The Broken Dancer

Cracks in the Mirror

The club was never meant to see the sun. It's walls had been painted for shadows, it's velvet curtains stitched for secrecy, it's mirros built to flatter under dim light. But now, as the first threads of dawn seeped through the gaps in the blinds, the place looked exposed. Dust motes glittered in the pale beams, settling across the empty stage where heels had struck hours before.

Jimin stirred on the worn leather couch, the stiffness in his body pulling him back to conciousness. Every movement hurt - his ribs ached, his lip throbbed, his wrist pulsed beneath it's bandage. For a moment he let his eyes stay closed, drifting in the strange weight of stillness.

When he finally blinked awake, the first thing he saw was Min Yoongi.

He was slouched in a nearby chair, arms crossed, head tilted back against the wall. His hair had fallen into his eyes, his breath slow with the kind of light sleep that could shatter at the faintest noise. He looked out of place here, too quiet for a room built for chaos.

For one dizzying heartbeat, Jimin thought he was dreaming. That someone like Yoongi couldn't possibly still be here, not after everything. But then Yoongi stirred at the sound of fabric shifting, opening his eyes. The soft rasp of his voice broke the silence.

"You're awake."

Jimin pushed himself up, biting back a hiss at the pain that flared through his side. "I didn't... mean to fall asleep here." His voice was rough, the words tumbling out like an apology.

Yoongi leaned forward, his expression unreadable. "It's fine. You needed it."

The weight of those words sat uncomfortably on Jimin's chest. Needed. Nobody every told him what he needed - they told him what to do. His father barked orders, customers named prices, even his own body demanded obedience to bruises and exhaustion. But Yoongi said it so simply, like rest was something Jimin deserved.

He hated how much it rattled him.

"I should get ready," Jimin said quickly, swinging his legs off the couch. His knees wobbled beneath him, but he forced himself upright. "There's work to do."

Yoongi frowned. "You can't seriously think about going back on stage like this."

Jimin avoided his gaze, reaching for the crumpled shirt draped over the arm of the couch. "I don't have a choice."

Yoongi stood too, slower but firmer. "You always have a choice." His tone was steady, but his eyes burned with something harder.

The words hung between them, sharp as glass. Jimin froze, clutching the shirt like armor, his chest tightening in defiance. He wanted to tell Yoongi he didn't understand - that in this world choices weren't a luxury he could afford. That people like Yoongi, people who could come and go as they pleased, didn't know what it was to live chained to a name, a stage, a father's hand.

Instead, he shoved his arms through the sleeves and muttered, "You should go home. You've already done enough."

It wasn't gratitude. It was dismissal. But it was the only shield he had left.

Yoongi didn't move. He just watched him, eyes lingering on the bruise blooming across Jimin's cheek, the careful way he held his ribs, the tremor in his hands. His silence was worse than any argument.

And Jimin hated himself for how much he wanted him to stay.

Jimin didn't answer Yoongi's silence. He crossed the room on unsteady feet, heading toward the small dressing corner where a cracked mirror leaned against the wall. His reflection met him with cruel honesty - a swollen lip, dark bruises blooming like spilled ink across pale skin, the faint redness around his eyes from the night before.