Ca Ira | yoonmin

Four

Marble staircases, gilded rococo carvings reaching to the high ceilings, and crystal chandeliers with a hundred flickering flames - Theatre de la Porte Saint-Martin is majestic and designed to impress even the most discerning patrons of Ballet de Paris.

It's the opening night of the new production, and the darkened theatre is buzzing with excitement. The curtains on stage are closed, and the audiences stand between the aisles, mingling with flushed cheeks.

Looking down from the balcony of the boxed suite is like gazing into the world from a distance, easy to stay detached and let the hum of the world glide over.

Jimin sips on the grand cru, luxuriating in the tingle of the tannin on his tongue. His finger click on the crystal glass absently, as he surveys the crowd below, keeping track of all the familiar faces.

"The Countess of Provence, in her usual ghastly Pompadour dress; can't underestimate the influence of a Savoy though. Philippe d'Orleans, the biggest supporters of the assembly - I bet he'll pop by to be introduced at the first intermission. And there's Count of Mirabeau, the man to cozy up to, if you believe in the sort of constitutional monarchy fable he's dishing out."

"Constitutional monarchy is a pathetic front to calm the angry masses, as we both know. And I'm ditching this equally ridiculous show if it doesn't start any time soon." The voice next to him responds, laced thick with exasperation.

Jimin sighs and turns towards Yoongi, torso sinking into the velvety couch, "Of course, why do I bother. To you, this is just a bunch of boring old aristos lounging around for some obsolete ballet thing. I mean, each one of them represents a powerful house of the old regime that can aid your endeavour with money and influence, but no, you'd rather go hide in the salon and stew over those useless strategies while your battalions starve to death. Be my guest, general, leave any time."

His fingernails tap on the wine glass rhythmically. Click, click, click. Yoongi's scowl deepen with each sound, to Jimin's amusement.

"I need immediate resources, not some old royalists with empty praises and seized assets. I don't see anyone here from the Royal Army."

Jimin rolls his eyes, and sets the glass down by the table next to them, "Let's see, when you recruit soldiers, do you just approach any person on the street and ask if they're willing to die for you? No, because that's ludicrous. You need to build up familiarity and trust. The older houses are observing the king's lead at submitting to the assembly, and they are curious about your bourgeois troops. If they come to you, then the generals of the Royal Army will follow."

"But this is absurd, they all know that -" Yoongi shifts in his seat and pushes out an icy response, "- that a part of my job is to prosecute anyone that openly opposes the new regime. That could be their relatives, friends... It's morbid, for me to be here, putting up a diplomatic front, while they all smile and play along. Just morbid."

The words make Jimin grimace. He looks up to study Yoongi. No uniform today, as he has specified. The new shirts Jin ordered for Yoongi fit well, although he seems stiff in it, body tilted away from the back of the couch, brows furrowed. They are seated on the same crimson couch at opposite ends, and Jimin can almost hear Yoongi's shallow breaths, and see the faint traces of old scars on his pale exposed neck, climbing up and framing his left cheek.

The bloody butcher of the revolutionary army, letting down his guard, as vulnerable as a common pedestrian. He could almost reach in and snap his petite little neck, just like that-

Jimin curbs the simmering contempt and responds, "Shocking, the Crow actually thinks of people's friends and family. This whole time we all thought you slaughtered for fun, tsk tsk."