Chapter Text
You’ve been living in your two-bedroom townhouse alone for the past six months. You’re losing hours at work and struggling to make ends meet. You decide to rent out your extra room while you search for a better job. You sit comfortably on the couch, feet propped up on the arm, typing an ad on your laptop.
Wanted: Tenant for private spare room. Shared kitchen, bathroom, living space. Pets welcome.
You search out some acceptable prices and slap on the details, tapping “post.” You’re not exactly excited to share the space; you hope whoever you end up with won’t drive you out of your mind. Still, you don’t have a choice if you want to hold onto your home.
You roll off the couch and shuffle to the fridge. Stomach growling, you hungrily peer inside, hoping to find something for a meal. Paying the bills every month has left your wallet empty and your refrigerator emptier. Looks like it will be scrambled eggs for the fourth day in a row. You crack them into a pan, waiting patiently for the bright yellow to solidify into puffy bites.
You flip your dinner onto a plate and stab at it with a fork, not bothering to sit at the table. Your phone dings from the counter. “New email,” flashes the screen. Shovelling eggs into your mouth you tap the phone, surprised to find an answer to the ad you posted ten minutes ago. There’s not much information in the message, but they’d like to stop by later that afternoon. You doubt they’ll show up but you shoot them a quick response anyway.
The next few hours are spent cleaning the house from top to bottom. Even if they don’t come, you might as well have everything prepared from now on. It hasn’t been cleaned in a while and the difference when you’re finished is wonderful. You collapse onto the couch, a little sweaty from scrubbing the appliances, and survey your hard work. Everything is spotless from roof to floor, and the spare room is prepared to accept its future occupant. You check your phone---there’s still time to run out and get a few errands done. You pry yourself off the couch and stretch, throwing on some shoes and grabbing your keys. You open the door, only to come face to face with a man who stares blankly back at you.
He has fluffy blond hair parted down the middle and empty, heavy black eyes. He’s wearing a shabby hoodie and some ratty jeans, which hang limply on his skinny body. You blink, surprised.
“Oh, are you the one from the email?” you ask. He jumps a little, startled, his eyes coming into focus. It takes him a heartbeat to collect himself.
“Ah no...I’m not the one from the email,” he mumbles slowly.
“Oh, then are you here to look at the room or do you need something else?” You feel a little awkward under his intense stare.
“Ah, I’d...like to see the room.” He nods, looking at the floor.
“Right then! Come with me!” you say as brightly as you can manage, waving him in. You lead the way to the spare room upstairs.
“This is the room for rent. It’s a private space but the bathroom is shared. If you need more storage aside from the closet, I’ve got an extra dresser downstairs I could move in here.”
As you talk, the man hardly glances around the room. If he didn’t give a nod every once in a while, you would never have guessed he was listening. You’re not sure whether this is good or bad---he seems a little sketchy with his worn-out clothes, however his quiet demeanor might be nice to live with. The two of you head back downstairs and complete the house tour.
“So, what do you think?” you ask, watching him carefully. He continues to look slightly to the side, not making eye contact.
“I’ll take it. When can I move in?” At last he looks at you, his face expressionless.
“As soon as you sign the contract and make your first payment I’ll give you your key,” you inform him. Relief flutters in your chest as he nods in understanding and tells you he’ll be back tomorrow.
Fortune has been in your favor today. Your new roommate might be a little strange, but they’ll be paying a good portion of the bills from now on. You’ll no longer be forced to live on a diet of eggs and sandwiches, having to air-dry your laundry to save on the electric bill. You hold out your hand to seal the deal and suddenly remember that while you’ve introduced yourself, you never got his name.
“Hey, remind me what your name is again?” you say quickly, smiling in a friendly way. He lets your hand hang in the air and instead looks a little ways past you.
“It’s...ah. It’s Min Yoongi.” His voice is oddly soft. You let your hand drop, since he clearly did not get the intention.
“Nice to meet you,” you say uncertainly. You lead him out the door, waving as he leaves. You close the door and breathe out slowly. It was always nerve-wracking talking to new people; hopefully you’ll get used to his presence around the house soon. The walls stare blankly back at you, seeming to mourn the loss of freedom as you sacrifice your solitude. At least it didn’t take very long. you reason, trying to be positive. You take one last look at the empty house before preparing to leave for your errands.
Later that night you crawl into bed, staring up at the ceiling for a while before drifting off to sleep, tucked comfortably under the blanket. A man hovers over you, staring intently down at your face. You are a strange anomaly, a bizarre existence---it puzzles him.
The room is silent except for your gentle breathing. He reaches down with thin hands, touching your forehead delicately, almost reluctantly. It’s been a while since he’s entered a dream. He emerges into the hillside, a brilliant night sky overhead, glittering with numberless stars. You’re lying in the grass asleep, curled up on your side. Strange. He wanders over to you, settling beside you. What kind of person sleeps in their dreams?
Hesitantly, he moves to shake you awake. At first he’s gentle, but when you fail to awaken, he shakes you all the more roughly. Nothing, not a single response, not a flickered eyelid. He panics now, unsure of how to continue. He thought he’d experienced it all---rejection from dreams, the brink of dissolving, the song of misery...this is new. Is something wrong with him? Is he fading? He tries again, this time clasping your hand.
A new thought dawns on him. ‘Have I given up?’
He takes a deep breath, letting his subconscious trickle into yours. The effect is instantaneous. You sit up, blinking at the man in confusion. He doesn’t speak, he merely clasps your hand, looking down at you with eyes as soft as he can manage. For some reason this eases your worry, and you allow yourself to relax into his arms. His aura seeps into the air around you, like a cool breeze on a hot day. He whispers something to you, and you stiffen, feeling vulnerable, though you’re not quite aware of why, or what he even said. The tension in your skin is akin to the sight of the deepest pit looming before you, something inside you screaming to jump. It coaxes you onward, teasing your curiosity with playful hands. You fight it briefly, but it’s caught hold of you now.
You jump.
Under the midnight sky he grips your shoulder, pain curling its way around your chest. His eyes are hollow with agony, and for a moment your gazes meet, sharing the sensation of fire beneath skin. And then he lets go.
You gasp, bolting upright in bed, chest heaving. You can’t remember what you were dreaming about, but your skin feels hot and itchy, as though you’re trapped under a heavy wool blanket. You kick off the covers and let the cool air soothe your troubled skin. It’s five in the morning, nowhere near time to be awake, but you’re not sure you can sleep again. Shortly after, that sentiment is forgotten and you’re snoring into the pillow, your nightmare dissipating like a fog.
You sleep late into the morning, waking groggily to the sun burning holes in your eyelids. You turn away, feeling out of sorts. Blearily you sit up and rub your eyes, trying to make sense of your thoughts. Dragging yourself out of bed, you stumble to the bathroom to get ready for the day.
By two o’clock your new housemate has still not arrived. You’re off work today, so it doesn’t really matter, but waiting around makes you anxious. The sooner everything settles, the better. You make yourself busy by filling out job applications, hoping to land something more permanent.
By the late evening your hope is sinking, and you begin to doubt whether or not he will show. Nine, ten, eleven p.m.---nothing. You sigh, heaving yourself off the couch to get ready for bed. Maybe that person from the email is still interested. You muse hopefully. Throwing on pajamas and brushing your teeth, you’re about to head upstairs when a knock sounds at the door.
Confused, you peer through the peephole, surprised to see none other than Yoongi standing outside your door. You carefully open the door, only to be pushed backward as he shoves a heavy bag into your hands and makes his way past you, settling onto the couch. Feeling bewildered, you turn to him, waving the bag.
“What exactly---”
“It’s money, for the rent,” he says impatiently, laying his head back and shutting his eyes. “I get paid in tips, so it’s cash.”
You’re feeling extremely put out, not only by his late appearance but by his attitude of making himself comfortable without a batted eye.
“You still need to read the contract and sign it,” you growl, irritated. He opens one eye and sighs deeply, pushing himself into a half-sitting position. You head to the table, sitting down and tapping the pen expectantly. Another sigh, some muttered words you don’t catch, and he’s at the table, hurriedly scanning the page before scrawling out “Min Yoongi” in nearly illegible handwriting. Afterwards he waves lazily behind him as he stumbles up the stairs. The door to his room slams carelessly.
You run a hand through your hair, suddenly feeling the weight of regret on your shoulders. But, he did pay, and he did sign the contract, so maybe this would be the end of your troubles if he just kept to himself. Clinging to this fragile hope, you sleepily head to your room, wondering what the morning will bring.
Seven a.m.---time to go to work. You roll out of bed, change into your uniform in a flash and brush your teeth. Grabbing a piece of bread for breakfast you head to your rusty, tiny little beater. It’s held together by duct tape and prayers but it runs, and it’s decent on gas. You climb in, pulling the door shut with some effort and start the car, pulling onto the street.
You work at the local warehouse. The pay is pretty good, but lately they’ve been cutting back your hours, hence renting out your unused space. The work is grueling as well---all day you lift heavy boxes, perform tedious tasks, and suffocate in the overheated space.
At the end of the day you’re filthy from head to toe, sweating like a wrestler. On the way home you stop to deposit the cash in the bank and pick up some groceries. Maybe if you make dinner for your new housemate you’ll become acquainted with them a little easier. Everyone likes free food, right?
As soon as you walk through the door you shove everything into the fridge and rush to take a shower. After washing up you head downstairs into the kitchen, sorting ingredients. You realize it is on the later side of the day, so you decide to double-check and see if Yoongi has eaten yet. His door is shut; you knock tentatively. No response.
“Ah, Yoongi?” you say softly, just in case he’s sleeping. A rather flat voice responds from inside.
“Yeah?”
“I was just wondering if you ate already. I thought we could have dinner together and get to know each other better,” you say, shuffling on your toes.
“No thanks,” he calls, and you can hear him roll over in his bed.
“Okay.”
Disappointed, you head back downstairs. Instead of cooking a full dinner as you had planned you decide to just make some easy pasta.
Once you’ve eaten and you’re warm and full, you store the leftovers in the fridge and curl up on the couch, feeling worn to the bone. You barely make it through checking your email (no word from your applications yet) before you’re out cold.
Late in the night a clinking sound rouses you awake. Blearily you mumble something unintelligible and look around, struggling to find the source of the sound. As your head clears you can see a figure in front of the fridge, hunched over a bowl of your pasta.
“Huh...Yoongi?” you whisper. He looks up at you, nods, and looks back down, taking a huge bite of food.
“I thought you didn’t want any?” you ask sleepily, yawning. He shrugs.
“I wanted food, I just didn’t want to come down,” he admits.
You roll your eyes, standing up and stretching. The clock tells you it’s three in the morning.
“Good night, Yoongi,” you mumble. He says nothing, but you’re starting to get used to the lack of conversation. As you climb the stairs and crawl into bed, your thoughts flash briefly to the man downstairs. Has he been wearing the same thing for three days? What kind of life has he been living up till now? You also realize he hadn’t brought any food to the fridge. You make a mental note to leave some snacks around just in case he was as hard up as he seemed to be. With that in mind, you nod off, comfortable under the cool blankets.
Morning arrives, completely unwelcome. Glaring at the sun, you roll away and cover your head with the sheet. No work today, yet the sun has the audacity to butt in and cut short your blissful slumber. An hour passes as you play on your phone, struggling to find the motivation to get up. Eventually your rumbling stomach is enough to force you to move. Downstairs you go in your pajamas, not really caring if your roommate sees you or not.
Sure enough, Yoongi is sprawled out on the couch, mouth open as he sleeps soundly, fingers twitching. You snicker at his funny expression, wondering if you should offer him breakfast seeing as he has no food in the house. He stirs as you pour some cereal, sitting up and rubbing his eyes on that ragged hoodie.
“Mornin’,” you say as cheerfully as you can manage, even though you’re feeling pretty bleary yourself. “I noticed you don’t have anything to eat, so feel free to have some breakfast, I don’t mind.”
He blinks and nods his thanks, standing up and stretching for a moment. He shuffles toward you and quietly takes the cereal box, dumping a little into his hand and popping it into his mouth before pouring himself a bowl. The two of you munch your food in silence, neither of you really awake.
“Oh, if you need, I don’t work today, I can give you a ride to your job if you want,” you offer. Yoongi shakes his head, staring into his cereal.
“Ah, I don’t work today,” he mumbles.
“Oh, ok. If you need to go anywhere else then, let me know,” you say, awkwardly lapsing back into silence. The clinks of your spoons are the only sounds to fill the empty space.
Your mind wanders to the tasks of the day---now that you’ve got a few dollars to spend, you could really use a few things. For starters, your sneakers are so thin they’re more akin to socks.
With the last of your breakfast gone you toss the dishes in the sink and head upstairs to shower and dress. Keys? Purse? Everything seems to be in order as you head out the door when you feel a sudden tap on your shoulder.
“Actually, I changed my mind,” Yoongi’s eyes flicker to you and back away, “I think I should visit the store after all.”
“Okay. Come on then.” You gesture toward the car. The two of you ride in silence.
“Meet back here in two hours,” you say. He nods and wanders off, leaving you to your errands. The plaza you’ve chosen is tiny and packed full of people. Many of the shops have their doors propped open to let in the beautiful weather. Throngs of people stream in and out of the most popular ones. You squeeze past the crowd and into a bargain shoe store. It doesn’t take you long to find ones within your budget that fit. The rest of your shopping also goes unusually fast. By the time the first hour has passed you’re loaded up with your necessities and heading back to the car to drop them off.
Yoongi is nowhere to be found. You wonder if he’s done his shopping as well. Maybe you can have a look around and find out. You wander the plaza, glancing in the shop windows. After a few minutes you’re ready to give up and go wait by the car, but as you pass by a tiny store, you catch the reflection of a familiar black hoodie. Yoongi is seated inside a quaint little music shop, his hands softly caressing the keys of a piano.
He seems almost hesitant to play, his fingers quivering slightly. As he begins you can see the tension in his muscles melt, and he plays freely, gliding up and down the keys. Impressed, you enter the shop without a sound, watching him play, curiosity piqued.
His song begins in slow, gentle notes, like listening to rain on a Saturday morning. Yoongi picks up the pace after a minute or two, his playing becoming more aggressive, the notes growing faster and louder. The wind picks up and the rain becomes a storm, thrashing the window and ringing with thunder. He tenses once more and suddenly slams his fist into the keyboard, cutting off his song abruptly, the storm vanishing. You jump, bumping a music stand and knocking it over with a loud clatter.
Yoongi whips around, looking at you so intensely your heart pounds, almost frightened. His shoulders curl in shyly, eyes turning down to the floor, embarrassed. Silently he walks over and puts the music stand upright.
“Why did you stop?” you ask. He shrugs.
“I can’t remember,” comes his cryptic answer.
The two of you leave the shop together. He glances back at the lonely piano, looking wistful.
“How long have you been playing?” You look sideways at him, curious. He shrugs.
“Right out of the womb?” he smiles ever so slightly. It fades quickly, and the light leaves his eyes, falling back into hollow depths. “I hadn’t played in years.”
It’s a rather quiet ride back to the house. Yoongi looks even more sober than usual, staring dully out the window. Your mind wanders over to him occasionally, wondering what he’s thinking about.
Back in the driveway, you pull out all of your things, struggling to unlock the door and keep a hold of it all. One of the plastic bags tears, spilling out your brand new socks and shoes onto the ground. Embarrassed, you hurry to unlock the door and throw everything inside. You turn to find Yoongi quietly helping to pick up your socks, holding them out to you. You mutter a thanks and rush in the door.
You put away your things while he rests on the couch, watching you idly. He nods off after a little while, mouth hanging slightly open. You pause and stare, trying to figure him out. You’ve never had roommates before, let alone a renter, and you weren’t sure just how hard you should try to get to know him more. He seemed to keep to himself and perhaps he wanted it to be that way. On the other hand, it was a little weird to have someone you didn’t really know in your house, especially one who had seemed so angry back at the piano shop.
Making up your mind to reach out to him as often as you can without being weird, you settle at the table with your laptop to get things done.