jimin’s voice is gentle, but not a whisper. He’s done whispering, done tiptoeing. He wants to say what he means, and he wants Yoongi to do the same. “Tell me what it was like without walking on eggshells.”

Yoongi inhales, slow and deep. He holds it for a moment, and then lets it out just as slowly, silently. He settles his shoulders, his eyes resting on Jimin’s, penetrating deep in a way that he hasn’t seen yet. Jimin’s own eyes widen slightly, surprised for a moment at the intensity emanating from Yoongi. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he realizes something new about himself. He likes that intensity. 

Perhaps that’s one of the things I love about him, he thinks as he stares into Yoongi’s eyes. 

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Jimin says. 

Yoongi opens his mouth, but closes it before he says anything. He lets out a low, growling hum as he thinks about it, his eyes never leaving Jimin’s. “You and I have always been… tactile. We both need it, I think. We slept together after our second date, and once that happened we never looked back. With you… I’ve never felt like what I am is too much, or too little. Like what I want is too much, like what I do is too little. I used to be so down on myself, that I never did anything more glamorous with my music than playing accompaniment for ballet, but you never made me feel that way. You made me feel necessary. Vital, in a way that I’d never felt before. And once we were together, I felt like no matter what happened, as long as I had you in my life, I would be okay. It’s a fucking cliche,” he says, laughing the words, “but when you touch me I feel whole. I feel alive.” Emotion swells in Jimin’s chest, a hard lump sitting in his throat. He moves forward, just a bit closer, feeling that magnetic pull between them. “Jiminie… you are everything. You’re the love of my life, and you always will be.” Yoongi stops, the glass sheen on his eyes breaking, tears welling until they spill over, rolling down his cheeks in two trails that glint under the morning sunlight. “I’m so afraid that you won’t fall in love with me again. I’m afraid that I’m not enough, without our shared history to hold us together. And I don’t want to hold you back, my love.” He whispers the epithet, his voice breaking as Jimin’s heart breaks in two. “I’ve always thought that you were meant for more than someone like me.”

“Stop,” Jimin says, his voice loud after Yoongi’s soft rumbling words. “Just stop.” The emotion lodged in his throat breaks free, tears welling and spilling over fast as weather bursting from a dam. Something deep in his chest hurts worse than any physical pain he’s ever felt, and he reaches up to put his hand over it, like he can ease the pain in his heart from the outside. He gasps a sob, nearly choking on it. His hands shake in his lap and he surges off of the couch, unable to sit still any longer. He crosses his arms tight over his chest and paces back and forth. 

“Jimin-ah,” Yoongi says, but Jimin holds up one hand, begging him to stop. 

“Why would you say something like that?” he asks, brows furrowed and his shoulders tense. “Do you really think so little of me that I would abandon my husband? Just because I lost my memories?” He stops, forces himself to take a deep breath, willing his heart to stop racing. “I don’t know what kind of person I was, not really. But ever since I woke up in the hospital, I’ve trusted myself, and my past choices. I never once,” he says sharply, slicing his hand through the air as he does, “thought, ‘Oh, I don’t need to stay with him just because we’re married, I mean I have no memories, right? Why should I? No, the first thing I thought was, ‘There must be a reason I married him, and I will trust that.’” He stops pacing and turns to face Yoongi, letting his arms fall helplessly to his sides. “If I can trust a me that I don’t remember, then why don’t you? You remember everything, you know what kind of person I am, how could you think I would want to leave you just because I don’t remember everything we’ve been through?” He hopes that Yoongi can understand him through the tears, the emotion pouring out of him. 

He goes back to the couch, throws himself down so he’s sitting close to Yoongi, his knee pressing hard against Yoongi’s shin. He takes Yoongi’s hand in both of his. “It hurts me to hear you talk like that about yourself. And hyung, even if my memories never come back, I’ll still love you. I know that I do, I can feel it in my bones. Nothing feels right unless I’m near you, unelss I’m touching you. The only reason that can be is that I love you. And yes, I may not know it in my brain because I don’t have the memories that got me there, but my heart knows. My heart still loves you, and will always love you. I just need you to give me time to let my head catch up to my heart. Hyung,” he breathes, leaning forward as he reaches up to grip Yoongi around the back of the neck. He presses their foreheads together, lets their breath mingle between them, hot, humid, and close. “Hyung,” he repeats, “show me.”

“What?” Yoongi whispers. 

“Show me how you love me,” Jimin says, opening his eyes and pulling back so he can see his husband’s face. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, tears still falling steadily. 

“Are you sure?” Yoongi’s voice is small, scared. 

“I trust you. I married you, I’ve loved you for ten years, and I trust that. I want you to show me how we were. You and me.”

Yoongi reaches up, his hands shaking, and brushes the fingers of one through his hair, the other coming to rest on his cheek. His touch feels like coming home, feels like settling down comfortable and safe in bed, knowing nothing can hurt him. He leans into it, his eyes fluttering closed as he smiles. They’re both still crying, still hurting, but Jimin has never felt closer to him than he does right now. Yoongi’s thumb brushes over his cheekbone, and Jimin can’t resist. 

He leans in, closing the rest of that gap between them, and his lips meet Yoongi’s, and he was wrong before. This is coming home. This is everything. Yoongi’s lips on his, his hands on his face, in his hair. Jimin’s hand still on the nape of Yoongi’s neck grips tight, holding him firm, like if he lets go Yoongi will float away. Jimin will hold on forever, if that’s what it takes. His other hand reaches up to snake through Yoongi’s hair, the soft strands sliding between his fingers like water. Yoongi lets out a small sound, like a whimper, and Jimin presses closer, holds tighter. Yoongi’s lips part and Jimin takes that as an invitation to plunge his tongue into Yoongi’s mouth, simultaneously marveling over the newness of kissing Yoongi, and how comfortable and familiar it feels, even if he doesn’t remember ever doing this before. 

Yoongi’s tongue meets his, sliding against him and whimpering again. Their kiss is salty, wet with tears, and amazing. Jimin pushes up onto his knees, forcing Yoongi to tilt his head back as Jimin looms over him. He moves forward so he can kneel over Yoongi’s lap, pressing their bodies close together, as close as they did last night when they were dancing. Jimin feels almost as drunk as he did last night. He moves the hand that was in Yoongi’s hair down over his shoulder and scraping his nails down his back. Yoongi moves his own hands, throwing them around Jimin to hold him close, gripping tight, fingers digging into the muscles of his back. Jimin kisses Yoongi like his life depends on it, like it’s the first and last thing he’ll ever do. 

He finds the hem of Yoongi’s shirt and slips his fingers beneath it, feeling how hot Yoongi’s skin is against his own. He wants more of that, so he lets go only for a moment, only long enough to rip Yoongi’s shirt off, laughing breathlessly when it catches on his head and he has to work to pull it free, revealing his face, disheveled and smiling. He surges in once more, kissing him again before pulling back to take care of his own shirt. Then he all but falls on him, plastering them together hot skin on hot skin. He’ll never get enough of this, he realizes. He has never gotten enough, despite being with Yoongi for ten years. This time, however, is like the first time all over again. It’s the best new memory he’ll ever make. 

“Hyung,” he gasps into Yoongi’s mouth, feeling Yoongi getting hard under him. He’s hard too, aching in a way that makes him feel like he’ll die if he can’t do something about it. 

“Jimin-ah?” Yoongi whispers back, nipping at his bottom lip. 

“How do we do it?”

“Any way. Every way. However we want.”

“How do you want it, now?”

“I want to feel you inside me,” Yoongi breathes. And Jimin has to kiss about that before he can do anything else about it. “I’ve missed you,” Yoongi says, gasping as Jimin slides his lips along his skin, kissing across his jaw and down his neck. “I’ve missed you so much.” Yoongi’s voice wavers as his body trembles under Jimin’s lips. 

“I know, I’m here, I’m here hyung. I’ll never leave you.”

“I was so afraid.”

“Shh, it’s okay.” Jimin holds him tight and kisses his temple, hugging Yoongi’s head to his chest. He rocks them back and forth. 

“I love you,” Yoongi says, his face pressed firmly into Jimin’s skin. Jimin wants to hold and protect this man forever. He doesn’t need memories of them together. It would be nice if he got them back, but… he doesn’t need them. It’s that simple. He realizes with a choked gasp, pressing his face into Yoongi’s hair, that he does love him still. He feels it. It lives within him, not in his memories, but in the very marrow of his bones. It pumps through him with every beat of his heart, mingled with his blood, the very essence of him. 

“I love you too,” Jimin whispers. Yoongi breaks. His whole body shakes, wracked with sobs, his grip around Jimin’s chest tight enough to hurt but Jimin doesn’t care. It reminds him he’s alive. “I do,” he says, his voice a little stronger. “I can feel it. How could I not, when holding you feels this perfect.”

Time melts by, thick and sweet as honey, and Yoongi’s tears slow, and then stop. Jimin has no idea how much time has passed, except that it’s been long enough for the shadows in the room to move a bit as the sun climbs higher into the sky. “I want to make new memories with you,” Jimin whispers into Yoongi’s hair. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” Yoongi pulls back, letting go of Jimin with one hand so he can reach up to wipe his tears with his palm. Jimin laughs, reaching for one of their shirts–Yoongi’s he thinks–from where it rests on the coffee table. He wipes Yoongi’s face with it, mopping up all his tears, and then finding a dry bit of fabric so he can do the same to his own face, even though his own tears stopped long ago and have already dried. 

“Let’s go on a date,” Jimin says, sitting back and reaching up to cup both of Yoongi’s cheeks in his own. “Show me the city. Or take me somewhere you love. Let me get to know you again.”

“This is maybe a blessing in disguise,” Yoongi says, his voice soft as his eyes as they gaze into Jimin’s. “You don’t remember what an awkward dork I was when I was in my early twenties.” Jimin laughs, a bright, surprised sound. Yoongi smiles as well. 

“I require more photos, more stories. I want to know everything.” 

Yoongi doesn’t tell Jimin where they’re going, just to dress warm because they’ll be outside. He’s buzzing with excitement as they get ready, changing out of their pajama bottoms side by side in their bedroom. It’s such a stark difference from how it’s been between them the last two weeks that Jimin nearly breaks into hysterical giggles as they both strip down to nothing with no lingering traces of awkwardness. It settles him more than anything else has since he woke up in the hospital. He wouldn’t have thought something as simple as being naked beside his husband could make him finally feel some semblance of normalcy. But what could be more normal for a married couple than changing side by side? It’s certainly more normal than one of them changing in the bathroom, while the other quickly makes use of the bedroom, the way they have been. 

Jimin puts on fresh boxers, allowing himself to get a glimpse of Yoongi’s ass as he does the same, before they both put on jeans and long sleeves. Yoongi puts on a black sweatshirt, while Jimin pulls on one of his soft sweaters, a white and purple striped pullover. He fixes his hair, scowls a bit at how long his roots have grown, the black of his natural color stark against the lighter blond it had been dyed. “Hyung, can you make me an appointment with whoever does my hair?”

“Hm? Yeah, sure. Do you wanna do your roots?”

“Yeah, I think.” He fluffs his hair with his fingers, leaning closer to see it better in the mirror. “Have I been blond for a while?”

Yoongi laughs softly. “Yeah, off and on over the years. You’ll bleach it until it’s fried and then grow it out and cut it off and start over.” Then he laughs again, much harder this time, and Jimin turns around, smiling at him. 

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just remembering when you buzzed it all off when we did our military service, they had to cut it shorter than normal because you had gotten it bleached not long before–something I tried to talk you out of, but you were insistent–and so the very tips of it were still blond at first. You were almost bald. You were so cute.” 

“Oh god, please don’t show me a picture of that, I don’t think I want to remember that.”

They decide to stop at a cafe on their way to wherever it is they’re going for a late breakfast. When Jimin finally checks the time, he sees that it’s almost eleven-thirty, so it’s practically lunch, but he doesn’t care, he’s just starved. They bring water bottles to combat their faintly lingering hangovers from last night, and pile into the car. Yoongi drives and Jimin sits in the passenger seat, searching for cafes. All Yoongi tells him is to look on the eastern side of the city for cafes, because that’s the direction they’re heading. 

It’s a gorgeous day, the sun shining bright and the air crisp and clear. Jimin looks up from his phone from time to time to watch the city pass by outside. The streets are busy, which Yoongi tells him easily is normal for a Saturday, especially on such a nice day. “This cafe looks cute,” he says, tapping it so that his gps starts directing them there. He turns on the sound, his fingers moving without needing much input from his brain, so that it will direct Yoongi where to go, and sits with his head against the headrest, facing Yoongi. 

“You know, I can see why I chose you, all those years ago,” he says, smiling when Yoongi’s ear that faces him immediately turns pink. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean, aside from how hot you are, you have such a calming presence. I like it, it makes me feel at peace.”

“You mean when I’m not freaking out about the remote possibility of my amnesiac husband leaving me?”

Jimin reaches over and gently shoves his shoulder, not pushing hard enough to move him at all, just enough to make his displeasure known. “There wasn’t even a remote possibility of that. But yes, in the last hour since we talked, I can feel the difference. I’m sorry for both of us that we didn’t have that talk sooner…”

“At least we’re on the same page. Right?”

“Right.”

It takes a little while to reach the cafe, but once they do they find it on a relatively empty side road. Yoongi parks in front of it and they both climb out into the quiet, late morning air. They’re far from the city center, and this neighborhood seems quiet, full of shorter buildings and restaurants that won’t open until later in the day. There’s a GS25 on the corner and at least five pharmacies that Jimin can see and he laughs softly about it as he follows Yoongi into the cafe. 

“Why do they need so many pharmacies so close together?” he asks, making Yoongi laugh as well. Yoongi’s laugh is very quickly becoming Jimin’s favorite sound in the whole world. 

“No idea.” 

The cafe is cute, filled with plants and neutral pastels. There are a few quotes in English painted on the wall that Jimin cannot decipher, but he doesn’t feel the need to. It’s empty except for a table by one of the front windows occupied by a pair of much older women sharing a chocolate pastry, teacups in front of each of them. They look up when Jimin and Yoongi step inside and Jimin smiles and bows his head in respect to their age. They both smile at him, and then turn back to their conversation. 

Yoongi steps up to the counter, greeting the barista softly, and they both stare up at the menu above the counter for a moment. “What do I like to drink?” Jimin asks, leaning into Yoongi’s side. 

“You like lattes, sweet ones. Abominations that I can’t stomach, but you love them.”

“Hmm,” Jimin says, smiling as he stares up at the menu. “I think I’ll try a dalgona latte, then. No idea what that tastes like, but I’m gonna find out!”

Yoongi orders for them both, getting himself an Americano, and a couple pastries for them to share. Jimin couldn’t decide on just one that he wanted to try, all of the ones in the pastry case sitting on the counter looked too good. 

They go to sit down at a table on the opposite side of the cafe from the two older ladies. Jimin sits beside Yoongi, rather than across from him, and as soon as they’re both settled, he pulls out his phone and slings an arm around Yoongi’s shoulders. “I want to take a selca,” he says, opening his camera app. “I haven’t updated instagram since before my accident, and I want to make sure my followers don’t think I died.” Yoongi stiffens for just a moment, but relaxes just as quickly. Jimin kisses his cheek, elated that he feels like he can follow through on those impulses now. Something you should have been doing right from the beginning, shouldn’t have held yourself back, he thinks, mentally shaking his head. Oh well. They’ve moved past it now. “I didn’t, and that’s the point.”

“You almost did,” Yoongi breathes. Jimin lets his hand holding his phone drop to the table and presses his forehead against Yoongi’s temple. 

“But I didn’t. I’m okay now, minus a few memories.”

“I’m glad you can joke about this.” Yoongi’s voice is wry. 

“Yah, if I can joke about it, then you should be able to, too. It’s my head that got hurt.”

“Just take your picture,” Yoongi grumbles. Jimin laughs again. 

“Gladly.” He picks his hand back up and takes several photos, making sure to get enough of the cute cafe decor in the background. Then he navigates to instagram and is momentarily stymied. “Wait, how do I post a photo?” This makes Yoongi let out a real laugh, all traces of his momentary upset gone. He shows Jimin how to do it, and tells him about hashtags. Jimin posts the photo, but elects not to use hashtags. “Sorry I’ve been gone for a bit,” Jimin dictates as he types. “I was in an accident. I’m alright, but I’ve lost my memories. So, here I am with @minpianoman making new memories <3.”

Jimin hits post, and the freezes. “What?” Yoongi asks, feeling how rigid he’s done. “What happened?”

“You didn’t tell me what your instagram name is, did you?”

Yoongi stares at him with wide eyes for a long moment, and then laughs. “No, I didn’t. I don’t think? No, I haven’t.”

“Oh my god, I remembered something.”

Their drinks and pastries arrive, and they fall silent for a few minutes as they both devour them, too hungry to talk while they eat. Once the plate is empty, Jimin picks up his dalgona latte and takes a sip, curious about the taste. His eyes widen once it hits his tongue, and he turns to look at Yoongi. “What’s the verdict?” he asks.

“It’s delicious,” Jimin says once he swallows, and then immediately takes another sip. “Wanna try?” Yoongi makes a face, and Jimin laughs. “Come on, for me?”

Yoongi wrinkles his nose, but dutifully takes the cup from him and takes a small sip. His nose wrinkles even more dramatically. “Happy?” he asks as soon as he swallows. 

“Very,” Jimin says, happy for much more than Yoongi trying his drink when he asked. “So, hyung, tell me more about us.”

“What do you want to know?” Yoongi asks after he washes his mouth out with a sip of his own drink. Jimin steals it from him and takes a sip, wrinkling his own nose as the extremely bitter coffee touches his tongue. Yoongi laughs, taking the cup back. “I could have told you you wouldn’t like it.”

“I know, but I wanted to try it anyway. Just to see. I’m experiencing so many new things, it’s kind of fun.” He takes another sip of his latte, enjoying how it tastes a bit sweeter after the extremely bitter Americano. “Anyway, tell me about… our honeymoon. Where did we go?”

Yoongi smiles, clearly remembering it. For a moment, Jimin’s heart clenches over the fact that he can’t do that. He shoves the feeling away, however, not wanting to let it ruin the lighthearted atmosphere that they have. “We went to Mexico, to Cancun. Let me find some pictures. It was gorgeous. We had an amazing view of the beach and beautiful rooms that had floor to ceiling windows that we could open so that the room was completely open to the warm air outside. We got married in spring, so it wasn’t too hot there yet, it was perfect. We had these grand plans of going out and doing a lot of sight seeing and hiking and other fun excursions, but–uh…” He stops, and Jimin leans forward to get a better view of his face as his cheeks turn bright pink. He laughs. 

“Let me guess, we never left the room?” Yoongi snorts, and that’s all the answer he needs. 

“We had fun, which is what we went there to do. We did get in a couples massage, and lots of swimming in the resort pools, and lots of drinking and partying in the resort clubs. It was all inclusive, which means that all the bars and restaurants in the resort were free because we’d basically already paid for them. It was a really expensive honeymoon, but we had a small, relatively cheap wedding because we wanted the expensive honeymoon. Plus both of our parents helped us with the cost. It was really generous of them.” Yoongi finds the photos he was looking for, and holds his phone up so that Jimin can see them as he swipes through them, telling Jimin all about them as he does. 

Jimin thinks a lot about his and Yoongi’s honeymoon as they drive to wherever it is that Yoongi is taking him. They make their way out of the city and drive due east, and though he continues to needle Yoongi about telling him where they’re going, Yoongi doesn’t relent. 

The scenery is beautiful as they drive out of the city and out toward the countryside–trees changing color as October progresses toward November. As he watches the trees and hills pass by, he thinks about the photos of him in Mexico. He looked absolutely, unfathomably happy. Jimin doesn’t remember what it felt like to be that happy, but he wants to know. 

“Hyung,” he says, turning to gaze at Yoongi as he drives, both hands on the steering wheel, singing softly to the music playing over the radio. He stops singing and hums. “We should recreate our honeymoon. You know, if I never get my memories back. It looks like we had a lot of fun, and I want to know what it was like.”

Yoongi stops singing along to the radio, is silent for a few minutes, simply breathing slowly. Then the side of his mouth quirks up into a faint smile. “Yeah, Jimin-ah. That would be really great.” Jimin watches him drive silently for the rest of the way, memorizing his features in a way he knows he used to know as well as he knew himself. In a way he wants to know both of their faces again. 

Yoongi pulls off of the highway at an unassuming exit, and Jimin sits up straighter, looking around in curiosity. They reach a large, crowded parking lot, and Yoongi lets out a low, grumbling hum. “Busy today,” he mutters, slowly making his way around the parking lot. 

“Hyung! They’re pulling out,” Jimin says, pointing toward the end of the row. Yoongi quickly speeds the car up to go claim it, turning on his blinker and waiting. Another car passes by at the end of the lane, and Jimin watches as they slow down, looking at the car that’s pulling out of its parking space, but they must see Yoongi with his blinker on and they continue on their way. 

“Good eye, Jimin-ah.” The car drives off and Yoongi swiftly turns in, parking smoothly and turning off the car. 

“I feel like…” Jimin starts, furrowing his brow as he considers the thought that he just had. “I feel like I’m good at finding parking spots?”

A slow smile spreads across Yoongi’s face. “Yeah, you are.” Yoongi unbuckles and Jimin quickly follows suit. 

“So, are you going to tell me where we are now?”

Yoongi laughs. “Alright, alright. I’ll tell you where, but I won’t tell you its significance. See if you get an idea while we’re here. If not, then I’ll tell you, I promise.”

Jimin grins, fresh off of the high of remembering something else. That’s two things today that he’s remembered. Jimin hopes it won’t be the last thing he remembers. “Okay, deal.”

“We’re at the Garden of Morning Calm.” They climb out of the car, and Jimin zips up his coat, shivering in the mid-October chill. The trees surrounding the parking lot are differing shades of red, orange, yellow, and a few stubborn faintly green leaves. It’s beautiful. Jimin moves around the car and takes Yoongi’s elbow, wrapping both arms around it. 

Jimin lets Yoongi lead him into the garden, his eyes wide and unable to stop staring around at the beautiful scenery around him. It’s crowded, and everywhere he looks there are couples and groups of people fighting to take photos at the many different beautiful photo zones. Jimin sniggers when two groups of middle aged, ladies squabble at each other about who was there first. 

“Is it always this busy here?” he asks, leaning in close to speak softly into Yoongi’s ear. 

“Yeah, it usually is. Kind of takes away from the ‘calm’ atmosphere, but it’s still so beautiful, I think it’s worth it.”

They make their way slowly down the path, Jimin holding onto Yoongi’s arm while Yoongi meanders with his hands stuffed into his pockets. Yoongi is silent, and every time Jimin glances at him, he looks completely lost in his thoughts, in his memories. Jimin lets him be, and instead opens his mind as he gazes around, hoping a memory will surface, something to clue him into why this place is so meaningful to them both. 

“What are you thinking about?” Jimin asks Yoongi a few long minutes later when nothing has come to him yet. Yoongi looks over at him, eyes slightly widened for a moment, before settling back into calm contentment. 

“I’m thinking about when I came here for the first time.”

“With me?”

Yoongi laughs softly. “No, my eomma brought me and my brother here when we were kids–we were spending too much time inside watching TV and playing games, I think, and she wanted us to ‘get a taste of real nature’.” He looks ahead, their steps continuing slowly down the path, a fond smile lighting up his face. Something flutters in Jimin’s belly at the sight of it. His own smile widens, and he nudges his elbow into Yoongi’s side. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Yoongi says, shaking his head. “We went, and we actually had a great time. Sungki and I got to run around eomma packed a really good picnic, and after we ate we laid down on the grass and stared up at the clouds and talked.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Kid stuff, like friend troubles, teachers we didn’t like, appa,” he adds with another laugh that sends those same butterflies through Jimin’s belly. “At the time, I had this friend named Joowon. We were inseparable–this was like fourth grade, maybe–and we were classic frenemies. Constantly fighting, but we also had so much fun together, and whenever our teachers or parents told us to give each other a break, we both were like ‘but he’s my best friend!’” Yoongi pauses as they reach a stream running through the path. There is a small bridge that’s only wide enough for one at a time to cross, so Yoongi gestures for Jimin to go first. Once they’re on the other side, Jimin takes Yoongi’s hand in his and they start walking again. “That day we came here, eomma and I talked about Joowon for a long time, about how I feel when he makes me mad on purpose, or makes fun of me–the way he would often do and then claim it was a joke, you know, classic kid stuff,” he continues, and Jimin smiles, choosing not to point out that he doesn’t, in fact, know. “She told me about friends she’d had throughout the years who weren’t actually good friends for her, and how much better she felt when she finally found the strength to let go of them.”

“Did you stop being friends with Joowon after that?” Jimin asks when Yoongi doesn't say anything else for a long moment.

“No, it took a couple more years before I really understood what she was trying to say to me. But I did remember what she’d said. I thought about it every time he pissed me off, or did something mean for no reason. Finally, when we got to middle school it clicked and I was able to let him go. It was hard, but she was right. I was a lot happier once I didn’t have him dragging me down anymore. And I’m sure it was the same for him. We ended up going to different middle schools anyway, so it was easy.” Then Yoongi turns to Jimin with an unreadable expression on his face. “I can’t remember if I ever told you that story before.”

As one their steps slow to a stop and they stare at each other. It feels like time stops for a moment as what Yoongi said sinks in, and then time seems to start again as a warm feeling spreads through Jimin. “So now I know something about you that I never knew before,” he says through a smile. “That feels good.”

After almost an hour of slowly wandering through the garden, taking in the beautiful fall colors all around them. Jimin wants to come back in the spring, when the flowers have bloomed and the whole garden is absolutely awash in color. Even still, the orange, red, and yellow leaves that surround them are beautiful and vibrant. Jimin and Yoongi’s breath puffs faintly as they breathe, the air chilling as the afternoon moves toward evening. In what Jimin thinks is the center of the garden, there sits a large pond. The surface of the water is studded by yellow lilypads and brown and dark orange reeds on the edge. Beside the little pond is a gazebo that sits up four steps. Jimin has been content to let Yoongi lead them on their meandering path, but as soon as he sees the gazebo Jimin is drawn toward it. He shifts their trajectory so that they move toward the little bridge that crosses the stream once again and leads to the strip of yellowing grass that surrounds the gazebo. 

Yoongi, who’s been quite the whole time, save for a few comments here and there, goes absolutely silent, and that tells Jimin all he needs to know. This gazebo is significant. 

Jimin ascends the four steps, Yoongi in tow, and as soon as he’s inside it, looking around, disappointment floods him.

He was hoping that he would remember, that something would come back to him. But other than the niggling feeling that this gazebo is important, there’s nothing else. Jimin’s memory is as much a void as it has been since he woke up in the hospital. 

“What happened here?” he asks Yoongi, his voice little more than a whisper. Yoongi steps in close, his free hand coming to clasp around their already clasped hands. He rests his forehead against Jimin’s shoulder for a long moment, and Jimin is powerless to do anything but reach up to slide his fingers through Yoongi’s hair, cradling the back of his head. 

Finally Yoongi takes a deep breath and pulls back. He doesn’t go far–he can’t, Jimin doesn’t let go. He instead rests his cheek against Jimin’s shoulder, and Jimin moves his arm to hold him around the back, shifting them so their chests are pressed against each other. Jimin’s body sings to be so close to Yoongi. He smiles, despite his frustration with his memory, despite the melancholy rolling off of Yoongi in waves. 

“You proposed to me here,” Yoongi whispers several long moments later. 

All Jimin can do is hold him tighter. 

It’s amazing what touch can do. 

Both Jimin and Yoongi are much more free with their touch, and it works wonders. Jimin no longer feels like there’s a barrier between them. It feels more natural between them, when Jimin gives into the urge he might have to casually touch Yoongi’s hand or shoulder while talking or walking past him. He doesn’t feel awkward about sitting close to him on the couch anymore, or about lacing their fingers together when Yoongi puts his arm over Jimin’s shoulder as they watch TV. He doesn’t feel weird about leaning in when their faces end up close together and kissing him softly, just a press of the lips at first, until the muscle memory kicks in and he dives in headfirst. Yoongi melts when Jimin does that, and it feels like he’s been charged by a bolt of lightning with the energy that floods him. 

Jimin loves kissing Yoongi. It is quite possibly his favorite thing to do, and if it wasn’t before his accident, then Jimin has no idea what was wrong with him. He loves the little noises Yoongi makes when Jimin nips at his lip, the way he can’t seem to decide where exactly he wants his hands, and so ends up touching Jimin almost everywhere in the span of seconds. He loves the way Yoongi lets him take the lead–something he’s found that he prefers in several aspects of life–and the way Yoongi lets Jimin do anything to him, the way he seems to love everything Jimin does. Not that they’ve done anything aside from kissing yet, despite the way things had been heading the morning before they went to the Garden of Morning Calm, when they’d rekindled their love by finally coming together again in a physical way. 

Their eagerness to touch and be close physically leads to other intimacies. They actually talk, something which takes an immense amount of weight off of Jimin’s shoulders that he hadn’t quite realized he was carrying around. He knew it upset him that Yoongi seemed distant at first, but not quite how much. Not until they start talking more, until Yoongi starts telling story after story about their lives together, weaving a tapestry for Jimin to envision in his mind of his life before he accident. The more Jimin learns about himself and his relationship with Yoongi, the more settled he feels. The calmer he is about having lost his memories. Because he likes what he’s heard. He is proud of the kind of person Yoongi tells him he is, and of the life that they’ve managed to build together in the ten years that they’ve been married. 

Every new thing that Jimin learns, he can feel himself getting one step closer toward rediscovering the love he knows he feels for Yoongi. He can feel that it’s there, nestled deep in his heart. But every day the barrier between his mind and his heart–at least where Yoongi is concerned–grows a little thinner. 

A month and a half after the accident, Jimin decides that it’s high time he goes back to their ballet school. He gets up that morning with Yoongi’s alarm, smiling when Yoongi gives him a confused look. “I want to come to the school with you.”

“Are you sure?” Yoongi asks, his voice soft, hesitant. Jimin nods. 

“I feel like the students should see me? I don’t know. I feel like I miss them, but the feeling is kind of vague, almost detached. Like I don’t remember them, but I know that I would, if I did remember them. So I want to go see them.”

“They’re going to be so excited to see you,” Yoongi says with a broad smile across his face as they make their bed together. This is one more thing Jimin started doing without needing to be told it’s what they always did together–a few weeks after the accident, when he started waking up at the same time as Yoongi, he simply started going about making the bed with Yoongi. Later that morning, over breakfast, Yoongi told him that’s what they always did together every morning before they went to work. It filled Jimin with a sense of pride and accomplishment–yet another thing that he remembered without trying. 

They’ve re-established their morning routine; Jimin makes coffee while Yoongi puts together breakfast for the two of them. Then, as they eat, Jimin takes the time to ask any and all questions he can think of, recording things he thinks are important in his notes app on his phone. There are all manner of things in there now–things like, I like chickens to my mom was diagnosed with cancer when I was 22 to Taehyung plays the saxophone. Jimin won’t admit it to anyone, but he studies that lies from time to time, trying so hard to call up any memories that want to surface to back up those claims that Yoongi made. It rarely works, but Jimin keeps trying anyway. 

Typically, after they’re finished eating, Yoongi will go get dressed and then head out for the day and Jimin will go read or watch a show or clean or something to keep himself occupied during the long hours that Yoongi is gone. But today, he goes and gets dressed too. He makes himself a to-go mug of coffee, and puts on his shoes when Yoongi does. They heat down to the car together. Yoongi drives–as Jimin feels fairly confident that his body will remember how to drive, but the idea of trying without the conscious memories of how to do it scares him too much to try–and only a few minutes later, Yoongi is parking outside the dance studio. A jolt of nerves makes its way through Jimin, but he doesn’t say anything. Jimin follows Yoongi out of the car and looks up at the tall building. Another pang of nerves, this time tinged with a hint of fear, makes its way through him and Jimin realizes that this is the first time he’s coming back here since his accident. Since he fell down the stairs and lost everything that made him him. Jimin grits his teeth and follows Yoongi inside. 

The ballet studio is on the third floor. The old building doesn’t have an elevator, so they climb the three flights slowly, Yoongi ahead of him, each holding the bannister tightly as they go. A morbid part of Jimin wants to ask Yoongi where it happened–where he was found. But he holds his tongue, not wanting to sour Yoongi’s mood. Ever since Jimin let him know that he wanted to come with him he’d been so happy. Jimin doesn’t blame him–he knows what this ballet school means to Yoongi, what it means to them both. They were young and had barely anything when they decided to buy this studio from the previous owners. They had even less when they got it started, needing to build everything from the ground up. Yoongi has told Jimin just how much of thei blood, sweat, and tears have gone into making this ballet school the respected institution that it has become, and in an almost absent way, he feels proud of that. He doesn’t remember it, but he knows that a lot of the school’s success is because of him. At the same time, he feels the loss of those memories acutely. He wants to remember so badly. Wants to have access to all of those memories of how he and Yoongi made it happen. A tiny kernel of resentment blooms in his chest. How dare the universe take his accomplishments away from him?

It’s early, so of course none of the students are there yet when Yoongi unlocks the main door and leads Jimin inside. “This is the main lobby,” Yoongi says, gesturing around them at the small waiting room they entered into. There’s a desk to the left side, and a short row of chairs on the right. “This is where a lot of parents wait for their kids during their lessons. Some just drop their kids off, or they come from school on the bus, and then take the bus home, but a few of the more dedicated,” he says this word with a certain tone that makes Jimin laugh, “parents drop their kids off and then stay. You actually had to put your foot down about parents not sitting in during lessons. You went on a whole tirade to me about how it put so much extra, unneeded pressure on the kids, and how the crazy moms were always undermining you during lessons. You were much more diplomatic and polite to the parents, though.” Jimin sniggers. From everything he’s heard, that sounds like something he would do. 

Yoongi takes him through the rest of the school, giving him the official tour. There are four classrooms, and a small office. Only one of the rooms–the largest–has a piano, the others have nice-looking sound systems. “The morning classes are the college students and adult classes. Starting at two are when the elementary, middle, and high schoolers arrive for their classes. You teach the little little kids, the high schoolers, and several of the morning classes. Our other teachers handle the rest of them.”

“Which classes do you play for?” Jimin asks as they move back into the largest classroom so that Yoongi can warm up on the piano. 

“I do a lot of them. Mostly the much older students–the high school students who are working toward dancing as a career mainly, but also a bunch of the much younger students. There’s a lot of starting and stopping with them, so it’s much more time-efficient to have an accompanist for those classes.” He laughs as he speaks, and Jimin does as well. 

Yoongi sits down at the piano bench and begins to play, at first just moving through scales, warming up his fingers, but then he segues into an actual song. Jimin doesn’t know what it is, but as he listens to Yoongi’s playing, he begins to feel the urge to move. He’s gotten used to following these urges by now, as they’re typically his body telling him that it remembers something his mind does not. So he stands and takes several long steps away from the piano toward the middle of the room. He closes his eyes and lets his body move, not thinking about what he’s doing or how he knows what to do. He simply does. 

Before he knows it, he’s dancing. 

Jimin’s heart swells with emotion as he moves to the song that Yoongi’s playing. He hasn’t danced since before his accident, not really. He doesn’t count the slow dancing that he and Yoongi did in their apartment, as that didn’t requite any skill. This however… Jimin can tell that this is not simply moving where the whim takes him. This is dance, something his body remembers that his mind does not. He knows that he’s danced for most of his life, so some part of him understands that there has to be hundreds, if not thousands of dances stored in his muscle memory. Dances that he’s done over and over and over again until he could do them in his sleep–or indeed, after he’s lost his entire working memory. A bump on the head cannot take away what his body has spent hundreds of thousands of hours practicing, 

Tears well in his eyes, but it doesn’t matter because his eyes are closed. He doesn’t need to see to do this, doesn’t need to consciously remember. His cheeks hurt with the force of his smile as he spins and leaps across the floor, hitting each move just so with the melody Yoongi plays on the piano. His chest swells so much he feels like it will burst, like his heart is too small to hold the amount of joy he feels to be dancing again. He didn’t even realize he missed it so badly. 

By the time Yoongi’s song comes to a close, and Jimin strikes the final pose, his chest is heaving, his breath coming fast and heavy. “Play another one? One that I knew before? Please?” Jimin asks, breathless. Yoongi simply stares, having watched the entire time, not needing to look down at the keys as he played a song he knows so well. “What song was that?”

“It was from Romeo and Juliet. When you were a principal still you played Romeo. You were exquisite.” Jimin smiles widely.

“You’ll have to show me some pictures, or video if you have it later.”

“I will,” Yoongi says, his voice breathless. Then he looks down at the piano for a long moment, sits up straight once again and settles his fingers over the keys. He starts playing something else, and again the urge to move with the music overcomes Jimin. He lets his body do what it wants to do, making his way through the whole routine without needing to consciously remember the moves as he simply lets his body be free. 

By the time this song is finished, Jimin is absolutely exhausted. His body is out of shape, after two months of not doing much exercise, but it feels so good to dance again. The feeling that his heart is about to burst hasn’t left him, and after a few long minutes Jimin peels himself up off of the floor and goes to the piano bench to sit beside Yoongi. 

“I missed dancing,” he says, his voice soft as he leans over and rests his cheek against Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi is silent, but he leans his own head over so it’s pressed against Jimin’s, their bodies close beside each other from head to toe. 

“I missed seeing you dance,” Yoongi whispers back a few long moments later. 

Jimin takes a long, slow breath, emotion clogging his throat on the inhale. He turns his face so his forehead is pressed to Yoongi’s sweatshirt, hiding his face and the tears that fill his eyes once again. “Even if my memories never come back, I’m glad I can still dance. And I’m glad I still have you.”

Yoongi’s hand comes up to cup Jimin’s cheek, urging him to move so he can see Yoongi. “Sweetheart, you will always have me. No matter what. I promise you that.”

“I know,” Jimin breathes, a ghost of a smile gracing his face. He truly does. He believes in his soul that nothing could happen that would ever take Yoongi away from him. Jimin leans in and kisses Yoongi soundly, leaning in with his whole body. He covers Yoongi’s hand on his cheek with his own and puts every ounce of love he carries for Yoongi in his bones into the kiss. Because it doesn’t matter if he does not actively remember loving Yoongi–just like it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t actively remember the choreography to countless dances. It’s all still there, embedded in his bones, coursing through his blood, nestled within his heart. Just as Jimin could never truly forget how to dance, he could never truly forget how to love Yoongi.