Chapter Text
Namjoon truly had picked the perfect day to bring his work into the garden.
It is a hot July morning, a crisp blue sky offering an impeccable backdrop for his current painting endeavour. He had brought his entire station out, settled neatly against the row of Judas and hazel trees lining the area’s perimeter. The garden itself is the very definition of an oasis, one even the gods would marvel at. Above him, the canopy of leaves shields him from the sun’s intensity, keeping his skin from burning. Around him, lush foliage blooms throughout the entirety of the small enclosure, the season’s flowers on full display. And in the middle sits a timeless marble fountain, Aphrodite’s form carved into its centre, her graceful presence a blessing to the pools below. Birds adorn its sides in their search for relief from the midsummer’s heat. He listens to their sweet melodies, dipping his brush.
It is tranquility at its finest.
Namjoon calmly swipes his brush across the cheek of his painting’s subject, being careful of the contours that could reek complete devastation if disturbed. The details are superb, highlighting the subject’s bone structure with an almost heaven-sent lighting. The complexion, the soft hint of blush, even the unintended sparkle in the eyes; this is his best work yet.
The final brushstrokes on the nose meet the canvas when Namjoon hears footsteps on the patio.
“My gods, Namjoon, what a sight.” The visitor smirks in awe.
The artist laughs. “Hello to you too, Seokjin-hyung.”
“All the beauty of Aphrodite cannot compete with that vision you’re painting, now can it?” Seokjin ignores the pleasantries, carefully taking a glass of water from the tray at the entrance and making his way down the path towards the shade. “Now you must tell me, who is that gorgeous creature?”
“He’s anything but a creature, hyung.” Namjoon rolls his eyes but continues finishing the sharper line of the subject’s nose. “He’s a human.”
“Lies. Utter lies, Namjoon. This deity is anything but mortal.” Namjoon can feel Seokjin’s presence to his left. He tries not to jolt at the proximity.
“Well this deity will be joining us shortly so I guess you shall see for yourself.” He feels rather than hears Seokjin’s delight, palatable on his tongue in a way that sends a shiver down his spine. He puts his brush down.
“You didn’t tell me this was a gathering, Namjoon-ah! I would’ve prepared something far grander than this simple attire,” Namjoon turns at this, taking in Seokjin’s clothing that is anything but simple. The elder man sips his water mischievously and Namjoon resists giving in. He knows this game all too well.
“It’s not, hyung. Taehyung is simply dropping by to give me his thoughts on the finished piece. I wish to… well, to gift it to him.”
“Taehyung ? We have a name.” Another smirk, another sip of water.
“Please don’t act--”
“Namjoon, when have I ever ? I’m simply intrigued is all.” Seokjin makes his way to a nearby chaise longue, relaxing into the velvet material.
“Yes and I know how you get when you’re intrigued. I’m starting to regret my poor planning already.”
“On the contrary, Joon-ah, this was the best plan you’ve ever made.” Namjoon looks Seokjin in the eyes; a warning.
“Hyung I’m serious. Taehyung is young and I don’t want your corrupting influence to taint that.”
“Corrupting!? I’ll have you know, Kim Namjoon, that my influence is anything but. I simply…” Seokjin plucks a few grapes from the sidetable’s bowl, popping them into his mouth, “indulge.”
“Ah yes, Dionysus himself. How could I forget.”
“And I will take that as a compliment, my dear friend!” Seokjin smiles as he swallows, “Hedonism is my philosophy. It’s what the gods intended.”
“In moderation,” Namjoon chides, setting his station in order.
“To hell with moderation. To live moderately is entirely mundane and that is not the life I wish to lead.” Seokjin closes his eyes, turning his face to the sun. Namjoon tries not to stare too long.
“All I’m saying is don’t taint him. How you live your life is all fine and well but leave Taehyung out of it.”
“I make no promises,” The delight in the elder’s voice does nothing to appease Namjoon’s worries. That, and the fact that Seokjin has yet to open his eyes, still basking in the midday tendrils of light, painting him truly like a god himself. His form, laid out on the lounge like one of the deadly sins, reminds Namjoon of a marble statue. Perhaps he painted the wrong subject.
“Are you not going to offer your guest anything to drink?” It comes out as a sigh.
“My apologies, hyung. Coffee?”
Seokjin scoffs. “I’ve been your friend since college, Joon-ah. You know I’m more partial to tea.”
“And I am always trying to convert you. It was worth a try,” Namjoon places his palette down on a table beside his easel and looks back at the painting. It was almost there; a few finishing touches and it would be complete.
After flagging down one of his attendants for a pot of fruit tea and a black coffee for himself, Namjoon relaxes into the wooden painting chair. Seokjin must have noticed the lack of movement on the part of the painter, opening one eye to look in Namjoon’s direction.
“Is it finished?”
Namjoon hums in partial acknowledgement. “For now. I need to make a few adjustments once Taehyung arrives.”
As if summoned, the patio doors open in a soft flurry of white curtains, uptaking with the wind to reveal the portrait’s face in the flesh. Taehyung steps out tentatively, the sun gracing the golden planes of his cheekbones like a kiss. It paints the tufts of his chestnut hair with the slightest tinge of gold, making him appear truly angelic. He’s dressed in a simple linen suit fit for the weather, jacket buttoned and fitted to his lean frame.
A boxy smile emerges the moment his eyes meet Namjoon’s.
“Hyung!”
“Taehyung, you came!” The young man crosses the garden and hugs Namjoon tightly. Seokjin watches the scene with a smirk.
“Oh, of course. I still can’t believe you decided to paint me.” The artist pulls back at this, directing Taehyung’s view to the portrait behind him. “Hyung, it’s… so…”
“Marvelous, isn’t it?” Taehyung turns at Seokjin’s interjection, the elder still reclining on the sofa.
“Yes, it is. It’s wonderful,” Taehyung turns his attention back to Namjoon, smiling, “truly, hyung, it is.”
“You’re too kind, Taehyung-ah. It could never compete with the real thing,” Taehyung feels a blush creep into his cheeks.
“That’s—that’s simply not true,”
“Nonsense!” Seokjin sits upright, dismissing Taehyung's humility with a wave. “With a face like that, anything is possible. Young, gorgeous, and free. The world is at your feet, dear Taehyung.”
“I’m sorry, we haven’t met before. You are—”
“Kim Seokjin, the one and only. Namjoon, it is poor etiquette not to introduce your guests you know.”
“Hyung, you are far from a guest at this point.” Namjoon sighs, directing Taehyung to a nearby chair. “My apologies, Taehyung. Seokjin-hyung is…”
“Kim Namjoon if you finish that sentence with anything other than ‘glorious’ I will leave at once.” Taehyung blinks between the two friends.
Namjoon chuckles. “Alright, alright. Yes, this is my friend from college, Kim Seokjin. Infamous indulgence-seeker, pleasure-fiend, and party-hoster,” he turns to Seokjin, “happy?”
“Absolutely,” Seokjin beams.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Seokjin-ssi,”
“Oh no no, call me hyung, please. And the pleasure is all mine,”
Taehyung nods tensely, still rigid where he stands.
“Coffee?” Namjoon offers.
“Yes, please.”
“Finally, someone with taste,” Namjoon’s eyes flash to Seokjin. Another smirk. Taehyung coughs.
“Thank you, hyung.” The artist smiles in return, signalling to the attendants to add another cup of coffee to the group’s order.
Taehyung spends time analyzing the painting, hypnotized by his own reflection staring back. He wants to love it; he really does. But the more he looks on, the more his mind tries to trick him, nagging voices emerging from his subconscious to whisper seeds of doubt. He feels like an imposter and the portrait in front of him is the seering proof. It was perfect, even with its dips and curves, the places where the brushstrokes deposited too much product or too light a hand left sheer paint against the white canvas. Even in those imperfections, the painting staring back at him is exquisite in its construction. It is fresh, glowing--youthful. It makes him want to cry.
“Dear Taehyung,” Seokjin calls from behind him, a voice amongst the internal depreciation. “Come sit.” Taehyung peels his eyes from his recreation to the velvet seat beside the elder. He does not know why, but the invitation feels more ominous than a simple gesture. He can’t shake the feeling of unease as he strides over, tentatively perching himself on the luscious green fabric.
“What do you feel?” Seokjin inquires after a moment’s pause.
“I’m sorry?”
“How does the painting make you feel? When you look at it, seeing yourself in front of you: how do you feel?”
“I—I’m not sure,” Taehyung pauses, contemplating a lie forming around his lips, “I guess I like it?”
“Really?” There is not a hint of belief in Seokjin’s words. Taehyung wonders if the elder man can read minds.
“Perhaps it makes me feel… cautious?”
“Cautious?” Seokjin parrots. Taehyung nods, avoiding eye contact. He plays with the ruffles of his dress shirt that dare to peak out from his coat sleeve.
“Yes, cautious. And apprehensive.”
“That’s better. Now tell me: why?” Taehyung can feel Seokjin’s gaze on him and becomes aware of the sweat forming on the back of his neck. He swallows audibly.
“I don’t know. I feel as if… I’m envious of it.” He doesn't know where these words came from, pouring out like a broken dam.
Seokjin simply nods, taking the freshly poured cup of tea that had just arrived. Taehyung accepts his own cup of coffee from the attendant, muttering a too-formal thank you .
“Taehyung, what is there to envy ? It is but a painting,” Namjoon reasons from across the lawn. Taehyung casts his eyes to the surrounding hedges, ashamed of his words. He didn’t mean to insult Namjoon’s work.
“But youth, my dear friend. Of course Taehyung envies the painting's youth,” Seokjin answers for him.
The elder’s response puzzles Taehyung; youth ? He hadn’t thought of it in this way. Beauty, yes, but youth was something Taehyung currently possessed. How was it possible to envy something you already have?
“Care to expand, hyung?” Namjoon curiously quirks a brow, face half hidden by his coffee as he sips.
“Well it’s simple of course: Taehyung will never be as young as he is in this painting. For the rest of his mortal life, this portrait will sit with the beauty of its first creation. It will not taint with the wears of age, nor crumble under the sins of the years. This light that you’ve captured, Namjoon, is a light that will fade in the mortal realm, but never dull as it’s expressed on this canvas. Now that, my friend, is something to envy, is it not?”
Little by little, Seokjin’s words begin to sink in.
“I never thought of it this way,” Namjoon ponders as Seokjin takes a sip. Taehyung is still unmoving. “Is youth something to envy, though?”
“What a ridiculous question, Joon-ah. Of course it is. It is everything, is it not? To have a face like Taehyung’s is to live the most pleasurable of lives. Never worrying, never fearing. As he sits, here and now, Taehyung is the most perfect person to walk this earth. And that painting right there is the only record of it, possessing something Taehyung’s fleshly form does not: withstanding the test of time.”
“What nonse—”
“He’s right,” Taehyung finally breaks his silence but his voice sounds too far away.
“He is?” Taehyung nods, eyes trained to the painting across the lawn.
“Think about it, Joon-ah. In this moment, Taehyung is the embodiment of innocence. That is the beauty of youth: the innocence it brings with it,” The air around them seems to thicken with heat, Seokjin’s words hanging like the final note of a haunting orchestra.
Innocence. Was he innocent? Taehyung had never contemplated the notion.
“Innocence?” Seokjin nods firmly. “And I suppose that’s something you long for as well?”
“Of course,” he turns, appraising Taehyung’s still frame, “What I wouldn’t give to be blissfully ignorant like him. Youth is ignorance, free from the experience of sin. What I wouldn’t give to get that back.” There’s a hint of humour in Seokjin’s tone, floating amongst the waves of longing nostalgia. Taehyung wants to ask why but he’s too afraid.
“I guess that is partially true. But we cannot all be untainted forever,” Namjoon says around the rim of his coffee cup.
“Immortality would truly be an immaculate miracle,” Seokjin mimics Namjoon’s actions, delicately lifting his tea to his lips. “Isn’t that right, Taehyung?”
Taehyung’s thoughts swirl like tempestuous tide pools, his hearing feeling muffled, as if underwater. Was his purity really something to covet? Something he would eventually lose? The thought terrified him.
“What do you want most, Taehyung?” Seokjin touches his shoulder gently, jolting him back into the present. Sweat beads on his neck.
“What do I—I want most?” Taehyung finally takes the time to meet Seokjin’s gaze and finds earnest interest amongst the pools of chocolate brown. The elder lifts an eyebrow curiously.
“In life, I mean. What is it that you desire? Adventure? Fortune? Pleasure?”
“Hyung, don’t do this,”
“Hush, Namjoon, it’s just a question,”
“Yes, but can’t you see—”
“Love,” Taehyung's deep voice cuts through the squabble, halting their debate. Several beats pass in silence and his heartbeat quickens. “I desire love.”
“Love ?” Seokjin’s incredulous tone thunders through the garden, catching Taehyung off guard. He nods.
“My dear Taehyung, whatever for? What is love but agony disguised as joy?” Seokjin leans against the expanse of the lounge’s back, resting his elbow on the arm. “There are far greater pleasures in life, that I can assure you.”
“Something greater than love?”
Seokjin hums in agreement. “Experiencing all the luxuries this world has to offer for starts.”
Namjoon rolls his eyes; he knew this was a mistake.
“Is love not one of them?”
“One , yes. But not the pleasure. No my dear friend, you must experience life to its fullest.”
Taehyung ponders Seokjin’s words as the heat creeps beneath his undershirt, the beating of the sun on the back of his neck almost unbearable. His clothes feel too tight, the stretch of his slacks against his knees too irritating. The direction their conversation had taken shook him to his core; was he really this ignorant to never consider such an idea? All his life, Taehyung had been infatuated with the idea of falling in love. He had seen it with his parents, their love something out of an epic poem. He saw it on the street, couples old and young holding hands, the look of admiration permanent in their eyes. He read it in books, fairytales from his childhood that bled into the romantic novels of his youth.
Was this not the most divine of all pleasures; to be in love?
As if reading his mind, Seokjin chuckles. “Have you ever been to a gentlemen’s club, Taehyung?”
The young man shakes his head. He had heard of them, and knew his older brother occasionally met clients at a few around the city. But he had never visited one nor had he ever cared to.
“There—now that’s a start. See? This is but the surface of life’s revelries you must partake in while you are still young. Take advantage of that face, Taehyung. It won’t last forever.”
Taehyung finds his gaze yet again drifting towards the painting. It stares back at him but the previously nonchalant expression his likeness wore now seems more sinister. The curve of his lips, what was once a neutral smile now seems to mock him. See? It seems to ask. Are you not jealous?
Rage boils in the pit of Taehyung’s stomach, envy percolating with desire; a desire to be young forever, to experience life just as he is now, free of consequence. But envy, too, that this portrait would remain as it is for all to see, a reminder of what he in his physical form is not.
What a cruel fate this is, Taehyung thinks, talking to the painting. What I would not give to reverse the roles .
As he contemplates this, the portrait seems to change before him. Time in the garden stops, the burning heat ceasing in its suffocating ministrations. The air hangs still, the leaves in the trees frozen; all that exists is Taehyung and the artwork across the lawn. They look at each other, caught in a trance and Taehyung swears he sees his reflection frown. It makes him want to scream.
“Enough of this, hyung. You’re terrifying poor Taehyung,” Namjoon’s voice cuts through like a knife. Time starts once again.
“My apologies, Joon-ah. Wouldn’t want to corrupt him,” Taehyung feels like there’s a joke he’s missing but he dismisses the thought, sipping his coffee shakily. “Now what to do with this painting, hmm? Perhaps display it at your next dinner—”
“No!” Taehyung surprises himself with his outburst, feeling uneasy under Namjoon and Seokjin’s alarmed gazes. “No one can see this. Please, Namjoon-hyung, I’m begging you. No one can ever see this.”
“What are you talking about, Taehyung? It’s one of his best works!” Taehyung shakes his head.
“No. Please, hyung.”
“I—I mean of course, Taehyung-ah. I’ll keep it upstairs for now I guess. Is there something you don’t like about it?” Namjoon’s voice is coloured with concern. Taehyung feels awful.
“It isn’t that, I assure you. Just... for now. Please.”
Namjoon simply nods in understanding, but Taehyung does not miss the sadness in his eyes as he sips the final remnants of his coffee. He doesn’t know where this sudden fit of discomposure came from. But somewhere in the back of his mind a voice is telling him to hide it, bury it, lock it away—anything to keep it out of sight. Some part of him, a large part that grows bigger with each passing second he stares at the portrait, hates it for what it represents: the fact of his mortality.
“Well, I guess it’s settled then,” With a clap of his hands, Seokjin stands and buttons the front of his jacket. “Now, Namjoon, what do you say we take sweet Taehyung to Choi’s for a little indulgence, hmm?”
Taehyung had heard the name before, whispers of an elite club in the Upper West End of the city. Only those who could afford it were permitted entry, and his working class background took any chance of that clean off the table.
“Choi’s, hyung? But it’s barely past noon.”
“And they make a delicious lunch spread.”
Namjoon sighs, defeated. There seemed to be no way around the decisions of the eldest from what Taehyung had pieced together. “Lunch. Right.”
Above the trio, the brilliant summer day had begun to take a darker turn, somber grey bleeding into the crisp whiteness of the clouds. The warm air that previously kissed Taehyung’s exposed neck now sends a chill down his spin in its cold presence. He visibly shivers. The painting across the lawn seems to smirk.
“Come, let us dine together.” Seokjin’s hand extends in front of Taehyung; another invitation. In this moment, he feels he is at a crossroads, the palm before him a more significant offering that it appears.
In some corner of his mind, he thinks of Eve. Was this the temptation she too faced? Exposed to the nakedness of a divine truth, the reality of the world in the same fashion as this offering? But in the discovery of sin was not life itself complete? To live in ignorance, to waste this youth was a thought that frightened him.
Did he not deserve to indulge?
With a final glance at his likeness before him, his hand slips into Seokjin’s, solidifying his choice.
Seokjin sighs in delight and Taehyung feels the first droplet of rain hit his cheek like a tear.
⚜ ⚜ ⚜
The rain fails to let up as they make their way through the city, the day feeling much more like a night in more ways than one.
Taehyung catches on as soon as they arrive, exiting the carriage to approach an inconspicuous door embedded into a brick wall. There were no markers, no signage that seemed to indicate anything of consequence lying behind its wooden entrance. All that existed was the smallest of sliding peepholes, the only giveaway that life continued beyond the wall.
Seokjin raps three times, the space between each knock differing in length; a code.
“Password?” A raspy voice comes from behind the sliding screen.
“Luxuria .”
The door opens without another word.
The first thing that hits him upon entering is the smell, musky and thick on the back of his tongue, a mix of ash, opulence, and imminent death. Then came the darkness, his pupils dilating to make out shapes amidst the club’s overwhelming obscurity. Here, illumination came solely from a single lit candle that adorned each table, their muted flames casting ill-flattering shadows across the circles of faces.
He hears hushed whispers, cheeky laughs, and unholy moans. He feels the thickness of the air, hot and heavy, making his undershirt cling to his back.
He feels it all and he’s barely made it through the door.
Once inside, the trio are escorted to their table, making their way through the maze of bodies to a secluded back corner. They are seated on several robust cushions of different textures, drinks already being served before they can make themselves comfortable. Taehyung becomes rigid in his seat as a foreign blue liquid is poured into the goblet in front of him. He quickly realizes after a short glance at the surrounding tables that there is no lunch to speak of.
“Taehyung, have you ever smoked?” He is so distracted in his discomfort that he doesn’t notice Seokjin extending a pipe towards him, its cord connected to a glass contraption in the middle of the low table. His throat tightens. He shakes his head.
Seokjin smiles and Taehyung catches Namjoon’s weary glance.
“Oh you must. You must forget the sins of your past to make space for new ones, my young friend.”
Noticing his hesitation, Seokjin laughs and brings the tip of the pipe to his own lips. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes in some form of intense pleasure. Taehyung almost turns away, the image too lewd and doing strange things to his stomach.
“See?” Seokjin breathes, smoke coiling out of his mouth like a dragon. “It’s harmless.”
“Harmless,” Taehyung echoes. Seokjin nods. Namjoon sighs.
Taehyung’s hand reaches tentatively for the pipe, his fingers brushing against Seokjin’s. His throat tightens.
“Harmless.”
Bringing the metal piece to his mouth, Taehyung locks eyes one final time with Namjoon, ignoring the subconscious warning that lies within his irises and inhales.
It’s only a little while later that Taehyung realizes it: Choi’s definitely lives up to its reputation. Here it stood, a den of sin and slander that sucked Taehyung in like the sour pulp of a lemon, one breath at a time. It was all too easy.
A wicked oasis, he loses his way from the two elder gentlemen somewhere between 2 and 3 pm, emerging only hours later in the silk whirlpool of a queen-sized bed, tucked behind thin curtains that do little to hide one’s indecency. He vaguely hears the sounds of pleasure emanating from the adjoining rooms, too fixated on the two beautiful people currently occupying his sides. He had never kissed before let alone done anything this improper, but he was not nearly coherent enough to bare this any mind. Somewhere, in the back of his subconscious, he wonders if this is what it feels like to die. He also thinks about his soul, if in this act of forbidden pleasure he is sealing his fate to some demon below.
But could damnation really follow something so beautifully delicious?
High on the ecstasy of his bedmates’ touch and the oblivion of drugs, Taehyung surrenders himself to a small death as the woman on his right whispers words of praises in his ear. He loses recollection between the man unbuttoning his pressed white shirt and the woman undoing his all-too-tight slacks.
⚜ ⚜ ⚜
The curtains at the foot of the bed do nothing to shield Taehyung’s eyes from the piercing rays of sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window. It’s then that he feels it: the pain, a throbbing ache in his temples that makes the light far too intense to bear. Then it’s the nausea, taking indefinite residence in this pit of his stomach and sending a tidal wave of acidity up his throat. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, rough like pumice. He feels like he’s been hit by a carriage. He needs water; he needs a new body.
Ignoring the soreness in every fibre of his form, he sits up to take in his surroundings. The white sheets encircling his body match the general aesthetic of the room: white bases with gold ornate accents, white curtains, and white walls. There is a grand fireplace at the south end of the room, its dark wood mantle juxtaposing the space’s otherwise lightly hued palette. But that’s when he notices it; the walls lined with art, realistic paintings of landscapes and people throughout time. It’s a style he knows well, a style that only belongs to one artist.
How did I end up at Namjoon’s?
Taehyung scours his mind to recollect the events of the night prior but comes up blank. He remembers entering Choi’s, recalls his initial shock at the profanity and allure of it all. Then they sat and Seokjin offered him the pipe.
Christ. How much did he have?
Fear seizes him, a panic swelling in his chest. What happened? What had he done?
Looking down, he finds himself utterly indecent, exposed to the elements save for his underwear. Well, that was not entirely true, for his body was covered in marks he had only seen donned by lovers and workers of a particular occupation. There must have been twenty maybe thirty of them, spread out across his form. His arms, his stomach, even the insides of his thighs bore the physical manifestations of his worst fear; the sins he had blissfully forgotten.
He rushes out of the room in sheer panic, steadying himself as the blood leaves his head and stumbling into the hallway of Namjoon’s second floor. The dark walls are lined with more art but Taehyung pays them no mind, eyes focused on the stairs before something catches his attention. Across the hall sits an open door, a thin stream of light poking through and casting its rays onto the plush rug below. Squinting, he sees it; a sliver of the portrait visible through the crack in the entrance. The portrait of him .
Taehyung doesn’t know what drives him towards it but he feels like a moth to a flame, mind in a hypnotic trance as he moves. Before he second guesses his actions, he opens the door and freezes.
There, before him, sits the painting.
Taehyung gasps.
What had been a pristine image of himself, radiant in its youthful beauty, now rests the same face but noticeably different. The serious expression his portrait wore before now curves into a deceitful grin. His eyes, previously brilliant in their chocolatey depths, are now bloodshot, glazed over like a foggy crystal ball. His skin is slightly wrinkled, texture added to the outside of the canvas like an artist’s error.
Realization dawns on him and his stomach drops, skin becoming clammy.
He steps away clumsily, back hitting the door jab with a painful thud. He looks into the eyes of the portrait and sees himself in a way that frightens him; in a way that slams reality right into his conscious mind. These were the marks of his sins, spread out across the expanse of canvas between a golden frame.
He touches his face on instinct and races towards the hall mirror. Eyes dart each way, inspecting every crevice, each pore or spot for a blemish but he comes up empty handed; it’s flawless. His physical, breathing form is unscathed.
In a turn of events, the previous day’s words in the garden seemed to have the opposite effect. He, rather, was the one who remained impeccably intact.
He blinks at his perfect reflection a few more times before the reality of the situation settles in, and with it the understanding of what it means. By some strange blessing from the divine, Taehyung has switched places with his portrait.
This is impossible.
Time seems to slow at that moment. He looks back into the room, gazing at the aged reflection of himself dumbfounded and afraid. How could this be? Magic? Was Taehyung a secret descendent of some powerful warlocks, like those he had read about in fairytales? Or was he, perhaps, a god?
Nonsense. He shakes his head but try as he might to erase the image before him, the painting still remains the same, tarnished and disgraced.
In his panic, however, realization dawns on him: if he were to be found out, if the painting were to be seen by eyes other than his own, nothing good would follow. No, regardless of circumstance, this painting now offered him a solution to his worries, an answer to his fears. If he were to lose it… who knows what would come of it. Perhaps he would be whisked away to some institution of science, poked and prodded as the subject of research. Or maybe he would be burnt at the stake, tried like the witches of centuries before. Either way the result would be the same: the inability to capitalize on this gracious gift.
No one must know.
Briskly, he enters the room once again, averting his eyes from the painting and turning it towards the wall. Like an angel banished from God’s graces, he slides the artwork further into the dark corner, making it inconspicuous and hidden from any touches of sunlight.
Taehyung takes a step back, surveying the room. The back of the painting now stands facing him, inconsequential and discreet.
Perfect.
He catches his reflection in the mirror once again as he exits, ignoring the slight clench of his stomach.
As he makes his way down the creaking wooden staircase, Taehyung notes how the sunshine from earlier has now moved into a grey overcast, making the rooms seem smaller and somber. The first tap of rain against the far window hits as he takes the last step and enters the kitchen to Seokjin’s awaiting smile.
“Good morning,” the elder purrs, newspaper in hand as he reclines at Namjoon’s kitchen table. “Care for some tea?”
“I’ll just have coffee.”
Seokjin hums. “Suit yourself,” He clears his throat, an attendant emerging from the kitchen at the sound. “Coffee for him.”
Taehyung takes a seat across from the elder, unable to relax. Seokjin chuckles.
“Now Taehyung, you really should have told me you were so… indulgent. I was worried for a second that you might not come home with us.”
Taehyung coughs uncomfortably, hesitant to press for more details about last night’s adventures. His portrait spoke for itself.
“You do remember, don’t you?”
“Remember what?” Namjoon’s voice echoes from the staircase and Taehyung suppresses a gasp at the sight of him. While clad in unsuspecting nightwear, what shocks him are the bruises riddling Namjoon’s neck, deep purple and yellow. As he walks closer, Taehyung realizes upon further inspection that Namjoon had not been in any sort of fight; these were love bites, much like his own. His eyes widen.
“Oh just Taehyung’s grand escapades last night is all. Poor thing must have drank too much. But the forgotten sins are always the sweetest, aren’t they?” Seokjin’s eyes play along Namjoon’s form, a hidden meaning behind his words.
“Much better than the ones you are forced to remember but long to erase I guess,” Namjoon takes the seat closest to him, signalling an attendant for a coffee. Awkwardness seeps into Taehyung’s pores and he resists the urge to leave.
“Ah, but those keep us humble,” Seokjin smirks behind his tea cup, placing the newspaper down.
“Any plans today, Taehyung?” Namjoon changes the subject, spreading blood red jam on his newly-arrived toast. The rain picks up outside, steadily beating against the thin panes of glass.
“Not particularly. I was thinking of maybe attending an exhibit—”
“An exhibition? Nonsense! Why spend a single penny to see some tasteless art when you have an entire gallery right here before you?” Seokjin waves his hands around the room. “Spend some time with us here and then let’s go out again. It truly was so magnificent last night and I’d hate to waste another day alone. Namjoon, you’ll come too, yes?”
“Hyung, I have to meet a client for lunch.”
“Can’t you bring them, too?” Namjoon looks up at this, balking at the question.
“Fine, fine. Then it will just be us two, my new friend,” Seokjin touches Taehyung’s hand. It burns against his skin like the mark of the beast, warm and terrifying.
He nods enthusiastically to Seokjin’s glee.
⚜ ⚜ ⚜
Unlike the previous night, Taehyung leaves Choi’s with a somewhat sound mind. He indulged in increments and through it found a sort of blissful independence. The lingering feelings of apprehension that plagued his mind earlier in the day seemed to be long gone, replaced by the distinct sensation of liberty and free will. Perhaps it was the absinthe Seokjin had offered or the feeling of three pairs of lips against his bare skin that set him down this newly found path of vitality. For he was young and, if his judgement was correct, he always would be, so long as the painting existed. And so it was in this headspace that he conducted his day, tasting the pleasures Seokjin had so highly spoke of.
It is later in the evening that Taehyung finds himself standing before a small theatre in the East End, a long ways away from Choi’s garden of Eden and the watchful eyes of one Kim Seokjin. He had passed it before, always taking note of the crooked second “e” in its worn nameplate, a sweet irony lacing its name: Serendipity . He didn’t know what called him to stop this evening on his way home, but here he is, taken by the faint trickle of music leaking from the cracked theatre door. The outside is inconspicuous, a small box office window blending in with the surrounding brick buildings that adorned the Eastern portion of the city. The street lights around them illuminate the thin fog that had settled amongst the cobblestones, adding a moisture to the chill that had yet to leave Taehyung’s form. Hopefully some respite awaited him upon entrance but the young man held little hope.
“Ticket?” A voice calls his attention to the booth before him.
“For what, exactly?” Taehyung asks, unable to locate any sign or posting of performance titles or times. The attendant chuckles.
“Well it must be your lucky night: it’s one of Shakespeare’s finest.”
“Is it a comedy?” Truth be told, Taehyung was not well-versed in literature. He had but a vague idea of the classics, and anything beyond that was foreign to him.
The worker shakes his head, a coy smile playing along his thin lips. “A tragedy.”
A muffled crack of thunder echoes above and the rain begins to pick up. Taehyung ducks further under the theatre’s awning seeking refuge.
“Ah, then yes. One please,” The attendant smirks, passing Taehyung the slip of paper. He glances down, taking in the printed lettering: Romeo and Juliet. The most romantic of all the Bard's plays; it was perfect.
“First time?” Taehyung can only nod, confused by the question as he places his payment on the counter.
“Well, you sure are in for… something. It’s not everyday we get gentlemen such as yourself here,” That doesn’t surprise him; the East End was not known for its elevated entertainment. But there was something about this new found freedom that drove him to the corners of the city he would have previously recoiled from entering. What was stopping him now that the portrait suffered the consequences?
With a smile and a nod, Taehyung makes his way through the withering front doors and into the main lobby. A few stray attendees linger along the panelled walls and Taehyung eyes them wearily. The lobby itself is nothing special, its walls lined sparingly with dim lights that hide the marks of age.
The theatre itself, however, was of a grandeur Taehyung has never seen; luscious velvet chairs and high ceilings, even in its modest capacity. A complete inverse of its exterior; a hidden escape for him and him alone.
Unlike other theatres Taehyung had read about in the papers, Serendipity boasted only a single balcony arrangement, with the majority of the seating occupying the main area before the stage. But that did not stop his amazement, for the architecture itself was nothing short of captivating. Two pillars frame the stage before him, their sculpted depictions of the gods visible even at his distance. The artistry continues onto the balcony’s banisters, inlaid with gold and ivory. Above him sits an ancient chandelier and Taehyung notes the absence of several crystals from its full construction, no doubt indicative of the theatre’s history.
He is in love.
All too soon the lights begin to flicker, indicating the impending start of the performance. Taking a quick glance at his ticket and noting the “G5” written in cursive, Taehyung makes his way to the seat assigned to him; middle row, centre. The perfect spot.
As he sits he feels the remnants of alcohol lace his thoughts, his back relaxing a bit too much into the plush texture of the chair. The theatre is half full, patrons distanced from each other in a way that makes Taehyung believe each is here in secret. He feels alive, knowing he is a part of something elite, like a club or a society. He’s glad he lied to Seokjin.
The lights dim far too quickly and all eyes focus on the stage as the first notes of an unrecognizable orchestra piece begin. From the left of the stage first emerges a young female dancer, her body forcefully fluid as she attempts to glide along with the soft tendrils of the piano. She wears a cheerless expression, her dress flowing behind her as she prances over to a small vanity positioned in the middle of the stage. This is his first time seeing the play in dance format and while confused at the starting place, so different from Shakespeare’s rendition, he is familiar with this scene in particular--Juliet’s house and the introduction of Paris.
The joining cast is just as awkward in their movements, all of them seeming to lack a certain innateness in their craft. He has never been to the Royal Ballet but assumes these were not of the same caliber.
As the scene progresses, the dancers going through the motions of the lead up to the Capulets’ ball, he finds himself becoming disinterested. There is no spark to their performance, a dullness settling into their features that takes one out of the scene. He absently wonders when the lights will dim and it will be all over.
And then it happens.
The scene before him shifts and as the dancers leave the stage, a faint blue light colours the backdrop in a melancholy hue. A single spotlight is put on the centre of the stage as a figure dressed in white emerges from the right, dragging his bare feet carefully along the smooth surface of the floor. Taehyung faintly is aware that this may be Romeo, entering the space to convey the sadness of his love for Rosaline. The dancer’s face is cast downwards and Taehyung cannot not make out his features until he stands in the centre and looks up.
The air leaves Taehyung’s lungs.
Before him stands the most breathtaking human he has ever laid eyes on. His full lips turn down in a display of sorrow and the soft planes of his cheeks are pale in their heartache. His eyes are so full of emotion, his hair so frustratedly tousled, fully committed to his character that Taehyung fully believes he is in Verona, watching a young man yearn for the reciprocation of a one-sided love.
And then he moves.
Taking the sheer white sheet he holds in his hands, the dancer twirls it elegantly above his head, his body flowing with each nuance of his movements. As he brings the sheet upwards, his eyeline follows it, expression resting as if searching for the answers in the heavens above. As soon as it's back down, he’s moving again, swiftly lifting his leg to his side and bringing the sheet along with him. He twirls, reaching out for something intangible before lifting himself in the air.
The piano picks up at this, the dancer lifting himself, bending backwards as he spreads his arms. He steps to the side, each beat of the music commanding his body like a string. Swiftly, he sweeps the sheet over his shoulder, hands gracing the ground as he bends low before turning once again and grabbing the fabric as he moves.
Taehyung is mesmerized.
The dancer’s movements are something out of a fairytale, a stark contrast to the clumsiness of the others in his troupe. He commands the stage even in his performed fragility and Taehyung swears he has never seen something so beautiful. His chest aches for this Romeo, watching as the dancer’s motions turn aggravated, lifting himself in a series of sharp turns. He spins like a top, his body as weightless as the sheet he is holding. His arms spread like a bird’s, the material trailing behind them like the wings of an angel and Taehyung must be in heaven; this must be love.
All at once the dancer lets go of his prop, letting it cascade to the floor and moving his body freely to the music. He spins effortlessly like a ballerina, hand reaching towards the sky before stopping abruptly. His arms turn agitated, roughly grabbing the air while his legs contort in an act of desperation. As he moves, his expression changes, anger transitioning into warmth as his actions become more languid. Finally, he skims the ground with his fingertips and in his wake picks up the discarded sheet, caressing his body with it like a lover.
As the soft piano slows in time with the dancer’s motions, he falls to the floor, sweeping his hand along its surface once again and tossing the sheet over his shoulder. He moves on his knees for several beats, almost as if he is gliding across a tranquil lake.
Finally, as the music fades into the last few notes of its melody, he sits there, gazing into an imagined pool as he reflects.
The lights dim and all too quickly the scene is over. Taehyung finds that he is the only one standing in an ovation. His heart beats wildly; he needs to know the dancer’s name.
The rest of the performance passes in a blur, Taehyung’s eyes never straying from the delicate yet strong frame of the young Romeo. From the elation of the young lovers’ first kiss to the depths of despair that haunt Friar Lawrence’s cell upon Romeo’s exile, his mind is captivated by the young man’s passionate portrayal. And as the dancer finds his star-crossed lover’s body in a false death, Taehyung feels tears forming in the corners of his eyes as Romeo weeps. He resists the urge to call out to him, to tell him that she is not dead and to change the course of his fate. The dancer mimes the poison meeting his lips, his body thrashing in an anguished turn before collapsing to the floor with his final breath and the first drop of saltwater graces Taehyung’s cheek.
The heavy rouge curtain falls as the dancers collect themselves around the young lovers’ forms. The lights go out and before Taehyung has time to collect himself, the audience applauds.
When the curtain rises again, all cast members are on stage, filing into the centre one by one to have their moment. He ignores the peripheral characters, eyes fixed and waiting for the one he needs to see once again. Several beats pass, the applause growing thinner and thinner until Juliet appears, taking a formal curtsy to several hollers from the audience. Taehyung becomes impatient, frustrated that this young woman dares take the space of the true star of the show.
And then he approaches. Taehyung can tell instantly from the dancer’s demeanour that he is not one for fanfare, shy in front of the spotlight as he smiles. He does a quick but low bow, his eyes turning into crescent moons in his elation.
Taehyung is entranced.
Against his better judgement, he mimics the actions of the earlier crowd, yelling out his praises towards the stage. The dancer freezes, their eyes locking. When Taehyung offers a smile, the dancer’s brows furrow, head tilting to the side in an adorable display of confusion. He swears he sees a blush creep up the young man’s cheeks.
Slowly, Taehyung’s smile fades, replaced by an overwhelming wave of embarrassment at the realization that he is, in fact, the only one still cheering. The dancer chuckles before falling back in line for the cast to take their final unified bow.
The curtain falls for one final time and Taehyung is left in the darkness.