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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But this is absurd, they all know that -“ Yoongi shifts in his seat and pushes out an icy response, “- that a part of my job is to prosecute anti-revolutionist within Paris. That could be their relatives, friends… It’s morbid, for me to be here, pretending to be friendly, while they all smile and play along. Just morbid.”

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

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

Jimin curbs the simmering contempt and responds, “Shocking, the Crow actually thinks of people’s friends and family. This whole time we all mistook you for a heartless monster, tsk tsk.”

Yoongi looks up to meet his eyes, dark orbs merciless, “Watch your words.” He thumbs at the lacy cuffs of his shirt, and continues, each word deliberate, “Royalists have been prosecuting people without trials for centuries. People labour to death trying to pay for the taxes that cover for your ballet shows, I’m sure you never lose sleep over it.”

Jimin purses his lips and swallows the bitter words that are threatening to break loose. This is not the place, not when people are stealing glances at the boxed suite, making their own judgement of the newcomer next to him that sticks out like a sore thumb.

He hears Yoongi add in a mumble, “And I have friends and family too.”

They sit in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Jimin stands up and grabs an empty glass on the end table, pouring wine into it, letting the subtle fragrance of the drink fill the shared space. He hands over the glass to Yoongi stiffly, who grumbles, “Why are we just sitting around anyways when you specifically want us to mingle.”

“Because, let them talk about you, assess their positions in the situation. Let the ones that want to ally with you come on their own. It will be done with a different attitude in mind, than the other way around.”

Yoongi throws his head back in agitation, “As you wish. I hope this whole ordeal ends soon.”

Jimin leans against the golden railing of the balcony, hands clasped and dangling. He spots the attendants below snuffing out the lights one by one, as patrons gradually meander back to their seats. Darkness sets the theatre in a dream-like trance, as random notes drift out from the orchestra pit. The show is about to start.

“This thing that you’re so disinterested in, it has a name - Don Juan. Some people say it’s more than just a story about a reckless womanizer making a fool of himself.”

Yoongi chugs the drink in hand in one swift swig and comments, “Hmm, you must find it relatable.”

Jimin ignores the jest and tilts his head towards the stage, as the floor to ceiling curtains are pulled back slowly, “It’s relatable to everyone, how we want it all - everything and everyone alluring in life - just so that we can forget the innate hollowness that is life.”

“Always the optimistic.”

Jimin chuckles darkly. The stage opens with Don Juan, the flamboyant libertine, senenading to Donna Elvira, his love interest. The elaborate set and costumes are decidedly Spanish, vibrant and filled with exotic romanticism. Jimin’s expression softens as he recognizes the lithe ballerina in the perfect attitude derrière - Aurelie.

Her long brown locks are curled up neatly and flows with each move. Every part of her figure is elegantly extended to express the youthful exuberance of the character.

He remembers seeing her the day after the angry mob stormed Versailles and stopped by the theater afterwards. The epitome of feudalistic opulence, they said, as they rounded up the few practicing dancer with crazed fervor. The sight of the theatre director’s severed head hanging above the exterior archway haunts her dreams to this day.

“See something you like?” Yoongi pipes up beside him lazily.

Jimin comments absently, “Do you know how many years a ballerina has trained to become a principle?”

“Educate me, please.”

“In the case of Aurelie, she was pretty much sold to the royal dance academy at seven. Eleven years of practice every single day - practice until the rigorous positions feel like breathing, practice until the movement and music pulse through your blood.”

To his surprise, there’s no snappy remark. Yoongi leans in and observes her, “The training shows, she dances well.”

Jimin agrees. Aurelie’s scarlet tulle dress billows like a suspended cloud with every jete. Under the dim stage lighting, a halo surrounds her as the passion shines from within. Her face looks jaunt, hands a little shakier than what Jimin’s used to seeing, but the grace of her movement remains and warms his heart.

“Ballet de Paris will never be the same again. Most of the nobles that support the art have fled the city, and the dancers are threatened on the street daily, as some sort of feudalistic monstrosity.” Jimin splays his arms on the handrail, feeling the cold touch of the brass against his skin, “That’s the thing about destroying an era - you rid of the obsolete and the wrong, but unfortunately also destroy the beautiful in the meantime.”

There’s a pause in the moment, as they both listen to the enchanting melody drifting out of the orchestra pit, allowing the music to slow down their tense minds, for however briefly.

Jimin is grateful for the small respite from reality. He casts a sideward glance and spots Yoongi watching the performance intently. It’s rare to see him outside of the uniform, dark hair ruffled and expression relaxed, finally looking his age. There’s something soft in his gaze towards the stage, something akin to wonder.

Maybe the cruel savage can appreciate art after all.

As Jimin turns away, Yoongi’s voice reverberates next to him, “Art is an afterthought when the city burns and the people on the street suffer, but it’ll be back one day. What’s beautiful and righteous in the world cannot be destroyed.”

Jimin wants to snap back but the words grow pale against the sombering melody shrouding the dim suite, by the time they reach his lips, only a silent sigh escapes, dissipating into the void.

The show lasts all night, with frequent intermissions in between. There's a steady stream of visitors to their suite, some quiet and brief, others more outspoken and curious.

Funny how people’s place in the world can be switched so easily overnight, Jimin muses. One day you’re the incarnation of divinity, the next, grovelling for your life before the sharp blade of the guillotine kisses your nape. People are afraid of Yoongi, intimidated by the presence of military prowess in their cozy den of opulence. Yet in a way, they are no strangers to it, the reversal of dominance and submission. Power play is the essence of court politics, after all.

Yoongi’s initial agitation dissipates as time passes. His focus remains on stage, and the rapture in his eyes grows as the performance progresses. At the of the show, when the gates of hell opens up, and Don Juan leaps in willingly, surrendering himself to the flames of purgatory, Jimin sees a glint of sorrow in Yoongi’s dark gaze, and feels the tension in his muscles as he leans in, utterly enthralled. It reminds Jimin of the first time he watched ballet himself as a kid, carried away by the raw emotions of the art, dazed and overwhelmed as a whole new world opened up in front of him.

The carriage ride home that night is quiet, as their thoughts drift apart. The last scene flashes across Jimin’s mind - how unfortunate, that this Danse Macabre they dwell in together may not have a purpose after all, he thinks to himself. Even the blazing fire of hell will seem kind compared to this truth.

⚜️

Jimin spends the next day visiting Aurelie and strolling through the vast garden of Palais Royal together, amidst barren branches and withered bushes.

She’s leaving Paris in a few months, probably forever. Funding for the ballet school has been cut drastically, as the revolutionary assembly scrutinizes and regulates the dance troupe’s every move. Her only other mean of survival is to marry. Her parents in the Northern city have found her a suitor with land and stable wealth, apparently.

“It’ll be ok, I haven’t been home for years but it’s home after all.” She smiles and clasps her hand by his arm. Jimin can’t be sure if she’s reassuring him or herself.

He blinks away the fleeting thought of her frail figure fading out in the stark sunlight of a farm field, and responds, “if you want, if you don’t mind, I could always find you a spot at Château Rambouillet.”

She shakes her head, eyes flitting between the trees in the distance, looking a little lost, “No, I’ll be fine. Just need some rest, a good night’s sleep. This place - all of this is just a little too much... But thank you, I’m grateful for the time we spent together.”

Jimin places his hand over hers gingerly. For the few moments of passion they’ve shared over the years, more of the memories are of a mutual appreciation for music and dancing. Sometimes, he popped by the dance school just to watch her practice, with bruises on her legs but always maintaining the perfect posture. It stirred up past memories within him - of his own ballet trainings as a kid, and of the slim silhouette of mother, smiling and guiding him at each step.

Jimin pushes the thoughts aside and sighs. Farewells, they happen at such an alarmingly frequent rate nowadays. One blink and suddenly, all the familiar faces fade into the darkness.

“Why are you still in Paris anyways? Surely you could have a passport out of here in a moment’s notice.” Aurelie’s voice pulls him back gently.

Jimin shrugs, not willing to think deeper, “Who knows, just being stubborn, I guess.”

“Don’t linger for too long. I’ll pray for your safety.” She presses her lips into a stiff grin, but there’s no joy in her eyes, just a tinge of fear, for the future and the unknown fate that awaits each of them.

“Thanks, darling.” he whispers the response into her hair, eyes glancing into the distance absently.

By the time Jimin arrives back home, the last rays of the sunset have receded below the horizon. He climbs up the stairs in the dark, suddenly feeling the weariness washing over and making him stumble. Looking down the hallways at the top of the stairs, he spots the faint flickering light through the half open doors to the salon. Against his better judgement, Jimin strides over and pushes open the door.

Yoongi is facing against him, head dipped low and flipping through a stack of documents on the vast table. His shadow wavers against the glimmering candlelight.

Jimin clears his throat before speaking, palm pushing into the door frame, “Jin said you still wouldn’t let the servant dress you. And this room - because of that whole ridiculous scheme of yours, now they’re all too scared to clean up here.”

Yoongi grumbles but doesn’t respond.

Jimin steps towards him, surprising himself with the irritation in his voice, “I know you could care less, but they run this place, the least you could do is work with them -“

“Stop.” Yoongi cuts him off, hand lifted and face half turned, catching the light. Jimin spots the creases between his brows. “Just stop, alright? If you want to pick a fight just for the sake of fighting, come back tomorrow. It’s been a long day.”

“Let me guess, someone at the assembly poked holes in your ridiculous strategies again.” Jimin rolls his eyes and mocks.

“I said-“ Yoongi suddenly turns around, exasperation burning in his eyes and catching Jimin by surprise, “-stop. You know what, I was planning on showing you these tomorrow, at a better time. But you might as well take a read now.” He shoves a stack of letters in Jimin’s hand, and flashes him a contemptuous glare.

“What are these?” Jimin skims through them, and recognizes most of the names immediately - Marquis Dubois, Comte Montpellier, he knows the specific clique of royalists, older and stubbornly holding onto their feudalistic values. “A bunch of old men gossiping and reminiscing, nothing new here. I see some mentions of gathering funds, yes, and a private meeting or two, what do you expect. People like these would rather die with the old regime than to see the likes of you stomp all over their precious monarchy, go figure.”

“Yeah, well they actually carried out most of what they talked about. I was at the military base all day, witnessing interrogations of entire households. Conspiracy with the Spanish on an attack of the new government in a month’s time. This is war, they’ve gone too far.”

The words give him pause, and Jimin finally notices all the splatters on Yoongi’s uniform, grimes mixed with dark crimson. He gulps and averts his gaze, “I thought interrogation is usually left with the city police. Or you just enjoy being there?”

Yoongi scoffs and ignores his taunt, “I was called in because this is of an entirely different magnitude - it’s treason of the highest degree. They will all be guillotined before sunrise - relative, servants, every living thing in these households.” Yoongi’s eyes are bloodshot and detached, not a glint of emotion to be found.

Jimin feels a shiver climbing up his spine, the letters in his hands suddenly weighing unspeakably heavy. Yoongi inches closer, narrowing his brows as he continues, “The letters mention more names, one in particular caught my attention. Care to take a guess?”

Jimin’s heart sinks, as blood rushes to his ears and breath hitches. He lowers his gaze and scans through the pages frantically, until he spots the familiar name, unmistakable and stark in jet black ink - Victoria de Bourbon.

His fingers tremble and a page slips and spirals to the ground.

“The letters are vague, not detailing what her exact involvement is, but the mentions along would be enough. I went through everything that was gathered and pulled out as many letters with her name as I could find.”

“What do you want for these?”

Yoongi chuckles drily, “You think I’m blackmailing you? What do you have to offer, that you haven’t done already? To be honest, my first instinct was that you were behind all this, stringing me along while your family works on anti-revolution effort. But I don’t know - “ he pauses, and paces in the room carefully before continuing, “- it doesn’t seem logical, riskier to keep me so close, working on a fake alliance while scheming up something so blatant. It doesn’t feel like you, frankly, you’d be much harder to figure out.”

“I’m flattered, I suppose.” Jimin tries to laugh it off but his throat is dry, and the words push out as weak rasps.

“Talk to her. Figure out what’s going on. It better be nothing more than just a few meaningless mentions. But needless to say, if she wants to keep her life, and to ensure we don’t all get killed, then please, be more careful with who she associates herself with.”

Jimin nods. His hands still shake, but thoughts of gratitude bubble up from within, no matter how stubbornly he denies them, “I promise you she’s innocent. The past is gone, there’s no point clinging onto it.” Jimin in a sharp breath to focus, “I can vouch for my family - we would rather focus on survival.”

His chin is tilted up in pride, yet his words are reluctantly acquiescent, “I am indebted to you. What’s your next move - what’s your most urgent concern that I can help with.”

Yoongi’s gaze glides over him, and chooses his words deliberately, “this won’t be the end, there will only be more resistance. Even the assembly whispers of a potential war at the border, thinking it will be good for morale, uniting the country against a common enemy.” He scorns and tugs on his coat roughly, “It’s ludicrous, but I have no choice but to be prepared. I need your help in fortifying the army as quickly as possible, getting the soldiers ready for the impending conflict.”

Jimin nods. He strides towards the fireplace by the wall, and gestures to the letters, “May I?”

“Please.” An agitated wave, as Yoongi looks away. Jimin tosses the letters into the bright open flame, and stutters out a long exhale as the pages curl and scorch, “I have someone in mind, with the perfect credentials to restructure your army, who has earned his experiences the hard way in the battlefield. The only thing is, he’s in a rather precarious situation right now. Recruiting him will take a bit of… fineness.”

“Interesting choice of words.” There's a glint of intrigue in Yoongi’s eyes, “I’m curious to see how this unfolds.”