Chapter Text
The director’s phone rang, cutting him off mid-belt.
The rehearsal space smelled like sweat, ambition, and old velvet. Jungkook didn’t mind. It was the smell of possibility — the start of something. The kind of something that burned slow but left scars.
“Thank you, thank you. We’ve seen enough. Next.”
Jungkook didn’t wait for them to finish. He nodded with a small bow, grabbed his sheet music from the pianist, picked up his bag, and rushed out of the room. The waiting area was packed — as usual. He didn’t make eye contact with any of them — his competitors.
“What does light even mean?” He thought to himself as he made his way to the nearest subway station. His shift started in an hour. Hopefully, Dev was having a better day.
~*~
“Jimin Park!”
Jimin perked up. He grabbed his bag while still looking after the young man who just brushed past him, leaving the audition room in a huff. He plastered a practiced smile on his face and pranced into the audition room, he strutted with confidence. The rehearsal space was quaint. The director, casting director, and producer sat side by side in a row. They looked bored. No problem. It was Jimin's job to perk them up and show them a performance worthy of the part.
“Hi, you guys,” he said as he dropped his bag by the piano and pulled off his jacket, revealing a casually but elegantly clad physique. He positioned himself in the center of the room, feet in a perfect ballerino stance, where Jungkook had been standing just moments ago.
“So, do you want the ballad or the up-tempo first?”
*~*~*
Jungkook was walking briskly, practically, nearly, breaking into a jog. His side buzzed, he felt for it, and pulled out his phone. Dev. Jungkook accepted the call, dreading having to deliver bad news.
“Well don’t keep me waiting, how did it go? Well?“ Jungkook could hear Dev’s excitement over the line.
“Well, they kept me waiting for almost an hour, and then the director took a call in the middle of my audition! No! It did not go well!“ Jungkook uttered hotly into the microphone.
“Babe I’m sorry…“
Dev was quiet for a second, then said, “But you still sang, right? You gave them The Voice?” His optimism was exhausting, a helium balloon tied to the wrist of Jungkook’s chronic disappointment.
“They didn’t even look at me,” Jungkook said, hearing his own words echo off the tiled walls of the subway station. He leaned his face into the phone, eyes closed, as if he could rest five years’ worth of fatigue onto Dev’s steady shoulder through the speaker. “I could have sung 'Happy Birthday' and they wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Well, I would have noticed,” Dev replied, voice warm, softening the ache in Jungkook’s chest. “Come home. I’ve got news, if you want it.”
Jungkook felt a flicker—of what, he didn’t know. He almost asked if it was the good kind or the bad kind, but what would be the point? Dev’s news was always both.
“I’ll be home late,” he said. “Tell me now?”
Dev’s laugh was a little nervous. “Nope. Surprise. Call me dramatic if you want, but I know you love it.”
Jungkook hung up with a smile pecked out of habit, his thumb stuttering over the ‘end’ button.
*~*~*
Yoongi’s apartment had the sterile gleam of a hotel suite, which was not how he’d left it. He eyed the absence of pizza boxes and the clean, lint-free couch with suspicion, as if some well-meaning burglar had sneaked in and tidied everything while he was out of town. In the kitchen, a pale young man with a blindingly platinum undercut was slicing limes as if auditioning for a citrus-themed Cirque du Soleil.
“You’re back!” said the young man, voice bright and a little nasal. He wiped his hands on a navy apron and came forward, extending a palm that was at once eager and slightly clammy. “Welcome home, Yoongi. And Namjoon, you look taller in person. Maybe it’s the boots.”
Namjoon, who had been examining the bookshelf for missing volumes, turned and offered his signature dimpled smile. “Elis, right?” He shook the assistant’s hand warmly. “You’ve done a hell of a job. Last time I was here, I found a sock in the toaster.”
Yoongi rolled his eyes. “That was one time. It was for science.”
Elis shrugged, bashful. “I like to keep busy. If you’re hungry, I made dinner. There’s also a pitcher of Negronis, but I can do mocktails if you’re trying to—” He gestured vaguely at Namjoon, then at Yoongi, as if either of them ever made resolutions.
Yoongi flopped onto the leather couch and let his bag tumble to the floor. “Are you always this peppy, or is it a side effect of the cleaning?”
“Bit of both,” said Elis, setting three glasses on the coffee table. “Also, I’m excited. I went to see the show twice while you were gone. You know, the new cast? They’re good, but honestly, the last Tzarevna had more charisma—”
“Don’t get me started,” Yoongi groaned. “The new Tzarevna is allergic to vowels. She collapsed a whole act into a single syllable last week.”
Namjoon snorted, already halfway through his Negroni. “It’s endearing. The Times said her diction was ‘avant-garde.’”
Elis looked between them, delighted. “I can’t believe you guys are taking a year off. What are you going to do with all that time?”
“Sleep,” Yoongi deadpanned. “Maybe get a dog. Or buy a house on the moon.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Namjoon said to Elis. “He’ll last a week and then start writing overtures on napkins. It’s pathological.”
Yoongi tried to scowl, but the effect was blunted by the way he kept refilling his glass. “You’re one to talk. The entire second act of ‘Light Years’ was written on the back of cocktail coasters. Which Elis will now alphabetize, presumably.”
Elis blushed so hard his ears looked sunburned. “I mean, if you want me to archive your work, I’d be honored. Or just, you know, clean up the actual glassware.”
They ate in silence for a minute, all three hunched over their bowls of pasta, chewing and drinking and politely not mentioning the way the room felt heavier than before. Maybe it was the jet lag, or the fact that Yoongi’s mailbox still overflowed with letters from management and ex-boyfriends alike, or maybe it was just the awareness of time passing, receding, like the tide.
After a while, Elis cleared his throat. “So, question for the professionals: if you had to write a musical about a real person, who would you pick?” He looked from Yoongi to Namjoon and back, eyes bright and a little conspiratorial, hoping for a glimpse behind the curtain.
Yoongi and Namjoon exchanged a glance, the kind that chewed over the question like a tough cut of meat. Yoongi broke first. “Marilyn Monroe,” he said, with surprising firmness.
Namjoon nearly choked on his drink. “Marilyn?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Everyone’s doing Marilyn right now. Half the city’s got a Marilyn spec script in their Google Drive.”
“Exactly,” said Yoongi. “But they’re all doing it wrong. They make her into a sad clown, or a bimbo, or a martyr. Nobody treats her like an actual person. Or a legend, for that matter.” He swirled the ice in his glass, eyes distant. “If someone gave her the Sondheim treatment? That’s a show I’d pay to see.”
Elis nodded, animated. “She absolutely deserves a Sondheim show. Or at least a really complicated patter song about her mother.”
Namjoon leaned back, considering. “You know, you could do something with her and DiMaggio. There’s a sports angle there. Baseball and Hollywood, Americana and tragedy—”
Yoongi’s eyes lit up, the way they always did when he caught the scent of a real idea. “A musical with a baseball number?”
Namjoon grinned, warming to the pitch. “There’s precedent. ‘Damn Yankees’ is a classic for a reason.”
Elis had already grabbed a notepad, scribbling furiously. “But if you did it now, you’d have to modernize it. Maybe make it about celebrity culture, the way fandom devours its own. Or—” He hesitated, flushed with excitement. “You could gender-flip it. Cast men as all the leads.”
Yoongi’s mouth curled at the edges. “Or just reimagine it. Really lean into the layers of performance.”
Namjoon nodded, eyes sharp. “An all-male cast. Abstracted. Like Shakespeare, but with more eyeliner.” He was already outlining the opening number in his head, a chorus of reporters with tap shoes and megaphones.
Elis was practically vibrating. “You could call it ‘Ambition.’ Or ‘Blonde Bombshell.’ Wait, that’s probably taken.”
Yoongi’s laugh was small but genuine. “God, you’re wasted as an assistant. At minimum you should be running a TikTok account for the Met.”
Elis ducked his head, but his smile was enormous.
*~*~*
The coffee shop where Jungkook worked was called LUNA, and at night it glowed like a lantern staked to the edge of the East River, a thin meniscus of commuters and grad students pressed up against its windows. Dev arrived just after seven, making a point of buying the cheapest thing on the menu — a small drip — and scoping out the last available two-top by the window. He watched Jungkook behind the counter, focused and serious, his hands never idle: tamping espresso, foaming milk, cleaning the steam wand with the care of a violinist tending a Stradivarius. He looked tired, but not defeated, and that alone was enough to relax Dev’s shoulders.
Dev sat there, espresso cooling to mud in front of him, watching Jungkook wipe down the pastry case for the third time in as many minutes. There was an odd electricity to the air, the after-office hour lull colliding with the over-caffeinated hum of the final shift. Jungkook moved with nervous precision, his hair falling over his brow, cheekbones shining under the neon glow.
“You’re doing that thing,” Dev teased as Jungkook passed by, voice carrying easily across the room.
Jungkook paused mid-step, cloth in hand, and turned back to Dev with a soft smile that made his heart beat faster. “What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend to be busy so you don’t have to talk about it.”
He let the cloth drop into the bucket with a wet slap, then slid into the chair opposite Dev. His apron was streaked with syrup and flecks of flour—reminders of the rush and his nerves. “Fine,” he sighed, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “I didn’t get it.”
Dev’s eyebrows shot up, concern flickering in his eyes. “They told you already?”
Jungkook picked at a bit of sticky residue on the table, staring at Dev’s generous face. “I told my agent I’m not sexy enough. I’m—apparently—the boy next door.” His voice cracked a little, and he looked away before Dev could see how hurt he was.
“That’s not even a real type,” Dev said firmly. “TV made it up.”
“Tell that to the casting director,” Jungkook muttered, cheeks warm. “Or don’t. Maybe they’d prefer if I just stopped showing up. Maybe took up accounting.”
Dev shook his head, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “You’d be the weirdest accountant ever.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Come with me to the mayor’s office tomorrow. You’ll be plenty sexy there.”
Jungkook looked up, eyes meeting Dev’s. His lips twitched, torn between laughter and reaching out to touch Dev’s arm. “Why do I have to be sexy all the time?” he asked softly. “I wish I could just be my voice.”
Dev’s grin softened. “A disembodied Jungkook? Who would go up on stage then? Who would we watch?”
Jungkook shrugged, though his shoulders rose in a gesture that felt more like relief than surrender. His fingers found the rim of Dev’s espresso cup and gently spun it. “Maybe they just hire a body double, and I stay in a closet and sing.”
“Is that your dream?” Dev teased, warmth in his eyes. “To be a singing ghost?”
“No,” Jungkook whispered, voice thick. “I just want you to hear me.” He leaned forward, heart in throat. “Because I want to do what I came here for. Because I want you to be proud of me. Because… I love you, Dev.”
Dev’s breath caught, then he reached across the table, brushing a stray crumb from Jungkook’s apron. “I’m already proud of you. I love you too,” he said quietly.
Jungkook blinked, then smiled, a real, radiant thing. “Plus, I’m hungry,” he added, voice brightening above the hiss of the milk steamer. “I’m going to start eating more.”
Dev slid his untouched croissant across the table. “Here, start with this.”
Jungkook eyed it for a moment, then bit off the end, savoring butter and flaky crust. “I’m light,” he murmured, “that’s what they keep saying. Light.”
“Means you’re too skinny,” Dev explained gently. “You know what will fix that? Pizza. Or, like, food in general.”
Jungkook chewed thoughtfully, eyes on Dev. “I could go for pizza. With you.”
Dev stood, already tossing a tip into the jar. “I’ll buy,” he promised. “And you can tell me all about your plan to take over City Hall.”
“I don’t have a plan,” Jungkook said, but he squeezed Dev’s hand on the way out. “Except to stick with you.”
*~*~*
Namjoon got home late, as usual, the taxi’s headlamps sweeping the strip of turf in front of the brownstone like stage lights. He could smell Daniel’s cooking from the sidewalk—a little ginger, a lot of garlic, the same reckless abundance that made his husband’s hugs so memorable and his arguments so bruising. He lingered on the front steps, scrolling through his inbox, delaying the moment he’d have to account for time once again lost to the city.
Daniel was plating food when Namjoon walked in, an apron knotted carelessly over jeans, his hair pulled back in the offhand way that made his face look boyish and, even after seven years, capable of surprises. Two place settings, wine open, the little Bose speaker in the corner looping the same bossa nova playlist Daniel always put on when he wanted to talk about something serious.
“You’re late,” Daniel said, not unkindly.
“Meeting ran over,” Namjoon lied, before he caught himself. “Actually, Yoongi and I got sidetracked. We came up with something, maybe. A show. About Marilyn Monroe, but—”
Daniel didn’t let him finish. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That you two would get bored ten minutes into freedom and start hunting for new projects,” Daniel said, eyes sharp. “You can’t go three days without a whiteboard, Joon. It’s adorable. Also, exhausting.”
Namjoon tried a laugh, but it caught behind his teeth. “It’s just a thought. I’m not even sure we’ll do it.”
Daniel gestured at their table. “Sit. Please. I want to eat this while it’s hot and before you get a call from someone more interesting than me.”
They ate in silence for a moment, Daniel forking up noodles with a kind of vengeance, Namjoon pretending to savor each bite while his thoughts cycled through possible Sondheim rhymes for “subway grate.”
Finally, Daniel set down his chopsticks and leveled a look at him. “The social worker called.”
Namjoon froze.
“She wants to come Saturday. I said yes. Because you promised, Namjoon.” Daniel’s voice was gentle, but it didn’t disguise the old ache. “You said, one year off. You said, ‘this is our time.’”
“It is,” Namjoon said, and reached for his hand. “It is our time. I want this, Danny. I want you. And the kid.”
Daniel squeezed his fingers, then let go. “But you want the show, too.”
Namjoon hesitated. “I don’t know why it’s a binary, Dan. Why can’t we have both?”
Daniel got up and began clearing the plates. “Because when you’re in the middle of a show, I don’t exist. No one does.” He stopped at the sink, shoulders hunched. “I’m not mad about it. I knew what I signed up for. I just… want you to be honest.”
Namjoon watched him, the curve of his back taut with restraint. He wished he could say the right thing. Or at least, the true thing.
He stood and followed Daniel to the sink, the trace of apologetic heat blooming in his cheeks. His hands hovered, unsure, then landed on Daniel’s hips as he pressed up behind him, breath threading into Daniel’s hair.
“Let’s make a deal,” Namjoon said quietly. “Every night we have dinner, just us. And every weekend, we do something dumb and normal. Like—ten-cent batting cages. Or a Coney Island day. Or whatever you want.”
He waited while the water ran, watched Daniel’s shoulders soften, the tension draining away like suds down the drain.
Daniel turned, a crooked smile on his lips. “Batting cages? That’s your idea of normal? You haven’t swung a bat since, like, the Obama administration. And you know you could do a baseball number—diamonds and spotlights, pinstripes sliding home—”
Namjoon’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s what Yoongi said.”
Daniel blinked, then laughed. “Well, he wasn’t wrong.”
Relief broke over Namjoon in palpable waves. “No time like the present. Besides, you love when I embarrass myself.”
Daniel rolled his eyes but let Namjoon kiss the back of his neck, a promise sealed with a laugh. “Fine. You’re on, Drama Boy. But only if we get hot dogs after.”
“Deal,” Namjoon said, and he meant it.
They loaded the dishwasher together, Daniel humming a familiar show tune until Namjoon joined in, their voices braiding over the clatter of plates. Later, when the kitchen was clean and the lights were low, they curled up on the couch. Namjoon turned on the old TV and scrolled past the news, past the blinking rows of algorithmic suggestions, until he landed on a black-and-white film—gentle static, wide skirts, the glow of something impossible and lost. Marilyn, haloed in smoke and glamour, dancing for no one.
Daniel pillowed his head onto Namjoon’s chest and drifted off quickly, one arm flung wide, as if reaching for something just out of frame. Namjoon stayed awake, watching the flickering afterimage of Marilyn’s smile, her voice soft and fractured, the world bending around her like light through a glass of water. He felt a pang, sharp and unyielding, for all the things that never quite fit, no matter how hard he pressed the edges together.
He wondered what it would be like, to write her as she really was. Not as a blank page or a punchline, but as a person, raw and teetering on the edge of her own myth. He pictured the musical numbers: a baseball diamond, spotlights spinning, a chorus of men in pinstripes sliding home and losing their hearts at her feet. He mouthed a phrase, “Diamonds and Dust,” and wrote it down in his phone’s Notes app, already bracing for the headache of turning a feeling into a show.
He thought of Yoongi, and him, and every other person who’d ever wanted something so badly it made them foolish. He thought of Daniel, warm and unguarded in sleep, and brushed a hand down the length of his arm. For the first time in months, the future did not feel like a river rushing him along. It felt—tentative, unfinished, almost kind.
He closed his eyes when the credits rolled, and let the city hold the rest of him.
*~*~*
Yoongi perched on the edge of a seat in the darkened theater, his knees jammed against the velvet-padded row in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. He’d attended this show—his own show—so often that the overture had blended into an old friend’s laugh, but tonight he was humming with an unfamiliar anticipation. Jimin was back from the flu, and the city’s rumor-mill had already spat out a dozen stories about his miraculous recovery and the set of abs he’d allegedly developed in quarantine.
From the moment the lights came up, Yoongi tracked him: the fifth from the left, ensemble, but radiant. Even among the showy clusters of dancers, Jimin was a self-contained atom, refracting attention.
The stage curtain fell to roaring applause. Yoongi snuck backstage through a side door, badge slung on a borrowed lanyard, past the rolling racks of costumes and the sticky resin scent of prop paint. The corridor swelled with bodies hauling set pieces, actors half in and out of character, a vignette in perpetual motion.
Jimin emerged, still in costume—a winking blue cravat at his throat, cheeks flushed from the final number. He spotted Yoongi instantly and slid across the linoleum, planting himself in Yoongi’s personal space with a smile that was just a shade too wide.
“You came!” Jimin said, voice pitched to tumble over the chaos.
“Had nothing better to do,” Yoongi lied, craning his neck to see the faint line of sweat at Jimin’s hairline. “You killed it, by the way.”
Jimin’s grin grew sly. “You only watched for the choreography.”
“Guilty,” Yoongi replied, and almost missed the next moment—a tall, sinewy ensemble member, hair still damp from quick-change sweat, ducking between them with a conspiratorial smirk.
“Hey, Yoongi,” the man said, lingering for a beat too long. “You back in town for a while?” His tone was a dare, half-taunting, half-invitation, and the memory of a tequila-laced night flickered at the edges of Yoongi’s recall. He couldn’t find the man’s name, so he just nodded.
“Yeah,” Yoongi said. “Try not to break a leg.”
The cast member winked and strode off, hips swinging with the self-assurance of a minor deity.
Jimin snorted. “You really don’t remember him, do you? That’s Kieran. He was in ‘Rusalka’ with you for, like, six months.”
Yoongi faked a cough to buy time. “He… seems taller.”
“Most people do from ground level,” Jimin said, then softened it with a gentle elbow to Yoongi’s arm.
The noise of a strike was a tidal surge in the wings—metal pipes hammering, union guys trading insults, dancers bickering over sweatpants and who’d left a vape in the prop drawer. Jimin led Yoongi through the labyrinth with the confidence of someone who knew exactly which corners to avoid, and which couches had the best sightlines for gossip. The dressing rooms were on subbasement two, a stone hallway with grimy banners of past hits stapled to cinderblock walls. Jimin’s station was a riot of makeup and sticky notes, the mirror framed in crepe paper roses, a thousand inside jokes and shoutouts layered over a decade of chorus work.
He shut the door, then collapsed backward onto a bench, legs splayed. For a moment there was only the sound of a disinfectant wipe being dragged across a foundation-splattered counter.
“You didn’t have to come,” Jimin said, voice small now that the walls had closed in around them. “I mean, I’m glad you did, but it’s always more embarrassing when there’s a witness.”
Yoongi shrugged. “Your self-flagellation is my favorite genre. You should take it off-Broadway.”
Jimin laughed, then scrubbed at his eyes, smearing eyeliner into a raccoon mask. “They posted the cast list for ‘Malpractice.’ I didn’t get called back. Not even for the second ensemble.”
Yoongi sat next to him, letting their shoulders touch lightly. “You’re overqualified anyway. That show is a graveyard for pretty faces.”
“I’m not even pretty!?” Jimin protested. “I’m just—” The words caught, and he dropped his head, hands clenching at the knees of his sweatpants. “I can’t keep doing this. Being the backup plan. I just want a part, I trained, you know? I learned every monologue in the canon and can still nail a split at curtain call. I should have a part worth something. Not just—” He gestured vaguely at the caked makeup, the frosted donut from craft services, the endless loop of underpaid glory.
Yoongi watched him, the nerves in his jaw flexing and relaxing. In the old days, this was where they’d have thrown shade, weaponized sarcasm, but tonight it felt like both of them were out of cleverness.
“Do you remember,” Yoongi asked, “when you had that meltdown during ‘Patience’ and locked yourself in the pit with a bag of Doritos?”
Jimin grunted. “How could I forget? You bribed me out with the promise of five minutes on the smoke deck.”
“And you said—” Yoongi’s voice went soft, almost gentle, “you said, ‘If I’m going to rot backstage, at least let me do it with flavor.’”
Jimin snorted, then hiccupped a small, ugly laugh. “I was such a drama queen.”
“Still are,” Yoongi said, and reached over, thumb grazing the edge of Jimin’s mascara-stained cheek. “But also one of the best performers I know. And I know all of them, Jimin. All the ones who matter.”
Something about the way the words hung.
“I just want to be famous enough to get a free sandwich every once in a while,” Jimin said, finally. His commercials and bit parts kept his bank account healthy—rent was never a worry. “One with the good artisan bread, not this mass-produced backstage stuff.”
Yoongi chuckled, a sound that felt like home. He reached out and tugged the edge of Jimin’s cravat loose, letting the blue silk pool in his lap. “If you want, I’ll launch a campaign—‘Give Jimin the Sandwich He Deserves.’ We’ll recruit a bakery sponsor.”
Jimin drew his knees up facing Yoongi, voice muffled behind his arms. “I could live on sandwiches alone—if only I could land that next role. The one that changes everything.”
“I know,” Yoongi whispered. His fingers hovered near Jimin’s cheek, waiting to see if he’d lean in. Jimin remained still. The moment hung there, heavy with all they didn’t say.
Yoongi ached to confess how he’d clung to Jimin’s voice in the second act like a lifeline, how he’d sketched whole choruses in his mind mapped on Jimin’s vocal line, how thinking of him sometimes stole his breath. But those truths stayed locked away—friendship was currency, heartbreak unpaid. So he pressed a napkin into Jimin’s hand. “Don’t get snot on the wig. They’ll dock your pay.”
Jimin wiped his nose and dramatically draped himself across Yoongi, sending a bottle of setting spray clattering to the floor. “You’re insufferable,” he murmured into Yoongi’s shoulder, but he didn’t move away. Their arms tangled, and for a heartbeat, Yoongi let himself believe he could say anything—and Jimin wouldn’t laugh or run.
Jimin sighed, soft and genuine. “Thanks for coming. Even if it was just to watch me crash out just now.”
Yoongi snorted. “You don't crash. Maybe a controlled demolition. Either way, you’re why I always show up.”
Jimin’s eyes were clear, rimmed red with all the on and off stage emotions of the night. “If you were writing this scene, what happens next?”
Yoongi swallowed. “In my version, you land that lead—finally. Then we go celebrate with norebang, and we absolutely shred ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart.’ And then… I’d tell you—”
Jimin blinked. “Tell me what?”
Yoongi smiled. “That you’re brilliant, and you barely know it. So stop doubting yourself. Your time will come. But I'm not the writer, Namjoon is. Or the director, I'm just the composer.”
Jimin grinned, holding Yoongi’s gaze. “Liar.”
“Maybe,” Yoongi shrugged, “writing can be part of the job, I guess.”
Jimin nudged him, then rose—stretching like a star taking her bow. “Sandwich? I know an all-night place. I’ll even flash my SAG card for a discount.”
Yoongi hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”
