The Broken Dancer

Bruises in the Dark

Summary:

And so the night stretched on, with only the hum of the city outside and the soft, broken breaths of a boy who, for once, slept without fear.

Yoongi sat there in the dark, his chest heavy with something he couldn't name, and knew with grim certainty: this wasn't the end.

It was only the beginning.

Notes:

I am back! It's only been 4 years... but who's counting right.

Honestly, I don't even know what to say. I am sorry I guess 🥺👉👈 Please don't hate me.

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this new chapter and I promise I will be continuing with this story and it will get finished.

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Yoongi pulled the hood of his jacket higher as he stepped out into the damp night air. The neon lights of the club flickered behind him, their steady hum doing nothing to quiet the noise in his chest. He told himself he was leaving like any other customer - another face in the crowd who paid for a drink, watched a dancer, and walked away. Nothing more, nothing less.

But he knew he was lying to himself.

His hands were still trembling faintly from earlier, from the way Jimin's body had buckled mid-performance, as if someone had pulled the strings holding him upright. For a split second Yoongi thought he was watching himself on that stage - years ago, collapsing in a dingy rehearsal room, lungs seizing, heart pounding, the world closing in too tight. He'd hated it then, hated the way weakness felt like a spotlight, hated the way people stared but didn't see.

And then there was Jimin.

The boy hadn't just collapsed; he'd unraveled in Yoongi's arms. Panic had poured off him like sweat, sharp and suffocating, and Yoongi had felt the desperate, clawing edge of it in his own chest. He'd spoken without thinking, guiding Jimin through breaths, grounding him the way he'd learned to ground himself during his own attacks. It had worked, eventually. Jimin had gone quiet. Too quiet.

"Doctor," Yoongi muttered bitterly to himself, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked. He didn't know why the lie had spilled out of him so easily. Maybe because the truth - that he was just some producer with insomnia and too much time on his hands - would have raised questions he wasn't ready to answer. Maybe because Jimin's father had looked at him with suspicion that made his skin crawl, and Yoongi's instinct had been to disarm it, fast.

But the weight of that word lingered like a chain around his neck. Doctor. What the hell was he doing?

The streets were quieter the farther he walked, but the image of Jimin stayed stubbornly vivid. Pale skin beaded with sweat. Hands shaking like bird wings. Eyes wide and dark, looking right through Yoongi as if he were both lifeline and stranger at once.

Yoongi exhaled through his nose and kicked a loose pebble across the cracked pavement. He should have just walked away. He should have left Jimin to the club, to the staff, to whoever else was paid to care. He had no business getting tangled in someone else's cage. He had his own problems, his own ghosts, his own fragile sense of balance.

But as he turned the corner toward the subway station, Yoongi realised with a sinking certainty that he wasn't just walking away. He was carrying Jimin with him, tucked somewhere behind his ribs where the boy didn't belong.

The subway was nearly empty at this hour, just a few tired faces scattered across the plastic seats. Yoongi slid into a corner, hood up, eyes half-shut. The car jolted forward, flourescent lights buzzing overhead, and the rhythm of the train on the tracks should have been enough to lull him into that blank, thoughtless state he usually welcomed.