The Broken Dancer

The Snap

The door closes with a sound that feels too final. Not a slam, not even a click - just the soft catch of the latch sliding home, sealing them inside their room. For the first time since the performance, there's nothing to drown out the weight of what just happened.

Silence presses in from all sides, thick and ringing, like a held breath that refuses to be released. The club's sounds - music, laughter, footsteps, glasses clinking - are gone. Only the muted pulse of their own breathing fills the space.

Jimin stands just past the threshold, spine too straight, like if he bends even a litte, the whole fragile structure holding him up will collapse. His hands hover near his chest, fingers trembling so minutely he doesn't notice until he reaches up to unclasp the necklace. The clasp slips through his unsteady grip once. Twice. On the third try, it just clatters against the hollow of his throat.

His breathing catches. A tiny, fractured sound, more breath than voice.

Yoongi is across the room but not moving - can't move. He's anchored in place by the desk, fingers gripping its edge until his knuckles bleach white. He's pale beneath the low amber light of the bedside lamp, skin drawn tight over sharp lines. His jaw ticks once, twice, like he's trying to lock something down inside himself before it leaks out.

The air smells familiar - soft traces of their world. The faint cologne Yoongi always wears, the old paper from Jimin's sketchbook scattered on the dresser, the lingering sweetness of the music box. A scent that once wrapped around them like a safety net.

But now it feels wrong. Like someone dragged dirt into a sacred space.

Jimin lowers his hands to his sides, the chain still tangled around his fingers, cold metal against damp palms. When he finally speaks, the words are barely there.

"It was just a show."

The words scrape the back of his throat, brittle as glass. He swallows, tries again, as if repeating them will make them real, will scrub away the way that room felt - the eyes, the noise, the performance forced into something obscene.

"Just a show. Just... a show."

But even he doesn't sound convinced.

Yoongi's head lifts slowly, like something heavy is dragging him down. His eyes find Jimin's, and the room tilts, quiet but brutal. He really looks at him. The flushed edges of his cheeks not from joy but from performance. The faint shake in his shoulders, still caught between wanting to collapse and needing to pretend he's fine. The necklace in his hand like a wound.

And something inside Yoongi twists so hard it feels like it could break him.

He's spent months carefully building this tiny corner of the world with Jimin - layer by layer, touch by touch. A fragile sanctuary stitched out of whispers, stolen moments, and the stubborn, dangerous hope that maybe, maybe, they could have something that belonged only to them.

Tonight, the father walked in and shattered that illusion without even lifting a hand. Just a single, cruel smile, and the room they built was turned into a stage.

Yoongi feels it like a hollow opening inside his chest - a space where something warm used to live, now carved out and raw. His fingers tighten on the desk, wood biting into his palms. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

Jimin shifts on his feet, the movement slight and unsteady, like a leaf caught in a current. His eyes dart toward Yoongi, searching for something - anger, comfort, anything solid to hold on to. But Yoongi's face is unreadable, still locked in that stunned, pale stillness.

The music box on the shelf chooses that moment to start playing - soft, sweet, the melody skipping once like a stuttered heartbeat. Normally it's their anchor. Tonight it sounds like mockery.