Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There's a tradition at the ÉAL where a student is chosen annually to dance and represent the work of the Black Swan. It’s a show called La Maison du Cygne Noir (The House of the Black Swan), a classic piece that I’ve been good enough to be picked for five years in a row. Needless to say, this year can’t be any different.

My senior year. The year when all students get together for a big group project. Big deal.

You know, what's more horrible in the world than a bunch of American football players invading our dance studio to learn classical ballet? It's humiliating.

And it wouldn't be worse if we didn't have to join the music nerds. They can't dance either.

Anyway.

I’m lying on my boyfriend’s bed — my love, Drew, the quarterback.

We’ve been dating for two years, and honestly, I think we’re going to get married. That is, of course, if we survive this ridiculous year.

I’d move heaven and earth to be in the same group as him, but at the same time, I’d make a pact with the devil just to avoid having to go through this by his side.

I know I sound dramatic, but years of ballet training have taught me that this art isn’t for everyone. It’s much more delicate and graceful than running after a ball and punching your buddies. Those players wouldn’t have the grace of a plié even if they were reincarnated.

"Sweetheart, we have to go." He says, making a pout, which I promptly kiss with sweetness.

"And who said I want to? I want to stay here with you, just listening to your voice."

He laughs softly, running his fingers over my cheek as if he wants to remember every detail. Then, he tightens his grip on my waist and pulls me back, and I fit against his chest as if it has always been my place.

"Taennie, does the idea of me dancing your dance scare you that much?"

"Dr. Stark, nothing scares me more than the idea of you in pointe shoes."

"That's because you haven't seen me in a leotard yet." He replies, laughing, but the laugh soon fades. "But seriously... I'm kind of worried about the final games."

That catches me off guard. I pull back just enough to look into his eyes — and there it is. Drew Starkey, the kid who always wanted to be as invincible as his father, now afraid of disappointing him all over again.

“Drew..."

“It’s just… some students are standing out more lately. The coach’s been looking at me differently. I know it’s just end-of-season pressure, but…” He shrugs, like he’s trying to downplay it, and falls silent.

God, I love Drew. But I hate the way he hides everything, always trying to seem strong. I just wish I could hold him the same way he holds me when I’m falling apart.

"Baby, look at me." I say, holding his face in my hands. "There's no final game without you. You carry that team on your back. You always have. They only shine because you taught them how it's done."

His light eyes shine. And my heart aches — because I can’t take that worry away, not even for a second. So I kiss him softly, like a promise that I’m here.

This morning, he woke me up with breakfast in bed and a new pair of pointe shoes. Along with it came a handwritten note: “So you remember I’m always cheering for you — even when I have no idea what you’re doing with your feet.”

He thinks I’ve been anxious about the final performance, but with him by my side, I couldn’t be less worried. We’re both scared — but I have him, and he has me. And somehow, that makes everything feel lighter.

Even the idea of a quarterback in a tutu sounds like a possible plan.

As soon as he lets me leave the bed, I get up and get ready quickly, mixing his clothes with mine before heading to school alone — Drew still needs time to get his bags in order, which, thank God, I don’t have to worry about.

Living in a boarding school is way more complicated than it seems. The end of every break is a total mess of suitcases and a tiring, boring routine shift.

And to make things worse, I still have to share a room.

As if teaching ogres how to dance wasn’t enough, now I also have to deal with the mess they bring into my personal space.

Terrible.

🐋

As I walk through the boarding school hallways, everything feels way too loud.

The scent of cleaning products mixed with expensive perfumes fills my nose, reminding me how hard this place tries to seem fancier than it really is.

Suitcases slam into corners, wheels race across the floor, and people hug like they didn’t spend the whole semester hating each other.

I walk slowly, trying to find the meeting room, but it feels like I’m just walking and walking and getting nowhere.

As soon as I arrived in the room, I was surprised: the sacred linoleum floor was being desecrated by dozens of dirty shoes.

Breathe. Inhale. Don’t freak out.

The group division will take place in the main studio — the biggest room in the school, with walls and ceiling covered from end to end in mirrors.

There’s nothing but mirrors and barre here, as if the school wanted to remind us of every flaw all the time.

This is where classes happen, but there are mini versions of this same studio scattered throughout the hallways.

So no matter where you run, there will always be a reflection of you doing a crooked grand plié.

I see Jimin and rush to sit next to him.

“Look who just showed up. Morning, Swan,” he whispers with a mocking smile, nudging me with his shoulder.

I roll my eyes but can’t help smiling too.

“Morning, Not-Swan.”

And the moment I do, the principal starts speaking:

“Good morning, students. Welcome to your final school year! To the newcomers, my name is Meryl Streep. I’ve been running this institution for over twenty years and know each one of you well — so don’t get into too much trouble.”

She smiles, and everyone laughs.

Meryl. My grandmother. Feared more than anyone else at this school, but she makes the best rice cakes in the world. It’s funny to see her in this confident, strict, bossy role. Meanwhile, to me, she’s my safe haven.

“As you probably already know, we’ll be keeping the group project for the final year. I know many of you wonder why it’s necessary, but it’s simpler than it seems. I want you to get to know each other, interact with other arts, and learn new techniques. And for that, the chosen course is classical ballet, where the football players and musicians will be able — and expected — to participate in the activities. The group draws will begin shortly. But first, I want to introduce your new dance teacher: Miss Julianne Moore.’

And only then do I notice an unfamiliar face next to Grandma. A sharp, serious, and stern face.

Good Lord.

“Good morning, students,” the new witch begins, with a heavy Russian accent. “This year, I’ll be your instructor. I’m looking forward to starting practice soon.”

She smiles with her eyes, but not with her mouth. Creepy.

“What an awful accent,” I whisper to Jimin.

“She’s the new student’s mother. They say he’s the best at ballet so far,” he replies, as if announcing the apocalypse has begun.

Right after, he points to the new student and says his name is Min Yoongi. With narrow, dark eyes, his face is identical to his mother’s — an expression so stern it looks like it was carved from discipline and zero affection. Honestly, I can’t even imagine that face smiling. Like, do his facial muscles even know how? He stands there, completely still, with perfect posture. He radiates the energy of a ballerina about to faint if anyone dares breathe near the lead role. Like an angel cast out of heaven. But soon, he’ll find out he’s fallen straight into another kind of hell.

I’m pulled out of my daydream when Jimin nudges me, discreetly pointing to my grandmother, who is announcing the start of the group draws.

“I want to make one thing clear: changing groups is not allowed. You were chosen by fate to work together. So, just do it.”

And then she starts. It’s almost comical — or tragic — the disappointment written on every student’s face with each new name announced.

The only thing that really makes me anxious is the choice for the Black Swan.

I always thought that role was mine by divine right — by talent, effort, history, and name. But now… I’m not so sure anymore.

Being the Black Swan isn’t just about ego (OK, maybe a little). It’s about being seen. Being in the spotlight. It’s proving to myself, my grandmother, and my mother that I’m everything they expected. And more.

If I don’t get this role, it’ll feel like I’m not good enough even where, theoretically, I’m supposed to be unbeatable.

And there’s one very serious thing about ballet: never — ever — underestimate the Russians.

They dance like they sold their souls to the devil in exchange for eternal stardom.

I’ve seen Russians who barely spoke the language of the country where they studied (or taught), but they spun around like they were born twirling.

Since then, I’ve developed a serious allergy to that accent.

“Group 4: Park Jimin, Kim Seokjin, Jung Hoseok, Jeon Jungkook, Min Yoongi, Kim Namjoon, and Kim Taehyung.”

Ji hugs me so tight I can barely feel my lungs working anymore.

It was our dream to do this group project together.

And that’s what I thought when I threatened to kill myself just to convince my grandmother to bend the rules a little on the draw.

But I’m gonna let him believe it was all a coincidence. Law of attraction, right?

“Oh my God, we’re finally together!” he says like we haven’t been stuck to each other forever.

“I swear, it’s God’s doing. I’m even gonna give your grandma a hug later.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Ji. Besides Hoseok, we’ve got four strangers.”

“Jungkook plays with Drew, so he’s not that much of a stranger. And I’m sharing a room with Seokjin; Namjoon’s his boyfriend. I think our only real problem is that Yoongi guy. He doesn’t seem friendly at all.”

And again, my face turns to the new student. The unfriendly face. But I’m surprised he’s looking at me. I get chills seeing that. Jesus… he really is a Lucifer project — with all due respect, of course.

“You know what," gossip for Jimin, "he’s definitely super protected by his mom. She must be his trainer. Look at her! She’s like those teachers who sit on kids when they’re learning to do the splits.”

“Oh, yeah. If I were you, I’d start worrying.”

Jimin, darling, I’m already worried, okay? Damn.

As soon as Meryl finishes announcing the groups — dramatic pause to mention she put Drew with a bunch of flirts. Seriously, where’s the respect for the beloved grandson here? Anyway. — She gets ready to announce the pairs and the solo. The big performance… La Maison du Cygne Noir . So nerve-wracking!

“For group four, we’ll have Jimin and Jungkook, Taehyung and Hoseok, Namjoon and Jin.”

No way.

“And the final soloist, this year’s Black Swan: Min Yoongi.”

I can't believe what I'm hearing.

What do you mean?! Five years of my life thrown away? Because he's the son of the new teacher? Are you serious?

And the most outrageous part: it was my grandmother who let this happen. The woman who watched me rehearse even when I had a fever. And now? Now she's handing over the main role as if it were that easy?

My head is spinning. My senses are scrambled. I must be developing even more of my Russophobia. I can feel it in my blood.

And then, the Soviet wax doll marches to the center of the room, fits in between Meryl and the monster-mom, and starts to talk. Because, of course, it wasn't enough to steal the part, he also wants to make a speech. How cute...

"Good afternoon, everyone," he begins, with an accent ten times heavier than Julianne's. "It is an honor to conclude my school period at this institution, and an even greater honor to be able to close it with a bang. I hope you all feel well-represented by me. I will do my best to represent this school perfectly well. Thank you."

I feel a sudden, desperate urge to vomit. I run out of the room before I decide to throw myself out the only window. I hear Jimin calling me, but I can't. Not now. Not while the humiliation is still fresh in the air.

I quickly head to the only wooded corner that still resists the pollution of this gray city, feeling Drew's steps behind me. Now, in addition to being humiliated, I'll have to be comforted as if I were a five-year-old who fell off the slide.

I feel like throwing myself on the floor and screaming until my throat hurts.

I feel wronged. Because that's what's happening. An injustice. A betrayal. A crime.

So many years rehearsing, performing this presentation to perfection, building a legacy just to have it taken away like that? As if I were bad at what I do?

This is so damn unfair.

And when I realize it, I'm already crying, really crying. I can't believe I'm the ballerina who cries when she loses the part. Who has an emotional breakdown at the first sign of defeat.

"Tannie, what happened?" Drew asks, hugging me with that affection that, for a second, only makes everything worse.

I stay in that hug, trembling with anger and hurt. Feeling ridiculous, wounded, erased. As if I wasn't born for this role.

"I'm not the Swan."

"What do you mean, Taehyung?" He pulls me away to look me in the eyes.

"There's a new student, Yoongi." I explain, sobbing. "Drew, he's the new teacher's son. This is clearly nepotism."

"Tannie..."

He is interrupted by my grandmother, who approaches with firm steps.

"Tata, my love," she says, hugging me. "Don't be like this. You need to listen to me."

"No, Grandma. How could you let this happen?" I ask, pulling away from her. "He just got here this year. You don't even know how he dances. You've never seen him. And you already gave him the part? It's my part."

"Meryl, isn't there a way to solve this?" Drew intervenes, tense.

"No, boys. There's no way I can change this, really. You know, Taehyung, that I can't place you above the institution. It's the teacher who decides who the Black Swan will be. Not me."

"But, Grandma, please. Seriously. Do you really think he deserves it more than me?"

"Taehyung, you are brilliant. I know you're angry. Very angry. I know you. But I can't change this."

"I just thought I was irreplaceable, Grandma..."

The tears return, now calmer. More silent. But they keep falling.

"You are irreplaceable, my angel. But you know how this world works. You will forever be my Swan, Tata... But now, now, I need you to stay calm."

"For fuck's sake," Drew blurts out, visibly irritated. "Any more problems?"

"Starkey, don't talk like that." She says, in a repressive tone. "Yes, there's one more thing."

"Now what else? Did I lose my spot to another Russian? Are they going to steal more from me? And will she let them?"

"Tata, the room division has already been made. And this year we agreed that you and Jimin wouldn't stay in the same room, remember? To be in the same group."

"Yes, Grandma. Why? Am I going to have to sleep with that fucking Russian now?"

The air is heavy. A dry, crushing silence settles in — as if time had stopped on purpose to humiliate me.

"Yeah. And dear Jung Hoseok, right?" she asks, turning to Drew, trying to smooth things over.

He just stares at her. His gaze screams, "that didn't smooth things over at all."

"I can't believe it. My God, Grandma. What did I do to you?"

"Help me, for the love of God." She whispers to Drew.

And she still has the nerve to ask him for help. Him.

She sticks me in a room with that Soviet pirate — who will never, ever, be on my level — and still asks my boyfriend for support? I urgently need to rethink the concept of a "safe harbor grandma."

"Tannie, I know it sucks. But..."

"Who do you all think you are? For God's sake, that Cold War ruined my year. He stole my part. Now I'm going to have to do a group project with him. Sleep with him." I yell. "The only thing missing is for the principal to come here and say I'll have to share a bed too!”

The silence that follows is nauseating. A kind of void followed by a self-answering question.

“Tannie…”

"IT'S NOT POSSIBLE, GRANDMA!"

"Honey... one of the beds still needs to be assembled in the room, but I'll let you both sleep at my house! Look what great news, my sweet!"

I turn my back. I walk away, leaving her to talk to herself. Or rather: talking to her favorite grandson. I discovered today that maybe she loves Drew more than me. After all, nobody tried to steal his part.

🐋

I'm going to my room. I mean, our room. Mine and the Russian's.

Look, I'm not usually this stressed, but this guy is going to find out real quick what he's gotten himself into.

When I get to the door, I almost break it down. Seriously, why leave this damn thing locked?

"Hi, Taehyung! It's good to see you!" Hoseok greets me, trying to sound light.

"Where's that fucking Russian?"

And then, when I turn my face just a little, I come face to face with him. Calm, as if nothing had happened, organizing his side of the closet. I feel like breaking that annoying little nose.

"Did you talk to me?" he asks.

He even has the nerve to be audacious.

"Of course I was talking to you, you import," I say, crossing the room as if it were mine and stopping in front of him.

He folds a pink t-shirt. Pink. Even that annoys me.

"I'm just organizing my things," he replies, without even looking up.

"In my closet?"

"In our closet," he corrects, still calm. As if he hadn't stolen the main role of my show. At my school.

"Taehyung, you need to calm down," Hoseok tries to intervene.

"Calm down? He stole my show. I bet he cried a little to mommy and she just gave him the part."

Now, he finally stops. He closes the closet door and turns to me.

"Maybe I just danced better."

I laugh. A dry, unwilling laugh.

"Of course. The Russian prodigy danced better," I say, taking two steps forward. I'm close. Too close. Close enough to see that he didn't even blink. That makes me even angrier. "Did you dance better or did you have help? Because it's easy to win when the teacher is your mom."

The silence that follows is dense. He presses his lips together. For a second, I thought he was going to reply. But no. He just stares at me. Without anger. Without guilt. Just that look... of pity?

"You know, it's not like you're the only one who can dance. This is art, not a family inheritance. Maybe if you danced with your heart instead of your ego, you would have gotten it."

This freezes me. A second. Half a second. But it's enough.

I take a step back.

"Go to hell, Yoongi."

"Guys, you'd better stop," Hoseok says, placing himself between us, his body turned more toward me, but one of his hands resting casually on the Russian's waist. He looks serious, tired. "I'm going to have to live with you two all year, so you, Taehyung, had better get used to the idea of sharing a room with him."

"I think you guys forgot that couples can't share a room," I say, laughing disdainfully, pointing at how close they are.

"Listen up, Taehyung," Yoongi's voice changes. Less sweet, more cutting. "I got the part because I stood out. If you think I stole it, why don't you try to take it back? Things can change between now and May, right? Try. I want to see you be the Black Swan you talk so much about being."

"I'll try, but I don't want to see you go crying to mommy afterward."

"Like you went to do with your grandma?"

I take a quick step forward. Hoseok holds me firmly, preventing me from advancing.

"That's enough. You two. A room isn't a battlefield. If you want to fight, go outside."

"A room is also no place to be putting on a fake friendship act," I say now, looking directly at Hoseok.

"It's not an act, Taehyung. And what are you going to do? Tell the principal? Oh, I forgot... isn't she your grandma? It looks like you're just as favored as Yoongi."

I hate those two.

I'm staring at Hoseok so closely that I can hear his breathing quicken. But that's not what holds me — it's Yoongi's gaze. Fixed. Convinced. As if he were feeding off my fury. As if everything had gone exactly as he wanted.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I say quietly, just to Hoseok.

"I know, you know," he retorts, firmly but without getting closer.

I take a step back. And another. My eyes go from Hoseok to Yoongi, and back.

"You two deserve each other," I let out, turning my back.

I leave. I slam the door. But the worst part is realizing that, even after all that, I still couldn't wipe that damned victorious look off Yoongi's face.

Chapter Text

I was never exactly hopeful about this year. Deep down, I already knew it would be difficult—senior year, important decisions, pressure from all sides. But what I didn't expect was having to separate two dancers about to punch each other in the middle of the room. I always thought that role belonged to the players, not them.

I've known Taehyung since we were little, from family parties and dinners between our parents. I know his temper is sometimes like a ticking time bomb: you either learn how to defuse it, or it explodes in your face. But Yoongi... I don't know him.

I mean... I think I know him a little more than I should.

I arrived at the boarding school earlier this year because of training, and I didn’t expect him to be here already. Much less that he would be so hot.

He has that Russian way about him. Intense, direct, a little cold — is it fear, or is it his accent that gives me shivers? Or is it more than that? He has this menacing air and, at the same time, a femininity so delicate that it confuses me. It makes me want to protect him from everything and, simultaneously, makes me think that maybe he is exactly what I should fear.

Maybe that's why I held Taehyung back when he advanced. Not just to avoid a fight. But, because... what if Tae touched him. I wasn't ready to see that. Not one bit.

I hear Yoongi moving around on the top bunk. We’re sharing the bunk bed and left the single bed for Tae. Actually, that was my decision. I convinced Yoongi it’d be better this way.

"Good morning, Yoongi!" I say, trying to sound light, even though my mind is already racing.

He grumbles before replying, his voice still thick with sleep:

"Oh my God, how do you manage to wake up happy every day?"

"I don't know, honey. Maybe you should try too."

“Don't call me honey.”

I laugh, softly. He talks like he hates it, but I know he likes it.

I see him coming down from the bed, his bare feet touching the wooden floor with a muffled sound. He's only wearing a sweatshirt — nothing else. And it's impossible not to look. He sits on my bed, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Did the star not sleep here?" he asks, looking at Taehyung's empty bed.

"No. His bed is only going to be made up today," I reply, straightening my back to get a better view of him. Or of his legs. It's unavoidable, I already said.

"But you just have to put on the sheet and pillowcases..." he says, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"I guess you're going to have to get used to it, honey."

"How many do you call that?"

"Only the ones I'm most interested in."

He rolls his eyes, but leans in and gives me a peck on the lips — without ceremony, as if it were a habit. And, in a way, it is. We've been secretly hooking up for a few weeks now. At first, I thought it was just pent-up tension, a post-practice distraction. But now... I don't know anymore.

"I don't want to be called honey, honey."

And then he pulls away. He goes to the bathroom, starts that long routine of his. Hot water, face creams, care in every gesture. I hear everything. The steps. The mirror opening. The faucet. And as I listen, my mind starts racing again. As always, it takes off.

Senior year. The pressure is insane. I need to stand out, I need football, I need my spot at Yale. But how? With dance classes in the middle of all this? Who thought it would be a good idea to force all students to dance? It would be easier if they went to the fields, and not us to the studios.

And now here I am. With rehearsals, games, tests, and two dancers who seem ready to kill each other at any moment. And with this Russian who seems to read my entire being with just one look.

"Why do you have that look on your face?" he asks, reappearing at the bathroom door wearing only a pair of sweatpants. An image that doesn't help my focus at all.

"Thanks for the concern, Yoongi."

"I just wanted to be a sweetheart," he replies with that fake, provocative little smile of his. Sly.

"If I say what's bothering me, I'm going to offend all your art. So I'd rather stay quiet," I say with a voice full of irony, but inside I feel anything but amusement.

"You know, you players really belittle dance. Especially ballet," he retorts quickly, with eyes as sharp as blades. "I hope you feel our pain in every part of your body. Especially in your feet. I want to see your feet fucked up."

I take a deep breath. Of course he was going to make it personal. Of course he was going to attack with that know-it-all attitude, like he's always one step ahead — or one pirouette ahead, I don't know.

My God... It's not going to be easy putting up with two dancers getting on my nerves. Again: whose idea was this? Taehyung is going to wake up without a grandma tomorrow if he keeps this up, and I'm going to end up losing my spot on the team because I can't focus on anything with this Russian parading around in sweatpants in the room.

"Okay, sweetie. It must be really hard to put on a pointe shoe and just jump around," I say with a provocative smile, trying to poke him a little. Seeing him annoyed has a weird charm.

He gives me a death glare. One of those that says, "say that again if you're a man." And I stay quiet. Because the truth is, deep down, I know I wouldn't have half the strength he has. Not in my body, not in my guts.

Yoongi turns his back, adjusts his pants at the waist with a slow, almost theatrical gesture. And for a second, all I think is that I could fall in love with him. Or maybe I already have. Which would be, honestly, a terrible idea.

But there are some things we don't choose.

I don't want to think about it. I can't have another problem.

I see him finish getting ready, grab his things, and leave the room. I also need to go, but I'm lazy.

Nothing could discourage me more than a classical ballet class.

🐋

It is, in fact, disheartening.

The Russian teacher won't stop talking about the importance of art in the current context, especially the art of dance. But, so far, I haven't understood what that context is, or what dance.

I know I'm studying at a school focused on the artistic side and that only has two sports electives, but I'm here for them. Not for classical dance. Honestly? I think this is really unfair. I think Taehyung should be complaining about this — and not about not being able to do a specific set of twirls on stage.

"Jung Hoseok, could you come to the front here and demonstrate a little of your dancing skills?" asks the master ballerina witch.

Shit.

I get up slowly, as if she would change her mind at the sight of this aberration and tell me to sit back down. But, of course, that doesn't happen. So, I keep moving so slowly that it looks like I'm not doing anything at all.

And just as calmly, she says:

"Quick, Hoseok."

I'm going to kill myself in front of this old woman.

I look for Yoongi's gaze in search of a little mercy, but on the way I meet eyes with my so-called friends. They're red-faced, struggling not to laugh. My God... I can't take this. Only Russians have this ability to turn everything into an elegant torture.

I get to the middle of the room and start to improvise with what little I know about dance. Which, basically, means I'm slowly grinding in the middle of the room.

"Mr. Jung, try a plié," Julianne intervenes.

Of course. A plié. What is that?

I try what I imagine a plié to be: I open my knees outward, lift my heels off the ground, and squat. Like a pregnant woman. A confused pregnant woman.

I know it's wrong because the laughter starts and the teacher's face becomes even sterner than usual.

But, honestly? Sometimes, it doesn't hurt to remind teachers that publicly humiliating a student isn't all that pedagogical.

"Enough, I've seen enough," she says, cutting everything off with a dry gesture. "It seems that integrating the courses is going to be harder than I imagined. Let's start with the groups. Gather around."

And then the mess begins in the studio.

People walking back and forth, mixed voices, names being thrown in the air. I don't know who's with who anymorem — I get even more worried when, at the exact moment I think about asking Jungkook who's in our group, he turns to me with the same lost expression:

"Who is in our group?"

"Didn't you come on the day of the presentation?"

"No, I was late. You were here, you should know."

We start arguing in whispers, like two idiots. What a comedy.

"I was busy with other things."

"What things, Hoseok? You were in this same room!"

I was busy with... things.

Things that wear heels with long hair. Geez, good things.

Before the discussion ends in too many compromising revelations for a gym at nine in the morning, we hear our names being called from behind us. And as soon as we turn around, we come face to face with a figure of minimally shorter stature, with well-combed blond hair, a pointe shoe, and an absurdly round mouth.

"You're Hoseok and Jungkook, right?" he asks, but he looks directly at Jungkook, who has the goofiest look on his face I've ever seen.

"Yes," he answers, or rather, tries to. His voice almost cracks.

"Great! I'm Jimin. You're in group four. We're over there, in the corner by the barre."

He points and my eyes follow to a scene that looks like a soap opera to me. A stranger, two strangers, Yoongi and Taehyung. Wow. What an interesting group, indeed.

But what's really distracting me is how Jungkook is staring at Jimin. I can't explain it — it looks like he's never touched anyone in his life. He's looking like he's seen a fairy in person.

"Okay, thanks," he says, running his hand through his hair, looking away with the subtlety of a teenager who just discovered true love.

"When you're done with your debate there, you can go over," Jimin finishes and walks off. Or rather, struts. Dancers are from another planet, that's a fact.

And when I look again at my dear friend, the great Jeon — the team's best running back, owner of the most inflated ego in the school, and the biggest fan club in all the mixed stands — he's just standing there, staring into space, as if he had just seen a real angel.

"Good things, you know?" I comment, with the most sarcastic voice possible.

"Shut up, Hoseok."

And then we reluctantly head to the group in question. Our dragging footsteps give away our lack of enthusiasm, but Jungkook's angel doesn't seem to notice. When we stop there, he introduces us with the same enthusiasm as a tour guide doing his job.

"These are Jungkook and Hoseok," says Jimin, pointing at us as if we were two lost freshmen on the first day of school.

We smile and greet them, as if we were two freshmen ourselves.

"Nam is my roommate," Jungkook whispers to me, leaning his body slightly. "And I think Jin is his boyfriend. They're from the music department."

"Wow, it's easy to be in the same group as your boyfriend, huh?" I complain, just loud enough for him to hear.

Taehyung seems to be thinking the same thing. He's next to me, but his presence seems... tense. As if the muscles in his whole body were contracted beneath his clothes. His gaze is fixed on Drew — and it's not just dislike, it's something denser, more caught in his throat. He's staring as if he wants to pierce the boy with his eyes alone, while at the same time, as if he's trying not to look at Yoongi, who is also there, two steps to the left, with almost the same expression.

I decide to sit between him and Yoongi. Maybe to prevent discord between the two. Or maybe because I'm trying, in some way, to be a bridge. But as soon as I get comfortable, I get the feeling that maybe I've made a mistake.

Taehyung subtly adjusts his body, as if he wanted to increase the distance between him and Yoongi by an inch. And Yoongi doesn't even move. He remains there, motionless, like a stone statue, observing the group with those narrowed eyes. He looks cold. He seems to be calculating something.

I feel his gaze on me even before I look back. It's a warmth on my back, a weight. When I finally turn my head, he's staring at me. And what bothers me isn't the gaze itself, but the fact that he doesn't look away. He just stays there, motionless, as if he wants to read me, as if he's waiting for me to say something.

"What's up?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, even with the discomfort crawling up my spine.

"Nothing," he replies dryly, as always, without beating around the bush, without leaving room for more questions.

Oh God, this year is going to be tough.

"Okay," I say, taking a deep breath, giving up before I even tried to continue the conversation.

We're all sitting in a circle now, trying to talk about the project. In order: Taehyung, Jimin, Jin, Namjoon, Jungkook, Yoongi, and me, closing the circle next to Tae. The atmosphere isn't exactly light. In fact, it's almost unbearable. At least for me.

When I turn my attention back to the group, Jimin is already back in the conversation, now sitting next to Taehyung.

"Guys, we decided on the group project. Nam and Jin are going to do two songs: one more hip hop, the other disco."

”But shouldn't it be something related to ballet?” Yoongi probes, his voice filled with doubt.

Taehyung turns his head so fast it almost creates a gust of wind. The look he gives Yoongi is the kind of look that screams, "are you an idiot?" without having to say a word. The air gets denser.

"We need everyone to participate in the dance, so it can't be something that's just ballet. The only part related to ballet will be in the duets. But I still don't know exactly how it's going to work for Nam and Jin, you know?" Jimin asks, with a slightly confused look, giving Taehyung a subtle look as if asking him to take it easy.

"Maybe they don't need to dance, but they have to produce the music for our dances. I'm not sure," Taehyung replies, looking away from Yoongi as if even looking at him were too much. But his tone remains sharp.

Yoongi, on the other hand, remains quiet. But it's not the silence of someone who is calm. It's the silence of someone who is holding back words, as if he's stuck between the desire to explain himself and the fear of being misunderstood.

"We can start rehearsing in a few weeks," says Jin, looking at Namjoon as if seeking confirmation. "Just to give me and Nam time to create something that sounds even a little musical."

Namjoon nods with a shy little smile and goes back to staring at the notebook in his lap, scribbling something that no one there could understand.

"So... are we done here?" Jungkook asks, already a little impatient.

"I think so. I'll make a form later to give to the teacher," Jimin replies, already starting to get up a little.

"I can do that," Yoongi offers, out of nowhere.

Why did he say that?

Before I could process it, I hear a little laugh from my side. Taehyung, of course. That sarcastic little laugh of his.

"Of course he's going to tell mommy."

The silence that follows is short, but cruel. Those words fall like lead. Nobody says anything, for a few seconds that are too long.

Jimin hurries:

"Okay, Yoongi, that would be great! So, bye, everyone."

Jimin leaves, pulling Taehyung by the hand, and the two disappear down the hallways as if they needed air — or distance. Jin and Namjoon follow right after, quietly exchanging some ideas about samples and possible lyrics.

Throughout the rest of the room, chairs are dragged, backpacks are quickly zipped, and voices fade as the groups stand up and leave the area. One by one, the other students disappear down the hallway, with the freedom of having been released from a truly boring class.

"Oh my God, it's finally over," Jungkook comments, sighing as he gets up to leave too. "Are you guys going to the party tonight?"

"I never miss a party."

"Ah, the good Hoseok still exists, right?" he says, laughing, clearly accusing me of something. "I'm going to lunch, but wait for me, and we'll go to the party together."

I give a slight nod, and then he leaves, disappearing out the door with the rest of the commotion.

The room becomes silent for the first time since we arrived. Only Yoongi and I are left.

He's just there, staring at the floor, as if he were thinking of ways to escape this school and disappear from the planet.

It's very difficult to get through to him. Sometimes it seems like he wants something and, at other times, it seems like we don't even know each other.

"What happened?" I try again.

He doesn't reply immediately. He just runs a hand through his long hair and lets out a light, tired sigh.

"Nothing," he says, but he doesn't even convince himself. "My mom scheduled a meeting for me and him. I don't even know why yet."

I stay silent for a second, trying to absorb that. His mom... the dance teacher. Taehyung. A meeting.

"Between you and Taehyung?"

Yoongi nods, without looking at me. His eyes remain fixed on the floor, as if he wants to dig a hole there and disappear for good.

"Maybe she wants him to help you. It's a difficult dance, right?"

He lets out a short, ironic chuckle, as if I had said the most innocent thing in the world.

"It must be. But he won't want to help me."

"He's complicated. One time, last year, a boy from the drama club hit on Drew... you should have seen it. Taehyung pasted pictures of the boy naked on his dorm room door."

Yoongi's eyes widen for a second, not quite knowing whether to laugh or run. I realize that maybe I went too far with that example.

"No, honey. Don't worry," I say, laughing to ease the tension. "Maybe with time he'll open up more. I don't know."

He finally looks at me, with those small, beautiful eyes that make me want to live inside them.

"What is this party like?"

"Ah, it's got booze, loud music, hot people everywhere... and bathrooms with doors that don't close. So, if you're lucky, you might even get some live porn."

He lets out a surprised laugh, one of those that just slips out. A little shy, but genuine. And that makes me happy. Finally, something good.

"I'm sorry about my mom today," he says, still laughing. "But it was really funny."

He turns his body toward me, crossing his legs more naturally. His gummy smile is so cute that it breaks that whole tough-guy act in an instant, as if he were another person for a few seconds.

"It was traumatizing, actually," I joke, placing a hand on my chest theatrically.

"You don't even know what a plié is?" he provokes.

"And you're laughing, huh? But you don't know what a cut block is, so what?"

He widens his eyes a little, feigning offense.

"Are you calling me ignorant?"

"I'm calling you a hypocrite."

We stay there for a while, laughing. He teases me a little more about my desperation when the teacher called me to the middle of the room, and I give it back to him. For a few minutes, that's all it is — the lightness I didn't even remember I could feel in here.

But of course, the peace doesn't last long.

Taehyung comes back into the room, followed by the teacher and the principal. His expression is closed off, which is already enough to make me want to escape through the window. A perfect time for me to withdraw (cancel my enrollment, leave the country, those kinds of things).

“I'm heading out, Yoon. See you at the party?” I ask, hopefully.

He hesitates for a second, but his eyes still have that sparkle from the laugh before.

“Maybe.”

🐋

The music's beat vibrated in my chest as if the sound were coming from within, as if every bass beat pierced through my bones and made my heart beat at the wrong rhythm. The air was heavy, saturated with sweet smoke and flashing lights of red, blue, and some indecipherable tones that mixed with the sweat and the general madness of that basement disguised as a club.

I went in with Jungkook, but I didn't go very far. I just stood still, right there at the entrance, a little hypnotized by that beautiful mess. A chaos that seemed rehearsed. A stage where everyone played a role they would forget the next day. That kind of party that made you lose track of the place, of time, of yourself. A welcome forgetting.

"I'm going to grab a drink, want one?" Jungkook asked, leaning his face close to my ear to beat the loud music.

But I didn't even turn around. I didn't even reply.

Because, in the middle of all that light and smoke, in the exact center of my field of vision... there she was.

Fiona.

She always finds me. It's almost a talent. Every party, without fail, she finds me. As if she had a radar just for me. And, for some reason I should regret, I always let her.

"Hobi?" she calls, in a light voice, but with that firmness disguised as sweetness.

She was there. Beautiful. Black dress, too short for this place, too tight to get attention. Her loose hair fell over her bare shoulders, as if it had been placed there with millimeter precision.

She knew how to make an entrance. And she did it like no one else.

“I've been looking for you this whole party. I thought you weren't even coming.” She says, already with a smile.

"But now I'm here, honey," I reply, with a lazy smile.

"Oh, finally, right?"

She laughed. That low, seductive, almost calculated laugh of hers. And I, as always, fell for it. I like that kind of predictability.

Fiona approaches slowly, her hand on my arm, sliding down to my chest. She leans against me as if she's known me for years. And she has.

"You look so handsome tonight..." she said, in that tone that made anyone give in.

Her voice flowed like hot honey, sticking to me in a way that was impossible to ignore. My eyes ran over her face, stopping at the curve of her lips that I already knew well. Then they descended, traveling over her body, until my hand found and squeezed her waist as if I wanted to confirm she was real.

"You're the one who came looking too beautiful," I whispered, in the lowest voice I could. There was too much heat between the two of us.

It all happened so fast.

Her mouth finds mine with an ancient thirst, as if we were rekindling a vice. And I replied with the same intensity, intoxicated by her taste, which seemed like cheap wine mixed with longing and intention.

I wouldn't say I was feeling longing. But some things just... happen.

I felt her hand sliding down my stomach, her fingers firm, impatient. Her body fits into mine as if we were dancing an old choreography. Her other hand played with my hair, pulling me deeper into her mouth, guiding me without ceremony.

My hands slid down her back, exploring every piece of skin as if it were new. They stopped and squeezed the curve of her butt. Her breath caught against my lips. A soft moan escaped, and I smiled.

For an instant, we forgot about the world. It was just music, sweat, and mouth. But when my hand went up again and I felt Fiona nestling in closer, something inside me pulled the brake.

I pulled my face away a little. Just enough to look into her eyes.

She smiled, confident. As if she knew she had won. As if all of this were just another game in which she was always the champion.

"Want to get out of here?" she asked, her fingers still in my hair, her warm breath on my cheek.

I looked around. The party kept spinning, in the same chaotic and vibrant way. The lights were bursting, people dancing as if they would never stop. Jungkook, high, laughing at the little blond with the pout. Someone tripping over the smoke. All normal.

But something was missing. He was missing.

Why didn't he come? Did the meeting go wrong? Or did he just not want to come?

That was the most obvious answer. And it was also the one that annoyed me the most.

I didn't have any expectations about it. But I wanted to see him walking in, strutting the way he walks, in his always-tight clothes. Then he would see me here, kissing Fiona, and he would definitely die of jealousy. At least, I hope so.

But I shouldn't have been expecting anything. Not from him.

"Hobi?" Fiona's voice came again, now closer, firm in the sweetness she always used when she wanted something.

I took half a second to reply. My gaze was still scanning the entrance, as if he could appear at any moment, with that disdainful look on his face and that calculated walk of his. But nothing.

"Let's go," I said, emotionlessly, just so the silence didn't have to answer for me.

She pulled me by the hand, excited, and I let her. I let her guide me as if there was nothing left for me to expect from there.

The door closed behind us with a muffled click, and the entire party seemed to evaporate into thin air. The silence of the room was cut only by our quickened breathing.

Fiona gently pushed me until I was against the door—which I took the opportunity to lock. We're in some dorm room. I don't know which one. I just hope the owner doesn't mind.

Her eyes are glued to mine, as if they had been waiting for me for hours.

I move closer to her until I'm pressed against her body, opening her legs with mine, bringing my knee to her sensitive spot, letting her moan softly with her mouth already glued to mine.

"I want you now," she says in a low, raspy voice, her hands already pulling the hem of my shirt up.

She has a strong, sexy Mexican accent that makes everything she says sound like a provocation. I could say it's as if she's trying to seduce everyone she talks to at all times — but I'm sure of it.

I've never exchanged more than two sentences with her without ending up in bed. But I can say for sure: I was drunk every time. Except for now. And she looks even more stunning seeing her now.

I lead her to the edge of the bed while kissing her mouth, her cheek, her neck, pulling her dress up to have full access to her leg. I'm desperate for this now.

She moans into my mouth, her fingers squeezing my shoulders as I lay her down on the mattress, without even looking around. It doesn't matter where we are. I just want to get lost in this.

The dress comes off easily, revealing her warm, tanned skin, already with goosebumps from my touch.

I kiss between her breasts, descend to her stomach, her thigh, and return to her mouth with the same hunger that tears me up inside.

"Come on, Hoseok, show me that I'm not just a distraction."

But that's what she is. That's why I laugh as I watch her take off my shirt, then pulling my head down, between her legs.

I kiss all over the area. I suck on her thighs, leaving them bruised, I kiss over her panties, watching her writhe in my arms, which are on her breasts, squeezing them the way I know she likes. Or the way all of them like it, I don't know.

She moans loudly as my mouth presses against her soaked panties, and I smile against the thin fabric.

She writhes, squeezes my shoulders, tries to pull me closer, as if it wasn't enough.

As if I could fill every void in her too.

I pull the black lace that's covering what I really desire to the side, I won't take it off. I think it's cooler when it stays there, bothering me, reminding me that I shouldn't be there.

She curses in Spanish, impatient, and I love that about her — that audacity, that hunger similar to my own.

My tongue finds her center without warning.

She arches on the bed, her hips crashing against my mouth as if she were begging for more.

I hold her thighs firmly, keeping her exactly where I want her.

I suck with desire, I bite gently, I kiss as if I depended on it to breathe. It's a feeling similar to cocaine. An ecstasy that isn't mine, but is just as delicious.

My fingers are still gripping her breasts, her hard nipples between my clumsy touches.

She reciprocates by gripping my hair tightly, throwing her head back with each different movement, alternating the volume of her moans, sometimes falling silent, sometimes screaming.

She grinds against my mouth as if she's trying to fuse our bodies. As if she's begging me to enter her with everything I have. But I still won't give it to her. Not yet.

My tongue makes a slow path upward, to her trembling stomach, I go up again between her breasts, biting one of them just to hear that ragged moan again.

She digs her nails into my back and pulls me, wanting more, wanting it now. I feel her hands sliding down to my pants, unzipping my jeans and freeing what she really wants.

She bites her bottom lip while holding my length in her hand, without any delicacy. It's like she's testing if it's real.

And I close my eyes for a second, breathing deeply, trying not to lose control. But it was too late.

I take off my pants without much care, the jeans piling up on the floor with my dignity. I pull her panties off completely, toss them aside, and open her legs with my hands as if it were my place.

As if I had permission for that.

"Hoseok..." she moans my name with a choked, warm voice, as if my name were a sin.

I position myself between her thighs, sliding the head of my cock between her wet lips just to provoke her. Just to see her writhe again, impatient, almost crying from desire.

"Go on, please," she whispers, almost begging.

I obey. Because I can't take it anymore either.

I enter slowly, feeling everything, hearing her body receive me with a drawn-out moan.

The rhythm quickens. Each thrust deeper, more intense, more desperate.

She wraps her legs around my waist, scratching me, moaning shamelessly, letting her head fall back.

I sink into her.

The bed creaks, the mattress sinks, the sheets stick to our sweaty skin.

We're sweating, panting, hitting against each other like two hungry bodies.

I know exactly what to do to make her lose control, and I do it. On purpose.

Because if I can get her to orgasm before me, maybe I can forget the real reason I'm here. Maybe I can forget that, even when I'm not drunk, I keep seeing reflections of another face in her, the face that makes me angry he didn't come to the fucking party.

Our moans mingle, her hands lost between our bodies, I feel her squeezing tighter with each thrust.

She moans louder, digs her nails into my shoulders, her hips rising to meet me, pulling me deeper. I quicken the pace. I feel her body begin to tremble, when the rhythm of pleasure builds without restraint.

She comes apart first. Her whole body trembling, squeezing all around me, forcing me to come too, as if I had no choice.

I sink in, deeper, still deeper, until I no longer know where I end and she begins. Until pleasure tears everything, until I explode inside her, with a failed breath and a racing heart.

We stay there, pressed together, panting, sweating, trembling.

I slip out of her carefully, and I remember something:

"You're on birth control, right?" I ask, worried.

And I get even more worried when she gives me the same look. But she laughs right after.

"Of course I am, you fool."

She smiles playfully, and I let myself relax a little more there, lying next to her, feeling the warmth of her body pressed against mine. Our breathing still a little uneven, our bodies glued together as if they wanted to stay together in that comfortable silence.

"Relax," she says, poking my chest with her finger, with a mischievous smile.

We slowly get up, straighten our clothes, and leave the room, mentally thanking whoever lent it to us (without knowing).

The party is still pulsating outside, full of lights and sounds, as if nothing had happened.

I lose Fiona as she disappears into the crowd and go to meet up with Jungkook. I just need a smoke now and to let today end.

Chapter Text

Time until La Maison du Cygne Noir: 10 months, 1 week, and 6 days.

The knife hits the porcelain plate for the fourth time. That screech gets on my nerves, but I don’t complain. I never do. She cuts the salmon like a surgeon and chews as if nothing’s wrong in the world. As if nothing’s wrong with me.

"You haven’t been training enough."

I don't say anything.

"Yoongi, you know how important this role is for my career, don't you?"

I don't respond.

"Taehyung agreed to help you rehearse to be the Swan. You know he's better than you. Seize the opportunity."

Whenever we're alone, she speaks in Russian. As if the rest of the world didn't deserve to understand. But today there's something different. A slight shift in her pronunciation. A strange accent... almost as if she were trying to sound French. Approachable. As if that would make a difference now.

"Don't eat everything. You need to lose weight."

"I've been on a diet, Mom."

She glances at me. A calculated, quick glance, like a scanner. And then she returns to her plate.

"It doesn't look like it. You know, Yoongi, you can't lose this role, can you?"

She says, or orders. It's impossible to tell. With her, everything comes wrapped in threats disguised as advice.

"I know," I reply, softly.

"I gave up a lot for this."

Lie.

She gave up absolutely nothing. Nothing. What exactly did she give up? Escaping a crazy boyfriend? Leaving a fucked-up apartment in Moscow to live in the center of Paris? This opportunity was given to her so easily... why does she insist on wanting to harm me? And why can't I tell her that?

I keep stirring the rice, as if that would make time pass faster. As if it could distract me from every atrocity that comes out of her mouth.

"Taehyung isn't going to help me, Mom. He hates me, you know. You caused this."

I've never regretted anything so quickly.

"Did I cause this?"

I watch her get up from the table with unnecessary calmness, throw the still full plate of food into the sink, causing an unnecessary racket, and head to her room, as if I had destroyed her dinner.

I must've really destroyed it.

Every conversation she has with me feels like a work meeting. As if we were deciding my dismissal. My dismissal as a dancer or as a son?

I don't know if she knows the difference.

I stare at my plate long enough for the food to get cold — and for me to have a coherent reason to throw it away. It looked so appetizing.

But now it makes me sick. Everything in this apartment makes me sick.

Her presence sickens me. I sicken myself.

I can't take all this anymore. I want to run anywhere that's far from her. Anywhere.

I get up slowly, trying not to make a sound. I don't want to bother her anymore. I put our dishes in the dishwasher while I clean the food she left in the sink.

As if cleaning up her mess were my only role in the world.

I'm dying to pee. Take a shower, wash my hair, and brush my teeth. But I don't have the courage. I just want to lie down and sleep until I don't wake up anymore.

So, I head straight for the room — supposedly my room. It's full of her clutter. It's not comfortable.

When I finally find my mattress, I lie down. Or I sit down. I'm not sure what I did.

I have my backpack thrown near me, close enough so that tomorrow, I can wake up as early as possible and manage to escape her with the excuse that I have to train.

As soon as I find a comfortable position, I remain in it. I don't know if it's because it's comfortable or if I just accepted this position.

I close my eyes and try to let the pain pass, to make the phrase she didn't say disappear from my head.

An entire lifetime trying to recover what she lost. An entire lifetime dancing what she wanted to dance — and couldn't.

I did it. I'm better than her.

But, if that's the case, why does she treat me like a lab rat? She discards me so easily. She acts as if I were a stone?

I can't sleep.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling until dawn. Soon, it will happen.

I hear birds. Cars. Footsteps. Maybe hers. Maybe not. I don't know.

I also hear a couple arguing. He cheated on her. How absurd.

I see the lights from every truck (making extremely loud noises) shining through the blinds.

I take a deep breath and wait for the tear to fall. But it doesn't fall. It's already tired of falling. It's been months since anything fell. That's terrible.

I wish it would fall. I wish I could scream at her the same way she screams at me. I wish she would scream and attack me all at once, so I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore.

But I think I'd die.

Anyway, it's not the time to think about that anymore.

Dawn broke.

🐋

The dance studio is empty. Cold lights spread across the newly cleaned mirrors, and the smell of rosin ingrained in the floor tells me I was the first to arrive. Better this way. I prefer the silence. I prefer to be first. Actually, it's better that I'm first in everything. Being first is the least that's expected of me.

I turn the music to the lowest possible volume and start stretching. My toes point to the ceiling, my arms extend with precision, my neck lengthens until it almost cracks. My muscles ache, as always. It's a pain that's no longer a sign of effort, but of wear and tear. They don't recover like they used to. I've been pushing my body to its limit for years. Years of being demanded, corrected, molded. And maybe it'll never fully recover. But I keep going. I won't stop. I can't stop.

I close my eyes. I take a deep breath. I try to focus. I try to silence everything but the music.

I think of the White Swan. Of lightness, of purity, of fragility. I think of the idealized image of a being who was never touched by the evil of the world, suspended in an innocence that seems unreachable. A body that moves as if it belonged to another realm — as if, as it floats across the lake, gravity didn't matter.

I let my movements flow. My arms follow the melody, as if gliding over an invisible lake. The rhythm is soft, and I've already memorized every step. There's an almost melancholic sweetness in this part of the choreography — and I can achieve it. Or, at least, pretend to.

But that only lasts until halfway through the choreography.

The music changes. It gets heavy.

The Black Swan should emerge now. But he can't. I can't. My feet fail on cue, my arms stiffen. There's no pointe shoe that can support me en pointe. There's not enough technique to take me where this part demands. I try again. And again. And one more time. But it doesn't fit. It doesn't flow. It doesn't happen.

The Black Swan doesn't move with lightness. He has anger in his gaze, poison in his wings. He is everything I learned to hide. Everything they taught me not to be. He demands a type of surrender I don't have.

My mom thinks this can be solved with practice. That, if I repeat the choreography a thousand times, I'll get it. That it's just about memorizing the right sequence of steps and stopping eating bread. But she doesn't understand. This production isn't just Swan Lake. It's a reinterpretation, a fusion with The Dying Swan, that old, almost agonizing performance, where death comes slowly, taking the body slowly until it simply stops. It's not just about dancing. It's about dying on stage. It's about letting the body tell the story of a collapse, and I don't know how to do that without truly collapsing.

But I will succeed.

If that breaks me, so be it.

Perhaps breaking is part of the choreography.

At least that's what I try to believe as I take a deep breath and prepare to try one more time.

"You can't, can you?"

The voice makes me turn my head immediately.

Taehyung is leaning against the door, arms crossed, loose pants rolled up at the ankles, and a black tank top, as if he had just come out of a photoshoot. He doesn't make a sound when he enters. It's like he even rehearsed the silent way of invading others' space.

"You don't need to help me."

My voice comes out firmer than I expected.

The meeting yesterday still weighs on my mind. Hellish.

Taehyung's grandmother, fearing I would sink the institution, was the one who forced him to help me with the performance. He looked at me with that icy arrogance, as if he hadn't lost the role to me.

"Apparently, I have to help you," he says, his voice laden with sarcasm. "This performance is for a charity event. If anyone sees this, the little children are going to starve to death."

"I don't need your help, Taehyung," I reply, ignoring the provocation.

He doesn't retort. He just walks to the center of the room and starts dancing. He dances what I can't.

Jesus, he's the true Black Swan.

Without pointe shoes, he's en pointe, with his arms moving like wings. The poisoned wings.

I stand still, motionless. Every movement of his cuts my throat, tears something inside me. It's so easy for him, so natural. As if he was born to be the Black Swan.

He must have been born.

I wanted so much to feel that. I wished my body would obey, that the poison in the wings existed in me. But all I can feel is this overwhelming frustration.

He doesn't seem to force it, nor resort to techniques. He simply is.

"Do it, " he says suddenly, without even looking at me.

I remain silent, observing him. Now, he also stares at me.

"How?" My voice comes out hesitant, almost a whisper.

A long silence settles in, broken only by the weight of his gaze, fixed on me.

I'd like to say I don't know what's going on in his head, but it's all plastered there, too clear to be ignored.

He also doesn't know how. Because, deep down, he just does.

"Just as you live the delicacy of the White, you need to feel the rage of the Black," he says, firmly, as if it were obvious. "It's not complicated. You have rage. We all do."

And then he simply walks away, as if he had just taught me how to breathe. He goes to the barre, sits on the floor with his legs stretched out and a relaxed gaze, as if he wasn't about to watch my possible collapse in real time. Now he's going to observe me. He's going to analyze every mistake, every mistimed breath. And I'm not prepared for that at all.

"And what made you angry now?" I ask, staring at him.

He raises an eyebrow, almost smiling.

"That little accent of yours."

Now I know what angers me.

Him.

The arrogance, the perfection, the gaze that reads me without permission.

And it's this anger that I'm going to use.

I'm going to rehearse until my body gives out. Rehearse until the anger turns into movement.

The Black Swan will dance.

🐋

The field was in a practice atmosphere, but the intensity was almost like a championship final. Hoseok led his team with an absurd energy, his entire body in motion, as if he had a hidden motor inside his chest. I bit into my sandwich slowly, sitting on one of the bleachers, trying to pretend I wasn't there just to watch him.

“These snacks are horrible.”

The voice appeared beside me, accompanied by a smell of coffee, one of those undrinkable ones. I turned my face slowly, expecting to see some random student, but it was Jin, from the music course. We had only talked about the group project until now.

I don't reply at all, I just alternate my gaze between him and the snack.

He sits down next to me without asking permission.

"I need to warn you," he says, pointing at my sandwich with a slight smile. "It always seems like a good idea... until the third bite."

"Ah... I'm on the second, I think I can still give up."

He laughs, a short, easy sound. He opens the coffee with a disgusted look and drinks it anyway.

"I don't know how the cafeteria can be so bad."

I look at him and suddenly remember something.

"I heard that, last year, a student freaked out until they removed French gastronomy and replaced it with Italian."

Jin raises an eyebrow, feigning surprise.

"Geez... who could that mysterious patriot have been?" he says with irony, putting his hand to his chest. "I bet he also threw a fit when they served pre-made tomato sauce."

"He seems like a tough guy," I say, laughing.

He just shrugs his shoulders in a gesture of surrender.

"Or just someone with good taste. But tough works too."

His demeanor is carefree, as if he had enough free time to make friends with the school's introverts. He probably does. With all due respect, of course.

I go back to watching the game in comfortable silence beside Jin. Hoseok runs across the field as if he were an extension of the wind—fast, precise, brilliant. Until, out of nowhere, he collides with another player. A nasty collision, one of those that makes even the spectators wince. The other guy goes down. Hoseok doesn't even hesitate: he bends down, says something quickly, then gets up again. It's so fast, it's impossible to keep up.

"Wow," Jin comments, leaning forward. "That was almost a homicide."

"I wish I understood what the rules of this game are."

"I thought that was the least a player's boyfriend should know," he says, as if it were obvious.

But what did he mean by that?

"What did you mean by that?"

"Aren't you two together?" He frowns, as if I were hiding an obvious truth.

I stare at the field for a second, as if the answer were written in Hoseok's movements. He yells something to the team, his t-shirt sticking to his sweaty back. So beautiful it's almost irritating.

"No," I reply, slowly.

"Ah..."

I look at him as if he were to blame for that statement. But he is. Or his crazy mind.

"You're dating. You should know when people are actually dating."

"Well remembered, Yoongi." He takes the last sip of the cold coffee with a contained grimace. "Later, if you want to stop by my studio... Nam and I have already created the base for one of the project songs. It would be cool to see you there."

I wonder if he's like that with everyone — kind, direct, engaging. Or if I'm just a case of artistic charity for him and his prodigy boyfriend.

"I'll stop by later."

(I have no idea where it is, nor what time they'll be there.)

"I'll be waiting for you! Good luck with your 'non-boyfriend' over there."

He says that with a mischievous smile and stands up, adjusting his sweatshirt before descending the bleacher steps.

He leaves me there, with a sandwich with only two bites left.

🐋

Today's rehearsals were hell. My whole body feels like it's been through a war, but my calves... if they could scream, they'd be roaring. I try to stretch my legs a little, and they cramp, hard as rock. There's no comfortable position — only pain.

I've been lying in bed for a while, studying alone, the exhaustion hitting hard. The dim light from the lamp bothers my eyes, even gives me a headache, but it's better to face the brightness than the guilt that haunts me. They forgot to tell me that we have theoretical classes here too, or perhaps they assumed I already knew everything. Now, I'm playing catch-up, trying to keep pace with those who've been studying here forever.

I don't know if my mom's partnership with Taehyung will give me more time to focus on other subjects. I hope so. Because I don't want to be a dancer for the rest of my life. I want to graduate, to have a future where I don't depend on dance. Ballet was just a hobby. Now it's sucking everything out of me.

Thanks, Mom.

"Finally, I found you."

The devil appears again. He's standing in the doorway, still in his rehearsal uniform, his hair now hastily pulled back into a loose bun. He's carrying something in his hands — a white bag, one of those reinforced ones from a specialized store.

"What now?" I ask, my voice tired even before hearing the answer.

"Come down here."

"Why does he think he can order me around?" I think, grumbling, as I get down from my bunk bed, almost throwing myself onto the floor from so much pain.

I stop facing him, and he stares at me with a certain... hatred? Resentment? I don't know when this thing he has against me will pass. Or if it ever will.

"What is it?" I press.

"Meryl asked me to give them to you." He extends the bag. "New pointe shoes. She told me to let you know she's going to provide them for you, specifically, every two days."

I stand still, without moving a finger. I look at the bag, then at him, as if it were a joke. Some new provocation.

"Why?"

He stares at me as if I were stupid.

"Because you need them, duh. I don't know, I'm just doing what she told me. But yours are really rotten anyway."

Of course they are. Not everyone can pay one hundred euros every two days for a new pointe shoe.

I take the bag, trying my hardest not to touch him as I reach for it.

"Thank her for me," I say curtly, turning my back before he can reply.

"I'm not your slave," he retorts, annoyed.

That makes me laugh. It's funny to see him like that, and, honestly, he's so easy to provoke.

"Taehyung, are you jealous because our pointe shoes are coming from the same card?"

"They're not coming from the same card!" He throws a tantrum.

"So, your grandma gives me pointe shoes, but not you?" I scoff, putting my hand to my chest. "Geez... seriously, thank her for me."

At that moment, the dorm room door opens with a slight creak, and Hoseok appears leaning against the doorway, with a wide smile on his face.

"Honey!" He says, panting. "You went to see me train, I saw you there!"

Taehyung and I remain silent, both observing Hoseok. I don't know what captures our attention more: his wide smile, him calling me "honey" so freely, or the fact that he's shirtless and all sweaty. I love that sight much more than he should.

But it shocks me to realize that Taehyung also seems to like it more than he should.

I stare at him until he turns his attention back to me, which, unfortunately, takes longer than I expected.

"I have to go, I'm not sleeping here," he says, blushing. "Bye."

Taehyung closes the door too fast, as if he wanted to disappear from that room before the situation got even more uncomfortable. I stand still, with the bag in my hand, feeling the weight of the silence that fell there.

I look at Hoseok, who now wears a smaller smile, perhaps he realized the atmosphere wasn't the best. But he's still smiling. At me.

"You should have stayed there longer," he says, walking towards me.

"I was going to, but I had to go to my training."

He nods, his small eyes shining. I can almost see myself reflected in his dilated pupil, but I prefer not to stare — I must have the same goofy look on my face.

"Next time, I'll be the one to go see you," he states, with a certainty that takes me by surprise.

I don't know if I tell him that today we were called boyfriends. I prefer to keep that to myself for now, I don't want to pressure what we have. I want it to continue like this, a secret just between us.

"Ah, I'm dancing kinda badly, apparently. By the way, I got new pointe shoes."

I point at the bag and sit on his bed to open it. He doesn't sit down, probably because he stinks of sweat.

The pointe shoe gleams inside; it still needs to be broken in, but it's so beautiful.

"Now I need to break them in, sew them, and paint them," I say, smiling.

"Isn't it just putting them on?" he asks, a little incredulously.

It's funny to see non-dancers not understand anything about ballet. He must find it absurd to practically have to remake the pointe shoe, but for me it's an extremely relaxing moment.

"I think you'd better go take a shower."

"Yeah... wait for me here. Sleep with me tonight. Tae will probably sleep at Drew's."

He stares at me in silence, and I also stay quiet, thinking.

"I promise it's just sleeping," he says, laughing. "I just need some closer company, you know?"

"Okay, I can keep you company."

He just nods his head and heads to the bathroom, leaving the door open. I hear the dirty laundry hamper shut, indicating that he's now naked. My God, this is too tempting.

If I weren't about to collapse from exhaustion, I'd already be in there.

I throw myself onto his bed. It's softer here. And it smells like him — something between vanilla soap, sweat, and expensive fabric softener.

I close my eyes for a few seconds, listening to the shower run. My whole body throbs. It's not just muscle fatigue. It's mental exhaustion. I feel like I'm at my limit.

I pull his blanket up to my chin and let out a deep sigh.

But there's something — even though I feel bad, honestly, I'm doing way better. I have to admit that. Back in Russia, it was just me and my mom. And her boyfriend, who, thank God, I never had to deal with.

I was homeschooled and spent my days training with her at the Bolshoi. She was a teacher there, and I was a student. So I didn’t have any friends — there’s no room for friendship in places like that, especially when you have, and I do have, the privilege of being the child of someone important there.

Taehyung is right. I wasn’t supposed to get this role. He’s prepared for it — I’m not. But his mother is Natalie Portman, the first dancer to ever perform La Maison du Cygne Noir. He takes advantage of power just as much as I do.

Here, I have more freedom. I spend more time around people. And now I have Hoseok, and I liked Jin, he’s funny. I’m doing much better, anyway.

Hoseok comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and another on his head, drying his hair. His shoulders are still damp. Water runs down between his defined ribs.

I stare, and I don’t hide it. I’m way too tired to hide anything.

He doesn’t seem to notice. He goes to the closet, grabs some light shorts, puts them on with that careless way, and comes back toward me.

He throws himself down beside me, settling into the bed with a naturalness that both annoys and calms me. As if this bed were ours. As if this room belonged only to us.

“A tip for ÉAL’s management,” I murmur, pulling the blanket back up to my chest, “double beds make it easier for couples. They could be less clueless and help us break these damn rules, right?”

He laughs — that muffled, unguarded way that makes my chest ache.

“You don’t want to break the rules? That’s so you.” He says, resting his head on the pillow, turning his face toward me.

I turn my face slowly. The lamp is still on, casting a warm yellow glow over his face. His eyelashes are stuck together from the water, his skin warm, his smile small.

I should say something. Anything.

But all I can do is smile back. Small, almost imperceptible.

And just stay there.

Standing still.

As if time had decided, for a moment, to cut me some slack.

“Are you really going to stay here?” he asks.

“I will.”

He turns off the lamp, and the room sinks into a cozy half-darkness. Only the sound of the air conditioner and our breathing remain.

Hoseok moves closer slowly, without saying a word. He settles beside me, and before I can pull away, he gently pulls me in. My face rests against his chest, warm and calm. I feel his heart beating slowly. I feel the heat he radiates.

“Good night, honey.” He whispers before closing his eyes.

I hesitate, but I answer:

“Good night, Hobi.”

And I stay there, listening to him fall asleep. In the dark, with the soft sound of his breathing, the pointe shoes still inside the bag, and my chest — for the first time that day — not so tight.

Chapter Text

I've been staring at myself in Jimin's bathroom mirror for four minutes. I've been doing that too much lately. Trying to find a flaw. Some clear, solvable sign of what went wrong. Because I failed.

I failed at some point for that weird Russian to get my dance.

But I don't know where it went wrong. There was no stumble. No fall. No low grade. There was only him. Him arriving, him dancing, him stealing from me.

He stole my stage. My costume. My attention. And even my time with these stupid meetings where I have to watch him mess up every step I know how to do perfectly well. At least, I thought I did.

I blink slowly. I analyze my reflection as if I were analyzing an enemy. There's something fragile there that bothers me. The blush trying to make me look healthy, my jaw tensed, the lip gloss I insist on licking in the absence of candy.

Jimin lent me his bathroom to "get ready in peace." I thanked him. But now I'm here, staring at the mirror as if it would give me answers.

I lean on the sink and breathe deeply, shifting the focus from myself. After all, I won't get what I want.

I need Drew, I need to go to Drew. He wants me, he thinks I'm the best ballet dancer of all time. That I still have.

A final look in the mirror. A final touch-up of lip gloss.

I leave the bathroom with measured steps. Jimin yells something from the bed, but I just wave and pretend I didn't hear. I don't want conversations. I don't want advice. I want Drew's room, his bed, his arrogance. I want to be desired.

I send a short message letting him know I'm on my way.

And I go. Because, no matter how much I'm losing everything, at least he still chooses me.

Minutes later, I'm standing at Drew's dorm room door. Two minutes, to be exact. I've already fixed my hair about four times, trying to make it messy in just the right way. Just because he's my boyfriend doesn't mean he needs to see me looking like a mess, right?

I hear the lock turning. I straighten up, fix my hair one last time, and prepare my best smile.

"Sorry, Tannie, I was in the shower," he says, opening the door with that crooked smile that disarms me. "Come in."

He pulls me in by the waist before I can reply. The kiss that follows is slow, a welcoming one. But his hand slides up my back, under the thin shirt I chose just to give him that taste. It gives me goosebumps all over. He knows.

"If I had known you were coming like this, all handsome and pouting, I would've skipped my shower for later," he murmurs against my mouth.

I roll my eyes, but I smile. I always smile.

"Pouting? Me? Never. I just don't like being ignored at the door like I'm an Uber Eats delivery."

He laughs and pulls me inside. The room is just like mine, just like all the others, but it smells like him, and that makes everything better.

"I brought wine. I stole it from my dad's place."

"Of course you did," I say, closing the door. "The rebellious American needs to maintain the aesthetic."

"You should be thanking me. One hundred and fifty dollars in your mouth. And me too," he winks.

And I laugh. He has this expansive way about him; he likes valuables and luxurious things. Expensive cars, expensive watches — sometimes I think I'm one of his luxuries too. But I love that. Fortunately, I also love luxury.

"Ah," I start complaining, because, honestly, I need to complain. "I was getting ready in Ji's dorm room. Those two annoying guys aren't bothering me there."

I can't even do that in that dump of a dorm room. I hate that, my God.

"Of course you went there. I bet you used his perfume too," he provokes.

"Obviously not," I make a face. "I used mine. But I showered there, so technically I'm kinda borrowed today."

"And you still came looking this good?" He approaches me once again. "Change your clothes. Grab one of mine."

I obey without making a fuss. I feel at home here. I open his closet, pull out a random T-shirt that smells like Drew, and change right there, just to provoke him. He watches everything with a crooked little smile and his arms crossed, as if he were watching a show just for him.

"Is that better?" I ask, doing a little spin.

"Very much so," he says, almost in a whisper. "Now you're completely mine."

I smile, because it's impossible not to smile. Because I really like being his.

And we're already hugging again, always close.

"I love you," I whisper to him, looking very closely into his eyes.

Eyes so beautiful they could be exhibited in the Louvre.

"I love you too. Now, go over to the bed, I'm going to open the wine."

I give him a quick peck before obeying. I throw my body onto the bed as if I owned it, or owned its owner. I prop myself up on my elbows and watch as he walks to the dresser with that overly confident stride — as if he were sure I'm watching. And I am.

I watch him fill a glass and extend it towards me, which I immediately take. The wine has a dark, brilliant hue, one of those that quickly turns into pure lust. I take a sip, keeping my eyes on him the whole time.

"Hmm, it really tastes like one hundred and fifty dollars."

He laughs softly, as he pulls me in for a kiss, a kiss that tastes of wine.

A kiss that starts sweet, almost innocent, but quickly unravels. He bites my bottom lip slowly, as if he were savoring it, my fingers climb his nape, sinking into his still slightly damp hair, and he moans softly against my mouth.

"You look even more handsome in my clothes," he whispers, with his mouth too close to mine.

"I know."

I finish drinking the wine in one gulp so I can release the glass and use both my hands to freely touch my man.

Drew Starkey.

My boyfriend.

I don't get tired of this. I don't get tired of being his.

He smiles against my mouth, in that smug way that makes me want to hit him and kiss him at the same time.

"But I want to see you without them..." he murmurs, rubbing his nose against mine.

Son of a bitch.

I slowly rise, my knees straddling his legs, and take off my shirt with slow, calculated movements, keeping my gaze fixed on his. Drew follows every gesture with an almost sick attention. His eyebrows furrowed, his eyes narrowed, his mouth slightly open — as if he were hypnotized.

"Like this?" I whisper, my voice low, in a whisper.

"Yeah..." the answer comes out in a mere whisper, almost a moan.

The heat between us quickly intensifies. Kisses grow more intense, hands press against skin, bodies fit together naturally as breaths grow heavier. My hips begin to move at their own rhythm, in a slow, almost cruel, back-and-forth against him. Drew lets out a hoarse moan, his fingers digging hard into my waist, pulling me even closer against him.

The friction is hot, sticky, almost painfully good. It's as if we're dissolving into each other, creating a pleasure that pulses, that breathes on its own. I feel his body swell beneath me, rigid, throbbing, and his hands already roam hungrily — from my waist to my butt, thighs, neck, nipples. He takes all of me. And I let him.

If I pull his hair one more time, I think I'll pull it all out.

"Fuck, Taehyung, you're crazy."

He tries to restrain me, holding my movement by the hips, but the impulse is uncontrollable. My body begs for more, for friction, for pressure, for relief.

"Lie down on the bed." The order comes firm, his voice deep, laden with authority.

He adjusts a pillow in the center of the bed, and when I understand his intention, the heat already consumes me whole. I'm going to go crazy.

I position myself on my stomach, my hips resting on the pillow, exposed, surrendered. I feel him press lightly against me, grazing, leaving me on the verge of desperation. I don't move. Not yet. I want his permission. I want to lose control only when he lets me.

I hear the rustle of clothes falling to the floor behind me. My eyes burn with desire. I imagine his body naked, hard, ready. I salivate just thinking about him in my mouth, sinking in too fast, making me choke while I'd still be begging for more.

His large hands slowly roam over my back, descending to the curve of my butt, squeezing, causing pain, hallucinating.

"Just look at you, Tae..." his voice low, heavy with lust. "All yours for the taking."

I pant in response, already craving a firmer touch.

"Drew..." my voice comes out whiny. "Please..."

He laughs, drawn out, his fingers pressing hard into my thighs.

"Please what?"

"Fuck me already," I beg, my face already hot. "Fuck me, please, fuck me now."

I feel him get even closer, his hard member deliberately brushing between my thighs, rubbing against the middle of my butt, but not entering. The friction makes me lose my breath, my skin burns, my hips already moving on their own to increase the contact.

But he holds my hips firmly, preventing me from moving.

"No." The firm whisper burns my ear. "Not yet."

"I want it. I need it now," I moan, almost whimpering.

He lies down on top of me, pressing the weight of his body against my back, his lips touching my nape.

"I know you want it. That's why I won't give it to you. Not today."

He moves slowly, in a slow, firm back-and-forth, rubbing hard between my thighs, the heat of the friction, leaving everything wet and desperately good.

I writhe beneath him, moaning loudly, gripping the sheet tightly.

"You look so beautiful begging..." he continues, his voice hoarse, almost a purr.

My hips already start to tremble involuntarily, my whole body imploding with lust from that constant, firm, cruel brush.

"Drew... please..." I whisper in a sob.

"Not today," he repeats, rubbing his nose behind my ear, while his movements get faster. "Today you're going to come like this, just feeling. Just wanting me. Just being mine."

I dissolve with the loudest moan of the night, exploding beneath him, my whole body trembling, while he continues pressing, moaning against my skin, until he climaxes right after me, panting my name into my ear.

We remain silent for a few seconds, still pressed together, our heavy breaths mingling.

He kisses my nape, affectionately, now in a light, satisfied tone:

“Mine.”

I don't reply right away. My lips are pursed, my chest heaving, half offended, half melted. I turn toward him, muttering softly:

"I asked you nicely..."

He laughs. What a great sight. Sweaty, wet, naked, laughing, so handsome, but so mischievous, wow.

"You did," he agrees, bringing his face closer, rubbing his nose against mine. "You asked so nicely that I wanted to hear more. You become irresistible when you pout."

I roll my eyes, feigning anger, but hugging him as he lies on top of me, which almost suffocates me, but I love it anyway.

"You're a sadist," I grumble.

"And you love it."

Yeah. I love it.

🐋

I wake up before him. Still lying down, I spend some time staring at the ceiling, remembering last night, a silly smile spreading across my face.

I move slowly, trying not to wake him, but he turns, sleepy, and wraps his arms around my waist.

"Where are you going?" he murmurs, his voice still a little thick with sleep.

"To pee," I reply, trying to sound casual.

He doesn't say anything, just hugs me tighter for a few seconds, as if he wants to keep me there. Then he lets out a lazy sigh.

"Go ahead. I brought some stuff for breakfast... I stole it from the cafeteria."

He says it in slow motion, taking almost a minute to finish the thought. Cute. He never thinks straight when he wakes up — sometimes he's not even really awake when he wakes up.

I go to the bathroom, do what I have to do, avoiding looking at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands. I don't want any reflective moments right now. Not this early.

"Goddammit, Tannie, it's already eleven o'clock!" I hear Drew grumble from the bedroom.

Eleven o'clock. It was supposed to be six. I hope the Soviet trained alone. And well.

When I go back, he's sitting on the bed, trying to open a small package of cookies as if it were a bank safe — with no precision in his hands. I stand in the doorway, watching. Crumpled shorts, long legs, his face still a little swollen. He's beautiful even like this, but in a way that makes you want to take care of him.

I walk over to him slowly, with him watching me with those small, clear eyes, still swollen, still peaceful. I position myself between his legs, cup his face in my hands, squeeze his cheeks, and make my favorite pouty face. And kiss him.

"Need some help?" I say, chuckling softly.

He just looks at me, as if he's still trying to understand where he is. Then he hugs me. He wraps his arms around my waist and stays there, his head resting on my stomach. We stay like that for a while — long enough for our breaths to synchronize. Then he pulls me to sit beside him, and I fit myself facing him, wrapping my legs around his waist. He starts massaging my thighs, so tenderly.

"You'll have to excuse me now... the croissants are stale."

I laugh, just seeing the little pout he makes every time he tries to pronounce "croissant." He still struggles with French, even after three years of living here. Not that I'm judging — my English is more jumbled than anything else.

"Stop laughing." He laughs along.

"I guess I'll eat the cookies then."

I wait for him to hand me the package — all crumpled and torn. But his face gives him away: he wants to laugh. And he really does. Because as soon as I take the bag, all I see are crumbs.

"How did you manage to break all of them?" I ask, almost laughing.

"It's the bag's fault. It was one of those zip-lock ones, but I got nervous and pulled too hard because you were already flushing and I was losing time."

We laughed more and stayed like that: joking, bickering, loving each other. A vicious cycle I can — and like to — live with him.

We fit together in bed, a bit rumpled, a bit sleepy, with our makeshift breakfast spread around us. The soft morning light streams through the window, illuminating our mess.

"Oh, there's a game today," he says, a mix of excitement and tiredness, as he stretches his legs.

"Who are you playing against?"

"I'll be against Hoseok."

I can't help but roll my eyes.

"So that means you're going to win, love," I say, trying to sound convinced.

Actually, I'm not so sure. Hoseok plays better than Drew, and to make matters worse, he's completely protected by my grandmother. Completely. Every time they're alone, she calls him "dear grandson."

She doesn't call me that. She calls me Tata. And him? Dear grandson.

"And I'll be there, cheering for you. Much louder than those ridiculous hags," I decide to show my full support.

"Don't underestimate the cheerleaders so much."

"Defend them a little more and I'll enter into celibacy," I say, smiling sweetly.

Drew laughs, shakes his head, and pulls me into a tight hug.

"Better not risk it, then. And you know I can't lose when you're by my side."

And we stay there, in our little world, while outside the day truly begins.

🐋

Today there are more rehearsals with the Russian. Which basically means more downtime, watching him try to learn the techniques for the performance. But it's not just techniques. It's theater. As long as he doesn't understand that, he won't get it. And I, honestly, won't be responsible for making him understand. After all, the final decision only comes in May. Until then, the role remains mine.

I'm heading to the room now to watch the horror show. But at least I look impeccable. Seriously, I think the only reason I keep dancing is for the clothes. There's nothing better than strutting around in compression shorts, leg warmers, and a baby tee on a Friday. It's girly, it's fashion.

Every step brings me closer to the room with less and less desire to open that door, but soon I'm there, standing before it. I take two breaths, forcing myself to calm down, and turn the doorknob.

Oh no. Mom?

The pathetic scene unfolds before me. Moore, with that tense, artificial smile. My mother, perfectly composed, as always. And between the two of them, the damned Soviet — planted like a statue, with a delicate, fake smile, the kind that makes you want to smash it into the ground.

For a brief moment, it's as if I'm not there. No one notices my presence. No one, except Yoongi. He stares at me with that silent, victorious expression. And, in a way, he really has won. My mother still doesn't know I lost the role to him. Not yet.

"Oh, my love," my mother says, opening her arms in a rehearsed gesture.

I approach with the slowness of a turtle, praying with all my might for something to happen: the floor to explode, a plane to crash into the building, or at least — with a bit of luck — for the ground to just give way. But, of course, none of that happens.

"Long time no see, Tata," she smiles, as captivating as ever.

She hugs me with the same meticulously calculated affection as always. Of course, she doesn't know — yet — that this little angel beside her, with the help of that hag Moore, blatantly stole from me.

"Hi, Mom," I reply, sweet as venom. And I stare at Yoongi's little smirk, promising myself I'll wipe it off his face.

"We were talking about La Maison," she continues, animated. "Moore gave me some instructions while I was presenting. She's an excellent teacher. And your colleague is so handsome."

She shouldn't think any of that. This is just the usual little act. Always this controlled perfection. Always this game of appearances.

Before I can say anything, Moore speaks up:

"Yes, both are very dedicated..."

"Oh, excuse me," my mother cuts in, with her shy chuckle of false modesty, "do you want us to converse in Russian? We're a bit rusty, but we know a little."

Yoongi looks at me. And this time, he almost laughs. Almost. I swear I'm going to kill myself.

"That would be better," Moore says, already smoothly transitioning into Russian. "I've been training both of them for the performance, since they're competing for it."

Goddammit.

I see the confusion on my mother's face. She frowns slightly, trying to figure out if she heard correctly or if it was her Russian that was the problem. But it's real, Mom. The problem is very real.

"But Taehyung is a good dancer," Moore continues, sweetly. "He himself has helped my son, with his grandmother's encouragement. That angel of a woman."

"Tata has always been very helpful," my mother adds, proudly.

But I never helped anyone.

"I'm glad you two are getting along," she continues, now with that slightly enchanted tone, as if witnessing a beautiful friendship blossoming. "You're even wearing the same outfit."

That's when I notice. His outfit is mine. The pink version. More girly. Oh, the humiliation.

"Ah, he's proven to be a good friend," Yoongi says, meekly, smooth as a blade. "His help has truly served as a lesson for me. I learn just by watching him dance."

Bastard.

We smile at each other as if that were true. I really hope it's not. I have no intention of actually helping him.

Thanks to some saint who must still pity me, my mother ends the little charade:

"Good to know, but I need to go," she says, switching back to French while checking her watch with her usual cool elegance. "Moore, it was great talking. And, Min, congratulations on your progress."

She bids farewell to both with that discreet, polite smile, then holds my arm. Her hand is soft, but the strength in her fingers carries the weight of a command: come with me now.

We leave. As soon as the door closes behind us, her smile vanishes. She leans in slightly, her voice low, firm.

"Taehyung, I can't believe this. How could you fail to fulfill your one obligation?"

I smile. Because that's what I do. The only possible shield.

"Mom, don't you think it's weird that the new teacher's son is getting the role?" The question comes out in a thread of a voice, almost unintentionally.

But she doesn't hesitate.

"I'm not interested. Be better. I taught you. Be the best."

And then she simply turns her back and walks down the hallway, her precise heels echoing in the emptiness. Only the heels. And my heart, beating with rage.

Be the best. Be the best. Be the best.

As if I weren't trying. As if that weren't precisely what has kept me going until now.

Behind me, I hear his voice. Gentle, provocative:

"Taehyung, come. Or should I call you Tata? Or perhaps... speak in Russian?"

Be the best. As if it were that simple. As if I hadn't been destroying myself for years to be the best. As if I hadn't bled enough for this role. As if I hadn't sacrificed every tiny joy in my life to maintain my posture, technique, image, ideal weight, a smile on my face, impeccable hair. All to be the damn best.

And now these damn imports come. They invade my stage, my space, as if they could simply buy my podium. As if my entire life were disposable in the face of their pretty resumes.

So I stopped being the best? Just because she — Moore, the school, the entire system — decided that someone like him deserves more? That someone like him is more interesting? More exotic? More marketable?

This isn't going to stay like this. Not at all.

I am the best.

I turn slowly, with the cold smile my mother so diligently trained into me. I look into his eyes. The sweet one, the gentle one, the polite one. I know his type. He can fool others. Not me.

"The next time you make another joke, I'll have you deported."

He makes the cutest face possible, wrinkling his nose and pouting his lips. I make the same face back.

He's going to lose that joy very soon.

We entered the room in sync, a classic ballet trick. Moore watched us as we approached, her formal smile still on her face, but her eyes no longer as friendly as they were in front of my mother. Basic adult rule: feign sympathy with the parents. With the children, no need.

"Well, boys," she begins, with her ridiculous accent. "I'm glad you're getting along. You know, or at least you should know, that the most important thing in a competition like yours is to maintain composure. No games. No cheating. No irony."

Now she stares at her son in front of her. She must know very well the snake she raised.

"Of course, Mother. I would never allow myself to do anything different. Respect between colleagues is fundamental."

"I almost laugh. Almost."

"Me too, Professor. In fact, Min is excellent. Always respectable. After all, he understands that I have more knowledge than him about this performance, and I admire his humility in accepting my help."

I glance at him sideways. He smiles as if he were the purest creature in the room.

"Of course. And I still have so much to learn..."

Moore raises an eyebrow. She notices the game, of course. But she pretends not to see.

"Excellent. I'm pleased to see such maturity. You are examples of the excellence the school wishes to promote."

I'm sure it was her who threw that bit of irony just now.

"Incidentally, since we're here, it's good to let you know that the committee expects a brief report on how you're progressing in your parallel activities. And you should already be moving forward with the first group work proposals. I imagine you're aware, aren't you?"

"I forgot about that crap."

"Yes, we've already started looking at some things. Seokjin and Namjoon have already begun producing the music. It's turning out very well."

"Great, make the most of this work. I believe it will make this competition tension... milder." Dramatic pause. "And, Taehyung, as a way to recognize your willingness to support Min in his adaptation, I've set aside extra time for us to work on your duet with Hoseok. I believe both of you will benefit greatly."

"Thank you, Professor," I reply, maintaining my sweet tone.

I'm not happy about this at all.

"Perfect." She gently closes her notebook. "Now, to your places. I want to analyze every minute of this rehearsal."

We took our positions. The air remained heavy, but the facade was impeccable. As always.

🐋

The game has already begun, and the tension is almost palpable in the air. Jimin and I have been sitting in the stadium stands for at least twenty minutes, earlier than the rest of the crowd, just to secure the best spot — one with a perfect view of the entire field. The sun is already starting to set, and the roar of the crowd grows louder by the minute.

"Who do you think will win?" I ask, looking at him, who is focused, his eyes shining with anticipation.

The answer isn't that simple, because the teams are between Hoseok and Drew.

Drew arrived at the high school in his freshman year, still a bit of a newcomer, but with a talent that surprised everyone. Hoseok, on the other hand, has been here since sixth grade. He was the quarterback, the king of the team, the one everyone respected and admired. He always won games, participated in sports programs outside of school — sometimes even abroad. He was trained, practically molded, by one of the best American football players to ever come through here, Mr. Ackles. Legend has it that in his prime, Ackles was unbeatable, a living legend. Now, he just teaches — at least, that's what we see.

But then Drew arrived, with all that new energy, and quickly made Hoseok lose his quarterback position. Drew played better, faster, more technically — at least, that's what Mr. Ackles believed. And, to be honest, I don't totally disagree. Drew has talent, there's no denying that.

I love him, but I defend my causes of stolen veterans. (He just can't know that.)

"I think Hoseok's team is going to win," Jimin replies, without looking at me.

Of course not. He's too busy looking at the reason for his answer down on the field.

"You're only saying that because of that bucktooth guy over there," I quip, crossing my arms.

"He's good," Jimin immediately counters, without taking his eyes off the field. "I watched him training the other day. Seriously, he's much better than Rudy."

"And he is," I admit, with a sigh. "But if they lose, Drew is going to be really mad."

This worries me more than I'd like to admit. I won't lie — when Drew gets angry, it's not good at all. He just disappears, goes days without answering me, without giving any explanation. And I can't demand anything. Not after everything he's already been through.

"Tae, I've told you many times that this isn't right. He can't act like this every time something goes even slightly wrong," Jimin says seriously, firmly, trying to make me understand.

I'm pouting, almost grumbling, and he hugs me from the side, with that gesture only best friends have. Our legs cross and our feet brush against each other — a detail that didn't go unnoticed by either of us.

We even coordinated our outfits today, of course. Couldn't just match with Yoongi, right? Disney button-up knit and black tailored trousers. We have an entire wardrobe full of these combinations; we can be twins whenever we want.

"Taehyung, seriously," he insists, now angry. "You have to stop accepting his behavior. It's not fair to you."

"Jimin..." I take a deep breath, trying to control the anxiety tightening my chest. "They're not going to lose. Everything will be fine."

The game starts before he can answer me. But that, unfortunately, doesn't stop our gigantic pouts.

The whistle echoes through the stadium, cutting through the air like a siren, and the roar of the crowd explodes right after, as if someone had pressed the chaos button. The players start running back and forth with absurd energy. And please, don't expect me to explain exactly what's happening on the field, because — with all sincerity — I have no idea.

They run. With the ball. Then they bump into each other. They throw themselves on the ground. They hit each other, struggle, get tangled up. Then, they get up and run more. And that's it. Just that.

Maybe there's some logic behind it, some brilliant play or meticulously planned strategy. But to me, it just looks like a bunch of big boys playing tag with an egg.

That egg — the ball — is like a sacred treasure to them. Something precious. Certainly, something they want to have in their hands. All I know is that. Don't ask me for more than that.

"Jin!" Jimin exclaims beside me, almost jumping in his seat.

The scene is... horrible. There's no other word.

Jimin waves like he's in a spring parade, openly, at Jin — our groupmate, his roommate, and, apparently, an instant celebrity in that moment. The problem isn't Jin. It's never Jin.

The problem is who comes right behind him. The haunting.

This bottom haunts me, it's impossible. Wherever I go, there he is.

And, of course, they're coming our way.

As if the universe had decided to torture me with refined cruelty. They walk with purpose, with confidence, with the absolute certainty that they're going to sit — not just anywhere. But right next to us. The empty space beside me seems to have been reserved by some sadistic cosmic force just for him.

Jin is already raising his hand to greet us, the widest smile in the world on his face. His smile is funny. His lips are very thick, like Jimin's, but with less space. They're beautiful.

"Hi, Taehyung, right?" he greets me, genuinely friendly. "Ji talks about you a lot."

"Ah, I hope only good things," I reply, with my best smile.

Seriously, my very best smile. Polite, kind, charming. But the smile slowly dies when Jin decides to sit in the empty spot next to Jimin. It's an innocent movement. Natural. He couldn't have known. But now, there's only one free spot left. Next to me.

The damn seat next to me.

And as in a tragic choreography of fate, the only one left standing is him. Yoongi.

How can a soul I wasn't even supposed to have met — and who I met in an absolutely rude way, no less — repeatedly be put in situations where the only logical option is to be by my side? Explain it to me. Seriously. Explain it to me.

Yoongi doesn't hesitate. He doesn't look happy either. He just sits down. As if it were inevitable. As if he already knew. I know he doesn't want to be here either. I can feel it.

"Hi, Yoongi, I'm Jimin, remember me?" Jimin says, with the most cynical voice I've ever heard come out of that mouth.

I almost let out a laugh, but I hold it in. I can't appear involved. I am absolutely above all of this. Clearly.

The Russian smiles back. A small smile, but genuine. Surprisingly genuine.

"I remember. We rehearsed together on Wednesday. You were wearing that yellow shirt."

"I was!" Jimin laughs, surprised. "I thought no one noticed."

"It was pretty," Yoongi says, and extends his hand to greet him.

Jimin shakes it. Both smile. Yoongi's hand crosses my space to reach Jimin and, in the movement, brushes against my leg.

It really brushes. His hand brushes the side of my thigh and, for a second, everything freezes.

The touch is quick, accidental, unintentional. Or perhaps intentional. I don't know. It doesn't matter. My entire body reacts. A foolish shiver goes up my spine, and I do nothing.

I just stay there. Paralyzed. Pretending nothing happened. That his presence beside me doesn't burn, that his touch didn't stir something in me. That his — genuine — friendliness with Jimin didn't bother me. Not one bit.

I also make sure not to care every time Hoseok's team does something good, and they both celebrate as if they were the best of friends. Longtime friends. Besties. Like best friends who laughed together one summer in Busan, shared a popsicle, and made promises while looking out at the sea.

I keep not caring so much that at one point my jaw hurts from forcing the smile.

The game continues, and in the end, Hoseok's team wins. The stands erupt in applause, shouts, and cheers. The stadium vibrates as if the world championship had been decided there. Hoseok is on the field, surrounded by his teammates, his uniform sweaty, his hair plastered to his forehead. Panting. Victorious.

And Yoongi... Yoongi is so happy.

Acting like a good boyfriend when his love wins the game.

Acting like I should be acting.

Drew is furious; you can see it on his face even from a distance. His shoulders are tense, his eyes fixed on the ground, his lips pressed into a thin line. Tonight isn't going to be easy. But it won't just be my night.

I stand up, slowly. I stand beside the bench, like Yoongi. I lean my body slightly to the side, just enough for my mouth to be close to his ear. And I whisper, in a sweet, almost affectionate voice — but loud enough for only him to hear:

"Hoseok plays well, doesn't he?"

Down below, Hoseok walks towards the cheerleaders. He goes to each one, thanking them, smiling, exchanging high-fives and comments. He seems light. Free. And then he reaches her.

Fiona.

She approaches before he arrives. She smiles more than she should. Her hair tied in a high ponytail, her red skirt swaying, her top showing exactly what it wants to show. They hug. Quick. But long enough.

Enough to hurt someone.

I look at Yoongi again. I don't smile. I don't need to.

He's too quiet.

"You should have gone to that party," I say, calm. Surgical.

Yoongi turns his face slightly, just enough for our eyes to meet. No smile, no surprise. Just that familiar rigidity, of someone who prefers to feel nothing rather than show anything.

Silence.

"He really enjoyed the party..." I continue, dragging out each word as if merely stating a common fact. "He disappeared and reappeared looking a bit disheveled. With her."

He immediately turns his gaze to the two below — Hoseok and Fiona, now already moving away from each other, blending into the celebrating crowd. But I can't pay attention to that. Not now.

Because Drew comes quickly, climbing the stands with firm, ill-tempered strides. His hand raised, his fingers beckoning like someone with no patience or time for small talk.

His face is set. Sweaty. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. His team uniform is crumpled, his number still clearly printed on his chest.

"Come on," he says, without disguising his haste. Or his anger.

I obey. Because it's easier than arguing.

I take one last look at Yoongi before heading down. He's still there. Only now he's not looking at Hoseok. Or Fiona.

He's looking at Drew.

But I turn my face. I follow my boyfriend.

I don't want to know what's coming.

Chapter Text

I just took the warmest shower of my life. The water slid over me, as if it could wash away everything that burned inside me today. I stayed there for hours, maybe. I didn't even keep track. I just let the steam swallow me and closed my eyes, reliving every moment of the game, the match that changed my luck.

The victory should have left me feeling light, happy. But now I'm certain the weight will be even greater, the demands even worse. And they will come from me.

Not to mention Yoongi... he's been acting strange since I went to greet him after the game. Anyway, I don't know. Must be a ballet thing.

I left the bathroom wrapped in a towel, my hair dripping and my mind spinning, and went straight to our small balcony. I lit another cigarette. I need this moment.

The smoke soothes me. It disconnects me. It gives me silence. And silence is all I want now. A breather in the middle of the mess from a few hours ago. A little warmth for the soul, different from the bath — this one is dirtier, but it still comforts me.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back slightly, still trying to process how I won.

But, sir... can I just have peace for one night?

I hear the sound of the door opening. Keys turning. A dry click.

Then, the muffled sound of footsteps. Quick.

It's not Yoongi, he stayed with Jin and Jimin. But there's no way Taehyung is going to sleep here tonight of all nights.

"Tae?" I call out, without getting up.

He doesn't answer.

The bathroom door closes forcefully. It's not a slam, but it's the kind of closing that comes with anger or exhaustion. I stand still for a few moments, listening to the sounds inside: the running faucet, the quick movements. Sounds of someone trying to calm down.

Huh?

Minutes later, he appears at the balcony door. Still in his game clothes — light, handsome, hand-picked — but now all wrinkled, crooked on his body. His eyes are red, his nose sniffling discreetly. His face... dejected.

"Hey..." he says, his voice low. A little shaky. A little trying to sound normal, but he can't.

I slowly lift my gaze, attentive. His eyes are slightly swollen, his expression broken, like someone who spent too long holding back tears.

I blow the smoke out of my mouth, but I don't look away.

"Are you okay?"

He nods too quickly. It's not convincing.

"Sit here," I say, this time in a lower voice. I point with my chin to the bench next to me.

Taehyung doesn't even hesitate. He crosses his legs with an automatic elegance, as if his body had been trained for it. As if even his face of suffering were rehearsed. But it's not. I know it's not.

I bring the joint back to my mouth, staring at the dark sky for a moment. I wanted to say something to comfort him. But I don't know what.

There's a beautiful view out here. The trees are dense, dark. And far away, very far away, almost a mirage: the Eiffel Tower. All lit up, shining like a jewel in the dark of the night.

Too beautiful to be real.

"Want one?" I hold out my hand, offering the cigarette. An automatic gesture, almost without thinking.

Taehyung looks at me sideways, with an expression that mixes disgust, provocation, and a sadness he's trying to hide.

"No, gross. I hate the smell of that."

I stop. I inhale again, deeper this time, but without much will.

"You hate it?"

He slowly turns his face. His expression changes. It becomes neutral, closed. But there's something there... something stirring inside.

"Drew smokes like a chimney," I comment, as if just letting out a stray thought, without intention.

But Taehyung slightly furrows his brow, clearly irritated.

"Drew doesn't smoke," he says, but he doesn't sound sure of what he's saying. It sounds more like a question. Or maybe a doubt born right there, in that instant. "He knows I hate that. And he doesn't like it either."

I stay quiet. The silence now weighs a bit. Something is very wrong with this.

Very wrong.

The Drew I know not only smokes, but he also takes a good sniff before going onto the field. I've seen it with my own eyes. Many times. At parties, backstage, in the locker room. The guy is a time bomb. There's no way Taehyung doesn't know.

It's not possible... or that's exactly what he wants to believe.

"I guess I got confused," I lie.

"Hoseok, definitely yes."

"Okay, princess."

He listens, and rests his head in his hand, satisfied. Maybe he's convinced that I'm mistaken. Or maybe he's just convinced that he really is a princess.

I put out my joint. I do it in silence, without making a scene, but I feel a light twinge of pain as I crush the last bit of ember. It was the last one.

I do it for him. And only for him.

"Thank you," he says.

Softly. Sincere.

I just nod my head, as if it were nothing. But inside... I know it was.

It's funny. I know so much about Taehyung, and he probably knows just as much about me. Our family problems are practically shared, since our mothers live together. We grew up like this: stuck together, even when we tried to pull away.

This grudge he has against cigarettes, for example — it's just because of his mom. She smokes, and he hates it. He likes very few things she does. Everything else bothers him a great deal.

They're such silly details, but they say so much.

"How's Auntie doing?" The "aunt" in this case is my mother.

"She's doing well. Her bakery is expanding, it just opened some branches in Canada. She's very happy," I tell him.

"Hmm... Give her a kiss for me. Tell her I miss her pineapple cake."

He's a sweetheart. My mom adores him. She once told me I should date Taehyung.

Is she crazy? This guy is too spoiled. No one can stand him.

"Does the Russian know we've been, like, besties since we were born?" he asks, with a certain acidity in his voice.

"Besties is a bit much, right, Vivi?"

He laughs. I couldn't pronounce his name when I was little and just called him Vivi. He hated it.

"Oh, you were such a dumb little kid."

I'm laughing now, too. In fact, I was pretty dumb.

“Do you remember when I tried to teach you how to ride a bike without knowing how to ride a bike?” He remembers.

"Wow, I still have the scar on my leg to this day. You took us downhill."

I can't believe he remembers. I thought he had already forgotten all about it.

The laughter slowly fades, as if the air around us were getting thicker. All that's left is silence. We stare at each other. Steadily. I become too aware of the way he's looking at me. The way his gaze drops, almost without permission.

"Aren't you cold?" he asks, his voice lower now.

"Oh... I had even forgotten," I murmur.

"About putting on clothes?" he teases, with a crooked smile.

"You're not exactly very covered up either, are you?"

He lets out a short laugh, but doesn't answer. He just keeps looking at me. His skin seems warm, his eyes... intense. For a second, I'm sure he's feeling it too. This strange thing that keeps growing when we stop pretending there's nothing there.

But then he takes a deep breath. And he pulls away.

"I think I'm going to take a shower," he says, already standing up.

I watch him disappear through the room to the bathroom. He locks the door. And this time, I know it's going to be a while.

I stay there for a few seconds, staring into the void, trying not to think too much. I fail miserably.

Then I get up, turn off the light, and decide to go to sleep too.

Tomorrow is another day. Another day, my God. When those so-called days of glory finally arrive, I think I'll even try to compete to be that so-called Swan. Even if it's just for the drama.

🐋

The training sessions are getting more and more exhausting. I've been training almost all day, every day, as if I were in a race against time. And, in a way, I really am. I have one year. One year to make a name for myself as a quarterback. One year to secure my spot at Yale.

My body is starting to fail. My left knee burns as if there were sand inside, my shoulder cracks every time I throw the ball — and it's not just a crack, it's like something is popping out of place. The palm of my hand is split in two places, the skin thin from rubbing against the ball so much. And still, I keep going. Because stopping is losing. Because I know what happens when we slow down: someone gets ahead. And I can't be left behind anymore.

One year.

That's all.

Ackles is over there. Sitting on the edge of the field, with his clipboard on his lap, as always. Sweat-stained t-shirt, old cap, and that look of an ex-player who thinks he's superior to everything. I paid for him to train me again. I used almost all of my allowance for this. Because, if I want my spot, I need his name on my side. I need his endorsement. I need to make him remember why, for so long, I was his number one bet.

But he keeps putting that asshole Starkey in first place.

I throw the ball hard, aiming for the exact mark he pointed to earlier. The pass is good — fast, firm, clean. For a second, I think Ackles will swallow his pride and give me the smallest bit of credit. But no. He waves his arm away, scratches his sparse beard with his usual slowness, and lets out:

"Break."

He calls me over with two fingers. I hate when he does that. He's probably going to give me a fucking lecture now. He'll talk about my training, my posture, say that I'm taking it easy. Wrong torso position. I'm too skinny, I need to gain weight, I need to get stronger. He's so predictable.

"You're soft. You're training too much. You need technique, precision... you need to gain weight." I told you he's predictable. "Jung, you're ahead, but take it easy."

"Am I ahead?" I ask, surprised.

"For now," he replies quickly. "Go take a shower and meet me in my office in twenty minutes. Meeting with Starkey."

I'm ahead.

My God.

This is what I wanted, wasn't it? A sentence. Some recognition. But now, hearing it from his mouth, I feel my back drenched, my muscles trembling. What if I only succeeded because I'm about to break?

I climb the stadium stairs feeling my calf muscle throb. But my head is worse. Hearing that from Jensen definitely made my day — maybe even my week — but it makes me think I should continue training this way. Or more. And I don't know if I can handle it.

My ankle definitely can't.

I enter the empty locker room and look for the nearest shower. The cold light from one of the lamps flickers, and the sound of my wet cleats echoes off the tiles. I struggle to take off my t-shirt, which is stuck to my body, feeling my shoulder crack again. My body is going to give out. It's warning me. But my mind isn't listening. My mind just wants to win.

I take a quick shower, just enough to wash off the sweat. I don't have the time or energy to stay there — and I also don't want to show up stinking in the coach's office. The exhaustion stamped on my face is enough already.

As soon as I arrive for the meeting, Starkey is already sitting down, with the lazy posture of someone who thinks he has nothing to prove. He looks at me and gives a small smile, the kind that doesn't reach his eyes. I stand there for a second, just watching. The anger rises gently, almost comfortable.

Ackles is standing there, looking at the information board, tinkering with the lineup, but nothing I can see from a distance. When he notices my presence, he turns and tosses a clipboard onto the table, pulling a chair with his foot and sitting down.

"You can sit, Hoseok," he invites me.

I take a seat in the chair next to Drew and watch him up close. He looks angry, tired, sad. The last time I saw him like this was when he lost to an American team; I guess that was his biggest display of patriotism. But now, it looks much worse. And I'm not even American.

"Does either of you have anything to say?" Silence. "Starkey?"

"Nothing to comment, coach."

He's really mad, I can't help but let out a little laugh.

"Bellmont confirmed the game. An exhibition match two weeks from now. Jung starts the game. Starkey comes in at halftime."

I'm so happy I could burst.

"Me? In the second half?" Drew asks with a dry chuckle.

I allow myself to lean back more in the chair, to feel the upholstery a little more. The world seems more colorful now, maybe even with a lighter feeling, I don't know.

"That's what I said," Ackles replies dryly. He doesn't even look at Drew, he keeps staring at the scribbles on his clipboard. "I need to see Jung as a starter. And you, Starkey, will have the chance to fix things in the second half, if you're capable."

Drew lets out a muffled laugh, trying to maintain his composure, but he's furious inside. He slowly shakes his head and crosses his arms as if to say "whatever," but you can see his jaw is clenched. He's swallowing it like it's poison.

I remain slumped in the chair, almost too comfortable.

"What if I'm better than him?" Drew asks, without hiding his defiant tone.

Jensen now looks discouraged. He runs his hands through his short hair, letting his worn-out cap fall back. He lets out a huff and answers, or perhaps, clarifies:

"Listen... I played for a long time. I know where you are. I know why. Hoseok got here and, in less than a month, established himself as the quarterback. He was fast, had steady hands, was small, but he beat any team, even against the biggest brutes. That's talent. You, Starkey, when you got here, you took his spot. You had field vision, you led like no one else. That's also talent. But talent for talent... it runs out. From the moment one of you tries harder than the other, the game changes. And there's not much you can do about it. You want to be better than him? Train more than him."

Starkey looks away. His arms are still crossed, but now his fingers grip his elbow tightly. He doesn't answer. He doesn't even try. You can see he's swallowing every word like they're huge, sour pills.

Jensen continues:

"I'm not saying you're worse. Or better," he leans forward in his chair, his tone is lower now, but still firm. "I'm saying that, if you keep thinking only talent will keep you on top, you're going to fall. And when you fall, it's going to be hard to get back up. Because there are people out there bleeding to play. People who don't want to be stars, they just want to be on the field. And that kind of guy takes your spot without you even noticing."

Starkey says nothing.

His mouth tightens into a thin line. He slowly stands up, pushing his chair back with a loud, grinding sound, and murmurs:

"Can I go?"

Jensen nods his head, exhausted.

Starkey leaves and closes the door forcefully. It's not a slam, but it's close.

Now the coach looks at me, and I know that look. He's proud but he doesn't want to admit it.

"Honor that spot, Jung, because he's going to want to take it from you. And if you let that happen, it's goodbye Yale."

"You can count on me, Jensen. I won't stop."

He gives me a calm, fatherly smile. Whenever he talks to me like that, he becomes my father figure, I'm sorry.

I leave the room feeling a little lighter; after all, in two weeks I'll be starting the game, I'll be back in the lead.

But the joy is short-lived.

"Are you happy, Jung?"

Starkey is there, at the end of the hallway. He's standing still, leaning against the wall, his arms still crossed, they must be glued together. But now I notice something I hadn't noticed before. His eyes. His eyes are locked, open, dilated.

This has to be a joke. He can't stand losing a game.

"Yes, I am. Shouldn't I be?"

"With that little body of yours? A dancer's body. You can't celebrate too soon, I thought you'd know that."

"Yeah, right?" I say, laughing. "You know, I know a dancer who, if he saw your state right now, would be in shock. You can't celebrate too soon, but you also don't create two personalities."

"You don't know me, Hoseok."

"No. But I know myself. And in two weeks, we'll see who's best."

I take a step forward, look him straight in the eye, and add, in a lower voice, with a half-smile:

"But... go easy on the coke when you lose again."

His face changes. His eyes blink, yes, but they also darken. As if a part of him had been ripped out right there. His body stiffens — not from anger, but from fear. Fear of me? Fear of falling? He tries to say something, but he can't. And in that silence, I hear everything.

I turn my back.

I start walking down the hallway as if I'm lighter than I really am. My ankle throbs, my shoulder pulses, but my footsteps sound sure, firm, as if each step carried extra weight.

I can feel his gaze burning on my back.

I feel the anger growing behind me like smoke.

I don't look back, not even for a second.

And that's how you win the first half.

🐋

I enter the studio still in my football practice uniform. My shirt is stuck to my back, my hair plastered to my forehead, but I didn't want to waste any time. Taehyung and I agreed this morning that we'd start rehearsing, since we're going to have to perform something together. And if we're really going to do this, I need to try to adapt to his rhythm.

He's already there. His back is to me, sitting on the floor, stretching as if gravity didn't exist for his body. His back is bare, the waistband of his sweatpants is low. And he's barefoot. But what ugly, battered feet. Are Yoongi's like that too? I'll try to see.

"You're late," he comments, without even looking.

"I just finished practice," I say, dropping my bag in a corner.

"And you came straight here, all sweaty? Gross."

"I took a princess shower, you can relax."

He smiles over his shoulder, but doesn't answer. The smile doesn't last long. He gets up with his usual lightness, his body flexible and theatrical, as if every movement were rehearsed — but this time, there's something different. A contained melancholy. As if he were forcing himself to continue.

Now I know what hurt him. That damn Drew. But before I can try to understand anything, he already starts to talk, straight to the point.

"I was thinking our choreography should be something more contemporary, that requires little from you, since you don't have technique. So, basically, you're going to carry me."

"Taehyung... we can start rehearsing tomorrow, if you prefer."

He stops. He takes a breath. For a second, I think he's going to accept. But he shakes his head, without looking at me.

"No. Let's do it now. The sooner we finish this, the better."

The tone isn't harsh, but it's cold. Controlled. And that's what bothers me. Taehyung was never like this. Even when he was being provocative, even when he wanted to cause trouble, he always put some emotion into what he said. Now, it seems he's turned off that switch.

I just nod my head. He continues:

"I'm going to throw myself backward, you hold me by the waist. Left hand on my back, right on my hip. Then, I lift my leg and you can't lock up. You have to stabilize me, but let me stretch to the limit. After that, carry me bridal style. Four times around. And if I fall... it's your fault."

"Okay..."

“Let's go.”

And he doesn't even give me time to breathe.

Honestly, I didn't understand anything he said, but it seemed so beautiful that I tried to follow along. With a fluid motion, he throws himself backward, his leg rising in the air, and I hold him by the waist — my hands tremble a little, but they're firm. I feel his weight, the flexibility that seems to defy gravity. And my heart is pounding.

I give the push, and he adjusts, letting me spin, turn — four turns that seem to last an eternity. His body is light and, at the same time, real. A balance between confidence and risk.

When I stop, he's still in my arms. His face is close to mine. A small smile slowly spreads across his face.

"See that?"

I let him get down from my lap with that little proud smile of his. And mine.

"I think that's the hardest part of the choreography, so we're going to be fine."

I nod my head, hoping he's not just trying to cheer me up. Because, to be honest, pliés are not for me.

We kept rehearsing for about three hours straight — or something that felt like it. But, in reality, for every little move I make, he stops and corrects me for at least twenty minutes. In other words, it's three hours of Taehyung complaining.

But now he finally pulls away. He sits on the floor, leaning his back against the mirror and runs his hands over his face, as if he wanted to erase his own exhaustion.

I sit down next to him, in silence. The sweat is still running down the back of his neck. The air is heavy. He is heavy. He has an annoying and dramatic personality, but what's happening isn't fair. And it's making me angry.

I grab one of the water bottles and hand it to him; he accepts it without looking at me.

"Drew is an idiot," I say. Simple. Direct.

He closes his eyes for a second. Then, he takes a drink of water, still without looking at me.

"He's just upset... you know."

I let out a dry chuckle. But I see no humor in it.

"Oh, sure. He's upset. And that's why he treats you like shit."

Taehyung squeezes the bottle between his fingers, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

"He didn't treat me like shit."

"No?" I turn my face toward him a bit, more irritated than I wanted to show. "Then why are you like this? Why did you spend the whole afternoon forcing yourself to dance like it was a punishment?"

He doesn't answer me.

But it's not because he doesn't want to. It's because there's no time.

The door opens with a soft click, and the voice of the subject fills the room.

"Tae?"

Taehyung freezes. He doesn't answer. He just stares at him. Without love in his eyes, only a deep, resentful hurt. Drew must have done a lot of shit.

Now Starkey looks at me, his gaze dropping to the two of us sitting on the floor, and I can't help but feel the competition between us. But, at the same time, I can understand his fury. I'm playing better, and now I'm also rehearsing with his boyfriend. I would've punched myself in the face if I were him.

But he doesn't have the courage. Or the will.

He's a coward.

I stay still, my gaze fixed on Drew, who crosses the studio with the ease of someone who still feels like he owns everything. The way he looks at Taehyung, as if he owns that pain. That guilt. As if he could fix everything with a smile and empty words.

Taehyung says nothing. He doesn't move. He just looks at me and, in that instant, I see the conflict burning in his eyes. A desire to stay. A fear of leaving. Anger. Sadness. Confusion. It's as if the whole world is hanging in that moment.

Drew takes another step, trying to look casual.

“Taennie… we need to talk.”

Taehyung hesitates. His gaze still locked on mine. Then, he gives in.

Drew smiles, satisfied. He extends his hand, which is quickly accepted. And the two of them leave the room.

I stay there, still, just watching. Silence takes over the room.

There’s nothing more depressing than seeing that little parrot all quiet.

Just like Yoongi. But with him, it’s worse — the silence, the distance... or maybe how much it all gets to me.

Yoongi. He’s just a fling.

Just. A. Fling.

Holy shit.

Chapter Text

Time until La Maison du Cygne Noir: 10 months and 3 days.

I'm at the indoor stadium now, eating a lollipop, trying to make this bitter life a little sweeter without messing up my diet.

And meticulously analyzing the cheerleaders.

They wear skirts that are too short, their legs too exposed. The few men in the stands don't seem to notice the counting errors or the lack of synchrony. They're too busy watching the curvy bodies parading without rhythm.

Platinum blonde or overly black hair, makeup smudged by sweat. Arms too wide, too much hair, too many smiles. An overdose of effort. Nothing breathes. There are no pauses. Only noise, sweat, and exaggeration.

It's vulgar.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, takes my attention away from her.

Fiona.

It's as if she gets all the attention for herself, and I have no choice in the matter.

Especially because she messes up the most basic steps. She trips over her own feet, she doesn't know how to jump, she doesn't know how to turn.

And yet, she stands out.

Not by merit — but by excess.

It's impossible not to look.

She acts like she's the center of the world, as if she's the prettiest girl anyone could be looking at. The other girls clearly notice this; this rehearsal has an air of envy.

Maybe I'm caught up in that air, because what's missing in me, she has in abundance: attitude, sensuality, breasts.

Everything I didn't learn to perform.

Maybe that's it.

Maybe I'm doing it wrong.

I follow all the rules my mother imposed — diets that make me skinnier than I need to be, routines that hinder me more than they teach me. Even my clothes are too neutral, too safe. Invisible.

I try so hard to be perfect that maybe I've stopped being interesting.

Maybe Hoseok just wants someone simple, who responds to his smile, who doesn't complicate things, who doesn't feel too much, who accepts less, who has breasts.

Sometimes, I wish I could be like that too. So superficial. Because she is. She's like a decoration that sits in the middle of the table, and everyone who passes by runs their hand over it. They take a piece, they praise it. But no one wants it on their own table. They just appreciate it from a distance.

That must hurt her. I hope it does.

It's ugly, I know. But I feel angry about being envious. And I shouldn't be envious of just any cheerleader.

I stay there, quiet, sucking on my lollipop, while the sound of the cheerleading hags keeps buzzing in the background. I try to focus on the sweet taste, but my mind won't stop.

I feel a weight in my chest that won't go away. It's not just jealousy. It's this feeling of not being enough. Not for Hoseok, not even for myself.

And anger at him. So much anger.

While I was putting up with my mom's whims, trapped in the pathetic routine she designed for my life, he was with someone else.

He didn't wait for me to arrive, he didn't check if I was coming or why I wasn't. He didn't call, he didn't reach out, he didn't do a thing. But the next day he asked to sleep together. He told me beautiful things, he kissed me. In vain.

I suck on my lollipop so hard that the candy comes off the stick. I feel the little ball spinning loose inside my mouth, threatening to choke me. And it's in this moment of sugary near-death that I hear a soft voice — too soft, even — emerge from behind me:

"Yoongi, I'm so glad I found you."

Jimin.

How can someone so friendly be best friends with that monster Taehyung?

Only some deity can explain it.

"Hi," I reply simply, still trying to regain control of my breathing and the remains of the candy in my mouth.

With a smile on his face, he settles in next to me, crossing his legs with such lightness that I seriously consider trying to imitate it later — maybe it'll work better than any stretch my mom has ever made me do.

"I didn't know you were interested in cheerleaders," he says, frowning with that disguised question in his tone.

Ugh.

"No... I just wanted to see what it was like."

He doesn't believe the lie. It's obvious. You can tell by the smaller smile, by the sideways glance that gives everything away.

I should have known that Taehyung had already said something.

"I agreed to help Jin, his boyfriend, and Jungkook with their dancing today, because in our presentation, we're going to have to compose a song and dance to it."

He pauses and looks at me again.

"Do you want to help me with this?"

Now I'm the one frowning.

"Help with what?"

"Well... you must know more about techniques for teaching people who don't dance how to dance... Because of your mom and all."

This has to be a joke.

If I apply the methods my mother taught me, I'll end up sitting on each of their backs, forcing their legs apart, ignoring any cries of pain.

I don't think they're ready for that kind of near-death experience.

"Are you sure about that?" I ask, laughing for the first time all day.

"Ah... it would be nice to have you there."

He looks at me with those small eyes, that damn constant smile.

It might just be my impression, but he's always flirting. Always.

I feel the last grams of the lollipop melting in my mouth. My lunch break is over.

I take a deep breath and decide to go with him.

"Is it now?"

"Yeah. They're in the main rehearsal room."

I hope Hoseok shows up there.

If he shows up, I'll apply all of my mother's techniques. All the ones that hurt.

"Let's go."

🐋

Dancing can't be that complicated.

It's not possible that they truly have no coordination at all for this.

Like... Jin and Nam know how to play instruments, hit high notes, and all that other musical blah blah blah — DJing, tuning, theory and all that crap...

Jungkook does all that stuff on the field, running back and forth, which must involve some kind of motor coordination.

But they can't take two steps to the right and clap their hands?

Got it.

"Guys," I say, staring at them like someone talking to very diligent and absolutely talentless children. "I swear, if you just take two little steps to the side and then clap once, you'll have finished the choreography."

Silence.

"Like... two steps" I repeat, demonstrating. "One. Two. Clap."

"What if we mess up the timing?"

"You're going to mess up the timing. The point is to mess up with dignity," Jimin replies.

He finds it all very funny, but all I can think is that this way our grade will be much lower than I expected, and I wasn't even expecting much in the first place.

And then they try again, and they do it!

"WOOHOO!" Jin lets out a cry of independence, as if he had just broken the shackles of choreographic oppression.

The scene would be comical if it weren't tragic.

Namjoon runs to Jin, lifts him into his arms, and they spin, as if they had just won a Grammy. Then he sets Jin down on the floor — who is now clapping — and they kiss.

Yes. They kiss.

For two steps and one clap. 

We just stood there, watching it happen — and I wonder how that micro choreography was so difficult, but spinning around in your boyfriend's arms seems simple, everyday.

"You didn't do that with me."

"Calm down, Yoongi," Jin says, clearly tired, putting his hands on my shoulders. "After the struggle, the grit, the dedication, victory always comes. And I won."

Behind him, Namjoon raises his hands to the sky — or rather, to the mirrored ceiling — clearly thanking a God he doesn't believe in for their victory.

Two steps. One clap.

Jimin and Jungkook are laughing out loud now.

"Okay, guys. You guys nailed it," Jimin says.

I surrender to their grace.

Lately, Jin and Namjoon have been my company.

When I'm not rehearsing, or fighting — or kissing — Hoseok, I hang out with them. In their studio. In Jin's room.

They're my friends.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I have friends. Not hookups, or enemies. Not people who only get close because they want a special choreography from my mom. Just... friends.

But it's annoying having to deal with a couple who are constantly all over each other, while I'm stuck in this lovelorn state.

Speaking of heartbreak...

I see the door opening too slowly.

And even before seeing him, I already know.

My heart clenches stupidly, as if my body recognized it before my mind.

His silhouette enters as if he's in no hurry at all, his eyes on his phone, probably laughing at some message from some random cheerleader. Or from that one.

I wanted to hate him for that.

But all I can feel is the air getting heavier, as if the room had suddenly shrunk.

"Hi, everyone, I'm sorry I'm late," he says in a carefree voice.

I can't help but look. He's all sweaty; he probably came straight from practice to the room. He's in sweatpants and a tank top clinging to his body, the kind of outfit he doesn't even think about putting on, but that makes him his best self.

"I got stuck in Mr. Ackles' office," he explains now, looking directly at Jungkook, with a laugh, some inside joke that only they understand and find funny.

But then he stops. And he looks at me.

A look that lasts longer than it should. That captivates me more than I'd like to admit.

He starts to walk towards me, but before he can get close, Jimin steps into his path — fast, as if he already knew what was about to happen — and starts talking about the dance we were rehearsing before Hoseok showed up.

Even with Jimin occupying his field of vision, his gaze insists on returning to mine.

Silent. Worried. Almost regretful.

And I hate that it still affects me so much, because I know I shouldn't be demanding anything. He never promised me exclusivity. But, deep down, that's what I wanted. That he would be just mine. Even without ever having said it out loud.

But feeling this... it's inevitable.

And Jin notices.

"Relationship trouble?" he whispers low, just for me to hear.

"We don't have a relationship."

"That's the problem?"

Yes.

Maybe that's the problem.

But I don't want to think about that now. Not in front of him.

I don't want to admit that all I wanted was to be kissing him, calling him my love, even in public, just so everyone would know — he loves me. He's dating me. But that would be too humiliating.

So I decide to leave the room. Not fast enough to look like I'm running away, but fast enough to pretend I have something urgent waiting for me somewhere else.

I walk down that long, gray corridor, trying to clear my head.

Trying to think of anything but his face. Anything that seems more important than this stupid feeling that insists on staying.

But I hear more hurried footsteps behind me.

Damn it.

“Yoongi.” 

I pretend I didn't hear.

"Wait."

His voice is too close now.

If I take two more steps, he'll catch up to me. And I don't want him to think he stopped me. So I'm the one who stops. I turn around slowly, pretending it was my decision — as if I still had any control over this.

About him.

“Hi.” 

He looks so handsome, up close like this. His short hair is plastered to his forehead, his chest slightly heaving, indicating that he must have run a little bit to catch up to me. At least in this moment.

"Hi," he says, calm and low. "I saw you leaving the room kind of out of nowhere, and... are you okay?"

That question is almost cruel.

As if he doesn't know that it's not. As if I could just say "no" and everything would change.

It makes me want to explode. To say no, that nothing is okay. That I spent the whole lunch staring at the girl he was with, wondering what she has that I don't, where I lost him, or if he was ever truly mine.

It makes me want to scream that I'm tired of trying to seem calm, controlled, mature. That I wish I could be selfish. To scream that it hurt.

But I can't, can I?

I can't just dump all this on him without any warning, as if he's obligated to put up with my emotional breakdown just because a part of me still insists on wanting him.

I don't want to take out my frustrations on him. Not like this. Not in such a childish way.

So I lie.

"Yeah, I am."

And he keeps looking at me, waiting for me to continue my answer, waiting for me to tell him where he went wrong, where I went wrong.

Hoseok never forces anything. I've already noticed this in the short time that we've been "together." He always leaves an open space, waiting for the desire to talk to come from me — as if he wanted me to truly choose to open up. As if he respects the pace of my wounds.

But I hate that about him. I wish he were the opposite. That he would pin me against the wall and not let me escape. That he would force me to say what I feel, even if it was painful. Because only then would I be honest — with myself and with him.

"I thought you were going to help me too. With my dancing."

Ask your friend for help.

"I..." I don't know what to say, why don't you ask your friend for help? "Taehyung and my mother will handle that better."

"And you're going to let Tae do that?" he asks with a pout.

What a cruel pout.

"He's your partner, it's the least I can expect from him."

Now he stares at me, as if he knows he won't be able to get anything out of me, nothing that will improve our situation.

And for a second, I falter. I feel like kissing his now-discouraged eyes and covering his mouth with a bunch of little kisses. A wretched desire. Which makes me desperately want to cry and be comforted by his strong arms. I feel like an omega.

"I have to go," is what comes out of my mouth.

"Okay... I'll see you later?" he asks hopefully.

Yes. Please, yes.

"I'm going to be busy..."

And I see the hope slowly fading in his eyes.

Hoseok gives a slight nod, but he doesn't say anything else. He understands. Or he thinks he understands.

And that kills me more than any shout or demand.

Because he doesn't fight. He doesn't argue. He simply accepts it.

As if he were used to losing.

I turn away before my expression betrays me.

I take three steps.

Four.

Five.

And, on the sixth, I wonder why it's so hard to love someone out loud.

But it's already too late.

I'm far enough away for him to think I chose to walk away.

And close enough to still hear my own heart breaking.

🐋

The weak, yellow light of the studio barely helps me see the sweat running down my forehead. It's 11 p.m., and the silence only amplifies the pressure in the air. The sound is almost nonexistent — only the muffled tap of my ballet shoes, my ragged breathing, and that voice that insists on corroding everything.

I can't stand rehearsing with Taehyung anymore. I can't stand his expression filled with resentment, his sharp jabs. And lately, he's been worse. He doesn't smile to provoke or to intimidate. He's just... harsh.

"Again," he orders, dryly, impatiently.

Again. One more time. Do it right. Open wider. Watch your feet. Extend your arm.

I've already memorized every one of his damned corrections, as if that's enough to shield me from the poison in his voice.

But it's not just about technique. He seems to want to take me apart. One mistake at a time. As if every one of my failures were ammunition for the war he's waging against me.

And I hate the way he stares at me — with a mix of disdain and something bordering on anger... or hurt. Or even fear? But he never talks about it. He just demands. He always demands.

"You're locked up," he lets out, without even looking at me.

The words cut like a razor blade. Short, sharp.

"You need to loosen up."

I stay motionless. Frozen, just as he said. But this time for real.

The word echoes in my head as if he had screamed it — and not whispered it, nonchalantly, as he did.

Frozen?

After everything I've been trying? After repeating the same choreography until my legs threatened to give up on me?

I stop in the middle of the spin he demanded and turn to face him. There he is. Arms crossed, his weight shifted onto one leg, and the worst look anyone has ever given me.

"Listen... you're good, Taehyung, but you're not the best," I say calmly, but the exhaustion scratches inside me. "And you'd better stop inventing problems that only exist in your head."

He raises his eyebrow, a mix of offense and mockery.

"It's not made up. It's technique. Technique isn't debated, it's executed."

“I'm dancing just like you. I see the recordings," my voice comes out louder than it should. Loaded with an anger that comes from a deeper place than I expected.

What's happening to me?

He slowly approaches, his footsteps light, his gaze heavy. And now, honestly, I'm afraid he's going to go after me — not just because he's bigger, but because he looks ready to explode.

He stops too close. So close that I can feel his breath. And I don't look away.

"If you want my spot, you have to dance better. Not the same," he says in a low, almost intimate tone, but cold as ice.

For a second, the world stops. The studio, the air, my thoughts.

And then, everything makes sense.

It's not about technique. It never was.

He wants to watch me wear myself out trying to catch up to him. He wants me to go crazy, for my muscles to fail, for my mind to fall apart. He wants to break me before I even get on stage.

I let out a laugh. There's no humor in it — it's the kind of laugh that comes when the truth bites too late. And seeing his forehead furrow just makes me want to continue.

"Oh, Taehyung," I say, still laughing. "I should have seen this coming. What a dirty little game."

He presses his lips together, clearly irritated, but he doesn't retort. The silence hangs heavy between us, thick as smoke.

I keep laughing, but it's a defense. A crooked shield against all of this. Against the exhaustion. Against the fear that he's winning against me on the inside.

He crosses his arms, his gaze locked on me.

"This isn't a game, Yoongi."

"No? What's your next trick? Putting glue on my ballet shoes? I'll start checking before I put them on."

He narrows his eyes. No smile.

"Glue? You think I need that?" he retorts with sarcasm and something that looks like... pride.

"Then what is it?" I retort, crossing my arms too. "Do you want to see me fall apart before the premiere?"

He takes another step. The air between us seems even denser now.

"I want you to stop pretending you can be better than me without effort... because you can't."

The words cut like a knife. There's no irony. Just a raw truth — at least, his truth.

I stare at him. My blood pounds loudly, and he doesn't look away. Then he finishes, acidly:

“It takes effort, Yoongi... otherwise, someone will take everything from you.”

The words hang in the air like thick smoke. They weren't shouted. But they burn as if they were.

I let out a low laugh. A dry sound.

"And is that what happened to you?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

"That's right. You're here trying to teach me how to lose... because you lost the role. And the boyfriend."

I see the light in his eyes change. It's not drama. It's pain, raw and quick. He takes half a step back — almost imperceptibly — but he keeps his chin up.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"No?"

I tilt my head, carrying a fake innocence.

"I didn't lose my boyfriend, much less the role," he says through clenched teeth, angrily. "I'm not you."

His words hit hard. Not because of the content. But because of the delivery.

I should turn my back. Let it go. But something anchors me there — pride, anger, fear. Maybe all of them together.

I feel my jaw clench, and when I look back at him, I realize he didn't actually step back. His eyes gleam — not with tears, but with some embedded pain. Anger, hurt... or something I can't yet name.

I swallow hard. When I speak, my voice comes out firm, even with the lump burning inside:

"Then show me, Taehyung." His eyes narrow. "Show me what you have... that I don't."

He smiles. A crooked, cruel smile. Determined.

“I'll show you. But you'll have to keep up.”

And he pulls away. But the weight of his presence still hangs in the air, like sweat stuck to skin.

And the worst part is, despite everything — every attack, every cutting word — I know I'll follow.

Not because I want to win.

But because, for some reason that escapes me, I need to.

Chapter Text

I've been trying to disconnect from everything around me for a while now, focusing on anything that might distract me, even if just for a little while.

The Sicilian lemon risotto reaches my mouth with a taste that's almost new, exotic. I close my eyes for a second, pretending I'm somewhere else — maybe in a hidden restaurant in the alleys of Milan, with yellowish lights and no expectations about who I should be.

The farm is gorgeous — tall trees, a blue sky that at night reveals stars as if they've been painted, and a sea of green that makes you want to take a deep breath. But what captivates my gaze the most is the stable, where Dior is, so strong, and Hoseok's dumb mare.

Everything's so beautiful... and yet, nothing can silence the annoyance that comes out of Mr. Jung's mouth.

Hoseok and I were kindly invited to lunch with our parents, to be informed — with proud smiles and raised glasses — about the increase in profits that the hospital network is generating. But, sitting here, on my family's farm, eating expensive food, made by hands that probably earn more than many doctors, and drinking a wine that would probably cost someone's rent, all I can think is: this profit comes from pain. It comes from sick people, desperate for help, paying absurd prices for a system that will one day be mine. It's not exactly an appetite-whetting thought.

"In the not-so-distant future, you two will have to take care of the businesses, the hospitals, the properties, the agricultural side..." I hear the voice of the not-so-dear Jung, delivering the same old motivational speech.

Hoseok said nothing. He just lowered his head and kept poking at his food. My dad let out an uncomfortable little laugh, trying to change the subject, but the atmosphere is still heavy, like one of those days when the air is thick and you don't know whether to breathe or to freak out.

I took a slow sip of the wine and thought: "Go on, Tae, pretend everything's okay. Just one more lunch. Just a few more hours."

"It's going to be good... to take care of the companies," Hoseok said slowly, trying to please his father.

"You two don't need to worry about that yet, boys," my father says, in that gentle voice he uses when he's trying to smooth over something that, deep down, he knows is serious.

"I'm not," I say, giving a delicate smile, as if sincerity were optional at that table. "Can we excuse ourselves for a moment? It's been a while since I've seen my horse... and I think Hobi wants to, too."

My dad gives me a knowing look, as if he'd already understood everything without me needing to say a thing.

"You didn't even touch your food..." the annoying guy grumbles, clearly not very satisfied.

"I'm not hungry," Hoseok says, kind of bluntly.

"Go on, go on..." my father whispers, freeing us from that annoying situation.

We get up with a slight scraping of chairs, feigning politeness even in the simplest gestures. We leave the room and head toward the stable in a respectful silence — still maintaining the pretense of not wanting to offend anyone, or cause any more discomfort than there already was.

At least until we're far enough away.

"Goddammit, what an unbearable thing," I let out, finally able to breathe.

Hoseok lets out a short, humorless laugh.

"He talks as if we're going to take over everything next week."

"The 'agricultural side' is all yours, good luck..." I comment, tilting my head to the side. "But it's still 50/50."

"Great. I'll take the pasture, and you get the spoiled horses."

"Elite horses." I pause, looking at him sideways. "And I was talking about the money."

Hoseok stares at me for a second, then he laughs through his nose, shaking his head.

"Of course he was."

"You think I dance for passion? I've had my eye on the inheritance since I was seven."

"Oh, and here I thought it was about expressing your sensitive soul."

"That part is for marketing."

We kept laughing until we finally got to the stable. For a moment, the smell of hay, the muffled sound of hooves, and the quiet of the field make everything feel lighter — almost as if the world slows down just so I can breathe better. Dior sees me from a distance and starts pawing the ground, impatient, recognizing my footsteps even before I get close. It's funny how he always seems to understand me more than a lot of people.

"He still likes me," I murmur, almost as if confessing a relief.

I'm afraid that, one day, he'll start to hate me because I don't show up that often. Or worse: that he'll start to prefer the caretaker. That, truly, would be a nightmare.

I open the gate and walk over to him, feeling the weight on my chest lift just from resting my hand on his neck. Dior presses his big snout against me hard — the way he always did when he was mad that I had disappeared.

"I know. I'm sorry..." I whisper, running my hand between his ears.

Dior Streep is an imposing horse, with a black coat and white spots scattered like brushstrokes. His long, thick mane hangs down the sides of his neck, braided with perfection into symmetrical locks — a sign of the rigorous care I demand from the stable hands. The hair on his legs is abundant and wavy, wrapping around his hooves as if he were wearing velvet boots. Even when standing still, he seems to pose — his neck arched, his ears always alert, his eyes dark and expressive. My baby.

And there's Hoseok's brown mare; she's a sweetheart. Definitely.

"Solace," he calls, with a smirk. "Come say hi to the high society folks."

I see the mare give a strange neigh and trip over her own shadow, but I struggle not to comment. Or, at least, I try.

"Stop judging her," Hoseok scolds me.

"But I didn't say anything..."

"As if you had to."

I roll my eyes, but end up smiling.

"Okay, okay. She has her clumsy charm."

Hoseok smiles, a little proud, and replies:

"I just didn't want to train her to exhaustion, or set expectations that she doesn't want to meet."

We stare at each other for a moment — and without planning it, laughter escapes. The kind that brings relief. And maybe even a challenge.

"It's already better than our parents," I say, half-joking, half-serious.

"Take that..." he lets out a short laugh.

We stood there in silence, stroking our horses, until an old memory came to me: the day we got them. We were eight years old, two kids who pretended to be horses, running through the pasture, as if the whole world fit there. I'm almost certain that Dior and Solace weren't fans of our clumsy fun — they must have thought we were a little crazy.

I miss that. I miss him. Ever since I started dating, we've been drifting apart. Or maybe I'm the one who pulled away, and he didn't even realize how much it hurt. But I know he blamed me.

I stare out at the pasture, trying to hold back everything that's stuck inside. But my words start to fail, the lump in my throat tightens. A mix of anger, longing, and fear keeps growing until I can't take it anymore.

A tear escapes. Then another. And suddenly, my face is already wet, and I can't even hide it.

"Already?" Hoseok asks in that tone of someone who already knows what's coming.

"Stop..." I whimper, trying to hide it, but failing miserably.

"It's hard, isn't it?"

I nod, unable to say much.

"It's Drew. He... seems so distant. Like I'm just one more person in the middle of everything. And I don't know if I'm losing him or if it's just another crisis."

Hoseok remains silent for a moment, letting the weight of my words fill the air between us.

"Maybe it really is a crisis," he says, finally.

For a second, I forgot that they hate each other. Shit.

I feel a lump forming in my throat. I wish I could talk about it without being a bother, but with them, it's not possible. It never was.

Hoseok gives me a weary look, as if he understands everything without needing any more words.

"We'll find a way, Tae. You're not alone in this... Yoongi hates me too."

I forget about my own drama for a second and raise an eyebrow, surprised and a little amused. But, at the same time, a pang of guilt runs through me. Maybe I really did cause a crisis... but the Russian needed to know, right?

"He's very good at complicating everything," I reply, with a wry smile, mixing irony and regret.

"He is..." Hoseok lets out a short laugh.

I get to thinking, and an idea crosses my mind: I wonder if, if I were with Hoseok, our lives would be different? Probably not. He's too slow for that kind of thing.

Anyway. I throw my head back, trying to push the thought away. And I pray for it to fall apart soon, just so I can unlive and, finally, be free.

🐋

I'm sitting in the stands now, giving Drew moral support, spiritual support, any kind of help that isn't physical. I know he needs it.

We're on the indoor court because it's raining outside — the perfect weather to cuddle up with your boyfriend, right? It should be, at least. But my boyfriend has preferred the damn ball over me.

I love him so, so much, but these self-torture sessions of his don't benefit me at all. In fact, the daily feeling I've had since he lost that game to Hoseok is that I don't exist in his life anymore.

He doesn't call me, he doesn't text me. If I don't go after him, he doesn't even remember I exist.

But I know this only happens when he's feeling down, so I don't blame him. At least, not directly. But geez... I'm still his boyfriend. He should vent to me, right?

I can't wait for this phase to be over, just so I can have my perfect boyfriend back.

Geez, I want to have sex.

But what's really bothering me now is the presence of the cheerleaders — or rather, the cheerleader whores, as I like to call them.

They're all over there, rehearsing in the right corner of the court. If you can even call it a rehearsal. It looks more like a choreographed mess. And there's the groupie master in the center, trying to coordinate the other Pollys.

I look away, trying not to let my mockery take over, but it's hard to ignore the looks, the whispers, the quiet giggles. Fiona, of course, is the only one who doesn't even try to hide it. She's clearly having fun at my expense.

It's always been like this. I've always received sideways glances because of my position here — or rather, my future position. One day, all of this will be mine. And I'll make sure to eliminate any dance that isn't ballet. In other words: no space for the descendants of these little things.

I pretend I don't care and turn my attention back to Drew, who is in the middle of the court, focused, trying to get every move right during practice. So handsome. But the distance he created between us hurts like a knife in my chest.

I know this won't last forever. But, for now, all I can do is watch. Wait for the moment when we'll explode. And I'm already preparing myself for what's to come.

He finally asked me to sleep over at his dorm. I should be excited, but I'm not. Not today. Not with this Drew.

When practice finally ends, he's breathless, but with that calm smile I always fell for — and that today irritates me deeply, because he's not smiling for me. He's smiling for them. The cheerleader whores.

He walks over to the corner of the court where they're gathered, and his voice echoes across the court:

"Thanks for the effort today, girls," he says, sweetly, with that almost paternal tone that no one deserves.

Fiona is there, laughing softly, her eyes sparkling with that mockery disguised as sweetness. He exchanges kind words with all of them, but his gaze lingers a little longer on her, as if she's the queen of that whole damn thing.

I hate that girl. I hate her friendship with Hoseok. I hate that she's Drew's partner in the group project. I hate her Shrek name. I hate the way she talks, the way she walks, her wardrobe, her accent, her face. Everything.

When he finally finishes all that little act, I see him coming my way, with a smaller, more contained smile. Of course. At some point, I became the villain of the story for him.

I just want to disappear.

He slowly approaches, like someone trying to gauge the ground before stepping. I try to hide how bothered I am, but I know my gaze, locked on him, gives everything away.

"Tae," he starts, his voice low, a little hesitant, a little uncomfortable. "You ready?"

I get up without saying anything, accepting his hand for support. He holds my hand firmly and pulls me out of the court. The rain has let up, and the fresh air comes in through the open windows, mixing with the smell of water.

The walk to his dorm is a little longer than mine. We walk in silence, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the dampness of the floor. I try to find something to say, anything that isn't too heavy, but the words get stuck, as if my throat were sewn shut from the inside.

He seems to feel the weight of the silence, because he squeezes my hand for a moment — a small gesture, but one that reminds me of how close we once were.

When we get to the dorm, he stops at the door, turning to face me.

"Taennie... we need to talk."

I look into his eyes, recognizing the same urgency I feel.

"I know," I reply, with nothing more to say.

But, inside, I already feel that this conversation is going to change everything.

I enter his dorm room and immediately notice the mess — clothes thrown on the floor, books open on the desk, a mix of sneakers and empty bottles. His roommate, Rudy, is usually here, but today, thankfully, he didn't come — which makes everything less awkward.

"What a messy room," I comment, forcing a smile to lighten the tense mood.

I hear an awkward little laugh from Drew behind me, but something catches my attention more than any answer from him.

A pack.

A pack of cigarettes on the bed.

From my boyfriend. Who doesn't smoke.

I freeze. My gaze is fixed on that displaced object in the middle of the mess. My chest tightens — from shock, from doubt, from something I can't yet name. Why would he have this here? Why would he, who always hated cigarettes, have a pack just lying around the room.

So, Hoseok didn't lie?

"Babe... is this Rudy's?" I ask, touching the pack with my fingers, without really picking it up.

He takes a deep breath. The smile disappears. His eyes are downcast, tired, as if they carry weeks of secrets. He avoids my gaze for a few seconds, as if he's still searching for the right words. But, deep down, he already knows he won't be able to lie.

"It's mine..." he says, his voice low, almost a whisper.

The lump in my chest tightens. It's not because of the smoke. It's about what this means.

Something's wrong. Something he's not ready or doesn't want to tell me.

How many other things do I think I know about him?

"How long have you been smoking?" I ask, without hiding my concern.

"Not for very long."

"No?" I retort, my voice coming out louder than I wanted, seeing him shake his head. "Because it seems like more people know about this. And they have for longer than I have."

His look changes. From regretful to confused. Then, curious. Almost scared.

"Who?" He frowns, hesitating."Who is Taehyung?"

I'm not going to fall for his little game.

It's always like this — the fights, the silences, everything ends with a name from the past. And I know exactly what he's going for the moment he puts his hands on his hips, puffs out his chest, and tries to look manly instead of hurt.

"Nobody."

"Nobody?" He repeats, crossing his arms. "Jung Hoseok?"

I remain silent.

I watch the transformation before me: Drew, who just a few seconds ago looked shrunken, with that look of a wounded dog, is now arming himself with rage. His jaw is clenched, his eyes are blazing, just from hearing that name.

The only one who really gets to him.

"That's not the point," I say firmly, trying to stay calm.

"Oh, really?" He laughs a dry laugh. "That asshole keeps going and talking shit about me to you, but of course that's not the point."

"You just confirmed he didn't lie." I hold up the cigarette between us, as if it were proof. "This here... it's not about him. It's about you. And about what else you're hiding."

He laughs again, without humor, running a hand through his hair as if trying to contain the irritation building up.

“Ah, so now I’m the liar in this story?”

“Now?” I let it slip. “Drew, you’ve been acting like someone else for a while, apparently.”

“Sorry, Taehyung, if I got upset that the Streep family’s little golden boy stole my spot on the team. Without any merit.” He laughs, but it’s a bitter, poisonous laugh. “When it was you and that damn Russian, I stood by your side. I endured all your crying, every single one. But of course… now that it’s me, you defend him with the same devotion as your grandmother.

“I’m not defending anyone, Drew.” I take a step forward. My voice no longer hides the disappointment. “I just want to understand why he knows you smoke… and I, your boyfriend, don’t.”

“Because you never wanted to see it.” The words are almost spat out. “You only see what’s convenient for you, Taehyung. You see what’s pretty. What fits into your perfect version of things.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. His eyes glisten — it’s not just anger, it’s pain.

“I tried to show you. I tried to tell you. But there’s always something more important, isn’t there? Dance. Yoongi. Your grandmother. The school drama. There’s never really any space left for me. There never was.”

I’m left breathless for a second. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

“How come, Drew? I share everything in my life with you. You know everything. And I can’t be hurt for finding out you lied to me this whole time about smoking? You know how much I hate cigarettes.”

“You hate cigarettes. You hate lies. You hate when things don’t go your way, Taehyung,” he says, shaking his head in disappointment. “But you know what I hate? The fact that you never told me you were in love with Hoseok before we started dating. Were you ever going to tell me that?”

I freeze. The sentence keeps spinning in my head like a never-ending buzz.

“In love?” The laugh that escapes me is dry. “Are you serious?”

“I am. Very serious.”

His eyes keep glimmering, but now it’s hurt. Not anger.

“Listen, Drew… I may have a lot of flaws, but I’m not a cheater,” I say, my voice catching, tears streaming down without me being able to stop them. “I never laid a finger on Hoseok while I was with you. It never even crossed my mind to betray you. Not with him, not with anyone.”

I’m crying out of anger. Disappointment. Shame. Hurt. And deep down — maybe not that deep — I know there’s truth in what he said. But something I’ve buried for so long shouldn’t be thrown in my face like this. I changed everything for him. So many feelings. I became the ideal boyfriend. So there’s no room here for blame. Not for who I was before.

We stay in silence. Just the sound of our heavy breaths. Eyes locked. Neither of us looks away. He seems to be searching for something in me — maybe a stronger denial, maybe regret. But all he finds is what’s left.

Then he collapses, and only then do I realize how close we are. How ridiculously handsome he still is, even completely undone right in front of me.

Red-faced, eyes wet, hands trembling. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry… I should’ve told you.”

His voice comes out weak, almost childlike. It’s not the usual arrogant Drew. It’s just a lost boy, hiding behind expensive clothes and perfectly styled hair.

I close my eyes. My chest tightens.

“It’s not just about the cigarettes,” I murmur. “It’s about me not knowing who you are anymore. Is there anything else I need to know?”

He lowers his gaze. His breathing falters.

“No… there’s nothing else. I’m sorry. Please.”

I stand still, my heart pounding too fast to know what to do with it. The words sound like a desperate promise, a silent plea. I want to believe. I want to hold onto this moment tightly, but what came before still weighs too heavily.

“I…” I start to speak, but my dry throat won’t let anything out.

He lifts his face. His wet eyes meet mine.

“Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Without thinking, he pulls me into a tight hug, clinging to me as if he wants to protect us — from himself, maybe, or from whatever was breaking us inside. I return it, feeling him tremble against my chest.

I know he’s exhausted. The practices, the games, his father always demanding more than he can give. And now this. A mistake I’m not even sure was a mistake — but one that’s destroying him, anyway.

“I will always forgive you, my love,” I whisper, trying not to let all my feelings slip out.

“No… You don’t understand,” he says through tears, his voice catching, with a hint of anger — maybe at everything, maybe at himself.

I pull him back just enough to look into his eyes. I’ve never seen him so broken.

He holds my face with trembling hands, as if he needs me to not completely lose himself. And he kisses me.

It’s a desperate kiss, full of urgency. It surprises me, but it also calms me. I feel his trembling pass into my body, as if in that touch he’s trying to erase the pain that words couldn’t contain.

When we part, his eyes remain locked on mine, searching for something — forgiveness, maybe. Understanding.

I hold his hands against my face, wanting to say without words that I’m here. That I won’t give up on him. Even without understanding everything he carries.

But deep down, a doubt persists, silently throbbing: why did he apologize? For the cigarettes? For Hoseok? For something else?

It doesn’t matter. Not now. Not while he’s like this, so fragile, needing me.

“I’m sorry too… I should be more understanding,” I say. My voice comes out low, trembling.

He smiles, a weak smile, as if saying, “stay.” No hurry. No questions.

And I stay.

We settle on the bed, the comfortable silence filling the space between us. He moves behind me, his arms wrapping around me like I’m a stuffed animal. His warm skin touches mine.

For a moment, the doubts vanish.

For a moment, I’m just Taehyung, dating Drew — whole, present, safe.

And I hope, with everything I have, that this horrible feeling — mine and his — ends here.

Because if it doesn’t… I don’t know what will become of us.

🐋

It’s almost midnight. Jimin’s dorm is dark, with only the lamp on, casting a soft yellow light, silent. I’m lying in his lap, still in wrinkled clothes — because I had planned to sleep in Drew’s room. But Rudy showed up.

And I had nowhere to go.

Well, I did have somewhere… I just didn’t want to. I didn’t want to face Hoseok’s lovey-dovey relationship with the Russian. And since Jimin is alone in his dorm, I came here. Took advantage. Well… I’m not sure “took advantage” is the right word for having a safe place where I can collapse.

“Taehyung, stop crying.”

Jimin’s voice hits me like a slap.

But I don’t want to stop. I want to sink into it until nothing’s left. Until my throat tears, my eyes burn, and my heart shuts the hell up. I want to dissolve into this ugly, uncontrolled crying that nobody likes to see — because only then do I feel real.

“Jimin, I can’t,” I murmur, not even trying to hide the despair. My voice catches, small. A sound I hate making.

I hate this year. Hate every second of my senior year.

Everything is falling apart. Everything slipping through my fingers.

My mother despises me, the role of the Black Swan doesn’t suit me anymore, and now even Drew… even him, I’m losing.

It’s like the whole world decided I don’t deserve anything anymore.

Jimin slowly runs his hand through my hair, as if trying to erase my sadness. We stay in silence for a while, feeling the warmth of his leg beneath my cheek. Our eyes meet. I wish I could smile at him. Thank him. But I just cry.

“What did he do this time?”

“Nothing,” I lie, sucking in air as if it could hold me together.

“Taehyung…”

I don’t want to speak.

I don’t want to open that wound, because I know he won’t understand, and the silence that follows will hurt too quickly.

“Can we just… sleep?” I murmur, my voice still tearful, finally lifting my gaze to meet his.

Jimin doesn’t answer immediately. He just keeps his hand in my hair, slowly, as if each movement is a way to keep me whole. After a while, he nods, almost imperceptibly.

“Let me get comfortable.”

His voice is low, warm. Almost a whisper.

He helps me sit up, even though I drag myself as if carrying the weight of the world. I lie on my side, and he lies behind me, one arm loosely draped over my waist.

“Just promise me you won’t drool on my pillow.”

“Jimin…” I cry more.

“Just kidding. You can drool if you want.”

And we stay like that. In silence. Just listening to our breathing. Mine still heavy. His, light. And yet, he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t say it’s late or that I should go back to my room. He just stays there, his hand in my hair, as if he always knew I’d end up here.

And I hate it. I hate that he knows me so well. I hate having cried like this. I hate letting myself be fragile.

But deep down, my mind won’t stop thinking about Drew — the way he pulled away, the words left unsaid, the apologies he gave that didn’t explain everything. Does he still want us? Does he know how hard I’m trying? I wonder if he’s as lost as I am, or if he’s already given up on us.

And maybe, even with all this pain, I still want to believe it can be fixed. That we can find each other again — even if, for now, I have to lean on Jimin’s lap to keep from falling apart.

Chapter Text

I run down the sideline, dodging a block, the ball held firmly in my arm. The field is a blur of sounds and colors: shouts, heavy footsteps, the coach’s whistle cutting through the air. I feel the impact of bodies behind me, the ground shaking with every collision, but I don’t slow down. The focus is to push through. Gain ground. Do what I came here to do.

But when I stop to line up for the next play, something pulls me out of the game. My eyes rise to the stands — and freeze. Two eyes are locked on me, so steady it feels like they pierce through my skin. The noise, the game, the entire field… it all disappears for a second.

That’s why I throw myself into the field until I can’t take it anymore. I run, fall, crash, try to sweat enough to shut my brain off. Because if I stop, it starts to hurt. And I don’t want to feel.

Maybe he found out about some of the crap I did before. Or during. But we were never really a couple, right? At least, he never said he wanted to be.

I knew that, at some point, my decisions would come back to haunt me.

Because without him, it’s rough. My body got used to his presence. My mind too. Not that we were glued together, but there was something there. Something just ours.

Now there’s nothing.

No crooked smile. No sharp retort. No kiss. No him.

And the worst part is not knowing why I lost him. All that’s left is settling for the looks he still gives me — when he decides to look.

Like now.

Right in the middle of this damn field.

“Get in position, Jung! Let’s run the play again!” The coach’s shout pulls me back.

I return to the center with a dry mouth, a heavy body, and an even heavier head. I position myself facing Drew — my opponent now. Two teams, one practice for the friendly match. But the atmosphere feels more like war than a regular game.

He stares at me for too long. One second longer than anyone else would. Long enough for me to know it’s not just a game.

Then he looks away, aiming exactly at the same spot I was — Yoongi.

“Are you in love, Jung?” he says, that voice of someone laughing on the inside.

“Why? Jealous?” I reply, bluntly.

“Never…” He lets the word hang, as if he wants it to sound final. “I’d fall for him too. He’s got something… kind of feline, right?” He smirks from the corner of his mouth, still looking at Yoongi. A smile that seems playful, but carries venom. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

I say nothing. I just stare, feeling exactly where he wants to lead me.

A hot fury starts to rise, pulsing. It’s there, ready to explode, along with all the crap I’ve been swallowing these past few days.

“You know… It’s good to put a collar on your little cat. I put one on mine.” — His voice is sharp, relentless.

It hits me in the stomach.

The way he talks about Taehyung, as if he were an object. As if he owned him. As if Yoongi were next in line.

“You’re sick, man,” I say, bluntly.

He laughs this time, shaking his head, as if I’m the one overreacting.

“Relax, Jung. I’m just kidding. Didn’t mean to make you jealous.”

“I’m just disgusted.”

“Is that so? Then stay away. Or I’ll have to yank your leash too, again.”

And then… I can’t take it anymore.

I push him with all the force I’ve been holding in for the past few days. With anger, frustration, with all the damn shit I swallowed in silence. Drew retaliates the next second: a sharp punch, straight to the corner of my mouth. I stagger, tasting iron on my tongue. But I don’t think. I charge with my whole body, hitting his shoulder, his collarbone, and we crash to the ground.

The grass scratches, it hurts. The air turns into blows and gasps. The fight is no longer about practice. Not even about pride. It’s hitting. It’s war.

Drew tries to get up, but I grab the collar of his uniform and pull him back, hard.

“Are you crazy, damn it?!” I shout in his face.

He pushes me with his forearm, trying to pin me to the ground. I twist, mount on top of him, and land two punches on his chest. Nothing technical. Just rage.

He reacts, grabs my shoulders, and pushes me back. We roll across the wet grass. He grabs my shirt and yanks me so hard that the necklace around my neck snaps. Shit. It was fucking expensive. I raise my fist again, ready to strike.

But someone grabs my arm.

“That’s enough, Hoseok!” Jungkook yanks me back hard.

Drew still tries to get up, staggering. Someone else grabs him — maybe Jensen.

The field has turned into chaos: shouts, people trying to separate us, the coach’s whistle slicing through the air like a siren. But it all feels distant.

“You guys are crazy, damn it?!” Ackles yells. “Clean up this blood and go straight to my office. NOW.”

Gasping, I feel my chest rise and fall as if I’m still taking hits. The necklace, now broken, swings on my neck, held by a single thread. My hand remains clenched, unable to release my fist.

The grip on my arm — Jungkook. He drags me toward the stands.

But my head… my head is still back there.

In that bastard’s face.

And in the urge to smash every fake smile of his with my own fists.

“Are you crazy? You’re going to waste the only chance you had, damn it!” Jungkook growls, dragging me as if he wants to shake me back into reality.

“That idiot won’t shut the hell up,” I snap back, spitting the words as if the fight were still happening.

“You know what’s fucked up? You're going at him first. If anyone’s gonna get screwed here, it’s you, you idiot,” Jungkook growls through his teeth, the grip on my arm almost painful.

We reach the stands and he finally lets me go. He sits down hard, as if he needs to get out of my line of sight for a moment. I can’t even think about sitting. My body is on fire, and my head, even worse. Everything throbs: my face, my stomach, my pride.

I search, in the middle of the chaos, for the reason behind all this shit.

Taehyung is at the edge of the field, right in front of Drew. They’re arguing. He gestures, irritated, his brow so furrowed it looks like it might tear his forehead. Even from afar, I can almost hear his voice. Almost.

I want to scream too.

I want to say that his boyfriend is a worm. That he spoke about him like he was property. That he hinted he was eyeing someone else.

I want him to know the truth.

But instead, I stay here. Quiet. Swallowing the words.

Up above, Yoongi.

Standing. Still. Watching me. Or at least I think he is — my vision’s a little blurred with everything going on.

No expression at all. Neither anger nor disappointment. Nor pity.

Just that look.

Cold.

Distant.

As always.

“You didn’t seriously punch him over the dancer,” Jungkook says, incredulous.

“He said some shit about putting a collar on Taehyung… and that I should put one on Yoongi too. Otherwise, he’d go after Yoongi. Or I don’t know. I heard ‘Yoongi,’ ‘Taehyung,’ and…” My voice falters. “And that was it.”

And that was enough.

Enough to make me lose my mind.

And maybe ruin everything.

Maybe I threw my future away because of two people who…

Didn’t choose me.

And wouldn’t choose me.

Fuck, Hoseok

Jungkook stares at me. It’s the first time in a long time that he doesn’t crack a joke. No teasing. No sarcastic comment. Not even that looks like he thinks everything’s too dramatic to be taken seriously.

Just silence.

Silence and a gaze that weighs.

“You’re dumb,” he finally says, with that tone of someone who’s tired of repeating himself. But I know him. I know it’s the kind of “dumb” loaded with worry. “But also… I don’t know. That guy’s an asshole. If it were me, I’d have broken his nose too.”

“I almost did,” I mutter, trying to laugh, but the corner of my mouth tugs with pain. It burns. Everything burns.

Jungkook frowns, as if deciding whether to say anything more. After a second, he sighs.

“Namjoon’s got the good stuff in the dorm…” he says, like it’s a miracle cure. “It’ll do you good.”

I nod slightly, but my gaze stays fixed on the now-empty stands.

Taehyung and Drew are gone.

Yoongi isn’t there either.

Fuck.

What the hell did I do?

My mouth throbs, the metallic taste of blood lingering. I spit on the ground, annoyed.

“Come on, don’t just stand there.”

I follow, limping a little. My head is pounding, my body shredded. We cross the field, and the silence between us weighs heavier than any words.

I just want to forget all of this.

Even if it’s just for a moment.

🐋

Now I’m here, rolling the joint, trying to make it as fat as I can, my way. It seems easy, but it’s a hell of a lot of work, especially with my mind racing. I can already see the future: kicked off the team, out of school… maybe even out of the house. But for now, all I want is for this damn thing to light up and give me a breather.

“You punched him?” Namjoon asks, incredulous.

“Over a dancer…” Jungkook replies, more thoughtfully than he should be.

It’s funny and irritating to see them both, high, trying to clean the blood off my face and slap on a crooked bandage. I felt like a kid who fell off the slide and ended up in the ER… except my “doctors” were two construction workers. With all due respect to the profession.

We’re on the balcony of their dorm — no cameras here, our refuge to use what we can’t use in front of anyone else.

"You would've done the same for that guy with the big butt over there. And I'm not even going to comment on you, Namjoon," I say, with a wry laugh.

“Ah…” Jungkook murmurs, resting his head on Nam’s arm, all slouched, that lazy smile on his face. “I really wish I could date my guy with the big butt.”

I let out a bitter laugh and light up. I inhale deeply, feeling the hot smoke fill my lungs. What he said about the stuff was true — it relaxes my body, loosens my muscles… but my head? My head is still racing, like a machine gun of thoughts.

And every time I close my eyes, I see Drew in front of me and Yoongi in the stands. His gaze cutting through everything. Indifferent. Cold.

What did I expect? That he’d come running to defend me? That he’d get jealous? That, I don’t know, he’d thank me for being an idiot for him?

I inhale again. The taste is bitter, and my mouth dries out.

The smoke is the only thing warm inside me.

The only thing.

"You know..." Namjoon says slowly, with a calm that almost contrasts with the rest of us. "I'm no relationship expert, but I understand mine. You guys need to dive into it. It's not something that will happen if someone doesn't give in first. It's not just about kissing, texting... It's about showing that you care, that you're there even when you don't seem to be. That's how Jin won me over."

"Shut up, I know you got turned down by him like three times," Jungkook pokes, smiling.

"Shut up, you brat," Namjoon laughs, giving him a light tap on the arm.

We laugh along, but Namjoon's laugh has that tone of "yes, I got rejected, but I made it happen," and Jungkook's has a tone of "you're an idiot, but you're also cute."

Sometimes I think he's in love with Nam, but I can't prove it.

"But what about when you know the other person doesn't care about you that much?" I ask, looking directly at him.

Namjoon stops smoking and stares at me. Maybe he's looking for an answer, perhaps he thinks my question is too dumb, or that I'm already too messed up.

"Well... I think it's worth it to double-check."

Before I can answer, a knock on the door sounds — weak, light, but nothing is light when you're smoking weed in a school dorm.

The tension suddenly hits us. We don't run to get up — nobody here has the physical ability for that right now — but we straighten our posture. Namjoon gives his cheeks a few taps, trying to wake himself up, and I grab the end of the joint, already put out, to hide it in my pocket.

The knocking repeats, louder.

I can't see the door from here, but I hear the doorknob turn, and right after that, Namjoon's voice, altered:

“Yoongi?!”

The smoke, the jokes, the relief we felt just seconds ago — everything vanishes. I stand still, petrified. My brain, slow from the weed, tries to process. Yoongi? Here?

The sound of the door opening echoes. Then, silence.

No one speaks. No one moves.

My eyes are fixed on the entrance to the room. I wait.

"I... is Hoseok here?" he asks, a little shyly.

His voice hits me harder than any punch. It's not his usual determined calm. It's small, almost uncertain.

Jungkook stares at me, laughing with a soft smile, seeming to enjoy the drama I'm in and that I'm about to live through now.

And then I see him.

Yoongi is standing in the doorway, holding a small white first-aid kit. He doesn't come in right away. He's still wearing a loose, gray sweatshirt, but his shyness contrasts with his strong presence. He doesn't look angry or indifferent. He seems... vulnerable.

Namjoon, in front of him, gestures for him to come in.

"He's on the balcony," Namjoon says, in a calm voice.

I watch Jungkook retreat from the balcony at the same speed that Yoongi enters. A slow and careful movement from both of them, but for different reasons. One, because of the drug's effects, the other... maybe from apprehension. But of what? Of the fight? Of me?

I stare at him, freely, wondering why he looks so ridiculously cute right now, holding a little first-aid kit like a child, looking at me as if he's not sure if he should be there.

He sits down in front of me, placing the little box in the space between us. I stare at him, he looks away. The silence stretches on, awkward, until he takes a deep breath and lets it out, a little jumbled and uncertain:

"That Homer Simpson Band-Aid isn't going to help you much."

I can't hold back my laugh. A surprised, raspy laugh that echoes on the balcony. It's a strange sound, but it's genuine.

"Let me see," he asks, serious, sincere.

I nod, and he takes out a gauze pad and a bottle of antiseptic from the little box. The strong smell of medicine spreads in the air.

"It's going to sting a little," he warns, his voice still low.

He soaks the gauze pad and, with a gentleness I never knew he had, presses it against the corner of my mouth. It stings. I let out a gasp, but I don't pull away. My eyes fix on his.

His hand is firm, but his touch is light. His skin, cold, contrasts with mine, hot and wounded. It's the only thing I can feel now: his touch. For a second, the world disappears. There's no fight, no football, no fear of expulsion. Just the two of us.

"I got scared..."

His voice is so low I can barely hear it, but his words hit me like a punch. He says nothing more; he just continues cleaning the wound. So handsome. So genuinely gentle.

And then I remember what Namjoon said, and I wonder if this is the right moment for that "double-check."

"With what?" The question escapes my raspy mouth before I can stop myself.

He stops, places the dirty cotton ball in a small trash bin inside the little box. I find myself wondering if it would be possible to detach myself from the details — but they're so captivating.

“With you… But then I asked myself what the argument was even about.”

“With me?” I ask, surprised.

He nods, his eyes locked on mine.

“With you, yeah. Out there on the field. You looked out of control. And when I saw you on the ground, bleeding… I got scared.”

"Ah..."

I think about apologizing, explaining myself, telling him every piece of my life so he’ll understand that I would never act like that if Drew hadn’t provoked me, if he hadn’t used his name.

But I don’t say anything. Or at least nothing worth saying, because what comes out of my mouth is an atrocity:

"Do you hate me?"

I see Yoongi stop peeling the band-aid — simple, plain, skin-toned — and look at me, surprised.

Believe me, honey, I am too.

I should stop with these things that mess with my mind.

The question hangs between us. Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me, and that serious, unchanging gaze of his now seems… confused. He takes a deep breath, and the hand holding the band-aid falls onto his lap.

“No.” The voice is almost a whisper, too soft to believe.

But then something changes on his face. He goes cold again, a shift so quick I can barely follow. Without warning, he adjusts a bandage on the cut on my forehead and another on my mouth. He puts the things back in the little box and stands up to leave.

Fuck, I can’t take this anymore.

And then comes the double-check verification.

“It’s because of you… I hit him, and I got hit too, because of you.” I say quickly, standing up.

He stops. The movement he had to flee freezes halfway. I stand still, my body burning with anger and fear.

In the same instant he was using to run from me, he comes back. Fast, like a hurricane coming to wreak destruction.

Before I realize it, his mouth is pressed against mine, his hands gripping my hair tightly.

It’s not a calm kiss. It’s not gentle. It’s a collision. The pressure of his lips is urgent, desperate, and the salty taste of my blood mixes with the urgency of the kiss. I feel his tongue invade my mouth without asking permission. His hands grip my hair so hard they make me gasp, and his breathing is as ragged as mine.

My hands, which had been still at my sides, finally move. I grab his waist, his shirt. I hold onto him as if he’s the only reason not to collapse.

The kiss is a confession. It’s the “I got scared” in the form of a kiss. It’s his way of saying he doesn’t hate me. That he wants me. I think.

And I, with my lips cut, my body on fire, respond with the same intensity. Feeling every second of this moment as if it were eternal. I wish it really were.

We break apart, gasping. The air between us is dense, too hot, heavy with what just happened.

My lips burn, a good kind of pain, almost electric, reminding me of his urgency.

I try to say something, anything, but my voice won’t come out.

All I can do is stare — as if looking longer will make me understand what the hell that meant.

But what I see isn’t an answer. It’s a face covered in tears that seem to have appeared without permission, flushed cheeks, swollen lips. He’s crying. Silently.

The drops fall slowly, tracing down his skin to his chin, and the only thing I can hear is our ragged breathing.

I want to raise my hand to wipe them away, but he steps back — and then another step. As if I got any closer, the ground would open up.

Then he turns and almost runs toward the door.

I call his name once, twice, but the sound gets lost in the thick air. He doesn’t look back.

He kissed me, he cried, and he ran away.

What did I do wrong? What did I say?

“Shit!” I yell the moment the bedroom door slams shut, the sound echoing in my chest.

“Dude, what was that?” Jungkook’s voice comes from one of the beds, reminding me we’re not alone.

I don’t even bother answering. My phone vibrates, and on the screen, Meryl’s name — a reminder that Yoongi isn’t my only problem: Meeting. Now.

Fuck. They called my dad.

I walk past Jungkook, who looks at me as if he expects an explanation.

“What was that?” he repeats.

“I have to go,” I say, hoarse, already grabbing the only things of mine in that room: my phone and two joints, which I tuck into a gum box.

I can’t think of anything else right now. Maybe it’s the weed, maybe my brain has already gone into safe mode to avoid processing what’s waiting for me.

The dorm door closes behind me.

Outside, the street is empty, silent. Every step I take echoes, and the sound reminds me how alone I am.

I feel the weight of the gum box in my pocket — the only comfort I have.

My mouth still burns.

The smell of antiseptic on my face is the last physical trace of Yoongi.

I’m so fucked.

🐋

I’m not fucked. At least that’s what Meryl tries to make me believe. I arrived late to the meeting, and she told me that my dad and Drew’s dad sorted everything out, throwing a good chunk of money on the table. As if that was all it took: money putting out the fire I started myself.

"We have a friendly match on Friday, so there's no problem," she says, in a serious voice, almost trying to convince me.

"Seriously?" I stop, looking directly at her, feeling the disgust grow in my chest. "Meryl, that can't be true."

She sighs, a heavy, tired sigh. "Ah, my love, you know your father. For him, everything has a price. A good transaction solves his problems."

Problems in his life. I'm just one more of those problems. A headache he'd rather pay to get rid of. He didn't even deign to call me, yell at me, anything. He just sent the money, and that was it: problem solved.

I could screw up the world, and he wouldn't even notice. And, of course, without having to look me in the face.

"Hobi... what happened?" Her voice has care, affection, but also a weight that almost breaks me.

I take a deep breath, feeling the anger and exhaustion burning inside me, a mixture that makes me dizzy.

"Nothing... nothing much. Can I go, then? Since everything is settled."

She lets out a sigh, as if she had more to say, but my voice is a concrete wall.

"Of course, my love. Go."

I stand up slowly, looking her in the eyes for a moment. She is sitting, her hands clasped in her lap, avoiding my gaze. She knows I'm lying. And I know that she knows.

But she lets me go because she understands that, today, that's the only thing I can do.

I leave the office, the sound of my footsteps reverberating against the cold walls of this shitty school. I wish I could go back in time, erase everything. Never to have stepped foot in that practice, never to have kissed Yoongi, never to have gotten involved in this chaos.

I wish this day would disappear as if it never existed.

But I know it won't.

Because the day that screwed me over isn't over. It's only 4 p.m.

Chapter Text

Time until La Maison du Cygne Noir: 9 months, 3 weeks, and 2 days.

The air in the studio feels heavier than ever, as if every step I take sinks into the floor and pulls me down with it. I left Hoseok's room not really knowing what to do with my hands, which were shaking subtly... or maybe not so subtly. I don't even know anymore. I left without knowing where to go, with the bitter taste of what happened still stuck in my mouth — a mix of tears, regret, and something I can't name.

How could I have let a scene like that happen? Why did I start crying? Why did I kiss him? Why did I go after him? Why did I care so much? For almost two weeks, I had been avoiding everything — looking at him, touching him, any chance of getting lost again. I built a tall wall, brick by brick, and yet... I went there, crossed it, knocked on his door, and... cried. Every gesture, every touch, every word now reminds me that I lost control.

I can't believe I let this happen. Every sob that escapes confirms that I'm no longer in control, and it hurts almost as much as the crying itself. I sit on the floor of some practice room, not even knowing which one. The cold lights above burn my eyes, and the chilly wood under my body only reinforces how out of place I feel, like an intruder. I bury my head between my legs, trying to hide from the world. But I know it's useless — the world is inside me now, and it won't stop pushing me down.

Hot, salty tears stream down my face, pooling on my sweatpants. My whole body is shaking, every muscle at war with itself. It's anger, frustration, fear. Anger for letting it get to this point, knowing part of it was my fault. Frustration for getting lost in the middle of everything and not being able to find my way back. Fear that I've ruined everything for good.

I hate this. I hate myself. I just ruined everything. But I'm not a crier, I'm not fragile. I always thought I was calm, centered... but am I really? Today I saw myself as a walking catastrophe.

And as if my life wasn't bad enough, the universe decides to punish me once more with the creak of a door. The sound invades the room like a blade scratching glass. I lift my head just enough to see who's coming in — and there she is, the biggest bitch of them all: Mom.

My sob disappears the instant our eyes meet. Not because I want it to, but because I can't. Not with that cold, calculating gaze that always pierces me and reminds me who's in control — and who's on the floor.

We just stared at each other for a long time — it felt like a long time. She looked down at me, as if she knew exactly what was happening in my life, as if she was saying that if I were good enough, I wouldn't be crying here. I'd be there, making her proud. Not worrying about anything except dance, not worrying about anything other than fulfilling everything that was proposed to me since I was born: conquering all that she couldn't.

And then I hear, coming from her mouth, a sentence calmly spoken but meant to disturb:

“I told you that relationships hurt.”

And just as she arrived, she leaves. She doesn't look back, doesn't wait for a response, doesn't care. The door closes with a soft click, but it echoes like thunder in my head, muffling even my own breathing.

I stay there, hunched on the floor, feeling the tears start to fall again, heavier and heavier, as if they want to drown me. My short, gasping breaths begin to fail. My hands go to my hair, pulling hard, as if tearing out each strand could also rip out everything I know about life, about myself, about every mistake I've made. A hair lobotomy.

But nothing happens. It never does. She was right. Relationships hurt. I've known that since I was little. I've never had a healthy relationship, not even with my mom. And no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, the problem is me. It always has been. It always will be.

Each breath is a struggle, every thought a knife twisting in my chest. I try to convince myself to get up, shake my head, pull myself together, but my body won't obey. The studio, once silent, now feels overwhelming, filled with echoes of my failures, my choices, her words.

In the midst of this chaos, I can only feel one thing clearly: I'm alone. With my own tears, my own mistakes, my own fears. And maybe... that's exactly what I deserve.

🐋

Jin's music room appears as a refuge, almost a safe harbor amid the school's chaos. The yellow light gives it a cozy, almost maternal feel, and the smell of coffee fills every corner, bringing a sense of home I haven't felt in a long time. The background music, sometimes soft, sometimes irritatingly disjointed, keeps playing, and somehow, it helps slow down my thoughts that are still racing out of control.

Jin is evaluating the sounds that form the base of the group project song. It's not melancholic, not classical — it's modern, vibrant, full of energy that I can barely keep up with. He notices my lost look and tries to understand why I'm crying, but I blame it on allergies. Then he asks if it's about Hoseok... and I wonder if I don't have some allergy to relationships. At least, that would be a less cruel realization than "everyone hates me."

I wait for him to finish packing his things so we can go straight to the dorm. Each to his own, of course... not so of course, since going to my dorm means going to Hoseok's dorm, and honestly, I don't want that. I don't want him to stop me and ask me anything. I'd rather go sleep at my mom's house than have to face that.

"I'm done. Shall we go?" Jin asks.

I don't say anything. I just stare at him. I think I've said, at most, three complete sentences today. It's not something I'm proud of.

"Yoongi, you can count on me. I know you went after Hoseok... Nam told me," he says, with a calmness that almost hurts, as he settles down beside me.

That's enough for the tears to return, stubborn and persistent. I don't want to tell him, I don't want to trust him, I can't trust him. Everything feels strange, too weird. All I want to do is run away, cross cities, maybe go back to Russia. There, I was like a doll. Without so many feelings. I just lived what was necessary. That was enough.

Why is it different here? Why?

I feel Jin's hands reach for mine, firm and gentle. His gaze rests on me with a sweetness that I don't know how to bear.

"I went... I don't know why I'm crying."

"It's okay to cry," Jin answers, without hesitation. He speaks softly, almost as if it's obvious, but it's the hardest phrase for me to believe.

I stand still, trying to swallow the tears, but they won't obey. The warmth of his hand is strange, but it's not bad. It's a comfort that doesn't demand anything, that asks for no explanations, that just exists.

The background music continues. The soft beat fills the space, and for a few minutes, it feels like we don't need to do anything but breathe. I hear the coffee still warm in the pot, and time seems to have slowed down inside the studio.

When I finally compose myself, Jin slowly gets up, as if he had been waiting for the right moment.

"Shall we go?" he asks, without rushing.

I nod in silence. He grabs his things, I stand up too, and together we leave the studio. I still don't know if I feel lighter or heavier, but I know that, for an instant, I wasn't alone.

The silence reverberates, but the sound of our footsteps, side by side, is comforting. But Jin seems to hate silence, which makes me calmer for now. It distracts me from my thoughts.

"I'm glad you liked the idea for the sound. I was afraid I'd have to redo everything."

"Oh, but the others still have to consent," I answer, trying to sound casual.

“Yes, but Jungkook agrees with everything Namjoon says, and Jimin agrees with everything I say about music. Hoseok never cares about anything, and Taehyung has never even set foot in the studio.”

"Why is he like that, you know?" I say, feeling my voice tremble a little.

"Insufferable?" he asks, laughing.

I laugh along with him, feeling that we're finally close to the dorms. I really need to sleep. The cool air hits my face, and the yellow light from the streetlights creates circles of safety on the ground. The streets have that college housing feel: low-rise buildings, well-kept gardens, footsteps echoing on the silent asphalt.

Jin keeps talking about music, small ideas, notes, details that could change, trying to keep me distracted, but I feel my thoughts drifting further and further away, traveling to a place I'd rather not be. We turn the last corner before the dorm building, and suddenly the mood changes. The sound is no longer just our voices and footsteps; now there's something else, something urgent, shrill, impossible to ignore.

"Do you hear that?" Jin asks, quietly, his hand lightly touching my arm.

"Is that Tae?" I reply, my voice almost failing.

And then we realized: Taehyung and Drew are arguing so loudly that it's possible to hear them from outside the room. Every one of their words cuts through the air, hits our ears, and echoes down the hallway as if it's hitting us. I've never seen Taehyung so nervous, not even when he cursed at me as soon as I arrived. The veins in his neck pop like taut ropes, his fists are clenched, his body is rigid, ready to explode. Drew is no different: tense shoulders, furrowed brow, hard eyes fixed on Tae, heavy breathing, every sound of their anger reverberating through the walls.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!" Taehyung yells, gesturing forcefully, almost knocking over the chair next to him. His voice vibrates, sharp, full of fury and frustration.

"WHY DO YOU ACT LIKE YOU'RE A SAINT?!" Drew retorts, his voice just as intense, the tone harsh and almost desperate.

Their words pile up in the street, overlapping one another, creating a cacophony of anger that holds me in place. I can hear Drew coughing hard, taking a deep breath, trying to control himself, but every second seems to increase the tension. Taehyung shouts again, now more softly, but with a tone heavy with pain:

"You think you can manipulate everything, don't you? That you can escape without consequences?!"

I see Taehyung suddenly hold up a small piece of cloth: a pair of black panties. My stomach churns, unable to process it. A quick, heavy silence, as if the world had held its breath along with mine.

He runs toward a flowerpot — the most dead plant I've ever seen in my life — and throws it hard at Drew, who luckily manages to dodge. The pot falls with a crash, scattering dirt across the floor, and the sound echoes so loudly that I feel every grain as if it were hitting my eardrums.

"It's over! It's over! You ruined everything!" Taehyung yells, his anger almost palpable, before walking toward the door. Drew, furious, rubs his hands over his face, breathing heavily, each inhale like a warning that he's about to explode too.

As they approach the door, Jin pulls me behind a wall, so fast I barely feel the pain in my arms from his strength. My heart races, my stomach churns, and I stand there, pressed against the wall, trying to disappear. It's as if their tension had spread through the hallway, and every muscle in my body tensed in response.

"My God... I thought he was going to kill his boyfriend," Jin says, breathless, his voice almost a whisper, but enough to cut through the heavy silence that had fallen over us.

"Ex-boyfriend," I correct, my voice low, almost a whisper.

"Holy crap," he mutters, unable to add anything more.

We stayed there for a while, just listening to our breaths, the sound of our hearts beating fast, as if we were on the run. It's almost comical, if I weren't so scared. Because we're hiding from something that doesn't even directly involve us... and yet, the adrenaline runs through our veins like a dangerous poison.

"Look... I think it's better if you go to my dorm. Taehyung will probably go to yours and it's going to be a shit atmosphere," he adds, serious, with a mix of worry and pragmatism.

"Yeah, right?" I reply, feeling my sleepiness escape me. What a mess. I just wanted to sleep in peace.

As we walk away, I can hear more fragments of the argument — cutting words, muffled screams, objects crashing. For a few moments, their turmoil completely absorbs me, and my own pain, the anger and frustration that were consuming me, seem to disappear. It's strange to realize that, in the midst of someone else's chaos, I can forget my own problems, even if only for a moment.

🐋

I leave Jin's dorm still with my adrenaline pumping, the echoes of Taehyung and Drew's argument hammering in my head. Maybe we repeated every detail a hundred times, in disbelief, unable to believe that had happened. Every step to my dorm seems to require conscious effort, as if my body had to remember that it still knows how to walk. The night air hits my face, fresh and biting, and for a moment, I think it will help clear my mind. Of course, it doesn't help. It just makes me more aware of the weight on my shoulders, the tension pulsing in every muscle, reminding me that everything is still alive inside me.

I can only imagine what the atmosphere in the room will be like. A possessed Taehyung, probably ready to destroy me with just a look. And a Hoseok, maybe angry, maybe hurt, who will also destroy me with just a look. Every scenario my mind creates is worse than the last: me trying to say something, him staring at me, the heavy silence, the anger dripping from every gesture.

A stab of guilt pierces my chest. And then all the doubts return: why didn't I control myself? Why did I go after him? Why did I get involved again, knowing the risk? I try to take a deep breath, count to ten mentally, but my heart doesn't help. It's beating too fast, reminding me that there's no escaping what awaits me.

I lean against my dorm room door for a few seconds, trying to gather courage. I try to remind myself that I'm not responsible for anyone's feelings, but every step I take seems to bring me closer to an emotional minefield. I'm there, suspended between running away or facing everything at once.

I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, and prepare myself. I imagine the worst, but allow a glimmer of hope to pass through: maybe they're just talking, or laughing, or even playing a game. Maybe I'm exaggerating the tension I'm anticipating. Maybe... the world hasn't decided to crush me yet.

I open the door slowly. The air in the room hits me differently — warm, heavy, as if it held every emotion within it. Every shadow seems to pulsate with everything that happened before. And the scene... it paralyzes me.

At least, that's what I feel as soon as I enter. I freeze. Every muscle locks up, my body weighs a ton. The silence is strange, almost palpable, yet full of muffled sounds: someone's held-back sigh, the light touch of skin against fabric, the echoing of my own racing heart within me.

What's going on here? What is this intimacy?

Taehyung and Hoseok are lying on the bed. Tae is crying non-stop, burying his face in Hoseok's chest, who is holding him in a tight, protective, almost suffocating embrace. Every one of Tae's sobs reverberates through the room, and for a moment I feel that my own presence doesn't even exist for them — I'm just an observer, invisible in the face of that raw vulnerability.

My chest tightens. I want to look away, but I can't. Every detail hits me: Tae's fragility, Hoseok's irritatingly firm calmness, the contrast between the unrestrained crying and the solid protection. My heart beats fast, confused between the urge to run and the need to stay there, witnessing every gesture, every shared breath.

Unintentionally, I let the key drop. The noise is exaggerated because of all the keychains I carry. The clinking echoes through the room, throbbing in my ears. Hoseok turns around immediately, and our eyes meet. What would be just an instant stretches into seconds loaded with tension.

He seems to be trying to understand why I'm there, whether my presence is a threat or just an unwanted interruption. I can feel the tightness in my chest increasing. But then the doubt dissipates, and his gaze transforms into a plea for help.

"Yoongi, come here."

Me? Go over there? He wants Taehyung to use me as a punching bag, a human pillow? For me to be the target of all that crying, all that pent-up anger? No, I won't go.

And Hoseok notices this.

"Yoongi... he won't stop crying unless he feels safe." His voice is calm, firm, but I remain still, frozen in the doorway.

No. He won't. Tae will probably curse at me, push me, or throw something at me just for seeing me there. I feel a chill down my spine just thinking about it. He could put glass in my shoe and that's it, I'd dance with pain for the rest of my life.

I stood still, watching the two of them as if they were from another planet. Tae crying like crazy, burying his face in Hoseok's chest, and Hoseok holding him with that irritating, saint-like patience... and here I am, out of place, feeling like a stranger.

"Yoongi..." Hoseok insists, now louder, almost pleading. "He needs you. Please, forget everything you two went through and come here."

"Are you crazy, Hoseok?" I breathe, trying to sound firm, but my voice sounds strange even to me. "He doesn't want this from me."

My eyes are glued to Tae. Every one of his sobs cuts me like a blade. But I can't give in. I'm not going to be the one who walks in and becomes a human pillow for him to unload everything on. I'm not a therapist, a magician, or a saint.

"Damn it, he won't stop crying until he feels pressure on his whole body. It's been like that since we were kids. Can you please forget that you hate me, that you hate the world, and come here and hug him?" The anger in Hoseok's voice is now evident, loaded with frustration.

Since childhood? What is happening here?

"You're kidding, right?" I mumble, crossing my arms, trying to convince myself that leaving is still an option. "This is a joke from you guys, it can't be."

"To make him feel safe!" Hoseok explodes, without shouting, but with enough intensity to make my stomach hurt. "Why do you think I'm begging? You're the only person here to help me!"

"This is... ridiculous," I breathe, trying to convince myself. "Too ridiculous."

I stand there, motionless, breathing deeply, pretending I can ignore Tae's sobs. But the truth is, every whimper, every sigh caught in Hoseok's chest pierces me, as if it were suddenly my duty to fix everything. I try to convince myself that leaving is still an option, but Hoseok's silent insistence pulls me in. As much as I resist, I realize I'm giving in even before I admit it.

"If he threatens to hit me, I swear I'll finish tearing your face open." The voice comes out low, rough, as if it were a warning that I'm still in control.

Hoseok lets out a relieved sigh, but his eyes remain serious, fixed on me, insistent. I take the first step. One step. Two steps. And before I know it, I'm at the side of the bed. My heart is beating fast, my hands are slightly trembling, but I can't back down now.

"Lie down behind him and hug both of us, squeezing him," Hoseok's instruction comes firm, leaving no room for discussion.

Tae doesn't look at me. He remains buried in Hoseok's chest, sobbing non-stop, completely vulnerable. I approach slowly, carefully climbing onto the bed, trying not to touch them abruptly, almost as if every movement could break something that's already so fragile. His every breath, every body movement pierces me.

Oh, for fuck's sake, what the hell is this.

I hug him from behind, afraid that he'll rebel against it, but nothing happens. He just keeps crying uncontrollably against Hoseok's chest... and here I am, not knowing if this is a hug or a sentence.

I end up face to face with Hoseok, and I remember my face is still swollen from the humiliation I went through a few hours ago. I feel his hand reach for my waist, pulling me closer, so that Tae is truly crushed between the two of us.

For a second, I even forget to breathe. His hand on my waist, his direct gaze on me, as if he's challenging me without saying anything. I should push him away, spit out some sarcastic shit to break this — but nothing comes out. I just stay there, staring back, with the feeling that I'm giving away much more than I should.

Taehyung sobs between us, his body trembling against my arm, but Hoseok doesn't look away. He keeps pulling me closer, firm, as if he knows I wouldn't have the courage to resist.

And, damn, he's right.

And then, with a gesture that startles me a little, Taehyung breaks free from the hug for a moment. He turns his face, all wet and red, his eyes swollen and yet so direct on mine. He stares at me, crying, sobbing, and his voice comes out broken, choked, as if each word were ripped from inside him:

"He... he cheated on me with Fiona too."

The air leaves my lungs. For a moment, all I can hear is the sound of his muffled sobs, mixed with the weight that plummets into my stomach.

Too. The word echoes like a hammer blow.

Damn blabbermouth. He could have just kept crying in silence.

He buries his face in Hoseok again, who now stares at me with a slight trace of surprise. But it doesn't last long. I see it — I clearly see the way his look changes. How his expression goes from firm, almost hurt, to something that makes me want to punch him: happy, satisfied, bouncy.

As if this was the best gift he could ever receive.

As if my jealousy was the perfect explanation he had been waiting for. Ugh, I can't believe it.

Is he serious? Is this son of a bitch happy because he finally has proof that I care?

Hoseok lets out a small smile, as if the world has just made sense to him.

"These players really need to shove the ball into any hole they see," I blurt out, dryly, without even thinking.

All the sadness I was feeling turns into anger too quickly for me to control.

Not Taehyung's. Now I realize the tense situation he is in to vent to me this way.

But from Hoseok.

I want to shove my hand into that bruised face, not to comfort it—but to see if that idiotic little smile disappears for good.

"So that's why?" he asks, still with that damn smile.

My blood boils.

"Don't talk shit."

But it comes out too weak, almost a whisper, and I know he notices. It's impossible not to. Hoseok stares at me as if he's just ripped the mask off my face.

"Honey..." he says with a little laugh. "She's no one."

Before I can retort, Taehyung speaks loudly, without moving, as if he had been holding venom in his throat, just waiting for the right moment.

"She's a whore. I don't know how you guys managed to eat that."

I feel my stomach churn, but I don't say anything. I let his every word pierce the air between us, making my blood boil silently. Hoseok watches me, half surprised, half amused by the situation.

My body remains stiff behind Tae, feeling his every sob against my chest, his every disordered breath, while anger bubbles inside me. It's irritating, unbearable, and at the same time... impossible to ignore.

We stayed there, trapped in silence, Tae's crying gradually calming against Hoseok's chest. I remained behind him, feeling his every breath, every small movement, and I realized there was no longer any need for words.

Gradually, exhaustion seems to win, and I feel Tae relax slightly, his body sinking deeper into Hoseok's firm embrace. I take a deep breath, allowing my own body to surrender to the stillness of the moment. It's strange, but somehow comforting. It's comfortable — physically — to be here.

And so, between soft sighs and shared breaths, we let ourselves drift to sleep, each of us finding a bit of peace in that chaos that still carries so much weight. Tomorrow will start a bit weird, a consequence of today's mess.

But that's a problem for tomorrow.

Chapter Text

12 hours ago.

The image of the fight on the field still burned in my head as I walked into Drew’s room. His woody cologne, mixed with the scent of fresh sweat, was everywhere. Every step I took made my muscles shiver; it felt like the air was too heavy, as if it carried the tension from the field with me. I couldn’t focus on anything but the grotesque scene that had happened minutes earlier. He threw himself onto the bed without looking at me, as if he had come out victorious from some battle.

I stood frozen at the door, shoulders tense, breathing fast, my heart pounding in my chest. Each second seemed to stretch out my frustration; I wanted to scream, to make him feel at least a fraction of the turmoil consuming me. I expected insults, excuses, anything that could explain the stupidity he had just pulled. More reasons to understand why that boy had gotten himself into a fight and, on top of that, taken a beating.

"Taennie... he was insulting you, I was just defending you."

I laughed, but it was a dry, bitter laugh, without humor, that only reinforced the emptiness I felt.

"Defending me?" I said slowly, swallowing hard. "You think throwing punches at Hoseok is defending me? Because from the outside, Drew, it just looked like you were trying to prove who's bigger in the middle of the field."

He got up from the bed with that guilty puppy look, and my anger only grew. As if he were the victim in the story. Every fiber of my body burned, ready to react.

"So what do you want from me, huh?" His voice trembled, loud, almost a shout. "Do you want me to just watch everyone insult you, humiliate you, and do nothing? Do you want me to be invisible?"

"Do you want me to believe he was insulting me?" My voice rose, my chest rising and falling fast, speeding up every beat of my heart. "Seriously?"

His eyes widened, as if I had spat nonsense right in his face.

"I heard it, Taehyung! You weren’t there, you don’t know what I heard!"

I laughed again, short and humorless, to show how lost he was. His body seemed small and fragile in the face of my fury.

"Sure, Drew. Convenient, right? Hoseok becomes the villain in your mouth, and you turn into the white knight. But no one bought that story on the field, and do you know why?" I took a step forward, pressing my face close to his, feeling the heat of my anger rise, and his chest trembling under my presence. "Because it wasn’t about me. It was about you. It always has been about you."

He shook his head, furious, his hands trembling as if he wanted to reach for me, but didn’t dare.

"You don’t understand... I just wanted—"

"Wanted what?" I cut in, laughing without real humor. "To show you’re a man? That you’re not afraid?"

I took a step back, trying to breathe, but my body reacted before my mind. Then my eyes drifted to the corner of the bed.

Something there froze me. A black lace thong, tangled among the rumpled sheets. Small, far too obvious.

My body froze. Every muscle tensed, as if refusing to believe what I was seeing. My heart raced, pounding too hard, throbbing in my throat. My lungs burned with each short breath. A mix of anger, jealousy, disbelief, and… pain took over me.

"What… is this?" I asked, quietly, almost out of breath, pointing at the fabric.

He followed my gaze. The silence that followed was almost tangible, heavy, as if the air had become too dense. I could hear my own blood pounding in my ears.

"What?" he repeated, swallowing hard.

My eyes burned, and each breath felt harder than the last. My entire body was on edge, tense, ready to either explode or flee, unable to decide.

"I asked what this is," I said firmly, despite my voice breaking at the end.

He raised his hands, trying to look innocent. My chest was pounding. The air felt too dense, impossible to breathe. Each second stretched on, and my body wanted to scream, cry, smash something.

“Drew…”

"It’s Fiona’s." The sentence came out as if he were saying he had eaten ice cream. "She probably forgot it here."

"Forgot it?" Anger trembled in every word. "FORGOT IT?" My fist clenched on its own, fingers digging into my palm, every muscle on alert. "On your bed? With you?"

He tried to speak, but all I could hear was my own blood pounding in my ears. Every word from him was an invisible slap, leaving me unsteady.

It was right then, in that moment, that I lost any control I still had. My shoulders shook, my throat tightened, and a mix of anger, shame, disbelief, and a strange pain swallowed me whole. Every breath felt like it was dragging my body into an abyss I didn’t want to face.

This is how I remember it: the heat rising through my body, my fist clenched, my heavy breathing, my eyes fixed on the thong, and the disbelief consuming me. The rest… I simply can’t remember.

Only the silence afterward. Drew stayed there, panting, tense, unable to speak. I leaned against the wall, breathing fast, trying to regain some control. But my heart was still pounding, my eyes burned, and my mind refused to forget. The room still smelled of cologne, sweat, fury, and scattered dirt.

And in that memory, I knew: nothing would ever be the same. Not me, not him, not anything.

🐋

Now.

I can’t move.

My whole body feels too heavy, as if my muscles have atrophied.

Yesterday’s fight… the end of my relationship. I feel ridiculous. Ridiculous. Maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s me finally losing my mind. But then I try to turn to my side and realize: no, it’s not emotion. It’s physical.

I am literally crushed.

Because of the Russian?! What a humiliation.

Yoongi’s weight pins me to one side, his arm thrown carelessly over me, heavy as lead. He doesn’t even seem skinny the way he is. On the other side, Hoseok breathes deeply, too close, too warm. I can barely breathe properly without feeling both of them.

My eyes blink rapidly, my mind trying to decide if I’m dreaming or living the worst cosmic joke of all. My chest tightens, but not from emotion — just from lack of space.

I try to move, very slowly, as if it were possible to get out of there without waking anyone. I’m still trying to keep some respect, a miracle. First, I try to push Yoongi’s arm, but he feels cemented to me. I mutter under my breath, annoyed. Then, I risk sliding toward Hoseok’s side, but his heat makes me pull back immediately. Great. Trapped between the two of them. Fuck. Anything else to ruin my life?

I take a deep breath, trying once again to lift the Russian’s arm when I feel the slightest movement. The weight shifts slowly, and before I can celebrate, I realize it wasn’t luck — he woke up.

I turn immediately and come face to face with Yoongi, awake.

Puffy eyes, a scrunched-up face, skin red from a deep sleep. Nothing about him looks like a thief, neither of dance nor of space in the bed. Yet, he’s there, too close. His half-open eyes stare at me as if trying to solve an impossible equation.

For a moment, no one moves. No one says a word. Just silence. Just his breath, warm, hitting too close to mine.

I should say something, anything — a joke, a tease, an insult, anything. But nothing comes out. It’s as if my own tongue had given up.

Time stretches, seconds turn into minutes. His gaze holds mine, and I freeze again. Not because of the weight, not because of the suffocation. Because of the absurdity of facing Min Yoongi like this, without a stage, without a mask, without an excuse. Too close.

I mean, I know what probably happened. I probably cried myself nearly to death, and Hoseok… well, Hoseok knows how to calm me down. Unfortunately, I grew up crying in someone’s arms, which left me with this damn habit of always needing a lap. Childish, I know. I’ve tried every way to drop it, but somehow I always end up with somewhere to crawl into. Only it didn’t need to be, definitely didn’t need to be, in the Soviet’s arms.

He doesn’t look away.

And I can’t either.

It’s strange. Intimate in a way it shouldn’t be. His face so close, his breath brushing mine, the silence filling all the space. I’d never seen Yoongi like this — without any posture, without that almost arrogant distance he keeps from everyone. Just him, half-lost, half-waking, vulnerable.

It’s beautiful.

But still Russian — his accent will never let me forget that.

"Sleep well, star?" The voice comes out hoarse, drawn-out, as if he still hadn’t decided whether he really wanted to speak to me.

Can’t he even respect people’s mourning?

"Better than in the ass of Russia, Soviet."

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even flash that mocking smile that always makes me want to punch him. He just stays there, looking at me as if there’s something to figure out.

I try to look away, but I can’t. It’s as if his eyes are holding mine, as if something is happening that shouldn’t be happening. Something that doesn’t fit with anger, nor with rivalry.

"You have a curious way of sleeping," he murmurs, still not looking away.

"I didn’t sleep with you by choice," I whisper back, not even knowing why it comes out so quiet.

"It didn’t seem that way."

Before I have the chance to respond to that bastard, I feel the weight on my side shifting. Hoseok stretches slowly, as if nothing had happened the night before. As if he’d had a perfect night’s sleep.

Hoseok yawns, runs his hand through his hair, and says:

"Good morning to you too."

And all I can think is: great, another perfect morning in hell.

Waking up in the middle of your first love of your life and your biggest enemy, with a face possibly twice the size from so much crying. Because, of course, I broke up with my boyfriend who swore he was going to marry me and have beautiful kids… because, of course, he cheated on me.

Yoongi gets up first, without saying a word. He just runs a hand through his messy hair and disappears into the bathroom as if he’d never been there. Hoseok lingers for a few more seconds, as if he doesn’t want to leave me alone.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and the simple way it comes out of his mouth makes me want to answer a thousand things.

"I am," I say, dryly, because anything more would make my voice tremble.

He looks at me as if he doesn't believe it, but he doesn't insist. He gets up too, and suddenly the whole room feels too big for just me.

And that's when the memory hits me full-force. Drew, the fight, the words I swallowed, the weight I let fall into Hoseok’s — and Yoongi’s — lap, just like when I was a kid. Like always.

I lie on my back, stare at the ceiling, and think about how pathetic it is to still need a lap. How predictable it was to believe those promises. Empty. Stupid.

He had a lover this whole time. A person he would have sex with when I didn't want to, as if my body were just a bargaining chip in a relationship that was never about me, but about what I could offer. Some kind of object that, in his hands, was the perfect performance of a beautiful romance, put on display for anyone who wanted to watch. And yet, behind the curtains, there was another — the one he laughed with, the one he confided in, the one he might have shared everything he always hid from me. The conversations we never had, the secrets he never told me, the most intimate part he never let me access. A person he might have secretly loved. Loved more than he loved me.

And me? I was just the pretty part, the perfect romance he showed to others, while he kept his true desire under lock and key. I was the comfortable lie. An edited, polished version, the perfect romance that only existed on the surface — a surface that now suffocates me, because beneath it there was only emptiness. There was only deceit. There was only the cruel certainty that I was never enough.

And the worst part is, it still hurts as if it were love.

I loved him so much. I loved him to the point of planning a future, of imagining a life, of believing that trusting him was safe. I loved him until it hurt. I loved him until it destroyed me. And now all that's left is this persistent pain that won't let me forget, that won't let me breathe without remembering that, in the end, I was always the lie. I lived a huge lie.

I feel terribly pathetic.

And it's only when I feel the first tear roll down that I realize how much this pain has defeated me. I didn't want to cry, didn't want to give in, but there's nothing left in me but this emptiness that squeezes and burns at the same time. The ceiling before my eyes dissolves into wet blurs, and I just let it. I just let the tears fall, silent, washing away a love that was never mine.

Chapter Text

I don’t know if I feel happy, wronged, or guilty. If it’s fury, growing in my chest, that urge to smash that disgusting blonde’s face a little more, or if it’s regret, the desire to run to Yoongi and apologize. Because, deep down, I never imagined he would actually care. I wanted him to care — wanted to feel jealousy, wanted to be that important — but now that I see… it hurts.

I mean… he doesn’t hate me? I swore he did. But then why does this wound feel so open, so much deeper than simple resentment? And why didn’t he just tell me?

At the same time, I feel something I shouldn’t: a pang of contentment. Because he cares. That’s it. After so many days tormenting myself, trying to figure out where I went wrong, now I know. Now I can fix it, right?

I know he’s not going to forgive me that easily. But, deep down, there’s also nothing to forgive. If I were in his place, I’d be hurt too, and probably would avoid looking at me as well. But there’s always a chance for forgiveness. Always.

I’m deluding myself. He’s not going to forgive me.

I enter the dorm and come face to face with Taehyung’s bed, perfectly messy, with him sprawled over the chaos. He’s not sleeping peacefully — his restless movements give away nightmares.

I remember yesterday, when he walked into the room. I didn’t know how to react for a moment. I knew his relationship was ending, it was kind of obvious, but I didn’t think I’d have to deal with it up close. He cried for a while, trying to say something that was nothing more than loose words and disconnected sentences.

Now I know he’s going to stay like this for a while, letting the sadness take over as if he has no power against it. It’s strange, because Taehyung always seems untouchable. He has that pose no one can break, the arrogant look, the terribly spoiled and perfect, almost cruel way about him. But then something actually hits him, and he falls hard. It’s as if he lives to the rhythm of his own world, up there, and when an earthquake comes, he collapses straight into the abyss. Then, suddenly, he finds a way back to the top. Only this time… I feel like it’s going to take a while.

The door creaks suddenly, and when I lift my gaze, it’s Yoongi who enters. He stops when he notices Taehyung sprawled on the bed, but says nothing. He closes the door behind him carefully, as if he doesn’t want to wake him.

I stay quiet, just watching. It’s inevitable. The tight black shirt falls on his shoulders as if it were a size too small, contrasting with the legs exposed by the compression shorts. God forgive me, but his best work has always been his dance clothes.

The way he moves — always controlled, always measured — has something that holds my attention more than it should. I don’t know if it’s because of the tension between us or because, somehow, I’ve never stopped noticing him since I met him.

He runs a hand through his long hair, averting his eyes from me as if he’s too tired to hold the gaze. And that’s when I realize: if I don’t speak now, I never will.

I move closer without thinking, gripping his arm firmly enough that he can’t pull away.

"Come with me," I say, in an urgent whisper.

Yoongi frowns, but doesn’t resist when I pull him onto the balcony. The door closes behind us, leaving only the cold wind and the heavy silence between us.

He watches me from a distance, his gaze narrow, but says nothing. I stand there, feeling the weight of his presence, and for some reason, every movement he makes holds me more. The way he leans on the railing, his hand slightly trembling, his tense posture… it all tells me more than any words ever could.

"What is it?" he starts, his voice firm, visibly irritated.

So cute.

"I didn’t know it was allowed to feel jealous in our relationship." My voice comes out low, almost teasing.

I stop in front of him, resting my arms on the railing behind him. We’re face to face now. The urge to kiss him until my mouth falls off is almost overwhelming, but I manage to hold back… for now.

He laughs, incredulous, as if I’d told some terribly bad joke, or as if I’d lied. The laugh is short, dry, and yet… so revealing.

"Was it good?" He asks, his voice thick with hatred.

"What?" I swallow hard, surprised by the coldness of the question.

"Fucking her."

I feel my chest tighten, not from remorse, but from the impact of it. The cruel honesty in his voice cuts deeper than any accusation. I try to find something to say, but the words seem stuck in my throat. I feel like there’s no way to escape this.

"I already told you, she’s nobody. I was waiting for you to show up, and you didn’t." My voice comes out firm, trying to sound convincing, but I know it’s not enough.

"Of course, so you had to fuck her." Yoongi shoots back, his voice heavy with hurt and anger. "My God, it was such a huge necessity, right?"

I swallow hard, trying to measure every word, every gesture.

"Yoongi… I…" I start, but he raises his hand, stopping any approach.

"No." He takes a deep breath, but the tension doesn’t ease. "You could have just told me. I felt like an idiot being deceived."

"Deceived? Sorry, Yoongi, but we’re not dating." My voice comes out low, trying to downplay it, but I know it doesn’t work.

He narrows his eyes, his hand still raised, trembling slightly with restrained anger.

"Ah, of course, right… but it was so obvious." Now he laughs, almost cruelly; I feel like an abandoned child. "And Taehyung? Were you going to tell me you’ve known each other since you were kids? That you know each other so well?"

My eyes widen slightly, knowing he’s going to touch where it hurts the most.

"Taehyung?" I try to sound casual, but my chest tightens.

"Since we were kids, Hoseok." His voice cuts through the air, firm, heavy. "Why didn’t you ever tell me you’ve known each other forever?"

I feel my chest tighten; every word of his is a punch I didn’t expect. I try to find something to say, any justification that could ease the weight of the accusation.

"Ah, Yoongi…" I start, my voice lower, trying to deflect. "We just… grew up together, it’s not like it’s something that important."

He stares at me, his eyes flashing with intensity, and the cruel laugh still lingers at the corner of his mouth.

"You grew up together?" he repeats, as if he can’t believe it. "But you know each other better than anyone, right?"

I feel the force of it hit me, the truth in his gaze. I try to take a deep breath, hold back the urge to touch him, to argue, but every word feels useless against the intensity he puts into each syllable.

"We’re not dating. If you want to hold me accountable for things, first wait until we’re actually dating." I say, firmly.

He doesn’t respond. He just stares at me. A look heavy with doubt, denial, and discontent. Every second of silence feels heavy, as if the cold balcony wind stretches the space between us even more.

"Can you give me some space?" he asks, and I see his chin tremble slightly. Cold? Crying? Anger? Only God knows.

I let him pass. He moves away without looking at me, each step echoing on the balcony, and the silence that remains wraps around me like a blade. I feel the weight of every unspoken word, every restrained gesture, and I know this conversation is far from over.

I stand still, watching him distance himself, feeling a mix of frustration and a strange urge to provoke him even more. But I know any movement now could make everything collapse.

Where have I gotten myself? Everything feels bigger, more confusing, harder to fix. Every gesture I make, every poorly chosen word, seems to have pushed me deeper into this chaos.

I take a deep breath, trying to find a thread of clarity amidst the mess I’ve created. For now… I only feel the cold, the distance, and the weight of everything left hanging in the air.

🐋

I arrive at the field already bracing for what’s coming: an angry coach.

I haven’t seen Ackles since I fought the Antichrist, and it was on purpose. I can tell he expected more from me; so there I was, breaking one of the main rules of the field. Honestly? I’d do it again. In fact, I can hardly wait.

The field is empty, only the distant sound of birds and the cold wind brushing the grass. But in the middle of this silence, there he is: arms crossed, cap low, gaze piercing straight through me. Ackles doesn’t need to shout to put me on alert — his mere stance is enough.

I stop in front of him, probably looking like a wet dog.

"Jung Hoseok." His voice sends chills down my spine. He didn’t yell, didn’t need to. He just said my name like someone calling a misbehaving dog. "Care to explain what that was yesterday?"

I swallow hard, but he doesn’t give me a chance.

"Do you think this is a bar fight? A soccer field isn’t a ring, kid." He points his finger at my face, without really stepping closer. Just the gesture makes me feel small. "I let you play because I trust you, because I know the talent you have. But if you lose your head like that again, no talent will save you."

I look down. I know I should apologize, but my mouth itches to say Drew deserved it. Ackles, of course, reads it on my face.

"Don’t look at me like that." He shakes his head, almost laughing, but it’s that awkward laugh, the kind of laugh from someone more disappointed than angry. "I was your age too, thought fighting solved everything. Know what I got? A scar on my eyebrow and a coach who wouldn’t look me in the face anymore."

I press my lips together. His lecture hits harder because it’s not just shouting — it’s memory. It’s experience.

"I like you, Hoseok." He takes a deep breath, finally relaxing his shoulders. "But if you want to be captain again someday, if you want to be someone on this team, you’ll have to learn to use your head before your fists. Got it?"

I nod quickly, not daring to look at him.

"But… he deserved it."

Ackles sighs, rubbing his hand across his face like he expected to hear that.

"There will always be someone who ‘deserves it’." He speaks slowly, heavy. "If every time that happens you throw a punch, you’ll spend more time on the bench than on the field."

He leans slightly forward, eyes fixed on me, firm, but without cruelty.

"You don’t play just for yourself, Hoseok. You play for the whole team. And yesterday, when you lost your head, it wasn’t just you who paid. It was them too." He gestures to the rest of the field, empty now, but it feels full of eyes judging me.

I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling the shame rise to my ears. He’s not shouting, but every word weighs twice as much.

"Learn this," he concludes, in a lower, almost paternal tone. "Otherwise, you’ll end up wasting your best. And this… was it because of a girl?"

I feel my whole body stiffen, and a bitter laugh rises in my throat. If it were just that, it would be easy to explain. But what happened yesterday doesn’t fit into a simple answer.

"It was." I answer dryly, and Ackles stares at me for a few seconds, as if trying to decode what I’m hiding. "And it’s a boy."

The silence that follows is heavy, but not uncomfortable. He doesn’t seem shocked or surprised, just… absorbing the information. Finally, he lets out a sigh, the kind that carries years of experience.

"Then even more reason for you not to mess everything up," he says, firm but not harsh. "Because there’ll be people trying to provoke you just for that. And if you fall for every idiot who comes at you, it’s over."

I don’t know whether to feel relieved or more irritated by his calmness.

"Now go run already, kid. The friendly match is in three days."

I obey without thinking. I start running across the field, feeling the cold wind cut across my face. My body moves, but my mind stays stuck on those words: “There’ll be people trying to provoke you just for that.”

Ackles never speaks for nothing, and I know he sees me more than I’d like. It scares me.

And, in the midst of it all, the face that appears in my mind is always the same. Yoongi. As if in him lies the greatest risk, and maybe also the chance that I won’t lose myself.

🐋

I step into the spacious rehearsal hall, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the polished floor. Today, I have to face Taehyung and Julianne Moore — Yoongi’s mother. The shrew.

I pray, truly, with all the hope in the world, that Taehyung got out of bed and will come to save me, because facing that witch alone is punishment enough. And in a classical ballet class? Me, an American football player, lost in a room of mirrors and rigid discipline. It’s basically asking to die.

Just thinking about her sends a shiver down my spine. Natalie Portman, my ruthless godmother, is tough, but Julianne is worse — that coldness that doesn’t need to raise its voice to make you feel small. They say she’s a genius, that she’s shaped careers, that she can spot talent from a distance. All I see is someone who cuts everyone down, as if perfection justifies any cruelty.

I quicken my pace, trying to convince myself it won’t be that bad. Bold-faced lie. It’s going to be hell.

I push the door slowly, trying not to draw attention, but it’s useless. Her voice already fills the room, sharp as a knife:

“And where is Hoseok? Where is Taehyung?” Moore fires off, not even looking at me yet. She stands in front of Yoongi, arms crossed, posture rigid, as if the world had to align with her command. “No rehearsal matters if you don’t take this seriously.”

The names burn in my ears. Hoseok. Mine. And, of course, Taehyung right after, as if we were a constant duo of trouble.

Yoongi stares at the floor, quiet, biting his own tongue to keep from answering. I recognize the tension in his jaw, the same as when he’s about to snap, but he holds it in. It’s strange — and a little cruel — seeing the way she speaks to him. Not like a mother. More like a commander.

I step inside, and finally, she notices me.

“Ah, good. At least one showed up,” she says, dry. “Do you know where Taehyung is, Jung?”

Only now do I realize how scared I am to speak to her.

“He’s not feeling well, probably won’t come,” I answer, voice low.

She lets out a heavy sigh, the kind that makes the whole room feel smaller.

“Great. Then we’ll waste time again.” Her eyes narrow. “Yoongi, you’ll substitute.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. My heart races strangely — I don’t know if it’s from the scolding or the fact that I have to share this space with him. Yoongi doesn’t look at me immediately, keeping his head down, as if obedience is a shield. But, for a moment, his eyes rise and meet mine. Quickly. Almost nothing. Just enough to make the floor feel like it’s shaking beneath my feet.

“I don’t know the choreography, Mother,” he says, calm, forced.

She turns to me slowly, each movement deliberate, as if every gesture were a sentence.

“You know the choreography, Jung?” Her gaze is so sharp I can feel it burn even from a distance. “Do you think you can teach it?”

No.

“I can.”

The word slips out before I can swallow my fear. And before I realize it, it’s too late. She raises an eyebrow, surprised, almost amused by my boldness.

“Great,” her voice cuts through the air like a blade. “Then you’ll have the chance to prove it.”

Yoongi lifts his eyes to me at that moment, and I almost falter. I don’t know if it’s anger, a plea, or just exhaustion, but that look pins me in place. I feel as if I’ve just taken on a fight that wasn’t mine — and somehow, always has been.

“Let’s begin.” Her command echoes through the hall, and my muscles tense.

For a moment, no one moves. Me, frozen in the middle of the studio; her, arms crossed, watching; and Yoongi, head still slightly lowered, as if he wants to shrink until he disappears. But he doesn’t disappear. He takes a deep breath, lifts his face slowly, and suddenly seems bigger than I remember — even in vulnerability, even with his voice trapped in his throat.

Our eyes meet again, and I feel a knot forming in my stomach. I said I could teach, but in reality, I have no idea what I’m doing. And worse, he knows it.

Julianne claps once, sharp.

“Now.”

“Well… I think it’s important he understands the story behind this dance, right?” I begin, hesitating. Every step I tried to memorize last night has evaporated from my mind. I glance at Yoongi, who watches me with that cutting calm, as if he could devour me whole with a single look.

“Alright, Jung… and how exactly are you going to teach this?” Julianne’s voice doesn’t hide her irritation.

“By telling, I guess?” I reply, looking at Yoongi, who now smiles, amused. I’ve missed that.

“Tell me,” he says, eyes shining with curiosity… and something else I can’t name.

“We’re fighting in this dance,” I begin, gesturing awkwardly, “it’s a relationship that’s falling apart, but no one wants it to. We hold on, we cling, we pull away… one moment is love, the next is pain.”

Yoongi tilts his head, absorbing every word. His smile becomes restrained, almost a silent challenge.

“Do you really think you can teach me this?” he asks, without a trace of mockery — just the certainty that he will scrutinize every move I make.

My stomach tightens. It’s not just the choreography, not just the dance. It’s him, the tension, everything left unsaid between us. This damn story that’s ours too.

“I think so,” I reply, swallowing hard, while Julianne crosses her arms, watching every little detail. “But you’ll have to trust me… because I’m the one holding you.”

I take a step forward, feeling the cold floor beneath my feet. I look at Yoongi, who stands still, arms crossed, and each second of silence weighs heavier than any warm-up could.

“All right, Jung, start.” Julianne’s voice cuts through, firm, impatient.

I take a deep breath and try to translate what I’ve been trying to explain in words into my body. Each gesture is calculated, each tilt measured, even though my heart wants to betray me and drop me in the middle of the studio.

Yoongi watches me closely, furrowing his brow but keeping his composure. Every step I take, he mirrors, slow, almost perfect, testing each movement, each weight I place on the floor.

When I reach the moment to hold him, my hand touches his waist firmly, guiding him. He doesn’t pull away. On the contrary, there’s a pause, and I can feel him sensing every inch of my touch. His arm adjusts on my shoulder, almost as if he wants to feel every direction, every pressure.

“Stronger here.” Julianne cuts in, pointing at my hands.

I swallow hard. I know he notices my nervousness, and I can feel the weight of his gaze, mixing challenge and faint amusement. Even with Julianne’s eyes on us, I feel the electric tension between our bodies, every gesture carrying what we dare not say. As hard as it is, I know that’s what makes the dance alive.

“Is this really the choreography?” Yoongi asks, low, just enough for me to hear.

“No…” I reply, voice barely a whisper, almost drowned in the rhythm of the music and the pounding of my heart.

He raises his eyes, curious, but doesn’t step back. He’s so close I can feel the warmth of his body, the scent mingling with the music and sweat. Every move I make brushes against him.

“So… you improvised?” His voice is calm, almost challenging.

“I’ve been improvising almost everything, honey.” I say, low, a mix of teasing and honesty.

He raises an eyebrow, a faint, almost imperceptible smile curling on his lips. The way he watches me, so close, makes my stomach tighten. Every adjustment in his posture requires me to touch him, even if just to guide.

“So, this is what you want to teach me?” He murmurs, his face almost against mine.

“Yes… and you have to trust me.” I reply, swallowing hard, feeling the weight of his gaze on me.

The rehearsal continues, every step, every touch, every turn intensifying what neither of us dares to speak. Even though Julianne is watching us, it feels like it’s just the two of us in that space, trying to solve a problem that’s only ours.

Finally, during a pause between movements, he steps back just enough to look at me.

"So… you really think we’re not… dating?" he asks, his voice low, almost a whisper, picking up the conversation from earlier today.

My heart races. I swallow hard, trying to organize the thoughts that jumble my words.

"I… I think not yet, right?" I reply, voice low, almost uncertain, my heart pounding inside.

He arches an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting into a half-smile that’s both challenging and playful.

"Not yet?" he repeats, emphasizing the word as if each syllable carries weight.

"Yeah… not yet." I confirm, forcing firmness, though every touch during the dance says something completely different.

He moves a little closer, just enough for his warmth to press against my body, but without breaking the rhythm of the choreography.

"So… does that mean we can keep improvising?" he murmurs, and I nearly choke on the closeness. Jesus, I must look like a virgin.

"Yeah… improvising." I say, voice low, trying to sound confident.

We keep dancing, the steps now guided by him, no longer by me. We’ve been like this for a while, but for some reason, I only notice it now.

Julianne seems distracted, oblivious, focused on the papers she’s carrying, giving us the perfect opening.

“I… think we could take a break?” I murmur, almost without thinking, just following instinct.

He lifts his eyes, frowning, but doesn’t refuse. A small smile plays on his lips, and he follows me silently. Every step we take meets the other, every movement loaded with tension, yet no one else seems to notice.

The wind blows hard, messing up my hair, and I feel my heart racing. Yoongi is there, so close, breathing almost in sync with me, and for a moment it feels like the whole world has disappeared.

I smile nervously, trying to hide what I feel, and realize that even though the rehearsal has ended, this dance between us is far from over.

“I’m sorry, really. She was the last person I was with, and I swear I hated it.”

Yoongi lifts his eyes, surprised, but doesn’t say anything right away.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” I say, my voice almost faltering. “Not with you.”

“You don’t have to explain…” he finally murmurs, his voice low, carrying something I can’t fully understand. “But… it hurt.” He admits it, his words almost swallowing themselves.

I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his honesty. It’s not anger, it’s not hate — it’s something else, deeper, rawer.

The cold wind outside the school seems to fade. I lean against a fence at the edge of the campus. He stands in front of me, so pale I almost can’t see him in the sunlight. So beautiful.

I allow myself to move closer, holding his waist near mine, but he keeps his arms crossed, as if he still needs to protect himself.

I know nothing is resolved, but for the first time, I feel an opening. Maybe this dance — our dance — can slowly become something more than just steps and movements: something real, even if still hesitant.

“Date me.”

Silence falls like a heavy weight. I feel my heart almost explode in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears. He stands still, arms still crossed, eyes locked on mine, trying to figure out if I’m serious or just teasing.

“Hoseok…” he whispers, his voice trembling, low, full of disbelief.

I bring my face closer to his, just enough for him to feel my warmth, but without completely invading his space.

“I… want you. Now.” I say, firm, despite the nervousness consuming me.

His eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, the tension almost knocks me down. Then, slowly, he uncrosses his arms, letting me hold his waist more firmly. A small, hesitant smile appears on his lips—and it’s all I need to take him into my arms.

Our lips meet calmly. The world seems to freeze for a moment, just his warmth and the touch of our lips filling everything. It’s calm, yet loaded with an intensity neither of us can name.

I feel his hands tremble slightly around me, hesitant but seeking steadiness, and every shared breath makes my heart race even more.

“Hoseok…” he murmurs between kisses, as if trying to measure every sensation, every emotion exploding inside him.

There’s no rush, no expectation. Just us, finally letting everything that was trapped translate into touch and closeness. Each moment is delicate but overwhelming. It’s ours.

“Is that a yes?” I ask, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes.

“Yes.” He responds simply, but a huge toothy smile lights up his face.

I feel such intense relief and joy that it almost makes me laugh. His smile is contagious, lighting up everything around, and I can’t help but lose myself in this moment, in this little world we’ve created just for the two of us.

I move closer again, closing the space between us, our lips meeting once more, this time with the certainty of what we feel. Every touch, every shared breath seals his “yes” in a way no words ever could.

The cold wind still hits us, but now it’s just a detail, a backdrop to the warmth and intimacy we finally share. For a moment, all the tension, doubt, and fear vanish, leaving only the two of us — and the overwhelming feeling that, finally, we’re together.

Chapter Text

Time until La Maison du Cygne Noir: 9 months, 3 weeks.

The door closes behind us, muffling the sounds of the hallway. For a few seconds, I just stare at the empty room, as if it were a forbidden gift we finally managed to open. One month. A whole month pretending I didn’t need it, that I could hold back, that distance was just a matter of time and not a knife pressed into my skin. Hoseok drops his backpack on the floor, and when he looks at me, he doesn’t need to say a word. I already know. The same hunger burning in his eyes, the same urgency running through me.

He pushes me against the wall, and I let him. I hate how easily I give in, how my body always recognizes his before my mind can catch up. His mouth is hot, fast, desperate. His hands slide over my shirt as if they’re angry at the fabric, wanting to tear away any barrier between us. It’s strange to think we’ve done this so many times, yet now it feels new — like we’re relearning each other after so long apart.

I pull him closer, his hips crashing into mine, and let out a sigh I hadn’t even realized I was holding in my chest. It’s not just desire, it never was. It’s the absence, the silence that settled between us when we pretended we could stay apart, when everyone started watching too closely, when I hid behind dance and he behind the team. Now there’s no audience, no pressure. Just the two of us, locked inside this borrowed dorm room, as if the world had stopped for a few moments.

Hoseok bites my lip, and I laugh against his mouth, even with my breath already faltering. The way he looks at me afterward undoes me: serious, intense, as if he were asking me to believe in something I always insist on doubting. I hold his face with both hands, forcing our eyes to meet.

"Boyfriend."

Hoseok blinks, surprised, and for a second seems to forget to breathe. His smile takes a moment to come, but when it does, it’s so wide, so bright, that I feel ridiculous for having waited so long to say it. He lets out a short, almost nervous laugh and presses his forehead against mine.

"Say it again." His voice comes out low, urgent, as if he needs the confirmation more than his own breath.

I roll my eyes, trying to hide the heat rising in my face. I hate when he makes me look vulnerable. I hate even more how, with him, it’s never weakness.

"Boyfriend." I repeat, firmly, and before he can say anything, I pull his mouth back to mine.

This time, there’s no room for hesitation. We throw ourselves onto the bed as if we have the right to forget the whole world, as if nothing could cross this stolen room. His hands run over my skin with the familiarity of someone who’s memorized every detail, yet still feels like it’s the first time. And I let him. Because with Hoseok, it’s always been like this: I give in, I break my own rules, I allow myself to believe for a few moments that it’s safe.

His body against mine is the only certainty that matters now. I feel the pressure of his hand, the urgency in his touch, and respond instinctively, moving even closer. Every movement, every sigh, is a silent communication only the two of us understand. It’s restrained anger, accumulated longing, and weeks of repressed desire all condensed into seconds.

I push him lightly from above, letting him lie back on the bed, completely surrendered, already with very little clothing. I stay on top of him for a few seconds, watching his chest rise and fall quickly, feeling it pulse beneath my hip.

I start undressing over him, slowly, almost feeling time stretch. First the shirt, removed so slowly that I start to feel urgency. His hands reach me quickly, gripping my waist, leaving my skin red, marking every inch of me. I feel his fingers travel upward, one by one, almost playing a game of “ant,” until they reach my nipples, sending shivers through my body.

I grind against him with suffocating slowness, feeling every reaction, every pulse, until tears start forming in my eyes. I feel pain in my own body, accumulated desire, wanting more, craving the spark that only he can give me.

I bring my face close to his, planting kisses, little pecks all over his skin. We’re completely surrendered to the moment, but he is even more so. I can tell by his relaxed expression, by his hands gripping my thigh, moving up and down in relentless affection. I trail my kisses down to his neck, lingering a bit longer there, leaving my mark with just the right intensity.

My hands slide over his waist. My fingers trace the warm skin until they reach the waistband of his underwear. I tease, just a little, enough to feel his abdomen tense.

I move down slowly, getting into doggy style in front of him. I see him lift himself slightly, supporting his weight on bent arms, his brow furrowed, his eyes betraying the restrained desperation for more. Every breath he takes reveals the urgency we feel, and it only heightens the intensity of the moment between us. I am hungry.

"Can I?" I ask, my mouth too close to his skin, and he just nods, panting.

I smile, because this is what I like: watching him lose control because of me. I start pulling the fabric off his body slowly, as if I’m in no rush at all. He holds his breath. I notice.

My gaze rises slowly, admiring the path: strong thighs, trembling abdomen. I move closer with my mouth. My hands travel up the insides of his thighs, feeling the heat radiating from there. Hoseok moans softly even before the first touch. I laugh against his breath, moving even closer, letting him feel the anticipation burning.

I lick the path between his legs, teasing with just the tip of my tongue, and he moans again, louder this time. His hand rests on the back of my neck, and I love it. He guides me, but doesn’t force me. He lets me go at my own pace.

I envelop him with my mouth slowly, hot, wet. Hoseok moans as if he’s coming undone. I feel his fingers squeeze the back of my neck a little tighter, still gentle. He holds himself back. And so do I.

I make slow, careful movements. I use my tongue with precision, circling the base, moving upward again. I hear him whispering my name like it’s a prayer, and it makes me smile inwardly. Because I’m good at this. He knows it.

As I continue, my hands rise to his waist. My thumbs trace circles on his skin, and I feel his whole body shudder. When I pull my mouth away for a second to breathe, he almost protests.

"Don’t stop…" he murmurs, almost hoarse.

"I’m not going to." I reply, looking up, red lips, eyes shining.

I go back with more intensity. I want to hear him moan again. I want to feel him tremble. I want him to forget his own name because of me.

Hoseok moans loudly as I pick up the pace. His hands grip my hair, now impatient, guiding me. A fast back-and-forth, just as he’s asking for. I feel myself choking, but he doesn’t stop. I’m getting desperate; I need release as soon as possible.

He whispers compliments, stray words, nonsense I can barely process. And I keep going, surrendered to him, savoring every reaction. Every shiver. Every muffled moan. Until he warns me, low, almost breathless:

"Y-Yoon… I’m… I’m close…"

I stop in response. I pull him from my mouth with cruel speed, feeling that fear that he might come anyway.

"Fuck." He curses, looking at me angrily.

"I want it inside me, not out." I say, moving closer slowly, almost like a kitten, and our mouths meet in a quick kiss, full of tension and restrained need.

"Lie down."

I smile in response, happy that this is finally happening. Only God, and maybe him, knows how much I missed this. I lie down on the bed beside him, mentally apologizing to the owner of this bed (Jungkook or Namjoon), since it’s about to get pretty messy.

He climbs on top of me like a hungry wolf, desperate. He moves between my legs, pulling my shorts off in a hurry, the urgency almost savage, mirroring my own.

"Fuck, honey… I can’t believe you’re only mine."

"Go ahead." I say, enjoying the look in his eyes.

He laughs in response, stands up, and leaves the bed. I’m confused for a moment until I see him enter the unfamiliar bathroom, open all the drawers, and come back with a small tube of lubricant and a condom. I smile inwardly. I love my man.

He positions himself in front of me again, on his knees, his hands roaming my body, bringing the calm that only his touches can. I feel myself melting under every gesture, every pressure, every silent caress.

I see him spit on my member, touching me so precisely that I feel like I could ruin everything right now, letting myself peak too soon. The small tube of lubricant is opened with a sharp, dry snap, and he places some on two fingers, preparing everything with care. I feel a warmth mixed with happiness — my God, we’re finally here.

"Let me know if anything, okay?" He says, carefully.

I nod quickly, feeling his fingers reach my center slowly, hesitantly, and yet arousing. I moan softly as he slides a finger in slowly, pausing for a few moments, making every touch feel intensely.

His other hand moves up and down, stroking me, awakening every sensation, but, fuck, I can’t wait any longer. I start grinding quickly, feeling the hot throb, still not stopping. I’m so desperate to feel him that nothing else matters.

"Put the other one in." I say, though it sounds more like a desperate plea.

He laughs, noticing my desperation, but I know he’s on edge too; I feel his pulse pressing against my thigh, intense, hard, wet, making me crave more. I moan louder as the other finger slides in slowly, and the tight sensation only heightens my anxiety.

I grind faster and faster, feeling him move against me too, matching my rhythm, thirsty. I feel completely vulnerable, an omega again, entirely surrendered to him, submissive to the intensity that only he awakens in me.

"I want you." I whimper.

"Now?"

I nod desperately as I feel his fingers withdrawing from me, reaching straight for the condom resting beside him. I watch him open it and put it on, lubricating himself in the process. Everything happens so fast that I can barely keep up — or maybe I’m already completely lost, overwhelmed by urgency and desire.

"No condom… I want you."

“Honey…”

"I trust you…" I murmur, trying to convey as much sincerity as possible.

He removes the protection and positions himself between my legs, his face close to mine, letting me grab his sweaty hair as I kiss him intensely, as if I could convey everything I feel. He responds, and suddenly there’s no defined rhythm — only the urgency to give and receive, to lose ourselves in this moment together.

He breaks the kiss, holding back, rubbing the tip of himself against me, at the edge, almost entering, but just teasing for now. His voice falters, coming out as a whisper:

"At your pace, no pain, alright?"

"Just put it in." I reply, almost crying from anxiety, surrendered to the wait and the desire that only he awakens in me.

Then I feel him, and it’s as if I’m seeing stars. He holds on tight, seeking support, something to grip, to handle all this desire. He plants kisses on my neck, sometimes sucking, sometimes licking, as he enters slowly, letting me feel every tiny movement, which — thankfully — seems endless.

"Fuck." I mutter, as he reaches the base.

He seeks my mouth again, and we stay like that for a while, waiting for the pain to pass. He moves slowly, a back-and-forth that lasts long seconds, with calm, care, love, and a hint of fear. But in that exact moment, all I want is for him to go as deep as possible, without hesitation.

"Hobi… go." I allow.

He pauses for a moment and looks at me, and it’s amazing how his gaze changes in seconds: from tenderness to fury, from care to pure desire. Dilated eyes, sweaty body, tense muscles, every movement radiating intensity.

He says nothing, just adjusts to start, and then works over me. I reach paradise. Every movement, the creaking bed, his hands gripping me, marking me. My hands clutch the sheets tightly, letting out a bit of what I feel, because all of this almost can’t fit inside me.

Our moans mix together, muffled, as he puts all his strength and will into me. I feel my legs trembling — always like this; foreplay never helps, it only speeds everything up.

He starts hitting my exact spot, and I know I’m moaning uncontrollably, as his hand covers my mouth, silencing me, making everything more intense, on the verge of exploding inside me.

I feel the base of my stomach shifting, everything becoming more sensitive, more intense, more alive.

"Hobi… I can’t hold on…"

"You don’t have to." He murmurs, moaning against my neck. "I won’t be able to hold on either if you don’t stop clenching, fuck."

And it's in that moment that I completely give in, feeling the liquid being spewed between our bellies, my body contracting, tightening, feeling even more. But he doesn't stop — he continues firm, impulsive, swearing softly, prolonging my pleasure as much as possible.

Until he reaches his limit too, opening his mouth and letting out a long, drawn-out groan. I feel him melting inside me, each of his movements getting slower and slower, enjoying every second, as everything mixes and fills the moment.

"Damn, Yoongi..." he whispers, still inside, still moving.

I don't say anything, I just watch him, trying to memorize every detail, to feel every second.

He finally stops, and the silence that follows is almost as intense as every touch we just shared. He slides out of me calmly, trying not to cause any discomfort; I imagine both our bodies are still sensitive.

He lies down beside me, one hand still resting on my leg, while the other tries to wipe away some of his own sweat. The heat between us still hangs in the air, silent, intense, almost palpable. He breathes deeply beside me, his chest rising and falling slowly. I lean my head against his shoulder, still feeling his warmth, the touch that no longer needs to be urgent.

"I missed you so much..." I murmur, almost inaudible.

He lightly squeezes my leg, a tired and satisfied smile appearing on his face. "Me too... so much."

We stayed like that for a few minutes, just breathing together, the silence comfortable between us. There are no worries now; we'll sleep right here.

It was all well planned by Hoseok and the others. Jimin wanted to sleep with Taehyung to comfort him, and for that, he needed the room empty. I was going to sleep with Jin, but he preferred to stay with Namjoon, which in turn would leave only Jungkook and Hoseok in this dorm. So, after a fair trade, a request between brothers, Jungkook went to sleep with Jin and Namjoon, leaving the room free for us.

I had already noticed their intentions as soon as I arrived: strange looks, suppressed smiles, almost hinting at what was going to happen without a word. And it's a good thing it did.

Thank you, God. This is exactly what I asked for.

We lay for a few minutes, still tangled up, breathing together. The comfortable silence between us is just ours, and even without words, I know we are both satisfied.

"I think we need a shower, huh?" Hoseok comments, with that teasing smile.

I roll my eyes, feeling sleep taking over, wanting to just sleep dirty.

“No…”

His warmth against me is too comfortable to worry about a shower now. I just want to sleep a few more minutes like this, with him, and forget about the rest of the world.

"Come on, you stink," he says, getting up, and my head falls back onto the pillow, half-laughing, half-annoyed, but totally lazy.

"No..." I murmur, dragging out the words.

I see him shuffle to the bathroom, turning on the shower, filling the tub. For an instant—or maybe for an entire eternity—I feel light, content, as if nothing could touch this moment, as if the world had, just for now, decided to leave us in silence.

And how I like that.

🐋

The cold studio floor sends a shiver through me as soon as I sit down, and my body complains even before the warm-up begins. I lean my back against the mirror, trying to steal some comfort from the icy surface, when I see Jimin kneel in front of me with that mischievous grin that never signals anything good. He grabs my ankle firmly and, without the slightest mercy, starts pushing my leg up. With every inch it rises, I feel the muscle stretch as if it's about to tear.

I complain softly, through gritted teeth, but I don't move my leg. I can't. The rehearsal discipline demands more from me than my body would like to offer.

The worst pain, however, isn't in the stretched muscle — it's in my hip. It's persistent, as if the universe has decided to toy with my patience. What an awful case of divine homophobia, this bitch of a pain.

Jimin rolls his eyes when he hears me complain, as if he's played this same role of ignoring me a thousand times. He pushes even further and I let out a muffled curse, my whole body tensing. He laughs, and you can tell he enjoys my suffering more than the stretch itself.

"Can't handle it, Swan?" he teases, the word sounding more like a jab than affection.

I roll my eyes, forcing my voice out between the discomfort and the effort.

"Just you wait till it's your turn," I mumble, half-serious, half out of breath, because the pain is no joke.

His laughter echoes lightly through the studio, too clear for my taste. Just hearing it makes me want to hit him more than laugh along. He pushes again, just to get another irritated groan out of my throat.

"You make just as many faces as Taehyung when I help him stretch," he says, as if recalling something funny in the midst of torture.

The comparison hits me hard. I lower my gaze, pretending to be uninterested, but Jimin isn't the type to let silence settle.

"By the way, you two give me a headache. It's like you hate each other... but, honestly, I don't think he hates you."

I raise an eyebrow, almost impatient.

"He never misses a chance to provoke me, Jimin," I retort, my voice dry.

He shrugs, still firm on my ankle.

"That's just how he is, you know. Taehyung provokes because that's what he does best. But..." the laughter fades a bit, and for an instant he gets too serious "I've never seen him so well as he is now, Yoongi. He's eating properly, sleeping more, his routine is less insane. If it weren't for Drew, I'd say he's living the best time of his life."

I stay quiet, as if the words weren't for me. But they settle in my chest, uncomfortable, a tightness I can't hide.

"He might pick on you, but it's not hate," Jimin adds, looking directly into my eyes, as if wanting to see how far he can push.

"What do you want?" I ask, already guessing this topic didn't come up by chance.

"Well... I know you also hate Fiona. And I think we can, along with Tata, have a little fun..." he answers quickly, the smile back on his lips, the one that never gives everything away at once.

Holy shit. Have a little fun? What does that mean in these two's world? Shave her head? Plant a bomb in the cheerleaders' locker room?

"Fun?" I repeat, suspicious.

"Oh... nothing much. But there's a friendly match, and the cheerleaders always get so excited." He finally lets go of my leg, as if it were a prize for my suffering. "If you and Taehyung don't kill each other, we'll be a perfect trio."

“A perfect trio?” I repeat, choking on the idea.

Jimin just laughs, adjusting his hair as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb in the middle of the studio.

"Well, you dance, he dances, I dance... there you go. Fiona wouldn't stand a chance."

I roll my eyes, but I can't stop the corner of my mouth from wanting to turn up.

"Do you really believe that Taehyung and I can be on the same side?"

"If you stop pretending you hate each other, yes." He answers, without hesitation. "But it's just an idea... if you want, we have two days."

I cross my arms, trying to maintain an air of resistance, but I feel a strange tightness in my chest. Two days... it's not much, but it's enough time to do something.

"You don't have to decide now. But if you're in, we can do something memorable. And, as a bonus, Taehyung will get over this crisis."

I take a deep breath, feeling my body relax against my will. Jimin always has a way of catching me off guard: no pressure, just suggesting, but ultimately dragging me into his plan.

"I doubt he'll accept that easily," I say, trying to sound firm, but already imagining how it could work.

"Oh, don't underestimate the Black Swan. He might pick on you, curse at you, pretend he hates you, but deep down..." Jimin shrugs, the mischievous grin back on his face. "Deep down, he loves a good prank."

And there he is, messing with my head again, pulling me into something I didn't even know I wanted to be part of.

🐋

I enter the dorm without knocking, because I know he'll complain anyway. I can already picture the walking dead that is Taehyung sprawled on his bed — and, of course, I'm right. On my way here, I ran into his grandma, who gave me a pot full of rice cakes to drop off. I stole a few on the way... they're irresistible. He doesn't deserve the grandma he has.

The room is plunged into a half-light, curtains drawn, the air heavy with someone who spends more time lying down than living. Clothes are scattered on the floor, notebooks are open without order, shoes are tossed near the door. It's so Taehyung it's irritating. I had never seen the dorm so sloppy, with this stagnant atmosphere. I wanted to complain out loud, but I swallowed it. You don't judge depression, do you?

He's awake. Buried under the covers, his face is swollen — I don't know if it's from sleep or crying. His hair is a mess, and his eyes are glued to the ceiling as if there's some answer up there.

"Taehyung..." I call out, with no response.

I keep watching. It's strange. He doesn't try to curse at me, doesn't try to prove he's better, or throw it in my face that I stole his part. He doesn't give me a dirty look, doesn't act indifferent, doesn't pretend he doesn't see me.

He does nothing. He's just... there. A dead fish.

Jimin is right. He needs to get out of this.

And in the middle of all this, I might as well have a little fun too. At the end of the day, it's just an act of charity towards my greatest enemy. God should even be proud.

"Meryl sent you rice cakes," I say, shaking the pot in my hand as if it were the most important thing in the world.

His eyes finally move, slowly dropping to the pot. I see the blanket shift a little, a sigh escaping. He looks smaller than he is, curled up like that.

"She remembered..." he murmurs, almost voiceless. The corner of his mouth threatens to turn up, but it's not a real smile. It's more a reminder that he can still smile.

I approach him, dropping the pot on the desk. He stretches his hand out from under the covers, a bit hesitantly, as if asking for something is too much.

"I stole a few on the way," I warn, just to tease him.

He rolls his eyes, finally looking at me, though still dejected.

"What don't you steal?" he grumbles, rolling his eyes, but his voice comes out weak, almost failing.

I allow myself to smile at the provocation, because at least it's a sign of life. I pull the chair closer and sit down beside the bed, unhurried, as if it were routine.

"Your boyfriend," I blurt out, like someone throwing a stone into a lake just to see the effect.

The reaction is immediate. He stiffens, his eyes — once dull — now light up with a mix of sadness and anger. His jaw clenches, his fingers grip the blanket tightly, and I know exactly what's coming: Taehyung, armed and ready to fight, even if he doesn't have the strength to.

"Did you come here just to annoy me?" he asks, the lazy irony in his voice contrasting with the tense glint in his eyes.

"I came here because we have a problem in common, don't we?" I reply, crossing my arms and leaning back in the chair like someone who doesn't plan to leave anytime soon.

He furrows his brow, slowly and carefully, as if my words need to be analyzed from every angle before he reacts. The blanket shifts as he turns slightly on the bed, staring at me properly, but his gaze is hard, armed.

"I have nothing in common with you," he spits the words out like he's throwing venom, but his voice fails at the end, almost betraying his exhaustion.

I smile at the corner of my mouth, because that's exactly the response I was expecting.

"Funny... I thought you didn't like Fiona either..." I say, letting the end of the sentence hang in the air, watching his every minimal reaction.

He presses his lips together, looking away for an instant, but the tension in his shoulders betrays that my words hit home. The bed creaks slightly as he adjusts himself, and the glint in his eyes remains firm, ready for any response — anger, defiance, or just silence.

"It's Jimin's idea. Nothing much, but it would be good for me, and for you..." I let the phrase hang, watching his every minimal movement.

His eyes are narrowing, but he doesn't say anything. The heavy silence, mixed with his irregular breathing, tells me more than words ever could.

"What's the idea?" he asks, his voice low, but the evident interest now shows through even with his body still closed off.

"Lock them in the dressing room on the day of the friendly match," I reply, slowly, measuring each word, making the plan clear. "Then, the stage is ours."

He stays quiet for a few seconds, processing, his eyes fixed on me. He doesn't say anything, but the slight arch of his eyebrows betrays that, even though he's resistant, a spark of excitement has started to exist.

"Tomorrow...?" he risks, still cautious, but the doubt in his voice is already almost an invitation.

I smile slightly, because I know exactly the effect my words had.

"The day after tomorrow."

He curls up under the blanket, but he doesn't look away for long. Slowly, his shoulders relax and the glint in his eyes changes from hesitation to something almost conspiratorial.

"Okay, okay..." he finally murmurs, still with a low but firm voice. "So... how do we do this?"

I smile wryly, satisfied with his giving in.

"First, we need to find out all of their schedules, when they're most distracted," I say, leaning in a little closer, pointing to the details he's already figured out on his own.

He nods, pulling the blanket up to his knees, and starts speaking in a low voice, almost a whisper, lining up ideas. Each plan that comes up seems to light up the interest in his eyes a little more, mixing tension with that secret excitement he always tries to hide.

"What if one of them escapes?" he risks, already thinking of the problems that might arise.

"A single cheerleader is nothing," I reply, firmly.

He lets out a low laugh, still nervous, but it's the first one in a few good days. It's a small sound, but it's loaded with relief and amusement — he really only has fun when he's up to something.

And in that moment, sitting side by side, planning every step, you can feel the tension that was between us transforming into something more. A kind of silent alliance — a pact of fun and revenge that only the two of us understand, at least for now.

Chapter Text

The smell of paint in this room is unbearable. Strong, acidic, seeping into the walls as if it wants to suffocate me. The towel slips from my shoulder with every move, soaked and heavy, and that just makes me angrier about everything. Even with this, I have to put up with it. Even when it's time to change, to try and rip a piece of myself away, it feels like the universe insists on reminding me that nothing comes easy.

Why is it so humiliating to become beautiful, my God?

"Stop moving, you're going to stain your forehead," Jimin's voice pulls me out of my trance. He's behind me, his gloves smudged with blond, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks just like an artist in front of a canvas.

At least, I'm the canvas.

I trusted Jimin to make me blond, since he has this hair tone almost naturally. I no longer remember a brunette Jimin — he seems made for this color. I, on the other hand, always seem forced in any version of myself.

I watch my reflection in the mirror, and for an instant, it's strange to see two blond heads occupying the same space. He, effortlessly radiant, and me, trying to be reborn from the ashes like a bird too wet to fly.

Oh, for fuck's sake, even I can't stand this depression that just won't give up on me. Drew still weighs on my chest, as if he had marked every inch of me before leaving.

"You're making that funeral face again," Jimin murmurs, poking my shoulder with his stained fingers. He tries to sound light, but I know he's looking through the mirror, trying to figure out where the pose ends and the damage begins. "You're going to end up thinking this blond is a curse if you keep that up."

I give a short, bitter laugh. "I'm the curse."

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't answer immediately. He just smooths more dye onto the strands, as if he wants to glue my silence back into place.

"You're my best friend, and you're too hot," Jimin says suddenly, without even looking at me, as if he were commenting on the weather. "Fiona would never have your legs, and hair that holds up to blond as well as yours... not to mention that everyone knows Drew is not very well-endowed."

I almost choke on the laugh that escapes me. "Jimin!"

He shrugs, too innocent for someone who just dropped that on me. "Well, did you want to keep crying, or did you want to hear the truth?"

"That's not the truth, it's gossip," I retort, but my mouth is already curving without my permission.

"Gossip is also art, and I'm an artist," he says, raising his eyebrows in the mirror, satisfied to have finally gotten something from me other than a sigh or a curse. "You can take a shower now."

I get up slowly, the towel slipping until it falls to the floor with a damp thud.

"I hope you didn't leave me bald," I provoke, with no real energy in my voice.

“I hope so, then you'll have something worth crying about.” Jimin retorts, amused, without even realizing the weight of what he just said.

I take a deep breath. The smell of chemicals is still stuck to me, but suddenly, it doesn't bother me as much. Maybe because with every second, this blond starts to look less like dye and more like armor. It's not about style. It's not about fashion. It's about showing that I don't break.

And deep down, I already know exactly who I'm going to prove this to.

We're going to steal the cheerleaders' spot today. It's not just going to be about dance, it's not just going to be about competition... It's going to be about showing that neither Fiona nor anyone else will step on me again.

And now, I'm blond. That gives me an extra superpower. Every light strand seems like a silent warning, a brilliant trap that only I know how to use. I feel sharper, more dangerous, more... impossible to ignore.

The mirror reflects my own gaze and, for a moment, I almost smile to myself. Almost. Because the part of me that still hurts for Drew, that still burns with humiliation, is stuck to every step I'm going to take today.

"Are you done with the motivational phrases?" Jimin teases, looking at me with that wry smile that manages to be annoying and comforting at the same time.

“Fuck you, Jimin," I retort, crossing my arms and turning to the side, trying to look more confident than I feel.

He laughs, and the sound echoes through the room, breaking some of the tension. "Okay, blond superhero. Just don't forget that, even with all that shine, you still need me so you don't get tangled up on your own."

I shrug, but deep down, I know he's right. Today, I can't let anything get in my way — not Fiona, not Drew, not the memories that insist on haunting me. It's time to play my game.

🐋

I got out of the shower, and the gigantic shirt Jimin lent me isn't enough to cover the rest of my still-wet body. I dry the newly dyed blond strands, pulling on each lock in a hurry, but still admiring the shine they've gained. The smell of paint mixed with shampoo leaves the room with a strange, almost exciting, aroma, in my own opinion.

"It turned out really well," Jimin observes from the corner, finishing up his own hair.

"Of course it did... it's on my head," I retort, twirling the wet hair with my fingers.

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything, just gives me that look that's a mix of patience and slight irritation.

Jimin is so beautiful... I wish I were more like him. Smaller, with a perfectly round, plump mouth... and don't even get me started on his legs — I always thank God when they're exposed, allowing me to admire every curve without looking like a complete pervert. But there's something about him that irritates and fascinates me at the same time.

As my fingers run through the wet strands, I notice the contrast: me, exaggerated, dramatic, trying to reinvent myself with every blond lock; him, natural, effortless, flawless even when he doesn't want to be. It's irritating. It's admirable. It's dangerous for anyone's mind.

And in that moment, before I have time to sink even further into my thoughts, the door opens.

And he walks in.

Yoongi.

In a dress.

Extremely short.

The entire room seems to hold its breath along with mine. The fabric clings to his body, the colors of the French flag crossing in elegant lines, and the high neckline gives him an almost military posture, flawless, unbearably self-assured. It's as if he was born to wear it — and for that reason alone, I feel like turning my face away.

I hate this guy.

I hate the calmness with which he steps into the room, as if nothing is strange, as if it's natural for him to show up like this in front of me while I'm still trying to dry my blond hair. I hate the way the silence weighs down, as if I'm the one who's in the wrong here.

He holds two folded dresses in his arms, one of them clearly for me.

"Blond?" he asks, his voice low, almost dry.

His gaze fixes on me in a way I can't explain. It's not surprise, it's not judgment — it's something else. An discomfort, perhaps. Or a curiosity too well-disguised to be noticed by anyone not currently in my skin.

I smile, as fake as possible. "Do you like it?"

He arches an eyebrow, as if I'd said something ridiculous. His mouth curls into an almost-smile, too quick to last.

"That's your dream, isn't it?" he replies, and holds the dress out to me.

The provocation is as clear as the water still dripping from my blond hair. I take the fabric without rushing, letting our hands almost touch before pulling it away for good.

"My dream is much more ambitious than that," I return, my voice low and dry, but with that sweet taste of a challenge.

His eyes narrow just a bit, almost imperceptibly, and then Yoongi takes a step back, as if the air has gotten too thick between us.

Jimin clears his throat from the corner of the room, breaking the tension. "Are you two going to keep up this play-acting, or is someone going to get changed soon?"

I roll my eyes at the same time as Yoongi, as if we were rehearsed. He doesn't say anything, he just walks across the room and sits down in front of Jimin, ready to have his makeup done, as if it were the most natural act in the world.

I find it strange how well they get along. Sometimes, I even think I'm the problem in the situation. But I like it. I like being the crack.

Because if everything works so well between them, then I'm the one who brings the chaos. And nothing satisfies me more than being the reason why Yoongi can never be completely at ease.

Therefore, I start undressing right there, without asking for permission, without the slightest hurry. The loose shirt slips from my shoulders and falls to the floor, revealing skin still damp from the shower. I don't try to hide it—on the contrary, every gesture is slow, calculated, as if I have all the time in the world.

I feel his eyes on me, even when he pretends to be busy with Jimin. This is my stage, and no amount of makeup can hide his discomfort. And how I love that.

I grab the dress and put it on slowly, letting the fabric slide over me until it fits. I don't say anything. I don't need to. The silence already speaks for me.

But there's a problem: I can't close the zipper.

I hold the metal between my fingers, pull it halfway up, and it gets stuck, as if the dress itself is conspiring for the drama. I take a deep breath, feigning irritation. "Great..." I murmur, loud enough to be heard.

I glance in the mirror. Jimin is distracted, focused on applying eyeliner to Yoongi. Perfect.

"I think I'm going to need some help," I let out, my voice filled with fake innocence.

I hold the stuck zipper one more time, but I already know it won't help. So, I walk over to them, each step heavy on purpose, letting the fabric slap against my legs.

I stop right behind the chair where Yoongi is sitting, forcing the scene. "Zip me up," I say, as if asking for the simplest thing in the world.

He raises his eyes from the mirror and stares at me through the reflection. The unfinished eyeliner gives his look a harder edge than usual.

"You wanted my attention that badly, huh?" he blurts out, his voice low, almost lazy, but sharp enough to cut me.

I feel a smile rise at the corner of my mouth. Of course he was going to turn my provocation into a weapon against me.

"Don't flatter yourself," I retort, tilting my head slightly, exposing my neck as if offering a target.

Yoongi gets up slowly, each step measured, controlled, as if he's aware of every inch that separates us. He arrives behind me, his hand firm on the zipper's metal.

“Stop moving.” He murmurs lowly, and the tone of his voice is almost imperceptible, but it carries something that makes me freeze.

I feel the warmth of his body close by, his breath on my shoulder, and for an instant, all I can think about is that he could do this slowly forever — but that's exactly what irritates me.

His hand goes up and closes the zipper with precision, almost ritualistically. A quick, efficient touch, but enough for my every muscle to notice his presence.

“Done,” he says, simple, controlled. His hand pulls back, but the air between us remains charged, heavy, as if nothing had been said, but everything had been felt.

I roll my eyes, trying to hide the effect Yoongi had on me, but a small, wry smile escapes anyway. Then I feel Jimin's gaze on me. One of those looks that's a mix of amusement and disapproval, as if to say, "Did you really do that on purpose?"

I feel a little bit alive again. I forgot how good it is to be a bit of a slut. How good it is to poke, to play with fire, to feel the heat rise through my body just by challenging limits no one else would dare touch. Their tension fuels me, and Jimin's silent scolding just makes me want more.

For a few seconds, everything feels right. Jimin smiles wryly, Yoongi gives me that heavy look, and for an instant, just for an instant, I feel like everything is perfectly balanced — chaos, provocation, and a little bit of adrenaline. This is what revives me.

But not as much as the performance.

🐋

The backstage corridor smells of dust and hairspray. Perfect for going unnoticed. I already knew where they were going to hide — all the cheerleaders have the same ritual: they gather in the dressing room to get ready, whisper, and trade favors. Yoongi and Jimin observed this during the two days of planning. And in a way, it's so obvious.

I rest my hand on the dressing room doorknob before pushing it. The door creaks just right, the minimal sound like a low note in a suspenseful measure. Inside, they murmur, fix their flat-ironed hair, and discuss the final choreography.

Then, with the calmness of someone closing a book, I lock the door. The metal of the latch makes a dry click that cuts through the air. It's not an explicit noise, but it's definitive. The keys feel heavy in my hand — I always say I have the whole school in my pocket — and today that weight is delicious. I've never been so grateful to the heavens for having a copy of the keys to every single miserable door in this boarding school.

Nothing has ever been so easy in my whole life.

"Will it take them a while to notice?" Yoongi whispers beside me.

I give a small smile, putting the bunch of keys in a nearby cabinet, trying to memorize where it is to retrieve it later. "It depends on whether any of them actually use their heads to think," I reply quietly, so calmly that it sounds almost bored.

In the hallway, everything has its usual rushed rhythm: technicians murmuring, clothing racks being pushed, a player feeling unwell. Perfect. No one thinks twice. No one looks at the locked dressing room.

Yoongi glances at me from the corner of his eye, and for a flash, we exchange something light, without words — confirmation and complicity. A certain affection is connecting us now, an affection for our small masterpiece.

We turn the corner together, running into a Jimin who is more anxious than ever. In the distance, the auditorium lights shine, preparing the ground. The smell of the stadium grass reaches my nose, making me more nervous than ever.

I'm afraid of the consequences of keeping so many cheerleaders locked up, but nothing can happen to me, right? Not my best friend, not the season's Swan. At most, a small punishment.

"Let's go," I say, and my voice comes out thin with so much anticipation. Jimin smiles, Yoongi adjusts the collar of his dress like someone adjusting their armor. We walk toward the ramp that leads to the stage, and the gate remains closed, holding back the warmth of the unsuspecting audience.

When the heavy metal door opens, the silence cuts through the air. Lights on me. Lights on Yoongi. Lights on Jimin. This is it.

The first second is always the sweetest. That electric silence that precedes the first note, when everyone is still trying to figure out what's happening. The audience is expecting cheerleaders. And what do they get? It's like throwing a cup of cold water on the whole crowd. The surprise passes from row to row like an invisible wave, opening mouths, raising eyebrows, pulling out muffled giggles. Some look amazed, others shocked, others just indignant.

But I'm not looking at everyone.

I want the specific faces.

Hoseok, in the middle of it all, looks like he's been punched in the gut. He holds his breath as if he doesn't know whether to laugh, to shrink away, or to stand up and applaud. His eyes are alternating between Yoongi and me — on the whole, on the spectacle. And his expression is a delicious mess: disbelief, hidden pride, maybe even a hint of concern.

And Drew... Drew is a whole other show. His jaw immediately clenches, his mouth opens in a half-smile that doesn't quite happen. He leans back in his chair, forcing an indifference that fools no one. I know that look: it's camouflaged rage, it's jealousy wrapped in a package of contempt. He wanted me to be watching this, there in the audience, small and silent, while Fiona, his "princess," stole the stage.

That damn cheerleader uniform. He wanted me to feel replaceable. He wanted me to think that a vulgar outfit, a rehearsed smile, and a generic beauty were enough to erase what we had. That the art of a plastic princess was worth more than mine.

He wanted to see me broken, small. Instead, he's watching me shine in his lover's place — blond, wearing clothes he'd never allow. Unattainable.

And that's exactly why I keep my chin held high, even when the music starts and my body has to give in to the rhythm. Because every step isn't just choreography. It's revenge.

The music explodes in the gym, and I know exactly what I'm doing. Every step I take, every spin, every hip thrust is calculated to capture attention.

Jimin and Yoongi surround me, but they aren't my focus. They're the support that makes my movement seem even sharper, more dominant.

The choreography flows, my every step echoing on the stage like a challenge. I spin, I jump, the music drives me. Yoongi makes precise, almost cutting movements, and Jimin glides between us, adding rhythm, provocation, charm.

The three of us move as if it's a game, every step planned, but with room for improv, for playfulness. I shoot quick looks at the audience, at Yoongi, at Jimin, and inside, I'm laughing at the silent chaos we've created.

Every movement is an affirmation, every spin, a provocation. The choreography is sharp, full of attitude, but there's also room for fun — a smile here, a challenging look there.

God, how I missed getting into trouble.

Thank you, Lord.

I feel the eyes of the crowd on me, and that's what makes me give myself more and more to the choreography. I'm outside my normal style. This isn't ballet; it's more of a hint at how those cheerleader sluts should perform, since they want to be so sensual. Every step is a dance between control and surrender, between precision and improvisation.

The music comes to an end, and the silence is deafening. Then, the crowd explodes in applause, screams, and whistles. I take a deep breath, smile underneath it all, and know that this is my moment. I didn't just take the stage — I took it back.

Kim-Streep Taehyung didn't die, and they better know it.

Chapter Text

What was it that I just saw?

Taehyung and Yoongi as cheerleaders?

I blink several times, as if there's a speck in my eye, hindering me from recognizing the scene. For a second, I think it's a quick mirage, a strange parallel reality, or perhaps even a trick of my own mind, tired of always seeing the same girls, the same rehearsed smiles, the same choreography repeated to exhaustion. But it's not a hallucination. It's nothing invented. It's real.

Taehyung is blond. There's a new lightness on his face, a posture that no longer carries that dark weight from before, and I almost can't believe it's the same boy who seemed to be dragging himself through his own shadow just a little while ago.

And Yoongi... it's almost as if I'm seeing another person. Not the Yoongi who shuts himself away in ballet, rigid, worried about every detail, every line, every perfection. What I see now is a completely free Yoongi. He dances with a naturalness that leaves me breathless, loose, light, and yet full of intensity.

My boyfriend. Only mine. I smile to myself, remembering that important detail in my life now.

"Dude..." is all Jungkook can manage beside me. His voice comes out slow, his eyes wide, his face completely in disbelief. I look at him and almost burst out laughing, because I know I'm not the only one thinking the universe decided to mess with us tonight. "He looks so beautiful."

It's always like that when he talks about Jimin, as if he were a personal deity, a god of flesh and blood that he has the privilege of worshipping. And, with all due respect, I have to agree. Because it really does seem that way.

I slightly avert my gaze, just enough to shift away from Jungkook's face, and I'm met with a sight that delights me almost too much. Drew. That asshole Drew. He's rigid in his seat, his jaw clenched, his eyes glued to the stage as if blinking were forbidden. And even though he tries to hold it in, I can see it. It's obvious. The rage pulsating beneath his skin, the indignation crossing every line of his expression. It's almost comical, he's so transparent.

And he deserves to be completely screwed over.

I lean back better in my chair, crossing my arms, and let out a short laugh. Nothing amuses me more than watching the game unfold right in front of my eyes. Especially because we won the first match, which means my quarterback spot is practically mine again.

Everything, absolutely everything, is following the divine plans.

I turn my attention back to the stadium, seeing the second-half team already positioning themselves. But that's no longer my problem now. I stretch my legs, sprawling out on the hard bench, and let my gaze wander over the stands. The collective euphoria is still vibrating in the air, but my attention is caught by another spot.

It doesn't take long until I find them — Jimin, Taehyung, and my Yoongi... together, in the same line of sight, and right now that's all that interests me, especially since I'm still wondering what they did with the cheerleaders.

Without a second thought, I get up from the bench, adjusting my hair as if it's just another casual walk. The crowd is still vibrating, but all I hear is the steady beat of my own heart, as if every step is a direct shortcut to them. Jungkook follows me without question — I know his reason well.

And there I go, climbing the steps of the stands with the feeling that the second part of the game isn't on the field anymore, but right there, waiting for me. It's impossible not to smile when my eyes fix on that scene: the most beautiful gummy smile in the world lighting up everything around it, accompanied by the most slutty dress in the universe. It almost seems unfair that something like that exists before my eyes — but since it does, I'm going to enjoy it.

"What was that?" I ask when I see him close enough, arching an eyebrow, my voice loaded with amusement.

They don't answer me. Or rather, they do answer, but not in a way I can understand. It's as if I pressed a button and all three of them simultaneously collapsed, words tumbling over words, exaggerated gestures, voices rising to a much higher and more animated pitch than normal. Jimin tries to explain with his hands, Taehyung spins around on his feet as if he's reenacting some part, and Yoongi just laughs, talks too fast, loses his train of thought, and starts laughing again.

The three of them are lined up, looking like children telling about the fun day they had, and Jungkook and I are trying to decipher what's being said. The problem is, in the middle of this show, I feel like there's some hidden crime — and, knowing these three, there probably is.

Suddenly, they stop. Not because they reached the end of the explanation, but because they ran out of breath. It's a short pause, noisy with all the rapid breathing, and that's when Jungkook and I exchange glances, taking advantage of the break to blurt out, in perfect sync:

"Huh?"

"We locked the cheerleaders in their dressing room," Yoongi starts, a huge smile plastered on his face.

"Then we danced in their place..." Taehyung continues.

And Jimin just smiles, that smile that mixes pride and amusement.

I swallow hard, trying to hold back a laugh, while at the same time I feel my brain processing the dimension of what they just told me. Something that will definitely lead to punishment, a perfect plan, and they... are absolutely thrilled about it.

"Where did you lock them up?" Jungkook asks beside me, emphasizing the word "locked up."

"In the dressing room," Jimin replies, proudly, resting his little chin on his shoulder, so genuinely happy.

"Guys..." I begin, arching an eyebrow, my voice loaded with amusement and disbelief at the same time. I try to choose my words carefully, but any sentence that comes out will sound like a mixture of a threat and a contained laugh. Because, seriously, all I can think is: "How did you have the nerve to do that and still smile?"

"You guys need to go and unlock them..." Taehyung asks. Or warns. Or orders. It's hard to be sure.

But just like that, going there? Being part of this mess? I look at Jungkook, who seems to already guess what I'm thinking, and I know he's on the same wavelength: incredulous and worried, his eyes wide as if anticipating the confusion that awaits us.

"We?" he questions, his voice loaded with caution, as if the simple act of pronouncing the word were already dangerous.

"Yeah, because if we do it, they'll know it was us right now, but we want to go to the party," Yoongi explains, simply, without even blinking.

And now I know I can't deny anything that comes out of that little mouth. I'm afraid of celibacy.

Taehyung sighs, like someone already tired of being in the middle of a mess, and shakes his head before pointing in the direction of the dressing rooms. "The key is under the light box, in the right corner. Go now, before someone notices."

"Go there?" Jungkook repeats, his hand on his chest, incredulous. "What if we get blamed?"

"You guys look innocent," Jimin shrugs, as if it's obvious. "No one will suspect."

"Exactly," Yoongi reinforces, with that lazy little smile that seems to sign death sentences. "And if anyone asks, you were just... I don't know, walking by."

His request is an order, so we get up from the stands as if we've been given a secret mission. The stadium continues to roar behind us, but it no longer sounds like cheering: it sounds distant, muffled, as if the world has closed the door and left us on a parallel mission. The corridor to the dressing rooms carries that unmistakable smell of "oh shit, if I get caught here, I'm going to deny it until death."

When we turn the corner, the first shouts are already reaching us, muffled by the closed door. And I can't resist:

"Girls... are you stuck in there?" I say loudly, tapping lightly on the door as if I were a polite visitor.

The chorus of answers comes in furious bursts, so uncoordinated it's actually funny. Jungkook lets out a laugh that almost echoes down the hallway, desperately trying to muffle the sound with his own hand, while I'm already genuinely laughing, without mercy. "Wow, girls, who would do something like that to you?"

On the other side, the shouting intensifies, each one trying to speak louder than the other, accusing God knows who, starting to doubt one another. We even start to seriously discuss who could have done this to them. I throw names into the air just to watch the indignation grow. Jungkook nearly doubles over from laughing so hard.

Only after this little act do we decide to look for the damn key. We go to the right corner, where there are as many cabinets as countertops, so the instruction "cabinet to the left, near the door" already sounds more like a riddle than help. The box is bigger than I imagined, all covered in dust, and slightly ajar. The key glints inside, and only now does it hit me that they had the sagacity to specifically find out which key belonged to this door just to get their revenge. That's something.

For a moment, I don't even know if I should be impressed or scared. It's best not to mess with this little trio.

I hold up the key, extending it toward Jungkook. He widens his eyes as soon as he sees the metal. He must have felt the same fear as me.

"Taehyung has all the keys? What a crazy guy."

I give a short laugh, shaking my head. "Crazy and a genius. He has more ideas for revenge than we can imagine."

Jungkook holds the key with his fingertips, as if he's receiving a bomb about to explode. "Dude, we're going to open this and they're going to kill us."

I nod, ready to be trampled and cursed to death. I strategically position myself behind Jungkook, so my body survives a little longer than his.

He shoves the key into the lock, turns it slowly, and the metallic click echoes down the corridor like a sentence. The door opens with a snap, and that's it: hell breaks loose. Screams, complaints, overlapping voices, hair flying everywhere. The cheerleaders rush out in a block, looking like a furious swarm, and I can only laugh quietly behind Jungkook, who is holding the door and agreeing with everything that is being said.

"Imagine getting locked in there, huh?" He asks me, in a teasing tone.

They almost lunge forward, and I take a half-step back, pushing Jungkook even further forward. Poor guy. If someone has to be lynched, let it be him.

The confusion barely has time to bubble up when Fiona appears at the door as if she's just finished a stage leap—perfect hair, cold gaze, all the posture of someone born to command audiences and ignite mini-wars. She stops, her eyes locking onto Jungkook and me as if she's just located the two black sheep of the story. The corridor shrinks for a second.

She tilts her chin, gives a short smile — nothing friendly — and says, directly:

"Tell Taehyung this won't be the end of it."

Holy shit.

"Are you two going to the party?" She asks, alternating her gaze between the two of us. Her voice is calm, but there's venom hidden between the syllables.

That girl is such a slut. She always seems two steps ahead, wanting to know things only to use them against you later.

I take a second to reply, and in that space of silence, I feel her gaze weighing on me. Jungkook already looks ready to invent any excuse, but I don't have the patience for her.

"I'm going with my boyfriend..." I let out, simple, without any flourish. The phrase drops right there, direct, dry, not poetic at all, but enough to make her understand.

Jungkook chokes on a short laugh, not knowing whether to pretend he didn't hear or stare.

Fiona shoots me one last look before continuing down the hallway—a heavy promise still in the air — and disappears through the doors, leaving a trail of perfume and threat.

Once she's far away, I lower my voice, taking the opportunity to tease my friend.

"Yeah, Jungkook, you'll have to sleep with her in my place," I say, waiting for his reaction. He hates her.

"I didn't find my dick in the trash, no. Jerk," he grumbles, crossing his arms as if he could bury his anger right there.

I burst out laughing, gently push his shoulder, and can already feel the night catching fire again — not because of her threat, but because of the spice all this has added. And will continue to add.

🐋

The party is already at its peak when we arrive. The dorm, which seems huge day-to-day, now feels too small for so many people crammed inside. The lights flash as if they want to rip our eyes out, the music hits you right in the chest, and the smell is a mix of cheap beer and overly sweet perfume.

Jungkook enters first, but he doesn't relax one bit. I follow him, already used to throwing myself into this kind of mess, but today I carry an invisible cloud over my head: Fiona's warning is still hammering at the back of my mind, like a muffled siren.

She's going to cause trouble.

In the middle of the chaos, it's impossible not to look for them: Taehyung, Yoongi, and Jimin, who are definitely at the center of the commotion, collecting applause for having been the "most memorable cheerleaders" in the school. It's almost an instinct; my eyes move on their own, sweeping the crowd until I find them.

The moment Yoongi notices my presence, he doesn't hesitate — he comes straight toward me with firm steps, although he's clearly stumbling from the alcohol. He's drunk already, I'm sure of it. The dress still fits him perfectly well, the fabric stuck to him in a few spots from the mix of sweat and the heat of the gym. His pale legs, unapologetically exposed, are an inevitable detail. The long hair that was impeccable before has now tumbled into rebellious strands over his face, and the smeared makeup at the corner of his eyes only makes him look more human, more raw.

He gets too close, and every inch reduced between us feels like a threat. Yoongi rubs the short sleeve of his dress on his forehead, wiping off the sweat, but doesn't slow down. And before I have time to ask anything, I feel his hands firm against my face, pulling me in without warning, without ceremony.

His mouth finds mine with a brutality that doesn't match his size, but rather the thirst he carries. It's an urgent, desperate kiss, like someone trying to kill a hunger that's been kept inside for days. My body responds before my mind, because there isn't enough rationality to hold something like this back.

I grab his waist, which now belongs to me, and return the kiss with the same intensity he gives, each second stolen as if it were the only one. The entire world seems dissolved in the party noise, in the heat of the people around us, but for me, only he exists — the urgent mouth, the bodies pressed together, the taste of alcohol and sweat.

It doesn't last. Yoongi breaks the kiss like someone running out of air, but doesn't let go of my face, his warm breath hitting my mouth. His eyes, red from drink and emotion, stare at me too closely, and then it comes:

"Honey, I'm sorry."

The words spill out of him, crooked and drunk, but still too heavy for me to pretend I didn't hear. They just hang there, vibrating between us. I hold his face more firmly, trying to figure out if he actually means it or if it's just the alcohol talking for him.

"What for, honey?" My voice comes out low, confused, almost a whisper that he has to hunt for in the middle of the noise.

Yoongi takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling too fast, his eyes welling up with drink and something that isn't just drink. He speaks, stumbling over syllables, but every word carries its own weight:

"For the fight... I don't hate you. You're my favorite person. But I got messed up because I thought you were just, I don't know, using me for sex. So I pulled away. I'm sorry."

The phrases all come out at once, broken and sincere, as if he's throwing stones and, at the same time, throwing himself into my arms.

For an instant, I just stare at him, the words echoing inside me. There's no pain in those apologies, just truth — raw, drunken, but truth. And suddenly, all I feel is not anger, nor resentment, but immense joy in knowing that, even when he's being difficult, Yoongi chose to tell me this.

I smile, a wide smile, one that comes from deep inside. I hold the back of his neck firmly, keeping him close.

"It's okay, honey..." I murmur, gently running my thumb across the warm skin of his face. "I understand. I like you too much to be stuck on those things. I don't want us to waste time fighting. I just want to be by your side."

His eyes shine, still hazy, but now they hold something else — a relief, a surrender. I go to kiss him again, calmly this time, just to seal this reconciliation that seems to lift an enormous weight off both of us... but of course the universe won't allow it.

That guy hates me.

Because suddenly, Taehyung appears. All red from drink, his smile wide, his voice slurred and loud. He grabs Yoongi's arm like he owns him and announces, without ceremony:

"Come on, Soviet!" His laugh explodes, stumbling over syllables. — "Come dance with me, let's go!"

And before I can protest, Taehyung is already dragging him onto the dance floor, completely oblivious to what just happened.

"Look at Namjoon!" Jungkook yells in my ear, and I'm almost deafened. This kid has zero tolerance for alcohol and insists on never learning.

And there he is: Namjoon, in the middle of the crowd, showing up with that smile of someone who knows exactly what he has in his pocket. He subtly holds up a gum box, but I know that trick well. There's no mint inside there. It's the green stuff, the treasure he guards like it's gold, and in that moment I just think that the night is officially complete.

Without needing anything else, Jungkook, Namjoon, and I hug in an impromptu huddle. It's messy, pure human heat, the smell of booze and sweat, and suddenly we're screaming in unison:

“HEY! HEY! HEY!”

Three idiots celebrating like they'd just won the championship. And, really, maybe that's exactly what it is: we won the night.

And I won the championship, right? Good to remember that.

We head over to the first corner sofa, the one that seems to have been made precisely to shelter people who don't want to miss the party but also don't have the legs to dance anymore. We collapse there, still laughing, toasting the glorious return of the quarterback that I am. They slap my back, call me champion, and I just laugh, because everything sounds like victory.

But what really holds my attention is the dance floor. My eyes are glued to the bastards. They are spinning as if the world belongs to them. Tae is more electric than ever, his blond hair reflecting every colored light. Yoongi, still in the dress, lets himself go, and Jimin seems to illuminate everything he touches.

This is when the unexpected happens. Tae and Ji exchange a quick peck between them, without ceremony, without thinking — a drunken, light gesture, but one that makes the people around them cheer as if it's part of the show. I laugh to myself, thinking nothing else could surprise me, but Taehyung crosses every imaginable limit: he opens Yoongi's legs, who is lying on the floor, with absurd casualness, gets down on all fours between them, his face dangerously close, and starts grinding with that smile that only he has.

I'm going to kill myself.

Between a drag and a sip, between laughs and celebrations, I stay there, admiring the scene like someone who knows that certain nights don't need logic — only memory.

And, by God, this memory is magnificent.

And then, suddenly, Yoongi turns his face, and our eyes meet. He stares at me with that half-wry smile, the corner of his lips curled up in a way only he can manage. It's quick, light, but enough to make me laugh inside and feel that jolt of warmth that creeps up slowly.

Tae, noticing the exchange of glances, pulls away slightly, still dancing, still provoking. His body moves as if he's dragging Yoongi to follow the rhythm of the insanity only they know how to create. Yoongi, animated and free, completely lets go, and before I know it, they are facing each other. Both on dog style, grinding, laughing loudly, totally given over to the moment.

It doesn't look like they hate each other.

Yoongi's tongue and Tae's come close, almost touching, teasing without direct contact. Their laughter mixes with the sound of the party, but the look they exchange carries everything: challenge, fun, and a new intimacy for them. I watch in silence, my heart beating faster, my mind registering every gesture. It's only a "near-miss," but it's enough to keep me on alert, aware of every move, every curve of Tae and every response from Yoongi.

And, deep down, I feel the most dangerous jolt: it's as if, somehow, Tae could fit right in there between us, without anything more explicit being necessary. Just their energy, their proximity, their intense playfulness... and me, Hoseok, standing there, watching and absorbing every detail.

The party continues all around, but for me, on that corner couch, the world has narrowed down to those two crazy, drunk, and provocative figures who manage to dominate the entire room just with their presence. And I can't look away.

Yoongi, finally, decides to approach me. Without ceremony, he sits on my lap as if it's the most natural thing, his head resting on my shoulder, his body still slightly trembling from the drink and the dance. I feel his every movement, his breath mixing with the loud music, and a smile forms involuntarily on my lips.

Meanwhile, Yoongi takes the joint from Jungkook, who is holding it carefully, and takes the first hit. The smoke rises quickly, carrying that sweet smell that seems to seal the night. He lets out the air and, between low laughs, says:

"Go get Jimin. He's dying to kiss you."

Jungkook looks incredulous, but Yoongi's encouragement is contagious. And it's not just him: Namjoon and Jin, who just arrived, noticing the commotion, immediately get into the spirit, laughing, approving the chaos. Yoongi taps my arm, smiling, as if to say, "You see, Hoseok? I can help your friend." I can only laugh, letting the feeling wash over me — the party, the alcohol, the fun, and the sense that I am exactly where I should be.

Jungkook, half-red, half-excited, disappears into the crowd looking for Jimin, motivated by the implicit little push from everyone. Yoongi, already calmer, looks at me and murmurs, almost pleading:

"Let's go home..."

So beautiful, pouting, giving in to sleep. I nod, understanding, but before we leave, I make sure to ask:

"Nam, Jin... keep an eye on Tae? He's really drunk."

Jin lets out a wide smile, half-teasing, half-conspiratorial:

"Relax. I'll drop Tae off at your dorm, Taeyoonseok's room."

"Okay," I reply, confident that at least that much is under control.

As Yoongi and Tae get ready to leave, I have time to observe a scene that warms me inside: Jin lies down on the sofa with his usual casualness, and Namjoon, laughing softly, leans over him, kissing him with the calmness of someone who knows what he wants. It's not a party explosion; it's just Namjin being Namjin — silent, intense, comfortable with each other, while the world keeps spinning around them.

I sigh, happy for them and hopeful that someday my relationship will look like that: smooth and intense.

🐋

The walk back to the dorm was a mess. One minute Yoongi was dancing in the middle of the street, the next he was laughing loudly at some joke that didn't even exist, and soon after he was already clinging to me, his body limp with sleep. But not necessarily in that order.

Between stumbling, laughing, and failed attempts to keep his balance, we dragged ourselves back to the room. I held his arm the entire time, more out of instinct than necessity — Yoongi felt light, almost floating, even drunk like that.

"I don't want to take a shower," he whines, forming a little pout on his lips while I struggle to take off his sneakers.

"You never do, honey," I murmur, laughing softly, because his drama is almost cute.

Yoongi lets his body fall against the bathroom sink, his eyes half-closed, his messy hair sticking to his forehead.

"You're so bossy..." he grumbles, his voice muffled. "But you're my favorite bossy guy."

I sigh, half laughing, half melting. I take off his other sneaker and stand up to face him — trying to ignore the silly warmth that comment gave me.

Yoongi stares at me for an instant, his gaze heavy with sleep and alcohol, but still beautiful — the kind that makes the world go slightly out of focus. His hands slip down to my waist, without much strength, just enough to pull me a little closer.

"Then you're going to bathe me."

I smile, extremely satisfied with that conclusion.

He turns his back to me, and I swear, if he weren't so drunk, something else would have happened at that moment. He raises his hand to the back of his neck, lifting the hair that covers the zipper, leaving it exposed.

For an instant, I just stand there, looking. The silver zipper shines under the faint bathroom light, and the contrast between his pale skin and the dress's strong fabric is almost hypnotic. Yoongi's breathing is slow, but uneven, and the sound of it fills the small space as if the air has grown denser.

"Are you ready?" I ask, just to make sure he's still awake.

"Hurry up, Hoseok..." he replies, his voice slightly slurred, slightly laughing, and I don't know if he's provoking me or just about to fall asleep standing up.

I carefully hold the zipper and start to pull it down slowly. The sound of the metal opening is soft, but it seems much louder than it should. The fabric slides from his shoulders, revealing more skin than I should be seeing right now — and I quickly turn my face away, taking a deep breath, trying to distract myself.

Yoongi laughs softly, as if he's read my mind.

"You get nervous way too easily."

Yeah.

I turn on the shower and let the water run, warm, until it creates that light steam that seems to hug the body. Yoongi walks in slowly, with the same dragging step as always, and leans against the shower glass as if the world is spinning a little too fast.

"Are you happy now?" he asks, with a thread of a voice, as I run my wet hand through his hair, trying to wash away the gel and the sweat from the party.

"A little," I reply, and he rolls his eyes.

The shower is quick — warm, silent, and half-asleep. He leans his forehead against my shoulder and sighs, content, until he murmurs in an almost childlike tone:

"I'm hungry."

I let out a short laugh. "Yoongi, it's three in the morning."

"So what? It's still today," he retorts, convinced, which only makes me laugh more.

We finish the shower, dry ourselves quickly, and he's already in bed, buried under the covers, ready to sleep — or eat, if he could. Before I lie down, I hear some knocking at the door, followed by laughter that's too loud for this time of night.

I rush to the door, remembering that Taehyung exists — and that he's also sleeping here. I'm met with him. And Namjoon. And Jin, sitting on the stairs, a bit absent, completely high.

Namjoon holds Taehyung by the waist, and Taehyung holds onto him with both hands, hugging his shoulders.

My God.

"Here, your little problem," Namjoon says, pointing at Tae, who has the biggest smile on his face.

Without a single sign of sleepiness.

Taehyung enters, stumbling on the rug, still laughing at something only he and Namjoon understood.

"Wow, it's hot in here, huh?" he comments, tossing his coat into a corner. "Is Yoongi alive?"

"He is," I reply, looking at the bed. "Half-dead, but he is."

"Great!" he says excitedly, going straight to Yoongi and tapping his foot under the blanket. "Hey, zombie, wake up. Let's talk."

Yoongi just groans.

I turn my gaze back to Namjoon, who has already left. Bye, dear friend, thank you so much for the help. I'll put you in the acknowledgments of this work.

"Ugh, I'm hungry, Russian. Wow," Taehyung complains, planted at Yoongi's feet as if that were the most natural position in the world. Yoongi just groans, burying his face in the blanket, completely oblivious to the absurd energy Tae is emitting.

"Then go find us some food," Yoongi replies, his voice still slurred with sleep and alcohol, but carrying that calm that only he can possess.

Tae widens his eyes, feigning indignation.

"Get it?" Taehyung makes a dramatic pause, with a huge pout. His eyes blink ridiculously and, in a second, his entire face lights up. He smiles mischievously, looking at me as if he's just stolen the sun. "I have the keys to the cafeteria, Hobi."

The phrase lands, and for an instant, everything gets lighter. It sounds like the best idea in the world. Yoongi, who was pretending to sleep until then, widens his eyes as if someone whispered an irresistible secret and turns to look at me with the cheekiest little smile on the planet — the one that completely disarms me. Taehyung tries to stand up with his usual elegance and almost turns into an awkward statue, stumbling toward the bedside table. From there, with the calmness of someone guarding a trophy, he pulls out the damn cafeteria key as if it were a vault key.

"Operation Munchies," he announces, triumphant, already grabbing his jacket with excitement.

There's no way I can deny these two's munchies.

"You stay put and don't fall asleep," I say to Yoongi, who nods, smiling.

Taehyung pulls me by the sleeve, already outside the room, before I can finish my thought. The door closes slowly behind us, and the deserted street welcomes our muffled footsteps with that mix of adrenaline and playful guilt. We exchange a knowing glance — he's excited, I'm humorously responsible — and head toward the school in silence, ready for the little night invasion.

The night air outside is a cold embrace; the lights of the boarding school are asleep, and the idea of a kitchen full of crumbs and forbidden sandwiches feels like the most legitimate prize in the world.

Tae doesn't shut up for a moment on the way. He jumps, sings off-key, does little ridiculous dances, curses the cheerleaders with theatrical exaggeration, mocks Drew, praises Jimin, comments on Jin, and — somehow — even throws approving looks at Yoongi, even with the other guy's evident exhaustion.

And of course, he couldn't leave out: compliments about himself. His smile is wide, electric, and every word is loaded with absurd self-confidence. I can't stop laughing, even while wondering how someone can be so animated, so awake, after so much alcohol, while my Yoongi is over there, a point of liquid calm in the middle of this Tae storm.

So different.

We enter the cafeteria as if it's forbidden territory — silent, but not enough to stop the echo of our steps on the empty walls. Tae, who still had energy to spare, is now walking more slowly, his arms crossed, his messy hair falling over his forehead. We get close to the mega kitchen's pantry and open the door.

The snacks are scattered, taken apart, but organized, nothing complicated. Tae lets out a "Ugh, we have to make them," and gives an exaggerated, theatrical sigh. I don't waste time complaining and sit on the floor, grabbing pieces of bread, cheese, and ham, starting to assemble what can still be called a sandwich. Tae throws himself against the wall, calmer now, taking a deep breath and spinning the bag of chips between his hands.

After a few seconds of comfortable silence, he breaks the mood:

"Hobi... do you like the blond?" he asks, with that wry smile that always knows how to provoke something.

My heart skips a beat. I look at him, trying not to let too much show. Before I can formulate any response, I feel the air change — that same atmosphere that always used to surface between us, light, warm, almost nostalgic. Tae doesn't look away, continuing to stare at me as if we're sharing an old secret, something no one else would understand.

I know that look. That look he used to give me before he completely pulled away, before he dated Drew. That same look that always used to drag me to his mouth, without asking permission.

"I'm dating Yoongi now, Tae," I let out in a calm, merely informational tone. No scolding, no exaggerated tension. Just a fact.

Tae tilts his head, his messy hair falling slightly over his face. He smiles in a mischievous, somewhat tired way, but his eyes continue to sparkle.

"You know, Hobi...," he begins, his voice low and a little hoarse "I actually like seeing you two together. I mean... you and Yoongi... you match. Like, a lot. He's handsome, serious, his legs..." he gives a short laugh "and that little way he has, you know? All... very Yoongi. And I'm happy that you're happy with him."

I swallow hard, surprised. I didn't expect to hear that, especially coming from him, after so much time spent teasing and provoking. Tae moves a little closer, but not too close, just enough for the warmth of his presence to be felt.

"I..." I start to say, but he cuts me off with a smile, as if he's read what I was going to say before I even opened my mouth. 

"Relax, Hobi. I'm just saying it's cool to see you smiling like that."

And then I realize: he's serious, and in a way that demands nothing from me. Just observing, joking, but genuinely happy.

"Thank you," I say. And, maybe, only the two of us understand the value of that.

He lets out a short laugh, his eyes shining with that mix of mischief and tiredness, and starts helping me clean up the snacks scattered on the floor. He doesn't need to say anything; his every gesture is almost a silent conversation, comfortable and natural.

And, for an instant, all that exists is this: him, me, and Yoongi, waiting for his little dinner.

Chapter Text

Time until La Maison du Cygne Noir: 9 months, 3 weeks, and five days.

My head is still throbbing slowly, but the music beats in my ears like a persistent drum. I hate parties. I hate it when I get too cheerful and feel like doing things I don't actually like that much — like drinking, weed, that kind of... thing. I blink several times, trying to focus, and the sensation of floating makes me giggle softly.

I lift my gaze just enough to see Taehyung sitting across from me, legs tossed to the side, his mouth full of food. He looks like a little mouse stuffing crumbs in his cheeks, and his full mouth only makes his natural pout look even funnier. He chews slowly, almost devouring the silence, and I watch his every gesture, every small movement he makes without realizing I'm looking.

Hoseok is next to me, trying to pour the sodas into mugs he found lost around the room, but he's doing it on the bed, and there's a good chance everything will spill.

"Hobi..." I call out, half-laughing, almost choking on my own laughter. "That's going to end badly."

"Trust me, honey. I have motor skills." He smiles, concentrating, but his hand trembles slightly, and I notice the patience he always has with me and with others.

He's so cute.

"That's what every drunk person says before spilling everything," Taehyung comments, his voice muffled by the food.

I laugh, softly, without the strength to argue. Hoseok rolls his eyes, but his smile betrays that he's having fun. In the end, he even manages to do it — he puts the mugs on the makeshift table, proud of himself.

I look at the sandwich in my hand, the smell of melted cheese and warm bread makes me think of every calorie, every inch I can't let grow. The Black Swan cannot have a belly, cannot have a swollen face, cannot look heavy. And yet, for some reason, I stand there, looking at that piece of bread that should just be food and that, for me, has become almost a punishment.

Hoseok notices I'm taking a long time and nudges me lightly.

"It's going to get cold..."

"I'm... fine," I lie, trying to sound convincing, but my voice comes out weak even to my own ears.

Taehyung, even drunk, notices. He chews slowly, looking at me with that gaze that seems to pierce my mind.

"Aren't you going to eat?" he asks, his voice slurred, but firm.

"I'm going to drink soda," I lie again.

He frowns, not believing it for a second. Suddenly, he gets up, slightly stumbling, and starts rummaging through one of the bags. Hoseok watches, confused.

"What are you doing, Tae?”

"Nothing," he replies, stumbling on the rug and almost falling flat on his face, but without losing focus.

After a few seconds, he emerges triumphant, holding a small bottle that he shakes like a trophy. He walks toward me, a mischievous smile lighting up his face.

"Take it." He holds out his hand, handing me the bottle.

I look at it, not understanding anything.

"What is that?" I ask. He arches an eyebrow.

Then, he casts a quick, cold glance at Hoseok, as if deciding whether or not to speak in front of him. Afterward, he leans in, placing his hand over my ear, and yells, as if he needs all the air in the world to speak:

"IT'S MEDICINE FOR YOU TO SHIT OUT EVERYTHING YOU EAT!"

I am startled. I almost drop the sandwich, choking on the surprise. Hoseok widens his eyes, tries to hold back a laugh, but can't — he lets out a muffled chuckle, covering his mouth with his hand.

"Taehyung!" I reprimand, but it's impossible not to laugh along.

He goes back to the mattress, completely satisfied, and bites into his sandwich as if nothing happened. He stares at me with that heroic look, his huge smile, and starts stuffing his mouth again as if he'd saved my night.

Hoseok is still trying to hold back his laughter next to me, but he fails miserably. He holds out one of the mugs to me — the one with the soda — so I can take the said "medicine." But as soon as he does it, the laughter escapes for good, loud and uncontrolled.

"Idiot..." I say, trying to hold back my laughter too, but I can't.

Tae looks at us, not quite understanding the reason for the burst of laughter, but ends up laughing too, his face slightly smeared with cheese.

For a second, the scene seems absurd — the three of us laughing for no reason, surrounded by food, drink, and the muffled sound of the party in the background. But, at the same time, there's something there that makes me take a deep breath. Something that reminds me that, sometimes, being light is enough.

I take the mug and, without thinking much, drink the damn medicine — just in case. The taste is awful. I close my eyes, making a face, and hear Tae guffaw, satisfied with his own brilliant plan. Hoseok laughs again, laying his head on my lap. I laugh too, defeated, still afraid of what this stuff is going to do to me.

For an instant, no one says anything. Only the muffled sound of music coming from the hallway, the crackling of the plastic packaging, and the slow breathing of those who have finally calmed down. Hoseok distractedly fidgets with the sheet, his hair brushing against my arm, and I feel a slight shiver.

Taehyung is sprawled on the mattress, face down, with the sandwich still in his hand, chewing slowly. His face is slightly squished, his gaze somewhat lost, but the smile is still there — relaxed, sincere, beautiful.

"I..." he starts to say, now calmer, "I don't want to be the Swan anymore."

I stay quiet for an instant, thinking he's going to laugh again, or complete the sentence with some provocation. But no. He just stays there, staring into space, with that same gentle smile, as if he's finally given up on fighting the world. Or me.

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to sound light, but my voice comes out a little lower than I intended.

"I don't know." He shrugs, takes another bite. "I think I'm tired of trying to prove something. The role is yours... I'm only going to tell you this because I'm drunk, but... you're doing well, you're dancing well."

The silence that settles isn't uncomfortable — it's just strange. A kind of calm I didn't expect.

Part of me feels relief, as if an invisible pressure has dissolved. But another part... doesn't know what to do with it.

Without his anger, without the rivalry, what is left of me?

Taehyung doesn't look at me — he stays there, lying down, his hair falling over his face and the snack forgotten in his hand. His breathing is slow, and for a moment I think he's going to fall asleep right here, on Hobi's bed.

"You're doing well."

It's been so long since anyone told me that without expecting something in return.

"That coming from you..." I murmur, laughing softly, but the sound comes out a little rough.

"I know." He replies in the same tone, turning his face toward me. "Don't get used to it."

Hoseok laughs softly, and I do too, but the laughter dies quickly. Because there's a weight there, in the air, that didn't exist before.

I look at Taehyung and realize he is still watching me — his gaze softer than I've ever seen it. No provocation, no mask. Just tiredness. And perhaps a bit of peace.

"You should rest," I say, but my voice sounds distant, almost a whisper.

"You too," he retorts, his eyes blinking slowly.

And for the first time, since everything began, I believe he's not talking about any rehearsal. He's talking about the Swan role, about the fact that, in just one month of rehearsing, I've already lost seven kilos, my dark circles are more apparent every day, my foot is more screwed up every day, my head is heavier every day. It's about this exhaustion.

Hoseok seems to feel the mood growing heavy, and he gets up, sitting on the bed. He starts gathering the packaging, the crumbs, and the forgotten cups, muttering something about "drunk people's mess."

Taehyung tries to get up too, stumbling over his own feet, and Hobi sighs, laughing softly before approaching to help.

"Come on, Vivi," he says, his voice soft, putting his arm around Tae's back. "Shower and bed, before you pass out for good."

Vivi, how funny. Where did that come from?

I see the two of them disappearing down the hallway, Tae half-hanging onto Hoseok, laughing to himself. He turns on the bathroom light, and for an instant, the glare cuts through the room's gloom. I can hear the muffled sound of laughter inside, the noise of the shower being turned on, Hobi's patient tone saying something I don't understand. And then the click of the door closing, with Hoseok leaving the bathroom.

For some reason, the scene keeps playing in my head — his care, the way he adjusted Tae as if he's done it a thousand times. The kind of affection that comes from long before here.

They've known each other forever, I remember that.

But even so... there's something there.

Something I can't name, and perhaps don't even want to.

The sound of the shower runs softly in the background while Hoseok returns to the room and starts tidying everything — with the same absurd patience as always. He gathers the packaging, folds the sheets, straightens Tae's bed as if he's performing a ritual. I just watch, lying down, trying not to think about anything, but thinking about everything.

When the sound of the water stops, the silence slowly spreads again.

A little while later, Taehyung appears.

His hair is still damp, his face clean, his skin glowing under the yellowish light of the lamp. Just a pair of shorts hanging loosely on his hips, and that slightly lost look of someone who has forgotten his own body. He looks smaller, less arrogant. Just a tired boy trying to keep going.

For a second, I remember when he took off his clothes in front of me, just to provoke me. What a wicked boy. And what a sight.

God forgive me, I am faithful to my boyfriend.

But what a body.

Hoseok calls him softly, and Tae goes to him, stumbling a little less now.

"Lie down here," Hobi says, pulling the sheet and covering Tae's body with an almost automatic gesture.

They are far away, but I can hear — or I think I hear:

"I'm sorry, Hobi."

His voice is small, slurred by sleep.

Hoseok lets out a short, airy chuckle.

"Sleep well, Tae," he murmurs, and touches his lips to his forehead with an old naturalness, like someone who has been doing this for years.

For an instant, everything seems quieter than it should.

The scene remains suspended, almost unreal.

I think about getting up, about asking what that was, but my body doesn't obey.

I let it go.

Hoseok turns off the lamp, lies down beside me, and the mattress sinks slightly with his weight. Without realizing it, I end up turning toward the warmth of his body, my face lightly resting on his shoulder, his clean scent mixed with the soap he always uses.

Sleep comes quickly — calm, heavy — and before I know it, I'm already sleeping, my heart beating slowly at the same rhythm as his.

In my little corner of peace.

🐋

The air in the rehearsal room has a dry taste that always reminds me of work: pointe shoe rosin, the dust from the tights, the faint metallic smell of the barres. The white lights graze my skin, and the wall mirror reflects my own tired face.

When she enters, the room seems to shrink a little. The sound of the slippers, the rustle of the clothes, everything becomes secondary before that step that only she has. She walks in with the precision of someone who has come to collect a debt that accepts no excuses. Her little heel echoes on the wood like a stern horse, and I realize, before any words, that she hasn't come to console me.

She sets her bag down on the chair with a delicate movement and observes me like someone reading a musical score — line by line, searching for an error. She doesn't wait for me to ask permission to breathe; she speaks directly, without preamble:

"You know why you're here." That's not a question; it's a statement.

Her syllables sound sharp, but there's an underlying habit: she speaks like that because she learned that feeling gets in the way and results help. The lung inside my chest tightens. I think about the nights of rehearsal, the corrections that hurt more than physical effort. She doesn't have the affection of other mothers. She prefers to mention risks, invisible contracts, doors that can close. It's her way of hiding fear with authority.

"We are not here legally." She doesn't explain, she doesn't need to.

The silence that follows is heavy because it brings up scenarios, absence of paperwork, an invisible hand that can push.

I understand everything she doesn't verbalize: the weight of the family name, the money involved.

My throat closes. I try to formulate a defense, a justification, anything that sounds human, but I know any explanation sounds small next to her. She has the ability to reduce possibilities to the minimum and still make it seem like it's for my own good — or hers — like someone pruning a tree so it doesn't grow crooked — only I can already feel the cuts in my flesh.

The threat comes in an almost professional tone, without hysteria:

"If you mess up this choreography, you'll ruin your little boyfriend's life and Kim Taehyung's. Did you understand me?"

She chooses her words without mincing them. A mistake on stage becomes a headline, image conflict becomes dismissal, what was personal becomes public and destroys the few things the people she mentions have. I see in her mouth the coldness she tried to protect, and for a second the illusion that love can be measured in cost/benefit collapses.

The phrase lodges itself inside me like poison: it's not just the fear of messing up a step, it's the realization that one wrong step could mean ruin for those I love. The air feels heavier, and I thought that would be impossible.

I want to argue. I want to say that art shouldn't be a bargaining chip, that bodies have limits, that the Black Swan is a construct that sucks me dry. But the words die before they come out. Instead, I think about Hoseok sleeping beside me, about Tae saying that drunken, incomplete thing, and how every gesture of care between them now sounds to me like something forbidden that I can lose with a single slip-up.

My mother measures me with her gaze — she has probably already calculated where every stumble will hit. I feel, with the certainty that comes from years of discipline, that my face must have changed: heavy, transparent, vulnerable. She tilts her head, as if expecting submissiveness, and adds, almost in a whisper that, ironically, sounds louder than the rest:

"You know what you need to do." The phrase is a sentence and, at the same time, a responsibility.

I stand there, still, with my breath held, listening to the rhythmic ticking outside — maybe it's the air conditioning, maybe it's my own heart. In the mirror, my reflection shows me an exhausted dancer and a child who is still waiting for approval. All this now seems like an outstanding bill that I don't know if I can handle.

She doesn't need to repeat the threat; she planted it with a clear voice. I try, then, with a consuming calmness, to give the minimum acceptable response:

"I understood, Mom."

The phrase comes out short, rehearsed, and my mother files the assent with a single movement of her eyebrow. When she turns to leave, the room goes back to being just the room: mirrors, barres, long shadows. But inside me, there is something that remained, too big to fold back into the body. And as she disappears down the hallway, I remain, but no longer as I was before.

Chapter Text

Outside, the rain falls heavily, almost violently. In here, the studio seems to absorb the same weight as the sky — each drop hitting the windows as if mocking me, reminding me that there's nowhere to run. Whenever sadness returns, this place pulls me in with it. As if it knows.

After begging for a miserable solo, I finally got it. Now I just need to convince my body that this isn't the usual choreography. It's new. More dramatic. Less predictable. More me.

The mirror reflects an image I don't recognize. Every gesture seems like a cry for help disguised as art. The rain outside and the music inside me blend, and sometimes it's impossible to tell where the sound is coming from. There's something broken in my arms, as if every movement is trying to stitch up a wound that insists on reopening.

I wanted to believe that dancing saves me, but lately... it feels like I get more lost with every step. It's been a month since I broke up with Drew. A month and a half since I lost the solo. A whole month trying to find myself again.

The music starts again, soft, tragic.

My feet glide across the floor carefully, as if they could give way at any moment. But my shoulders are tense, my expression is blank, my body searching for a rhythm that doesn't come naturally.

Still, I persist.

I repeat the movement, make a mistake, start over. The sound of the slippers mixes with the water hitting the window, and for an instant, everything seems to align. Until the door opens.

Hoseok enters as if nothing outside matters. Wet hair, wide smile, headphones dangling around his neck, playing a snippet of music.

"Are you rehearsing without me, again?" He laughs, dropping his backpack. "That's cheating, Kim Taehyung."

"They call it commitment," I reply, without taking my eyes off the mirror. "And it's not our choreography."

He arches an eyebrow, curious, and approaches, breaking the silence with his bare feet.

"Ah, I see. 'Tortured artist' moment," he says, crossing his arms and joking. "I should have brought a violin to go with the drama."

I roll my eyes. He always tries to get a reaction.

"You should be rehearsing the duet with me, not making jokes," I say, changing the music on my phone.

"I'm here now, aren't I?" He retorts, adjusting his wet hair. "And, for your information, I have a natural talent for tragic choreographies."

"Hmm. Sure," I reply dryly, without smiling.

"Seriously, Tae," he insists, with that irritatingly sincere glint in his eyes. "I'm not Yoongi, but I promise I'll try."

That last sentence hits me in a way he doesn't even imagine.

For a second, my posture falters, but I hide it by stretching my arm in the mirror, pretending to be warming up.

"Then try," I say. "Do you still remember the choreography?"

"I could never forget," he positions himself behind me.

I roll my eyes, but I don't argue. He fits into my movements as if it were automatic. Perfectly natural.

It's annoying how easily he adapts.

When our arms cross, I feel his light touch on my shoulder. A shiver runs through my body like an alarm. Hoseok laughs softly, almost choking, but continues to follow the rhythm.

"You're tense, Tae," his voice comes out slow, observant. "Dancing like you have a gun to your head."

I bite my lip, looking away from the mirror, pretending indifference.

"It's just the style of the choreography," I reply, restrained.

He arches an eyebrow, clearly not believing me.

"Uh-huh," he replies, his tone a mix of irony and patience. "You forgot to tell me about that part."

And then, before I can react, I feel his hand on my arm, firm, interrupting my movement. A simple gesture, but loaded with intention.

"Stop for a second," he says, with the firmness of someone who knows what he's doing, but that slight smile appears at the corners of his mouth, messing up my internal control. "You need to relax, Vivi."

The world seems to slow down for an instant: the hot studio, the cold floor under my feet, the rain hitting the window, everything dissolves into the feeling of having someone there, not just present, but attentive, observing every detail of my body as if it were important.

Hoseok guides me slowly to the studio wall, and I follow somewhat heavily, as if every muscle is complaining about the accumulated effort. He sits behind me, firm and secure, and begins to massage my shoulders. His touch is strong but not painful, careful in a way that seems automatic, almost natural, as if he knows exactly where my tension is hiding — and where it hurts without me having to say it. I feel every knot slowly unraveling, and yet, my mind doesn't stop: revisions, rehearsals, the constant pressure, the role I lost, what I still have to prove.

I close my eyes, letting my body relax under his hands. It's strange, yet comfortable — a comfort that leaves me vulnerable, because it's rare to let someone see my flaws without judgment or rushing. And in this silence, the weight I carry becomes even more present.

"It's... my mom," the word slips out without thinking, almost a whisper. "She's... demanding double now. Every step, every gesture, every movement... it feels like I never do enough."

Hoseok pauses, without pressing, just keeping his hands on my shoulders. I feel his warmth mixing with my exhaustion, and the tranquility he conveys makes me want to cry.

"Ah... I know," he says naturally, as if I don't need to explain anything. "She's always been like that, such a witch."

My chest tightens. I almost laugh nervously, feeling a bit awkward, because it's rare for someone to simply acknowledge what I think without judging. Hoseok doesn't criticize. He doesn't demand anything; he just understands. The way his hands move the massage down my back, firm and precise, mixes with the tranquil tone of his voice, and suddenly everything feels a little lighter.

I close my eyes, feeling every muscle relax under his touch, and for an instant, I forget my problems. Only the two of us exist there — him, patient, constant, and me, trying to put into words something I can't always admit.

"It's like I always owe something," I admit softly. "It's not just the dancing, it's my whole life. She doesn't leave any room for error."

Hoseok squeezes my shoulders a little too hard, as if he wants to transfer some of the weight I feel onto himself.

"I know, Tae. But that doesn't define you. Not what you do in the studio, nor who you are outside of it," he leans his head on my shoulder, as if to make sure I'm listening. "They're just like that, our dear parents."

"They can stop, right? Like... I don't know, enough is enough," I feel the weight of every word hanging between us, as if it were impossible to swallow it all alone.

"Tae..." He murmurs, slowly, almost a whisper, as if each word needs time to arrive. "I know it feels like too much sometimes. But stopping won't happen overnight. It's not just with you, it's with everyone they believe needs to 'prove' something. But..." He lets out a low, slightly hidden, light laugh that makes me look at him sideways, "as long as I'm around, you don't have to carry everything alone. Not the pressure, not the anger, nor the weight of always looking perfect. Do you understand me?"

Hoseok notices that my expression is still too burdened, and a mischievous glint appears in his eyes. Before I can react, he lets out a low chuckle and begins to slide his fingers up the side of my torso, causing an unexpected shiver.

"No!" I try to pull away, but he holds me firmly by the shoulders, laughing. "Hobi, stop!" My voice comes out slightly choked, a mix of laughter and protest, and I turn around trying to escape, but he follows my every move, laughing even more.

With every touch, the tension that was squeezing my chest seems to dissolve into small sparks of laughter. I end up falling slightly forward, leaning onto the studio floor, still trying to protect myself, but it's impossible to hold back the burst of laughter that explodes from me. Hoseok laughs along, his sound full, warm, mixing with my own laughter until it fills the entire space of the room.

"Okay, okay, I give up!" I say, panting, finally giving in, but he just lets out another laugh, leaning up, bringing his face close to mine and saying:

"Don't act tough with me, Tae. I know every little piece of you."

It's strange how something so silly can make me feel light. I feel my heart less heavy, my mind less bogged down by pressure, as if, for a few seconds, all that matters is just the laughter that echoes between us.

And then, the door opens slowly. A slight creak interrupts the mood, and Yoongi appears at the entrance. Silence immediately falls, and the air seems denser. He looks at us with a bit of surprise and suspicion mixed in his gaze. Hoseok pulls away with a smile that tries to be casual, and I, still panting, realize how everything changes in a fraction of a second.

"I thought you were rehearsing..." His voice is low, almost uncertain, but it carries that weight that always sets off an alarm.

Hoseok takes a deep breath, as if deciding he won't let the awkward situation drag on. He approaches Yoongi naturally, almost too confidently for a studio of sad songs. Before I can properly process it, Hoseok gives him a quick, light kiss, but one loaded with the intimacy only they share.

Yoongi closes his eyes for an instant, as if absorbing the gesture, and then pulls away just enough to look at Hoseok with that serious, but warm, gaze. It's strange to see the two of them like this, so... normal, but at the same time full of contained tension, as if every small touch carries memories and promises that no one else understands.

It's beautiful.

"I came to see the rehearsal," Yoongi says, finally, his voice low, firm, but still carrying that energy of someone who has just received affection and now focuses on what really matters.

Hoseok nods, almost smiling, and returns to the center of the room, lightly adjusting my arm before gently pushing me forward. Hoseok's touch on me, the way he holds my body without squeezing too hard, the soft laugh that escapes him when he notices my hesitation — all of this makes me swallow hard. Why am I so ashamed?

Yoongi walks slowly around the corner of the room, observing our every gesture, every spin, every contact. He doesn't say anything, he just watches, and that's more intimidating than any verbal criticism. I feel his gaze moving over my body, analyzing not just the technique, but the intention, the commitment, right down to the small details.

"Honey, you're letting your hand slide too much while holding Taehyung; that could make him fall..." Yoongi finally breaks the silence, firmly.

I feel a pang of irritation at first, but it quickly dissolves. I take a deep breath and realize that, despite everything, he is right. Precision matters, and Hoseok is fully supporting me, and I am trusting his every move.

What an embarrassment, agreeing with the Russian.

I glance at Yoongi in the mirror and can't help but think about how he must be analyzing me right now. The gaze that challenges me with every step shows me exactly where I can improve. And, in some strange way, that gives me focus.

The music starts again for the third time, and we move together, almost as if our bodies are conversing. Hoseok touches my bare leg at several moments, holding, guiding, and each touch is light, a silent reminder that I can trust him. My body responds automatically, following his rhythm and strength, feeling every impact, every thrust.

Yoongi remains seated, facing us, watching. His eyes don't miss a detail — every spin, every step, every contact between us. It's as if he is deciphering the dance, deciphering us. His gaze provokes me, makes me conscious of every movement, and for an instant, I feel my heart race.

"Improve the final spin, Tae, hold tighter, trust Hoseok," Yoongi says, his voice firm, but with that calmness that makes me want to prove I can do it.

I obey, aware of every detail, feeling Hoseok and, without realizing it, I smile — small, restrained, but real. Everything blends into something that makes me forget any anger or resentment I hold toward the Soviet.

When we finally stop, my arms tremble slightly, but I feel a weight being lifted from my chest. Yoongi remains there, in the corner, evaluating, and I know he noticed everything. I don't say anything, I just smile lightly at Hoseok, who returns the smile with that mix of pride and playfulness in his eyes.

"You two dance well together..." Yoongi says, low, contemplative.

I arch an eyebrow, trying not to show it, but there's a strange heat rising my neck. It's not a simple compliment; it's the kind of comment that makes you feel exposed without him even touching you. Why am I feeling so embarrassed today? Help.

"Dad knows best," Hoseok blurts out, laughing softly.

I roll my eyes, but I can't hold back a wry smile. "My years of ballet don't count, do they?"

Yoongi lets out a low, contained laugh, almost surprised by my response, and it's impossible not to be infected by it. I end up laughing back, that little laugh that passes through my chest, making it tighten in a strange, good way.

I have to hate him. I have to hate him. I have to hate him.

Since that day when we "stole" the place of those cheerleader sluts, our relationship has changed. It's not friendship, it's not explicit — it's something more subtle. The provocations now only exist in the dance. It's almost a silent game, full of tension, but it doesn't weigh as heavily as it did before.

And should it be like this? I don't know.

I lean back against the wall again, trying to catch my breath, while Hoseok practically sits on Yoongi's lap. They hug, they caress each other, they whisper words that must be sweet.

They are making me jealous.

The door opens with a low creak, and the sound from outside invades the studio. Jimin and Jungkook enter, laughing and dragging their backpacks on the floor, the air carrying their energy like a sudden wave. The contrast with the calm we just created is almost funny.

Hoseok, Yoongi, and Jungkook quickly exchange a few words, smiling at each other, as if they were planning something. Then, they start moving towards the door. Before leaving, Hoseok turns for an instant, his eyes shining as always, and raises his hand in a quick wave. Yoongi and Jungkook repeat the gesture, giving a slight nod. It's cute.

Jimin approaches slowly, his gaze curious, but calm. "You won't believe what I found out..." he says, lowering his voice a little, as if it were a master secret. "If we order food at the front desk, the doorman will deliver pizza here to the studio. Like... without anyone noticing."

I arch an eyebrow, half-disbelieving, but the idea pulls a smile from me. "Pizza?"

"Pregnant craving," he blurts out, laughing softly, playfully, "and you need to gain weight with me."

I feel a warmth rise up my chest. The tension that still hangs in the studio seems to slowly dissolve with his manner, turning something simple into a provocation so natural that it's impossible not to laugh.

"Okay, okay," I say, shaking my head, a smile escaping even without realizing it.

He gives a wry, almost mischievous smile, and my chest tightens slightly at the idea: pizza, Jimin, gossip, maybe some hidden wine. A small breather in the midst of the heavy routine, a moment for us, even if only for a few seconds.

🐋

We chose a somewhat forgotten little table near the campus garden, far from the buzzing crowd. The wind sways the trees, and the lamplight illuminates the place with a tranquil tone, the kind that invites you to talk about everything and nothing.

"But..." Jimin starts, holding the pizza like it's a treasure, "I... I still haven't slept with him..."

He's been describing Jungkook as if he were a fairy tale for about thirty minutes: beautiful, strong, tall — the future father of the most perfect children in the world. I try to argue, in vain, that biologically this is impossible, but it's like talking to a wall.

"From the little I know about him, he won't mind waiting..." I try to argue, still patient.

I love Jimin, but sometimes he closes his ears and opens his mouth too much. Seriously, sometimes it's better to stop thinking, but he doesn't know how to do anything but chatter like a parakeet. He rolls his eyes and sighs, somewhat defeated.

"I know, but... I don't know, Tae. I keep thinking about it and I feel strange, like... behind."

"It's normal to be a virgin..." I say, arching an eyebrow, with a wry smile. "We're seventeen. Actually, it's probably expected."

Jimin lets out a nervous giggle, biting the edge of the pizza. "I keep comparing myself, you know?" He admits, looking at the table as if to organize his thoughts. "Because you've already had sex, everyone we know has too, and Jungkook... point me to one person he hasn't slept with. Theater, music, cheerleaders, even ballet dancers, men and women, it's desperate."

"Yeah... he's quite the player..." I say, agreeing with him. "But look, Hoseok was the same, and he's in a good relationship, and with a damn Russian. I mean, seriously, just think: you can still be a beautiful couple, and he'll fuck you as soon as you feel ready for it. Or, I don't know, you can fuck him."

He stares at me with a naughty little smile — for a virgin, he's quite emotional about this topic.

"It must be an experience, right?" he asks, curious.

"I don't want to talk about my sexual experiences," I reply, crossing my arms dramatically. "I'm in eternal celibacy. I'm even thinking about becoming a priest... If someone offers me, I'll go."

Jimin lets out a low, almost choked laugh, shakes his head, biting the pizza as if trying to understand my sentence. "You've gone a month without sex, Tae," he murmurs, still laughing. I just shrug, smiling mischievously, satisfied with the reaction. That's how it works between us: he gets sad, I make him laugh, and somehow, everything seems to balance out.

"Seriously, Jimin," I continue, leaning forward a little, resting my elbow on the table, and grabbing a slice of pizza. "Life isn't a race to see who has sex first. Everyone has their own time, and you don't need to compare yourself to Jungkook's sexual history or anyone else's. Enjoy what you have, the affection, the companionship, if hookups even have a home. The rest will come at the right time."

"I know," he admits, softly, "but sometimes it's hard to turn my brain off. Like, I keep imagining things, and... I don't know, he's going to do it right and I won't, it could be frustrating."

I giggle, throwing my head back. "Frustrating?" I ask, sounding indignant, exaggerating my expression. "Ji, with a butt that size, nothing is frustrating. And, if he thinks so, we'll hire some thugs."

We let out a loud laugh together, with a shrug, as if to say "problem solved."

He goes back to tasting his food, but I can see his little eyes articulating the questions, blinking between curiosity and the fear of asking me something he feels he shouldn't.

"Tae..." he starts, hesitating a little. "What's going on between you and Yoon? Like... I know about the fights and stuff... but is there something... You know."

The air seems to get heavier for an instant, and I realize he's referring to my provocation of undressing in front of him. I give a short laugh, glancing at him, leaning back, like someone who wants to escape that malicious question.

"Ah..." I start, my voice lighter, almost joking. "At the time, it seemed like a good idea to provoke him. You know, to show him that I... I don't know... that I was in control, or something. But, honestly, I have no idea what I was thinking that day. I was feeling powerful, capable of anything, or at least trying to seem that way. Unlike today..." I pause, looking at the table, biting my lip. "Today I feel incapable of everything."

Jimin watches me, the laughter slowly fading from his face, replaced by a curious and worried look. "So... it's not just teasing?" He asks, hesitantly. "Are you guys... fighting, really hurting each other? I don't understand, it's not about the role anymore, so what is it about?"

I sigh, running my hand through my hair, trying to organize my thoughts before speaking. "I can't quite explain it, Ji..." I finally admit, my voice is more sincere than I intended. "It's not just about jealousy or competition, and it's not about the role. There really is something, but I can't explain it. I feel like there's something behind it that isn't good for me, you know? Something planned... and fighting with him gives me that adrenaline, to fight against something."

Jimin lets out a sigh, somewhat understanding and somewhat admiring my sincerity. "I don't think he would do something planned, he didn't know you... But, maybe his mother? Her classes are always intense, boring. Your mother was nicer."

I roll my eyes, but shrug, trying not to show it. "Ah, right..." I say, laughing softly, but with no humor at all, when I remember the topic "mother."

Jimin nods slowly, shaking his head as if absorbing every word, trying to piece together the puzzle of my confusion. "I think this is pent-up horniness... try sleeping with him and Hoseok."

I choke on Jimin's resolution, and it's no joke. The air leaves my lungs, I feel the food stuck in my throat, my eyes welling up with tears, and in the background, I can see Jimin laughing and panicking at the same time, as he leans over the table, stretching his arms to reach my back.

"Tae! My God, swallow, breathe!" He yells, caught between panic and laughter, awkwardly patting my back. "I was joking, you don't have to die over it!"

I pound my hand on the table, trying to catch my breath, coughing like a cat choked on fur. Tears stream from the corners of my eyes, but I finally manage to breathe, panting loudly, my chest rising and falling.

"You..." I start, pointing at him, still trying to speak between coughs. "You tried to kill me, Park Jimin!" I complain, wiping my eyes, but I end up laughing in the middle of the scolding. "'Try sleeping with him and Hoseok'?" What the hell is that?

He laughs so hard that he has to lean on the table, his face already red, his whole body shaking. "Sorry, it would be easier, and honestly... You guys look at each other... beautifully. You and Hobi. This year brought you two back together, and nothing seems to have changed."

I fall silent for an instant, just looking at him. The wind rustles some leaves near the table, and everything seems to slow down suddenly.

"Nothing has changed..." I repeat, softly, as if I'm testing the phrase. "I don't know if that's true, Ji. We grew up, a lot has changed. He's not the same anymore, and neither am I. That was childhood love, you know? He's dating, and I was dating until recently. A lot has changed."

Jimin looks at me intently, and this time the laughter gives way to a gentle, almost protective gaze. "You talk about him differently, you know?" He comments, resting his chin on his hand. "Like... your tone changes. You didn't even talk about Drew like that. And it's always been like this. I've known you since I was 11, nothing has changed."

"He's like family to me... I guess."

"Ah, then be careful with that incest there," he jokes, with a mischievous smile on his face.

I end up laughing at his foolishness. "But seriously, Ji. He's been in my life forever. It's not just friendship, but I also don't know what it is. Like... he's inevitable, you know?"

"And how does that connect you to Yoongi?" he insists, curious. Jimin has these moments of psychological evaluations; they are hellish.

"Yoongi? No. You're just trying to drag me toward someone," I reply, defensively.

He raises his hands, laughing, as if swearing innocence. "Me? Never!" he says, but his smile gives everything away. "I'm just saying you talk about him very often. And usually, when you talk about someone a lot, it's because that person is annoying you... Or interesting to you. And, go on, admit it, you think his accent is sexy."

I roll my eyes, grabbing another piece of pizza. "Interesting me? Yoongi irritates me, Jimin. He makes me want to pull my hair out, and the worst part is, he seems to know it. It's like... he breathes, and I'm already ready to fight. And I hate his accent."

"Uh-huh," he murmurs, in a tone that clearly doesn't believe me. "'He breathes and I'm ready to fight' ...that sounds exactly like someone in love."

I almost choke again. "In love?" I repeat, indignant. "I just want him to stop existing."

"Oh, sure, Tae," he says, resting his chin on his hands and smiling like someone watching a soap opera. "Hate, love... same line, only the script changes."

I give a short laugh, unable to hide my embarrassment. "You say things like that and then you call me dramatic," I say, trying to keep my voice light, but I feel the heat rising in my face.

Jimin laughs softly, amused. "I'm just saying, Tae... sometimes what we feel comes disguised as anger. And you have a talent for disguising everything."

I fall silent, biting the edge of the pizza, staring into space. Yoongi confuses me, provokes me, irritates me — and maybe Jimin is right. Maybe a part of me likes it.

What hate. My life was easier with that blond son of a bitch.

Chapter Text

The lamp's light bathes the room in a warm, almost golden tone. I remain lying on Yoongi's bunk bed — the top one. I haven't told him, but, despite it being fragrant and cozy, the fear that it might fall is real for me.

He's leaning back against the headboard, slowly painting his slipper, with a calmness that doesn't even seem like him, while I lie on my back, my arm covering my eyes. We had been talking until now: demands in ballet, his witch of a mother, my warlock of a father, demands in soccer.

Two screwed-up people dating.

"Are you almost asleep?" he asks, his voice low.

"I almost am," I reply, smiling without opening my eyes. "But this noise of the brush dragging on the slipper won't let me."

He gives a little laugh, and the sound softly gets lost in the room. After that, silence sets in — comfortable, the kind we don't feel like breaking.

"I've finished now... look."

Sweetheart, I think, as I uncover my eyes and see him, I feel a little more in love. His hair is falling over his face with an almost divine delicacy, his face is pale, and his cheeks are flushed; his hands are holding his newly painted slipper in his own shade. So perfect. So mine.

"They look beautiful, honey."

Yoongi sets the slipper aside, with a satisfied smile on his face, and adjusts himself to lean against me. He always sleeps like this, listening to my heart.

"Tomorrow is going to be tiring, isn't it?"

I sigh. "It is..."

I nod, half-distracted, and run my fingers down his back. For a while, we just listen to each other's breathing. You can hear the distant sound of someone laughing in the hallway, a door slamming, and then only silence again.

"Honey..." I call out, low, almost afraid to break the mood.

"Hm?" he replies, without opening his eyes, still with his face resting on my chest.

I think two, three times before answering. "Will you let me go out for just a little bit?"

He makes a small sound, a mix of a grunt and agreement, and I take the opportunity to slide out of bed. The cold air gives me goosebumps on my arms, and his absence seems to make the room bigger — and emptier. I climb down the stairs in silence, feeling the cold floor under my feet, my heart beating too fast for what I'm about to do.

The noise of the air conditioner being on makes me pay attention to our dorm room. Everything carries some memory of him. The clothes he forgets on my bed, the open book on the table, the cup of coffee he never finishes. And it's this — this constant presence — that makes me smile even before I open the drawer.

I open the drawer and find the box. Small, dark blue velvet. I had it custom-made — with his initials engraved inside, in gold. I had planned to wait a little longer, to do something more... elaborate. But the way he smiled before falling asleep today — calm, as if the whole world fit in my chest — made me want to move everything up.

I hold the small box for a moment. It's light, but I feel as if it weighs enough to change something between us. The kind of thing that seems simple, but that can make one's heart beat irregularly for days.

I am afraid of his reaction.

Not because I think he will refuse — Yoongi is not like that — but because I know what this type of gesture means. And if he realizes how much I truly love him, maybe he'll start to get scared.

Because it is love.

I have no doubts.

Holding the rings carefully, I slowly climb the steps, trying not to make a sound. My heart races, but not out of fear — out of anticipation. I get back to the bed, and I see him lying down, leaning against the wall, his eyes half-closed, breathing slowly, as if every movement deserved attention.

"Did you fall asleep?" I ask, softly.

He raises his gaze, curious. "No."

I smile nervously and kneel in front of him, holding the object against my chest for an instant. "I wanted to show you something..."

Yoongi frowns, but his smile is small, patient. "What is it?"

I open the small box, revealing the ring shining under the dim light of the lamp. It is simple, elegant, with my initials engraved inside, in gold. Mine is right behind it, with his initials.

"I..." I start, choked up, my voice almost failing. "I thought that... maybe it was time for... us..." My words stumble, and he lets out a low, shy chuckle, his cheeks flushed. He looks away for an instant, as if he needs courage to look at me again.

"For..." he whispers, almost in reverence, his eyes shining brighter than the room light. "For us?"

I nod slowly, and the air leaves my lungs as if I had held that answer for too long.

"Yes... for us." I take a step closer, my heart beating so loudly I think he can hear it. "I need you, Yoongi. Truly. It's not just when we're together, nor when we laugh together... It's always. It's in the middle of the day, it's when I hear a song and remember your voice. When the day weighs heavily and I only think of seeing you, so everything feels lighter." I swallow hard, trying to contain the trembling. "I even miss the silence between us. I want to be by your side every second." I let out the breath, almost in a whisper. "I love you."

The silence that settles is dense, full of everything we never said. He stares at me for a time that feels like an eternity. I can see his chest quickly rising and falling, as if he is also trying to find his breath to deal with what he heard.

And then... he smiles. Small, almost shy, but enough to break all the tension in the room. His eyes are full of tenderness — and of tears he is trying to hold back.

"I love you too, Hobi..." he says, in a tone that is half laughter, half crying. "More than I can explain."

I can't hold back the emotion. I move my face close to his, our lips meeting in a soft, prolonged kiss, full of promise and warmth. He responds, fitting his face into the curve of my neck, and I feel a wave of shivers run through my entire body. A second, more intense kiss seals that moment, and his breath mixes with mine, making everything more real, more ours.

He holds out his hand slowly, and I place mine in his, holding tight. Carefully, I slide the ring onto his finger, feeling the size fit perfectly. He watches it, smiling slightly, as if the whole world has stopped for that instant, and brings his face close to mine to give me a short, sweet kiss on the mouth, his lips against mine, full of affection and emotion.

"So ours..." he murmurs, looking at his now adorned hand, and then at me, his eyes shining with pride, love, and a touch of vulnerability that leaves me breathless.

I do the same with mine, feeling a pleasant chill rise in my chest as the ring slides onto my finger. Now we are officially ours, in our own little way, and every touch, every kiss, every muffled laugh, only confirms that everything I feel for him is real, intense, and impossible to separate.

I lie back down, resting my head on his chest. Yoongi wraps his arms around me carefully, and I feel the safety I've always found in him since the first day. A smile escapes — soft, satisfied — and I close my eyes, letting the peace of the moment embrace me.

"Now no one can take us away, Hobi," he whispers, and I laugh softly, resting my face against his.

"No one indeed," I agree, certain that, for a few moments, everything is exactly where it should be. Just the two of us, quiet, connected, completely sure that this is our place in the world.

We nestled close, body against body, breathing together. I feel his warmth enveloping me, the familiar scent mixed with his cologne, and the sensation is so good that I almost want to freeze time. He carefully adjusts my hair, lightly running his fingers through it, and I bury my head in his chest, completely surrendered.

The silence between us is not empty — it's full of small things: the calm beat of his heart, his deep breath, the slight creak of the bed with every movement. Every sound seems to want to stay in my memory, as if that instant was meant to last forever.

A smile escapes me when he murmurs something incomprehensible, just for me. I laugh, squeezing his hand against my chest. There is no urgency, no rush — just us, resting, safe.

And then, slowly, tiredness takes over. I snuggle my face closer, my eyes close, and I hear Yoongi's satisfied sigh, as if saying without words: "It's all good, we're together."

And there, in that instant, I know — we are exactly where we are supposed to be.

🐋

The table is too big. The silence is too.

The smell of roasting meat, mixed with the strong seasoning, spreads through the air with the rhythmic sound of the living room clock — as if even time were afraid to speak.

My father is sitting at the end, with that controlled smile that never reaches his eyes. Beside him, and right across from me, my mother is holding his hand; her tired look reveals that she must have returned from a trip today. My godmother, Natalie Portman, is beside me, talking quietly with her husband, who is right in front of her.

A family lunch — or maybe a meeting. I can no longer tell the difference.

Taehyung didn't come. At the next meeting, he will be alone too. Only God knows what a torture it is.

I stand there, trying to look comfortable, while every word sounds as if it had been rehearsed before. My father cuts the meat with exaggerated precision; the noise of the cutlery scraping the plate is too loud. My mother talks about business, Natalie comments on something about the next project, and I just nod my head, pretending I'm listening.

"So, Hobi…” Mr. Kim breaks the silence with that tone of someone trying to be gentle, but I no longer even understand why. “How are things at school? I saw you're back as the quarterback."

"Yes…” I reply, wiping my mouth with the napkin. “It has been... a good semester."

The answer comes out too short. His gaze lingers on me too long. And suddenly, everyone seems to have stopped to observe me, waiting for me to say something more — anything that would keep the mood light. But I have nothing to offer. Just the tightness in my chest and the desire to get it over with.

I take a deep breath. I feel the weight of the room's dense air push me inward.

"Actually..." I begin, and my voice betrays me for a moment. I swallow hard, trying to hide my nervousness. "I wanted to tell you something."

The conversations die. Even the clock seems to stop. I hate the silence. I hate having their attention.

My father looks up; Taehyung's mother rests her chin on her hand, curious.

"I... am dating."

The sound of the cutlery ceases. For a few seconds, no one breathes. Then, Portman smiles — a light smile, from someone who had been waiting to hear this for a long time.

"Finally, huh?" She comments, laughing softly and messing up my hair. "It was about time."

My father slowly raises his eyes.

“Who is your girlfriend?" he asks, without emotion, just confirming if the "future of the family" remains intact.

I swallow hard.

"Boyfriend."

The air changes. The table seems smaller, the atmosphere heavier. My mother's hand freezes in the air; Taehyung's father straightens his posture, watching attentively.

My father drops his fork. The metallic sound echoes through the room.

"Let me understand..." he begins, and his voice already makes me want to vomit. "You, Jung Hoseok, are dating a boy? Which family is he from? Do you think I'm going to accept this?"

I knew it. From the moment I decided to tell him, I already knew it wouldn't end well. My father has always been predictable — rigid, too proud to deal with anything outside of what he considers "right." Even so, a part of me hoped that, this time, he would just... listen to me.

That, for an instant, he would be the father who called me "son," who hugged me when I cried, who kissed my injuries and smiled proudly at every game — even when I lost. He was there. He was my father.

Now, he is this person. 

He frightens me. 

He disgusts me. 

He angers me.

His gaze is different — cold, distant, as if he were seeing a stranger sitting at the table. He measures me, analyzes me, and concludes that I was never enough. That I was never his "son."

"I'm not asking for your acceptance," I say, low, but firm. "I'm just being honest."

"Honest?" he repeats, letting out a dry laugh. "You call this honesty? This is a disgrace, Hoseok."

The word "disgrace" falls upon the table like a sentence. My throat closes. I knew he would react badly, but hearing it out loud... It's like being punched.

"Disgrace?" Natalie interrupts, her voice firm, ready to defend me. "For God's sake, it's not a disgrace to love someone!"

Mr. Kim straightens his body, looking at my father with tense calm.

"Love has nothing to do with this, Jung..." he says, in a tone that warns: be careful what you say.

My mother raises her hand, trying to intervene.

"Please, dear…” she whispers, her voice low, hesitant. But she doesn't look at me. She only looks at him, as if pleading for calm — or for forgiveness.

And it is at that moment that I feel everything at once: pity, anger, sadness.

Pity for her — for how much she lost trying to save something that was already broken. 

Anger for him, who can never see beyond his own pride. 

Sadness for me, who is still afraid to exist in front of the two of them.

I lower my head, trying not to break down right there, in front of everyone. I feel Natalie's hands on my leg, warm and firm, holding me, protecting me, reminding me that someone is still here for me.

“It’s not because your son acts like a bitch that mine should behave like that too.” My father's voice cuts through the air, harsh, disgusting.

The ensuing silence is deafening.

I open my mouth as if trying to utter something, but nothing comes out. Nothing at all.

Natalie is faster and stands up like a lioness defending her den. She is the only one here who can attack Taehyung, and she definitely does so with precision. But only her. No one else.

"I may have my problems with Tata,” she says, pointing her finger firmly, “but I never judged him for loving. Whoever it may be."

She takes a deep breath, her gaze fixed on my father.

"And you, as his godfather, as the person who promised us you would defend him, should do the same. With him. And with your son." Her voice drops an octave, cutting. "And don't you ever talk about them... or to them, like that in front of me again."

I look at my mother, desperate, with tears in my eyes. My legs are trembling. The fear is physical. Their fights always end badly — someone always breaks something.

My godfather glares at my father as if he wants to punch him. Natalie is standing next to me, the veins in her neck bulging.

My mother... ignores me. Ignores everything. She holds my father's hands as if that would solve something, as if he cared about her.

"Hobi... let's go. I'll take you to the boarding school," Mr. Kim says, his voice slow, but without any trace of calm.

I want to protest, to say no, that I can go alone. But before I open my mouth, Natalie grabs my arm and pulls me up.

"Hoseok will stay here," My father orders.

My heart races. I swallow hard, trying to think of something that would change the course of the situation. But Kim interposes himself, blocking my father with his own body.

"Jae,” he says, firmly. “Hoseok is coming with us. Now."

Portman squeezes my arm, and I feel enough strength to lean on her. My father snarls, irritated, but backs down. Kim takes my hand and pulls me firmly out of the room. Every step is heavy, the house seems overwhelming, the corridors too long, every sound amplified in my chest.

When we reach the car, the sound of the door closing feels like a snap inside me. Kim says something to the driver — a low, firm request — and I hear the front door slam again. He drives, Natalie sits beside him, and I am in the back, alone, too small in that space.

The cold leather of the seat touches my skin, and the air seems too heavy to breathe. I feel my heart throbbing at the back of my throat; my body is empty, but at the same time, it aches everywhere, as if I had taken ten lashes — one for every word said in that room.

I stare at nothing, trying to stay quiet, trying not to break down. But the silence suffocates me. And then, without warning, the crying starts.

In the beginning, it's just a slight tremor in my breathing, a contained sound that tries to die in my throat. I feel the knot grow, rise, and suddenly the tears escape — first one, then another. They fall hot, running quickly down my face, and I don't try to wipe them away. It's as if my body had decided it can no longer hold it in.

Every memory returns with force: my father's look of disgust, the way he measured me, my mother's hand suspended in the air — frozen between fear and cowardice.

My chest contracts; the air comes in short, uneven sobs. I try to cling to my shirt, but the fabric is not enough. The tremor takes my arms, abdomen, and legs. It is a cry that comes from a deep and unknown place, where I had never known the pain was still hiding.

The tears blind me, and the car turns into just a blur. The lights outside mix with the reflection of my face on the glass — stained, weak, unrecognizable.

I hate myself for seeing myself like this, but I can't stop.

Each tear that falls carries a little of everything: pain, anger, fear, humiliation. I get scared — and only they know how to scare me. They are the boogeymen.

Natalie says something, but the sound arrives distant, muffled by the crying. She says my name, one, two, three times. She tries to calm me down, but I can't even hear properly.

The car moves forward, and the world seems to spin faster than I can keep up with. The sound of the tires on the asphalt, the engine, the broken breathing — everything blends. And I let it. I let the crying consume me entirely, without resistance, without strength, without shame for collapsing.

The car slows down. I feel when Kim touches the brake — smoothly, respectfully — as if wanting to say, without words, that he understands. Natalie looks ahead, gives a small nod.

"Stop here," she murmurs.

Kim obeys.

The car pulls over, the sound of the engine dies, and the silence returns. But now it is a different silence — the exhaustion that comes after a storm. Natalie unbuckles her seatbelt, leans back, and opens the door. The cold wind comes in, and she comes to me.

She sits beside me, slowly, taking the seatbelt from my trembling hands.

"Come here," she says softly and pulls me close.

Her touch is firm, yet gentle. My shoulders slump the instant I feel the warmth of the hug. The smell of her perfume — woody, familiar — mixes with the salt of my tears. I bury my face in her shoulder and let my body do the rest.

A sob comes out strong, deep, almost a moan. It is ugly, uncontrolled, but true.

"It's okay, Hobi... It's all okay," she repeats, like a mantra, stroking my back, guiding my breathing. "No one is going to hurt you now. We are here, do you hear?"

Her words slowly infiltrate me, like water entering through cracks. 

The crying gradually loses strength, turning into just a tremor and exhaustion. Every muscle begins to yield, one by one, as if my body were finally accepting a truce. She doesn't rush me. She doesn't tell me to stop. She just holds me.

"That's... coming out," she whispers, her fingers gliding through my hair, with a tenderness that almost hurts. "Breathe, Hobi. He's not here anymore."

I take a deep breath. The air comes in, goes out, comes in again. It takes a while to realize that I am no longer sobbing.

There are still tears, warm and persistent, flowing silently.

When I open my eyes, she looks at me with a tired smile, but full of affection. "Let's keep going. Everything will be okay. Your Godfather and I are here with you."

Kim starts the car, and the sound of the engine, now, just sounds like... sound. It's no longer a threat.

I lean my head against the seat, still trembling, but less heavy. Natalie keeps one hand on my back, the other intertwined with mine. 

I look out the window. The world outside is still blurry — from the tears, from the exhaustion, from the shock. 

I am still disassembled, emptied. But, for the first time since I left home, I feel like I can breathe without fear of collapsing. Perhaps because I have already cried everything I could.

The car cuts through the silence of the road, and with every kilometer it seems to take a little of the weight with it, without removing it completely. 

I curl up further in the seat, hiding in my godmother's arm. 

I wonder if it's still far from the school. If my face swells. If anyone will notice. I don't want them to see me like this. I just want to arrive, hide, and pretend that everything is fine.

I try to organize my thoughts, but they are jumbled. It's hard to believe that I just left all that behind, that I walked out of there without exploding, without screaming, without running. It's a strange feeling: a slight relief mixed with the weight of having been emotionally crushed. 

Just breathe, Hoseok. Just breathe. I obey, letting each muscle relax slowly, one by one. 

The landscape changes, low buildings, more spaced-out trees, familiar streets. The boarding school approaches, and with it comes the awareness that there are still challenges ahead, people watching me, perhaps judging. I don't want Yoongi to see me like this. I don't want to scare him.

The car slows down, turns into the school entrance. The iron gates open, and the empty courtyard stretches out ahead. The air feels cleaner there. I feel a small relief rise in my chest, even knowing that the boarding school routine still demands strength, appearance, and a game of masks. 

"We're here," Natalie says, and I just nod, still somewhat unable to speak. 

She helps me out of the car, firm yet gentle. The breeze hits my face, mixing the cold with the smell of earth and freshly cut grass. It feels more like home than the place where I grew up.

Kim gets out of the car too, closing the door carefully. He watches me with that firm, yet affectionate look. He approaches slowly, as if wanting to make sure I'm okay, and lightly touches my shoulder. 

"Hobi…” he says, his voice calm now, different from the tension before. “Who is the lucky one? 

I feel a knot in my stomach, and I hesitate for a moment. His name still feels heavy in my mouth. But I can't lie now, not after everything that happened.

"It’s... Yoongi,” I answer, my voice a little shaky, mixing apprehension and the start of relief. I'm afraid they won't like it, that one of their expressions will change, or hearing anything that sounds like disapproval. 

But Natalie just laughs softly, as if she had been provoking me all day just to see me give in now. 

"So I defended you for nothing, huh?" She jokes, lightly nudging my arm.

Mr. Kim laughs too, sincerely, the sound filling the cold morning air. And, for an instant, everything seems simple again — as if nothing needed to be explained, as if loving someone wasn't a problem. 

The mood changes immediately. Natalie's laugh breaks the weight I was still carrying on my shoulders, and I even manage a small but genuine smile. Kim laughs too, lightly, as if he were feeling the same. 

"Well... then you made a good choice," he says, pulling me into a tight, warm, loving hug. I feel my shoulders relax just a little; the tightness in my chest lessens. The hug is safe, strong, and different from everything I've felt in the last few hours. There is no judgment, no suffocating expectation, just affection and acceptance. I can feel his protection all around me.

"I love you, Hobi. I promised to take care of you, and I will die taking care of you, OK?" 

I close my eyes. The knot in my throat returns, but this time it's the knot of relief. I hold his jacket tightly, like when I was a child and was afraid of the dark. 

"I know…” I murmur. “Thank you, godfather."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands still on my shoulders, his gaze firm but full of tenderness. 

"Now go on, kid. You still have to scrape that knee a lot." 

I nod, trying to absorb the strength of his words, feeling a small part of the weight leave my shoulders. The hug is etched onto my skin, my chest, my mind.

Natalie holds my arm firmly, but without rushing, and we walk towards the boarding school. The cold wind hits my face, and my body is still warm, but not from comfort. 

"So…” Natalie begins, with that mischievous smile that always manages to get a laugh out of me, “tell me: how did you and Min meet?" 

I feel my body relax another step. The weight doesn't completely disappear, but now there is curiosity, a touch of lightness mixed with the day's tension. I take a deep breath and start to speak, feeling that, finally, I can live and show myself without the immediate fear now.

Chapter Text

Time until La Maison du Cygne Noir: 8 months, 3 weeks, and four days.

The piano plays softly, in a slow tempo, and I groan internally — not for anyone, just a dull lament that gets stuck in my chest. It's not that I don't want to be here, but the hours of repetition are excessive, and my head insists on wandering. My foot, by the way, is throbbing with pain.

My mother is in front of me, as always: a ballerina's body, a teacher's voice. She dances with me, guiding my movements with long, precise hands. Her fingers outline corrections in the air like someone casting a spell — which is ironic, since she truly is quite a witch.

The steps come out automatically — turns, extensions, counted breaths — and I follow because my body knows the way. Still, the white light from the ceiling seems too cold, the sound of the cut air offends my ears; everything distracts me today.

In the back, Taehyung is sitting on a mat, quieter than usual. His body is curved inward, his hands clasped in his lap, awaiting his own lesson while observing mine with extreme attention. He doesn't speak; he just watches, and sometimes I feel like his gaze crosses the entire room until it collides with me. I wonder how much he misses this dance — this act.

My mother stops, points out some detail — the angle of my arm, the tension in my shoulder — and speaks softly, with that voice that instructs and commands at the same time. I obey. She has a habit of correcting without rushing, like someone who trusts that the correction will stick. And perhaps that is the only thing she trusts.

The dance is interrupted by a soft knock on the door. For a second, I feel like I can relax, stop feeling my muscles contract. The smell of expensive perfume arrives before the person, preparing the environment for a more respectful reception. The more expensive, the more respect.

Since yesterday, all I can think about is the ring Hobi gave me — and, for my own good, I prefer not to know how much it costs.

The door opens slowly, and the sound of heels echoes through the studio even before I see her face. Portman enters with the posture of someone who knows the effect she has — elegant, confident, but carrying that rigid energy that puts me on alert.

My mother leans slightly in greeting, with a short but respectful smile. Natalie responds with a quick, precise nod, without needing words.

Taehyung slowly gets up upon seeing his mother, but he doesn't smile or extend his arms. His gaze remains downcast, vacant, fixed on his mother — and for an instant I feel that we are trapped in the same line of upbringing, in the same silent disturbance.

Natalie calls him with her fingers and by the nickname "Tata." It is cute; it doesn't suit him. His steps towards her are short, timid, as if they were afraid. I watch the scene carefully. It's curious to see other families; I wonder what their bond with Hoseok's family must be like. From what I understand, they are close; they live together.

"How are you, son?" she asks, with a sweet voice.

Taehyung doesn't answer; he just hugs her. It is as if he needs this moment, this affection, and she is offering it. It must be a thin line, since both personalities are strong. She must demand a lot, he must demand a lot of himself, but somehow, love fits in between.

It makes me jealous.

"We're having dinner together today, your father is outside... if Moore agrees, you can cancel the rehearsal."

Tae lets out a low sigh and nods with a minimal smile on his face, still hugging her, while my mother reaches the door, holding the schedule. She makes a subtle gesture, releasing him, and he slowly moves away, almost dragging his feet, but maintaining the posture he always tries to show. I stand there, watching, feeling the room slowly empty, the sound of the piano fading as his body disappears down the hall.

"Thank you," Portman thanks my mother gently, with a smile on her face. "May I speak with your son for a second?"

My mother gives a slight nod, discreet, yet authoritative enough for Natalie to understand.

"Of course," she replies, her voice calm, almost a whisper. "Feel free."

I stand still, my arms crossed behind my back, feeling every thought that passes through my mind. Natalie maintains a firm but welcoming gaze, like someone who carries authority without needing to use it. What does she want with me?

I feel every beat of my heart, every tense muscle, as if my breath also needed permission to continue.

Natalie walks until she is in front of me, without rushing, and lightly places her hands on mine, almost as an invitation for me not to close myself off.

"Min…” she begins, and her voice is firm, but full of care, “first of all, you’ve been dancing really well! I saw some recordings, and I love my son, but you are good. Very good."

Huh?

"Thank you… I've been working hard." I pause, or we pause, since she continues to stare at me, as if she wants to know more. "Taehyung, despite being temperamental, teaches well. He has helped me a lot."

She pauses, like someone choosing each word carefully, her eyes still fixed on mine.

"That's good! You must have already understood, he gets hurt very easily... You know, like a frog when it comes into contact with salt?"

Her analogy makes us roar with laughter. I didn't expect that humor from her.

Natalie waits for the laughter to die down, unhurried, letting the silence fill the room for a few seconds. Then, her tone changes, becoming more serious, but still welcoming.

"And Hoseok... he told me. I was very happy. You make a handsome couple."

Her smile is calm, but it carries weight — as if every word held care and expectation at the same time. I feel a chill in my chest, a mixture of relief and responsibility. I don't know how close they are; in fact, I know little about this family. She observes me, analyzing my reaction, and there is something in the way she holds my hands that makes me want to reciprocate her trust.

"But… Yoongi," she begins, her voice firmer now. "You need to understand Hoseok. He is incredible, patient, sweet... but when an emotion explodes, it really explodes. If he feels anger, he gets into a fight. If he feels he needs to protect someone, he fights. If someone he loves shows opposition, he gets upset. It's not something that passes quickly, and it's not easy to deal with."

The air in the studio suddenly weighs heavily, in a way that tightens my chest. Every beat of my heart seems to hammer in my throat, every muscle becomes tense, as if ready for anything — or for nothing. I silently promise that I will measure up... but to what, exactly?

"Don't let him push you away during those moments, or retreat into silence... and understand that it doesn't involve you. OK? Take care of him. He won't ask for help, maybe he won't even let you help, but be there..."

The words hang in the air, firm and unsettling. I want to understand, but I can't. I want to be ready, but I don't know how. The feeling of helplessness ties a knot in my throat. What if I fail? What if he decides he doesn't need me? Will he leave me? I want to understand.

She observes me, and there is no judgment, only attention. But this doesn't alleviate the pressure. The silence that settles after is almost more suffocating than any criticism. My body trembles, but I don't know if it's anger, fear, or worry. Perhaps it's all together.

Natalie takes a step back, softening her tone, and a small smile appears, brief, almost shy.

"Thank you for listening, Yoongi. I just wanted to make sure you understand... It's important."

I stand motionless, my mind spinning, trying to fit every word into some safe corner of my consciousness, but the confusion only increases.

"Thank you for telling me…” is all I manage to reply.

But I desire to open a book of his life right now and skip to this page. To understand where what she is trying to tell me begins. To find out what, exactly, I should be ready to face.

Natalie stares at me for another instant, as if reading my thoughts, and then lets out a light sigh.

"You will understand with time," she says, adjusting her purse on her shoulder, with that tone of someone who already knows the end of the story. "And, when you understand, you will know what to do."

She says goodbye with a brief smile, and the sound of her heels echoes through the empty studio. I stare at the door for a few seconds, until the silence imposes itself again. The pain in my foot throbs once more, the air seems too heavy, and all that remains is the doubt pulsing in my head.

Should I start worrying now?

🐋

I walk to the most isolated corner of the campus: a small walled garden near the greenhouse. I sit on a cold, uncomfortable iron bench, which seems to want to push anyone away. The afternoon air is cooler here, and I try to use it to clear the weight of Natalie's words. My body is still tense, a rope pulled too tight. The pain in my foot throbs, but I manage to ignore it as I fix my gaze on a rosebush that seems to be struggling to bloom out of season.

"When an emotion of his explodes, it really explodes." Her warning echoes, and I feel that familiar cold in my stomach, the same one that has accompanied me since childhood.

It’s the kind of memory that has no date, only feeling. The smell of strong alcohol and my mother's ripped scream mingle. I am small, too small, maybe about seven years old. I am hiding behind the door, watching, hoping they don't notice me.

I vaguely remember my father. He is never still; he is always a blur of fury. His voice is thunder, but not in a high pitch — it is a constant growl that makes the furniture tremble, like an earthquake.

The sound of breaking glass. My mother, desperate, tries to gather the pieces on the kitchen floor. She doesn't cry, she begs. Her knees are bruised, and her arms are always covering her face.

I can't move. I am paralyzed, a deep, childish fear holding me in place. The father. The explosion. His body, large and violent, which I don't understand, but feel the danger. My only job was to be invisible, not to make noise, not to exist so that he wouldn't look at me.

The mother grabs me instantly. Her embrace is too tight, her perfume is strong. She pushes me into a dark corner in the closet and whispers, the words coming out choked, terrified: "Quiet, Yoon. You didn't see anything. Don't say anything, ever."

In a few moments of my life, she was a mother, but always during the worst ones. She was afraid he would assault me, and when that happened, she fled with me. We went far away, to the other side of Russia, and started over and over. And now, once more.

That's how love looked my entire life: a hiding place, afraid of being discovered.

The memory hits me like a punch to the stomach. That's why Natalie's warning is so frightening. I know the explosion; I see the fury. And I don't know how not to run away. I only know how to cower.

I close my eyes tightly. The tears don't come, but my throat tightens again. I hate being so vulnerable. I hate being afraid of a Hoseok I've never seen — the Hoseok who, according to Natalie, fights and explodes. I don't know how to handle fights that don't end with the silence of the hiding place.

I remember when he punched Drew... the fear of that moment. The feeling that he was going away, the blood running down both their faces. It made me nauseous.

"Yoongi? What are you doing here alone?"

His voice. Strong, warm, familiar, it breaks the cold mist of memory. I open my eyes. Hoseok is there, standing at the edge of the garden, his hair messy. He looks at me with immediate concern. The ring he gave me shines faintly on my finger.

He is the opposite of my father, but what if the fury is the same?

"Hi, Hobi,” I answer, trying to sound normal, but my voice wavers a bit. “Just... getting some air. Ballet class was long."

He nods, but doesn't move closer, which is strange. Hoseok usually runs to hug me. He drags himself to the iron bench and sits a considerable distance away, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His body doesn't have its usual shine; it looks heavy. He takes a deep breath, releasing the air in a controlled, almost forced way.

His silence is a loud sound to me. Hoseok, the boy who fills any room, now just takes up space.

"What's wrong?" I ask, hesitant. The knot in my throat tightens. Could this be the "retreat into silence" that Natalie warned about? "Is everything okay?"

He hesitates, taking too long to answer. I watch him closely, looking for the slightest sign of anger or breakdown. His eyes are deep-set and have a subtle red glow. His face, usually expressive, is dull.

"Yes." His voice is low, dry. "Just... tired. The day was crap."

He doesn't look at me when he says that. My heart starts hammering. It doesn't involve you. Natalie's words repeat themselves. I want to reach out, but I don't know how to be the safe harbor that doesn't run away.

"Do you want to tell me?" I ask, softly.

He shakes his head, a short, definitive movement.

"No. Not now. It's too much."

He fumbles in his jacket pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it with a dry click of the lighter, the sound echoing in the quiet garden. He inhales the smoke deeply, releasing it in a gray cloud. The smell of tobacco replaces his usual sweet perfume.

He smokes in silence for an instant, the smoke rising slowly and getting lost in the rosebush leaves. I feel his tension ease slightly, a superficial relaxation. He offers me the cigarette, and I take it, taking a short drag, feeling the familiar burn in my throat. It is our silent way of coping.

As we exchange cigarettes, Hoseok finally notices me for real. He sees how much I am hunched and tense. He moves on the bench, sliding closer. The warmth of his body hits me, but I don't relax.

Without saying a word, he pulls me by the arm and tucks me under his shoulder, his head leaning against mine. It's not an embrace of affection; it's an embrace of necessity, from someone seeking weight and presence.

I close my eyes, his face brushing against my hair. There is no smile, no promise, no usual light. There is only the weight of his body, the smell of smoke, and the silent confession that he needs me, even when he is broken.

I hold him tightly, my hand on his waist, still trembling, but responding to the touch. The explosion did not come, but the fear that it will arrive remains there, between the smoke and the warmth of our bodies. It is a rest, not a cure.

He pulls away slightly, but still keeps his forehead resting against mine. His gaze, which was empty before, now carries a dark determination, something I detest.

"I need to ask you something," he says. "Something serious."

I swallow hard. Here it comes.

"What is it?"

"If you see my father or my mother here on campus…” He hesitates, and the tension returns to tighten his jaw. “No, if you see my father, Jae, don't go near him. Don't talk to him. Don't look at him."

I stare at him, confused and scared.

"Why? What happened?"

Hoseok shakes his head.

"It doesn't matter what happened. All that matters is that he can't know who you are. He doesn't know you. You don't exist to him. If he approaches you, you step away and look for me or Meryl... or even Taehyung. Do you understand?"

The weight of his words hits me. He is not excluding me out of malice; he is protecting me from something he just faced and that broke him. The trauma of my childhood returns, the feeling that the external world is violent and must be avoided at all costs.

"Okay…” I reply, feeling the knot in my throat. “But... are you going to tell me what it is one day?"

"One day... But for now, just... stay away from my family. Especially my father."

He doesn't say anything else. He just holds me, and I allow it. I am his hiding place, and he is my promise that not all chaos ends in abandonment.

At least, I hope it doesn't.

🐋

We left the garden without a single word. The silence was heavy, different from the cold silence before; it was a silence of shared exhaustion, of those fleeing a war that wasn't fought there. Hoseok was still connected to me, his fingers intertwined with mine like a support. The touch of his body was an anchor that prevented me from giving in to the panic that was still hammering in my mind.

Hoseok closes the door with a soft click and finally pulls away. He is in the middle of the room, looking around as if trying to remember where he is. He takes off his jacket, dropping it on the floor with a loud thump.

His eyes look for me. There is no desire there, nor the usual joy. There is only a raw, desperate need to be seen and to be touched in a way that is real, that brings him back.

He comes to me, and I take the first step. My hands go to his face, my thumbs brushing his cheeks. The touch is a silent plea: Show me it's not fury. Show me it won't hurt.

Hoseok closes his eyes under my touch and lets out a long sigh, which sounds like a moan to me. He leans forward, burying his face in the crook of my neck, and breathes in deeply, seeking my scent.

His gestures are calm, and I can't distinguish if it's desire, will, need, or if it's all together.

He guides me, his hands intertwined around my waist, to the nearest dresser. I feel my back hit the wood at the same time his hand reaches my neck, pulling me into a kiss charged with sensations, a kiss that imprisons.

I focus on his physicality: the smell of his skin, the texture of his hair under my fingers, his weight on my chest. I need him to cover me, to be big, but to be gentle. For him to defend me, but for it to be something meant for me, and not for the one who inflicted the pain on me.

I grab his arms, feeling the tense muscles, and hug him with all my strength, wanting to absorb the pain he is carrying. The act itself is fast, almost rushed, driven by the urgency of feeling real, of feeling united to something that is not chaos.

I watch him kneel in front of me. His eyes, hungry and focused, silently implore me. He kisses every exposed piece of my body now — I don't remember when that happened. The touch is warm and desperate. It is a worship of presence.

I feel his face buried between my legs, his eyes full of exposed tears, desperate to get out. Every touch, every movement drives me crazy. I feel my legs tremble enough to make me collapse, but he doesn't let me fall. He holds me, gives me the necessary support.

I clutch his hair hard enough to pull it out, his strands in my hand. His gaze rises to meet mine, his mouth full, the vibration that insists on coming from his throat, like an engine. I collapse quickly, opening my mouth with a faint moan as I feel his tongue wandering over my entire length, not leaving a single drop of the liquid that flows.

I've never come so fast, how embarrassing.

As soon as I manage to look back down at him, I do. And, my God, he looks divine. His chest heaves up and down, now naked too — lord, when did we get naked? —, his sweaty hair pushed back, leaving his forehead exposed, his mouth dirty, white. The tears that fell give his face a slightly more tired look. I want to die in this moment, I want to be petrified here and now, to never stop seeing this.

Hoseok remains kneeling before me, breathing heavily. The room seems to spin in a dense silence, where only the sound of our bodies trying to keep up with each other can be heard. He rests his forehead on my abdomen, his fingers still firm on my legs, and I run my hand through his hair, in a gesture that is more comfort than desire.

"Damn it…” he says, gasping.

His voice sounds hoarse, almost wounded. For a moment, he remains there, breathing against my skin, until he finally stands up, slightly shaky. The yellowish light of the lamp highlights the sweat on his body, his chest rising and falling at an irregular rhythm.

I wish I could have children with him.

I watch him in silence — his heavy gaze, his lost air, the way he avoids looking at me for a few seconds. It is then that I realize, by his state, that the tension wasn't just mine. He also came.

I'm not the only fast one here.

Neither of us says anything. There is a strange kind of relief in the air, mixed with tiredness, confusion, shame, and something that feels like... tenderness. Hoseok runs his hands over his face, messes up his own hair, and lets out a low laugh, without joy, just exhaustion.

"That was too much," he murmurs, in a tone that I don't know if is an apology or a realization.

I just nod, still voiceless. I feel my heart pulsing at the same rhythm as his breath. And, for an instant, there is no guilt, no name for this — just two bodies trying to love each other within a somewhat chaotic context.

"Shower?" I suggest the word coming out hoarse.

He looks at me, surprised now, perhaps with a remnant of that calmness and joy that always emerges from him.

"You? Wanting to take a shower?" He teases, raising an eyebrow. The smile that emerges is beautiful, almost shy, but real.

I roll my eyes, unable to stop a weak laugh. "Don't start."

He takes a step back, and the distance between us seems more bearable now. Hoseok's body is still relaxed in a way I haven't seen today, in his usual way. He looks... human again.

"Okay," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "But only if it's with me." The tone is light, playful, but there is a beautiful tiredness underneath, a desire to stay close, to cling to me until a medical intervention is required.

Hobi smiles, that small smile that doesn't quite light up his whole face, but is enough to mess me up. He takes one step, then another, until the distance dissolves again.

When he rests his forehead against mine, everything seems to slow down — his breathing, the chaos, even the sound of the strong wind outside. The kiss comes slowly, almost hesitantly, and it is different from any other before. There is no rush, no hunger. It is just warmth, love, and care.

His hands go up to my face, and I let them. There is no more fear. Only a strange rest, a weariness that finally finds a place to lie down.

When we pull apart, he is still smiling, and his gaze looks light, clean, as if the world had stopped hurting for a few seconds.

"Now we can go," he whispers.

And I let him pull me by the hand to the bathroom, the steam mixing with the soft sound of laughter that escapes, small and sincere, before the rest of the night unravels.

Chapter Text

We are in a charming, discreet restaurant that looks more like a country house dining room. The exposed brick walls and the yellowish light create a calm, comfortable atmosphere — and I try, somehow, to let this tranquility reach me too.

I am sitting beside my father, his arm resting lightly on my back — a simple gesture, but one that grounds me in the present. He talks about the next business trip to Switzerland, comments about taking my mother along, and I just listen, nodding and smiling now and then. Their voices sound normal, familiar; it's the sound of family being... family. And just that seems to relieve some of the weight I've been carrying.

I hold the wine glass, and the cold touch of the crystal wakes me up a little. The conversation remains superficial, revolving only around simple things — and I silently thank them for that.

"Ah, by the way, son…” my mother interrupts the conversation about trips, her voice soft, but with that way of someone about to touch on a subject no one wants to touch. She adjusts the napkin on her lap, as if that made everything lighter. “Your father and I heard about Drew and... Fiona. Your grandmother mentioned it."

I shrug, not making much effort to hide the boredom. The risotto on my plate — my favorite — suddenly seems like just a bland pile of rice.

"Yes, we broke up. It's been a while," I answer, simply, without drama, like someone commenting on the weather.

"Are you okay with that?" my father asks, his thumb drawing a calm circle on the back of my neck, as if wanting to make sure the question didn't hurt.

"I'm fine," I answer, without hesitation. "Drew was... too much. And what we had, too little. He wasn't the right person. I needed to breathe a little."

My mother nods, seeming satisfied with the honesty. "Finally making some mature decisions, Tata, even if it hurts."

I smile, with a thread of pride creeping in. Their approval always moves my world. Lately, I confess, I've been waiting for this more than anything else — and the wait turns my mind into a rough, uncomfortable place.

The mood gradually settles, and I lean my head against my father's shoulder, feeling his firmness. But I know the storm hasn't passed yet — it's just taking a break.

"And the Black Swan?" My mother asks, and her voice slides back into the "teacher" tone. She stares at me, and her gaze has a weight that turns my stomach. "Moore called me to talk about you. You're training to compete, right? Your last year."

My father's arm moves away slightly, and I feel the heat rise, spreading heavy blood across my face. The word "last" falls in the air like a sentence, firm and implacable. I try to pull in air, but my breath fails, and my throat seems to close up from the inside. My eyes sting, and I realize, in a way that hurts, that maybe I will never truly be able to make my mother proud the way I want to — and this realization leaves me small, broken silent.

"No, Mother," I whisper, and my voice breaks right on the first syllable. "I gave up. I don't want the role anymore."

Her hand falls onto the table with a dry sound, the napkin slides to the floor as if wanting to escape the weight hanging between us. For a fraction of a second — just one — I see in her eyes exactly what I always fear: that cold mix of surprise and disappointment, the kind of look that dismantles any defense I have.

The tears come before I can contain them. They stream down hot, fast, without making a sound, but carrying everything I don't say. It's a small cry on the outside, but inside me it sounds like a collapse. I ruined everything. And, once again, I wasn't enough.

But, suddenly, something changes.

My mother closes her eyes for an instant, takes a deep breath, as if she were carrying an invisible weight that she finally decides to release. When she opens them again, the look that was previously crushing me with disappointment transforms. There is a strange pain there, mixed with a tenderness that almost makes me want to pull back and shrink into her arms. It is confusing, disconcerting, but somehow... less cutting.

"Oh, Tae..." she says, and her voice comes out trembling, tired. The hand that reaches out to me is not to correct me, it is to hold me, to calm me, as if trying to prevent me from sinking. "I'm sorry. I put so much on you, so much of my own youth, that sometimes I forget you are just my son. That you don't have to live everything I lived."

The relief comes so suddenly that it seems to hurt. It's as if something stuck in my chest finally breaks — and, for a second, I don't know if I'll be able to breathe. A small, clumsy sob escapes, but it is all that remains of the tension that was tearing me apart inside.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I say, my voice failing in the middle. "I'm sorry for not being what you planned for me." The words come out heavy, soaked with guilt, each one carrying a request for forgiveness for everything I could never be.

"No, Taehyung," she murmurs, and her voice comes warm, firm, like a blanket placed over me. "You are what I raised. You are enough." She squeezes my hand, and the gesture is worth more than any apology. "I still feel like you will dance the Swan, Tata. But only when the time is right. When it is for you... and not for me."

My father smiles — and it's the first time tonight that his smile seems real, without the pressure of trying to keep the mood light. He reaches his arm across the table and covers our intertwined hands with his, in a simple gesture, but full of calm, as if wanting to seal some invisible truce between the three of us.

"It's just the pressure, son," he says, his voice low, serene. "Jae is going crazy, and we end up forgetting to breathe together." He squeezes our hands a little more. "But we are here, Taetae. For you. Always."

I smile, feeling the shame slowly dissolve, like sugar in hot water. For the first time since I entered that restaurant, something inside me settles — a kind of shy, but real peace, slowly embracing me.

"I love you," I say, without thinking much, letting the words fall the way they come.

My mother smiles back and dries my tears with the corner of the napkin, in a small gesture, but full of tenderness. The air around us changes, lighter, more breathable.

"I know you do, dear," she replies, and, for the first time in a long time, I believe her.

"Now, let's be honest," my father begins, with that playful tone that always appears when he wants to break the mood, "I always hated that jerk Starkey." He shakes his head, feigning indignation. "I never liked your dating. I lied the whole time."

I laugh, a little surprised, but relieved. It's strange to hear my father admit that so directly, and yet it makes me feel light, as if a part of the pressure I was carrying has vanished.

“Really?” I manage to laugh, shaking my head. “And I thought you were going to pretend to support it until the end of the world.”

My mother lightly taps the table, tenderness in her eyes, but her voice is pure feigned indignation.

“Oh, Tata, it's not that!” she complains, dramatizing. “I tried to be the mature mother, I swear! But that boy was unbearable. He always talked about soccer as if he were an expert, and he had that blonde hair... He never looked like he had just taken a shower.”

I laugh out loud, high and sincere, and the sound explodes in the air, finally breaking any residual weight. My father laughs along, and my mother smiles victoriously, finally released to trash my ex. I start thinking: how long have they wanted to do this? And I feel a little embarrassed. How awkward.

"And those colored socks?" My father joins the joke. "By God, I was afraid of running into him in the hallway!"

Shaking my head, I wipe away the last tears that mix relief and laughter. I feel a comfortable warmth in my chest. It is good to know that they are on my side, even when I make mistakes, even with bad choices. That their love doesn't depend on trophies or boyfriends.

The conversation dissolves into silly stories, easy laughter, and I return to savoring my risotto — now tasting like my favorite. I look at my mother, who returns a smile full of simple and genuine pride.

I am safe. I am loved. And, for this night, that is more than enough.

🐋

Jin and Jimin's dorm smells like incense — the kind that promises to ward off bad energy (meaning I should leave) — and expensive perfume, which means we are back in organized chaos. Jin's immense double bed — a semi-illegal conquest on campus — welcomes all of us.

I'm sprawled out, my head resting against the headboard, wearing a Victoria's Secret pajama that is killing me with heat, but also makes me feel the moment, the best. Jin, for his part, is wearing a hoodie that is obviously Namjoon's, which is even more obvious with his boyfriend lying on his lap, receiving affection on his hair. The scene is so sweet it almost makes me a little jealous — he looks like an angel while the world burns around him.

And the fire, in this case, is Jimin.

He is in total crisis mode, sitting bolt upright, hugging the pillow so tightly that he looks about to suffocate the poor object.

"But what if I do something wrong? Like... forget how to kiss?" Jimin asks the ceiling, his voice thin and anxious.

"You're going to do something wrong, Ji," Jin says, without taking his eyes off him. "You're going to forget how to kiss. You're going to think it's weird. And that's okay."

"And is it going to be horrible?" Jimin asks, his eyes wide.

"It's not going to be horrible," I interject, turning my head to face him. "It's going to be awkward. It's going to be fast. And it's going to be the best worst thing of your life."

Namjoon laughs — a deep, comforting sound, as if he were ready to calm our dramas. He sits with his back resting against his boyfriend and observes everything with that absurd patience he has with the world. He is completely at ease, which only proves he lives on another level of calm.

"Tae is right. The important thing is Jungkook," Namjoon says, with his usual serenity. "He's my best friend, you can trust him. And, honestly, he's more scared than you. You can be sure of that."

"Is he scared?" Jimin thinks about it, his forehead furrowed.

"Yes. Because he’s obsessed with you, Jimin." Namjoon smiles faintly. "He really likes you. He just wants it to be good for you. If you ask him to stop, he will stop. No drama, no questions."

Namjoon's comfort hits the mark. Jimin relaxes a bit, sinking into the cushions, and releases the pillow.

For a second, I think it would have been good to have someone like that for my first time too — someone calm, who would say it's okay to be scared. But there wasn't. Just me and Jimin, two virgins trying to understand what was supposed to happen, too nervous to call it anything other than crap.

"He said he's going to bring me ice cream for afterwards," Jimin murmurs, as if the simple fact of saying it out loud makes it more real. There's a nervous little smile on his lips, the kind of smile that disappears too quickly, as if ashamed to exist.

But the brief relief evaporates when we hear noise at the door. Jimin's body tenses up immediately — his shoulders lock, his breath catches, and the pillow returns to his arms as if it were a shield against his own destiny. I can almost hear his heart beating, fast and uneven, and for a second, I feel like laughing just to break the mood. But I can't. He looks like he's about to explode.

"Oh God... he's here," he whispers, his eyes wide. "I'm not ready. I'm going to faint."

"You're not going to faint, you're going to breathe," I say, rolling over to him and pulling the pillow out of his death grip. "And you're going to stop thinking so much. It's just Jungkook, not the apocalypse."

He shakes his head, trembling. "But what if he..."

"What if he what?" I interrupt, holding his face in my hands. "Jimin, no one is going to hurt you. And you don't have to do anything today. Or tomorrow. Or ever, if you don't want to. Do you understand?"

He stares at me — his eyes huge, trembling between fear and a hint of hope that seems to beg for someone to tell him what to do. For an instant, I see the old Jimin, the boy who stumbled on stage and laughed about it, who believed that love was just beautiful choreography. Now, he is there, small and terrified, and I realize that someone needs to remind him to breathe.

Then, before the panic takes over again, I lean in and press my lips to his — a quick, almost fraternal peck, but firm enough to ground him in the present. The touch is light, but it says everything I don't have the patience to say with words: it's going to be okay, you idiot. When I pull away, his eyes are still closed, as if the world had stopped for a second.

"It’s going to be okay," I murmur, still close. "I promise."

Namjoon gets up slowly, adjusting his clothes before walking to the door. The sound of the doorknob turning seems to echo throughout the entire room — an almost comical suspense, if it weren't so real. When the door opens, there is Jungkook: standing on the rug, his hair messy, his hoodie crumpled, and his hands shoved in his pockets, as if they were there to hold back his nervousness.

He looks like the portrait of panic disguised as calm — his large eyes trying to look confident, but wavering when he sees Jimin. The air between them changes instantly. It's tense, yet sweet, as if the whole world had gone into slow motion. Neither of them says anything. They just look at each other. A short, silent gaze, but full of expectation, fear, and something that looks almost like faith.

"Good luck," Jin whispers, getting up with the caution of someone who doesn't want to break the spell of the moment. He pulls me by the hand, his little smile is mocking, the kind that says "I've seen this before." I roll my eyes, but I let him drag me away, because it's impossible to argue with Jin when he gets into "older brother" mode.

I follow behind, pushing Jin and Namjoon out before the silence gets too awkward. I close the door carefully — and, before it clicks shut, I hear Jimin take a deep breath, like someone preparing for a jump.

The hallway is plunged into that nighttime gloom, and the muffled sound from the other dorms makes everything feel more intimate. Jin walks ahead, still chuckling softly, while Namjoon puts his arm around his shoulders in an automatic gesture — the two look like they walked straight out of a college romance commercial.

I, on the other hand, just think about how we just left a virgin and a lovesick idiot locked in a room with a box of ice cream and enough anxiety to power a city.

"This is going to be a mess," I murmur, shoving my hands into my pajama pockets.

"Or it's going to be beautiful," Jin retorts, completely optimistic. "It depends on the lighting and the soundtrack."

I roll my eyes. "You are unbearable."

"And you are dramatic," he replies, tilting his chin up, and Namjoon laughs, that deep, calm laugh that seems to put the world back on its axis.

For an instant, I let my head fall back, exhausted, but with an almost involuntary smile. It's good to have this mess back. Even if half of it makes me anxious.

🐋

The studio smells of floor wax and reheated coffee, the kind of aroma that makes me want to run away and stay at the same time. The light is hospital white and spreads across the polished floor, illuminating the space where Yoongi and I are about to dance. Moore watches from the side, arms crossed, her gaze clinical and impersonal.

He is in the center, finishing his warm-up, and his tranquility is absurd — which, of course, irritates me. His legs are always too exposed, outlined under the short, black fabric, as if he knows he should show them off. His shirt is too tight (like mine), and his hair is tied back in a loose bun that looks calculatedly careless. His serenity is a silent provocation, a calm that gives me an uncontrollable urge to cause an earthquake.

"Ready?" I ask, stretching my arms and cracking my neck.

Yoongi just nods, his eyes meeting mine for a quick second before returning to his reflection in the mirror. The music begins, the prelude to the Black Swan, dense, elegant, almost arrogant. Perfect for us.

I walk, my body in total control, each step meticulously planned so it doesn't seem like too much, but so they know I am too much. The distance between us is almost rehearsed — him in the center, me circling, using the turn to evaluate his every move.

He extends his hand to the side, and I see the tension.

"The shoulder," I say, breaking the silence, and move closer to adjust it. I walk my fingers over his tense muscle, feeling the rigidity of his body under the thin fabric of his shirt. The proximity is immediate and electric.

Yoongi does not pull back. He just tilts his chin, and his gaze rises to my reflection in the mirror.

"Like this?" he asks, his voice too low to be innocent, closer to a whisper.

I laugh through my nose, a short and disdainful sound. "Almost."

I turn too close to him, enough for the air between us to change temperature and leave a trail of sweat and perfume. Yoongi follows the rhythm without hesitation. When I extend my arm to show the arc of the movement, he replicates it with irritating precision — perfect mirror, perfect timing. He copies me well to prove he doesn't need me.

For a second, the entire room seems to boil down to this: breathing, friction, and the fine line between correction and provocation. Anger and precision dancing together.

I wonder which of the two I am.

An almost imperceptible slip happens — his turn finishes half a second before mine, and the weight falls incorrectly. The air between us loses its beat for an instant. Small, but enough to irritate me.

"You lost the timing," I say softly, just for him.

"No. You ran too fast," he retorts, without taking his eyes off the mirror, his voice firm.

He is wrong, and I know it, and that certainty makes me angry.

"Do you want to do it at my pace, then?" I say, my tone sharper than I planned. "Maybe that way you can keep up."

Yoongi slowly turns his neck, his gaze fixed on me through the mirror.

"At your pace, no one can keep up. Not even the music. You rush it."

His voice is too gentle for someone so clearly irritated, and that just makes everything worse. I laugh without humor, a dry sound that echoes through the studio with the sound of the piano. I take two steps forward, enough to shorten the space to almost nothing. He doesn't move. He remains there, firm, as if he were part of the floor — and I hate that, I hate how he always seems to know how far he can challenge me.

"Funny. The audience seems to like it when it's me," I say, softly, with that kind of smile that cuts more than it conceals.

Yoongi raises his chin. His body is still in position, but there is something different in his movements — a rigidity that wasn't there before. The gesture that should be fluid is now sharp, too precise, as if he were finally dancing against me.

"You rush it," he repeats, more firmly, and it is almost a challenge.

The music continues, but neither of us pays attention. Our breaths are crossing. I take another step forward. He does not back down. The air between us becomes dense, too charged, and the mirror seems to capture every minimal tremor.

Our shoulders touch — quickly, accidentally perhaps, but the shock is strong enough to steal my breath. His body is warm, solid, and for an instant, the contact feels like something I cannot name. But it lasts only a moment.

"Watch out," he growls, his gaze piercing through the mirror. It's not just anger. It's pride.

I do not back down. I lean my face forward, my voice almost a whisper: "If you can't handle it, get out of the center."

The air vibrates, and then the inevitable happens. We collide. The impact is not violent enough to hurt, but enough to make the mirror tremble and the sound of the music shatter in the air. For a second, it's as if the entire studio breathes with us — panting, tense, trapped in that instant before disaster.

Moore gets up from her chair, her heel echoing like a gunshot.

"Enough!" Her voice cuts through the air, cold, impatient. "This is not a fight, it is a dance."

The silence falls heavily.

We remain motionless, breathing quickly, our reflections mixed in the glass. I see the sweat running down the side of his neck, his chest rising and falling, and for a moment I am sure he will say something — or do something. But he just holds my gaze.

And I don't back down either.

"Stop," Moore says, without raising her voice, but in a rude way. She approaches, her low heel tapping rhythmically on the floor, as if marking the time we wasted. "You are not enemies. You are each other's reflection. And a reflection does not act this way."

She stops between us, her gaze alternating from me to him. I can feel the respect — or fear — he has for his mother, since he now looks slightly regretful, with a minimally, but still visible, more downcast look.

I turn to grab my water bottle, my heart still beating too fast. Yoongi collects his towel and goes to the corner, his breathing heavy, but his face impassive. That is how he copes with silence.

Moore is putting away some papers when something slips out of the folder and falls to the floor. A white, folded paper that slides until it stops almost at my feet. I bend down to pick it up, in an automatic gesture, but before returning it, my gaze fixes for a quick second on the letters in the header.

Bank of Paris. Zoe Jung.

I recognize the name. Hoseok's mother.

I look up, quickly, but Moore is already extending her hand, smiling in a way that doesn't fit the situation.

"Thank you, Taehyung."

I hand over the check without saying anything. She puts it away too quickly.

Yoongi doesn't even notice, or pretends not to notice. He walks past me, his shoulder brushing mine as he heads toward the exit.

"See you in the room," he murmurs, without looking at me.

I stand still for a second, the echo of the collision still vibrating in my bones, and the name on the paper repeating in my head.

Zoe Jung.

There is something about this that doesn't add up.

Do they know each other? Friends? Enemies?

And why don't I know this?

🐋

The dorm is too silent — the kind of silence that signals it's empty. Thank God. I don't want to see Min Yoongi, I don't want to know about Min Yoongi. His scent is annoying enough in this room; imagine his presence.

All I can think about now is Moore — and the check. I wish I had seen more. I wish I knew which of the two sent it, and why. I'll still figure out why.

I also think about Jimin. I haven't talked to him since his meltdown last night. It was funny, but now I wonder if it wasn't tragic too. His silence could mean two things: either it was too good, or it was too bad.

I open the desk drawer and find the invitations my grandmother asked me to deliver. A school gala event. "Celebration of the Arts." Ridiculous. As if this place had anything to celebrate besides competition and fights over the main role.

I hold the envelopes between my fingers, looking at the names.

Jung Hoseok.

Min Yoongi.

Of course, they are side by side — even the paper seems to mock me.

The door opens with a dry click, and the silence falls apart. Yoongi enters first, his hair still damp, stuck to the back of his neck. Hoseok follows right behind, laughing at something he said in the hallway. They speak softly, as if the whole world had shrunk to fit between them.

I stand still, the envelopes still in my hand, watching without wanting to — or maybe wanting to too much. There is something annoyingly natural in the way they move together, as if they had rehearsed even the way they share the same space. Yoongi drops his bag in the corner, and Hoseok bends down to put his backpack on the floor.

They make a beautiful couple. In a way that makes me angry to admit. That kind of beauty that looks balanced, clean, effortless. Yoongi with his calm gaze and precise gestures, and Hoseok with that energy that fills everything around him. As if one were the mirror of the other, but without the cracks.

And I stand there, trying to ignore the annoyance of realizing how well they work together.

Because, deep down, I know: I never work well with anyone.

"What's that, Tata?" Hoseok's voice breaks my thoughts. He approaches, with his usual easy smile, the kind that seems to light up the room without asking permission.

I look up, a little slowly, trying to hide what was going through my head seconds before. I hold out the envelopes, as if they were only that — pieces of paper, nothing more.

"Invitations," I answer, simply, forcing a casual tone. "School event. Meryl asked me to deliver them."

Hoseok takes his, spinning the envelope between his fingers, curious. Yoongi approaches from behind him, and for an instant, they share the same space in a way that is too natural. Yoongi's shoulder almost touches Hobi's back, and it's impossible not to notice how the contrast between the two works: his brightness and the other's silence, the sun and the shadow understanding each other without needing to say anything.

It's irritating.

Beautiful.

Imagine their sex. Holy fuck.

"Celebration of the Arts," Hoseok reads aloud, and the smile disappears, genuine. "This is going to be huge, right? It always made me lazy."

"It’s too much ego gathered in the same place," I say, in a more discouraged tone than I intended.

Hoseok laughs, but Yoongi just looks up, evaluating. He always does that — observes before attacking.

"You talk as if you weren’t the center of your own ego," he says, his voice calm, but sharp.

My stomach clenches. He always knows where to strike.

"At least mine has a reason," I retort, dropping his invitation onto the table.

The air between us changes. Hoseok notices. He always notices.

"Let's not start..." he begins, trying to ease the tension, but neither of us listens.

Yoongi backs away a little, just enough to give space, but his gaze remains fixed on me — as if the words he hasn't said yet are stuck in his throat. Hoseok looks away, adjusts the invitation in his hands, tries to laugh lightly, and that just worsens the feeling that I am the problem. I always am.

"You should try to be less unbearable, Tae," he says, his voice low, almost a laugh. "Sometimes, we just want to play, not duel."

"He started it in the studio," I reply, but it sounds false even to me.

Yoongi crosses his arms, his face impassive. "But you always fight with me. It's kind of your talent, isn't it?"

"And yours is playing the saint?" I ask, taking a step forward. The sound of my voice seems to echo in the small room. "Because you're great at that."

Hoseok sighs, runs his hand through his hair, and the silence that settles is too heavy for the small space. I should stop, but the way Yoongi stares at me makes me want to go all the way, to see who looks away first.

He doesn't look away. Never.

"Maybe the problem is you can't handle it when someone passes you," he says, too calmly.

I feel my blood rise. The same kind of anger that I felt at rehearsal.

"Pass?" I repeat, with a short laugh. "You're still far from that, Min Yoongi."

Hoseok steps between us, finally. "Okay, enough." He gently pushes his boyfriend in a gesture that tries to look calm. "You two have danced enough today."

Yoongi lets out a sigh and picks up the invitation from the desk, without looking at me. "Thanks," he says, curtly, before leaving the room.

The door closes behind him, and only then do I realize my fist is clenched. Hoseok stares at me, his jaw tense, his expression somewhere between doubt and resentment.

"You like him, don't you?" he asks, without irony, but with a hint of caution in his voice.

I feel my body freeze the second I hear that.

For an instant, I don't understand what he's saying. Or I pretend not to understand.

"What?" I force a laugh, too short to be convincing. "— Don't be ridiculous, Hobi."

He shakes his head slowly, without looking away.

"You always do this."

"Do what?" I retort, crossing my arms.

"You pretend you don't feel anything," he says, in a calm tone that hurts more than any shout. "And when you realize you do feel it, you destroy it before anyone else notices too."

The phrase cuts through me. I want to laugh again, mock him, anything to protect myself, but nothing comes out.

"I just..." he takes a deep breath, his shoulders slumping. "I just hope this time you don't do the same to him."

I swallow hard, but my voice comes out cold, automatic. "You're talking as if I destroyed you."

Hoseok lets out a short, bitter laugh. "You don't have to pretend you don't remember, Tae. We know how it ended."

Silence. And the silence is the worst.

Because I remember.

I remember the hidden kisses, the muffled laughs, the feeling that the world was ours — until I realized the world wouldn't allow it. That we couldn't keep kissing in the hallway and think no one would see. That we couldn't continue being "us."

But he doesn't know why.

And I can't tell him.

"You changed out of nowhere," he continues, his voice lower now, as if talking to himself. "One day we were... and the next, you pretended I didn't even exist."

I want to say it wasn't out of nowhere. That it was the only way not to lose everything.

But I stay silent.

"I never tried to end what you had with Drew," he says, in a firm, defensive tone. "And you'd better give up if that's what you're planning with me and Yoongi. Because it won't work."

Yoongi's name in his mouth irritates me. I feel my chest tighten, anger and shame mixing.

"I'm not planning anything," I say, every word measured too much.

"I hope not." Hoseok walks past me, heading toward the door. "Because I'm happy now, and I don't want to mess that up."

He leaves before I can say anything. I stand there, alone, with the echo of his voice and the certainty that he is wrong. Or, worse, that he is too right.

I think of all the times Hobi looked at me as if I were the whole world — and how I believed he was mine too.

I think of the day I stopped looking back.

How much he must have tried to understand. And how I never explained.

Now he is happy. And I am happy for him.

Truly.

But there's this shitty feeling I can no longer avoid.

And along with it, there's that damn Russian. I hate him. Don't I?

But all I can think is that, in the end, I really destroy everything that touches me.

Hell of a life.

Chapter Text

The lake has always been our refuge.

At night, when no one can see us, we are always in the same boat — the worn wooden one, which holds the marks of years of escapes, with the same old cushions and the blankets we hide at the bottom of it, stubbornly folded so our parents won't find them.

It is as if time stops there, between the muffled sound of the oars cutting the water and the echo of our breaths in the cold air. It is the only place in the world where it doesn't hurt, where the weight of expectations disappears. The wind passes through the leaves of the trees, and I feel like the whole world breathes with us, slow and calm.

The smell of wetness and silt fills the air, a raw, earthy aroma that mixes with the damp wood of the hull and the faint, slightly citrus scent of Tae's soap, which always seems fresh. The distant sound of crickets comes and goes, an irregular tick-tock that serves as a clock. The reflection of the night sky breaks into a thousand pieces in the dark water — stars that fall and reform without stopping, a liquid universe.

The boat rocks slowly, in a familiar, sleepy rhythm, and with every movement it seems to recognize our weight, knowing exactly where to take us. The lights of the house, up on the hill, have turned into golden dots, losing the power to call us back. The cold touches the exposed skin, but it doesn't bother us; on the contrary, it's the kind of cold that makes us want to curl up and stay closer, one against the other, to share warmth.

Tae holds the oar with one hand, distracted, and with the other plays with touching the water's surface, dragging his fingers. The sound of the drops running off and falling back is almost a laugh. He looks at me, and even though his eyes are a bit tired from the hour, they shine with an intensity that only exists under this starlight.

He rests the oar against the boat with a slight thud and crosses his legs, turning towards the immense sky.

"If we row out to the middle, we can see the whole sky," he says, his voice low and dreamy, with a small, sincere smile on his face.

"You always say that." I laugh, taking the oar and trying to make the boat slide further toward the center. "And every time the sky is the same, Vivi."

"It's not." He makes a funny face and throws some cold water in my direction, making me jump. "It's different today."

"It's the same. It only changes because you are dramatically poetic."

"And you are boring."

"You are a swan." I smile crookedly, feeling the spark of provocation ignite.

Saying that is the same as praising him a thousand times. It is my way of lowering my weapons. His eyes shine, and his smile appears — arrogant, victorious, but totally his, totally boxy. He knows exactly what it means; he knows the power the metaphor carries.

It is like saying he is a divine, dramatic, and sickly work. It is confessing that I see him as something beautiful and broken; sensual and sacred at the same time. The kind of beauty that only exists in extremes, the one that hurts the retina if you dare to look for too long.

Tae leans in a bit more, and the cold moonlight slides across his face, as if sculpting him in the darkness. His long eyelashes cast thin, dark shadows on his cheekbones, and his neck moves gracefully with his contained laughter.

"Then you are the lake," he says, his voice low and hoarse, almost a whisper that the water welcomes and muffles. "Beautiful, calm on the surface... and dangerous when someone decides to dive in."

The boat creaks the worn wood between us. The silence is one of tension, full of unspoken things. I want to laugh at this audacity, this precise way he has of reversing roles, but I can't. I just stand there, looking at him — this swan I call mine, even though I know he will never belong to anyone.

And, when he kisses me, I let the whole world agree to drown with us. I don't resist.

The touch begins light, timid, almost a test. The kind of kiss that seems to ask permission, even when the answer is already written in the urgency of our eyes. The dark water slowly rocks us, the movement of the lake synchronizing with that of our bodies. His hand slides through the back of my neck, through the strands chilled by the wind, holding firmly there. Mine holds his waist, almost without force, afraid of frightening the moment, afraid that the moment will end sooner than it should.

Each breath is a shared secret. Each kiss, a risk worth taking. The house in the distance still has lights on — small, distant, vigilant — and, for an instant, fear strikes me, cold and fast, that someone might see, that the love might break.

The fear of my father, of his deep voice screaming my name, is a shadow that passes quickly. But Tae laughs against my mouth, and the sound of that open laugh makes the fear seem small, pathetic.

He kisses me again, and again, and again. Short, playful kisses, almost as if he were trying to steal my air little by little, a dangerous game of who can breathe the least. And then, a longer one comes, deep, almost desperate — the kind of kiss that makes the boat lose its balance for a second, and we have to hold on, laughing, trying not to fall into the dark water.

"Shh," he whispers, his lips still pressed against mine, his breath sweet. "If we speak loudly, the lake will tell someone."

I laugh, completely breathless. "The lake doesn't speak. It doesn't have a mouth."

"Yes, it does." He insists, pressing his finger to my lips, silencing me. "It keeps everything. It keeps our secrets."

He rests his forehead against mine and closes his eyes, letting the moment linger. I stay there, observing the perfection of his eyelashes, so perfectly drawn above his small eyes, the way his chest rises and falls at a calm rhythm.

I feel like we are reaching the middle of the water, the spot he wanted so much, without the slightest effort from the oars, just carried by the invisible current of the dream.

Tae opens his eyes and looks at me in that way that dismantles me — calm and intense, as if he already knew that it would end soon, but wanted to enjoy every millisecond anyway.

He kisses me one more time, and everything inside me goes quiet.

There is no more noise, no wind, no cold, no fear. Only the taste of him, the warmth of his skin spreading, the muffled sound of his heart beating too close to mine, two identical and urgent rhythms.

And, for a moment, I truly believe that the entire universe fits inside this boat, floating beneath broken stars.

Suddenly, the wind stops.

And the lake stops with it. Everything freezes.

The boat becomes abruptly motionless, as if time had been snatched from the water, and the oxygen vanished. Our laughter dies in the air. When I look to the side, Taehyung is no longer with me. He has disappeared. His warm presence vanished without a sound.

I stay there — just me. The dark water shows no reflection; it has become a dull mirror. The sky has lost all its stars. The cold transforms into something morbid and cutting, and an incessant, paralyzing fear fills me from head to toe.

Then I see.

There, in the middle of the water, where the boat is stopped, a black swan emerges. Motionless. It looks at me. Its feathers look like they are made of wet charcoal, dense and threatening. And the eyes — the eyes are his. The same eyes as Tae, the same intensity, the same deep silence that used to be ours.

The black beak moves slightly, but no sound comes out. And for a second that lasts an eternity, I swear the swan smiles. A human smile, sickly and totally out of place, as if it knows something terrible that I don't know, that I have just lost.

I try to get up, desperate, and the boat rocks dangerously. That's when I hear it — a sound of struggle, of water being cut with brutal force. I look towards the bottom of the lake, to where the water is no longer dark, but transparent with the violence, and I see two agitated shadows.

One of them is Yoongi. Unmistakable.

The other one... is my father. In a suit, submerged, solid, and terrible.

He holds Yoongi by the shoulders, pushes him down with cold determination, and the air bubbles rise desperately, a life being stolen.

I try to scream, but nothing comes out. The scream is a rock in my throat. I try to move, but I have no control over my body now. I am a statue in the middle of the boat.

When I look at the swan again, it is facing away from me. Motionless, the black plumage trembles slightly with the wind that is no longer blowing. But there is a sound. A low melody, made of whimpering and lament, comes from it, tearing the silence.

It is a sad song — the kind of sadness that hurts the chest, that seems ancient, infinite, the song of someone who is being abandoned.

I start to cry. Desperation rips through me inside, and the air won't come. I need to get out of here. I need to swim, I need to do something, but I don't know how to swim. Tae knows how to.

But the lake does not hear me. The lake watches me.

Suddenly, something touches me. Hands — or wings — hairy, icy cold, grab me by the wrists and pull me in with unbelievable force. The boat disappears in a blur, and I fall into the water like someone falling into a bottomless dream, without knowing where the limit is.

The shock is immediate. The water surrounds me, cold, dense.

I try to swim, I try to orient myself, but everything is dense, like a body that holds me. The lake is a creature that does not want to let me go.

I try to scream, but only more water enters — it burns my nose and scratches my throat violently. Yoongi is down there, I know he is. I need to get to him. I need to save him. But my arms won't obey me; they are useless.

I am not going forward — I am going down.

The pressure tightens my lungs, crushing the air I tried to hold. My eyes sting with the salt and silt. My heart tries to escape my chest, beating in total panic.

The lake's roar is aggressive, and the darkness embraces me tightly, promising an end. I feel the world fading, my body becoming too light, too distant.

And the last sight I have before everything vanishes is my father’s face — smiling, motionless, without a drop of remorse, holding, underwater, the dead heads of Yoongi and Taehyung.

And then everything turns to silence.

🐋

I wake up with a start. It is not a slow awakening. It is a violent rupture with sleep. The air rushes in, tearing my lungs as if I had just revived, as if I were back on the surface.

The taste of water is still in my mouth, salty and cold, mixed with the fear that still tightens my chest like a vice. The sheet is stuck to my sweaty skin.

My hands are trembling, my fingers are stiff, as if they had forgotten how to move, marked by the sensation of having been pulled down.

It takes me a few seconds to remember where I am — the white ceiling, the crooked lampshade, the space beside me.

Nothing else moves with the violence of the water, and the air finally enters my lungs without the cutting pain of drowning. It is just air.

And beside me, what is most urgent: Yoongi sleeps.

His long hair covers half his face, his lips are slightly parted in a rest I envy. His breathing is calm, light, constant, the safest sound in the world. His chest rises and falls slowly, measured, and his hand rests near mine, almost touching, but without moving.

I remain motionless, looking at him, trying to convince every fiber of my body that what I felt — the pressure, the cold, the fear — was just a dream.

But the weight of the lake is still with me. I feel it in my lungs that try to breathe deeply, in my arms that try to grasp something, in my heart that is still racing.

The silence of the room is almost cruel after the aggressive roar of the lake. I close my eyes again, just to hear his breathing. Every sigh seems to anchor me in the present, to remind me that he is here, alive, safe.

And yet, the fear doesn't disappear.

Because the black swan still exists somewhere inside me, still on the dark surface of the lake, watching me.

I let myself stay there, motionless, just breathing, grasping every second of peace that sleeping Yoongi gives me.

But I can't stay still for long. The fear, the desperation, the feeling that the lake is burning me from the inside, forces me to act.

Then, almost without thinking, I lean over and wrap my arms tightly around his body.

My face buries itself in his silky hair, my arms squeeze his waist with an almost violent urgency, and the tears begin to stream down uncontrollably.

I cry softly, sobbing, I feel my chest ache from the pressure, I feel my heart trying to recompose itself at a normal rhythm. With every one of his sighs, with every beat of his chest against mine, I feel a little bit of the real world entering me, but it is so little… so little compared to the terror I just lived.

"Yoongi…” I whisper between sobs, almost in a lament. “No... don't disappear, please..."

His hands, warm and soft, move slightly. I feel a slight squeeze, and I think that maybe he will wake up, but I don't care. I need to hold him. I need to be sure that he is here. That he is alive. That he is with me, and not sinking.

My body trembles uncontrollably, and my breathing is still uneven and ragged. The hug is tight, suffocating, almost desperate, and every tear that falls seems to try and wash away the sensation of drowning that still holds me.

And he remains there, quiet, almost motionless, allowing me to pour all the fear and all the pain into that embrace.

But my heart won't stop hurting.

Because Tae... Tae is there, trapped in the lake, the black beak, his eyes burning the image inside me. And even knowing it's just a dream, even knowing he can't hurt me here, the anger and hurt mix with the desperation. I need him back. I need them. They can't leave me, they can't die.

"You're already awake, Hobi…” he says, his voice hoarse, slow, heavy with sleep, enveloping me.

The sound goes through me like a breath after diving.

For an instant, everything stops — the fear, the lake, the swan. Only his voice remains.

I hold onto that, that slow, sure tone, that seems to pull me back to reality.

Yoongi moves slightly, sleepily, his hands touch mine, and I realize how much I am trembling. I try to answer, but my throat is still tight, and the crying still comes in spasms.

"I… I dreamed…” is all I manage to say.

He murmurs something I don't understand, a sound between comfort and tiredness, and then just pulls me closer, without opening his eyes. His body is warm, firm, and his heart beats at a calm, constant rhythm — the complete opposite of everything that exists inside me.

And, slowly, I begin to breathe with him.

One sigh at a time.

As if every beat of his chest said what I can't say out loud: that it's over; that he is here; that the lake can't reach me now; that my father can't reach us now.

But the fear settles in again.

My father reached Tae.

🐋

The mall is crowded, but the confusion seems distant, the voices are a constant muffled noise, the air conditioning cools my arms, and the excessive brightness of the display windows hits the metal tables of the cafeteria. We managed to get a spot in the corner, near the window overlooking the parking lot, calm and quiet, the ideal setting for the interrogation that is taking place.

Yoongi is holding a strawberry ice cream. Pink, simple, childish, melting too fast because he talks more than he eats. He holds the glass with one hand, the spoon still between his slender fingers, and looks at me with a silent intensity, as if he is trying to decipher everything I don't say.

I stick with the coffee. Hot, strong, I hold the cup with both hands, as if it could keep me in the present and bring me warmth. I still feel remnants in my chest, as if the dream had soaked some part of me that refuses to dry. It is a feeling of weight.

Yoongi slightly tilts his head, in that calm and attentive way that always dismantles me, forcing me to be honest.

But not about everything.

"So... was it that bad?" He asks, stirring the ice cream distractedly, without realizing it's practically turned into Barbie soup.

I let out the air slowly, resting my elbow on the cold table, trying not to look as bad as I feel. I feel ashamed of the breakdown, of how much I cried and panicked in his arms. I wish I could crawl into a hole and never come out, goddamn it. The vulnerability was too much.

"It was," I admit, my voice low and tense. "It was horrible."

Yoongi slightly furrows his brow, but not in that overly worried or panicked way — it's just attention, just care.

"Did I die?" he asks, with that unfiltered sincerity that always catches me off guard, stripping the drama from the moment.

I laugh lightly, finding no humor in it, but laughing anyway.

"I think so..." I murmur. "And me too. It was... I can't explain it. Everything seemed real, everything so... heavy."

Yoongi rests his elbow on the table, mimicking my posture, but props his chin on his hand, observing me as if every blink of mine were a clue to a crime he needs to solve. He doesn't rush, doesn't force, doesn't invade — he just waits, breathing in that way of his that feels like a silent invitation for me to stop lying or hiding.

He picks up the spoon and eats a little of the melted ice cream, keeping his gaze on me.

"And who else was in the boat? In your boat?" He asks calmly, but with a subtle emphasis on 'your' that alerts me.

The coffee almost slips out of my hand. I can't stand running away from this topic with him anymore. It is a rope stretched too tightly between us.

I adjust the cup on the table, take a deep breath, and try to look neutral, casual, indifferent — anything that doesn't have to do with the tightness I felt just hearing his name, with the memory of that kiss.

All the more so because it happened so many times. Such a vivid dream.

I take a deep breath. "Tae. Taehyung was there too."

Yoongi notices. Of course he notices my desperation. He runs his thumb along the rim of the ice cream glass, as if wiping away something invisible, but the gesture is just a disguise for the gaze he fixes on me — firm, accurate, uncomfortable.

He puts the ice cream aside, the syrup glistening under the mall light. His gaze intensifies.

"And what was he doing there?" Yoongi asks, and it's no longer just curiosity; it's direction, it's a target. He is hunting for the truth.

I freeze. For one second. Two. The air is caught in my lungs. It is enough for him to realize again that I am hiding the essential.

"Talking, Yoongi," I say, and I already feel the defensiveness rising in my tone.

He leans his body forward, and his face moves closer to mine, invading my personal space. He doesn't yell, he doesn't get upset, but the silence becomes a threat.

"Were you talking in a boat? Alone in the middle of the lake?" His voice is low and charged with insinuation. "When you were younger, I imagine, a little before you drifted apart, which you claim was just by chance."

My chest tightens, uncomfortable, as if he had plunged his hand inside it and was squeezing everything at the same time.

"You’re jumping to conclusions about something that doesn’t even exist," my voice comes out low, hard, in a failed attempt at defense.

"I'm jumping to conclusions?" he laughs, a dry, humorless sound that hits me like a slap. "Hoseok, you described an extremely sober dream, full of details, there shouldn't be things to hide, much less to hide from me."

"Let's change the subject, I don't want to talk about..." I try to deflect, the panic rising.

He interrupts me, without raising his voice, but firmly enough to stop me. His eyes don't shift, don't blink, don't soften. "And I'm left not understanding why you stood there staring at his empty bed for so long?"

The air vanishes again.

It disappears.

It runs away from me as if it were even ashamed of this conversation. There's no use trying to run away from this topic with him anymore, no use trying to pretend to him that nothing happened, that nothing happens between me and Taehyung. It's ridiculous. It's a glass closet, transparent, with LED light on, practically written in neon: Hoseok is an idiot disguising the obvious.

But his fury... the jealousy I feel bubbling beneath the apparent calm. I should have told him already. I know. I always knew.

Oh, I'm going to kill myself.

I shrug my shoulders, small, cowardly, unable to face the truth that is pulsing between us. The coffee cup still burns my hand, but I squeeze it anyway, as if it could give me some protection against his gaze.

"We kissed," I blurt out.

The sentence falls onto the table like a silent explosion, but one that reverberates inside, echoes in the air, shaking everything that is standing.

"We were kissing in the boat."

And in the second after I say it, the silence expands, heavy enough to crush me, to make me want to shrink until I disappear into the chair. I feel the shame, the guilt, the fear, all mixing, turning into a huge knot stuck between my ribs.

I finally said it.

And now there is no turning back.

For a second, Yoongi doesn't react. He doesn't blink. He doesn't breathe. He just... stays there, motionless, looking at me as if trying to see some sign of a joke, that I invented the confession to ease the tension.

And then he laughs.

But it's not a real laugh. It's not light. It's not amused.

It's a short, bitter laugh, full of teeth, the kind that comes from a place that hurts. A laugh that makes my stomach turn sideways and the guilt weigh like lead.

Yoongi leans his body back, moving away from the table as if he needed space not to explode. The vibration changes. It is as if the entire table had lost its ground, as if something had broken there — a trust, a line, a fragile thing that I swore was whole.

He runs his hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the roots, taking a deep breath, trying not to fall apart in front of me. But when he looks at me again, it's from a distance, as if looking too closely might hurt him even more.

"Of course you did." He confirms, with a frightening smile, too controlled, too stretched, the kind of smile that only exists when the heart is bleeding.

My body chills. Truly. My back sweats while my fingers turn cold. And I think, for one pathetic microsecond, that there should be more security guards around here. There is a knife right in front of him, glistening under the cafeteria light as if it had been placed there just to remind me that I screwed up.

And for a second — an honest second — I hope he just stabs me. It would be easier than facing this.

"I already knew it..." he lets slip, and it's not a sentence, it's a thought pouring out, as if he were tired of holding it in. "I tried... I tried not to believe myself. To convince myself that I was exaggerating. That it was paranoia. That there was nothing going on between you two."

He laughs again — weaker, sadder.

"But it was so obvious." He insists, and his voice cracks for a second, almost imperceptible, but perceptible enough to cut through me. "The way he looks at you, always. The damn blush that rises on his face when you get close. The anger he feels towards me, that senseless anger, but which at the same time makes perfect sense. As if I were... competition. But it's not just in the dance."

Yoongi tightens his fingers on the edge of the table, as if he is holding on to something.

"And the way you talk about him." He continues, the hurt growing, swallowing everything. "The way you trust him, defend him, protect him. As if he were... I don't know. A sin. A secret. Something of yours that no one can touch."

I feel like sticking my head under the table, disappearing between people's legs and staying there until the mall closes. Or evaporating. Or asking the earth to swallow me straight to hell, where I probably already have a reserved spot.

He takes a deep breath, but the air rushes in.

"So it wasn't a dream." He whispers, without blinking, without looking away, as if he were about to fall apart with the answer. "You just described a memory."

I swallow hard. The table seems too small for the two of us, too small for this conversation, too small for the size of the mess I got myself into alone.

"Yoongi..." I begin, and my own voice sounds as if it's scratched inside, weak, without posture. "It's not like that."

He raises an eyebrow. Only one. And that dismantles me a little more.

"We... he and I, we had something, but it wasn't anything solid, it was even kind of childish. We would run away from our parents, go to the lake and... it was just kissing. It was nothing, and it ended. He dated Starkey for years, then we only saw each other at dinners and meetings. It ended."

Yoongi opens his mouth to retort — and I know he will. I see in his eyes that impulse to bite back, to throw another truth onto the table, to cut me just so he's not the only one bleeding.

But I don't let him.

I reach my hand out across the table, slowly, as if I were trying to touch a skittish animal that might run away at any second.

"Yoongi... listen to me." My voice still fails, but I force calmness into my way of speaking. "Please."

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising too fast, and his jaw remains tight. But he doesn't say anything. Slightly against his will, but he doesn't speak.

"I'm not hiding anything important from you," I say, softly, as if confessing to myself as well. "What happened with Taehyung... it was before everything. Before I understood who I was. Before I understood what I wanted."

"And you want me to believe that has nothing to do with me?" He asks, controlling his tone of voice with visible effort.

I shake my head, quickly.

"I want you to believe that this doesn't change how I feel now." My fingers touch the edge of his hand, grazing the warmth. "With you, it's different. It's real. And I am here, sitting with you, because it is you that I chose. Not him."

Yoongi swallows hard.

His expression is still chaos — anger, hurt, wounded pride — but you can see something giving way in his eyes, very slowly.

"I just don't want to be anyone's second choice, Hoseok."

My heart squeezes so tightly that it actually hurts.

"You never were," I answer without hesitation. "Not for a second."

His hand relaxes a little under mine. Not much. Just enough for me to feel that the world has stopped falling apart for now.

"We liked each other, it’s true. But it ended. And I know I should have told you sooner…"

I stop, because my voice threatens to fail. He notices — always —, but he doesn't interrupt me this time. He just stays there, looking at my hand on top of his, as if he is still deciding whether to push it away or hold on.

"I just…” I continue, swallowing the air slowly. “I was afraid of hurting you. Afraid you'd think there was some competition. Afraid it would look like I was hiding something because it still meant something. But it doesn't mean anything. Not anymore."

"Hoseok…” he murmurs, and it is the first time since everything exploded that he says my name correctly, without thorns.

"I made a mistake," I admit before he can think of backing away. "And you have every reason to be angry. But I'm telling you everything now because... I want you to trust me. I need you to trust me."

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, as if he is putting out a fire inside his chest.

"Let's get out of here."

🐋

The store is too big, too quiet, too fragrant. One of those places you only enter when you have an important event or a desire to pretend life is organized. The elegant salesman directs us to the pieces separated for the event, and by some miracle, the mood between Yoongi and me is no longer broken — just... mended. A little crooked, but whole.

"This one is beautiful," I say, pulling the black jumpsuit off the hanger. Long, elegant, backless, sleeves that almost touch the floor. “It suits you, even though it's not pink. By the way, you always wear pink, right?"

Yoongi carefully takes the fabric, as if it were fragile.

"Yeah, I feel more like a dancer... but it's beautiful."

When I turn my gaze back to him, I see something that wasn't there before: a discreet fragility, almost hidden. The way his lips form a subtle pout, like someone who just wants to go home, lie in bed, and pretend the world doesn't exist. Like someone who is holding everything in.

The salesman appears out of nowhere — seriously, as if he had been conjured by a store spell.

"We can adjust it to see the fit," he says, all professional, all Valentino, all "give me your card now."

They act like vultures.

Yoongi gives a timid nod, like someone who doesn't have the strength to protest, and is immediately led to the special fitting room. The guy holds the jumpsuit as if it were a work of art and Yoongi as if he were the hanger, and I stand there, motionless, feeling like exploding the whole store because apparently I destroyed my relationship and now I need to pretend to choose a suit.

I decide I'm not going to stand around waiting for the vulture salesman to come back. I advance across the soft carpet toward the special fitting room area — a small velvet hall with warm lighting. Yoongi's fitting room door is ajar.

The silence coming from inside is not reassuring. It is a heavy silence that does not please me. I open the door without waiting for an answer, entering the small room lined with mirrors and lights.

And he is right there.

With his back to me, wearing the black jumpsuit.

The long sleeves falling down his arms, the tailored pants shaping his legs, his whole silhouette elegant, slender, delicate… and his back completely bare, exposed, vulnerable.

Beautiful.

And ruined.

Yoongi cries in silence. His chin trembles in a way that’s almost imperceptible, but devastating. His hands grip the hem of the jumpsuit’s pants as if that could hold his chest in place, keep something inside him from collapsing. The tears fall slowly, so quiet, so careful, they almost look like part of his makeup — as if even his crying were too timid to make a sound.

Behind him, the tailor is still there, holding a pin, ready to measure his back as if nothing were happening. As if there weren’t a fragile, beautiful boy fighting with his own reflection in the mirror.

And it gives me instant disgust.

I don’t think.

I really don’t think.

“Could you stop, please?” My voice comes out low, forced into control, but still hard, sharp. “Give us a moment.”

The tailor blinks, confused.

“Sir, I’m just adjusting—”

“I told you to leave…” the sentence slips out before I can even think, harsher than I intended, carrying far too much of the anger I’m trying to hide.

The tailor pales. He opens his mouth to say something else, but you can see the will to do it die right there. He looks at Yoongi — the smudged makeup, the quickened breath, the trembling hands — and finally understands. Understands far too late.

He gathers the pins in a sharp motion, almost trips on the rug in his hurry, and disappears behind the curtain, leaving only silence in the air.

I close my eyes for a second, cursing everything — the shop, the tailor, the jumpsuit, Taehyung, myself.

And I turn to him.

Red eyes, wet cheeks, the little trembling pout on his lips that he tries to hide, his hands shaking at the sides of his pants as if the seam could hold his heart in place.

He doesn’t even try to hide it.

He just looks at me.

And in that look, there’s everything — fear, shame, love, anger, insecurity.

As if I were the only one who could pull him out of that hole…

…and, at the same time, the only one who pushed him here.

“I don’t look like the swan, honey…” he murmurs, his voice cracked by the tears he’s holding back. “He’s the black one. I’m the white one. I’m the one who stays in the shadows, who dies, the poor thing.”

“Yoongi, stop,” I interrupt him, my voice pleading.

“I’m not him. I don’t have that kind of beauty… I’m not the one you kiss when you can choose what to dream about,” he insists, a tear falling and smudging his nose. “You died in the dream because you went after me.”

He takes a deep breath, but the air doesn’t come in clean.

“And look at me,” he says, gesturing toward the reflection in the mirror with trembling fingers. “I’m just skin and bone. His body is something else. You know that. I’ve seen him naked while he was getting dressed. He’s a work of art, Hobi. He’s divine, he has curves, he has strength. He has what I don’t. He’s the perfect swan, and I’m just the attempt. I’m never going to be him” his voice falls apart in one final sob.

I move up behind him, but I don’t turn him around. I wrap myself around him from behind, pressing my body against his, pulling his slender waist against my hip. My hands rest firmly on the waist exposed by the back of the jumpsuit. I force our eyes back to the mirror.

“His body is different, it is,” I affirm, my voice low and firm near his ear. “But that doesn’t make yours imperfect.”

I kiss the nape of his neck, smelling vanilla, feeling his skin shiver.

“Look at yourself, Yoongi. Look at what I see,” I begin, squeezing my hand to draw his focus to the mirror. “Your hair, black and long, always neat, is the most elegant thing there is. Your waist is slender, fitting perfectly in my hand. And look at your ass, it’s lifted in that jumpsuit. And, since I’m your boyfriend, I notice, it’s always lifted.”

He lets out a weak little laugh through his crying, which makes me happy. I lower my hands to his legs.

“Your legs are long, they look drawn. Your body is pale and pinkish, and I love the way it looks under the lamp light, in the dimness of our room. And I love your eyes, narrow and slightly upturned, your button nose looks sculpted, and your mouth forms the most beautiful smile in the world.”

I rest my chin on his shoulder, whispering into the mirror so that the reflection can hear:

“You’re perfect, honey. You’re porcelain, silk. You’re fragile and strong. And I love you… without any effort at all. It’s extremely easy, you’re beautiful, unreal, mine.”

Yoongi closes his eyes, finally giving in to the weight of my words. I feel his breathing calm, becoming less erratic, more in tune with mine. The tension releases his jaw, and he tilts his head back, letting it rest on my shoulder.

“I want this jumpsuit…”

I smile over his neck at the genuineness of the request — or confession — and soon after plant several gentle kisses there, moving up to the plump, tear-swollen cheeks.

“I’ll call the tailor…”

“But apologize.” He orders, but it’s cute because his voice is still somewhat restrained and fragile. But that’s exactly him, stubborn and delicate.

I step back just enough to see his face in the mirror. He’s calmer now, but his eyes still carry the shadow of fear.

“I’ll apologize.”

I step out of the fitting room and call the tailor, who waits tensely outside.

“I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you. We’ll take the jumpsuit, and it needs adjustments, but be quick about it.”

The man returns to his professional posture, relieved. I look at Yoongi, who gives me a silent approving look in return.

While the tailor takes the measurements, I stand to the side, watching Yoongi. I observe the way the light reflects on his hair, the way he tries to stay still for the fitting.

I love his brutal honesty, the fragility he allows only me to see. I love how real he is. He is my gift, he is my life.

What I felt for Taehyung belongs to the past; it doesn’t belong to me. And I can’t allow a ghost to destroy the solidity I have in Yoongi.

I decide.

I will cut whatever needs to be cut. I will kill whatever remains of that feeling, of that refuge by the lake, if that’s what it takes to protect what I’ve built here.

Yoongi deserves more than being second place in a dream. He deserves first place in reality.

I smile at him. He smiles back.

The jumpsuit is almost fitted. And my path is clear.

Chapter Text

Time until La Maison du Cygne Noir: 8 months, 2 weeks, and five days.

My mother's apartment is silent, lit only by the lamps she insists on scattering around the living room. She hates ceiling lights, says they remind her of rehearsal studios — which is ironic, since she spends half her life in them. Still, the dim light leaves everything with a suspended, heavy feeling, ready to collapse.

Hoseok is standing near the window, fixing his own shirt for the third time. The white dress shirt stretches across his wide chest as if trying to keep up with his size. The open collar reveals a line of warm skin that makes me dizzy, and the black tailored trousers fall perfectly on his body. He runs his hand through his hair again, irritated, and I stand there, motionless, observing the way his jaw tightens, his shoulders become rigid, his gaze drops as if trapped in some thought I cannot access.

He is not a man getting dressed. He is a man holding something that weighs more than it should.

His tension makes the room too small.

"Come here," I murmur, gently pulling him by the waistband of his trousers, trying to break at least one layer of this strange mood.

Hoseok gives in instantly. His face relaxes a little when I get close. He tilts his head to the side, inviting without realizing it, and I rest my forehead on his shirt. The fabric is soft, but the warmth of the body underneath is what really dismantles me.

He hugs me by the waist — firmly, automatically, as if it were the only gesture he still knows how to do without thinking. I feel his chest rise against mine, uneven, heavy.

"Honey…” he begins, but the word is loose, unfinished, suspended between us.

When he lifts his face to look at me, his eyes seem deeper than they should. A silent apology has resided there since the day of the dream — since that night that left everything crooked, everything too sensitive. The dark circles under his eyes betray sleepless nights.

And this is the worst detail: I don't know what is happening. I don't know what is consuming him inside. I don't know what is making him so distant, so irritated, so trapped within himself. He won't let me know. Never does.

Hoseok takes a deep breath, leans his forehead against mine for an instant — as if trying to stabilize himself before the blow.

"I know I've been…” he swallows hard, slowly letting go of the hug, as if pulling away was the only way to maintain control, “a terrible boyfriend. I'm trying, honey. I swear I'm trying. But… there’s something else. Something else bad."

My stomach clenches.

He opens his eyes, and the guilt inside is so clear that it almost makes me recoil instinctively.

I lower my head until I only see our shoes. I've been trying, truly. Trying to let everything flow, without demanding, without insisting, without even allowing myself to be hurt. But there is always something new. Something else always arrives that I discover too late.

"It's about today," he says, finally. "About my family."

The silence weighs heavily. The kind that warns that the night hasn't even begun and should have already ended.

"They're going to be at the event. Actually, the event is theirs. And I…” he runs his hand over his neck, nervous, “I can't introduce you. Not today. Not with everything the way it is."

He continues, quieter, as if he is ashamed of even the air around him:

"I need you to keep your distance. Just today. Just…” his voice breaks, and he breathes as if it hurts “just for now."

And it's impressive how few small words can hit so deeply.

I feel the heat rise in the back of my neck first. Then, my stomach clenches. That mix of anger and sadness makes my whole body want to laugh and cry at the same time.

It’s always like this. Always at this exact point, in this place where I am left alone with the loose pieces, and he holds the entire puzzle behind his back.

The anger comes softly, almost polite, but too hot to ignore.

"Of course," I murmur, my voice firmer than I expected. "We are strangers now. Funny how you always know exactly what you want me to do, but never explain the reason, right?"

Hoseok frowns as if I had hit him, but I continue, because it is already too late to swallow this.

My chest tightens.

It’s humiliating how much it tightens.

"Yoongi..." he tries again.

"No," I cut in, this time looking straight into his eyes. "Don't start with 'I'm doing this for you.' Don't start with 'trust me.' Because every time you say that, I'm left here, trying to guess what part of your life I'm not allowed to see. You never tell me anything," I continue. "Never. I wake up every day trying to understand what you're hiding from me, what makes you so tense, what makes you act as if I were... disposable when convenient."

He opens his mouth, but doesn't answer.

And that — that is what makes me want to break something. A glass, a mirror, the window pane to let the noise from outside rush in and muffle this silent humiliation.

"You always say 'it's complicated'," I say, feeling my throat burn. "You know what's complicated? Loving someone who never lets you in."

Hoseok closes his eyes as if he had been punched.

He frowns, feeling the pain of that punch, and for a second I think he's going to say something — anything. An explanation, a lie, a request, a desperate apology.

But he just opens his mouth... and nothing comes out.

Of course, nothing comes out. His silence is the proof. It is the confirmation that I am right: he doesn't know how to fit me into his life without blowing everything up.

The anger rises a little more, hot, proud, wounded. I feel it pulsing at the back of my tongue, at the bottom of my chest, right in that place where I usually keep the things I shouldn't say. The pressure is physical; it's as if my skin were too thin.

I want to say more.

I want to hurt back.

I want to ask why I can never be enough when it comes to his world.

But I am interrupted before I can utter a single word.

“Yoongi?” My mother's voice cuts through the air like a thin blade, slicing the moment in half. “Are you ready? We need to leave."

Hoseok finishes pulling away from me so quickly that he looks burned.

He takes two steps to the side, adjusts his shirt, and rubs his hand over his face. The hurt and irritation are palpable.

And I stand there, motionless, with short breath, as if someone had pulled the ground from under my feet and told me to deal with it later.

My mother appears at the door, elegant, impatient, and aware of the tension that is present.

"Come on, boys," she says, smiling slightly, in the language that Hoseok understands. "The car has arrived."

He doesn't even look at me.

And that... that hurts much more than his request to keep his distance.

I stand there with my jaw clenched, my hands fisted, and a bitter taste of an interrupted conversation in my mouth.

A taste I know far too well.

"I'm coming," I murmur.

Hoseok composes himself quickly — too quickly — as if he could hide everything that just happened beneath his shirt collar. When he smiles at my mother, it’s a perfect, polite smile, with no cracks in sight.

"Moore," he says, tilting his head, his voice too gentle to be true, "thank you so much for the reception. Truly. It was… it was great getting ready here."

My mother returns the smile, charmed as always.

An endless pretense in this room.

Irony, right? It had to be my room of all places.

"Not at all, dear. You can stay as long as you like."

Hoseok shakes his head. "I'll be going." He takes a deep breath, adjusts the watch on his wrist, without looking at me. "I think it's better to go to the event with my family. They… prefer it that way."

They prefer it that way.

What family? 

Prefer what?

It's a lie. It's so clearly a lie that it's almost insulting.

And still, I stay quiet.

That's what he wants.

It's the role he needs me to play.

"I'll see you there," he adds, out of politeness, not desire.

When he finally meets my eyes, just for a second, I see it. I know the fear. I see the guilt. And I see the decision already made.

He goes alone.

Because showing me to them... is too dangerous. Or too embarrassing. Or too complicated.

He takes one step back, then another.

And I let him.

Because, as much as it hurts, I've also already understood my part in this theater.

🐋

Today I feel like part of a costume. Not a person. I'm just something beautiful enough to be displayed. Just not by my boyfriend.

We arrived early, as always. My mother can never stand the risk of looking late when photographers are involved. As soon as we stepped out of the car, the air changed — expensive perfume, flowers, cold light reflecting too much off shiny surfaces. People are trained to smile as if it were natural. She holds my arm as if I were private property, and I let her. I save energy.

As soon as we enter the hall, I see him. My gaze is automatic, like a magnet. He is there, at the main table, beside his parents — sitting in the polite way they expect of him. Tense shoulders, impeccable posture, neutral face. He doesn't look at me even once. It's the agreement.

I fail right from the start. My chest tightens with the pain of exclusion.

The hall is beautiful — beautiful in an almost irritating way. The tall flower arrangements, the amber lights reflecting on the polished floor, and the School Orchestra occupying the main stage with instruments so shiny they look like pieces of jewelry. Jin always complains about the work of waxing everything late in the afternoon, but there, under the spotlights, you can see it's worth it.

The music is soft, a slow and clean classic, and for a second, I stop just to observe. Jin is in the center, his posture impeccable, his breathing aligned, his voice entering the melody as if the air was made for him. It's not an exaggeration. He sings well — very well. With a firmness I've never seen in a rehearsal, with a presence that takes the stage without needing effort. Namjoon, on the piano, tries to act professional... he tries. But his eyes always return to Jin, full of such open, such warm admiration, that it's almost funny. It looks like he is accompanying the music guided by the glow of his boyfriend, not the notes.

The music fills the hall like a calm wave, while conversations begin to spread. My mother grabs my arm before I can even think about escaping. She drags me through the reception area, displaying me as if I were an extremely well-trained extension of her career. Investors, teachers, school critics… I shake hands, smile respectfully, and answer questions with that polite, low voice they expect from me. The "Black Swan of the year." The victorious son of the main choreographer. The boy who did well for the right audience.

It's suffocating, but I know how to play this role with my eyes closed.

When I finally manage to slip away for a few steps, I greet a few people I recognize, until I bump into a warmer scene — Jimin with his parents, all smiling in that welcoming, friendly way that makes anyone look more beautiful. His mother holds her son's arm with explicit pride, and his father is all dressed up, equally proud, just less noisy.

"Yoongi!" Jimin waves, too excited about the level of decorum at this party. He immediately pulls me into a light, quick hug, and then turns to his parents. "This is Yoongi! The dancer I told you about."

I greet them both with a polite bow, and they return the gesture with easy smiles, as if they had known me for years. We are introduced, we exchange a few sentences about the performance, about the hard work, about the school.

And then, out of nowhere, Jimin leans close to my ear, lowers his voice, and blurts out:

"You matched outfits with Tae."

I blink.

"What?"

He gives a mischievous micro-smile, like someone who knows exactly what he's doing.

"You'll see later."

He goes back to talking to his parents as if nothing had happened.

I, on the other hand, am left preoccupied — Jimin's phrase spinning in my mind like a wrong note stuck in the measure. "Matched outfits with Tae." It makes no sense at all, yet it makes too much sense coming from him. And the worst part is that now I want to look. I want to see where Taehyung is, what he is wearing, and what this supposedly has to do with me.

But my mother calls me from a distance, which means another round of greetings, more polite smiles, more empty conversations about technique, career, and expectations.

With every handshake, I cast a glance at the main table, where Hoseok is motionless.

He is the perfect heir, and I am the artist of the season.

I feel the anger rise again, contained, subtle. I can't scream. I can't make a scene. But I stare at the back of Hoseok's neck with a silent fury. I want him to feel the weight of my gaze, I want him to know that I am hurt, that I am humiliated. But he doesn't move.

"The jumpsuit looks incredible on you, Min!" says a woman with jewels so extravagant they seem to weigh more than her own head. "So delicate, so elegant."

I smile. A trained smile, completely devoid of emotion. I thank her, perform a slight bow, everything perfectly within what is expected of me: the well-behaved image of the prodigy dancer. The word "delicate" still echoes in my mind, irritatingly. I would like to rip this jumpsuit off with my own hands, tear the fabric sewn onto my skin as if it were a cap that I never asked to wear. But, on the outside, of course, I remain the picture of good manners.

And then, instinctively, my gaze returns — it always returns — to the main table.

It is when I see it.

Not Hoseok.

But the one who just walked in through the central door was commanding the entire hall without needing effort.

Taehyung.

And, for an entire second, my brain just... freezes as if God had decided to slap me across the face as a joke.

Because he is wearing the same jumpsuit as me.

The same one.

It’s not the first time this has happened, but today… of all days… it feels personal. It looks meticulously calculated. It looks absurd. I have to hold my breath for a moment to confirm I'm not seeing wrong.

But no. It's the same.

The same fabric that flows like water, the same structured collar that frames the neck, the same cut that slims the waist and lengthens the legs. Even the damned high boots, which I swore only I dared to wear to this ceremony.

And his hair… that’s where everything weighs a little more. Pulled back on the same side as mine, the same loose strand falling over his face, only on him the strand is blonde — a light of its own, a blatant highlight. A more luminous version of the same character. As if someone had taken my costume, increased the contrast, and announced: "This is the real protagonist."

Beside him, his father parades greetings, smiling at directors, shaking hands with teachers, walking with the rehearsed confidence of someone accustomed to the social stage. He conducts Taehyung as if his son were a work of art he is proud to exhibit — and Tae responds perfectly, with that irritating grace, half theatrical, half spontaneous, that only he manages to carry without seeming false. Every step he takes is precise, beautiful, and intentional. As if he knows everyone is watching. As if the entire hall were a dance floor built for him to cross.

My world turns slightly upside down. The air presses on my throat. I feel that old sense of displacement, that invisible line between their world and mine pulling tighter, as if trying to cut me from the inside.

We are two Black Swans on the same stage — but one is the blonde, bright, socially approved version, and the other... the other is me.

Just me.

I close my eyes for an instant, forcing the air into my lungs. The sound of the orchestra, the conversations, the lights — everything starts to mix, scramble, spin. My mother continues talking to someone important beside me, without realizing I exist. Or maybe she realizes, and it just doesn't matter.

I need to get out of here. I need oxygen. I need anything that isn't this distorted mirror of my body walking free through the hall while I pretend that nothing is happening.

If I stay thirty more seconds inside this place, I will break.

I don't tell my mother. I don't tell anyone. I just let the conversation die around me, take a step back, then another, and take advantage of everyone being distracted by Taehyung's triumphant entrance to disappear down the side hallway. My chest aches with that kind of pressure that only grows when you try to ignore it. The air in there was too perfumed, too hot, too full.

I need to leave.

The automatic doors open with a cold blast as soon as I reach the empty lobby. I walk quickly, almost stumbling over my own momentum, and push open the door to the outdoor area — a side terrace that hardly anyone uses, lit by a few low lights and the lost glow of the city.

The icy air hits my face directly.

It's as if someone forcibly lifted a weight off my chest. I let out a long sigh, folding my hands over the marble railing and resting my forehead there for a few seconds. The marble is cold. Icy. I want to press my whole face against it, to cool the anger, the fear, the jealousy, the idiotic knot in my throat.

The muffled music from the hall arrives distorted through the wall. The night is beautiful, but not for me. I feel... crooked. Inadequate. A walking costume, trying to remember what it's like to have skin.

I close my eyes. I inhale. I try, truly, to organize a thought that doesn't hurt.

But I hear footsteps.

Slow, dragging footsteps, as if the person were deciding whether they should really come over here. I wonder who it could be and if it's worth greeting this person.

"Hiding?" Drew's voice cuts through the air like a wisp of smoke, too smooth for the annoyance it causes.

I open my eyes slowly, but I don't turn my head. Is it really him? What a massive displeasure.

"Looking for air." My voice comes out low, more hoarse than I expected.

I turn slowly, feeling every muscle in my body stiffen as if I had been caught doing something wrong. Drew is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, shoulders too relaxed for someone who carries so much arrogance beneath his skin. He is wearing black — of course. An expensive, sober suit that tries to look sophisticated. His smile is small, almost gentle. But I know people who are gentle enough to know when he isn't.

He observes me first as if analyzing a painting — sweeping his eyes up and down, slowly, without any modesty. Then he returns to my face, where his seemingly neutral expression gains an irritating sheen.

"I hate events too…” he comments, drawing in air as if savoring his own speech. “But I thought, now being the Black Swan, you would enjoy the attention more."

He talks as if he knows me.

And that is what bothers me the most.

Drew is handsome. That is a fact. But there is a heavy, strange aura about him, as if something has been broken inside and never glued back together. His eyes are an impressive blue, but surrounded by deep dark circles. His mouth is naturally pink, but it is dry, hard, as if he had spent the last few minutes arguing with someone. His nose flares and constricts with an irritating frequency.

He's an addict. The kind that tries to hide it, but his body gives him away.

"I just needed air," I answer, simple, direct, without trying to sound polite.

He smiles in an almost sympathetic way, as if my answer had confirmed some stupid theory he already had about me.

"Air…” he repeats, savoring the word as if it were some kind of inside joke. “Yeah, that makes sense. It must be hard to share the same room as Taehyung today."

My body reacts before my mind. It stiffens.

"What do you mean?" My voice comes out firm, but low. Controlled.

Drew takes a step onto the terrace. It is not fast. It is not aggressive. It is... calculated. As if he is accustomed to taking up other people's space.

"Ah, Min…” he laughs, low, tired. “You two are practically dressed up as twins today. Everyone noticed. The former dancer and the current one. Who is copying who?"

My stomach clenches. A sharp irritation grows, acidic, uncomfortable. I don't like being observed like that. I hate it when people like him observe too much.

"We didn't copy anything." My voice comes out colder than I intended.

Drew continues, as if he hadn't heard my answer — or as if it were irrelevant.

"Funny, right? He always loved being the center of attention…” his eyes scan my body again, slowly, “but today it looks like you stole that from him."

I cross my arms, trying to maintain distance. He looks at me as if he is savoring every hidden reaction on my face.

"I didn't steal anything."

"No… of course not," he agrees quickly, too quickly. "You just have… the power. It happens."

His intonation turns the compliment into a provocation. An accusation.

And yet, for some idiotic reason, I think about Taehyung. About the jumpsuit. About his hair pulled back on the same side. About the identical boots. About the hot discomfort that was left at the back of my throat.

And, for a second, I wonder how Taehyung put up with that personality for so long?

Drew continues observing me. But now his eyes no longer have that false softness. They harden. They become darker. His voice loses its delicate veneer.

"Tae was always mine, you know?" He says as if commenting on the weather. "But, somehow, your boyfriend had him, too. Have you figured that out yet?"

I clench my hand at my side. I feel my nails pressing into my own skin. It's not anger anymore. It's... invasion. As if he were poking an exposed nerve.

Drew notices.

And he smiles.

Then he laughs — softly, intimately, almost complicit. As if he were sharing a secret with me.

"You have, haven't you?" he continues. "It's so obvious. Those two are obvious. You know what I did?"

He doesn't even give me time to answer.

"I kept them apart as much as I could. Comments here, insinuations there. Maybe a few 'opportunities' that came up for me at the right time." He tilts his head to study my face, too attentive. "Similar to what you did to Tae's, right? Family, business… bought roles."

For a second, I think I heard wrong.

My heart skips a beat. Not out of guilt — but out of alarm.

This is not something a stranger should know.

This is not something anyone should know.

Drew Starkey is not close enough. He's not intimate enough. He's not trustworthy enough. So... how?

He looks at me, satisfied, as if he had placed a shiny bait right in front of me and was waiting to see how long it would take me to bite.

The irritation rises slowly. Slow. Firm. Consuming every inch of the air between the two of us. And when I finally speak, my voice comes out low, steady, almost polite.

"So you admit you were never better than Hoseok?"

His expression changes — just a little — but it changes. A muscle twitches in his jaw, and the smile loosens. And I realize I hit exactly where it hurt.

Drew opens his mouth to answer — probably to turn the tables, as always — but a voice calls my name behind him.

“Yoongi?”

I look. It's Taehyung.

He is standing in the doorway as if holding onto the frame by force, his fingers tense, his shoulder rigid, and his chin slightly raised too high, in a failed attempt to look indifferent.

His spine is straight as a beam. Too straight. Too tense.

And he's breathing fast — not enough to be obvious, but enough for me to notice. That short, high breath in his chest that he only has when he's too annoyed to hide it.

It's not tiredness. It's pure irritation. The kind that says, "I've imagined a thousand things and none of them pleased me." His eyes sweep past me. Then, past Drew. Then, back to me again. And his expression doesn't change — but it gets worse. It becomes even more closed off. Almost... hurt, but in the proud way he never admits. I wonder if he heard something, but something tells me it's just his sulky way.

"Your mother is calling you," he says.

And his voice… wow. It's dry. It's sharp. Every word comes out with that subtle cut that only Taehyung knows how to deliver when he's holding back something he doesn't want to say out loud.

Almost as if I had done something. Almost as if he were asking me "why are you here with him?" without actually saying anything.

And when our eyes truly meet, for an entire second, I feel as if he is waiting for an explanation. But he swallows hard, looks away, and presses his lips together even tighter.

And that says everything.

Or... it says more than he intends.

Because it's impossible not to notice the way he is — firm, irritated, beautiful in a strange way, half-brittle and half-sharp, as if his every emotion had been too much heat to fit inside his skin.

And that's when it clicks.

I understand, for a second, what Hoseok saw — or sees — in him. I understand perfectly.

Not in a romantic sense — at least I don't think so — but on that more... practical level. Observational.

Taehyung has presence. Even silent, even angry, even terrible at hiding when he is thinking too much. He fills the space in an almost magnetic way, and I can imagine Hoseok, years ago, looking at him and... seeing exactly that.

It's irritating to realize. It's irritating enough that I want to look away.

But I don't look away.

Because, as much as I try to deny it, there's something inside me that reacts. That heats up. That prods. A jealousy so small it almost looks like misplaced admiration. A pang of "so this is how you look when you care."

And I try — truly — to find a reason for him to be like this. To be looking at me as if… as if I had done something to need justification.

Only there is no reason at all.

It's just Taehyung being Taehyung — too intense, too proud, too impossible.

And, for the first time since I found out about him and Hoseok, I understand something new. He is not the type of person who lets himself be loved easily.

But when someone loves... It's impossible not to feel it. 

Did he love Hoseok?

I inhale slowly and take a step towards him.

Taehyung doesn't move — he remains firm in the doorway, as if he were waiting for me to decide for both of us. As if it were obvious that we would go to the hall together. And, somehow, it is. He turns his body slightly to the side, making space for me to pass, but without really looking at me. He just follows the movement with that restrained, almost irritated, almost... nervous manner.

"Tata." Drew's voice cuts through the air behind us

It's too gentle, too sweet, loaded with an intention that is anything but subtle

Taehyung stops. Stops completely. As if he had been pulled by the collar.

I turn just enough to see the two of them in the same frame: Drew leaning against the wall, arms crossed, posture too relaxed for someone who is clearly provoking; Taehyung extremely tense, his fingers still clenched into fists beside his body, his breathing shorter.

"Come here for a bit…” Drew continues, with that almost whiny, almost intimate tone, like someone calling a person who is used to obeying. “I need to talk to you.

‘I need.’ As if he had the right, as if it were natural.

And the worst part is… it works.

Taehyung's shoulder drops a millimeter. His jaw clenches.

He doesn't look at me — which already says more than any word — but he also doesn't leave immediately. He is stuck halfway, as if his body is divided between the impulse to follow me and that old reflex, conditioning, habit, whatever it is... that pulls him back to Drew.

And I see. I see everything.

The manipulation.

The calculated tone.

The subtlety that isn't subtle at all.

And I see Taehyung giving in even before he moves a muscle. Because giving in, for him, isn't walking — it's faltering. And he falters.

"Just for a little while," Drew repeats, this time softer, more insistent, as if he were reminding Taehyung of something I shouldn't hear.

Taehyung swallows hard.

And I think: so that was how it was. That's how he worked alongside this guy.

Control by gentle pressure.

Too much proximity.

Influence masked as concern.

No explicit words. And yet... everything was said.

Taehyung finally turns his face — not towards me, but towards Drew — and takes a hesitant step, minimal, but enough to make it clear that he is going. And that strangely hits me.

It shouldn't, seriously, but it hits me.

A hot, fast discomfort that rises through my chest as if someone had pulled a cord tied inside me. A silly feeling, almost childish, almost ridiculous. Seriously? He's going just because Drew called him?

I clench my jaw before any more obvious thought escapes through my expression.

It's not jealousy. Of course not. It’s just… irritation.

Irritation with the ease with which Drew manages to pull him away.

Irritation with Taehyung’s automatic response.

Irritation with the fact that I noticed — and cared — a little more than I should have.

And irritation, mainly, because for a second, he was coming with me.

And now he is not.

The walk back to the hall feels longer than it should. Every step echoes in my head with Drew's voice, with Taehyung's irritated manner, with that bitter feeling that I should be somewhere else — or with someone else.

I take a deep breath before crossing the side door, but the air of the hall hits me again like a wave of expensive perfume, bright light, and expectation. The music, the murmuring, the golden smiles — everything the same, everything too perfect.

And then I see it. I wish I were blind today.

My mother.

Talking to Hoseok's father.

They are in a corner near the bar, not close enough to hear anything, but close enough for me to recognize her posture — elegant, but tense, without that glow of someone who thinks they are doing important networking — and his posture — imposing, cold, the harsh expression of someone who always thinks they are above everyone else.

My stomach sinks.

Please don't say anything. Don't say anything. Nothing, Mom. Not even "he dances." Not even "he's Hoseok's boyfriend." Nothing.

His father tilts his head, interested in something she is saying.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I hold my breath without realizing it. I want to cross the room and pull her by the arm, but my legs won't obey. I just stand there, motionless, watching as if I were seeing an accident about to happen.

And I don't know what kind of fucking accident it is.

And in the middle of it, my gaze meets his.

Hoseok.

Standing next to the Jeon family, trying to look calm, elegant, controlled — but his eyes shine with that kind of alarm I've learned to decipher. He saw them both. He saw my panic.

He is panicking.

He looks away immediately, as if making a quick decision. His body moves before his head: he turns slightly to the side and calls someone with an almost imperceptible gesture.

Jungkook.

JK approaches with that naturally elegant manner — upright posture, gentle expression, the kind of person who knows exactly what to do in a hall like this. They exchange a few quiet words, too discreet for someone my age to decipher. But I notice the glances: from Hoseok to me, from Jungkook to my parents' table, from my mother to the chaos that is about to happen if no one intervenes.

And then, before I can even think about running away, Jungkook appears beside me.

"Yoon..." he says, in a tone so soft it's almost a whisper, "come with me."

I shouldn’t trust him. Not the only spoiled son of the Jeons — I don’t even know if he knows how to undo catastrophes. But I will. Because I have no alternative. Because his hand touches my arm with that calm confidence of someone who’s already solved harder things in the name of a friend.

He guides me to them — not running, not rushing, in the exact rhythm of a relaxed morning walk.

My mother lifts her gaze, surprised. Mr. Jung straightens his posture — even more. They both look like they’re about to say exactly the kind of thing I don’t want to hear.

But Jungkook arrives first.

“Mrs. Min,” he says, with that perfect politeness of someone raised to survive this kind of event, “good evening. You look stunning tonight.”

He says it smiling, overly charming, almost comical to see him dish out charm to a woman as bitter as my mother.

Then he turns to Hoseok’s father.

“Mr. Jung,” he continues, with a natural elegance that irritates simply because it’s so effortless, “my parents are just behind and mentioned they’d love to talk with you. In fact, my father mentioned a joint project… I’m sure he’d be very pleased if you went over there.”

The man immediately smiles, as if this were the invitation he had been waiting for all evening.

“Ah, of course, of course,” he says, excited.

Jungkook makes an impeccably smooth guiding gesture, almost choreographed, and Mr. Jung follows without hesitation.

In a few seconds — just a few — he moves away from my mother and disappears toward the Jeons’ table.

The tension melts away like a cut thread.

My mother takes a deep breath, adjusts her posture, trying to look as if she hadn’t been a step away from rudeness. I try not to look too relieved.

And Jungkook… he just looks over his shoulder, discreetly, exchanging a glance with me. A silent “it’s handled.”

I stand there, unsure exactly what to feel, beyond this strange relief and a confusion in my chest that refuses to go away.

My mother watches Mr. Jung walk away, and only when he’s far enough does she turn her eyes back to me. The polite smile vanishes immediately.

“You’ve been getting too involved with that boy,” she says bluntly. Her tone is low, but cutting. “He doesn’t know, does he? That you… are dating.”

“We’re not dating,” I reply too quickly.

She raises an eyebrow, pleased with my reaction.

“Great,” she murmurs, as if she’s just confirmed a hunch. “Keep it that way.”

My jaw tightens before I can stop it.

“Why?”

She adjusts the bracelet on her wrist without looking at me. It’s the kind of gesture she only makes when she’s choosing her words — or hiding others.

“Because this man…” she begins, as if speaking about someone distant, irrelevant. But he isn’t. “This man has a dark past, Yoongi.”

My stomach sinks.

“What past?” I ask, a note higher than I intended.

She finally lifts her gaze. And, for the first time since we arrived, she seems… uncomfortable. Not scared. Just uncomfortable.

“Just keep your distance,” she says. “You, especially. He’s not someone we want to get involved with.”

“We want to.”

The word hangs in the air, heavy. Too loud.

As if she were speaking about herself.

And about him.

And I see it.

I see it in a way I never wanted to see. The way she would look away while talking to him, the way he straightened up too much, the way they seemed to converse about something beyond the casual.

They know each other.

They know each other more than they should.

My throat goes dry.

“Mom…” I begin, but she’s already turning her face, already returning to the social smile, already leaving me behind as if the conversation had ended.

“Go,” she says, her hand light on my shoulder, almost impatient. “Portman wants to see you.”

And I stand there for a second, with the uncomfortable feeling that I’ve just run into a door I never knew existed.

A door that, clearly, no one wants me to open.

🐋

The back parking lot is almost empty, lit only by a few tall lampposts and the yellowish light spilling from the service doors. It’s far enough for the party noise to fade into a distant murmur — and close enough that no one would suspect anything if they saw us just… talking.

Hoseok is there. Just as Natalie arranged.

Leaning against his car, hands in his pockets, staring at the ground as if rehearsing what he’s going to say. He notices me approaching; his body reacts before his face. He turns just enough — as if he had been waiting for me right there, in that quiet fold of the night where no one will look for us.

He doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften. An almost hidden apology.

“Honey…” he says, his voice careful, as if any wrong word could break something between us.