The Broken Dancer

Echoes of Laughter

The club was loud in the way only silence could be loud - glasses clinking, murmured voices low but cutting, the heavy bass of music thudding through the walls, all blurring into a single oppressive hum. Jimin stood in the wings of the stage, body loose in preparation but mind tightening into a vice. He had danced this routine a hundred times, maybe a thousand, but tonight the weight of it pressed differently. His body knew the movements without him; muscle memory had long since stolen choice from him. But his chest felt hollow.

He stepped onto the stage.

The spotlight caught the shimmer of his skin, gilding him in false light. To the crowd, he was beautiful, untouchable, an object of desire wrapped in fluid lines. To Jimin, he was a marionette. His limbs moved, sharp and graceful, hips rolling, arms cutting through air, but inside he was numb. Each beat of the music was another reminder: this was survival, not freedom.

He hated that his body could betray him like this - performing with such precision when his soul wanted to vanish. The room drank him in greedily, evey movement consumed, turned into currency.

Yet in the crowd, one set of eyes felt different.

Yoongi's.

Jimin didn't dare meet them for more than a flicker, but he knew. He always knew where Yoongi was, his presence cutting through the rest like a tether. Yoongi didn't watch him the way the others did. There was hunger, yes, but not for possession. Yoongi's gaze was heavy, like he was memorising him, holding him together. That made it both unbearable and grounding.

Yoongi sat still, jaw clenched, fingers tapping against his thigh to keep from tightening into fists. Every time Jimin moved - spun, bent, revealed himself under the light - Yoongi felt awe burn alongside anger. Awe, beacuse Jimin was art. Anger, because this place had turned him into a spectacle for men and women who didn't deserve to see him breathe.

He should be on a stage where people scream his name because they love him, not because they paid for him, Yoongi thought, chest heavy. He should be free.

The song ended. Applause rose, sharp and ugly in Jimin's ears. He bowed with practiced perfection, mask in place, face carefully blank. Inside, his lungs screamed for air. He wanted to run, to hide, but instead he turned toward the stage exit, slipping into shadow as the bidding began.

The performance bled away into the velvet dark of the club, but Jimin's pulse hadn't slowed. He sat perched at the side of the stage, head bowed, breath measured as though he could will his body back into stillness. But stillness was impossible. The bidding was beginning.

His father's voice carried with the same sharp edge it always did, smooth yet cruel in its amusement: "Lot twelve. As always, starting at-"

The familiar cadence washed over Jimin, but tonight it felt different. He could already sense it in the crowd: a murmur, a restless shifting, as if the patrons had grown tired of the predictable game. For weeks, Yoongi's hand had risen early and ended the contest before it could spark. It had been a pattern, a ritual that had almost felt - dangerously - like safety.

But not tonight.

Yoongi raised his hand first, calm and steady, voice low but clear as he named his bid. He didn't flinch when every head turned toward him; he never did. It was an act of defiance masked as routine, and Jimin's heart clenched around it.

And then, for the first time in weeks - another voice followed.

A man across the room leaned forward in his chair, lips curling into a smirk as he countered. A ripple of surprise ran through the room, sharp whispers, the scrape of glasses against tables. The air thickened instantly, heavy with anticipation.