He Stole the Rhythm of My Body

The last of the students had finally filtered out, their loud chatter and boisterous energy fading down the hallway until only the hum of the overhead lights remained. Minho ran a dry mop over the scuffed floor, the sharp, clean scent of polish filling the air and erasing the lingering smell of sweat. The studio, which had felt vibrant and crowded just moments before, now seemed vast and quiet. He worked methodically, his movements economical as he wiped down the smudges on the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, seeing only his own tired reflection staring back.

The heavy front door clicked open and then shut, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. Minho didn't need to turn around. Just after midnight, like clockwork. Han Jisung stood there, his slight frame silhouetted against the door. He gave Minho a short, silent nod of acknowledgment, his eyes already scanning for his usual spot. Minho nodded back, a flicker of a gesture, before turning back to his task.

He watched in the mirror as Jisung made his way to the far corner, settling onto the floor and pulling his laptop from his worn backpack. The routine was a comfort, a silent agreement that had formed over months. Jisung needed a place to work, and Minho, who choreographed his most personal pieces in the vulnerable quiet of the night, found he didn't mind the company. Jisung plugged in his headphones, his face illuminated by the cool blue light of his screen, and the world outside the studio walls seemed to dissolve completely.

With the space clean, Minho moved to the sound system, but didn't press play. Tonight, the music was only in his head. He peeled off his damp t-shirt and sweats, tossing them into his bag and pulling on a loose, black tank top and soft pants that allowed for a full range of motion. He took his position in the center of the floor, his bare feet gripping the cool wood. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to move.

It started slowly, a fluid extension of his arm, a controlled turn that flowed into a deep bend. This was nothing like the sharp, powerful hip-hop he taught his classes. This was his own language, a vulnerable narrative told through the arch of his back and the stretch of his limbs. He could feel Jisung’s gaze on him. It was a physical sensation, a weight against his skin that was both unnerving and grounding. He glanced at the mirror, his eyes briefly meeting the reflection of Jisung, whose head was lifted from his laptop, his focus entirely on Minho’s form. A subtle warmth spread through Minho’s chest, and his movements became more defined, each line held a fraction of a second longer. He was dancing for himself, but he was no longer dancing alone.

Jisung tried to focus on the complex drum pattern he was building on his screen, but it was impossible. The synth line felt flat, the hi-hats mechanical. His attention was completely stolen by the man in the center of the room. Minho’s dance was a silent storm, all coiled power and graceful release. But it wasn't silent, not really.

From his corner, Jisung could hear everything. The soft, rhythmic slide of Minho’s bare feet across the polished wood floor. The sharp, definitive stomp as he landed a turn, the sound a perfect, organic snare hit. The whisper of his loose pants as he spun. These sounds were more compelling than any sample pack he had on his laptop. They were raw and real, filled with an energy that made the hairs on Jisung’s arms stand up.

He watched as Minho executed a sequence of sharp, staccato movements, his muscles tensing and releasing with breathtaking control. Each motion had its own distinct sound, a percussive cadence that was entirely unique to Minho’s body. An idea sparked in Jisung’s mind, so sudden and clear it made his breath catch. He needed that sound.

Carefully, so as not to draw attention, he pulled his phone from his pocket and discreetly opened the voice recorder app. He propped the phone against his laptop bag, angling it toward the center of the floor. He hit record, his heart thumping in his chest, feeling like a thief stealing something precious. He watched Minho for another minute, capturing a series of fluid turns that ended in a sharp, grounded pose, the slap of his feet on the floor a perfect punctuation. It was enough.

He quickly stopped the recording and airdropped the file to his laptop, pulling the headphones back over his ears. The world went silent except for the sounds he had just captured. He isolated the sharp stomp first, layering it over his existing kick drum. Then he took the soft, sweeping sound of Minho’s feet sliding across the floor and looped it, creating a hypnotic, textured rhythm track. He added the rustle of fabric, a sound like a shaker, weaving it through the beat. The track was instantly transformed. It felt alive now, breathing. It felt like Minho.

Lost in the new rhythm, Jisung didn't notice that his volume was turned up a little too high. A faint, tinny beat was leaking from his headphones into the quiet studio.

Minho, in the middle of a slow, controlled leg extension, froze. His muscles locked, his body held in a pose of perfect tension. It was a faint sound, almost imperceptible, but he heard it. A rhythm. A familiar one. He lowered his leg slowly, his brow furrowed in concentration as he strained to hear. It was the rhythm of the sequence he had just completed. The stomp, the slide, the whisper of fabric. His rhythm. His eyes shot up to the mirror, finding Jisung’s reflection. The younger man was completely absorbed, head bobbing slightly to the beat only he was supposed to hear. A flicker of pure, unadulterated surprise crossed Minho’s face as he stared, the silence of the studio suddenly charged with a question he didn’t know how to ask.

Minho pushed the thought away, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. He couldn't dwell on what Jisung was doing in his corner, on the impossible idea that his own movements were being woven into music. It was too distracting, too intimate. He needed to focus. He needed to get this sequence right.

He threw himself back into the choreography with a renewed, almost punishing intensity. He pushed his body harder, demanding more from muscles that were already screaming in protest. The spin was faster, the jump higher, the landing sharper. Sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes, stinging. His lungs burned, each breath a ragged gasp for air that never seemed to be enough. He could feel a tremor starting in his thighs, a sign of deep fatigue, but he ignored it.

He launched into the final, most difficult part of the piece—a series of quick, off-balance turns leading directly into a controlled fall. He spun once, twice, but on the third rotation, his supporting leg gave out. There was no grace, no control. He stumbled, his body lurching forward, and he caught himself with his hands and knees, the impact jarring through his bones. He stayed there, hunched over on the floor, his forehead nearly touching the cool wood. A low, frustrated sound escaped his throat, a raw noise of pure exhaustion and disappointment that was swallowed by the immense silence of the room.

From the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Jisung was standing up. Minho didn't lift his head, too spent to even feel self-conscious. He just stayed there, breathing hard, waiting for the younger man to pack his things and leave, the spell of the night broken by his failure.

But he didn't hear the sound of a backpack zipping shut. Instead, he heard the soft padding of feet on the wood floor, coming closer. The steps were hesitant. They stopped a few feet away from him. Minho remained perfectly still, his cheek now pressed against the floor. A plastic bottle of water and a rectangular energy bar were placed gently on the floor beside his hand. The footsteps retreated just as quietly as they had come.

Minho slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position, his muscles aching in protest. He stared at the offerings. It was a simple gesture, nothing more than a bottle of water and a snack, but in the silent world they had built, it was everything. It was an acknowledgment. It was care.

He looked up from the items on the floor, his gaze traveling across the room to where Jisung was now settled back in his corner, pointedly staring at his laptop screen as if nothing had happened. But Minho could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he wasn't really focused on his work.

Minho watched him for a long moment, the exhaustion in his body momentarily forgotten, replaced by a slow, spreading warmth. He turned his head, looking directly at Jisung, not at his reflection in the mirror. He offered a small, tired smile. It wasn't a performer's smile, practiced and polite. It was genuine, a quiet admission of gratitude.

Jisung must have felt his stare, because he finally looked up. His eyes met Minho’s, and when he saw the smile, the tension in his body seemed to melt away. He returned it with a shy, almost uncertain smile of his own, a silent response that bridged the vast space between them. The practical arrangement had fractured, and in the crack, something new and fragile was beginning to form.