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Paris, 1932

October

“And that’s the last of them!” Kim Taehyung declares jubilantly, lining a silver trunk with the rest of the boxes lying in a heap on the ground of their newly rented studio apartment. The sunlight filtering in through the open windows illuminates the barely furnished space, fiery spots dancing across the peeling wallpapers and threadbare couch, a blend of shadows and light which accentuate the figure of the young man to whom Taehyung directs his statement.

Park Jimin smiles, not looking up from where he is busy setting up their beds, two separate wooden do-it-yourself structures which look like they might crumble the minute a gust of air blows in through the parted curtains. But neither Jimin nor Taehyung seem to mind. The fact that they have managed to even find an inhabitable dwelling in Paris during the roaring 30’s is an incredible accomplishment.

Jimin’s hair, stray strands of silver peeking through the black, glints in the light as he finally turns to his best friend. “I should be done with this in a bit. So far, we have a couch, two beds, a decent kitchenette and curtains to keep out the sun. I think we’ll survive, my friend.”

Taehyung nods with a sense of vigour and victory, strawberry blond hair framing his handsome face. Lifting himself from the floor where he had been tussling with their luggage, he stretches his arms and dusts off the dirt collected on his beige pants. “Now, all we have to do is make sure that Hoseok holds up his end of the bargain.”

A thoughtful look crosses Jimin’s face as he plops onto the bed, recalling Taehyung’s acquaintance who is the reason they have emigrated to Paris. Jung Hoseok is a choreographer for the dazzling Ballet Russes, a company which has been thriving ever since its inception over almost two decades ago. Though the initial founder, Sergei Diaghilev, had passed away a few years back, the establishment, which boasts some of the most creative minds in the fields of music, art and dance, had lost none of its elegance and vivacity. If anything, the Ballet Russes is in its prime; the new impresario apparently being quite adept at managing the legacy he has inherited.

But the reason Jimin and Taehyung have travelled over a thousand miles to a country foreign and unfamiliar is imbued with darker, more melancholic nuances. Every time he closes his eyes, Jimin can visualize the humiliating treatment meted out to him at his previous company in Korea. When they had realized the nature of his sexual orientation, they had begun to alienate and ostracize him, going as far as curtailing all freedom he had as a dancer to make his life a living hell.

Jimin had quickly discovered what it meant to be gay in a country which brooked no tolerance for homosexuality. Or any sexuality which challenged and threatened the existing conventions and norms.

The dancer had tried to rise above it, but when Taehyung began noticing the hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, no longer hearing the tinkling laughter which so defined his best friend, the artist had decided to take matters into his own hands.

Paris was, as Hoseok had constantly assured them, not as stringent as their home country, and that Jimin would be fine, would even flourish, in the city of art and culture. And love.

Needless to say, the dancer had been enticed by the prospect of reclaiming his identity in the city of lights, of fuelling his passion by drawing from its life and energy, its scent and streets awash with celebrations and festivities and exhilarations which kindled imaginations and creativity.

And endless opportunities.

For as long as Jimin can remember, dancing has been his salvation. When his body responds to music, moving and flowing like water ruffled by a soothing breeze, he feels ecstatic.

He feels alive.

So when Hoseok had promised Jimin an audition at the Ballet Russes, pledging to present him with an opportunity to rediscover his passion for the art form, Jimin had instantly jumped at the chance. But Taehyung wasn’t going to let him travel to an entirely different country on his own.

Hence, here they are.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

A dip in the mattress as Taehyung sits beside him, his voice rousing Jimin from his ruminations. He shoots his friend a quick smile. “I’m just a little nervous, I think. I mean, this is the Ballet Russes we’re talking about. The best of the best.”

“And you’re Park Jimin, the best of the best,” Taehyung reminds him gently albeit firmly, and Jimin concedes a smile. Nudging the dancer’s shoulder, the artist grins brightly. “It’s going to be fine, Jimin. You’re going to steal all their hearts.”

Jimin looks out the window directly across the bed. From their first floor apartment, it is easy to survey the activity unfurling on the streets below them. And for a minute, Jimin allows his sight to be arrested by the vibrancy and colour speckling the sidewalks of the city of love and lights. And he prays.

“I hope you’re right, Tae.”

Taehyung’s grin widens. “You know I am.” He grips Jimin’s shoulders, tugging at him until the dancer finally faces the cheerful man. “Look, you’re going to be the amazing dancer and I’m going to be the amazing art director that Ballet Russes so desperately seeks.”

Jimin laughs at that, permitting himself to envision a future where he indeed has carved a name for himself, where he can be proud of who he is without having to compromise on his identity.

And he decides that that is exactly what he will aim for.

“You know, Tae, I think I’m going to do it. I’m going to give this everything I have and, above all else, make myself proud.” No matter what it will take. He is here, in Paris, and he would be damned if he lets this chance slip by.

Taehyung nods encouragingly, slinging an arm across his friend’s shoulders. “And you will. Ballet Russes is going to adore both you and me.”

“But I’ve heard that the impresario is far from lenient,” Jimin states, gripped with a sudden anxiety despite his newfound resolve. “I’ll have to get him to acknowledge my talent.”

“Pfft, piece of cake.” The certainty in Taehyung’s voice instantly quells all his worries. “Min Yoongi is going to fall in love with you.”

The dancer smiles. Beyond the confines of the little space which is beginning to feel like home, the balmy autumn winds carry the sound of twittering songbirds, the air rich with the aroma of prosperity.

And promise.

“I really hope he does.”

 ***

“Take it from the top. Momo’s out of formation. And Jeongyeon’s pirouettes need a little refining.”

The music halts as the dancers onstage quickly shuffle to take their positions, waiting for Min Yoongi’s cue. The infamous impresario of the Ballet Russes flicks the cigar he has been smoking for the duration of the rehearsal out of his mouth, disposing the ash on the copper tray lying on a table cluttered with music sheets and instructions. He places the mic he has just spoken into beside it, thoughts swirling in his head.

A beret covers Yoongi’s dark hair, and the producer proceeds to toss it into the empty seat beside him as he inspects the breathless dancers in their flamboyant garb. Today is supposed to be a costume rehearsal for the show they are scheduled to perform in two days’ time. Understandably, they are all nervous, fidgeting with their frills and wigs, their lips trembling, their eyes betraying their desire to impress the producer. He cannot deny their spectacular talent. But none of them have ever managed to strike a chord with Yoongi. Not yet anyway.

A figure materializes beside him, and Yoongi offers an absent-minded nod to the choreographer of his troupe. “I think you should go over the moves with them once more.”

“They’re just a little anxious, Yoongi. And tired,” Jung Hoseok essentially confirms what Yoongi had realized five minutes into the rehearsal. “Just take ten and give them some time to collect themselves.” Because the ginormous auditorium is empty save for them and the dancers, the exuberant choreographer’s voice echoes within the hallowed space where the producer most feels at home.

The Etoile de Palais is one of Yoongi’s favourite venues.

Spiraling balconies, brocaded velvet, shimmering chandeliers. Gilded seats encompassing the sprawling stage set at the base of the sparkling amphitheatre, railings liveried with gold patterns providing armrests. Balustrades flanking the stage, heavy curtains draping them to provide a cover for the equipment set up in the alcoves.

But the main reason is the private booth offered to Yoongi whenever he requests the venue for the company’s new season.

It is situated at the very top, diagonal to the centre of the stage which allows him to observe all shows and practices, sometimes unbeknownst to the dancers and audiences alike. It is shrouded by a veil woven with intricate care, and it is here where Yoongi is currently lounging, shooting Hoseok a wry smile. Settling comfortably into his chair, he studies one of his best friends with a glint in his eyes.

“No harm in working them a little, Hoseok. Helps bolster their determination,” he drawls lazily, a smirk spreading across his lips as he watches Hoseok sigh.

Leaning against the pew, the choreographer studies him warily. Yoongi’s ruthlessness and his tendency to drive his dancers to their very limits is a fact known to everyone acquainted with the Ballet Russes. The producer’s reputation precedes him; Yoongi is a perfectionist. And a very shrewd one at that. His methods yield results, no doubt, but they aren’t always beyond reproach.

“Someday, you’re going to push them too far and it’ll all blow up in your face, Yoongi,” Hoseok chides him lightly, but his voice is stern. “You’ll regret it then. They’re humans, too. It wouldn’t kill you to offer them a word of compliment every now and then.”

Yoongi chuckles softly, but he holds the mic up and asks the dancers to disperse for the day. Turning to Hoseok, he winks. “There. Satisfied?” Rising to stretch his languid arms, he proceeds to shrug leisurely. “And their reward comes in the form of all the praise heaped on them once the show goes live. You know that.”

Hoseok sighs, attempting to look annoyed but failing. Especially when Yoongi’s eyes are bright with mischief, the curl of his lips prompting his own to slightly quirk up. But the choreographer stands his ground.  “The little break, however, doesn’t extend to you. The impresario of the Ballet Russes has work to do.”

“Work? You just made me send them all home. Whatever could you be talking about?” Yoongi rests his arms on the pew, peering at Hoseok with a suspicious gleam in his eyes. “You better not have set me up on some blind date again, Hoseok. You’re all I need,” he jokes. But Hoseok does not bother to refute this statement; both he and Yoongi know how abjectly lonely he is. But both he and Yoongi also know the price which needs to be paid for something as unsullied and unblemished as love in a flawed world which does not understand, nor appreciate, the meaning of the word.

Hoseok shakes his head. “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?” When Yoongi continues staring at him, his head tilted in confusion, the choreographer throws his arms up. “How high were you when I informed you about that new dancer from Korea?”

Memories begin to unravel in Yoongi’s mind, bits and pieces of disjointed information slotting together to present a blurry picture of the conversation he has had with Hoseok a couple of days ago. A dancer, Korea, an audition, Park-

“The audition!” he suddenly exclaims, and Hoseok laughs despite himself. “Park something, was it?”

Hoseok nods. “Park Jimin. He’s from Busan, and he was a part of the most prestigious of dance academies there. Promising, and unbelievably talented.”

Yoongi frowns, bewilderment marring his features. “Then why is he coming here?” He doesn’t miss the hesitation which flickers across his friend’s face. “What is it, Hobi?”

“Well, see, Jimin is gay, Yoongi. They practically told him to fuck off when they found out.”

Something boils in Yoongi’s blood, even though he doesn’t have the faintest clue who Jimin is. Hell, he hasn’t even met the guy yet. But nobody, nobody, should be dehumanized just because their idea of love does not fit the standard conventions and stereotypes. Yoongi has always found the idea extremely vile, insensitive and appalling.

“Well, fuck them, then. They don’t deserve him.”

Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “I hope that enthusiastic response takes on a positive note in his presence. He’s arrived. And I hope you remember that Jimin is coming here today.”

Yoongi nods, but his eyes are forlorn. Something about Jimin, even though he has yet to be acquainted with the dancer, reminds him of a man he had known a long time ago, a man with similar promise, a man pushed to the brink of insanity. He watches the overhead lights retract and reflect against the pristine surfaces of the auditorium, watches as the few remaining dancers glide across the stage, spinning and leaping to land gracefully on their feet, so reminiscent of the man who seems to have entrenched himself in Yoongi’s head. Maybe he should pay Vaslav Nijinsky a visit.

“…Yoongi? Are you listening to me?”

Yoongi jerks out of his reverie, glancing sideways at a perturbed Hoseok. “You were saying?”

“I was saying, give him a chance to show you what he’s capable of. Don’t dismiss him without at least seeing what he can do. I know you tend to be harsh towards new additions but take it a little easy this time, won't you?”

Yoongi doesn’t have to be told twice. Something tells him he’s going to like Park Jimin the minute he lays eyes on him.

  ***

Yoongi’s instincts are proven correct.

The minute Park Jimin walks in through the doors of the office he shares with Kim Namjoon, Yoongi is stumped by the grace and poise with which the dancer carries himself. A bashfulness clouds his brown irises, but there is an unmistakable confidence in the hand he holds out for the producer to shake. Dressed in a loose shirt tucked into black pants, with his hair tousled by the ministrations of the windy day, Park Jimin looks like a Greek god.

And his smile.

Yoongi is certain it is illegal for anyone to be capable of a smile like that. It is enough to make his heart stop and his eyes linger, on his cheeks, his lips, the way a strand of his hair shakes loose when he nods at the producer. Something in Yoongi’s heart twists. And he knows it isn’t a good sign.

Of course, Yoongi doesn’t say any of this out loud.

“You’re late,” he states instead, resisting the urge to grin when the smile slides right off the dancer’s face as he struggles to maintain his composure. Yoongi perceives his nervousness easily, watching him waver as he attempts to apologize.

Jimin bows deeply. “Forgive me, Mr Min. It’s just that my friend and I were speaking to Jung Hoseok and he insisted on giving us a tour of the place before bringing me to meet you.” His eyes, surprisingly, remain fixed on Yoongi’s instead of flitting about which is the usual reaction the producer receives. People do not hold his gaze for any longer than two seconds. And strangely enough, it is him, and not the dancer, who is unnerved.

Park Jimin is already beginning to prove his mettle.

“Why is your friend here?” Yoongi asks, baffled, placing his elbows on the table as his chair swivels. The office is of a modest size; two desks are placed opposite each other with enough space in-between; a piano rests on the far side of the sparsely decorated room, the only adornment lending any colour to the otherwise dull space, music apparel haphazardly tucked away into the cubicles flanking it; silk curtains sway in the slight breeze which blows in through the open French windows, and the office is ablaze with the sunlight peeking in through the slit.

Jimin looks perplexed. “My friend is being interviewed for the position of apprentice art director.” He hesitates a little before adding, “I thought you knew that?”

Of course. Yoongi wants to ram his head into the wall. He wonders what hallucinogen had impeded his mental faculties when Hoseok had relayed the specifics of this meeting. Clearing his throat, he tries to smile though he is certain it looks like a grimace. But it is enough for Jimin to return it with his own, and, not for the first time, the producer is dazzled.

Yoongi has never before wanted to preserve something as badly as he does now.  

“Welcome to the Ballet Russes, Park Jimin. Of course, you understand that I’ll actually need to watch you perform to evaluate your skills and decide if we can accept you onboard.” Jimin nods eagerly and the producer continues, “Though, according to Hoseok, someone of your calibre will have no problem convincing me.”

The smile Jimin gives Yoongi is nothing short of stunning. “Where should I start, sir?”

And Yoongi doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t want Jimin to ascribe any title or honorific to him. “Start by calling me Yoongi.”

  ***

Jimin hadn’t known what to expect when he had walked into Min Yoongi’s office. But it certainly isn’t this.

His brief conversation with Yoongi has alerted the dancer to certain aspects of his personality, and every minute he spends with him only seems to augment his puzzlement. Following the producer to the auditorium, Jimin studies the back of his head with a mix of awe and disbelief. Ever since news of the new proprietor of the Ballet Russes had taken the world of art by storm, Jimin had believed him to be a stern, smart old man, whose talents had blossomed under the guidance of the stoic and strict Sergei Diaghilev who had been notorious for his despotism.

And Yoongi certainly is stern and smart. But he is by no means old.

In fact, Jimin is having a hard time reconciling his image of the producer with the man before him, a man who is not much older than he, who is gently gripping his elbow to steer him into the humongous auditorium occupied by the dancers for their rehearsal. And as soon as Jimin steps into the space, he feels like he has been transported to an entirely new world.

Thoughts of Yoongi are relegated to the background for the moment as he absorbs the sight which greets him. The auditorium is swathed in glimmering colours and vivid sounds, and an elegant troupe of dancers move their bodies in time with the music blaring from the state-of-the-art, recently invented systems. The scene which unfolds before him is almost hypnotic, a surreal set of images succeeding each other, painting a picturesque portrait of splendour and artistic sophistication.

“Wow,” Jimin manages, his eyes roving over the energetic space, a rush of emotions almost sending him teetering over the edge as he tries to process everything at once. Beside him, Yoongi chuckles, twirling a cigar in his nimble fingers.

“Like it?” he asks, his voice propelling Jimin towards facing him. There is something soft, something almost tender in the producer’s eyes as they travel over the expanse of the auditorium. “Each and every person here, be it the dancers, the artists, or the musicians, brings something unique, something distinctly them to the table. They have their own talents, weaknesses and strengths. And they navigate through them to deliver the best results.” He looks straight at Jimin, his eyes locking onto his. “What about you, Jimin? What can you give me?”

Jimin does not flinch, and his resolve manifests itself in two simple words which knock the breath out of Yoongi. “My soul.” He inhales deeply, his eyes never leaving the producer’s. The dancer himself is stunned by the firm tenor of his voice. “I’ll give you my soul, Yoongi. So let me dance for you.”

The producer stares at him, seconds lapsing into minutes until Jimin begins to wonder if he has said something wrong. Finally, Yoongi exhales a breath he seems to have been holding for some time. “You have a way with words, Park Jimin. I’ll give you that.” He jerks his head towards the stage. “Let’s go see what you’ve got.”

Jimin begins to descend the stairs, tailing at Yoongi’s heels as he swerves around the crew fanning the auditorium to monitor progress. “I’ll introduce you to some of the members. I’m sure someone as outgoing as you will have no problem forming friendships,” he tells Jimin, staying close to the dancer. Jimin catches a whiff of Yoongi’s cologne, something sweet and scented. Cherry, he realizes suddenly. “But be careful. Everyone here has their own goals and agendas.” Including me, he neglects to add. Glancing sideways at Jimin, Yoongi shoots him a sly grin. “Intimidated yet?”

“Well, I survived our meeting. And I don’t think anyone here can be as intimidating as you,” Jimin states without thinking, and instantly regrets it when his words sink in. Daring a peek at Yoongi, his heart almost plummets in his chest when he finds him smiling softly.

“I see you’ve got quite the snarky tongue,” the producer observes, amusement sparking in his eyes. “I’ll have to try and be more intimidating then. Can’t have people think I’m going soft.”

Jimin feels his cheeks heat, but refrains from saying anything further as the pair halt in front of the stage.

“Kim Namjoon and Kim Seokjin,” Yoongi introduces the two men onstage who had been engrossed in a conversation when Jimin and the producer had entered the auditorium. “Namjoon provides us with a musical score, and Seokjin blesses us with an enticing voice to accompany it.”

Jimin drags his gaze away from the producer as the man named Seokjin laughs. “That’s probably the only compliment Min Yoongi has ever given me in all the time we’ve known each other.” He is tall, his handsome face glowing under the lights of the low-swinging chandelier. Brown, wavy hair frames his sculpted features and he waves at Jimin excitedly.

“I compliment you guys every day,” Yoongi deadpans, making the other man, Kim Namjoon, laugh, and Jimin is struck by the dimples which dent the man’s cheeks. Taller than Seokjin, the composer emanates an easy-going and confident aura, and he rakes a calloused hand through his soft locks.

“If your compliments come in the guise of expletives, then sure, Yoongi,” he teases, winking at Jimin. The dancer instantly likes him. “Can’t go a day without hearing you curse to high heaven.”

Seokjin ignores the producer entirely and grins at Jimin instead. “Hi, there! You’re the newest addition to our little family, I assume?”

“Park Jimin. It’s nice to meet you both,” Jimin greets respectfully, bowing to them in reverence. But both Seokjin and Namjoon wave him off.

“No need to be so formal with us, Jimin. Make yourself at home,” the composer says kindly, offering him a compassionate smile which dissolves some of the dancer’s tension.

Yoongi claps his hands, and the dancers onstage immediately scatter. Namjoon and Seokjin, too, move to make room for Jimin. ” Now, if you will, Joon, play something for Jimin? So we can see what he’s made of.”

Namjoon grins, scurrying off towards the sound system, Seokjin tagging along after wishing the dancer luck. Jimin begins to feel the nerves settling in, and he closes his eyes, attempting to steady his breathing. He tries to assimilate all the confidence he can muster, painfully aware that this is his one shot at making it into the Ballet Russes, his one shot at a better life, a good life, his one shot at-

“Chéri.”

Smooth fingers tilt his chin, and Jimin’s eyes shoot open instantly to find Yoongi staring at him, his lips curling upwards. “Don’t be nervous.” Leaning in, his breath tickling Jimin’s ear, the producer whispers so only he can hear, “Spin for me so I can claim your soul. You promised, remember?”

And in the blink of an eye, Yoongi is gone, and Jimin stands there in a daze, his skin still tingling from where the producer’s lips had almost brushed against it. Shaking his head, the dancer ascends the stage, wringing his hands as he stretches his body, preparing for the music to swallow him whole and guide his movements.

The lights dim, and as Seokjin hits the first note, Jimin soars.

Twisting on his heels, he raises his arms as his bones melt, a zeal coursing through his veins, his heart beating in time with the melodious tune. The auditorium transforms into a mindscape where only Jimin exists, his feet carrying him over Yoongi’s words, the producer’s husky voice ringing in his ears, probing, prodding, unravelling him. Pirouetting and spinning, all Jimin can feel is the ecstasy thrumming in his blood, emotions consuming him till his body is one with the music. Jimin has always danced with a burning passion, but today, today he sizzles with a ferocity he has never experienced before.

The fetters break loose, and Jimin dances like his soul depends on it.

Because it does. Because he has promised it to Yoongi. And because he wants to give him everything he has. Everything he can.

And so he dances, relishing the feel of the smooth surface of the stage beneath his bare feet. He dances, absorbing the pain, and heartbreak, and love which Seokjin sings of. He dances till he can feel the strings binding his soul together fraying, each knot undoing itself until the threads lie within Yoongi’s grasp, for him to reach out and seize, fusing their destinies, the beginnings of a bond which will transcend everything the producer has ever known.

And so Yoongi does.

He stares, mesmerized, invisible tendrils reaching out to grab the sheer emotions pouring from Jimin as his lithe body glides across the stage. The producer has never seen anyone move the way Jimin does, like a dream, like a poignant voice which serenades and lulls. Yoongi cannot avert his gaze, cannot look away from the brilliance that is this person who seems to own the stage. And that is when Yoongi knows.

Park Jimin will be his undoing.

Park Jimin will destroy him, will test every ounce of willpower he has, will string him up like a puppet until he has wrung all emotion, all depth of feeling out of Yoongi.

And Yoongi will not resist.

Because he had asked Jimin to offer him his soul. But it is the dancer who has claimed his instead.

Yoongi has finally been bestowed with the masterpiece he has been waiting for all his life.

“He’s a marvel, isn’t he?” a voice pipes up beside him. “He’s evolved since I knew him as a child.”

Yoongi registers Hoseok’s presence but doesn’t answer. The entire auditorium is enthralled by Jimin, not a single movement, not a single person daring to blink or breath for fear of missing out on something akin to a miracle.

Hoseok turns to look at Yoongi, easily gleaning the expression on his face. His smile instantly fades. “I’ve known you long enough to know what you’re thinking, Yoongi. Please, don’t.”

The producer finally snaps out of his trance as Seokjin’s voice begins to fade away and Jimin’s movements cease. Frowning at Hoseok’s words and the solemnity of his voice, he raises an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

The choreographer gestures towards Jimin who has been swarmed by awestruck dancers and crew members alike, including Namjoon and Seokjin. “The way you look at him, like you’ve finally found something worth loving.”

Yoongi bites his lip, a pang in his chest.  What is he doing to me? “Maybe I have.” Maybe, for the first time, the producer has found something he can nurture, a talent he can foster, a talent which can elevate art to pedestals previously unheard of.

“That’s just it! You can’t. You can’t let your emotions and ambitions get the better of you. I hope you won’t let your relationship with Jimin extend beyond the realm of professionalism.”

Just like that, Yoongi finally understands what Hoseok is implying. Of course. “He’s not Nijinsky, Hoseok,” he says quietly, his eyes meeting the choreographer’s in silent warning.

“And you sure as hell aren’t Diaghilev, Yoongi. But that doesn’t mean you won’t end up making the same mistakes,” Hoseok urges, attempting to sound as reasonable as possible. Yoongi grits his teeth, but he knows his friend is only expressing a concern he would do well to keep in mind. After all, he cannot let the past repeat itself. Especially since he has witnessed the disastrous consequences first-hand. 

He places a palm on Hoseok’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “Don’t worry, Hobi. I’m not going to do anything stupid.” His friend looks dubious, but the producer shakes his head, putting an end to the conversation. He turns towards the stage. “Park Jimin!” Yoongi calls out until the dancer’s eyes find his. “I’ll take you up on your offer.” A slow smile begins to spread over Jimin’s face, and Yoongi tries to ignore the tingles it elicits in his blood.

“Welcome to the Ballet Russes.”

    ***

“Taehyung!” Jimin all but roars as he bounds down the corridor towards his friend. “I made it!”

The artist’s head instantly whips around at the sound of the dancer’s voice, abandoning the conversation he had struck up with a fellow apprentice standing beside him shyly as Jimin comes to a standstill before them.

Taehyung pulls him in for a tight embrace. “Congratulations, you brilliant human! I am so, so proud of you. Not that I had any doubt you would be accepted.”

Jimin laughs, and the ebullient sound reverberates within the space. “And what about you?”

Taehyung grins, holding up a sheet of paper with the official seal of the Ballet Russes imprinted on it. “You’re going to be rooming with the next prodigy of this esteemed establishment!” Jimin yells with a burst of excitement, wrapping his arms around his best friend once again, his heart almost popping out of his chest.

“Looks like we both made it,” he says softly, his chin resting on Taehyung’s shoulder. The adrenaline coursing through his veins continues to persist, and the dancer cannot help but reel from the aftereffects of his performance. For a second, just a second, Yoongi’s face flashes before his eyes and Jimin suppresses the goosebumps threatening to break out all over his skin; the producer’s gaze seems to have penetrated his very soul.

The artist pats his back gently. “I told you we would, didn’t I?”

The young man beside them awkwardly clears his throat, and Taehyung and Jimin spring apart. “So you’re Park Jimin? Taehyung has been telling me all about you. Congratulations.”

Before Jimin can thank him, his friend excitedly gestures towards the tall man, probably a couple of years younger than them by the looks of it. His brown hair offsets his dark irises, and he is clad in tight-fitting pants which accentuate his thighs, and a tunic which emphasizes the toned muscles of his abdomen. “This is Jeon Jungkook! He’s a fellow apprentice who joined just last week.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jeon Jungkook,” Jimin says kindly, earning a bright grin from the younger man who seems to be warming up to them. He already looks quite comfortable around Taehyung.

“Since you boys have gotten all the pleasantries out of the way, care to join us for some drinks?”

All three of them turn around at the sound of the voice, and Jimin recognizes the owner as Hirai Momo, one of the dancers in the Corps who had congratulated him earlier in the auditorium. The lean young woman is flanked by two other dancers he recalls having met, but their names elude him until they introduce themselves as Myoui Mina and Yoo Jeongyeon.

Momo nods at Jungkook in acknowledgement, looping her elbow through his. “What do you think, Kookie? Let’s show the newbies a good time?”

Jungkook grins, his eyes flitting between Jimin and Taehyung who glance at each other in bemusement. It is Jeongyeon who solves the dilemma, grabbing the dancer’s arm and signalling for the others to follow them.

“We’re living in fucking Paris. Is that even a question?”

  ***

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Jungkook declares uneasily after his fifth pint of beer, his pupils dilating with his attempts to focus on his luminous surroundings. The bar, located only a few minutes away from the Etoile de Palais, is packed with late-night patrons. Jimin and his companions had to weave their way through the throng of people who are either chugging down margheritas and vodka, or swaying to the tune of the jazz music which resonates within the space thrumming with life.

Mina and Momo belong to the latter group; Jimin watches as the two women dance, their bodies pressed together as their arms wrap around each other. They make no attempts to conceal their intimacy, and Jimin finds this fascinating. His attention is snagged by Jeongyeon who nudges his shoulder.

“Are you surprised? They’ve been a thing for some time now,” she clarifies. Jimin nods absentmindedly, turning to face her.

In his peripheral vision, he notices Taehyung tugging Jungkook towards the centre of the floor, and he refocuses his gaze on his fellow dancer, daring to voice the question which has been on the tip of his tongue ever since they arrived. “So the Ballet Russes doesn’t mind?”

The implication in his words is easy to decipher, and Jeongyeon smiles. Leaning in as if she were on the verge of revealing a secret of momentous proportions, she motions for Jimin to come closer. Her smooth hair glints in the dingy lights, her head tilting gracefully and she winks at him, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. “Why would they mind? Seeing as how our beloved impresario himself-”

Her sentence hangs interrupted when a cloaked figure slides into the seat beside her. “Yoo Jeongyeon. I see the lot of you have decided to dance the night away when you should be directing all your energies towards the show we’re performing in two days.”

Jimin instantly sits up straighter when he recognizes the low intonation of the voice, the husky slurring. Min Yoongi.

Instead of retreating diffidently, Jeongyeon only salutes the producer. “I see you have also decided to spend your time in a bar two days before opening night, monsieur.”

“Touché,” Yoongi replies nonchalantly, raising his glass. His eyes land on Jimin, and they flash with an emotion the dancer does not recognize. Peeking over  the producer’s shoulder, Jeongyeon surveys the crowd intently.

“Please tell me Mr Jung is here, too,” she says dreamily, and Jimin almost chokes on his drink. “This might be my one chance to watch him dish out moves which do not adhere to Russian ballet.”

To Jimin’s shock, Yoongi chuckles. “He’s here, but don’t get your hopes up.” But Jeongyeon merely grins at the two of them before striding off to seek out the choreographer. Jimin doesn’t know whether it is him or Yoongi who closes the distance between them by occupying the seat Jeongyeon has just vacated. But he doesn’t care. Especially when their proximity is more heady than any drink the bar could offer.

“I see you’ve already made friends, chéri.” There it is, that word again. It unwinds something in Jimin’s soul, and it takes all of his resolve to maintain a straight face. “How has Paris been treating you so far?” Yoongi is looking at him now, with an intensity the dancer is having a hard time interpreting.

Jimin cradles his cheek in his palm, fixing his gaze on the enigmatic impresario. “I’ve been in the city for all of two seconds. I think I should be asking you that question.” He doesn’t know where his boldness springs from, only that it does, as if something in his soul breaks loose in the presence of Min Yoongi, something that makes him want to throw caution to the wind. Bad decision, Jimin. Don’t be a fool.

Yoongi quirks a brow, but indulges him anyway. “I’ve pretty much lived here all my life. I was born in Korea, but my parents decided to relocate to Paris for more artistic exposure.” His eyes grow distant, his fingers curling around the glass in his hand. “I loved music, and so they decided to entrust me to Sergei Diaghilev’s care believing my talents would prosper under his watchful eye; my father and he had been friends.”

“It must have been something else, being an apprentice to the Diagilev,” Jimin mutters, lost in thought. The music seems to have receded to the farthest corners of the bar, and the two are ensconced in a world of their own where nothing exists but them.

Yoongi’s smile is rueful, and Jimin doesn’t miss the way his jaw clenches. “Indeed. I learned a lot from the man. He was a genius in every sense of the word. But…” he trails off, nibbling his lower lip as he grapples with the next words. The producer doesn’t understand why he is baring his innermost thoughts, thoughts which have lain dormant in his head for years now, to this relative stranger. Maybe that is why. Maybe because Jimin will not judge me.

“But?” Jimin prompts, sliding closer to him. Yoongi has to exercise all of his self-control to maintain a respectable distance between them, a task which is proving to be incredibly difficult with each passing second in the dancer’s presence.

“But I think I also ended up emulating some of his most unflattering traits. I learned how to be smart, but I also learned how to be ruthless, almost cruel. Diaghilev instilled in me the belief that art can only be preserved by fighting tooth and nail, and by doing everything one can to enhance its credibility. Even if it meant being insensitive.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes snapping shut. “I knew what he was doing bordered on dictatorship, but I guess I admired him for that. Until it ruined the one truly pure thing in his life.”

Jimin ventures a guess. “His relationship with Vaslav Nijinksy?”

Yoongi’s eyes shoot open as he turns to the dancer. “Yes. He pushed Nijinsky too far.” His expression alters, his demeanour transforming before Jimin can offer a reply. “But you know what? This is too dreary a subject for a place as decadent and sinful as this,” he declares, his sly grin slipping into place once again.

Jimin doesn’t question the change in subject. He is already stumped by the fact that Yoongi has been this forthcoming with him only on their second meeting. “Jeongyeon was about to say something when you interrupted us. I’m guessing you’re-”

“I don’t care about gender when it comes to relationships,” Yoongi declares curtly, his eyes never leaving Jimin’s. “I naturally also do not care for tags. You love who you love.” His knee brushes against Jimin’s thigh and the dancer has to suck in a breath.

“I believe you’re right. It’s just that Korea would have shut a place like this down even before anyone could’ve thought of establishing it.”

This time, Yoongi does lean in, close enough for Jimin to inhale the maddening, intoxicating scent wafting off him. “I believe Korea is missing out on a lot.” This time, there is no mistaking the gleam in Yoongi’s eyes. “You are a work of art, Park Jimin. I’m glad we found each other.”

And Jimin knows it is a bad idea, knows that this will end in nothing but disaster, knows that this is Min Yoongi, impresario of the Ballet Russes, and he is Park Jimin, a mere dancer whose entire career rests on his ability to maintain his levelheadedness. And so he withdraws the hand which is resting quite close to Yoongi’s, even though he wants nothing more than to entwine their fingers.

This will only lead to heartbreak.

Comprehension flickers in Yoongi’s eyes, as if he himself has arrived at a similar conclusion. “Well, this has been fun. But I really should be getting home.” He offers Jimin a placid smile. “Goodnight, Park Jimin,” he says softly, rising to his feet and turning away. “I’ll see you around.”

His lingering warmth is the only thing Jimin can feel for the rest of the night.

   ***

November

“Antony and Cleopatra: A Tragedy in Four Quartets,” Seokjin states dubiously, scepticism etched on his handsome features as his eyes skim through the documents Yoongi has handed to him. “We’re doing Shakespeare now?”

The singer sits across from the producer in his office, draped in a woollen shawl to keep the chill at bay. Traces of winter are beginning to manifest themselves, and the nights are growing colder. Yoongi releases a puff of smoke, wisps coiling upwards, and he sets his cigar on his desk.

“I want to veer away from the traditional themes incorporated during Diaghilev’s reign. I know Ballet Russes is predominantly associated with the reinvention of Russian folk tales, but I think it’s time we do something different.”

Hoseok, who is reclining on the couch set against the wall, raises his hand furtively. “But this is Russian ballet.”

“Which is a genre," Namjoon clarifies from his desk. “It doesn’t mean that we have to adhere only to Russian works. I personally like Yoongi’s pitch, especially because it gives me the chance to experiment with my music.”

Beyond the windows twilight streaks the sky in hues of purple and gold, and luminescent rays filter in through the parted curtains. Seokjin is illuminated by the glow, the soft shades accentuating his sharp jawline.

“Alright, so we give this a shot. But we’ll have to rework our entire plan,” he points out, his gaze roaming over his friends and colleagues. “Is that possible in three months? We’re scheduled to perform the next show in February.”

Yoongi waves his concerns away with a flick of his wrist. “Of course. We have some of the most talented people in this place. And that includes all of you.”

“And Park Jimin,” Namjoon teases with a wide grin on his face. He ignores the look of warning Hoseok throws his way and continues smiling at the producer.

But Yoongi ignores his statement, like he has been ignoring all talk of Park Jimin in personal quarters. Their conversation at the bar almost a month ago has strengthened his resolve; any contact with the dancer which did not stem from professional reasons would only lead to conflicts.

And that is something Yoongi wishes to avoid at all costs.

“If we’re done here, I’m off to the orchestra,” he announces, gathering all his belongings and striding out the door. Before any of them has a chance to answer, Yoongi has already disappeared down the hallway.

He walks at a brisk pace which slows when he registers the music drifting through the slightly ajar auditorium doors. Not wanting to alert whoever it is to his presence, Yoongi slips in through the curtains which allow only him access to the private pew. Once his eyes land on the person dancing onstage, all his breath is knocked right out of him.

Park Jimin.

The dancer glides across the smooth floor, his eyes shut and his hands floating in the air with a precision which can be borne out of only years and years of dedicated practice and determination. His feet barely touch the ground, his defined pirouettes and spins sparking something in Yoongi’s chest which he has been grappling with ever since he first watched the dancer perform. If the producer has to pick one vision to admire for the rest of his life, he has no doubt what his choice would be. What are you doing to me, Park Jimin?

“Chéri, you’re putting all the other dancers to shame.”

Jimin’s movements instantly cease, and his head swivels around to find the source of the voice. When his eyes land on Yoongi, his cheeks flush, a sheepish smile spreading on his face. “I thought I was the only one here.”

The producer places the mic down on the table, and motions for Jimin to meet him at the exit. Once the dancer catches his breath, he quickly assembles all his possessions and almost tumbles out the door to find Yoongi waiting for him.

Yoongi knows he shouldn’t but he goes ahead anyway. “Do you like orchestras, chéri?”

Jimin has never witnessed a live music performance in his entire lifetime, and the producer probably already knows this. The dancer’s façade of professionalism begins to crumble, especially when Yoongi looks at him like that, like he is the only real thing in this world. Because that is how Jimin looks at him.

And, despite knowing better, he takes the plunge. “Who doesn’t?”

   ***

“So, Beethoven or Tchaikovsky?” Jimin asks once the performance has ended and they walk, side by side, on the streets of Paris which are lively even at this time of night. “Who do you like more?”

You, Yoongi thinks, I like you. But of course, he doesn’t say it out loud.

Stroking his chin, Yoongi furrows his eyebrows. “I like good music, chéri. It could be a banjo on the street and I would still appreciate it if the player was talented. And dedicated.”

Jimin whistles, a grin on his face. “A true patron of the arts, I see. All hail Min Yoongi!”

Yoongi laughs then, and Jimin is struck by how young the producer looks, how free, with his head thrown back and his skin speckled by the million fairy lights illuminating the cobbled roads. “You really have a way with words, Jimin. You impress me every day.”

The dancer returns his smile, and for a while, they walk in companionable silence. Neither of them seem to have a destination in mind, and it is only once they arrive at the Seine that Jimin hazards a query.

“I’ve heard rumours circulating regarding our next theme. Care to comment?”

The river sparkles, the water ruffled by the slight breeze wafting through the city. Lights blink, spots retracting against the ripples in the surface. Yoongi tears his gaze away from the river and quirks an eyebrow. “Getting overly friendly, are we? Just because I let you call me Yoongi doesn’t mean you’re privy to all my trade secrets.”

Jimin shrugs, not daunted in the least. Not that Yoongi had expected him to be. That is part of the reason the producer is so drawn to him. Jimin doesn’t seem to give a fuck that he is standing beside the impresario of the Ballet Russes. “Well, can you blame me? This is the first program I’ll be performing in. Don’t you think I’m allowed to be a tad bit excited?”

And just like that, Yoongi concurs. He is quickly realizing that he cannot deny Park Jimin anything for long. “Antony and Cleopatra.” He waits, trying to gauge the dancer’s reaction.

Jimin doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Why?”

“Do you know the story?” Yoongi counters, studying him carefully. Around them, the sounds are muted, signs of the city finally settling into a slumber which it will arise from only when the first hues of dawn streak the horizon.

Jimin shakes his head. “I know the history, and I know it’s also a play by Shakespeare. But I haven’t read it.”

“It’s the story of a man so in thrall of a queen that he loses sight of all else,” Yoongi begins quietly, his eyes tracing the shadows slithering over the river. “It’s ironic really; a dashing general with all the power in the world, a general who has led his armies to victory and greatness, falls under the spell of an enchanting woman who exposes him to a new way of life. Who teaches him what it means to be sensitive, emotional.” He faces Jimin, a small smile on his face, his eyes never once leaving the dancer’s. “Of what it means to love with a passion which invigorates and consumes all at once.”

Jimin answers with an alluring one of his own. “And you think the world needs to be reminded of that.” It is not a question. And Yoongi’s heart swells with something he no longer wants to fight.

“Don’t you, chéri?”

Jimin seems to share his sentiments, though Yoongi does not want to shatter the illusion they have concocted. The dancer tilts his head. “I do, Yoongi. But it’s a tragedy, isn’t it?”

Yoongi grins, but something melancholic lurks in his eyes. “Fitting, don’t you think? It’s a tragic world we live in, Jimin.” The dancer inclines his head in agreement, a thoughtful look on his face. A sudden thought grips the producer. “How would you feel about playing Antony?”

Jimin’s eyes widen. “But, Yoongi, I’ve just joined! Don’t you think it would be unfair to the rest of the dancers?”

“No, chéri. At the Ballet Russes, your seniority or experience do not matter. What matters is your passion.” Yoongi takes Jimin’s hand, squeezing it gently. “I think only you can elicit the emotion I long to feel.”

The dancer doesn’t shirk from his touch, but remains hesitant. “It’s an honour, Yoongi. But I don’t know. I’m worried I’m not qualified enough.”

The impresario rubs a thumb over Jimin’s cold cheek, almost chuckling when the dancer goes very still. “Take your time and think about it. I’ve already decided on Jeongyeon as Cleopatra. And in my eyes, there is only one Antony.”

You. You, who seem to have breathed life into my unfeeling heart.

The unspoken words hang between them, and Jimin places his palm over Yoongi’s. Inhaling deeply, he decides to take the plunge. This is what he has wanted, isn’t it? “I’ll do it, Yoongi.” When the producer smiles at him, the dancer unconsciously intertwines their fingers. “I’ll give you my soul.”

  ***

December

“Alright, that was wonderful! Let’s take five and resume from the beginning,” Hoseok announces, equipped with a sense of pride at watching his incredible dancers perfecting the moves he has taught them just a month ago. The upcoming performance has instilled them all with urgency and determination, and these factors clearly reflect in their flawless pirouettes and spins. All of the dancers seem to have gotten the routine down pat. Especially Jimin.

The dancer heaves as he attempts to catch his breath. Wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, he leans against the wall. In his peripheral vision, he notices Jeongyeon casually trotting up to him.

“I’m beginning to understand why the monsieur is so smitten with you,” she says cheerfully, referring to Yoongi. “And you seem to have adjusted pretty well around here.”

Jimin smiles at her, allowing his fellow dancer’s words to sink in. He cannot deny the fact that he is beginning to feel quite at home. Being exposed to so many experiences in such a short span has imbued him with a sense of buoyancy. Boosted by a renewed optimism, his cheerful personality has now resurfaced, the freedom accorded by Paris permitting him to be who he is. And Jimin decides that he will never stop being thankful to Hoseok. And Min Yoongi.

He winks at Jeongyeon. “I have met some really amazing people.”

His friend chuckles, her eyes crinkling shut. “You say that, but isn’t it really the impresario who is the cause of your euphoria?”

Jimin schools his features into an expression of neutrality even though his heart begins to hammer in his chest. It seems to do that a lot whenever the producer’s name crops up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeongyeon smirks. “Oh come on, Jimin. I happen to be a very observant person. And I haven’t missed the gooey eyes the two of you make at each other whenever you’re in the same room.” Her grin is replaced by a more sombre look. “It’s all very romantic and cute, but be careful, okay? You have mind-blowing potential and it would be heart-breaking if something were to get in your way.”

Her words echo what Taehyung had essentially advised him just the other night, when he had almost confessed to having a crush on Min Yoongi. Jimin knows both his friends are right, but he can’t seem to resist the magnetic pull which draws him to the impresario. Squeezing Jeongyeon’s shoulder, he smiles. “Don’t worry. I know what’s best for me.” For some reason, his eyes slide towards the private pew, though the veil makes it hard to gauge anyone’s presence.

Unbeknownst to the dancer, Min Yoongi has indeed been watching him. He observes every move Jimin makes, his eyes not leaving the dancer once. Dawn turns to dusk and day to night. But the producer seems suspended between the time he counts down before he can see Jimin and the time he tries to stall when he finally manages to watch his wings unfurl, the dancer’s body taking flight and luring him into dimensions previously unexplored.

“Your decision to let Jimin play Antony seems spot on.”

Yoongi turns to find Namjoon leaning in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. Shrugging, the producer lights his cigar. “He’s destined for greatness, Joon. I’m just helping him.”

“You sure that’s all there is to it?” The composer probes, striding into the concealed balcony and plopping into the seat beside Yoongi. “Hoseok expressed some…concerns.”

“Hoseok needs to learn to mind his own fucking business,” the producer snaps irritably. Lately, he can’t seem to be able to admire Jimin without someone or the other breathing down his neck and harping about ethics and morality.

Namjoon shakes his head. “But don’t you see? That’s exactly what he’s doing. As the choreographer, it’s his job to ensure that the dancers focus and concentrate. And Jimin has an important part to play. He can’t afford to be distracted. Not even by you.”

“We’re not fucking if that’s what you’re implying,” Yoongi deadpans, deriving a little satisfaction from the way Namjoon splutters. But he sighs, knowing that the composer isn’t wrong.

For the past few days, Jimin and he have been spending increasing amounts of time together; it is either Yoongi watching him as he dances, or brisk walks home before they part ways. Little by little, he is uncovering the layers which previously concealed the dancer’s true character, and the picture which has emerged stumps Yoongi; he had already gleaned his confidence and compassion, but the producer now also knows how bold and unapologetic Jimin can really be. How intense. He is also consciously aware of the bond they’re forming, a connection which should be severed before it cements. But Yoongi can’t seem to let go.

And if he doesn’t know any better, neither can Jimin.

“I didn’t say you were fucking, Yoongi.” Groaning, Namjoon throws his arms up in defeat. “You know what? You’re both adults. You’ll figure it out.” Yoongi bows in mock gratitude as the composer raises a hand in farewell. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to meet Seokjin.”

Yoongi waves him off, his attention snatched by the documents cluttering his desk. As the impresario, one of his many jobs is to manage the funds and sponsors who allow the Ballet Russes to put on a good show, and the producer spends the rest of the afternoon with his head buried in a pile of papers, his eyes skimming the words intently.

After a while, he slumps in his seat, watching the smoke from his cigar curling upwards, the wisps carried by the air until they dissolve. Deciding that he has had enough of paperwork to last him a week, Yoongi grabs his coat, his feet padding across the floor until they lead him outside the sprawling venue. Dusk is falling fast, the sky draping the city of lights in a shadowy hue. Meandering through the crowd of people frolicking around the packed thoroughfare, Yoongi wraps his muffler tighter around his neck. Winter is really beginning to set in, and it will not be long before the first snowflakes lather Paris in white.

Without realizing it, Yoongi finds himself standing before the Louvre, the antique and rustic façade of the museum attracting hordes of fascinated tourists to its doors. Following the mass of people making their way towards the entrance, the producer lets himself be swallowed up by the sights and sounds of his surroundings, imbued with a sense of detachment as his eyes roam over the immaculate interior. The beautiful hallways reek of cultural refinement, and Yoongi’s mind is flooded with memories of his childhood when he used to visit the museum with his parents. He remembers being awestruck by the sheer splendour of the place, the alluring paintings and splendid sculptures, remembers the emotions addling his senses as he had absorbed the magnificence the museum was, and still is, replete with.

Muscle memory guides him through the aisles even though he hasn’t been here in years. He catches sight of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda, who both nod in his direction when they recognize the impresario. For a minute, Yoongi considers conveying his greetings to the author and congratulating him on The Great Gatsby, when his eyes land on Jimin.

The dancer stands before a painting of Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night, his forehead furrowed in thought, his eyes mapping every detail of the fantastic work. His lips curling into a smile, Yoongi approaches him stealthily, leaning over his shoulder to whisper in his ear, “Quite the masterpiece, isn’t it?”

Contrary to his expectation, his sudden action does not startle Jimin. The dancer is not the least bit frazzled as he turns to Yoongi, his face breaking into a grin. “It really is.” Noticing the producer’s slack features, he laughs. “I don’t scare easily, monsieur.”

Yoongi chuckles. “Duly noted, chéri,” he says, matching the dancer’s grin with one of his own. “I didn’t take you for an admirer of the arts.”

Jimin tries to feign offence but ends up scrunching his nose instead, his cheeks rounding like melted marshmallows. It takes all of Yoongi’s willpower to refrain from kissing the pout off his face. “Well, excuse me for wanting to appreciate fine art. As someone who does that himself, I thought you’d understand my sentiments.”

“Do you always look that adorable when you’re mad?” Yoongi asks seriously, and Jimin blushes. “And I do understand. I’ve been doing some admiring of my own, you know.” His eyes rove over Jimin intently, pretending to check him out from head to toe, and he revels in the way Jimin’s eyes widen, his cheeks turning scarlet.

But the dancer quickly recovers and nudges Yoongi. “Well, since you’re here, how about you give me a tour?”

And Yoongi is happy to oblige.

  ***

By the time they exit the Louvre, night has wrapped its silky talons around the city.

But Paris counters the darkness with its life, and as the two men navigate the crammed roads and lively alleys, the city seems to come alive. Music floats in the wintry air, sweet fragrances waft through the breeze, and pedestrians laugh as they walk down the streets, booming sounds enveloping the florid lanes.

“This city is a wonder,” Jimin whispers almost reverently as they cross a bridge spanning the Seine. “So much to see, so much to experience. It’s almost like a motion picture.”

Yoongi smiles, his breath pluming in the air. “There’s a reason Paris is called the centre of art and culture. There is inspiration to be found everywhere.”

As they arrive on the other side, Jimin’s gaze is arrested by a violinist on the sidewalk. The young woman’s face is masked by layer upon layer of a woollen muffler, but her posture emanates a passion which captivates the dancer. Before he knows it, his body begins to move of its own accord, his arms fanning out and his feet twirling agilely over the cobbled stones. Throughout his performance, Jimin doesn’t once avert his gaze from Yoongi, not once, as if the producer is his anchor, the only thing that keeps him moving.

Jimin relishes the feel of Yoongi’s eyes on him, the intensity sparking a wave of emotions which envelop his soul, a warmth spreading through his veins. Having danced for an audience before, Jimin is accustomed to what the undivided attention feels like. But having the impresario watch him so carefully, not blinking once, not breathing, is an entirely new sensation.

And Jimin loves it.

He is fully aware that they are treading on very dangerous ground, but Jimin no longer cares. The pining is beginning to outweigh his conscience, and all he wants is to pirouette his way into Yoongi’s arms.   

The producer contends with similar thoughts as he stands there, engrossed. He cannot drag his eyes away from the lithe man who leaps and spins and sets Yoongi’s heart on fire. It doesn’t take long for a crowd to assemble, and Jimin executes each rotation, each turn perfectly, earning a fervent applause from the onlookers.

“A real gem you’ve got there,” someone beside Yoongi states when Jimin begins to make his way back to him. Something in the producer finally snaps, emotions whirling in his head, in his body, until the sheer intensity almost smothers him. Yoongi agrees with the observation wholeheartedly.

“You’re a masterpiece I want to worship for the rest of my life,” he says in awe when Jimin finally reaches him. The dancer’s eyes are alight with an emotion which is mirrored in Yoongi’s own.

Leaning close to him, Jimin whispers, an almost sultry lilt to his voice. “Then show me.” His breath tickles Yoongi’s cheek, all pretence abandoned. It is as if a dam has broken loose within him. “I don’t want to follow rules, Yoongi. I want you. Do you want me?”

“Oh, chéri, you have no idea.”

  ***

When they finally kiss in the confines of Yoongi’s apartment, it is not fireworks and snowstorms.

Rather, it is the collision of two souls bound by a love of art, by a love borne out of mesmerizing strokes across charcoal canvasses and serenading melodies which sing of pain and grief and heartache. Of promises and destiny and love.

Yoongi kisses Jimin like his entire being depends on it, memorizing the supple contours of the dancer’s soft lips, probing, licking, biting, until the dancer gasps, allowing the producer to slide his tongue into his mouth, exploring the warmth that is Park Jimin.

Moonlight filters in through the slit in the parted curtains, illuminating their writhing figures on the four-poster bed, naked bodies and desperate embraces, desire and lust in every move they make. Jimin arches his back as Yoongi roams his hands all over his bare chest, his fingers tweaking one nipple while his teeth graze the other nub. The dancer gasps, his eyes snapping shut, his body wriggling under Yoongi’s ministrations. But instead of being only a passive recipient, Jimin is far from pliant, stretching his arm until his fingers curl around the other’s cock, tugging at it gently.

Yoongi instantly hisses. “Fucking hell, chéri, be patient.” Pulling himself over Jimin, he grabs the dancer’s wrists and pins them on either side of his head, eyes dark and hooded.

“We’re finally doing this, and you want me to be patient?” Jimin quirks an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Or was I the only one who wanted to fuck?”

Yoongi’s eyes widen, his breath hitching, before his trademark grin slides into place. He knows Jimin is trying to rile him up. And, by god, it’s working.  “You’ve got quite the mouth on you, chéri. How about you put it to better use?”

Jimin only smiles, slipping from underneath Yoongi. As the producer sits upright, the dancer goes down on his knees, grabbing Yoongi’s cock and stroking it languidly before giving it an experimental lick. The producer curses, his fingers gripping Jimin’s soft locks as the dancer wraps his lips around his length. His head bobs, his mouth covering every inch of Yoongi’s cock, his fingers making up for the rest, and the producer throws his head back, emitting raspy groans. But before Jimin can elicit an orgasm, Yoongi stops him. Tilting his head in confusion, Jimin complies as the other man lifts him up, easing him onto the bed.

“I’ve wanted this ever since I laid eyes on you, chéri,” he says, guiding Jimin so that the dancer is spread out before him on his hands and knees. “I’m going to take my time with you.”

Jimin only keens in response as Yoongi reaches out to grab a bottle of lube from the bedside table.  Coating his finger with the cool substance, he slides it into Jimin’s hole, prodding and rubbing against his walls. The dancer moans, stars dancing behind his eyelids as a rush of sensations course through him, his body responding to the producer’s fingers as they work their magic.

“Jimin, I don’t want to hurt you. So if you want me to stop at any time, just say it.” Yoongi’s voice is tender, and the dancer can feel the concern radiating off him. But all he does is peer over his shoulder, his hair matted with sweat despite the cold, and fixes his gaze on the producer levelly.

“I don’t want you to stop, Yoongi. I want you to fuck me until all I can feel is you.”

Yoongi doesn’t need to be told twice.

Adding another finger, he scissors Jimin’s hole, provoking mewls and groans which are music to his ears. When a third finger enters the dancer, he arches his back, his knees threatening to buckle.

“I’m ready, Yoongi. Stop teasing me.”

The producer laughs. “You know, technically we shouldn’t even be doing this. Hoseok is going to kill me when he finds out.”

Jimin glares at him, managing to look threatening even though his chest is heaving and his cock is leaking precum all over the gauzy material of the silk sheets. “And I’ll kill you if you don’t fuck me already.”

Yoongi gives him no warning before pulling his fingers out, replacing them with his cock. The stretch burns, but Jimin adjusts quickly, his tight hole clenching around Yoongi’s throbbing cock. The producer pushes all the way in, sliding in and out slowly until Jimin practically yells at him to increase his speed. Grinning, Yoongi pulls out, slamming into him at a pace which has Jimin reeling with pleasure. Their fusion sets Yoongi on fire, and Jimin delights in the warmth which cocoons them, two souls bound by different yet same desires. The dancer mewls, his breathing irregular as he attempts to stroke his own neglected shaft. His inner walls clench around Yoongi’s length, drawing him in, until all he can feel is Jimin.

The dancer comes first, Yoongi’s name slipping past his swollen lips, his body beginning to spasm with oversensitivity. The producer’s thrusts grow erratic, signalling his own orgasm.

“Jimin, I-”

“I want to feel you come inside me,” Jimin whispers, looking straight at Yoongi over his shoulder. And the producer takes a second to admire the man before him, light setting his features ablaze, his angelic face belying his scandalous desires, a man who moves like flowing water, whose curves and bends are engraved on Yoongi’s mind. Perhaps forever.

It isn’t long before his orgasm consumes him whole, his cock going flaccid inside Jimin who takes everything he has to offer without complaint. The dancer flops onto his stomach, Yoongi beside him, and stares at the producer with heavy-lidded eyes.

“That was probably the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Yoongi snorts. “Probably? I bet those fuckers down in Korea have nothing on me.”

A soft smile lifts the dancer’s lips. “They really don’t, mon cœur.”

The producer’s breathing stills, his eyes roaming over Jimin’s face, his eyes, his cheeks, until all he can see, until all he can feel, is Jimin. “Mon cœur,” he repeats, almost in astonishment. “I see you’ve picked up some French.”

“I am living in Paris,” Jimin retaliates, his eyes crinkling with that smile Yoongi has come to love. Everything the man does is art. A few seconds elapse before Jimin says, “This is okay, right? It’s not going to cause any problems for you?”

This. Us.

Yoongi wants to hug him, and he does exactly that. Jimin’s compassion never ceases to amaze him. “I’m the impresario, Jimin. I can do whatever the fuck I want.” He glances at the dancer, his forehead creasing in concern. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

The dancer just smiles, snuggling against the producer. Resting his head in the crook of Yoongi’s arm, he closes his eyes. “Don’t be. We can work this out. It’ll be fine.”

And even though Yoongi knows that they cannot, and that this is wrong on every level, he cannot resist when Jimin rolls on top of him, cannot push him away when he nips at his skin, leaving love bites across the expanse of his slender neck. Because it is already too late; he has already plunged into the heady chasm that is Park Jimin.

And Yoongi doesn’t want to get out.

As they finally fall asleep, just when the first rays of dawn begin to streak the horizon, the last thing Yoongi sees is an image of Nijinsky and Diaghilev in his head.

And Yoongi is not religious, but he prays to whatever god is listening that a similar fate doesn’t befall them.

   ***

Their relationship undergoes a subtle change, though the change is not imperceptible and is noticed by most people around them. But no one dares to question it. Except, that is, Jung Hoseok.

Barging into Yoongi’s office, he points an accusatory finger at his friend. “I fucking warned you, Yoongi. I told you to welcome Jimin, not fuck him!” the choreographer declares angrily, frustration oozing out of him. “You even promised not to repeat the past.”

Yoongi remains unfazed, his head burrowed in music sheets. “Calm down a little, Hobi. You’ll give yourself an aneurysm.”

The streaks of dusk filtering in through the windows emphasize the menacing expression contorting the choreographer’s features. “The only thing I’m going to give is a punch to your face,” Hoseok states frankly with barely concealed annoyance. “Why would you sleep with a dancer in your own fucking ballet?”

Yoongi shrugs. “It’s not like it hasn’t happened before-”

“Exactly!” the choreographer explodes, his face turning red. “The very fact that it has happened before and has led to disastrous consequences should have been enough to deter you from pursuing any kind of relationship with Park Jimin.”

Finally looking up, Yoongi raises his palms in a placatory gesture. “Hoseok, calm the fuck down, will you? It’s not a big deal. We’re just…” he hesitates, grappling for the right words. Giving up, he just attempts to smile. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, so you mean to tell me this is just a fling and that there’s no emotion involved?” Hoseok looks incredulous, clearly not in any mood to be pacified. “Because then you’d be lying even to yourself, Yoongi. I see the way you two look at each other.”

Yoongi doesn’t bother to deny it. There is emotion. Like Yoongi had predicted, Jimin bleeds him dry of every feeling, every thought until it is all the producer can do to lay his admiration and fascination down at the dancer’s feet. But that is part of the conflict: Yoongi is having a hard time delineating his emotions.

Hoseok seems to comprehend his dilemma. “This is what happened to Diaghilev, Yoongi,” he points out quietly. “He lost sight of what he really loved, unsure of whether it was Nijinsky or his art.”

“It’s not like that, Hoseok,” Yoongi tries to explain. “I really do admire him.”

Hoseok pinches the bridge of his nose. “There it is, that word again. You admire what Jimin can do, what he evokes in you. You love the art he brings to the table. But if you don’t feel the same way about Jimin the person, then you need to put a stop to this right now.” 

The truth in the choreographer’s words hits Yoongi like a whiplash. All this time, he has believed what he felt for Jimin the dancer extended to Jimin the person beneath the flawless pirouettes and perfect spins. But now, his conviction begins to waver.

“Hoseok, I care about him,” he says earnestly, the truth of the words inscribed in his skin. “I really do. And I won’t do anything to jeopardize his career, nor will I hurt his feelings. Just let me figure things out, okay?”

Hoseok merely sighs. “I hope you will, Yoongi. For both your sakes.” Nodding at the producer one last time, the choreographer strides out the door. Once he has departed, Yoongi slumps in his chair, his mind assaulted by a barrage of thoughts which refuse to make sense. All he can think about is Jimin, his touch, the warmth of his skin against his own-

“I see you’re still dawdling about.”

Yoongi’s eyes shoot open to find Jimin standing in the doorway. He is bundled up in a woollen muffler, his hair glinting in the light which illuminates the place. And just the sight of him is enough to bury all of Yoongi’s apprehensions. For the moment at least.

“Chéri, you need to do a better job of concealing all those hickeys,” he admonishes lightly, savouring the smile that spreads across Jimin’s face. “You’re giving me a bad name.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow, locking the door behind him and sauntering towards Yoongi. Perching on the producer’s desk, he bats his eyelids suggestively. “I thought the impresario could do whatever the fuck he wanted?”

Yoongi laughs. Rising, he walks around the desk until he can loop his arms around the dancer’s waist, pulling him close and inhaling his intoxicating scent. “There’s no winning against you, is there?” Jimin’s only response is to kiss him, slowly, unhurriedly, as if they have all the time in the world.

And for now, they do.

Tightening his arms around the dancer, Yoongi presses close to him, his tongue exploring the warm cavern of Jimin’s mouth. The dancer answers with equal fervour, his head thrown back as Yoongi’s teeth graze the smooth skin of his neck, leaving new hickeys to match the existing ones. Jimin’s eyes swivel in their sockets, until they come to rest on the piano.

“Is that only for show or do you actually play the thing?” he manages to ask, breathless.

Yoongi ceases his movements, grinning at the dancer slyly. “Tell you what, chéri, why don’t you dance for me and I’ll let you find out.” Leading him by the hand, the producer pecks his lips, lifting the headboard of the instrument. “Spin for me, Jimin.”

The dancer inclines his head, and once Yoongi hits the first key, Jimin moves like the wind.

And Yoongi doesn’t care what Hoseok says. When he watches Jimin, unravelling before him like a ribbon concealing an alluring gift, the producer knows what he feels is love. So what if it is an aesthetic ideal which enraptures him? It is still Jimin, isn’t it?

And once the music stops playing, Jimin beckons to Yoongi seductively, a feverish gleam in his eyes. They make love with Jimin pressed against the piano, his hands slipping over the glossy surface of the headboard as Yoongi eases into him slowly, soft groans and silky moans caressing their skin as they lose themselves in a heady ecstasy which displays no signs of subsiding.

And Yoongi and Jimin wouldn’t have it any other way.

“What if this is love?” Jimin whispers against his skin once they come down from their high, his head resting on Yoongi’s shoulder as they lean against the wall.

I want it to be. But Yoongi, naturally, does not say it out loud. He kisses Jimin’s forehead instead. “Love is a mad, mad thing, mon cœur. It’s a fatal poison which drives people to the very brink of insanity, the unbridled passion smothering their senses until they can no longer breathe.”

A silence. And then Jimin’s beguiling voice. “But isn’t that what makes it worthwhile?”

It does, Yoongi decides, his eyes tracing every inch of Jimin’s skin fondly, his heart bursting with an emotion he can finally name. It does.

  ***

Paris, 1933

January

The first cracks begin to appear when the new year rolls around.

Ballet Russes is plunged into a perpetual state of uproar as the month of the showcase hovers over everyone’s heads like a warning gong. All the dancers, artists and musicians prepare for the performance with intense dedication, practicing and rehearsing until their bodies shiver from exertion. Jimin is not an exception.

But whenever he tries to initiate any kind of contact with the impresario which extends beyond the realm of professionalism, he is met with a stone wall, his advances rebuffed, his touch bouncing over words advising him to remain focused.

“We only have a few more weeks left until February, mon cœur,” Yoongi points out when Jimin enters his office to ask him if he wanted to visit the theatres. “We can do all of that once it’s over.”

Shrugging out of his coat and draping it across a chair placed before the producer’s desk before plopping into it, Jimin frowns. “I understand that, Yoongi. But don’t you think you and I both deserve a break? I mean, you’ve been cooped up in here all week and I’ve been practicing all day, all month for that matter.”

Not looking up from the documents he is assessing, Yoongi purses his lips. “Then go home and rest, Jimin. Don’t engage in futile activities which might impact your performance.”

The silence which follows is jarring, forcing the producer to finally face the dancer. What he sees in Jimin’s face almost knocks him backwards. Not a hint of emotion graces his pretty features.

“Futile activities? You call me trying to spend time with you, trying to make love to you, futile? Is that all this is, Yoongi? A waste of your time and mine?”

The producer’s face contorts with a mixture of annoyance and apprehension. “Of course not, mon cœur. All I’m saying is this is an important time for both of us. So how about you keep doing what you do best and I do the same?”

Jimin rises, grabbing his coat without looking at Yoongi. “Sure. I’ll do just that.” Before the producer can respond, Jimin disappears, with only his afterimage to keep Yoongi company.

   ***

“I come bearing croissants!” Yoongi declares, mustering all the enthusiasm he can.

Jimin stands there, his hand going slack around the doorknob as he stares at his lover leaning against the frame, his usual cocky grin in place. “Yoongi? What are you doing here?”

The producer merely smiles, raking calloused fingers through his hair. “Mon cœur,” he almost whispers, and a shiver licks Jimin’s spine. “May I come in? We didn’t leave things well when you left the Palais. Let me make this right.” The dancer hesitates, uncertainty flickering in his brown eyes. “Please?” Yoongi tries to pout, but ends up scowling instead.

And despite himself, Jimin allows himself a small smile. Ushering Yoongi in, he gestures towards the couch placed against the wall. Bright lights speckling the streets extend their luminosity to the dancer’s shared apartment with Taehyung, and the space is illuminated in subtle hues which cast a glow over Yoongi’s face as he takes a seat beside Jimin, placing the croissants on the table situated alongside the settee.

Jimin’s forehead furrows. “How did you know where I lived?”

“I wheedled it out of Taehyung.” Yoongi glances at him, his expression neutral. “He also told me he isn’t coming back tonight.”

Jimin nods absentmindedly, his gaze flitting towards the open windows. “He has to work on the set design with Jungkook. He probably won’t return until tomorrow.” He feels smooth fingers stroking his arm, and it is all the dancer can do to shirk from Yoongi’s touch.  

“Mon cœur.” Jimin chances a glance at the producer. He looks crestfallen and something clenches in the dancer’s chest. “I came here to apologize. I realize I went a little overboard back at the Palais.”

“A little?” Jimin quirks an eyebrow, but his anger is already beginning to thaw. Just Yoongi’s presence is enough to allay his frustration. “And I assume this is the first time the impresario has had to apologize to anyone?”

Yoongi laughs, that low, husky sound which Jimin has come to adore. “Willingly, yes." His hands probe Jimin’s own, and the dancer finally relents, intertwining their fingers. “And I know anything I say will sound like an excuse. The last thing I want to do is to hurt you, Jimin.”

The dancer runs his fingers through Yoongi’s silky locks, leaning against him. “Talk to me, Yoongi,”  he whispers softly, deriving warmth from the man he is really, truly, beginning to fall for. Even though every logical thought advises him against it.

Yoongi rests his head atop Jimin’s. “It’s just that being the impresario, inheriting a legacy this grand hasn’t been easy. All around me are people who’re just waiting for me to make one false move, one lapse in judgement which will allow them to snatch the Ballet Russes right out of my fingers.” His lips curl upwards as he looks at the dancer. “That’s bound to induce some serious stress.”

Jimin flicks his arm. “Yes, but you didn’t have to be such a dick about it.” Yoongi concurs with a low hum, but the dancer goes on, “And I’m sorry too, Yoongi. I know how difficult this time is for you. For both of us. But isn’t that all the more reason to spend whatever time we have to spare together? So that we can remind each other of what is transient and what may last forever?”

“You think this-” Yoongi motions between them, his eyebrows raised though a small grin spreads across his face, “-is going to last forever?”

Jimin’s response is to wrap his arms around the producer’s torso, wriggling his brows. “Don’t you, mon cœur? Or am I just your summer love?”

“Technically, you’d be my winter love,” Yoongi points out with a teasing lilt to his tone, revelling in the pouty glare Jimin hurls in his direction. A more serious note creeping into his voice, he cups the dancer’s cheeks, leaning close. “I promise to try harder, Jimin. I promise to try being a little more sensitive, a little less harsh.” A little less like Diaghilev. “Can you forgive me?”

And Jimin wonders how can he not, when Yoongi looks at him like that, head tilted, eyes remorseful, sincerity in every word spilling from lips Jimin dreams of kissing every night. “Of course, mon cœur.” He enfolds Yoongi’s hands with his own. “I know you truly mean what you say. And I just want to remind you that you’re not him. You’re you, impresario of the Ballet Russes who can do whatever the fuck he wants.” Pulling away, he fixes the producer with a firm stare though his eyes twinkle. “But you are also Min Yoongi, a man who cares about the people around him even though he may want to appear stern and detached just so his heart remains intact. Just so his pursuit of art remains his main focus. But, Yoongi,” Jimin rests his forehead against Yoongi’s, and the producer wraps his arms around the dancer’s waist. “It doesn’t have to be a lonely journey. Let me in. Let me uncover you. And then you can uncover me.”

Yoongi pulls back to look at Jimin, really look at Jimin, and what he sees overwhelms his heart. The dancer’s gaze is full of empathy and consideration. And love, he realizes with a pang. Always love.

“Mon cœur.” The endearment slips past Yoongi’s lips like a prayer, his eyes roving over every feature of Jimin’s beautiful face as if committing them to memory. “Have I ever told you how wonderful you are?”

Jimin smiles. “You can start now.” He gnaws at his lower lip, looking at Yoongi coyly. “You know, Tae’s not due home until tomorrow. Maybe you could, you know, stay?”

“Are you sure? I’d understand if you needed some time to-”

But Jimin cuts him off by placing a finger against Yoongi’s lips. “I need you.”

And that is all Yoongi needs to hear.

Lifting Jimin to his feet, he tugs him towards the twin beds across the window, peppering the dancer’s face with kisses. Unbuttoning his tunic, his lips hover over the dancer’s ear. “You’re sure about this?”

Jimin merely presses his lips against Yoongi’s, prompting his hands to roam all over his body until they prod at the bulge in his pants. Jimin gasps, trying to maintain his quickly disintegrating composure. “Yes, Yoongi,” he manages, his head resting against the other’s shoulder. “I’m sure.”

And as he lays beside Jimin, their bodies pressed together, their breathing harmonious, their hearts full with an emotion which neither of them dares to name but accepts as real, Yoongi hopes they will be alright.

  ***

February

And for a while, they are.

They sneak away during the breaks Hoseok is so generous with, wandering around the streets of Paris. Or Jimin waits for opportune moments to catch Yoongi unawares in his office while Namjoon is absent, and they make love against the piano. Or the dancer slips into the producer’s private pew where Yoongi presses him against the banister and sets his body on fire. Or Yoongi shows up at his door unannounced, his cocky grin sending butterflies fluttering through Jimin’s stomach. The producer seems to have memorized Taehyung’s schedule. And things almost seem too good to be true.

Which is why they finally come to a head two days before the performance. Yoongi’s apprehension has come creeping in through the crevices and crannies Jimin’s warmth hasn’t been able to fill, and the producer’s edginess begins to envelop him in an anxiety which he cannot seem to overcome.

And so, they almost come to blows while Yoongi is monitoring Jimin’s routine.

“Your spins need to be sharper, mon cœur,”  Yoongi instructs, “You’ll have to refine them a little.”

The auditorium is empty save for them, and Jimin feels like he no longer knows the man dispensing orders before him. “Yoongi, I’ve been working on this all week. I have other routines to practice, too. I can’t just keep rehearsing this one.”

“I know, Jimin. But I can’t feel the emotion. It’s like your feelings are muted,” the producer says, his arms flailing about wildly. “Until you figure that out, none of this will matter.”

Jimin nods resignedly, following Yoongi’s dictates. This goes on for days, with the producer draining everything Jimin has until his body can no longer keep up. And Jimin continues to hope that the words with which he had assured Yoongi in the confines of his arms will serve as his anchor. But Yoongi is so distant now that the dancer feels like everything that occurred between them was nothing but a figment of his imagination, like a dream which has no bearing on reality. And Yoongi tries, he really tries, but the fear of artistic failure looms over his head like the sword of Damocles.

“He usually gets like this before a performance,” Jeongyeon consoles Jimin one particularly challenging afternoon. “Don’t worry about it. You two will be back to your romantic shenanigans before you know it.”

But two days before the showcase, Jimin finally snaps.

It is during their private rehearsal when it is just Yoongi and him. The dancer’s chest heaves with exhaustion, but the producer does not relent. But it is what he says to Jimin that finally sends him over the edge.

“I think I’ve been too lax with you, Jimin.” It has been a while since Yoongi has addressed him by mon cœur or any other endearment for that matter. “This thing between us seems to have distracted you.”

And Jimin finally explodes. “This thing between us, Mr Min, is called a relationship. Unless I was the only one who noticed.” His voice echoes in the empty amphitheater, resonating in Yoongi’s ears, goosebumps prickling his skin. He has never seen the dancer so angry.

“Jimin, please. I’m not trying to aggravate you. It’s just that your performances had so much emotion, so much depth. And I feel like our relationship has sapped all of that. You started pouring all your feelings into the bond we share, instead of in the role you’re supposed to be playing.”

The dancer shakes his head, incredulity marring his features. “We talked about this, Yoongi! That’s what a relationship entails. How do you make it work without emotions? You can’t expect a bond to flourish if your feelings lie dormant and stagnant.”

"I think that’s part of the problem,” Yoongi says quietly, his head turned away. Jimin’s eyes widen. “I think you’re in too deep, Jimin. When you should have poured all that sentiment into your performance, you directed it towards something-”

“Something called love.” Jimin’s voice wavers, a hint of resignation creeping into his tone, and Yoongi almost reels backwards. This is the first time the dancer has confessed his true feelings for him out loud. But Jimin is finally beginning to understand. “I love you, Yoongi.” Because he may love the impresario, may want to pursue something real with him. But Yoongi will only pursue the aesthetic ideal he is infatuated with.

Yoongi’s jaw goes slack. “Jimin, you know that I-”

“Don’t, Mr Min.” Jimin gathers his belongings, his face devoid of emotion. “I thought we really had something, and that it mattered to you just as much as it mattered to me. I was prepared to be your masterpiece, your magnum opus, because it made you happy. Because you wanted it. But I don’t think you ever wanted me.”

I did. I do. But Yoongi’s reply dies on his lips. He cannot seem to shake himself out of the stupor the dancer’s words have induced, and he merely watches, limp with disbelief as Jimin strides towards the doors.

“I’m not sure I can do this. After all, what good is an Antony who cannot be moved by emotion?”

This parting remark resounds in Yoongi’s head, and it does not take him long to fathom the implications the statement carries. Theirs is a tragedy not because Yoongi is immune to feeling. It is a tragedy precisely because he isn’t, because he is the Antony in this story. But he is an Antony so preoccupied with generating emotion that he has lost sight of what matters the most: the feelings, the sensitivity, of his Cleopatra. Of Jimin. He has snuffed out the dancer’s intensity to the extent that he can no longer offer him what Yoongi so desperately sought.

And when Jimin walks out the door, Yoongi knows it in his heart.

This time, he has pushed the dancer too far.

    ***

The sterile walls present a garish contrast to the brightly clad nurses who shuffle from one ward to the next, chattering and attempting to lift the spirits of the feeble patients entrusted to their care. Yoongi navigates his way through the cloistered partitions and hallways, following the doctor who leads him to the man he is here to see. Halting before a door, he turns to the impresario.

“He’s particularly lucid today. You’ve come on a good day, Mr Min,” he says good-naturedly, offering him a blinding smile. Yoongi stifles the urge to shield his eyes. “Just be careful not to mention any sensitive issues.”

Yoongi nods, pushing open the door to enter a room as empty as his heart feels at the moment. Since his altercation with Jimin, the producer is in a state of flux, and the only way he can sort through his jumbled emotions, or lack thereof, is by speaking to the one man who might understand him best and offer him some clarity. Yoongi knows it is selfish, but he can see no other option.

Seated in a high-backed chair which faces a blooming garden, Vaslav Nijinsky raises a gaunt arm in greeting. “Min fucking Yoongi. Didn’t think I’d ever see you rascal again.” The former dancer looks like an emaciated shell of his previous, charming self, and Yoongi cannot blame him. Having both your heart and your career simultaneously shatter tends to do that to a person.

“Mr Nijinsky,” Yoongi greets politely, plopping into the chair beside him. “How have you been?”

Nijinsky waves away the formalities. “Please. Call me Vaslav. Mr Nijinsky makes me sound like some old wanker.” Winking at Yoongi, he grins. “I’d at least like to maintain a semblance of illusion.”

The producer chuckles. The doctor wasn’t wrong. Nijinsky seems to be distinctly himself today, his face breaking into a smile Yoongi recalls so well. Even though it has been almost a decade.

“I’m surprised you still remember me.” Titling his head, he studies Nijinsky curiously. “I thought you’d relinquish all memories associated with the Ballet Russes.”

The former dancer shakes his head, nostalgia creeping into his eyes. “How could I? When that place was what gave me wings. When he-” Nijinsky chokes up, but recovers quickly, “-made me into what I am.”

“What you are doesn’t look very good right now,” Yoongi says bluntly, eliciting a booming laugh from his sickly companion.

“True, but you know very well what I mean. And how could I forget the brilliant protegee who seems to be holding his own very well?” When Yoongi’s brows crease in confusion, the dancer chuckles. “News travels fast around here. I heard you had inherited the ownership of the Ballet Russes.”

Yoongi bites his lip. “Speaking of news, he died a few years ago,” he informs in a low voice, trying to avoid aggravating the dancer. “Did you know?”

Nijinsky nods slowly. “I did. It caused a huge furore. Difficult to miss, chéri.”

The word incites a pang in Yoongi’s chest, and his throat constricts. When he had first met Park Jimin, the producer had had no idea what the dancer would come to mean to him. I guess it was never just the aesthetic ideal.

Nijinsky seems to notice the change in his demeanour. Raising a greying eyebrow, he strokes his chin. “But there is something else you wish to discuss, yes?”

Yoongi inhales deeply, praying that whatever he is about to confide to Nijinsky doesn’t affect the dancer. If rumours are to be believed, his schizophrenia seems to be worsening, and the last thing the producer wants is to exacerbate it.

“Yoongi, it’s okay,” the dancer’s voice assures softly. “I can’t help myself but the least I can do is help someone else avoid a similar fate. So talk to me.” Once the producer does, relaying the specifics of his story, Nijinsky whistles. “Talk about history repeating itself.”

“Hoseok told me, he practically begged me to be careful but I ignored all his warnings.” Yoongi clenches his fist. “I’m an idiot.”

Nijinsky smiles indulgently. “So was I.” Settling comfortably in his chair, he gazes out the window, as if about to recount a wistful tale. “When Sergei first told me he loved me, I believed him.” This time, the dancer’s voice remains steady as he invokes the name of the deceased impresario for the first time in years. “He told me I was beautiful, that I danced like no one else had, like no one else could. It was only when I was already in too deep when I realized that what he was trying to pursue was artistic fulfilment. I didn’t hold that against him, not at first at least. But then he got crueller, driving me to the brink of mental breakdowns just because I could no longer seem to be able to fit the ideal he was cultivating in that brilliant mind of his.”

“Didn’t you hate him?” Yoongi ventures, a little uncertainly. “He’s a major reason for your condition.”

Nijinsky’s smile is melancholic. “Oh, I hated him alright. Despised him even. But my love for him always conquered the negative emotions festering within me. Unfortunately, I quickly realized that love wouldn’t sustain me in a cutthroat industry. And so I left before things got worse. It was the only way to preserve my sanity. Not that it did me much good.” He turns to Yoongi, a subdued smile on his face. “You see, chéri, I loved him too much. And I would’ve done anything to make him happy, even if it meant selling my soul to the devil himself. But I never once realized that the devil in my story was always Diaghilev and that I already had surrendered my soul to him.”

“Vaslav,” Yoongi begins, his voice falling a few octaves. “I think I’m headed down the same path. I fear I’ve become too much like him.”

But the dancer shakes his head. “The very fact that you’re aware of that sets you apart from him. You’re no Diaghilev, Min Yoongi. You’re just a man who thinks only art can fill his empty soul. And now that you have something, someone, truly fulfilling in your life, you’re afraid of embracing it. Diaghilev craved only artistic success. But you, chéri.” Nijinsky cups Yoongi’s face, staring into his eyes. “You crave him. You crave everything he is, everything he was, everything he can and will be. And that, Yoongi, is what you call love.”

The solemnity in Nijinsky’s voice seeps through Yoongi’s skin and he wants nothing more than to believe him. “But even if that’s true, it’s too late, Vaslav. I’ve succeeded in pushing him away.”

Nijinsky’s eyes twinkle. “Don’t be too sure about that, chéri. It’s never too late.”

“And I’m sorry. I know it can’t have been easy to revisit all these…feelings,” Yoongi states apologetically, bowing his head. “I’ve always been selfish.”

But Nijinsky only waves him away. “Please. You’re no more selfish than Sergei was compassionate. And as for these feelings…” he trails off, a resolute look in his eyes. “I think purging myself of them is my path to salvation. I was going to have to talk about them sooner or later. So don’t you dare apologize.”

Yoongi embraces the man, something in his soul beginning to comprehend the gravity of his words. Before he turns to leave, he hesitates, wondering if he should ask the question which has plagued him for a while now. Gearing up his courage, he goes ahead. “Vaslav, do you miss him?”

Nijinsky’s face remains serene, almost passive, and if Yoongi hadn’t been vigilant, he would’ve missed the pain which momentarily flickers in the dancer’s eyes.

“Every day, chéri. Every day.”

  ***

“So,” Hoseok begins, his voice dripping with suspicion, “I couldn’t help but notice Jimin missing all day today.” Seated in Yoongi’s office, he fixes the producer with a level gaze which belies his tension though his nervous fidgeting threatens to give him away. Namjoon and Seokjin have occupied the sofa, their eyes flitting between Yoongi and Hoseok, ready to intervene should the need arise. “The showcase is tomorrow, you know.”

Yoongi sighs, knowing full well that he cannot conceal what has transpired between him and the dancer just a day ago. He also knows that Hoseok will most likely flip after he confesses. “Jimin and I had a falling out yesterday.”

Silence.

Not a single sound fills the office; Namjoon and Seokjin exchange worried glances; Hoseok continues staring at Yoongi, torn between lunging at his friend and maintaining his quickly floundering composure.

“So let me get this straight,” the choreographer finally says, shattering the eerie silence. The twilight accords his face a sinister look and Yoongi knows what is coming. “You had a falling out with our lead dancer two fucking days before the showcase.” And then he finally bursts. “What the fuck happened, Yoongi?” Namjoon instantly leaps to his feet, striding towards Hoseok to lay a restraining hand on his arm should his friend decide to jostle Yoongi right then and there.

Seokjin raises his palm. “With all due respect, even I’d like to know.” When Namjoon frowns at him, the singer merely raises an eyebrow. “What? It is a legitimate question. I mean, the showcase is tomorrow.”

Hoseok shakes his head almost violently, but his voice is calmer when he repeats, “What the fuck happened between you two?”

“What you feared would happen.” The producer’s voice is quiet, his thoughts suspended in what seems like a surreal reality where nothing seems to matter. “I pushed him too far.” And he’s probably never coming back. Yoongi’s mind is mired in a whirlpool of images, all of which are remnants of Jimin; his tinkling laugh, his touch, the way his eyes crinkled when he bestowed Yoongi with one of those dazzling smiles. His reassurances that Yoongi wasn’t Diaghilev and that he wouldn’t fuck up. Well, he thinks repentantly, so much for that.

Hoseok finally simmers down. “Yoongi…”

“You can make it right, Yoongi. Go apologize to him and-”

“Wouldn’t work,” he interrupts Seokjin. “I’ve broken my promises one too many times.” He recollects a conversation, an argument rather, which had occurred before their final falling out. You’ve got a mouthful of diamonds, Min Yoongi, Jimin had said, his eyes clouded with anguish, and a pocketful of broken promises.

“So what are we going to do?” Namjoon’s voice, still and calm, his expression thoughtful. “If there’s no possibility of Jimin doing the show, then we’ll have to consider a replacement if that’s even an option at this point.”

Yoongi nods. “He has an understudy, Lee Taemin. He’s rehearsed with Jimin regularly so he should be familiar with the routine.”

“I’ll go inform Jeongyeon,” Hoseok says, rising. His eyes are sympathetic and Yoongi has to turn away. “Hopefully, they can practice a little before tomorrow rolls around.”

Seokjin walks over to Yoongi, squeezing his shoulder. “It’ll be okay. You’ll figure it out.”

“You always do,” Namjoon adds kindly with a smile, raising an arm in salute.

But this time, Yoongi is not so certain.

     ***

Jimin answers the door, half expecting Yoongi to be leaning against the doorway with a bouquet of flowers, fixing him with his usual cocky smile which sends tingles down the dancer’s spine. But to his surprise, he finds himself staring at Jeongyeon who, not surprisingly, waves a bottle of champagne in his face.

“What the fuck, Jeongyeon? It’s not even 3 in the afternoon,” Jimin points out blearily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “And shouldn’t you be at the Palais right about now?” Ever since his dispute with Yoongi, the dancer has remained cooped up in his apartment, with even Taehyung failing to elicit any reaction from his friend. Ultimately, the artist had given up trying to barrel the dancer out the door; instead, he and Jungkook had spent their time trying to cheer him up. Unfortunately, that had only made things worse.

Jeongyeon’s grin is carefree. “The program begins at 6.” She squints at him, her lips thinning. Barging into the apartment, her wavy hair bouncing as she brushes past Jimin, she points at him. “You aren’t really planning on skipping the showcase, are you?” The dancer rolls his eyes, shutting the door behind her.

He plops onto the chair facing the settee his fellow dancer has made herself at home on, the bottle of champagne resting on the table between them. “I was going to wallow a little and then return,” he says sarcastically. “What do you think, Jeongyeon?”

But his friend studies him intently, a hint of something Jimin cannot recognize creeping into her eyes. “No.” When Jimin spreads his arms in confusion, she merely shrugs. “I know you enough to know that no matter what, you’d have come. Because you’re Park Jimin, and because you wouldn’t give up this easily. It’s not in your nature.”

“Then why are you here?”

Jeongyeon grins. “Just to make sure.” Rising, she saunters towards the windows, inhaling the aroma of freshly baked croissants wafting in the air. “He pushes all his dancers to their limits, you know,” she says quietly, her eyes observing a bunch of kids dancing to the tune of a banjo on the crowded street. “You’re not the only one.”

“I know.” Jimin walks over to stand beside her. “But I am the only one who is, was, in a relationship with him, if it can even be called that. It wasn’t just the ideals he imposed on me, Jeongyeon, or the fact that he wanted me to be better than the rest. It’s like he thought of me as his salvation, as something that can enthral and rivet people, only a vessel for his emotions.”

Jeongyeon shakes her head, turning to face him. “No, Jimin. The monsieur adores you. Everyone can see that. And I think it’s because he loves you that he felt like you were the one thing that could give him what he wanted: a chance to really feel.” When Jimin doesn’t answer, she refocuses her gaze on the scenes unfurling in the bustling alleyway. “Before you arrived, all Min Yoongi cared about was the prosperity of the Ballet Russes, and he was willing to do anything to attain that goal. Which is why he drove us mad with his instructions and directives. But when he met you, it was like he really began to experience the beauty that is this art form, the magic it can create, the sensations it can evoke. He really lived those emotions, Jimin.” She nudges him playfully. “You were the missing ingredient, and I guess he didn’t want to lose that. Thus, his tendency to turn into an asshole.”

Despite everything, Jimin laughs, prompting a similar reaction from Jeongyeon. “We’re two very different people, aren’t we?”

“Some might call it destiny though,” she teases, and Jimin allows himself a subdued smile. “I know this is the last thing you want right now, but this Cleopatra needs her Antony.” She coos at him, blinking rapidly in an attempt to seem convincing. “Come back please?”

Jimin sighs, his conviction wavering. “Even if I do come back, Jeongyeon, I don’t think I can stay.”

She only loops her elbow through his, winking at him. “Maybe so. But isn’t that precisely why you should go out with a bang?”

    ***

Hoseok whistles, surveying the glittering crowd pouring in through the massive double doors of the Etoile de Palais. The auditorium has been decorated with a fervour matching that of the dancers warming up in the alcoves, gearing up for the performance which begins in about half an hour. Running one last glance over the shimmering space resplendent with life and lustre, the choreographer makes his way towards the dressing room.

Entering the space abuzz with activity and last minute preparations, Hoseok finds Namjoon and Seokjin dispensing their wisdom to a few nervous dancers, Taehyung and Jungkook huddled around them, while Yoongi studies the scene with a blank expression. And when the choreographer does not find the person he is looking for, panic begins to set in.

“Someone want to tell me where Jeongyeon is?” he asks carefully, gaze flitting over the gathered dancers.

A tall man, clad in a gleaming outfit with glossy hair to complement it, shakes his head. “We’ve been wondering the same thing. She left a few hours ago saying she had to pick something up,” Lee Taemin clarifies, his handsome features mirroring Hoseok’s concern.

Yoongi folds his arm over his chest, and Hoseok thinks his friend looks way too calm. Maybe he’s finally lost it. Turning to an exotic-looking woman with lustrous black hair, he motions to her. “Hwasa, I think you’re going to have to-”

“Please don’t fire us just yet!”

All heads turn in the direction of Jeongyeon’s voice. The dancer stands in the doorway of the dressing room, her chest heaving. Yoongi’s mind goes blank when his gaze lands on the figure beside her.

 Jimin.

“Jimin!” Taehyung exclaims gleefully, almost knocking Jungkook aside in his haste to reach his friend.

“I’m going to perform,” the dancer says firmly, a determined gleam in his eyes. His words elicit a collective gasp from everyone in the room, relieved and happy smiles breaking out over their faces.

“Oh thank fuck,” Namjoon says bluntly, and Seokjin giggles at the expression on the composer’s face. “Hoseok was on the verge of having a serious breakdown.”

Hoseok simply walks over to Jeongyeon, a reverent look on his face as he stares at the dancer who seems to blush under his attention. “Yoo Jeongyeon, I could kiss you right now.”

“Oh please do,” she mutters, causing Jungkook and Momo to snicker from where they have been watching the entire action unfold with growing amusement.

“Okay that’s enough of that,” Seokjin finally says, raising his palms. “I think we should all take our positions.” His eyes flit between Yoongi and Jimin, and he begins ushering everyone out the door. “Let’s give them a minute, shall we?”

Once the door slams shut behind the last of the dancers, Jimin looks Yoongi square in the eyes. “Just to be clear, I didn’t come back for you.”

And despite everything, Yoongi laughs. The very fact that Jimin is here seems to assail his fraying nerves, seems to let him see the light at the end of the tunnel. “Oh, mon cœur.” And Jimin cannot help the sigh which escapes his lips. “You wouldn’t be you if you had.”

They stand there in silence then, their gazes locked, their emotions spiralling. Minutes elapse but neither of them knows what to say. Until Jimin finally clears his throat. His eyes fixed on Yoongi, he says the words he has been dreading, words which have been lodged in his throat ever since he got here.

“When I dance, Yoongi, I want you to watch me carefully. I want you to watch me like your soul depends on it.”

Yoongi doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe.

“Because it may be the last time.”

   ***
When the curtains rise, the crowd watches with bated breath, captivated by the elegance exuded by the performers. Jeongyeon’s Cleopatra is graceful, ravishing. And Jimin’s Antony is beautiful.

Every spin, every pirouette, speaks of emotion and passion and a love which is so strong it rattles the stars. It certainly rattles Yoongi’s heart as he watches them from his private pew, watching Jimin as he has been instructed to: like his soul depends on it.

Jimin moves like the wind, dances like the air, floats like the breeze. He smiles and laughs and cries, his arms beckoning and luring, his eyes alluring and hypnotising and Yoongi falls, falls, all over again, losing himself in the heady ecstasy that is Park Jimin. The impresario doesn’t look away, he cannot, not when Jimin pours his blood and sweat into a performance which knocks all the breath out of him. And it is as if the dancer knows exactly where Yoongi is, for his gaze flickers towards the pew for the entire duration of the showcase, his eyes flooded with an emotion Yoongi knows clouds his own. Park Jimin drains him of every last drop of his devastating, overwhelming feelings, and Yoongi lets him till his legs almost threaten to give way. The dancer exceeds every expectation the impresario could have ever had of him.  

It ends too quickly.

As the astounded crowd begins to filter out the auditorium, marveling at the miracle that has unfurled onstage just minutes ago, Yoongi stands there, still gasping, still reeling. Still full of Park Jimin.

And when said man taps him on the shoulder, all Yoongi wants to do is envelop him in his arms. Instead, he settles for saying, “You were terrific, mon cœur. You outshone them all.”

Jimin smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Yoongi.” And somehow, the producer knows exactly what is coming next. “But I think I need to leave.”

Pain stings him like a knife. “Jimin-”

“Just hear me out,” the dancer interrupts, tugging at Yoongi until he is finally facing Jimin. The dancer looks even more beautiful up close, his silver hair windblown, his face flushed with colour. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stay here while things between us are still…raw.”

Yoongi acknowledges the truth in the words, but he cannot bring himself to accept it. Jimin gave him something he didn’t even know was missing. And now, he is going to be left with a void all over again, bereft of the one thing that seems to have given his life purpose. “But that doesn’t mean you have to leave.”

“Yes, Yoongi, it does.” Every word sends fresh waves of agony rolling through his skin but Jimin goes on, “Right now, we both want very different things from life. Surely, you must see that.”

Yoongi does. And it kills him.

“And if I stay,” Jimin continues, “I’m never going to be able to discover what dancing means to me as a person, not just as an artist. I’ll always try to put you before myself. I love you, Yoongi, but I love me, too. And I’m putting myself first until I can figure out what I really want.”

And despite the finality that resounds in every word, Yoongi smiles. Because Jimin was never Nijinsky. And he was never Diaghilev.

“You love me?” Yoongi asks, his fingers intertwining with Jimin’s. The dancer closes the distance between them.

“With everything I have.” Resting his forehead against Yoongi’s, Jimin closes his eyes. “Do you understand why I have to do this?”

Yes, mon cœur, I finally understand. But Yoongi doesn’t say this out loud. Instead he burrows his head in Jimin’s shoulder, inhaling the scent that is so distinctly his, the scent which he will always carry in his heart.

And it is only when Jimin walks out the door of the Ballet Russes for what will be a long, long time, does Yoongi realize that he has not once told the dancer that he loves him too.

 ***

3 months later

“Alright, that’s it for today, kids!” Jimin announces, wiping the sweat from his forehead and grinning at the excited kids gathered around him. “Go home and remember to practice what we’ve learnt.” He smiles at the choruses of assent which echo in the childrens’ wake as they tumble out the door of the dance academy he has joined.

After his brief stint at the Ballet Russes, the dancer had been recruited by Mademoiselle Solar, the striking proprietor of a newly inaugurated dance school. Greatly impressed by Jimin’s skills and upon hearing of his sudden but necessary departure from his previous establishment, she had made him an offer which Jimin couldn’t refuse. The dancer viewed it as a refreshing opportunity to step out of the limelight and engage in a different method of approaching the art form which will always excite his passion.

As he collects all his belongings, preparing to exit the studio, a figure obstructs his path. His eyes meet that of the gorgeous owner of the school, a smile forming on his lips as he greets her. “Mademoiselle Solar.”

“Please, Jimin. How many times have I asked you to drop the formalities?” She leans against the door, a goofy grin on her pretty face. Solar’s long hair is pinned at the nape of her neck, and a summer dress encases her willowy frame. “I’m happy to see you getting along with the kids.”

Jimin smiles, hefting his bag over his shoulder. “The kids are amazing. And this has been a good way for me to unwind.”

“Then might you consider accepting a more permanent post?” She bats her eyelids, joining her hands. “I’ll even teach you the art of pole dancing for free.”

The dancer laughs, the sound reverberating within the hollow space as he begins to stride out the door. “I think I’m more suited to be a dancer than a teacher.” He throws her a grin over his shoulder. “As for the pole dancing, I think that’s your domain, Solar.”

Solar chuckles, following him as they walk down the hallway. The sound of a piano reaches his ears and Jimin raises an eyebrow, halting before the door to the room where the music equipment is stored. “Who’s that?”

“Oh, I’ve found a piano teacher.” Solar says quickly, and something in her tone bothers Jimin. “I was looking for one, remember? Now, you’ll have some good music to accompany your routines. And speaking of which, maybe it’s a good idea to acquaint yourself with him.”

Jimin quirks an eyebrow. “Solar, what’s going on here?”

Rolling her eyes, she pushes Jimin towards the door. “You ask too many questions, Jimin. Just go in.” Solar pulls it open, shoving him into the room. “You can thank me later.” And before Jimin can respond, she disappears down the corridor with him standing before the piano awkwardly. His view of the player is blocked owing to the headboard, but he decides to introduce himself anyway.

“Bonjour, I’m Park Jimin,” he says politely, “I work here as a temporary dance teacher.” The person emits a chuckle, and all the blood drains from Jimin’s face. He would recognize that sound anywhere.

Yoongi.

“Oh, mon cœur.” Yoongi rises, and Jimin’s knees wobble. “I know exactly who you are.”

Jimin’s vision blurs, and he doesn’t know if it is because of the sight before him or because of the tears he feels close to shedding. Three whole months without any news of the producer has left the dancer bereft of all emotion. In the initial days following his exit from the Ballet Russes, his memories with Yoongi coloured every aspect of his life. It was like a permanent mirage, a fixture which wouldn’t splinter no matter how hard he tried.

And now, Yoongi is standing before him and Jimin doesn’t dare to breathe.

“How did you find me?” His voice sounds foreign to his own ears, and he is rooted to the spot, a wave of nostalgia and want threatening to topple him.

Yoongi smiles, ambling towards Jimin slowly. “As always, cajoled Taehyung into telling me. He still works with the Ballet Russes, you know. He was persistent in evading all my questions regarding you. But he finally relented when I told him what I’m about to tell you, what I should’ve told you a very long time ago.”

Jimin’s body begins to move of its own accord, eliminating the space between their bodies little by little. “And what is that?” he almost whispers, his fingers reaching out. Even now, after all this time.

“I love you, Jimin.”

Jimin’s lips tremble as Yoongi finally reaches him, his fingers intertwining with the dancer’s. And this time when they kiss, it is fireworks and snowstorms and pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place. A world finally beginning to regain colour and warmth and life. And love.

Pulling away, Yoongi traces Jimin’s face, his fingers trailing over his eyes, his cheeks, his lips. “I had coaxed the answer to your whereabouts out of Taehyung a while back. I just asked him to keep a secret for me.” Realization dawns on Jimin’s face; that would explain why his friend had been so cagy around him lately. He’d assumed it had something to do with his blossoming relationship with Jungkook.

“Then why did it take you so long to…” he trails off, averting his gaze, unsure of how to continue.

“To come see you?” Yoongi grips his chin gently, titling his head so Jimin is facing him again. “Because I was scared, mon cœur. Because I didn’t know what I’d say to you even if I did manage to see you. Because like you, I needed some time.”

Confusion flickers in the eyes Yoongi has missed so much. “What changed?”

“I’ve had some time to think, Jimin,” Yoongi says solemnly, “And I’ve realized that I’d been an idiot. For you see, mon cœur, it wasn’t just the Ballet Russes you took by storm. It was also my heart.” Jimin’s breathing stills, but the producer continues, “I was just blinded by my ambition which kept me from realizing that I’d fallen in love with you right from the start, before you’d even performed, before you even stepped a single foot onstage.” Cupping Jimin’s cheeks, he stares into the dancer’s eyes. “Don’t you see, Jimin? It was you. You, who are so compassionate and wild and kind and warm. You, Jimin, who walked into my office and breathed life back into my soul.”

Jimin’s throat constricts, his lips quivering. His eyes are bright with unshed tears. “Yoongi.” My heart.

Yoongi strokes his cheek, his own eyes welling up. “Jimin, I love you. I think I have since the minute I first laid eyes on you.”

“Who knew the impresario of the Ballet Russes could be so incredibly sappy,” Jimin teases, his voice catching even though he attempts to laugh. Yoongi chuckles, wrapping his arms tighter around the dancer’s waist. A thought strikes Jimin. “Speaking of which, Solar said you’re the new piano teacher? The Ballet Russes-”

“Is in Namjoon and Seokjin’s more than capable hands. And they have Hoseok to help,” Yoongi reassures him, placing a kiss on Jimin’s forehead. “I think I have my own soul-searching to do, mon cœur.”

Jimin smiles, his heart full with Yoongi, with his touch, with his gaze which makes the rest of the world fade away until all he can feel is him. And Yoongi admires the wonder that is Park Jimin, his weary spirit reinvigorated, his mind finally beginning to slow its relentless pacing as he drowns in an abyss he never wants to emerge from.

Park Jimin has invaded every crevice, every crack in his soul, mending, healing, loving. His heart is finally, finally at peace. Because he finally has what he has always craved even if he didn’t know it himself: a love which is a masterpiece in itself.

And so this time, when Jimin asks him playfully, “So, who does our new piano teacher fancy? Beethoven or Tchaikovsky?” Yoongi does not hesitate. This time, he tells Jimin exactly what he is thinking, what he is feeling, what he has been feeling for a long time. His fingers tighten their hold over the dancer’s, Jimin’s smile setting his heart on fire.

“You, mon cœur, only you.” Always you.