Chapter Text
A heavy silence is trapped in the dance studio.
It echoes from white wall to white wall, from gray floor to high ceiling, binding Jongin in place as the room’s centerpiece.
Behind him, the beige curtains have been drawn open to the view of uptown Seocho, all the building blocks balanced precariously tall and shutting out the afternoon smog.
His coach has his back turned, hunched over his phone, also frozen, and the only movement that betrays the portrait is the tops of the trees from the street below. They peak over the outside railing, swaying in the ripples of summer heat, while the air trying to claw its way out of Jongin’s lungs is lukewarm, slowly drying the layer of sweat that makes his t-shirt stick to his pounding chest.
After six hours of practice and one of sleep, Jongin can feel his body starting to wear down, the Advils he took in the last break only churning in his hollow stomach. Now, just holding fourth position makes him ache, and the strain from keeping his core tensed, his feet positioned apart, one hand curved to the bright lamps overhead, stings like acid.
But he has too much to prove and no time left to do it, not when the clock above the barre is mocking him for a whole morning wasted on searing stretches and poor performances. So Jongin waits, holding his head high, his stance firm, staying as strictly poised as the statue he faces in the mirror, staring at it intently to keep the fog from seeping into the corners of his vision.
All year, day by day, he’s watched out of bitter habit as his reflection has grown leaner and firmer, carved down from rigid training and discipline, further than even his coach had wanted. But Jongin’s eyes cut deeper than ever right now, all the way through to the bone, and the dips in between his muscles are nowhere near as sharp as he needed, nothing like the image he has plastered in his mind of Taemin last June.
It’s too late for him to do anything about it, though-
“Okay, sorry about that. Boss is cracking down on us,” Hyukjae sighs out, his voice instantly hardening as he turns and paces to the edge of the room. “We can only squeeze in one more run-through before she kills me, alright?” Jongin doesn’t move or answer him, just swallows past his dry throat, itching to start. “I know you’ve gotta be tired, but I want you to concentrate on getting every move perfect this time. Ready-” Finally, Jongin lets himself empty out his breath, his limbs locked in further. “And four, three, two, go.”
On cue, he glides forward, slotting straight into the familiar variation.
Each small shift of his clothing grates against the quiet, each carefully timed exhale rushing out too loud in the wide space, his calm expression already showing cracks.
He switched the music player off hours ago, the noise too jarring for him to think through, and even Hyukjae has stopped counting, now. His attention is fixed only on Jongin, both of their gazes prickling hot on his skin and over his slim figure, peeling apart the most delicate motions.
This same sequence of steps has been etched into Jongin’s skull over the past months, always running through his thoughts in his spare few seconds or crawling into his dreams at night. But today, when it actually matters, after five months of full-time rehearsal and twelve years of ballet building up to tonight's performance, he can’t get a single thing right.
“Stop.” God, already- Jongin’s knee locks up on command, one foot flexed in the air behind him. “Hold that arabesque.”
Pulse hammering in his ears, Jongin’s waist is already cramping, shaking from the pit of his abdomen as he struggles to keep his legs straight. He has his teeth gritted and his gaze down, hidden by his black fringe as Hyukjae marches over from the barre, dress shoes clicking along the linoleum floor.
“Your hip has to be turned in,” his coach instructs, a firm grip on Jongin’s thigh twisting so that the fire shoots red-hot up his spine- “Otherwise your whole back looks out of line.”
Jongin gives a curt nod, his eyes squeezed shut so none of the pain can show through, not letting himself even inhale until his leg is released.
“Better. Keep going,” Hyukjae states quietly, and he steps back.
Slowly lowering back to the ground, there's a tight pressure left clamped around Jongin’s muscles, adding to the familiar feeling of the tendons in his side being wrung apart, all the way to the base of his spine. Jongin has been fighting it off the whole week, and he knows it will only get worse from here.
But still, he straightens his core, jaw set, arms floating light as he resumes his count.
The four beats after the arabesque lead straight into a series of pirouettes, Jongin’s eyes fixed on his reflection that he snaps his neck back to after every turn, needing to grasp onto his solo’s character, again, to get lost in the narrative and not in the pangs throughout his body.
As he flicks his left leg out, à la seconde, his sight spots red and makes his breath hitch, but Jongin refuses to falter through the last few twirls. As he leans back to a stop, the weight digging into his hip is too stiff for him to hold his smile steady, needing to drop it for a split second before he can stretch it thin over his chapped lips.
With a flourish of his hand, Jongin has no beats to waste in between, and he prances to the side, flitting in circles around an invisible partner that will finally dance with him. His mind is fading faster than he can catch, though, tumbled out of reach and dragging the rest of him even further down. He can’t pick up enough speed to stop his slippers from grazing, not even halfway through the routine yet, and his gut lurches.
On tempo, he jumps and slides to a stop on one unsteady knee, an arm reaching to caress humid air, just as his lover is meant to slip out from beneath his fingertips. Mouth dropped open in shock, Jongin whips his head around until it fixes on the other wall where she reappears, and he fakes a relieved grin.
Standing on sore soles, the dread heavy in his bones, he starts to race across the room, its length a fraction of tonight’s stage. The space surges as it closes in on him, making him hesitate before his jetés- overshooting the distance when he leaps into the splits and wrenches his waist apart once, twice-
“Toes pointed more,” his coach instructs, Jongin barely hearing over the impact of a jolted landing- and he forces his throbbing feet to leap off the ground one last time, a beat behind- “Okay, let’s stop here.”
Flipping back, Jongin can’t- stumbling into his first déboulé and twirling so fast across the floor that his balance scatters away- falling blind-
“I said stop-”
Almost there- he’s almost spun into the second act- air biting at his wild eyes, chafing his hoarse throat in his rush to get there-
“Jongin!” Hyukjae calls out, a stern warning- and Jongin screeches to a halt centerstage, lungs collapsing wide open around him.
Trembling hands coming to rest on his thighs, his heartbeat is deafeningly loud in the silent room, and Jongin is clinging to his last energy to not keel over and gasp for oxygen, his breath coming in short, quiet pants.
“That’s enough, now,” Hyukjae says, more gently, voice drowned out by the fire let loose through Jongin’s veins.
He burns from the bottom up- as if he has worn through his ballet shoes and into the flesh, having to swallow down the bile that claws its way out of his thrashing chest. Forcing his gaze ahead, through his damp fringe, he has to check that his expression doesn’t give anything away, blinking the red stains from his vision.
In the mirror, the breakouts on his cheeks glisten, his shirt soaked through with the same sweat that raises goosebumps on his chilled skin. His insides are boiling over, though, and the thick air sends another urge through Jongin to heave up his empty stomach.
But what rips him into shreds is the shame- the shame of failure that blares in his mind like sirens, like Taemin’s uncontrolled peals of laughter- louder than he can think.
He waits there, the pains through his body fading too soon, clenching to the twisted nerves in his waist, and prays for Hyukjae to drive the knife back in deeper. Except that Hyukjae chooses now of all times to be gentle, his words laced with a pity that tears through Jongin worse than anything else could have.
“You’re overthinking it,” Hyukjae offers, and Jongin chokes back a bitter huff, nails digging into his tights until he can feel it. “Look, I already know that you can do this routine perfectly. You proved all of my doubts about that wrong last week.” The encouragements only echo through Jongin’s ringing ears, hollow, meaningless, his mouth left tasting like metal.
“Then what’s been going on? You sure the physio didn’t say anything?” Hyukjae checks again.
It’s the third time that he’s asked since Jongin was meant to go on Monday, and his side throbs in response, fingers curling harsher. Between Hyukjae’s and his parents’ questions, Jongin’s lies are fraying, and he can only give a rough nod, still avoiding Hyukjae’s reflection.
“So you’re just shitting yourself, aren’t you?”
No- Jongin is losing before he’s even started, only a pathetic glint cast in the overbearing shadow that hangs over this studio, like Taemin is always watching him, taunting everything he gets wrong.
With a soft sigh, Hyukjae marches over, cutting across Jongin’s venomous gaze and making him automatically straighten.
“Yeah, of course you are,” Hyukjae murmurs, stopping to hold onto Jongin’s shoulder, whose stare flinches down, lungs stiffening. He isn’t used to this from Hyukjae- touches that are meant to be comforting and not corrective, but he resists the urge to jerk away.
“You aren’t going to get a second chance at Juilliard, so you better get your head straight before tonight, got it?” Fists clenching at his thighs, of course, Jongin knows that- as if he could forget. Everything hinges on this solo variation, on the minute-and-a-half routine that he has to get perfect. “Now before I go, I want you to tell me again how much you want this.”
“More than anything,” Jongin whispers out, lungs too weak to raise his voice or release his breath.
“No,” Hyukjae snaps and tugs Jongin back, a sharp knife dug into his spine. "Look at me and answer properly. How much do you want this?”
Their eyes meeting in the mirror, Jongin can feel the determination set in Hyukjae’s face, and it burns as fiercely as the turmoil in his stomach.
There are too many onlookers, too many expectations weighing down on him, the confidence of just Hyukjae paralyzing him, let alone of his parents. All the money they’ve invested into Jongin is a heavy enough debt to bury him alive, and despite everything, he has to do whatever it takes to repay them.
Which means having to impress the scout to get through to the live auditions, to win the scholarship so they can afford the enormous tuition, to graduate from the four-year degree so that he can join a national American company, and then to work his way from the corps to principal dancer as fast as possible.
That’s the moment that he’s been dreaming about from when he was six years old and just starting out, that he's been planning forever since his family moved up to Seoul at 12 years old for him to study and attend the national academy. Seven years later, having graduated from high school in February, Jongin has already started to repack his things in secret, because the thought of leaving everything behind is less terrifying than the thought of failing.
He can’t even let himself think of what happens then.
“I-” Jongin rasps out, before he turns back to himself, the pain of clearing his strangled throat obvious in his reflection.
After a whole life building up to this, there is no other choice for him, and he knows that better than anyone-
“I need this,” he whispers, vocal cords worn thin enough to snap.
“Exactly. Hold onto that,” Hyukjae states, patting Jongin once firmly before his arm drops. Jongin still doesn’t let himself exhale, though, not even when Hyukjae pulls his phone back out. “And stop stressing yourself out, man. You gotta have a decent meal and relax- take a nap, even. And talk to someone about it, like Taemin. He knows what you’re going through.” The casual mention lurches at Jongin’s chest, raising a storm of acid-
“Oh, crap,” Hyukjae hisses to himself, and Jongin digs into his bottom lip, teeth catching on the cracks. “Joohyun needs help calming down her beginning class, and Ms. Kang still wants me doing a thousand other things. Shit... I’m probably not going to see you ‘til we’re all backstage after the show. You’ll be alright, yeah?”
Jongin gives a stiff nod, ripping the skin off too harshly and having to loosen his jaw.
He should have expected that. No matter how much he charges per hour, Hyukjae is still a ballet master before he’s Jongin’s personal coach or makeshift manager, and this is just another academy showcase for him, the same as every other year.
“Y’know,” Hyukjae starts, glancing at him in the mirror, a slowed lilt to his voice that Jongin already recognizes. “She’ll be watching you tonight, Ms. Kang.”
Not only the company director, but everyone else from the Korean National Ballet will be in the audience: the teachers, choreographers, and soloists that Jongin bows to in the halls and hears hushed praises from as he walks away, that have watched him grow up within their academy and have always told him to audition as soon as he's out of high school. Even Hyukjae has implied enough times that there'll be a paid position waiting for Jongin in the corps next year, but despite his coach's confidence, Jongin’s heart is set on New York.
“Dammit, I don’t know why I even bother,” Hyukjae chuckles out, shaking his head before he starts to walk off, an instant panic rising in Jongin. “You’re a stubborn kid, that’s for sure,” he states, and Jongin is frozen in place- desperate to call out. “Let’s just hope it pays off, huh?”
But before Hyukjae can push open the door and leave, the fears inside Jongin come crashing out, forced past the cage around his mouth.
“Do you think I can do it?” he asks, words suffocated to only a whisper.
Hyukjae stills in the mirror, and the room is silent except for the question pounding in Jongin’s ears, until a curt sigh is let out.
“It doesn’t matter what I think. You tell me if you belong in that top 12,” Hyukjae says bluntly, but Jongin is welded shut, again, lips pressed tight so nothing else escapes. “Okay, look at it this way- just based on your resume, a scout was willing to come halfway around the world to see you perform. When they hear about someone with that many prizes, they want them in their program.”
But that means nothing when they wanted Taemin first, and he turned them down. Taemin: the one who made it to the finals of the Prix de Lausanne, the two-time winner of the Korea International Dance Competition, the one that articles called ‘the next Kim Kimin’. Comparing that to Jongin, who could only win the pre-junior category in the year that Taemin moved up, who hasn't placed in anything he's entered over the past two years, even in the contests Taemin couldn't afford to get to- it makes Jongin’s chest seethe.
“You’ve got a massive advantage on all those other kids, so don’t let that go to waste,” Hyukjae continues, his words only chilling over Jongin’s fevered skin. “Ace your variation, ace your pas de quatre, and ace your interview tomorrow. If you remember everything that I’ve taught you, then you’ll be fine.” But it still doesn’t give him an answer- doesn’t offer any relief to his aching heart- and Jongin squeezes his eyes shut in defeat.
“Now, Jongin- please… Just go home.”
The sound of the wooden door being shut echoes, trapped with Jongin in the dark, and he lets his head hang. The last hinge in him is rattling, threatening to buckle and send him stumbling to the cold floor, but he can’t let it, not yet-
Heaving in a breath that scrapes along the sides of his throat, Jongin braces himself and squints up at the clock, blinking through the sting until he can read the numbers. The hands have crossed past 2.30, too many minutes slipped away from him to afford a second more, and his gaze turns back to his reflection.
Left alone, Jongin stands face to face with the only constant company that he’s had all year, in the empty studio that’s become more familiar and welcoming than his family’s own cramped apartment. Eyes burning with new anger, he pulls the strings in the mirror, mechanically setting himself back into position and ignoring the twinge in his waist.
If Taemin practiced four hours on his last day, then Jongin will do eight, until the very last second before the dress rehearsal begins and he has to sprint to make it to the Opera House. Even then, Jongin knows he can’t hope to beat Taemin in technique, not when his performance of the Sleeping Beauty variation was so close to flawless that he was offered a full scholarship to Juilliard without attending the auditions.
But Jongin has always been the best storyteller, with judges and teachers boasting that his acting is beyond his years, that the emotions he can express are so raw and intense, they say it almost hurts to watch. That’s why this performance, self-choreographed with Hyukjae’s help, is its own original piece- the plot of an entire Romantic ballet condensed into one minute and 30 seconds, split into two equally challenging and contrasting acts.
It’s ‘brilliantly daring’, as his coach had called it in their first private sessions, ‘a masterpiece of human passion that you can’t tear your eyes from, that leaves you on the edge of your seat until the final seconds'.
The steps are carved deep into his memory, and now, Jongin just needs to focus on embodying the story- to bring the fairytale love and the unbearable heartbreak to reality. He has to strip back the flesh of this solo and reveal the bones, to bleed the character into his veins until it’s the only pain that he feels.
His limbs are leaden, tearing apart at the seams, fire scalding the soles of his feet and flaring white-hot through his body when he restarts the four-beat count.
This is his one chance, the life that he craves so desperately at the tip of his curled fingers, almost in his reach-
This is his story to tell.