The Broken Dancer

Familiar Faces

Yoongi didn't go home straight away after that night. Even when his body finally gave out and he collapsed into his bed, the image of Jimin's bruised face and trembling frame haunted him behind closed eyelids. It was the kind of memory that didn't soften with time; it sharpened, replayed in high definition, catching him in sudden flashes like a needle under the skin.

When dawn came, he was still awake. His ashtray overflowed - cigarette ends piled haphazardly, the stench of stale smoke clinging to his hair, his clothes, his lungs. His apartment looked as disheveled as his thoughts: empty bottle, unwashed dishes, notebooks spread open with scribbles he couldn't focus on. Normally, he could channel his unrest into music, lose himself in beats until exhaustion dulled the noise inside him. But today, even music felt useless. Every note he touched curdled before it could take shape.

The only sound that lingered in his head wasn't one he'd written - it was Jimin's voice, rasping and broken, whispering: "You came back?" And the way it had cracked him open.

He tried to rationalise it, pacing his tiny kitchen like a man on trial. He told himself he'd only gone back to the club to make sure Jimin was still alive. Nothing more, nothing less. He told himself he wasn't attached. He told himself pity was a flimsy, temporary tether - nothing that could chain him this hard.

But then another thought slid in, poisonous in its honesty: If it were only pity, why did his chest feel like it was collapsing when he left him there the first time? Why did it feel like oxygen had been restored only when Jimin fell into his arms?

Yoongi cursed under his breath, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles whitened. He hated this. Hated how unmoored he felt. He wasn't someone who chased things - not people, not connections, not feelings. He was built on solitude, on self-preservation. Attachment was a luxury for people who could afford to lose something. He couldn't. He never had.

And yet.

He lit another cigarette, smoke burning his throat raw as if punishment could purge the memory of Jimin's wide, terrified eyes. It didn't.

The hours stretched out like elastic, snapping back each time he thought he'd made peace with staying away. He drifted between half-hearted attempts at sleep, aimless wandering around his apartment, staring blankly at his keyboard without touching a key. But every silence filled itself with the sound of Jimin's laboured breathing. Every shadow on the wall seemed to take the shape of his curled figure on the floor.

By late afternoon, Yoongi knew he was lying to himself. There was no decision to make - the choice had already been carved into him last night, when Jimin's trembling body collapsed against him.

He couldn't leave him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The realisation settled with the weight of inevitability, and for once, Yoongi didn't fight it. He leaned back against the wall, exhaling a shaky break, and admitted the truth that had been gnawing at him all along:

This wasn't about obligation. It wasn't about guilt. It wasn't even about rebellion against the club's rules.

It was about Jimin.

Something fragile, dangerous, and fiercely alive had taken root, and no amount of self-loathing or cigarettes could smother it.

By the time dusk began to smear the horizon in bruised shades of purple and blue, Yoongi already knew where he'd be that night. His legs were restless, his fingers jittery, his pulse steadying only when he pictured the quiet sanctuary of Jimin's room.

He had no plan. He didn't need one. Plans implied choice, strategy, rationality.

What he felt now was none of those things.