Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age the child is grown, and puts away childish things. Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

ONE ‘Once Upon a Time’

The last memory Jimin has of his father, was the press of two hard palms on his shoulders.

It was morning, early morning. Too early for school, but Jimin had gotten up at the sound of his father rustling around their apartment. Tagging behind him as he stuffed his belongings into a large green duffel bag that swished against the rough material of his military uniform.

The sun was piercing streams of golden colored light in through the doorway, blinding him as his father faced him with melancholy eyes. He’d ducked down at the open door of their apartment, cold autumn air filtering past him. Jimin could smell the rain in the air, feel the morning frost on his skin. His father’s tan boots digging into the welcome mat as he presses for Jimin’s attention.

“Jimin,” His father grumbled, low voice cutting like sand. “Jimin, I want you to promise me something.”

Anticipation buzzes through him at his words. Skin itching as he nods at his father sternly. Blinking up at him through a fuzzy black fringe of hair. 

His father grips his shoulder a little tighter, and if Jimin dared to feel the pressure of his grip he wouldn’t dare show it. Instead he swallows the whine that itches at the back of his throat. Blinking back at his father with cold, stoic eyes.

“Your mom and sister need you. You’re the man of the house now,” His father begins and there is a slight waver in his voice. The presence of emotion, Jimin notes. He can see the shift in his father’s eyes and despite only being 10, he noticed the grief in them. Combing up and down Jimin’s tiny frame as if swallowing his image one last time. 

“I’m trusting you to make sure they’re okay, make sure they’re alright while I’m gone off fighting.”

Where Jimin expects pride to swell in his chest he doesn’t. If anything he feels dread slip like ice into his chest. He’s only 10, but he thinks he can identify the weight of responsibility as it claws into him. His father is staring at him, eyes dripping with desperation.

“But Ma— she—she’s—” Jimin stutters awkwardly. 

She’s currently passed out in bed right now; dark hair ruffled up and tangled after spending all evening drowning her grief into a bottle and cursing the war. Cursing the war for stealing her husband, cursing the war for stealing her mate. 

“She needs you now more than ever, Jimin,” His father hums, running an affectionate hand through Jimin’s hair. Brushing the curtain of tangled bangs from his eyes so he can get a better look at him. His father swallows, curling his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You know how much she needs someone, Jimin. I’m not here anymore so it needs to be you.” 

Jimin’s nose wrinkles up when it shouldn’t, head suddenly very foggy to match his watering eyes. That was Jimin’s first taste of obligation and it was bitter against his tongue. Responsibility is a flavor far too mature for his taste buds, he feels. This is a burden too heavy for such small shoulders, but his father is squeezing them hard enough that he wants to believe him.  So he straightens his spine as he offers his father a curt, obedient nod.

He watches his father smile in relief, now running his hand through his hair, cupping at his cheek.

“That’s my boy, my little man,” He breathed out, almost in relief, but mostly in grief. “I knew I could always count on you.”

Jimin had never seen his father cry before, but he thinks he came dangerously close that last day. If Jimin could, he’d stop the world right now. Stop his father from walking out of that front door, stop him from heading off to a war with no end in sight. He’d keep him here, in this tiny little bubble. Away from it all. 

Jimin watches as  big brown eyes that mirror his own well up with tears. Watches them shake and burn red as he rakes them over his son one last time before peeling himself up with a grunt. Tightening his grip on the leather strap of his duffel bag as he peers down at Jimin.

There’s a burning in Jimin’s chest, he remembers. Then, his hands shake as he watches his father beam down at him with an usual hint of pride and possession. 

Then, the air freezes. Quite literally, and enough so that Jimin feels as if he can prod his finger through it like jelly. 

His father has frozen before him, mid blink. Hand pressed to his shoulder, but it doesn’t budge. Jimin flits his eyes between it and his father’s body, frozen in suspended animation. 

Jimin takes a step back, but his father doesn’t move. Neither does the sun, or the bird that seems to have a cardinal that is swooping past their wind. Stuck with its arms outstretched in the frozen, jelly-like air. 

Jimin didn’t have a word for it then. He only remembers feeling the heat in his fingers as he circles his father’s statue-like body in ill contained shock. He was only ten and his vocabulary only reached so far but he thinks this could be called magic. 

This is what he wanted, however. His father, frozen in time. Here with him forever. Jimin just wasn’t sure how he did it, and he hasn’t done it so well since.

Jimin thinks he can feel the phantom tug of his father’s hand at his shoulder now, as he stands before the stove, four years later, waiting for the water to boil. Steam wafts up towards him, wetting the tip of his nose; dampening his lashes when he hears the door behind him squeak open.

“Are you making ramen?” He hears a small voice squeak. The door squeaks again, wailing through the tiny  apartment. “I want ramen too.” His sister whines, small socked toes padding from their shared bedroom across the carpet until she teaches the tiled kitchen floor.

Jimin feels her tug at the hem of his shirt.

Jimin turns from the stove, crossing his arms across his chest as he blinks down at her. “It’s too late for ramen,” He replies, shaking his head. He turns his head back to the simmering water; Watching bubbles sprout and

boil. Eventually he tears his eyes away from it to find his sloppy bunned, sleepy eyed, nine-year-old sister, Hyunjin, blinking back at him.

She reaches up, wiping at her eyes with a yawn.

“But Jimin, I’m  hungry—” She groans.

“It’s too late to eat, Jinnie—” He retorts.

Hyunjin pouts, “But you’re eating,” She replies swiftly, nodding towards the stove.

“I didn’t eat earlier with you—”

“Why?”

The question bounces from the kitchen walls, clinging to Jimin’s skin. For a 14-year-old, he’s finding it extraordinarily hard to express what poverty means to someone too young to really understand.

That the gimbap she’d eaten earlier was the last of many foods in their tiny compact fridge that rattles too loud. That their mother must be on another bender, meaning they’ll probably starve until she returns. If she ever does. Until she drags herself back home.

Jimin, who usually finds words come to him easily, through the written pen or simply on his tongue, is finding it hard to form them right now to explain to his little sister that the state that they live in is out of their control, so instead he bites his tongue. So he swallows thickly, as he lets his tensed up shoulder  finally sink.

Beside him, the refrigerator rumbles against the tiles. Jimin can feel it buzzing the floor beneath his bare toes. He uncurls his arms, reaching forward to yank Hyunjin closer to him and wrap his arms gently around her shoulders.

“I’ll make you a bowl as long as you promise to brush your teeth again,” He says, pulling back to peer down at her. She blinks back at him with bright brown eyes full of hope and wonder and just an ounce of joy. More than Jimin has felt in years. “Can you promise me that, Jinnie?” 

Hyunjin nods, bringing her head back to Jimin’s chest and resting it there. Counting his heartbeat, breathing in his scent as they rock gently in time with the whistling pot of boiling noodles. 

“You’re the best big brother, Jimin,” She breathes against him, muffled. “More like a dad than a brother, but either way you’re the best.” 

The apartment suddenly feels a lot smaller. Jimin pulls back, eyeing Hyunjin with uncomfortable, shaky eyes. 

There’s a lot of innocence in her eyes, Jimin can see that much in them as the stale kitchen light flickers above them. But, as he peels back, reads her with quiet understanding he thinks he sees naivety. Sees the quiet pastels of naivety color every part of those bright innocent eyes as she blink back at him in confusion. 

That’s when Jimin feels envy. Mostly because his feet still  hurt from walking to school because their mother forgot bus fare again and he couldn’t scrape enough change together to guarantee a ride for them both. His back still aches from mopping a filthy kitchen floor and his stomach rumbles because through it all he hadn’t eaten since lunch at school. 

Jimin envies her because he carries the brunt of their dysfunction on those same shoulders his father had squeezed before he left to never come back and they’re a lot weaker now than before. He envies her because right now she’s just a hungry little girl staring up at the only reliable source of function in her life. 

The pot is gurgling now, and Jimin unpeels them both to reach for the tongs. Hyunjin leans against the kitchen counter, wide eyes trailing up and over it until it settles atop the pile of forgotten mail.

She steps towards it, hand reaching out as she rustles the papers around the countertop.

“Ignore that,” Jimin says, shaking his head as steam billows up to tickle his nose. 

Hyunjin instead chooses to ignore him, eyes trailing over the paper as she dances wide brown eyes over the words. Then she’s looking up, excitedly, “A professional writer? Like one with an office and making lots of money?”

Jimin laughs, stirring the ramen around with the spatula as he bends to lower the heat. “Not a professional writer,” He laughs, reaching up to their wooden cabinets, the ones that squeak as he yanks them open, pulling out two clear bowls. “I’m too young for that, Hyunnie. But it’s more of an internship. An apprenticeship.”

Hyunjin is leaning back against the counter, eyes grazing the paper again as she goes to place the letter back atop the others. “What’s an apprenticeship?” 

Jimin is scooping the ramen into the bowls, lapping wet noodles squishing around as he pours the majority of the pot’s contents into the bowl he’s preparing for Hyunjin. 

“It’s kind of like a real job, but not really. Without all the real perks like money and healthcare.” 

He slides the bowl over towards her, it squeals against the countertop. Hyunjin grabs it, wincing at the heat as she swirls the two chopsticks Jimin had stuck inside around the noodles. 

“So…” She says, pinching a clump of noodles together and drawing it up to her lips. “Are you going to take it?” 

Jimin chuckles, eyeing the loose letter that sits atop the other frayed pile of past due bills. He’d be lying if he said it hasn’t been the only thing he’s thought about since he received it just a day before. That letter, he thinks, contained the hope of far flung dreams and fantasies, as real as any fairy tale. A lot hung on it, his passions, the hope of a brighter future, far from this hole in the wall he’s called his home for the majority of his life. 

A lot hung on it, a lot depended on it. But the chance of making it a reality, of convincing his drunken mother to spare an extra $50 they don’t have for the chance to maybe be accepted was laughable. Investing in something intangible is laughable.

Jimin swirls his chopsticks through his ramen, prodding his nose in the bowl before lifting it to his lips. 

“Very unlikely anything will come from this,” He purrs gently, mostly from the ever awakening disappointment that is slowly blooming into fruition in his chest. “Besides, I need a real job to take care of us.” 

Hyunjin is nearly done with her ramen, and she stirs whatever is left around, frowning. Small forehead wrinkling up in discomfort, and Jimin knows she’s thinking. Can practically smell the steam pillowing from her ears. 

Then she’s looking up at him, eyes laced with disappointment. “That’s not fair, you like writing.” 

“I do like writing, yes,” Jimin answers gently. “But writing doesn’t pay for gas and electricity. Or water. Or food. I just need a nice, normal job to help make it a little easier—” 

“Then what is Ma for?” Hyunjin croaks, voice wavering. Her chopsticks fall against the plastic bowl, squeaking against jellifying sauce. 

Jimin blinks over at her, watches the way her face twists up in discomfort. No one that young should look that uncomfortable. Not that early in the spring of life. 

“You’re just a kid, like me, you shouldn’t be worrying about bills or money, or anything like that,” She whines. Jimin can hear her voice crack, see the way her big brown eyes well up with the beginning of tears. “You’re just a kid, like me, and you should be able to be that. A kid.”

Jimin gapes at her, mouth falling slack because for the first time, he doesn’t think he has the words to console her. 

Jimin lost his childhood that autumn morning when their father left for the war. The morning he’d dug his hand into his shoulder, crowning him with responsibilities he never asked for. That same childhood was gone, buried, the day he opened the door, two years later, to two soldiers informing them that he’d never see that father again. 

Jimin never had the chance at a childhood, but, through hard work, he thinks he could grant one to Hyunjin.

Again, another responsibility he never asked for, but one he’s willing to uphold.

Hyunjin is crying now, full fat tears spark down her chubby pink cheeks as she gapes up at him. 

Jimin sets his bowl down, clattering against the countertop as he goes to bend to meet her at eye level. When he does, he hesitates, hands hovering just at her small shaking shoulders before he’s pulling her into an enveloping hug.

“If I don’t take care of us, then no one will,” He breathes out, warm against her neck. 

Hyunjin is still shaking, arms loose at Jimin’s waist. “That’s not fair,” She pouts.

Jimin pulls back, eyeing her as he reaches up and combs her fallen bangs up and out of her face. Picking strands of hair from the wet stains on cheeks. 

“Most things aren’t fair,” He tells her, now rubbing soft circles at her cheeks. “But I don’t want you to worry about that.” 

He hears her before he sees her. 

Jimin glances up at her, cocking his head as he watches his mother scramble into the front door. She tosses her keys onto the front table, but they skirt across the glass, landing with a clatter against the scraped wooden floor. Jimin hears her groan, but her fumbling feet don’t stop as she emerges from the front hallway, halting when she sees him staring back at her from the couch. 

“You’re still awake,” She slurs, wiping at her cheek. “You know you’re not supposed to be up.” 

Jimin shuts his book with a snap, tugging the blanket that’s draped over his body a little tighter to his chest. 

“Every light in the fucking house is on,” She continues to garble, slowly slinging herself into the living room. “You don’t pay for a goddamn thing in this house yet here you are, wasting space, wasting my money—” 

“I left some ramen for you,” Jimin mumbles, pointing to the oven light that blinks over the stove. “It’s not much, just the little bit left after Hyunnie and I—” 

“I don’t want any ramen,” His mother spits, feet nearly giving out beneath her but she catches herself against the wall. 

Jimin winces, watching as she collects herself. Stumbling against the doorframe as she balances back to stable legs. 

He wonders for a moment, eyes skirting to the letter, tossed forgotten on the kitchen counter, back up to his mother who is scowling over at him. 

“I want you in bed, lights off,” She growls, heading towards her bedroom.

Jimin limps up, the blanket slipping from around him and onto the carpeted floor. “Um, actually,” He says beyond his better judgment to stay quiet and obedient. “I uh—” He hesitates, crossing the living room to the kitchen counter and slipping the letter towards him. “I uh, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” 

His mother frowns, taking a step towards him, and from this close Jimin can smell the liquor pilling from her skin. 

Her eyes skirt down to the letter, then back up to meet Jimin who is clutching it nervously. 

“What do you want?” She spits. 

Jimin swallows, clammy fingers achingly clinging to the letter before pressing it forward towards her. 

She eyes it, then him, then back down to the letter. Then, she reaches for it, pulling it to her face as she scans her eyes over its written words. 

The silver metal clock above them ticks; echoing loud through the tiny hallway as Jimin counts the seconds. Counts the number of dry blinks his mother gives as she reads with steady eyes. Counts the number of times his heart stutters in anxious time as she clings to his last shred of hope of ever leaving this place; free himself from its clutches. 

After a moment, she peels her eyes up to him. Gaze swimming in a drunken slur of apathetic lull. 

“What does this have to do with me?” She asks.

Jimin smiles nervously, because he thinks his heart is crawling up his chest, up his throat and past his tongue. Thinks this smile will do him best in caging it there. 

“I just uh,” He stammers out, blinking under the stuttering hallway light. “You know how much I love to write—”

“I know it’s a waste of your time,” His mother growls. “I know you need a real job, a real man’s job. How am I supposed to take care of you and your sister with you hanging around the house all day?”

“I go to school, Ma,” He breathes out. “Then I pick Hyunnie up, but finding a job that will trust a 14 year old kid is hard.” 

Jimin winces, swallowing dryly as he pulls uncomfortably at the hem of his shirt. “I know that I was just hoping—” 

“I don’t know why,” She tells him, shoving the paper into his chest and finally stumbling into her dark room. “Your dad isn’t here anymore, Jimin. I need you to step up and take care of this family.” 

Jimin’s eyes well and shake as he reaches up to clutch at the crumpled paper at his chest. He drags it down his chest, eyes too afraid to meet it as he clutches at it uncomfortably. A sniffle escapes him, and with that he watches the shadow of his mother’s figure spin around to meet him. 

“Look at you crying, why are you crying?” She snarls, taking a step back towards him. “You’re 14-years-old, Jimin, you’re not a baby anymore. Men don’t cry.” 

Jimin doesn’t feel like a man, every part of him feels small. Every part of him feels young and dumb and needy. He thinks he needs a hug right now, but he can’t articulate that. He thinks he needs the comfort of a mother, and not the scolding of one, but can’t articulate that either. Instead, he shrinks in on himself, feeling his chest tighten and hot tears begin at his eyes. 

“You think it’s easy taking care of two kids with no money and no husband to help?” His mother says, emerging from the shadow of her room to hang onto the doorframe. “Everyday has been hell since your father left us for that goddamn war and here you stand telling me you want to write for a living.” 

Jimin hangs his head, watching the way his toes twist against the grains of stained carpet beneath him. Then he feels her press a hard finger against his chest. 

“I know, I just—” Jimin finally whispers. He eyes the crumpled paper in his hand. “If I do well with this there’s a chance I could eventually work with the publishing house. Maybe get signed to them when I graduate—” 

“Get out of your head, Jimin. Life isn’t all magic and fairy tales and dumb happy endings. Things like that don’t happen to people like us.” She snarls, twisting her finger against his chest. “If it were anything different I wouldn’t be a widow and I sure as hell wouldn’t have had you. Useless.” She spits. With a swift finger she flicks his head up, until her eyes meet his. Bellowing, angry ones meet eyes draped in sadness, shaking in submission. 

“Life is just this,” She continues and there’s a lot more frustration in her voice than Jimin is willing to pick up. Frustration he thinks that may not be entirely pointed towards him, but he feels every dagger of it twisting into his chest. 

“Life is cold and hard and it hurts,” She tells him, shoving him slightly with her hand. “You don’t get to make wishes. You better get used to it and stop living in that big foggy head of yours. Out of those little daydreams and fantasies and come back down to reality with the rest of us. There are no prince charmings, Jimin. No fairy tales. Just life. Just this.”

Jimin gawks under her nervously, entire body shaking as she continues to dig her finger into his chest. 

After a strained moment she drops her hand, stumbling backwards as she catches herself on the doorframe with a weak hand. 

“Now get out of my face and go to bed,” She murmurs in a slur. 

Jimin watches as she stumbles back into her room, door slamming behind her as it rattles the wooden walls around them. 

Jimin doesn’t think he can move, feet planted like roots into the carpet, heart still strumming in his chest as he clings to the letter, even if his right mind is telling him to let it go.

Jimin lets himself cry out here, finally alone, under the falling shadow of the hanging moon and the whisper of cold wind that dries the tears to his face. He reaches up and swats at them, but more spring free; bleeding down his cheeks, staining the collar of his shirt. 

He lets time stutter while he’s out here, with that strange magic he still doesn’t understand. Pausing and starting it at will, watching as blades of grass dance in stunted time as a distraction from his tears.

He lets himself shake out the cry he’d been holding in for so long, since he’d dipped from his room window and crawled down the rusted fire escape to the apartment’s rinky playset outside. 

He sat squat on the cold plastic seat of the swing, metal grating above him as he squeaked back and forth, notebook pressed weakly to his chest. He doesn’t know why he brought it. Thinks having its pages near brings comfort; sort of like a security blanket.

Jimin flips at the pages weakly, tacking it down with a wet finger as the wind howls at his back. Where he’s sitting, plastic grates dig in through his pajama pants as he wrestles his knee up. Planting his gray socked toe against the seat as he falls slack against the cold metal chain. His head thumps against it, and he winces, letting the metal cool the tension that bunches at the bruised spot. 

Above him, orange street light flickers onto the pages of his notebook. Enough light to read, enough light to scribble forgotten words and resentment onto its pages. Enough light to warm him under the cool evening darkness. 

He can see his bedroom from here; his room window that faces a small wooded area. But out past the bristling leaves he thinks he can hear the honk of car horns as they race down congested streets. The hanging scent of burnt rubber on concrete claims the air, as does the fog of sputtering exhaust pipes as it clouds in through the trees; filters past the bushes up towards him.

The chaos of the city surrounds him and Jimin reflects on just how much he hates it here. Hates the feeling of the city, the way it hangs on his small shoulders and weighs him down reminding him of feeling trapped in its iron clutches.

He focuses his eyes back onto the flickering pages, shoving his glasses back up his nose with a sniffle when he hears, ahead of him, a window quark open.

There is a rumble of squealing iron as someone leaps out and emerges onto the playground. Jimin looks up, meeting two glowing eyes as light bounces from thick round glasses peering down at him.

“God,” Jimin croaks out, hastily wiping at his tears. “Your glasses make you look like an axe murderer, Joon.” 

Kim Namjoon, his next door neighbor, blushes, ducking his head awkwardly as he twists through the fire escape, peeling down the iron steps until he is crawling across the garden towards him.

Then he plops down in the swing beside him with a grunt, pressing beside him and wrapping his burgundy colored robe tighter around his waist. Digging his hands into his pockets, as he nods weakly. “I’m sorry,” He squeaks. “It’s freezing out here,” Namjoon murmurs sheepishly. 

He looks up, eyes narrowing as he gazes upon Jimin’s swollen, reddened eyes. 

“Are you crying?” He asks, voice weak as he moves in closer. 

Jimin smiles back weakly, shaking his head hastily as he swats at his dampened cheeks again. “No,” He lies. 

Namjoon’s eyes narrow, “What are you crying about?” He asks, ignoring him. 

“I’m not crying, I don’t cry,” Jimin lies, but the crack in his voice betrays him. He can’t think of anything more mortifying than crying in front of someone, let alone Namjoon. He sniffles instead, tugging his notebook tighter against his chest. “I’m not crying, I promise, I’m not a kid anymore.” 

Namjoon rolls his eyes, ducking down into a squat in front of him at the sandbox. “You’re fourteen years old of course you’re a kid,” He snorts. 

“I know how old I am,” Jimin retorts, pouting. Pointing his chin up to the sky to watch as the moon melts above the clouds in milky strands of silver. “Like I said, I’m not a kid. I’m not a crybaby.” 

Namjoon looks like he wants to say something, but he snaps his mouth shut, letting his long legs drag as he swings gently in the evening wind.

“I don’t know how you can be out here, Jimin, it’s freezing,” He pouts. He glances over at him, thick glasses fogged from his breath, but a smile crawls on his lips as he combs gentle eyes across him. 

“Some of us have thick skin, Namjoon,” Jimin tells him. He nudges closer, and from this distance, and with the wind tangling between them he can smell the sweetness that hangs from Namjoon’s skin. Subtle shades of lavender that pools from damp hair. But it doesn’t eclipse the sweetness that seems to cling to the larger, bespeckled boy to his right who always seems to hold just enough patience for him.

“Besides I’d rather freeze out here than spend another second in there,” Jimin says, fingers tugging at one of the pages of the book in his lap. His chest tightens at the thought of going back inside, throat drying.

Namjoon is blinking over at him, mouth fallen slightly agape. Jimin can practically hear the way the thoughts in his head rumble around his head before he speaks.

“Is she being— is she— you know…. again?” Namjoon winces, treading his voice lightly.

Jimin sighs, head falling back against the squeaking chains of the swings as the wind carries exhaust scented air past them. 

“When isn’t she?” Jimin mumbles back, snapping the book shut and pressing it to his chest. He turns his head because he can feel the beginnings of white hot tears burning at his eyes and he refuses to succumb to that emotion; let alone in front of someone. 

“She’s just so fucking mean,” Jimin pouts, eyes following the drifting blades of grass at his toes.

Namjoon doesn’t answer immediately, he’s digging fingers into the iron chains. “Well, that happens to people sometimes. When things haven’t gone their way in a while. Life hardens them. Turns them to stone.” 

Jimin tries to think of a time before his mother was like this, but the burn of her finger against his chest still scorches his skin so he focuses on that instead. 

“Well there’s no reason to take it out on her kids,” He frowns, reaching up to run his hand across the burn at his chest, finding no relief. “She didn’t just lose her husband to that stupid war, I lost my dad too, you know.”

“Just make sure it doesn’t turn you to stone too,” Namjoon says, nudging him. “Not good to hold all that emotion in you’ll end up exploding one day like a pimple.”

The opposite swing set in front of them squeaks as wind whips the two iron seats through its ribbon. Jimin eyes it, watching the phantom wind tugging them back and forth. 

“I had a writing internship at the big publishing house downtown. I think Mr. Choi from our literature class submitted some of my work,” He hums out. “But I don’t think I can do it anymore,” Jimin whispers. 

Namjoon leans in closer, “Wha— Jimin that’s fantastic!” 

Jimin blushes, but it’s hidden under shadow. “I mean, I guess.” He heaves out a sigh. “It takes money, which I don’t have and also support from my mom, which I also don’t have.” 

He can tell Namjoon has a lot to say, but there’s only so much consolation someone can give. Only so much empathy is extended before it breaches pity. He can feel it buzzing from his skin as he hovers a hand near his, itching to reach out. 

They’ve spent too many years sprawled out at this playground, Namjoon has heard his problems enough. 

Jimin can feel Namjoon still looking at him, and can feel the heat of his gaze scorching at his skin. He knows when Namjoon looks at him, with those melancholy, love drenched eyes, it’s with an unrequited love he doesn’t think he can match. At least not in the way that really matters. 

“Can’t even see the stars from here,” Jimin spits out. He swats his hands up towards the sky above them and Namjoon’s eyes follow.

Jimin blinks up at the swirls of gray clouds that bounces around the silver sky. Pinches his eyes as he lets his glasses slip back up the bridge of his nose, pressing cold against his skin.

“Well, it just rained—” Namjoon begins. 

“Nah, it’s not the rain,” Jimin whines. There are words bubbling up on his tongue, planted very firmly in his chest. “It’s living dead in the middle of the city. Makes it hard to see the stars.” 

For a moment, as the words slip from his lips, he thinks a lot of his father, cursing the war like his mother usually does. Curses circumstance and reason. Wonders if, for some stupid reason, if his dad were still here, maybe the stars would be a little brighter. Rip through the murky clouds and glitter clarity down onto him. 

He wonders how much he can blame on circumstance. 

Namjoon sits patiently beside him, blinking through thick, foggy glasses; a warm, understanding smile planted onto his cheeks. There is an extent to that understanding and Jimin reads it in his eyes. There’s only so far understanding can go before it breaches pity. 

“If I had my way, I’d live far, far away from here,” Jimin finally says with a snort; an effort to suck down the tears still threatening in his eyes. “Somewhere away from city lights, away from all the noise, away from my mom and all her problems and thinking about my dad. Somewhere where I could write and read and I’d just—”

The words are spilling too fast from his head for his tongue to catch up. He finds himself tripping over his words, slipping on the ice of them. Eventually he settles, pinching his eyes together because he thinks he’s moments from breaking down.

Namjoon, however, is blinking at him with those same gentle, caring eyes. Jimin feels him drape his hands over him. Warm from being buried in the pockets of his robe.

Engulfing his own as he squeezes at them with gentle accord.

“That sounds a lot like running away,” Namjoon purrs.

“I’m not running away,” Jimin lies.

“You read too much to claim you’re not running away,” Namjoon says, shaking his head and squeezing his hands. The warmth from them pulses. “I get it, I make music, I’m running away too.”

Namjoon doesn’t get it. His home is warm and welcoming and filled with love. He has no need to run away. His musical endeavors, Jimin has learned, that no matter his talent in it, rings truer to a hobby than a necessity. Namjoon would still be Namjoon without his trumpet. Jimin isn’t sure he’d still be himself without the chance to run away with a pen. 

“Besides,” Namjoon says softly. The tree above them is raining flakes of wet leaves down onto them like confetti. “Big successful writers need to live in big successful penthouses in the city. You work hard and then you show off. That’s the point.” 

Jimin doesn’t agree, but he convinces himself to see the truth in Namjoon’s sincere eyes.

“Who said I’m going to be some big successful writer?” Jimin asks, eyes flitting down to where their hands are twisted together. “I tell my baby sister bedtime stories doesn’t mean I’m gonna be famous for it or anything.”

Namjoon scoffs, tugging him closer as a chillier wind engulfs them. Jimin can feel the goosebumps springing on Namjoon’s skin, and has to bite back the want to kiss them. 

“I’ve read your stories in school Jimin, you’re really good,” Namjoon tells him. “All those stories about furry blue tailed fairies… glowing purple lakes… the mighty, handsome prince with a heart of gold.”

Under the frothy orange light from the nearby street lamp, Jimin sees Namjoon’s cheeks are glowing bright red. He assumes it’s from the cold, but Namjoon’s eyes keep flitting up and down nervously. Hands twisting around his own, shaking. 

“Well, I think you’re a good writer. Got a whole world of imagination in that big head of yours,” Namjoon concludes, shoving at him slightly with a nervous, shaky laugh. “Could live in any of them if you really wanted, I think.”

Another flick of wind and he shrieks, eyeing their swinging feet then back down to their hands. 

“I’m gonna head back inside or I’ll freeze to death,” Namjoon mumbles, untangling his legs from the iron grates and rising to his feet.

When he stands, he wraps his robe around himself tighter; glasses slipping down his nose as he shoots Jimin a final grin. 

“If you want you can come up to my room,” He tells him, crossing his arms tight across his chest in an attempt to warm himself. “We could play some games on my brother’s Playstation.” 

Jimin shakes his head, clutching his book tighter to his chest. “Nah, I’m probably gonna head inside. Go to sleep.” He hesitates. “Thank you though.” 

Namjoon grins, coiling around to begin back to the door when he slips; on dewy blades of grass and begins his tumble backwards. Jimin gasps; time freezing around him as he zooms forward. Coiling his arms around Namjoon and hoisting him up mid fall. 

Jimin’s fingers are still burning when time begins again. Namjoon, still disjointed, flails but he’s wrapped firmly in Jimin’s grip. He darts his head around; between the abandoned swing that still lunges through the air, then back to Jimin who now stands before him. Face plastered with a smile that says a lot of things Namjoon can’t decipher. 

“How’d you do that?” Namjoon presses, uncurling himself from Jimin’s arms and settling back onto his feet against the wet grass.

Jimin laughs hollowly, “Do what?” He asks with feigned obliviousness. He runs a hand through his hair. “You were falling, Joon.” 

Namjoon opens his mouth to speak, eyes once again darting between the swing that seems a little too far from their current location for Jimin to have ever made it in reasonable time to save him from busting his ass. 

He settles his gaze back on Jimin, who grins sheepishly. 

Namjoon goes back to tightening his robe around his waist, and pushing his sliding glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He frowns, but Jimin watches as his inquisitive eyes slowly sink into adoration again. 

“You’re weird, Jimin,” He murmurs, but there’s no malice in his voice. Only sweet fondness coloring every inch of his tone. 

Jimin giggles, shoving at his shoulder slightly as he breathes in relief. “You love it.” 

12 Years Later

“We need you married,” His agent purrs at him. 

Jimin chokes at his coffee, sputtering as he places it down with a splat against the white table.  He swallows with a cough, patting at his chest as he blinks over at her. 

“Excuse me?” He sputters, still struggling to breathe.

Kim Seokjin, his devastatingly handsome agent with a head of fiery orange hair and equally fiery words to match, is typing at his phone, fingers clacking against the screen before he glances up. 

“You’re 26 and you’re not married, not a good look,” He says monotonously, eyes still glued to his screen. “Your distributors thinks so too. Think it’s time you settle down and get hitched.” He pauses, licking his lips. “For image sake.”

“That’s not fair, I know lots of 26-year-olds who aren’t married,” Jimin refutes, shaking his head, clicking at his pen. “It’s the 21st century, Seokjin, I would argue that most 26-year-olds aren’t married. No one is dying by 30 anymore.”

“Understandable, but most 26-year-olds are not the biggest children’s author in the world with an image to uphold,” Seokjin rebutes.

Jimin, who’d struck gold with a series of novels about a prodigal prince and his magical kingdom, peers over at the man he’d, for a lack of a better word, had signed his life away to. The man who’d read the first few pages of his book and gave him a chance. He owes him a lot more than the world, he thinks.

The coffee shop they’re in, just a few blocks from the publishing office, is bustling. Steams of hot coffee beans press through the small cafe. Gurgling pots spit of black hot coffee into ornate mugs as they’re scraped across the counter to waiting hands. Jimin cautiously takes another sip from his own, letting the heat steam at his lips as he nervously swallows. 

“No one cares if I’m married,” He says shaking his head. 

“The suburban moms who buy their daughters your books certainly do,” Seokjin responds with a shake of his head. “Who’s gonna buy their kid the book from an author who is still stumbling out of clubs with a different man every night?” He pauses, licking his lips. For a second, Jimin thinks he sees compassion flit across his eyes. For a moment he sees Seokjin resign slightly. A friend, an editor, an agent, blinking back at him from across the wooden table.

He reaches forward to drape his hand across his. “I wouldn’t spring this on you if it weren’t important,” He hums gently. “Besides, you’re young, rich and cute. Marrying someone isn’t the end of your life. Doesn’t mean that stops you from doing anything you want, really.” He smiles mischievously. “It’s just a ring.”

Jimin frowns, dismissively, reaching again for his mug. He’d never admit it out loud, but he craves more intimacy than just a ring. Craves intimacy in all its organic forms. The type of love founded in truth and principle. The type of love he’s willing to give it all up for. The type of love he writes about.

A few tables down, two women crouch closer together as they slurp on steaming pink mugs of lattes. One woman, with flaming red hair presses a soft, chaste kiss to her cheek. Jimin watches the way the girl blushes, watches the ways she curls into her, nose brushing against the crook of her neck as she slips into a steady stream of giggles. 

Jimin turns, wondering if the feeling that’s curling in the pit of his stomach is really envy. It burns, burns and boils and twists inside of him so he reaches forward; grips his mug and slugs it back in an attempt to swallow it down. Swallow down the envy that is swimming like bile in his chest.

“I don’t think I’m the marrying type anyway,” Jimin breathes out. He thinks, this time, it’s the trauma speaking. He can identify that at least.

“The Park Jimin in front of me may not be, but the Park Jimin worldwide children’s author bestseller should be,” Seokjin presses.

A few dishes clang together as baristas toss a blender into a sink. Jimin listens to the way coffee beans bristle together, beading together as they rumble through the machine.He turns back to look towards Seokjin who is surprisingly staring right back at him. “I’m not asking you for much—” 

“You’re asking me, out of the blue, to get married,” Jimin fires back, shaking his head. “Not to change the way I dress, not asking me to stop smoking, or stop cursing as much, but to get married.” 

Seokjin looks as if he wants to argue, mouth falling slack before he snaps it shut. Then he’s humming, pressing his mug to his lips before he speaks. 

“Your image matters, Jimin,” Seokjin finally says, voice muffled as it spills into his mug. “People are dumb, and judge books based on their covers.”

“I’m a writer,” Jimin growls back, clutching at the table angrily as it rattles between them. “I write fairy tales for a living. No one cares if I’m married or not. Just let me write my books and—” 

“You’re a lot more famous than we expected you to be,” Seokjin answers, cutting him off. 

Jimin gapes at him, distress bubbling in his chest as he turns his head back out the window. Back out to a dusty gray sky, back out the dampened air and padded yellow trees. He feels like a petulant child, stomping through a tantrum no one understands. Doesn’t understand why his choices don’t seem to matter, has never seemed to matter. Wonders if there will ever come a time when they do.

“When I read your manuscript, I had no clue you’d blow up the way you did, but you did and this is where we are,” Seokjin answers back, slightly more clipped than before. He’s holding his breath, Jimin can see the way his ears are bleeding pink. “Your manuscript lands on my desk, a story about a little prince and his kingdom and a magic blue tree and I was enchanted,” Seokjin continues. 

Jimin fidgets under his praise, choosing to dart his eyes down to his fingernails. Pulling them up to his lips and chewing at them mindlessly. 

“I pushed for your story because I had faith in you,” Seokjin murmurs, leaning closer towards him. “Now I just want you to have a little faith in me too. Just a bit.” 

Jimin finally meets his eyes. Feels his own burn and shake and threaten to water, but he swallows the urge down thickly. “It’s not fair,” He whispers, voice cracking. “Why do I have to get married? Married Seokjin? Really?” 

Seokjin chuckles gently, cupping at his mug. “Most things aren’t fair, that’s the unfortunate world we live in.” He sighs, shrugging slightly. “But you’re way too talented of a writer, I’ve seen you build up this entire empire I don’t want you to have it all washed away over this one little thing.” 

One little thing, Jimin thinks with a scoff. Marrying someone for image sake isn’t one little thing.

Jimin chews at the inside of his cheek, enough for it to bleed. Casting his eyes up to the brick ceiling before letting his eyes fall back down to the table. 

“I’m not asking you to go out and marry the first man you see,” Seokjin says. “Just a few dates, I promise I won’t set you up with anyone too bad.” 

Jimin meets Seokjin’s eyes again, and though he curses the world; curses the unfortunate series of events that have led him here, curses his lifelong inability to ever have autonomy over himself and his own direction he nods in concession. 

The man who sits before him, despite his beautiful brown skin and gorgeous head of cotton like black hair, is still talking. 

Something he’s been doing, Jimin has noted, since the man had arrived fashionably late to their date. This is his fourteenth in a series of never-ending blind dates Seokjin has mapped out for him. His first happened to be with an actor, a man with buzzed raven colored hair and a brain just as empty as his mane. His seventh was with a retired army veteran who, despite his graying hair and poor eyesight had absolutely no experience with dating.

His current, his fourteenth, is with a model based out of New York. In town for fashion week. At least, Jimin thinks he said so, but he’s said a lot of things in their short time together in this ritzy restaurant downtown with its overpriced ramen and barbeque.

Jimin is scooping the last of his jjajangmyeon into his mouth, slurping the noodle against his lips as he watches the man, beauty personified, continue to drone on about what Jimin actually thinks he’s forgotten what he was talking about now.

The man pauses, watching Jimin slurp the noodle to completion before laughing, ducking his head nervously. “I’m boring you, aren’t I?” He mumbles, brown cheeks deepening in color from embarrassment. 

“No, no, of course not,” Jimin lies, shaking his head. He places his chopsticks back into his bowl, humming out a sigh as he skirts his bowl away from him. “I’m actually fascinated by the downside of modelling, please, tell me more.” 

Jimin has never been a good liar. He thinks his heart is a little too pure, lies end up too heavy on his tongue; arrive disjointed and sluggish. But the man, whose bright brown eyes, Jimin notes, seem vacant despite the animation at which he speaks, lights up when he hears Jimin speak. 

“Well,” He says, clearing his throat. “It’s not as glamorous as you think. I’ve spent time all over the world, but Milan I think is the worst— you know they expect you to pay for your own cabs at these shows?” 

Jimin nods, along with faux enthusiasm, eyes tracing the man’s perfect lips. Wondering if they taste as good as he thinks, despite their tendency to never stop moving. Wonders how hard they’ll be pressed against him tonight, if that makes these dates Seokjin has been setting him up for the sake of his image worth it. Makes a mental note to complain to Seokjin about the caliber of men he thinks he’d like to date let alone marry. Wonders if he should take a chance to date a woman for once, wonders if the man’s words would be more tempting coming from a woman’s lips instead. 

“I’m talking about myself a lot,” The man mumbles, finally reaching for his drink. “You’re the famous one here, tell me about yourself.” 

Jimin gapes at him, surprised at the sudden switch of topic. He swallows thickly, “I uh,” He babbles softly, ducking his head embarrassingly. “There’s not much to me, really.” 

“You’re the most famous writer in the world!” The man responds. “I feel like I’m sitting in front of royalty.”

Jimin blushes gently at his words, ducking his head down towards his empty bowl. “Don’t say that,” He smiles, embarrassingly, flushing. 

“You’ve written some pretty rad books, honestly. I saw the movie adaptation of one of them, it was really cool.” The man grins, teeth astonishingly white and perfect. But his eyes are vacant of any substantial emotion. 

“I couldn’t believe when my agent said you wanted my number.” He pauses to sip from his glass. “You’ve got the whole world in your hands, and you want to talk to me?” 

Jimin blinks at him, digging through his gaze with gentle inquisition as he watches the young man launch into another soliloquy on himself. Wonders if he ever stops to breathe. 

Under the heat of the low hanging lamp shades that are casting golden colored diamonds across both he and the man opposite of himself’s skin, Jimin ponders again, like he has through most of his life, if this is it. If maybe he should succumb to complacency. If this is life, stagnant and pressed, and he should allow himself to wallow in it. Maybe he should let Seokjin, and all those dumb conservative mothers win and get married to this dumb, brainless guy across from him. Settle for enough, he thinks. 

Dishes clatter and clang together around them. Jimin listens to the frantic gulping of wine being spilled into expensive glass a few tables down. He feels like an imposter here. Someone who, no matter how hard he’d worked for this, doesn’t belong amongst such opulence. So, the least he could do, he thinks, is do the most responsible, least selfless thing and secure this.  

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Jimin blurts, rising to his feet as the napkin he’d placed on his lap earlier falls limply to the floor at his feet. 

The beautiful man stops speaking, gaping up at him with an open mouth. “Oh uh—” He stammers out. “Okay? Okay, I’ll be right here then.” 

Jimin shoots him an awkward smile, nodding his head before tearing away from the table and dipping down the red carpeted dining room until he meets the glossy black door to the men’s restroom. 

The bathroom in this restaurant, Jimin learns, is much of an extension of the dining room itself. Pulsing red walls, shimmering glass strung up and lights that bounce glittering streams of reflection across every inch of it. The beat from the music that was blasting outside sill thrums in here, but a little more muted. Blotchy wavers of house music stagger in muffled as Jimin slips in and stomps towards the large, mirrored sink. 

When he reaches it, he sighs, long and shaky as he dares himself the chance to peer at himself in the mirror. What he sees staring back at him, through this large obnoxious glass with ornate swirls of silver and platinum carved at its corners, is someone who resembles himself, but not really. 

Park Jimin, successful children’s author, in his charcoal-colored tie and matching suit to match. He sees immaculately combed black hair swirled atop his head. He sees a glittering watch sat atop his wrist, sparkling whenever the light catches it. But, as he pinches closer to the imposter in the mirror, he sees sad, helpless eyes blinking back at him in a desperate plea for help.

“Park Jimin, you’re going to be okay,” He breathes out, voice ragged. “You’ve always been okay, haven’t you? Dead dad, drunk mom, clingy sister—” 

He’s clutching at the sink too tight; he knows. Knuckles blooming white as he grips at the marbled tile. His ears following the drip of the sink in front of him. He breathes out again, this one more measured than the previous one. 

“What’s one bad date?” He asks himself. 

If this was a month ago, he’d be right. One bad date orchestrated by his agency has bloomed into several bad dates all in an attempt to marry him off by the end of next year, his brain reminds him. That ‘one bad date’ has bloomed into three bad dates, which has bloomed into fourteen which has sprouted into whatever was exploding right now just outside those bathroom doors as a seemingly oblivious model with a very bad case of narcissism waits patiently for him to return. 

Life is just this, he chants to himself. Life is just this, and it’s better than it was so what are you complaining about?

Jimin reaches down with shaky hands as he goes for the sink. Clamoring to turn it on and splash water up into his eyes. 

“One bad date,” He breathes again, splashing another handful of water into his face. “Finish your meal. You’re the rich one, but let him pay.  Then you never have to see him again.”                                                        

A toilet flushes and Jimin freezes. Eyes rising to the mirror and watching as the last stall door wriggles before it eventually pries open. A tall, lean man stumbles out, wide brown eyes blinking at him through thick round glasses as he makes his way to the sink. 

He blinks at Jimin, eyes colored in recognition before gasping. “Park Jimin,” He breathes out. 

Jimin freezes, eyes pulled wide in shock. “Namjoon?” He mumbles. 

Namjoon’s face brightens to near blinding levels. “Jimin I— I can’t believe—” He steps towards the sink, flicking it on as he shoves his hands under it. “Jimin, I? What are you doing here?”

This feels awfully close to being saved, Jimin thinks. A warm flush spreads up his body as he peers over at the tall, now blond Namjoon who is scrubbing gently at his hands under the running water. He notices the poorly tied apron slung from his waist but chooses instead to look back up to meet his eyes in relief.

“I’m here,” Jimin breathes out carefully. “On a date.” 

Namjoon nods along, tapping his finger along the marbled counter gently as he goes to flick to water off. “Ahh,” He murmurs, though his tone is colored in disappointment, drying his hands under the dryer. “On a date.” 

Jimin can smell the disappointment on him and does his best to mend it. “It’s not going well though.” He isn’t sure if he is saying this out of sincerity or pity. Probably pity, because Namjoon’s eyes are blurry with upset. “He just seems a little—”

He winces, because he doesn’t want to call the young man stupid, but for a model who claimed to have a college degree, he also didn’t know who was running for president at the moment. Jimin exhales a long, exasperated sigh, leaning against the counter as his body releases all the pent up anxious energy that is currently buzzing through his body.

“It’s been 10 years since we last saw each other and the first thing you see is me hiding in a bathroom from my date, how fucking embarrassing,” Jimin groans, burying his face in his hands. He takes another deep gulp of breath, voice muffled through his palms. He can hear the way Namjoon fidgets before him, then he hears the faucet running and hands being slipped beneath splashing water.

“Well, I’m getting off if you want me to rescue you,” Namjoon smiles. “Your knight in shining armor.” 

Jimin peels his face from his hands, wiping at his eyes as he blinks back at Namjoon. “Are you sure?”

Namjoon nods, slapping the water off and letting his wet fingers drip into the bowl of the sink. “Of course, no one deserves to be stuck on a bad date.” 

They slip from the restaurant with subsequent ease. Namjoon’s large body blocking him as he heads towards the door, prying it open as they slip out and into the chilly night air. They begin down the empty street, but not before Jimin tosses one last gaze into the restaurant window where he watches the young man tap obliviously at his phone; shimmering bright white light onto his face.

Above them, wind whistles through the leaves of perfectly manicured trees that line the sidewalk. Jimin has his hands buried in his pockets, but he can feel Namjoon beside him. Warm, tall body flushing out as his long brown coat trips behind him; wet shoes padding against the pavement as cars whisk down the street. Headlights flicker past, and from this angle, Jimin sees the way Namjoon’s glasses still slip down the bridge of his very small nose.

So, he pauses, outside a convenience store that spills ugly green light out onto them. 

“Thank you for saving me—” He shakes his head. “God let me not say you’re saving me like I’m some helpless princess locked in a tower.” He feels like he is talking too fast. He probably is, judging by the delirious way Namjoon is gazing down at him. 

So he swallows in a breath, cotton spilling from his mouth because of the chill. 

“I don’t think you’re a princess in a tower, Jimin, not you, no,” Namjoon says tucking his hands into his pockets. “If anything, you made it out of the damn tower yourself.”

Jimin laughs, throwing his head back as cool air cuts at his face. Namjoon, despite the many years, despite the pounds of muscle he seems to have packed on, the hair that is short and thick and a particular shade of silvery olive, he still seems to glow with that pulsing warmth he always has. When Jimin lifts his head, he feels the smile he’s painted on has frozen to his cheek. Namjoon is still gazing at him with these hapless, lovesick eyes. 

“It’s nice to see you, Jimin,” He breathes out, voice just as warm as his presence. “It’s been too long, I told you to keep in touch.” 

“Well, I had a lot on my plate,” Jimin tells him.

“What did I say?” Namjoon says, prodding him with his elbow. “Mr. Bigshot writer got the whole world at your feet. I can’t escape you, you’re everywhere.” 

Jimin blushes, eyeing the laces on his shiny black shoes. He knows he’s everywhere, being pulled in so many different directions he feels stretched thin. The world is at his feet, but it still doesn’t feel big enough. He thinks that’s why he indulges in made up ones. Maybe one day he’ll find one big enough and settle there. 

The convenience door is pushed open beside them. An old man with ruffled white hair jostles out, growling at them angrily as he shoves a cigarette between his lips. Pushing down the street with a limp. Jimin is jostled into Namjoon, who catches him. Jimin in turn blushes, turning his eyes down towards his feet. 

“There’s a park nearby,” Namjoon says softly, releasing Jimin awkwardly as he points off down the block. “We can catch up, uh— We can uh— I know you like parks, so.” 

Jimin feels himself reddening, but he follows Namjoon down the sidewalk until they reach a small, secluded park. Past the line of sparse bushes and glittering streetlamps until they meet a bench. Namjoon sinks first, letting out a low moan as he melts against its cool metal. Then he looks up to Jimin who still lingers above him. 

“You’re free to stand there, but I’m wiped out,” Namjoon says, wincing slightly as he shifts his weight. “11-hour shifts are not fun.” 

Jimin furrows his eyebrows, sinking slowly beside him. “11-hour shift?” He asks, slightly confused. He thinks of the apron and suddenly it clicks. “Joon do you—” 

“Work at that restaurant? Yes, yes, I do, unfortunately,” Namjoon mumbles, letting his head fall back as the wind combs between them. “Very embarrassing to be sitting in front of one of the most famous people in the world when I barely make a living wage.” 

Jimin shoves at him, “Don’t say that Joon.” His eyes dance over him, where streetlamps paint him gold. “What happened to your music?” 

That, Jimin notices him, colors him crimson. He watches as Namjoon ducks his head embarrassingly, “Ahh, that uh,” He begins, voice cracking. “That didn’t work out.” 

Jimin frowns, poking at his lips and resisting the urge to reach forward and comb weak fingers through Namjoon’s hair. Most things aren’t fair for most things don’t work out, Jimin knows. Dads leave on draft and don’t come back. Internships pass through letters but never into fruition. Life filters and streams and ebbs and waves but reality sinks like stone. He wonders how he ended up here, successful, but not happy when other people deserve it more.

After a moment of silence between them, Jimin lets out a low hanging sigh.

“My agent wants me married,” Jimin tells him, falling back against the bench and he can feel the cool metal at his back. “I uh— they’ve been sending me out on dates. Trying to find me a match. That’s why I was panicking in the bathroom.” 

Namjoon has propped his arm up on the side of the bench, gazing over at Jimin with those heart eyes Jimin remembers from their time in the park outside their apartment. 

“That sounds icky,” Namjoon pouts. 

“It is, very icky,” Jimin answers back with a frown. He combs a forgotten hand through his hair. “It just feels—” There’s a pause as he collects his breath, collects his thoughts. “Marrying someone out of obligation isn’t fun. I’ve written lots of princesses marrying off for the sake of their kingdom and it never ends well.”

Jimin feels like he’s talking too much, but Namjoon is gazing at him with big, round, curious eyes. Clinging onto his every word. 

“You’re no princess,” Namjoon says.

“Excuse me?” Jimin gasps in feigned surprise. 

“Well, radical notion but,” Namjoon says, crossing his arms across his chest. “Why not marry who you want, when you want?”

Jimin has never done anything he’s wanted. Since his father gripped his shoulder too tight on that early autumn morning, he’s never had a moment not to feel like he owes everyone something. There is always an air of comfortability with Namjoon, even now, ten years later, when he’s a lot older than he last saw him, he thinks he might just allow himself the moment to be selfish. 

“It’s never been about what I want.” Jimin mumbles. “Everyone wants so much from me,” He breathes, falling onto the bench with a sigh. He looks up towards Namjoon with weak eyes. “My mom, Hyunjin, my dad—” He gets choked up at that last part. Chewing his tongue as it prods against his cheek because there are tears stinging at his eyes right now. “Now I have an agent breathing down my throat telling me I won’t have a career anymore if I don’t get married.” He pauses. “I wouldn’t have a career at all if it weren’t because of him so how could I tell him now? After all he’s invested in me?”

He can feel Namjoon to his left, feel the heat of his hand as he cups it very gently over his own. Again, ten years later, consoling him in the cold winter breeze under a sky of stars that never seem bright enough. 

“God I’m such a sap, I’m too old to be feeling like this,” Jimin says, using his free hand to swat at the tears that threatened his eyes, but never fall. Not here, not in front of Namjoon.

“You’re not a sap, who called you a sap?” Namjoon says squeezing his hand. 

You’re the man of the house now, Jimin remembers. I need you to grow up quick because I don’t know when, or if, I’m coming back.

Above them, deadened leaves bristle in the breeze. Jimin can smell gasoline from the gas station a few blocks down, the odd mix of hot ramen that stews from a shop across the street from them. The world feels strangely warm around him, despite the drop in temperature. He wonders if it’s because he’s so close to Namjoon, who has his hand clutched in his own, peering over at him with an equally warm gaze full of understanding. Namjoon is a lot of that, warmth and security. Jimin inches closer to him, in hopes of soaking up any of it that is spilling out.

“You sound like someone who has done what he thinks others want from him for a very long time,” Namjoon says, wrapping his arm around Jimin’s shoulders.

Jimin blinks up at Namjoon, convincing himself to see everything he wants to see: security, understanding, love. But there is an itch for something he cannot scratch, not even when Namjoon is leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. He melts against him, relishing at the feeling of warm lips against his chilled skin. 

“I think you deserve to let yourself choose what you want for once,” Namjoon says. “And not at the obligation of anyone else.” 

He pulls back, cupping Jimin’s cheeks as he stares down at him. Jimin blinks back tears as they continue to sting at his eyes. The air is suddenly white hot around him and he thinks it’s because he feels another choice spewing forth. 

“I’m a genie and you get three wishes,” Namjoon tells him, finally speaking his language. “What do you want, Park Jimin? What does your heart really want?”

Above them, turbulent winds howls, coloring the chilly autumn night. Jimin can feel goosebumps springing on his skin and he shudders, teeth chattering in his jaw as thinks, very solemnly about what it is you really want. He doesn’t think he knows yet, but he’s tacked it down somewhere close to freedom. Freedom from obligation, freedom to choose for himself. 

Then he’s looking at Namjoon; square jawed, honey skinned, tired eyes from working that 11-hour shift. His glasses are slightly askew atop the bridge of his nose, but beneath those thick, square rimmed glasses he sees sincere eyes gazing back at him. Jimin wants his heart to stir but it doesn’t, he wills it, but it doesn’t. He wonders what will ever make his heart stir. Wonders why gazing into the eyes of someone who has loved him for longer than he deserves isn’t it. 

Namjoon is a lot of things at once. Stability, responsibility, understanding. He knows his mother; he knows his sister. He’s sweet and mild mannered. He’s thoughtful. He’s always put Jimin first, his feelings, his thoughts, his wants. There’s a lack of lust there, but Jimin thinks he can make up for it in care. Namjoon is the safe choice, always has been and Jimin thinks it’s time to start playing it safe. 

Jimin’s heart is burning, spilling white hot ink from its pulse and spilling into his vein and lighting every part of him afire. He’s burning with contemplation, so, just as a bus bustles past, billowing icy cold air onto the curb where they sit, he’s pressing forward planting hesitant lips against Namjoon’s. 

After a moment of surprise, he feels Namjoon melting against him. But he thinks he remains frozen. Trying to convince himself that he’s made the right choice. Then Namjoon pulls back. Blinking over at Jimin with hazy, lovesick eyes. 

“Ten years later and who would’ve thought you’d be the one to kiss first?” 

Jimin laughs nervously, eyes falling to their conjoined hands then back up to Namjoon who seems to be buzzing with excitement and he hopes, for once, he’s made the right choice.

1 Year Later

Jimin stands in a very empty kitchen, hands pressed to his hips. He thinks he can hear as one of the mover’s busies himself with a box of pots. They clang together, metal bangs echo against eggshell-colored walls as he pulls them free, setting them atop the marble counter with a wince. 

Jimin thinks he can hear another a few doors down as the mover mumbles something to a man about the placement of a few boxes in the bedroom. Jimin’s younger sister, Hyunjin, is with them. He can hear as she strains with something too heavy in her hold. 

Then, like lightning, Namjoon’s blond hair flashes past the arched doorway as he commands the movers with their silver-colored couch. Jimin hears his footsteps halt, then light padding as he stomps back towards the open door, peering in. It takes a moment for Jimin to pull his gaze up towards him. Eyes trailing up from the glossy wooden floor, past the marble tabletop, then finally brown eyes meet another across a white doorway. Namjoon blinks at him a few times, bare feet tapping against the wood as he reaches him. 

“Jiminie,” He breathes out, reaching out for him and tugging him close. “What’s wrong, Jiminie?” 

Jimin doesn’t reply, instead, his eyes track to the open window; watching as yolk colored light slips in from blinded windows. The afternoon is warm on his skin, he can feel it from here. Smells summer air, sweet hints of hot air as it colors into the apartment. 

There’s nothing wrong, per say. He’s in a multimillion-dollar apartment; one with marble and stainless steel sinks and squared ceilings too high for him to reach. There’s nothing wrong, he feels. There shouldn’t be anything wrong. But he knows emptiness when he feels it; sees it in the echoed chambered rooms, and whatever is clanging around in his chest right now. 

“I’m fine, Joon,” Jimin begins. 

“You’re not, don’t lie to me, I know when you’re lying,” Namjoon snaps back. He presses for Jimin’s attention and when he catches it, he holds it. Searches his gaze for a moment as he hunts for the problem, bedded somewhere too deep in Jimin’s eyes for him to reach. “What’s wrong, Jiminie?” 

Jimin bites anxiously at his lip, before pulling Namjoon into a very tight hug. He wraps his arms around him, tucking his chin into the small dip at his neck as he breathes, very deeply. He doesn’t want to tell him something is wrong, that there is a chip of discomfort that has lodged itself in his chest and he’s been feeling it bloom more and more every day since they’ve been together. A chip of insincerity, burning since the moment they got engaged only a few months prior.

“This place is a lot,” He whispers, but his voice still echoes in the empty room, rattling between them.

“It is,” Namjoon confirms, rocking him gently into a subtle swing.

They dance in the middle of a very empty kitchen. Bare feet squeaking against glossy wood, breaths bouncing from empty walls. Jimin feels Namjoon tugging him closer as he swirls them around with controlled grace. His hand is placed to the small of his back as he twirls them around one more time, past the dark oak cabinets, slipping past a stainless-steel fridge. He wants to laugh but he can’t, not when he feels this distressed. Not when he feels like he’s stealing this joy. Joy that isn’t earned can’t be celebrated.

Jimin lets his head slump back against Namjoon’s shoulder, watching the sun continue to bleed in from the front window, big and wide and too open for his taste.

“You deserve this,” Namjoon begins pressing a soft kiss to his ear. “This big, stupid, gaudy apartment with all those unnecessary bathrooms and that huge closet that made you light up like a candle when you saw it.” He pulls back, chasing for Jimin’s eyes again. “You deserve every inch of this place.”

“I hardly do,” Jimin combats with a roll of his eyes. “Besides you know I don’t like living in the city.” He cranes his eyes out to the window. Out past the silver skyscrapers and echo of life that pulses outside. He doesn’t belong here he doesn’t think, not out here where he feels suffocated by smoky city air and a world that moves too fast. So, he closes his eyes, imagines the sea his body yearns for; dreams of the tickle of grass beneath his toes. 

But when he dares to open his eyes, he finds Namjoon peering back at him. Gaze cast confuddled as he blinks at his fiancé with an unreadable expression of what Jimin can only decipher as, uneasiness. 

“Jimin we’ve already signed the paperwork,” He groans, voice wavering. 

“I know, I know,” Jimin replies. He halts their movements for a moment, hands loosening where they lay on his back. His eyes are back out the window, back out towards the thick of the city. Watching from above as cars skid past on thickened concrete streets. Over the line of buildings dotted with open windows, stipples with community.  He turns back to Namjoon, pressing on a smile, no matter its authenticity. 

Namjoon, however, can read through the veil of happiness. Reaching forward to comb a gentle hand through Jimin’s hair. “Besides, we’re so close to your publisher’s office now, you probably don’t even need your driver anymore—” He begins.

“Hey, don’t say that I love Seohyun,” Jimin shoots back with gentle jest.

Namjoon laughs, light as wind chimes and it’s in a moment like this, when Jimin can see, bedded in pinched eyes and dimple dug too deep in his cheeks just how much Namjoon loves him. 

He can feel it in the press of his hand at the small of his back, the way he’s twirling a strand of his hair across his fingers. But he can mostly see it in his eyes. Love struck and dewy, dripping in adoration Jimin knows he doesn’t deserve in any way. Love he couldn’t reciprocate no matter how hard he tries.

Namjoon, a prince charming if he’d ever met one, makes it so easy to love him; with his encouraging words and blinding smile, Jimin allows himself this one moment of fairy tale the world will not let him forget. He has the prince, the castle, the dream career. If only he could bring himself to believe he was worth it. 

There is a light padding of feet rounding through the kitchen and Jimin turns to find Hyunjin, his younger sister, peeking across the counter towards them. Her bright blue hair is pulled up into a messy blue ponytail, but her eyes are cast in worry. 

“Hyunnie—?” Jimin begins.

“She’s on her way,” Hyunjin croaks out. 

Jimin’s heart sinks, peeling away from Namjoon as he lets out. a slow, unstable groan. He takes a few steps towards the counter, tossing himself over it as he lets his head press against the cold marble countertop. “I told her we had this under control.” He murmurs, voice muffled against the stone.

“I know that— I just—” Hyunjin breathes out. She darts her eyes up to Namjoon who is swaying awkwardly behind Jimin. Then her eyes fall back down to Jimin, reaching out to press a hand to his shoulder. “She’s our mom, Jimin. She just wants to make sure everything is okay.” 

Jimin scoffs, finally pulling his head from the countertop to toss her an eye roll. He peels himself from the counter, running a hand through his hair. “That woman is not my mom,” He breathes out, shaking his head as he winces from the sun splintering in from the window. Glittering past the silver stove in streaks of gold and honey. 

“Jimin, please,” Hyunjin sneers through gritted teeth. Her eyes have flashed back up to Namjoon nervously. “Just a little bit of compassion would be nice.”

“She hasn’t acted like a mother for a very long time, so why give her the privilege of the title?” Jimin spits back. There is a lifetime of trauma tripping on his tongue, and he attempts to swallow it, but the tension is too thick. 

He thinks he can feel Namjoon’s hand pressing gently at his back, so he squirms, very awkwardly. Shrugging from his grip and towards the towering silver refrigerator. When he glances back at Namjoon, he catches sadness stipple across his eyes. Watches the way he goes to stuff his hands awkwardly into his pocket.

Hyunjin is fidgeting awkwardly, eyes falling to her phone, then back to Jimin. 

“I know she hasn’t been the best—” She begins hoarsely. 

“You don’t remember, Jinnie,” Jimin mumbles. His ears are burning, neck bleeding bright red in simmering anger as it begins to settle in his chest. He breathes, but it’s staggered; nerves suddenly pricking at his skin. He’s very aware of the emotions raging through him right now, but he doesn’t think he can filter them. When it comes to her, he rarely can. He feels himself slowly turning into a small ticking time bomb, moments from implosion standing in the middle of an empty kitchen. 

“I was the one who woke up in the mornings for school, I was the one who helped you with your homework, I was the one making you dinner, driving you to baseball practice because she decided her grief, her drinking was more important than her own children—” 

“Jimin, you’ve got to be a little more reasonable—” Namjoon finally chirps across from him. 

“Easy for you to say, you never had to struggle for anything in your life,” Jimin sneers. He doesn’t mean to, but there is too much venom dripping from his tone. Spilling over his words and coating his frown into a biter scowl. He turns back to Hyunjin and frowns. “I was the one reading bedtime stories to my little sister because our own mother was passed out in her own vomit, too drunk to know our names.” He pauses fuming with anger.  “But now I’m living in this nice, gorgeous penthouse so of course she wants to speak.”

Namjoon lurches back, mouth falling slightly agape as if to retort. But Jimin watches reason win as Namjoon snaps it shut, letting his head drop to his wrestling feet beneath him.

“I’m just saying that there isn’t anything wrong with forgiveness—” Namjoon takes on with a whisper.

“Why should I forgive her?” Jimin exclaims, peeling himself from the refrigerator, arms flailed out. “Why am I forgiving her? Why do I always have to be the adult?”

His head is spinning, and so is the room. Spinning with rage and doubt, and fury. Fury at the past, fury at his own actions; fury at himself for letting her still make him feel this way. Hyunjin’s phone lights in her head and she darts her eyes down to it. “She’s at the elevator,” She mumbles, face twisting up. 

Jimin rolls his eyes, waving his hand dismissively, “I don’t care, whatever she can come up,” He growls, crossing back to the window. Tossing his arms across his chest. 

He thinks he can hear Namjoon and Hyunjin murmuring soft words to each other, but he’s too angry to focus on it. 

The door creaks open first, white hand splayed out on its white board as he listens as his mother push through into the room. He doesn’t spin around immediately, but when he does, they meet eyes. She stands very awkwardly, pulling her black leather purse closer to her chest as she tiptoes in. Her head hangs, a small smile curling on her lips. 

“Hi,” She murmurs, shutting the door behind her. 

Jimin crosses his arms across his chest, peering over at her with narrowed eyes. “Mother,” He snips, breathing in tightly through his nose. 

His mother stares very blankly at him, taking a few steps closer to Hyunjin, wrapping her into a tight hug. 

“Mom,” Hyunjin breathes out, burying her nose into the crook of her neck. 

Their mother smiles, pulling back to comb her eyes over her, then tossing her eyes towards Namjoon with another awkward smile. 

“Your new apartment is beautiful,” She says, voice a lot weaker than they’re used to. She presses a hand to the marble counter, tracing the charcoal-colored lines that vine through it. “Got lots of weird looks when I pulled up, they didn’t believe me when I said my son lives here.” 

She laughs, voice landing flat between them as it echoes through the empty kitchen. She cranes her head up, scoping the towering gray ceilings; the sparking square chandelier that dangles above them, casting them in shades of glittering diamond. Then she’s turning back Jimin, eyes wide enough to feign the slightest shade of authenticity. 

“This place is gorgeous,” She breathes and her voice drips with it too. Warm, honey-like authenticity with just enough sadness to tug at Jimin’s heart. “I’m really proud of you, Jimin.” 

For a single moment, when the sun seeping in from the window strikes her hair, it makes her salt and pepper hair shimmer like threads of silver silk. He sees new wrinkles bedded into her honey skin. Sees the ghost of his mother, the one he lost 15 years prior, and he lets himself forget. Jimin forgets, he forgets her tantrums, forgets her silence, forgets the years of abandonment and anger because for a moment he sees someone who looks a lot like the woman he’s missed. 

“What do you want?” He spits out, tightening his arms across his chest. 

Two heads snap towards him: Namjoon and Hyunjin darting cold, wide eyes towards him in shock. He doesn’t budge though, only choosing to suck in a deep breath as he continues to shoot a pointed gaze to his mother. 

“Do you need more money?” He asks, uncurling his arms to pat at his back pocket. “If I give you $1500 right now, will you promise to leave me and my fiancé alone—” 

“Jimin!” Namjoon sneers, disapproval coloring his tone. He takes a step towards him, hardening his gaze as he reaches out to grip at his arm. 

Jimin shakes his head, “She always wants something, Joon.” He says shaking himself free. “It’s always been like this. Cars, money—” When he dashes his eyes back up, he thinks his vision is starting to bleed red with anger. “I gave you 1 million won six months ago and what happened to it? Drank through that too?”

His mother’s face has not changed, in fact, she’s only tightened her grip on her purse, blinking back at him with wide, innocent eyes Jimin knows he can read straight through, and it only makes the anger sear through him even darker. 

He growls, spinning on his heel as he stomps back to the window. Draping himself back into the wash of sunlight as he stares out of it, down to the bustling street below. Letting his anger flood through him and drip down his sight onto the unknowing people below as they shuffle through without concern. He hears footsteps behind him, and hard enough for him to identify them as Namjoon’s. Then he feels a large hand press at his arm, but he shrugs him off. Sniffling harshly under his nose. 

Movers still bustle through the house; he listens as a mover scoots down the hall with a large cardboard box against the wooden floor. Listens as they murmur out frustration in the bathroom across the hall. 

“I came by because my son is getting married and he’s moving into a gorgeous apartment in the middle of the city,” His mother finally chirps. “I came to congratulate you.”

Jimin hates just how much his body lurches from the sound of her voice. He feels the muscles in his body tense up at the sound of her. Fists clenching in his pockets as he continues to trace the cars that weave up the streets. “No, you didn’t. What do you want?” He whines, spinning on his heel to face her.

She’s still where she stood when he first stormed across the kitchen, but Hyunjin is now pressed beside her. Arms curled around their mother as they both peer over at her, face screwed up in identical masks of melancholy. Jimin hates the way betrayal gurgles in the pit of his stomach as he dances his eyes between them. 

“You don’t show up here, after months of silence because you want to congratulate me—” 

“Jimin, I know what she’s put us through but maybe you should listen to her—” Hyunjin croaks, voice cracking. 

“You don’t know, Jinnie,” He spits, and this is the trauma speaking. “You were too young to remember a thing because if you did you wouldn’t be treating her like a child.”

“I’m not treating her like anything—” Hyunjin retorts, hand reaching up to tighten at her mother’s arm. 

“If you remembered any of what she put us through you wouldn’t be cushioning her like that!” Jimin nearly shouts. He meets his mother’s eyes again and nearly shrieks, because he thinks he’s going mad.

“You come here to congratulate me on my engagement, on my home,” He spits. “But none of this is in any way thanks to you. I am not here because of you at all.” 

He knows this is anger speaking but he cannot stop himself. After a moment, his mother melts and he thinks he sees the hints of the angry woman who scolded him in their apartment hallway. The woman who, in a single moment snatched what he thought to be all his childhood dreams away by denying him that internship. 

“I’m sorry, Jimin,” She mumbles, and that, Jimin thinks, takes him by surprise. 

He takes a step back, licking his lips as he watches what he thinks to be a performance of apology. 

“I was never a mother to you but,” She mumbles again, “I’m sorry.” 

The tension that’s been buzzing through Jimin’s body seems to reach a frighteningly high frequency. From where his arms are twisted across his chest, he feels pressure at his palms as his nails cut into skin. He blinks at his mother, blinks at the fragility in her stance, fragility in her words and feels even angrier at the sight of her. At the sheer audacity to believe they could start over. 

Then she’s walking towards him, “My baby boy—” She murmurs, arms reaching out. 

Jimin dodges her, mouth falling agape as he stares at her, digging through her with furious eyes. “You’re joking, right?” He exhales, wincing as the sunlight catches in his eyes. “You’re joking? You think after everything you put me through… a hug is going to fix it all? A sorry?” 

His mother’s expression is unreadable, but the air that surrounds her isn’t. It bleeds with desperation, and Jimin watches as she pouts at him dismissively. 

“Life is just this,” He whispers to her, his entire being shaking. He waves around himself, up towards the towering ceiling, over towards the limitless window in front of him. Then his gaze is back to her, and it’s fraught, seething anger. “And none of this is thanks to you.” 

He feels like a child again, but this time in tantrum. So, he bites his tongue, turning on his heel as he steps back towards the window until his nose presses against it. He breathes out, tracing his breath on it, still feeling his mother lingering behind him. 

There are lots of eyes on him, scolding into his back and burning holes into his skin. He feels himself shaking, so he spins back to the window, taking a few steps closer towards it. He’s close enough to feel the heat from the sun swelling against it. Somehow, he lets out a shaky breath and it stains against it. 

“Jimin, sweetie—” His mother begins, stepping towards him. 

“If I give you 1500, will you leave me alone?” He whispers into the window.

There is silence, but through the reflection in the glass, he thinks he sees his mother nod. “I’ll have Seokjin wire transfer you the money,” He deadpans after a moment, keeping his eyes on the sky, tracing the clouds.

He can hear his mother gasping at him, then the sound of Hyunjin stepping towards her. 

“I’ll go take you out to eat, Ma, how’s that sound?” She asks. “There’s a nice sushi place a few blocks away—” Her voice is thinner now as she guides herself, and their mother out of the apartment.

There is silence, punctured by the hard hammering of scattered nails into the walls. He can hear Namjoon breathing, hear him stepping closer towards him.

“Sometimes growing up means giving up, Jimin,” Namjoon whispers to him. Jimin untangles his arms from his chest, turning to face him and gazing up at him with wide incredulous eyes. 

“Excuse me?” He presses. 

Namjoon gapes at him, sighing. “I mean—” He begins again, wincing slightly at his own words. “She’s not the wicked stepmother you want her to be, Jimin.” 

There’s first, betrayal, Jimin feels, as he blinks up at Namjoon. Betrayal and frustration bleed into every part of him as he wonders, where he could possibly be getting this from. Jimin takes a step back, turning back to the large window and peering out of it. Eyes blinking under the hot shite sun that slips in, unyielded. He drinks in a heavy breath, feeling as Namjoon saunters towards him cautiously.

“What I’m saying is—” Namjoon begins again. 

“You have no clue what that woman put me through,” Jimin murmurs. He notices he is close enough to catch his breath like fog against the glass. He swallows down the instinct to drag his finger through it. 

“I’m not saying she wasn’t wrong, Jimin. I remember how she treated you. I’m not stupid,” Namjoon says, from somewhere to his right. He can feel his heat burning from his skin. “I’m just saying…” He pauses, voice dipping. “Sometimes growing up you have to compromise with your past.” 

Jimin spins on his heel, mouth falling slack as he slowly registers the words Namjoon is mumbling to him. 

“You’ve got to be fucking joking—” Jimin begins, voice dying in his throat.

Namjoon reaches out to him, but Jimin aptly dodges him. Eyes falling to his outstretched hand with disgust. If he thinks he feels the beginnings of tears prickling at his eyes he swallows it down because, not here he thinks. Not in front of him. 

“I have never been a son to that woman,” Jimin spits, voice cracking. “I’ve just been some little soldier for her. A replacement man of the house for my dad. What makes you think I’m going to start now? With the empathy? When she’s never had the same for me?” 

His voice echoes through the empty room. Rounds the ceiling and engulfs them. Jimin can feel the ghost, bedded in the tail end of his voice prick at the hairs of his crossed arms as he tightens them against his chest. Can feel the burn of Namjoon’s gaze as he blinks across from him, motionless.

“That’s not what I mean, Jimin,” He retorts, shaking his head, brown hair falling lack against his forehead. “Proving her wrong every chance you get doesn’t prove anything. Doesn’t make you more of a man—”

“I’ve had to be a man for a lot longer than I fucking should’ve so I don’t need you patronizing me on my decisions. I’m an adult, Namjoon,” Jimin snaps again, finger now wagging between them. Though he says it, he doesn’t feel like it. In fact, he feels particularly small. Back to the hallways in his childhood apartment when his mother would whine and nag and rip him to shreds in the process. 

Namjoon opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he snaps it shut; shoulders falling as he takes a step back, barefoot squeaking against the hardwood floor.

There’s too much space in this home, Jimin thinks. It’s a dream; wide curved, endless ceilings. Sun glinting from near porcelain walls. The floors beneath his feet sparkle, freshly waxed wood. Sterling silver handles on heavy doors. It’s a dream to live here, someone else’s but not his. Someone’s fairy tale to live in their big castle where the sun always shines, and the floors always glistens. This palace is big and vast and open and there’s too much space. Too much space to think, too much space between them. 

Right now, Namjoon is several feet away, but it feels like lightyears. Jimin wonders if that’s even enough, wonders, then regrets. A swallow of footsteps pads towards them, and a dark-haired mover pokes his head in. Eyes darting awkwardly between them before he opens his mouth.

“Mr. Kim, Mr. Park,” The man says, out of breath. “We just have a few questions about the placement of the vanity in the bathroom.”

Namjoon looks to Jimin, but Jimin’s eyes are back out the window. Back out towards the scattered earth below. Following the trails of people as they flit between the buildings, dash through packed streets. 

“I’ll be with you in a second,” Namjoon says, and the man nods before dipping back out. 

There is a pause between them. Someone is drilling aimlessly at a wall a few doors down, Jimin memorizes the steady rhythm of buzzing. 

“Jimin, you know I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Namjoon whispers, a little closer than before, Jimin notes. 

Jimin doesn’t reply immediately; in fact, he presses his lips together tightly. Watching intently as a red sports car speeds through a yellow light below. 

Namjoon is still beside him, and Jimin feels his arm itching towards him. 

“I just want you to think about if you’re being childish—” 

“Don’t you have a vanity to deal with?” Jimin snarls. 

Namjoon lurches back at that, and Jimin listens as he hesitates, before stomping out and away and out the room. 

Below him, the city sings. It’s a dream to live here, Jimin reminds himself. But he’s said it too much, it feels like a lie. It’s a dream to live here, he thinks. But not his.

The only perk, Jimin found, living in this big apartment that scrapes the sky, is just how beautiful the city looked at night.

So, he leans forward, drinks in the evening as he sucks very gently on a cigarette. 

He allows himself one per year, to set fire to his lungs and cool his raging veins. One per year, he promises, to ground himself. He lets the cooling evening air drape him as he gazes down from the balcony, down from the cloud to the bustling city below. 

He’s on his fifth cigarette in a half hour actually, and his cheeks are warm and his nose tickles but right now the wind is blowing with enough sugar on its wings that he thinks he just might get drunk off of it too.

There is music playing behind him, most likely the television he was determined with figuring out earlier. Soft thrums of a steady beat that pulses behind the closed balcony door. Jimin can feel it buzz against his bare feet, tickle at his toes. He leans over the balcony a little more, small fingers still wrapped around his dying cigarette when the small golden band he wears on a chain slips from beneath his yellow shirt and dangles across the iron banister. Jimin’s eyes trails it, watches it flag in the wind. 

“You’ve got a kingdom to run, Your Highness. Lots of people depend on you,” A small, unfamiliar voice echoes on the next breeze that swims past. 

Jimin freezes, eyeing around himself on this big open, empty balcony as he searches for the source of the voice.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Another voice, this one softer and less sure echoes through the harrowing evening wind. 

Jimin frowns, head coiling around him to the empty balcony. Then turning back out over the banister as he sucks in another puff from his cigarette. He’s always been going crazy; with these warm magic fingers he’s never been able to explain but now he’s hearing things too.

His mind trails a lot of things out here, thinks of the magic in his fingers, and why he has it. Wonders if it’s really what it seems to be, or maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks with him. He stutters time just to make sure, lets his fingers burn around an already burning cigarette. Watches the flame flicker on stunted time to confirm. 

He doesn’t know why he has this, or even how. Wonders if he’ll ever feel comfortable enough to tell anyone about it. Or maybe they’ll just lock him up in some padded cell because who in their right mind would believe a grown man can play with time like this? 

He thinks he hears the balcony door squeak open, and he pauses. “Pretend you don’t see what you’re seeing,” He spurts out, yanking the cigarette from his lips and stabbing it onto the glass table to his left. He fidgets around awkwardly, flicking the butt over the balcony edge as he feels the figure pull closer towards him. Jimin turns to face them, meeting a fresh faced, damp haired Namjoon gazing down at him with resigned eyes. 

“You know how I feel about smoking, Jimin,” He breathes out, as he shuffles onto the balcony. “You’re rotting your lungs.” 

“Rotting my lungs, but settling my nerves,” Jimin complains with a pout. “It’s this or drinking but I don’t think I could handle it. You see what it did to my mother.” He smiles slightly, still tasting the menthol on his tongue. “But I’ll stop for you, I swear.” 

Namjoon doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he’s slinking closer towards him, house shoes pattering against the concrete balcony floor then he’s sinking into the accompanying chair beside him. It squeaks under his weight as he scoots it closer towards him. Enough to waft his lavender scented shampoo towards him as he settles. 

When he does, he’s looking up towards Jimin with eyes that are a little sweeter. 

“Are you still mad at me?” Namjoon asks gently. 

Of course Jimin is still mad but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he paints on a rehearsed smile, turning to him and licking his lips. “No, Joonie,” He lies. 

Namjoon nods, humming out, then he’s darting his eyes to the glowing screen abandoned at Jimin’s side. “What are you working on?” He asks gently to diffuse the tension thickening between them.

Jimin gapes at him, then back down towards the screen he’d abandoned a while ago. Lets his eyes follow the blinking dash as it stammers on the screen as he lowers himself to the chair beside Namjoon.

“Final edits for my book tomorrow,” He breathes out brushing his fingers across the keys. “Just had to go over a few revisions before I send it to the editor.” He smiles, biting his lip. “Want to iron everything out before my big tv interview tomorrow and the wedding. Don’t need one stress on top of another.” 

He wonders if he should say that, if he should call their impending nuptials a stress, but Namjoon doesn’t say anything. In Jimin’s periphery, he thinks he watches the older man wrinkle his nose at the comment, flitting his eyes down to his lap where his fingers twist in his lap. Then his eyes rise again; following the blinking city lights that swallow the streets below. 

“You never told me what this one was about,” Namjoon murmurs, finally looking at him. He blinks, city lights glittering across the thick surface of his square glasses. “You don’t tell me a lot about what you’re writing, but this one in particular is very much shrouded in secret.” 

Jimin doesn’t mean to gasp when he feels Namjoon twisting their fingers together, but he does. A small quick gasp of air when he feels the larger man tangle their fingers together. 

“What’s this fairy tale about?” Namjoon asks gently with genuine curiosity.

Jimin gulps in a very large lungful of breath and lets it cool his body. Seep down to his fingertips, where they connect and buzz. He looks back up to meet Namjoon eyes, bright pools of honeyed brown and compassion and he edges himself to melt. He’s written love before, written tales of adoration and desperation, but he doesn’t know if he feels it. Wonders if this is as close as he’ll get; if this numbed out ache that’s rotting in his chest is as close to actual love as he will experience. Wonders if he can grow to love Namjoon as much as he knows Namjoon loves him.

“Well,” He says, squeezing Namjoon’s fingers and leaning a little closer towards him. “This one isn’t as adventurous as the others. I just finished a whole trilogy of writing fantasy wars. Tired myself out for the time being.” 

Namjoon laughs, and a breeze storms between them. It’s cool enough to bloom goosebumps on their skin, but Jimin feels warm baked in Namjoon’s heat. Pressed against his skin as the midnight city swells around them.

“So,” Jimin continues, eyeing the document glowing in front of him. “I wrote something a little more laid back.”

“You wrote a love story,” Namjoon replies with a smile. 

“Who said love stories are laid back?” Jimin retorts with a snort. “The best love stories are tumultuous, harrowing tales of love and betrayal, fear and rejection, angst and heartbreak—”

“I know you, Park Jimin,” Namjoon interrupts, and his deep voice drips with adoration, almost as if those words were falling in curling script from his tongue. He’s pulling closer towards him, close enough to taste the toothpaste still pressed to his lips.

“I know you, and I know how you love… how you want to be loved,” Namjoon continues. He licks his lips but keeps his eyes on Jimin’s; mesmerized. “You’re in love with the idea of love. Even if you don’t want to admit that.” 

Jimin swells under his gaze, because there is enough desire in it to warm him for a lifetime. He desires to be desired he thinks; Desires the feeling of lusted, being coveted. And right now, Namjoon is gazing at him with enough of it to make him burst at the seams. Namjoon doesn’t really know him, but he lets him think he does for the time being.

“I am writing a story about a Prince who falls for someone he shouldn’t,” Jimin murmurs. “Even after promising himself to someone he should.” 

“Well, that sounds like a pickle,” Namjoon replies, voice shaking. 

“It is,” Jimin replies, and his voice shakes too. He feels like he’s tripping over it. Slipping over each syllable as he stumbles to speak. 

Namjoon isn’t saying anything, he’s blinking over at Jimin with those adoring eyes again. Looking at him with wonder and excitement and a fascination Jimin doesn’t think he’ll ever understand. Then Namjoon is pressing forward, planting gentle lips against Jimin’s jaw as he peppers love against his skin.

When he pulls back, he looks like he’s bleeding with untacked happiness.

“God, I can’t wait to marry you, Jimin,” He breathes out. He leans over to kiss him again, this one a little more frantic than the last. “I can’t wait to marry you and spend every single day of my life with you.” 

He cups at Jimin’s jaw, kisses him again and for a moment Jimin allows himself to melt into it. Melt against the warmth of his lips against his, freshly washed skin that smells like vanilla and coco. The graze of his nose against his cheek as he pulls him down closer towards him. When he pulls back, he blinks back at him and he thinks, maybe he could love this man. By some great miracle maybe this flutter in his chest could bloom into something closer to love than admiration. Namjoon pecks at him, before pulling back. Combing an affectionate hand through his hair.

“I’m going to bed, few more meetings with the florist then we’re pretty much finished with the wedding.” He kisses him again, because Namjoon can never help himself. “Except the actual marrying part, of course,” He tacks on with a blush. 

“Yeah, that part,” Jimin laughs back, weightlessly.

Then Namjoon is rising from his chair, peering down at him with a warm smile. “I love you Jimin,” He smiles breathlessly.

Jimin opens his mouth to speak, gaping up to Namjoon with wide eyes. “I—” He hesitates, voice cracking. The words he so longed itched at his tongue, but despite reason, he couldn’t find a way to get them out. After a moment, he melts. Swallowing thickly as he blinks back at Namjoon with the most amount of love that he could muster. 

“Have a good interview tomorrow, I’ll try to make it after the florist,” He kisses him again. “You’re gonna do amazing,” He breathes out, kissing at Jimin’s hand which still lingers at his shoulder. “You always do.”

Above them, the wind howls, still carrying those whispers that Jimin is now trying to avoid. Barrels between them and swats at Namjoon’s damp hair as it struggles to comb through wet strands. Namjoon, ever the observer, notes Jimin’s words. Jimin can see the way his face falls, ever so slightly. Nose scrunching up as he pulls his hand from his shoulder, digging them into his plaid pajama pocket.

“Don’t forget the tv when you leave,” He tells him, stepping out towards the balcony door as he slides it open. 

Jimin slumps against the lounge chair. 

“I’m a really big fan, Mr. Park.”

Despite the woman’s proximity, Jimin can’t quite tack down her voice. It instead rings with a pinching squeal to his ears. He doesn’t look up immediately from his phone, but when he does, he watches as the young bright eyed girl with startling electric pink hair approaches him. Face pulled into an enthusiastic grin as she clutches at the makeup sponge in hand.

She blinks, waiting for a response. Somewhere in the distance, the microphone wails as the tech fiddles with a square shaped motherboard offset. A man dressed in all black twists at tangled wires as the stage lights blaster in front of them. Slashing their complexion in shades of blues and greens. 

Jimin eyes the girl coldly, noting her friendly smile, before planting his own across his cheeks. 

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” He grins back with a curt nod of his head. The hairstylist, an older man with salt and pepper hair, taps at his neck subtly with the tail of his brush. Jimin hesitates, before dipping his eyes back to his phone when he hears the girl begin again.

“My daughter loves your books,” She continues, voice slightly shaking as she approaches him, skin smelling of sugar and powder.  “She has a few dresses she wears inspired by a few of the princesses in them. Can’t make her take them off, not even to go to the store!” This time, she’s laughing, but judging from the frantic stutter in her voice, he cannot quite tell if it’s nervous laughter or not. He looks up again, and though slightly annoyed, he continues to smile.

“Thank you, that makes me really happy to hear,” He replies.

The girl is still smiling, lips pulled so cartoonishly tight he wonders if it’s been etched there. She taps a subtle brush at his cheek, dipped in a sweet shade of plum. 

The set he’s on, a rented-out theater firmly in the middle of downtown, is moving in frantic agitation as they prep for an interview that Jimin is a little too nervous for. There is a steady stream of daylight spilling into one of the theater’s open windows beside him as he waits, painting his black loafers and the tan carpet he has them placed on in shades of warped gold and spun sunlight. 

He’s been waiting here entirely too long for someone who happens to be his publishing house’s bestselling children’s author. Too long that he’s been counting the seconds on the clock that is still ticking in front of him. Counting the flecks of dust that swirl before him, measuring the lines of wood that panel the carpeted floor at his toes as the hairstylist tangled a brush through his hair and this very nervous girl dusts blush onto his cheek.

“You must be really excited,” The girl chirps again, voice a little bit more stable as she blinks over at him. Patting homey colored powder onto his nose. Jimin blinks at her, confused. She must read this confusion because she giggles, pulling a hand from him to press at her lips. “Your engagement,” She continues with a sweet smile. “I can’t imagine the wedding you have planned. The best fairy tale writer in the world,” Her voice is airy, slightly strung on the far-flung wisps of her own dreams. It takes a moment, between her eyes cast out the window to the bustling street below. 

“You found your prince charming; you’re living your happily ever after—” She continues, and there is too much light in her voice. It drips over every word, dashes across every syllable as she struggles to swallow her smile, struggles to hide the pink blush that is shading her pale cheek. 

“I wouldn’t say all of that,” Jimin replies, but he doesn’t notice the groan in his voice immediately.

What he does notice, very suddenly, is that the gold band that’s curled across his left finger, suddenly feels very, very heavy. He thinks he can feel the weight of its metal weighing on the fragile bones in his finger. The cold metal setting frost against his skin. 

He’s only worn this ring for the past year, but every day it gets a little heavier. As if every day he must prove its worth to himself, to justify its existence, usually looped around his neck on a golden chain, but Seokjin was adamant he’d wear it on his hand.

“Good for optics,” He told him in the car on the way to the interview. “People want to see that ring on your hand, see how happy you are.”

The girl is eyeing him closely, following his eyes as they fall to his ring, then travel back to meet his gaze.  She bends to dig into her makeup kit; plastics clang and clatter together before pulling out a pink tinted lip balm.

The sound of clacking a heel clamor towards them. From the shadows, entering past a rail of well pressed black suits, Seokjin appears, sleek black hair slicked back and nails tapping at his glowing phone screen.  It takes a moment for him to pull his eyes from his phone.

“Jimin, they want to start in ten,” He breathes out, fingers still clacking at his phone screen. The silver bracelets that line his arm clang, rattling like wind chimes before he eventually pulls his eyes up and away. He darts head between the three people before him, before selling them back onto Jimin. 

“You look nervous, why are you nervous?” He asks, shaking his head.

Jimin sighs, and it’s a staggered one. He lets his eyes flutter closed, because he thinks he’s buzzing with anticipation and fear, and perhaps excitement as well. When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t feel any lighter like he expects. In fact, he thinks he feels his stomach drop as Seokjin pierces his eyes towards him.

“You know I always get nervous with these sorts of things,” Jimin breathes out, chewing at his cheek. “Talking…. for any extended period of time.” He exhaled sharply, clenching his fists. “I do my taking on the page, you know.”

Seokjin edges a little closer towards him, crossing through the rail of clothes and towards the makeup chair. From this close, the girl sees just how young he is. Sees the brightness in his eyes, the stain of pink at his lips. She also notices the color of concern that paints across his expression, Watches the way he drapes a gentle hand over Jimin’s clenched fist. The same fists that are currently curled tight in his lap. 

“You’ve written an amazing book, you should be very proud,” He tells him, brushing soft circles against his palm. 

Jimin scoffs rolling his eyes.  The hair stylist brushes his raven-colored bang from his eyes, picks at the strands meticulously in the mirror. 

“Let your words do the talking,” He smiles. “Let your wonderfully written words do the talking and everything will be fine.” 

With that, Jimin seems to breathe, rolling his shoulders back as he falls slack against the makeup chair. He takes a deep breath, skirting his eyes up to Seokjin with sweet regard. “You’re the kindest person in the world, you know that right, Seokjin?” He breathes out and relief paints his every word. 

Seokjin winks, “Myex- boyfriend thinks differently, let me record you saying that for posterity—” He tacks on jokingly, bending to press a kiss to his forehead when his phone ignites again. He wails, clacking his fingers against the screen and dipping back into the darkness. “Seven minutes now, Jimin!”

Jimin smiles gently to himself, sniffling slightly when he catches the girl blinking at his through the mirror.

“That’s my agent,” He explains, licking his lips. “He’s been with me my entire career. Believed in my words before anyone else.” His eyes are distant, strung somewhere too far off. as he goes at himself through the mirror. 

The girl is brushing subtle gold atop his cheekbones now. The hairstylist finishes with his hair, dusting them all in a cloud of foggy hairspray. 

“Well, that’s good to hear,” The girl croaks out, fanning the brush across his cheeks. “Your words are very beautiful. Have touched a lot of lives. Changed them I’d even argue.” 

She finishes with a brush of gloss at his lips, pulling back to admire her work, and, by default, the man who glows beneath her. Jimin blinks back at her with gentle, but sad eyes. 

Seokjin appears again, “You’re needed on set, Jimin,” He whispers, fanning him towards him before disappearing back into the shadows. 

The girl watches as Jimin eyes himself in the mirror, blinking a few times at his reflection. 

“I’ve done too many of these big interviews, why the hell am I so nervous now?” He asks. 

The girl isn’t sure if he’s addressing her, not until his eyes cross through the reflection in the glass and meets her gaze. She gapes at him, lips pursed nervously as she struggles with an answer. “Well, you’re getting married soon,” She says. “That’s reason to be nervous.”

Jimin doesn’t respond, he blinks at her through the glass, then she watches his eyes redden and draw glass. 

“I am getting married, yeah,” He replies weakly, gaze still potent. Something in his words must burn because he’s blinking back tears, dropping his head down to his hands in his lap. “Fuck, why does that make me so sad? That’s not normal, you should be excited to be getting married? To my childhood best friend for God’s sake.” 

There is more commotion just outside of the fluttering curtains ahead. But Jimin feels in turmoil. He’s not happy he knows, but he hasn’t been for as long as he remembers, and he wonders why now is the breaking point. So he sucks back his tears before he allows them to breach his eyes.

“God I’m such a fucking crybaby,” Jimin groans, dabbing under his eyes, despite not actually crying. “Fucking up your masterpiece too I’m sorry.” He reaches for one of sponges, dabbing it at the creases on his eyes.

“I’m supposed to make you sign an NDA and all of that,” Jimin murmurs worriedly. He waves his hand, shucking his phone free and tapping nervously at the screen. Then, he feels a warm hand drape over his nervous one. “Can’t have you seeing me cry, might try selling it to the press or something—” 

“While there’s nothing wrong with crying,” The makeup artist hums, patting the sponge back under his eyes. She delivers him a soft, comforting smile, “You can trust in me. I won’t tell a soul.”

Jimin melts into a smile, lost in her eyes, but he hears Seokjin calling his name again. So he rises with a stretch, combing a hand through soft tousles of soft silver hair as he crosses the carpet to the looming oak doors before him. He pauses, when he reaches them, hand resting on the cold metal doorknob when he turns, very suddenly to the girl.

“It’s not easy believing in fairy tales, especially when you write them,” Jimin murmurs. He tracks the girl’s face, notes the hints of muffled confusion that color her eyes. “Sometimes when you grow up…” He pauses, licking his lips. “The world loses it’s magic, I think.”

“Are you saying you don’t believe in fairy tales, Mr. Park?” She asks. 

Jimin hesitates, mouth hanging slightly open because there are words itching at the tip of his tongue. Burning like spices at the roof of his mouth. He hasn’t believed in fairy tales since he was a boy, but he wonders if there was ever belief there. Or perhaps it was desperation. Maybe reality settled into his bones too early, forcing him to grow up faster than the others. He swallows these thoughts, paints on his rehearsed, warm smile as he casts it back at the girl.

“I believe in being happy,” He settles, and it sounds right enough to pass for truth. He hasn’t been happy in a while, but he thinks he plays the part well enough. “Being as happy as you can, whenever you can.”

The girl, young and smart and too observant narrows her eyes. Blows a strand of forgotten hair from her eyes as she studies him gently. 

“And that, I think, is magic, don’t you think?” She asks him. Her eyes drift up, and there’s so much feigned optimism in her gaze Jimin envys her. 

“Happily ever after,” She smiles, and her voice lands in sweet melody. Then she’s gazing at him again, but the optimism is still there, painfully cheerful. “Just as sweet as magic.”

“So, what is happily ever after for Park Jimin?” 

The interviewer is eyeing him staunchly. Jimin can’t help but feel mesmerized by the pen being twirled in his hand, or the stutter of the lens in the camera in front of him. So, instead he ducks his head, tacking on a gentle smile as he ponders very gently. 

“You are successful,” The interviewer continues with a smile. “You’ve sold more books than any other children’s writer in our generation.”

Jimin laughs at that, nerves bubbling up in his and sprouting free from his lips. 

“That seems very crazy to think about, don’t you think?” He murmurs, licking his lips. “I don’t know why people seem to like the words I’ve written.” 

“You sell an image of happiness, Mr. Park,” The interviewer tells him. There is no malice in his voice; if anything, there seems to be intrigue as he shifts forward in his seat. “Your words have defined a generation of children, implored them to read more, explore more, to be happy.” He clicks his pen again, and it rounds through the empty theater. “Not many people can say they’ve had that much influence on that many people.” 

Jimin shrugs, burying his face behind his fingers because he feels the heat at the base of his neck blooming. 

The interviewer, an older man with shiny silver hair and a warm, welcome face laughs. “What’s with the bashful attitude?” 

Jimin breathes, letting his head fall back slightly as he drinks in a lungful of breath. “I—” He begins, but he cuts himself off. Eyes roaming up to the very ornate ceiling. He watches only for a moment as stage lights dance dust around them. As it bounces from the gilded paint and shimmers a thousand diamonds down onto them. 

“I didn’t grow up in the nicest household. Well—” He pauses, again to ponder on his words. Letting the engines in his head whir as he scrambles for another word. “I wouldn’t say it wasn’t nice. It was nice. I lived in a nice apartment so to speak, I played clarinet in band. My dad put me into the boy’s scouts.” 

He pauses because he’s rambling, words spilling from his lips without consequence. So he pinches them shut, blinking under the blinding white box light as it bleeds warm golden light onto his skin as he races to thread coherency back into his words.

“As a child I was fine, things were fine,” He pauses, smiling back at the interviewer. “I just had to grow up a little fast that’s all.” 

That is an understatement, but he pinches his lips together because if they fall open anymore a slur of trauma would follow. The interviewer is eyeing him with those cold suspicious eyes again, thumbing frantically at his pen before blinking back down at his notes. If Jimin thinks hard enough, he thinks this man reminds him of what little he remembers of his father. He remembers warm smiles, but cold eyes. Eyes that hold integrity and pride in their gaze. He also remembers shrinking under them, just as he feels himself shrinking under these as they crane over at him from beneath thick square glasses.

There is a moment’s pause between them. Strung between the squeak of the grip’s shoe as he steadies the mic above them and the stuttering camera to Jimin’s right. 

“You never answered my question, Mr. Park,” The interviewer murmurs. 

Jimin nods, drinking in another breath. 

“Successful career, multimillion-dollar wedding to a man who seems to love you very much,” He continues, cocking his head. “Beautiful home, beautiful cars. A career that seems to have no end in sight.” 

Jimin thinks this is the part when he’s supposed to say thank you, but he doesn’t. He swallows the praise with a warm smile, nodding along to the overwhelming list of accomplishments pretending they belong to another. No one person deserves this much praise, not when they feel like they don’t deserve it. 

“You are living a dream anyone else wishes they had,” The interviewer continues. “A fairy tale if you would.” 

Jimin giggles, and this time it’s genuine. “I guess you can say that” He snorts out.

“So, like I asked before,” The man pauses, blinks at him with a cutting gaze. “What does happily ever after look for you?” 

If Jimin closes his eyes, he thinks he smells the freshness of the sea. Hints of salt and honey. He thinks he can feel wet grass beneath his toes, tickling at his heel. He thinks he can feel the warm arms wrapped around him, the beat of another heart pattering against his back, warm breath tickling at his neck. To finally see the stars in all their celestial clarity. But most of all, what he sees stretching before him, is the vastness of the horizon. The outstretch of freedom sprawling before him; the relinquish of responsibility and obligation painted with opaque watercolors before him. 

Jimin opens his eyes to see the interviewer still looking at him, still deep in their tucked part of the stage. Tangled by boxes of speakers and twisted colored wires. Clouded with artificial light whose warmth pales compared to the sun in his head. Surrounded by a tired crew with aching arms and growling bellies from too many hours on set. 

It’s claustrophobic; and Jimin sucks in a breath to relieve himself. Shoves a nervous hand through his hair as he ponders for a less abstract answer. 

“I want to be happier than I am now,” He concludes, and those words feel right, settling from his tongue with concise, but valiant effort. 

He delivers the interviewer a genuine smile, one with teeth, he remembers his agent telling him. 

“I want to wake up every day happier than I was before,” He continues. “I want to write to be heard and love and be loved. Make a difference with that love.” He pauses, wincing slightly with a big smile. “That was a little corny, wasn’t it?” 

The interviewer laughs, “And what’s wrong with that?” 

Jimin doesn’t reply, his head is swimming with a lot of unanswered questions, but he keeps his eyes on his shoe and how the artificial light from above seems to make it sparkle.

“Your fiancé was telling me beforehand—” The interviewer begins. 

“My fiancé?” Jimin asks. “Be-beforehand?” 

The interviewer gazes at him, slightly lost. He clicks at his pen mindlessly as he tosses his head towards the curtains. “He’s here,” He says, tossing Jimin a manufactured smile. “Who wouldn’t want to see their fiancé on a big interview day?”

Jimin freezes, watching as Namjoon pokes his head from the red velvet curtains backstage. Bright white stage lights sparkling across his thick glasses as he shyly smiles in Jimin’s direction. Jimin smiles back, but his limbs are frozen solid, arms like chunks of ice against his lap. 

“You can come join us if you want, Mr. Kim,” The interviewer grins cheekily, motioning towards Jimin who still feels frozen.

Namjoon shakes his head, blond hair glittering in shades of platinum under the lights as he shuffles back behind the curtain. 

“No, I insist,” The interviewer continues. “The It Couple together, days before their wedding?” 

Namjoon’s eyes trail to meet Jimin, who thinks he feels his shoulders rising in a shrug, but he has no control over the movement. In turn, Namjoon stomps out, face beet red as he cuts through the curtains, across the stage before making it to Jimin. He leans down to press a soft kiss to the seams of his lips before clinging, very gently to the back of his chair. Jimin fidgets nervously, dipping his head as he ignites bright pink under the attention. 

“I can’t believe I got you two together, this is fantastic,” The interviewer says, in genuine awe as he claps his hands together. “I know you both are very excited for your upcoming nuptials.” 

“Oh yeah, of course,” Namjoon answers with a curt nod.

Jimin’s mouth has fallen slack, but he doesn’t think he can produce any sound from it. Instead, he snaps it shut, nodding gently to Namjoon’s words as he twists his fingers in his lap. 

“There’s probably not much you can tell me—” The interviewer says, crossing at his legs. 

“Jimin wanted a fairy tale themed wedding. Obviously,” Namjoon says, squeezing at Jimin’s back gently. 

Jimin giggles, the first noise he’s been able to produce in a while, but it cracks from his lips. 

“It’s nothing major—” Jimin squeaks out.

“It’s going to be like stepping into one of his books,” Namjoon smiles. “All the magic and wonder and love you can imagine.” 

Jimin’s ears are burning, and despite Namjoon’s comforting hands brushing at his neck, he thinks he might just be on fire. The embarrassment has sprouted from his ears and is now coloring his chests, slipping like fire down and burning at his chest. The placement of his embarrassment is foreign, however. Not understanding why being in the arms of his fiancé is leading him to catch aflame like this. 

“That sounds magical,” The interviewer hums, eyes sparkling as he blinks over at Jimin. 

Jimin shifts his weight awkwardly, rubbing incessant circles into his skin as he tries to settle his chaotically beating heart. 

“It should be,” He finally answers, not lifting his eyes from his hands. 

The interviewer must note his sour tone, because he blinks at him very hard. Eyes darting up to Namjoon who seems oblivious, stroking gently at the hair at the nape of Jimin’s neck, then back down to struggle to meet Jimin’ shifting eyes. 

He eventually clears his throat, sucking gently at his lips as she clicks at his pen. “I know it’s probably too early to ask this but,” She leans in slightly and Jimin thinks he catches a whiff of his cologne. Clouds of cottony fragrance engulfing him. “Kids, could we expect kids any time soon?” 

“Yes,” Namjoon answers, chest boasting out pridefully.

“No,” Jimin answers, just as quickly; voice in a quick snip. He shakes his head, sleek black bangs falling to obscure at his eye. Then he feels Namjoon’s hand at shoulder tighten, squeezing at the strained muscle in his neck. 

The interviewer nearly gasps, eyes darting between them as he clicks continuously at his pen, echoing in the silent theater. Jimin’s eyes fly up to meet Seokjin who is peering at him over the man’s shoulder. His face drawn up in a disappointed scowl. 

“A disagreement?” The interviewer presses, leaning back. “Over something like children?” 

Jimin’s mouth gapes, but he thinks if he doesn’t shut it soon, his heart might just crawl free from his chest, slip down his tongue and fall with a splat at his toes. 

Namjoon’s grip on his shoulder has tightened, but it isn’t enough to choke him. If anything, it adds to the burn that seems to be engulfing his entire body as he broils beneath the frying stage lights.

“We just— it just— it’s just something we haven’t spoken about before—” Jimin manages to stammer out. He tosses a gaze up to Namjoon, bending his own hand up to drape over Namjoon’s. “I’m just excited to marry my best friend right now. Everything else will follow.” 

He tosses Namjoon a sweet eye, but Namjoon sees right through it. Jimin can see the deflation of excitement in his eyes, watches as it crosses into something sadder as he stitches a rehearsed smile onto his lips. Namjoon is too observant for his charade, but he’s also a team player and Jimin feels it as he clenches his hand in response. 

“The fairy tale will write itself out the way it’s meant to be written,” Namjoon says, eyes still locked onto Jimin’s, but there is a shade of coldness in them. Coldness in his eyes, coldness in his touch. Jimin nearly shivers beneath it. “And I happen to love the best writer of them all.” 

“You two are a team,” Seokjin spits, arms crossed as he darts an angry gaze between them. “We cannot afford to have you both on different pages. Especially not in front of an interviewer who only cares about his ratings.” 

Jimin is fiddling on his phone, small thumb scrolling across the glass, but he can feel Namjoon fidgeting beside him. They are outside, bathed in the sunlight Jimin so coveted while in the theater for so long, but it’s not as warm as he wished. It’s setting, pressed petals of orange against his skin as he presses his back against the brick wall outside the theater. 

Namjoon’s hands are buried in the pockets of his trousers, eyes pressed gently to the ground. 

“Now I don’t know what’s going on with you two—” Seokjin begins.

“There’s nothing going on,” Namjoon insists, because it’s always him speaking up. 

Jimin’s eyes haven’t left his phone, but he can feel the other two men’s presence looming over him, burning into his comfort. Eventually, he does lift his eyes, glancing once up to Seokjin who is shooting daggers across from him. Arms folded tight across his chest as he swallows shallowly. Then, his eyes darts to Namjoon, who, as usual, is smiling too warm, all with grace. He blinks at Jimin once, in subtle compromise, before turning back to Seokjin. 

“The wedding is obviously very stressful,” He tells him, again, with too much grace. “Has us acting our worst selves.” 

Seokjin’s eyes narrow, darting between the two men, not buying it. Then, his shoulders slack and he breathes out a shallow sigh. “Well, we don’t need two groomzillas ruining the very carefully crafted image we’ve spent so many years grooming for the two of you.” 

Jimin burns, not from the sun but he thinks from upset. He clicks his phone off, tucking it into his pocket and exhales sharply as wind ribbons through his hair. “I’m sorry it won’t happen again,” He murmurs out monotonously. There is an obvious lack of sincerity in his voice, both Namjoon and Seokjin catch. 

Namjoon fidgets beside him, burning with worry and concern and the need, Jimin knows, to prove himself. He watches as Namjoon’s fingers leap to his teeth and chews at hard hanging skin, blinking as the setting sun splinters up to stain his eyes from atop the city skyline. 

“It shouldn’t have happened at all, that entire interview is wasted now. Journalism is dead and they’re going to pick up on that little bit between you two unsettled about kids and run with that for weeks. Everything Jimin said beforehand will be wasted,” Seokjin exclaims in frustration. He claws his hands at his cheeks, moaning in irritation as he tosses his head back. 

Jimin gapes at him, expecting the feeling of guilt to debut, but it doesn’t. He thinks, for a fleeting moment, through the shadowy fog of this very rigid life he’s been living for the past few years; for his near entire life really, he thinks this rebellion tastes like freedom. If only for a moment. 

With that thought he straightens his back, sucking in a breath as he loosens the stiffened joints in his body. Allowing his bones to jelly and loosen as he offers Seokjin a sweet smile. 

“You’ve spun things before, you can spin this one too, Seokjin,” He says.

Seokjin groans again, peeling his face from his hands and rising to meet Jimin’s eyes. “Spinning the story of you crawling out of some random man’s house at 5 am is a lot different than this.” He flickers his hand between them, “You’re marrying this man, Jimin. You’re supposed to be a team.” 

They’re not a team, Jimin thinks. The imbalance in their power, in their wealth for one. But he mostly thinks, as he glances up and over to a somber Namjoon, who is nearly glowing under the radiance of a setting sun, this relationship wasn’t built on teamwork. It was built on the swaying seesaw of a near parental, sheltering love. No matter how much money Jimin makes, no matter how successful he gets, Namjoon will always wear the pants in the relationship. He’ll always hold command between the two. A reigning king over the tiny kingdom known as their relationship. Jimin hates the fact that relinquishing power to him is a relief. He hates so much that at this moment, he doesn’t mind. 

“We need you two to talk,” Seokjin tells them, taking a step closer to the couple, draping himself in sunlight. “If you’re going to at least sell this—”

“It won’t happen again,” Jimin states, voice thick when he finally chooses to speak. He straightens his back, “Can we go home now? I’m starving.” 

Seokjin gapes at him, cocking his head in subtle disbelief before turning his eyes to Namjoon. Namjoon, in turn, sighs in discontent. Dropping his gaze back to the scratched pavement. Jimin blinks, unknowing to their shifting eyes as he shucks his phone from his pocket, tapping gently at the screen. 

The evening of their rehearsal dinner two weeks later, and Jimin is laying down in the backseat of his car, staring up at the setting sun as it bleeds orange light into the sunroof down onto his face. It’s not as warm as he likes, but he relishes the last taste of summer. Relishes the feeling of dry air on his skin, the shades of purple and pink as they paint watercolors against his skin. He’s tracing the streetlights as they whizz past. Swatches of filtered tangerine light as they fizzle past the sunroof. 

“What if I told you to just keep going?” He asks Seokjin, who is currently whizzing down the freeway, humming gently to the song that pours from the speaker. It takes a moment before he answers, shooting him a soft smile through the rear-view mirror as he clutches gently at the wheel.

“You know I can’t do that, Jimin,” He answers. 

Jimin groans, crossing his arms across his chest as he continues to count the streetlights. “Okay but… let’s play make believe,” He whines, rubbing at his eyes. “What if I told you to just… miss the exit. Keep going until you hit that playground by the sea I love so much.”

“I have to get you to the banquet hall for your rehearsal dinner—?”  Seokjin insists. He can hear the way his voice cracks in subtle flustered heat.

“Okay it’ll be what, 40 minutes over? They can’t start dinner without me. It’s my wedding rehearsal,” He laughs. He sits up, lurching forward as the car jostles them across the road. He leans over the middle, pouting towards Seokjin as he keeps his eyes, very pointedly towards the road in front of him.

“If they wonder where I was, blame it on me,” Jimin pouts again, flashing him aggressively sad eyes. “Please?” 

The car is quiet; except for the hum of the radio droning an unusually upbeat song for the moment and sound of the tires skirting across the road across rocks and staggered concrete. He watches Seokjin blush under the pressure, bleeding from his ears. Eyebrows knitting together, hands clenched at the steering wheel as he wars with himself. Then, he melts, shooting him a very stern face. “You can’t stay long,” He murmurs. 

Jimin shrieks in excitement, lurching forward to press a soft kiss to his exposed cheek. “Ah! You’re a doll, thank you!” He exclaims before sinking back into his seat.

He doesn’t know what he’ll find when he meets the playground, but when he gets there, he feels a little closer than he was before. The ocean is nearby, he can hear the roaring waves as he presses forward, cutting across the dry grass that crunches beneath his shoes until he meets the towering iron swing. Fighting the wind as he cuts through it and towards the swings that seem to beckon him. 

He reaches out for the metal, ice cold to the touch as he couches into the seat. The metal squealing below him as he swings gently into the open air. Seokjin is just ahead, Jimin can hear the car door beep locked as he crosses in front of him, past the glittering silver slide, past the looping green monkey bar until he stands just ahead of him at the mouth of the swing. He wraps his navy-colored sweater tight around him as wind cuts past him.

The sun is sparkling on the slide to the left of Seokjin, in similar shades to the sky: sponges of pinks and oranges. Making them look like lips of a flapping flame as they wave him towards them. Icy tongue prodding out to kiss at his now exposed toes as he tosses his overly expensive dress shoes aside and digs his toes into the cooling sand below. He turns around, noticing Seokjin perched beside the parked car, and he waves, beckoning him towards him. 

“You’re going to get me in trouble with your fiancé, Jimin,” Seokjin says, tightening his sweater around him. “Also, several other people you employ, but mostly your fiancé.” 

Jimin shrugs, rolling his eyes until they are back out to the sun, watching it paint the sky an even deeper shade of gold as it sets. “He’s fine, especially when he’s distracted with people to boss around.” He shoots her a smile, beckoning Seokjin towards the empty swing to his left.

Seokjin gapes at him, before ducking his head and sauntering down the hill towards him. He sits with a plop, iron set squealing as he swings out gently, nose scrunched up from the cold.

Jimin turns to him, face pressed against the chained metal rope. “Thank you for doing this,” He murmurs gently to Seokjin, face melting in content as he nudges him.

Seokjin grins back at him, nudging him back. “Anytime, Min.” 

A quiet lull between them; drowned out by roaring distant waves and the echo of seagulls as they drift above them. Jimin feels something dry in his throat and he goes to swallow, thickly. “Whenever I close my eyes I smell the sea,” He murmurs in a moment of hung silence. “Not this one though, it smells right but—” He winces, heaving through clenched teeth. “On all my book tours, I always go to the sea. Just to feel it out, see the grass, taste the wind.” 

This time he sighs, watching as a dolphin’s fin cuts out from the sea’s tangerine colored glass, not too far ahead. 

“They all have what I’m looking for, but not really,” He breathes out, fingers tugging at the knit cloth at his fingers as he wraps it tighter around himself. “Some too salty, some too dry. Too much dirt, too much sand.” 

He turns to Seokjin, face falling into a warm smile. The wind is making his eyes water, but he welcomes it, welcomes warm tears as they slip from his eyes, pool at the seams of his lips. 

“None of it feels right. Like…” He hesitates, inhaling sharply. “This doesn’t feel like I’m—” He hesitates again, because this feels too personal to be spilling to his agent. “Nowhere feels like home. All the places I’ve been, none of them feel like home to me.”

“There is fun in the chase, I think,” Seokjin finally murmurs after a moment. His voice is caught on the waves, but Jimin catches the jest of it. 

“The chase…” Jimin mumbles in return, biting at his lips. His tears have now stained his cheeks; frozen. He turns back to him, cocking his head. 

“And while the chase is fun, so is relief,” Seokjin continues. The wind is tangling his hair atop his head; Swirls of raven colored hair painted atop his head like licorice soft serve. 

Jimin is laughing, throwing his head back as it bellows out. He’s felt so strung tight for so long he doesn’t think he knows what relief feels like. Wonders if this phantom tugging in his chest is an ache for it, but he isn’t sure. The wind dies and he pats at his back pocket aggressively. Ripping a small white container from his pocket and popping a long white cigarette in his mouth. 

“Don’t tell Joon I’m doing this, he hates it when I smoke,” He says rolling his eyes. He shields the flame from the wind and sighs, drinking in the clouds of smoke and letting it slip from his lips. “He actually hates when I do lots of things. Like not making the best decisions… being in my head too much… whining about the freshness of our oat milk…” He pauses, sucking in a drag, then letting it billow from his lips. “But smoking might be at the top.” 

It takes a while for him to find the will to speak again. “If you look at the trajectory of my life, this is very much supposed to be a happy ending.” He murmurs, mostly to himself. Eyeing the way the cigarette flickers and flames. “Sad little kid proves everyone wrong, becomes successful, marries his childhood best friend. Happily ever after.” He sucks in again, a little harder this time, but he relishes the way it makes his lungs flame. Then he’s turning to Seokjin, eyes drenched in unobtainable sadness. “Why doesn’t it feel like one?” He croaks out, voice dying much like the cigarette that’s hanging loosely from his lips. 

Seokjin hasn’t said much in a while. His hands are in his pockets as he digs his hands in them; fists protruding from them as he clenches them. 

“The relief of a happy ending, feels like letting go of a breath you’ve been holding for so long,” Seokjin seems to be speaking very committedly. Then he turns to Jimin, smile warm. “At least that’s what I’ve read of course. In your books and all.” 

In his books, Jimin thinks. The ones with words he doesn’t feel connected to and a sea of success that doesn’t feel earned. Jimin chews at the cigarette lightly, lips pursed, as he stares at the water that roars in front of him; watching the way it drags at the shores as he flicks the cigarette out into the open air, watching it crash land into the damp sand at his toes. After a moment, he gulps in ice cold air.

“I don’t love him,” He confesses in a whisper, teeth clinging to the mint. “I think I love the idea of him, yes, but am I in love with him?” The answer, unspoken, is cast out between them with the roar of the waves. He pauses for a moment, enough time for the ocean to drown him out. Enough time for the truth to finally settle in his bones. “He’s always so good at things. Think I liked the idea of someone else being the grown up for once.” 

Jimin can feel Seokjin’s eyes on him, but he’s too afraid to meet his gaze. He diverts his eyes on the hood of the car, the way the setting sun is casting the metal-colored car in shades of molten gold.

Jimin eventually turns to him, choking back a nervous laugh. “You think I’m an asshole, don’t you?” He chews again at the mint. “Marrying the best friend I’m not in love with because I feel like I’m supposed to.” 

Seokjin doesn’t answer immediately; he swallows in a breath, wrinkling his nose and turning towards him again. “Growing up is, unfortunately, doing things we don’t want to do,” He finally replies. “Responsibilities we don’t want... duties thrust upon us.”

Every part of Jimin feels like it’s buzzing as he clings onto Seokjin’s every word.

“Unfortunately, fairytales aren’t real. Prince Charming doesn’t exist so we take what we can get, love the way we can.” Seokjin’s eyes are apologetic as he speaks. “Namjoon isn’t your Prime Charming or knight in shining armor but he’s good. He’s nice. He’s enough."

But what else is there than enough, Jimin thinks. Wonders the complexities of the word. Is enough worth the self-torment, the battle, the guilt? He wonders if enough will smother him, weighing like bricks in his chest every morning he wakes up next to a man who wasn’t crafted for him to love. Wonders if he’s taking him from someone, someone who he is more than enough for. Namjoon is enough, he knows. Namjoon is goodness and patience in human form. He’s enough, yes, but he isn’t enough for him. 

Maybe he’s greedy, maybe gluttony has slipped into his blood and poisoned his mind, but Jimin wants more than enough. Deserves more than enough. He claws at his face in despair, moaning out a muffled sigh when he feels Seokjin’s hand cupping at his shoulder. 

“You’re very lucky,” He hears him say. “Most people’s enough is very…” He pauses, ocean still roaring in front of them. “Take it from me, this opportunity might not come again. Seize it.”

Jimin peels his face from his hands, peers over at Seokjin with shifting eyes. 

“The least you can do is smile,” Seokjin says with a subtle shove. “I’ve known you for years and maybe seen you smile once? Twice?” 

Jimin smiles, but it’s fake enough to strain his cheeks. Seokjin rolls his eyes, “A real smile, Min.” 

Jimin groans, face falling. He’s never felt the privilege to smile, a gift awarded to youth. Something he feels he lost a long time ago. Then Seokjin is standing, stretching with a groan as he, appropriately, smiles towards Jimin. “Now don’t you have a rehearsal dinner to be? Your fiancé is going to have my head.”

Jimin nods, peeling himself from the plastic seat of the swing. 

Namjoon isn’t his Prince Charming but he is enough. But for the first time, Jimin wonders if this enough will suffice. 

Namjoon narrows his eyes, gazing over him before turning back to his food and chewing at the pork. 

“You’re late,” He breathes out after swallowing. Turning back to Jimin to gaze at him through his thickened square glasses. “You’re late and you stink.”

Jimin wriggles his nose, because he knows he does. Can smell the cigarette smoke wafting from his black suit as he moves. But he thinks he can also smell the sea. Thinks he can tack down the hint of salt bedded in cloth but instead he squirms in his seat.

A waiter waltzes up towards him with a silver platter plate and places it very gently in front of him. Jimin in turn, murmurs out a polite thank you and dives towards the metal chopsticks at his side. The rehearsal hums in contented jest around them.

“You left me alone—” Namjoon mumbles out awkwardly. 

“I know, I know,” Jimin says rolling his eyes as he stuffs his mouth with cabbage. He turns to his fiancé, but his eyes are on the party erupting around him. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” He slurps the last of his food, slathering on a smile as he blinks at him. “I wouldn’t miss this, Namjoon. You know I wouldn’t.” 

There are discrepancies in his words, holes that bed and lie within them as he speaks, and they both catch it. Catch the way his eyes shift as he speaks, the way he bites his lips Namjoon is clutching at his glass, jaw clenched as he watches Jimin sink slowly into the chair beside him. Jimin ignores him, peeling off his gray wool coat and tossing it over the back of his chair. Settling with a sigh as he reaches forward and grapples at the glasses. 

“You’re still late,” Namjoon hisses, loud enough for Jimin to hear him, but not enough for the photographers that are pointing towards them to catch. “Had to have Hyunjin stand in for you for the blocking.” He chews angrily. “Would have been nice if the man I’m actually marrying held this wedding to priority.” 

Jimin has not turned to face him, he’s bowing in gentle response to the waiter that is pouring bubbling pink champagne into his glass. He pulls his glass to his lips, feeling the bubbles tickle his nose before pulling it back and swallowing softly. 

“I had Seokjin stop me somewhere before I—”

“That fucking playground again, huh?” Namjoon hisses. 

That’s when Jimin turns to face him, eyes darkening as he gazes at him. The glass is still pressed to his lips, and he lets the champagne slip down his throat, burning at his cheeks. 

“Are you ever going to grow up, Jimin?” Namjoon says through clenched teeth. 

Every part of Jimin is burning right now, clutch tight enough around his glass he thinks he just might shatter it. Instead, he pulls it down to the table, presses it against the tablecloth and scoots it further away from him. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He presses again, trying to control his expression as a silver haired photographer surges forward to click at her camera. 

The bulb explodes, splattering bright white light onto them, but Jimin can’t find the will to blink. He’s staring over at Namjoon with contested eyes, just as Namjoon gazes back at him. Around them, the party is buzzing. Light jazz fills the air as the live band Namjoon so excitedly raved about, thrums at their instruments. Food is being scraped on shiny white plates, peppering the air with scents of savory herbs and lemon. 

But all Jimin can focus on, is the darkened gaze of his fiancé across from him. 

“Are we doing this right now?” He asks in a soft whisper, leaning in towards him. 

“When will be a better time for you?” Namjoon asks, chair scraping against the floor as he scoots back. “In 20 years when you finally decide to stop acting like a child and grow up?”

Jimin blinks over at him, watching him rise, glass still in hand. 

“You’re going to do this here?” Jimin murmurs through clenched teeth, tugging gently at Namjoon’s sleeve. 

Namjoon, very not so subtly, rolls his eyes. “Would it be better for you to talk outside?” 

The music pulses around him, enough that Jimin feels it rattle in his bones. His eyes are still tracked up to Namjoon, watching as the purple-colored lights above them paint down onto his cheek. Sparkle across the clear reflect of his glasses. 

Jimin rises, following behind him as Namjoon stomps through the crowd. People neither of them recognize tug at them, whispering words of congratulations into their ear as they near the towering glass doors that oversee the forest outside. 

Namjoon is pushing out towards it, stomping through the well-cut grass and out towards the trees. Jimin thinks he can hear him mumbling something below his breath, voice catching in the muggy air as he stomps further into the forest, further away from the party. 

They’re far enough now that the party that spills out from the open doors seems muffled through the trees. Jimin wraps his arms across his chest, struggling to meet up with Namjoon’s long strides. 

“I think you’re being ridiculous,” Jimin murmurs, stepping over a moss-covered rock, watching as Namjoon weaves past a hanging limb covered in emerald-colored vines. “Why—” He nearly trips, the toe of his shoes catching on a pebble, and he catches himself on the cold bark of a tree beside him. “Why are you acting like this?” 

They’re far enough now for privacy, far enough now where the only sounds around them are the quiet echo of crickets singing in the grass and the trickle of a nearby pond against wet shores. Jimin watches as Namjoon spins around to meet him, hand still grasped around his glass. Where Jimin expects to meet anger he thinks he sees a face swollen with heartbreak.

Moonlight splinters in through the trees, spilling silver down onto Namjoon. Despite the darkness of the forest that engulfs them, Jimin can see the shake of glassy eyes beneath square glasses. Watches as Namjoon snorts aggressively, sucking back tears that are threatening to spring forth. 

“I’m really going to need you to grow up, Jimin,” Namjoon murmurs gently. “I refuse to marry a child—”

“Grow up?” Jimin screams. He can’t control his volume, mostly because rage is piercing through his body. His nerves prickle with it, buzzes with it as he lurches forward, arms still crossed across his chest. “You’re telling me to grow up?”

Namjoon’s mouth gapes open, then he’s nodding. “You have no clue how childish you are,” He replies, and there is venom creeping into his tone. Bleaching his words with animosity from tears of pent-up anger. “Throwing tantrums with your mother, barely paying me or this wedding any attention. If you don’t want to marry me that’s fine, but don’t pretend Jimin, this isn’t time to play pretend—”

“Who said I’m pretending anything?” Jimin screams. He wonders if they can hear him in the party. Wonders if through the throngs of enjoyment and low-slung music they can hear the pain that colors his voice. 

“Do you love me?” Namjoon asks, and his voice is a lot softer than before. A low treble of hesitation clings to it, and Jimin watches as he gulps, very thickly in anticipation. 

Jimin hesitates, suddenly very aware of just how cold it is outside. Above him, wind whistles through low hanging trees, casting shadows across his cheek. He watches Namjoon with wide, hapless eyes, sling rigid; ripe with goosebumps he didn’t know had sprung. Hair untamed in twisting evening wind. 

The rehearsal dinner still swings through the trees, but it arrives to them in muffled waves of pulsing beating music and spilled laughter. Jimin feels numb to it right now, probably has been for a while, but he steadies on Namjoon’s ever present gaze. Peeking at him through glowing thick glasses under the stippling moonlight. 

“I’m marrying you, Joon, of course I love you—” He stammers out. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Namjoon snips, shaking his head. “At least not really.”

Above them, starlight in spilling down, stippling in through tangled leaves. After a moment, Namjoon shakes his head, mumbling something in bitter anger into his palms. 

“God I’m really fucking stupid—” He garbles, pain aching at his throat. 

“Namjoon—” Jimin replies, taking a step towards him. 

Namjoon lurches back, eyes cast in disgust and anger. He swallows thickly, again, gaze sparked in anger. “You’ve been playing me—” He begins.

“I didn’t say that—” Jimin protests, scrambling towards him. 

Namjoon takes another step back, vision red. “I’ve been wasting all this time, all this money with you because I thought this was what you wanted—” 

Jimin is clamoring towards him, clawing at his arm as he tugs him against his chest. “You’re putting words in my mouth Joonie—”

“Then what is it?” Namjoon growls, voice so low and thick with tension it’s barely audible. 

“What’s what?” Jimin presses, eyes now blurry, it’s tears, he swipes at them nervous, smearing hot against his eyelids.

Namjoon yanks him away, chasing for his eyes. “This? What’s this?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jimin pouts. 

That’s when Namjoon yells. A growl that echoes through the forest; rings around tree bark; clatters from the leaves, bounces from moss until it settles, quite uncomfortably back into Jimin’s ears. He winces, staring wide eyed up at the other man as he swallows back the fear that had been clawing up his throat. 

Namjoon looks reckless, disheveled silver hair splashed askew across his head as he rakes a nervous hand through it. He’s breathing deeply, warm skin beating with a quickened pulsed. “Don’t play stupid, Jimin—” He begins weakly with a chuckle.

Jimin is still pouting, trembling, “I’m not playing anything.” 

Namjoon opens his mouth to speak, but snaps it shut just as suddenly. Jimin can tell there are words tugging on his tongue, watches the way he bites at it anxiously in his mouth. Pinching his eyes together before he gathers the will to speak. 

“I love you so much, Jimin,” Namjoon begins, voice a little weaker than before. 

“I love you too, Joonie,” Jimin squeaks out, wiping at his nose now. 

Namjoon shakes his head, “No, I don’t think you do.” 

Jimin gapes at him, mouth falling slack as he stumbles back a bit. Shoe cracking at a twig below his heel. 

“At least…” Namjoon continues, voice again, weaker than before. “Not as much as you say you do.” He hesitates, reaching under his glasses to swatch at his eyes. “At least not in the way that really matters.” 

Jimin has had a few broken hearts before, but this one, he thinks, hurts the most. He tumbles back from Namjoon’s grasp, coating his lips wet as he struggles to pull reality into focus. The forest blurs around him, fades in shades of blues and salted silvers as he blinks back at Namjoon, his arms coming up to fold across his chest. “So, what is all of this then?” He finally croaks out. “All these people here ready to see us get married and for what? So you can berate me the night before? Claim I don’t love you the way you want?” 

There is a moment of silence that hangs between them. Not too far off, an owl hoots, echoing through the trees. There are crunches of leaves that ring around them, the whistle of wind as it claps through the trees. 

That’s when Namjoon laughs. A low hanging chuckle that falls softly from his lips. He hangs his head, burying his hands into his pants pockets as he continues to breathe it out; a laugh that belly’s so natural, its awkwardness doesn’t feel out of place. 

Jimin blinks at him through the darkness, shaking his head. “What’s so funny?” He snaps.

It takes a moment for Namjoon’s laughter to subdue, but when it eventually does, he turns his gaze back to Jimin. It’s lighter than before, almost as if epiphany has claimed him. 

“You didn’t even deny it,” He finally manages to press out. He laughs again, a little uncontrollable as he knocks his head back, letting his laughter ring a little louder through the trees. “I say you don’t love me, and you don’t even deny it. First thought immediately goes back to the room of fucking people you think you owe your life to.” 

Jimin gapes at him, and the world has become a little smaller again. He blinks back at Namjoon, eyebrows knitting up in frustration as he folds his arms angrily across his chest. 

“What do you want from me, Joon?” He asks, and there is genuine inquisition in his tone. Perhaps a little desperation. He craves direction because he doesn’t think he can find it himself. Buried too deep within all the responsibility he claims to bear. 

It takes a moment for Namjoon to respond but when he does it’s after his lips part. “I want you to grow up, Jimin,” He frowns. “Grownups know what they want. Tell me what you want.” 

Jimin gapes at him, tongue drying in his mouth. The silence that rings between them is heavy enough to speak for him. 

Namjoon doesn’t laugh, simply nods his head as if finally coming to terms with reality. “I’m no one’s second choice, Jimin.” 

“You’re not my second choice,” Jimin whimpers, taking a step towards him. 

“Yeah, but I’m definitely not your first,” Namjoon retorts.

Above them, evening wind howls again, and Jimin shivers under it, under the tragically cold glare of Namjoon’s gaze.

“This isn’t what I want,” Jimin chokes out. “Is that what you want to hear?” He feels like he’s shaking. “That I don’t love you, that you’re nothing more than a pawn in a marketing plan to make me look better.”

There is an exceptionally loud bout of laughter that spills from the reception halls open doors. Both of their heads snap up to meet it, but Jimin watches as Namjoon begins back towards it. Shoes snapping over dry twigs and soggy earth. 

“When you finally decide to act like an adult and make a proper decision about what you do actually want,” Namjoon says, casting his eyes over towards him. “You can meet me inside again.” 

Jimin watches him saunter back towards the doors but doesn’t call out to him. He wonders if he even has the words, or if he really wants to. Wonders why this tastes like freedom and heartbreak. He can’t see him anymore, but he hears the party ignite in laughter. Feels the heat of love spilling from it and it makes Jimin’s stomach churn. 

So he spins, gagging as emotions broil through him all at once. He gets his first taste of liberation and it’s bittersweet; but mostly bitter. Telling the truth shouldn’t feel this bad. Last time his tongue was this bitter, he was promising his father something he had no business to. 

“I’m so fucking stupid,” He wails to himself. Finally, alone, away from lusting eyes he lets himself cry. Every tear he drunk back, every cry he’s swallowed is springing free from his eyes and burning white hot down his cheek. “Not too much of a man are you, Park Jimin? A man keeps his promises, a man doesn’t cry.” He eyes trail up to the sky, through the flickering leaves up towards the glimmer of stars. Shaded and foggy through the haze of city light. 

For someone whose written perfect worlds confined within the pages of a novel he can’t seem to make the perfect one for himself. Above him, the wind howls; rages through the trees as it wisps like cotton past rustling leaves. Jimin, delirious, trips, but he follows the murmur of voices through the trees because he can’t help himself. It tugs him closer, a siren’s call, as he twists himself through the branches that swing before him.

“Hello?” He croaks, foot crunching atop a twig that echoes through the empty wood. 

He thinks he hears more murmuring, so he slips through the vine towards it. 

“Joon, if you want to talk like a fucking grownup we can do that, but you can’t stomp off and still expect me to—” He yanks at a thick brush of leaves in front of him, damp to his finger as he swats it down from his eyes. Revealing, in front of him, a tree that glows.

Jimin freezes, blinking at it confusedly as it stands with common casualty in the cluster of oak trees before him. 

The tree, though common in its build and stance amongst the others, seems to glow with a pulsing cobalt light that stipples past rustling leaves and spills onto his skin in cotton like waves. He lurches back, squinting his eyes as he studies it, fingers tightening around the wooden branch to his left. 

“You’re kidding,” He breathes out, throat suddenly thickening. His eyes flit up the tree, studying the way it seeps out the light, curling down past his toes like lips of a fog. 

He doesn’t know why his feet move, but they’re trudging across the soft earth onwards the tree. Pulled towards it, yanked by some mysterious force, tugging from his belly button as he stomps towards the tree. As he approaches it, he feels the earth buzzing beneath his feet. Feels the heated glow of the tree as it tugs him towards him. He’s inches from it now, nose nearly grazing its bark as he hovers a hesitant hand over its curling branches. 

“A magic tree,” He breathes out, and his breath curls like cotton from his tongue. “You’ve got to be kidding. There’s no way—”

The tree seems to breathe before him, blue light pulsing even brighter with every breath he chokes out. He leans forwards and the tree breathes under him. He thinks he can feel its heartbeat, thudding beneath the cold bark, and if he’s crazy enough, he thinks it might be stuttering in time with his own. Pattering against his ribs in record time. 

Then, he raises his hand, fingers buzzing with untacked energy he cannot find the source of. He feels it surging through him, aching through his bones. 

“You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do—” A warm muffled, distorted voice calls out through the bark. It’s familiar, Jimin thinks. He thinks this is the voice he heard on the balcony.

Jimin lurches back, trailing his eyes around the tree, peering into the darkness that stretches before him. Then he turns back to the tree, piercing his ear closer to its trunk where the voice seeps out again, muffled. 

“It’s my coronation, you can’t spring this on me—” The voice slips as it warps out again. “But it’s me! I’m going to be king shouldn’t I get to choose who I—” The voice, Jimin notes, sound desperate. Hints of anguish coloring their tone through the muted, muffled bark. 

Jimin knows heartbreak when he hears it; has heard it muffled in his own voice. Desperation that clings to every part of his voice, paints it in shades of melancholy and sadness. There’s heartbreak in this voice, and Jimin identifies the humanity in it. Thinks he identifies the need to comfort it in return. 

That’s when he hears crying, muffled cloudy crying but sadness, nonetheless. Through the muffled bark Jimin listens as what he can only assume is a young man crying. Soft, choking wails and the heartbreak Jimin identified in it seems to be tugging awkwardly at his own heart. 

“Hello?” He croaks out, taking a step forward towards the tree. “Are— are you okay?”

He presses forward, ear lingering just close enough nowhere the youth in this person’s voice. His foot, however, slips on a damp leaf and he finds himself crashing into the tree and with it, face landing with a splat against the trunk. The moment his skin touches it, however, the blue light explodes. Shattering rays of blue ignite into white as it sprints from splintering veins of the tree. 

The tugging on the back of his belly button throbs in pain as he’s thrust forward through an engulfing white light that swallows him wholly and completely. In the nothingness that follows, he feels like he’s falling through mud. Combing his hands through the blinding white light that surrounds him as he flails his limbs in an attempt to station himself. 

When he screams, his lungs feel like they’re filled with fire. Searing white hot pain coloring his lungs so instead he chooses to clench his teeth together very hard. He wonders if this is death, if all his hard work has led to this. If his lost childhood was going to all inevitably lead to this; swimming through the sea of the unknown after falling face first into a glowing, talking tree. 

He lands suddenly, face first into the same damp forest bed he’d left. Lips squished against soggy grass. Every bone in his body feels broken; low hanging mangled skin as he peels himself up and tosses over until he splays out flat on the ground, staring up through the trees to the sky above. 

The stars he sees, are not the same. They sparkle brighter, stenciling silver light through the bristling dark leaves above him. He reaches up, shielding his eyes from their light as he winces, turning his head back away from them, through the thick brush of trees that surround him. The more he settles into himself again, he realizes just how different the air feels here. It’s thick; like someone had pumped an immeasurable amount of life into it. He can feel electricity buzzing through it, spinning goosebumps along his skin.

He’s in a forest, that much he knows for sure. He sits up with a groan, ears noting the gurgle of a soft lake nearby. But, as he steadies his eyes on the air that surrounds him, the energy; this is not the same forest he’d left. 

Jimin bottles up the strength to peel himself from the ground, wobbling slightly as he pulls himself up into the air. Head following the thick towering trees that loom over him. Then, he follows the water, follows the gurgling trickle as it slips through the leaves almost as if it beckons him. 

He emerges to a pond, small and black as its soft waves lap at the coal-colored shores. Jimin plunges towards it, dipping down to his knees as he dips his hands into it to smack up at his face. This, he thinks, is when the panic settles in.

“Jimin, Jimin, you’re okay,” He breathes out, massaging the cold water against his cheek. He lets his eyes flutter closed, focusing only on the way his skin tightens at the touch of the water. 

“You’re in the woods, Namjoon just stormed off, you have a rehearsal dinner to get back to,” He chants softly, now combing the water through his hair. Ice cold droplets trail through the strands, seep down to his ears. “Everything is fine. You’re fine. Your fiancé is right through those woods. You’ll be fine—”

Something bright flutters past his eyes and he swats at it. Nose wrinkling up as he settles himself back to center. 

“Be the man your dad said you are. Just stand up, get ready to walk back in there and apologize—” 

The bright nuisance flutters again, this time, a little closer, the same cobalt blue from the tree. He swats it again, but this time, his fingers trail it. His hands meet a warm veiny body, and his eyes shoot open, blinking wildly as he stares into the eyes of a small fluttering bug that blinks back at him through a haze of glowing blue light.

Jimin cannot contain the squeal that slips from his lips as he falls back, tripping over his own feet as he scrambles away from it and into the darkness of a thickening bush. Where he lands, hands pressed firmly into damp grass, he thinks he hears the pattering of soft waves against a shore. He peeks through the bushes leaves and sees moonlight rippling through tossing black waves and, if he’s correct, the shadow of what he can only assume is a real, live, breathing person.

Over the hedge he sees a crown of shimmering golden hair as someone stomps closer towards the lake. Watches the way the bright moon plays silver across its silky, platinum strands. The person meets the shore and pauses, drinking in two heavy breaths before sinking to their knees, away from view and releasing a low, chortled cry. 

Jimin freezes, goosebumps blooming on his skin at the sound of the cry as the person chokes it out. It’s a belly aching one, Jimin feels a piece of himself breaking just at the sound of it. He doesn’t know why, but he takes a hesitant step forward, peering at what he now sees to be a young man whose knees are dug into the sand, face buried in his hands as he shakes into his cry. 

It takes a moment, watching the way the young man peels his face from his palms and slowly lets his head rise towards the sky. His hands still shake, still clammy as they fall to sand at his side, twisting through small, chilled beads between his fingers.

“Pull yourself together, Jeongguk,” The young man breathes out, voice cracking. He bends a little further, swirling his fingers through the black glass pond before him. Jimin watches the way he stares into it, very silently, before dunking nimble fingers into it and splashing it onto his face. 

“Pull yourself together, Jeongguk. No reason to act like a baby,” He repeats. There is a little more conviction in the young man’s voice now, but Jimin notes a waver of uncertainty in it. Listens as his voice wobbles at the tail.

It’s chilly out, and Jimin drinks in the crispness of the air. The frost tickles at his lungs, stick to his ribs. Cool his shaky nerves from the inside out. He walks with hesitant toes around the thick line of bushes, weighing the earth beneath his feet. He isn’t too sure of where he is anymore; this forest feels weightier. A bit denser than he remembers; almost as if a veil of an unknown energy he cannot place has been draped over the forest’s edge. 

The young man is still mumbling to himself, and Jimin notes the way the moonlight is igniting his luxuriously tailored raiment into shimmering rays of gold and silver. His long silken tunic is a deep violet, but it wrinkles against the grass as he squats lower, smudging it with dirt. 

He looks like a fairy tale, Jimin thinks. A beautiful hero with a head of thick golden hair and a jaw sharp enough to cut marble. Jimin watches the way he clenches it uncomfortably, tanned skin reddening under the pressure as he continues to swash his fingers through the pond. 

“Who are you kidding, you’re just a kid, of course you can cry,” The young man continues, voice growing softer as he speaks. He pauses his movements, letting his knees fall, finally into the dewy grass before him. “No. No, I can’t cry, kings don’t cry,” 

The young man croaks out. Those words seem to be drenched in sadness swelling in his tone as he chokes out another cry. This one, more intense than the last. Jimin watches in horrified fear as the young man seems to shake in dripping sadness. Watches the way he wades his hand through the water before him. After a moment, Jimin inches forward, but the tip of his toe trips, sending himself skidding on pebbled stone.

The young man’s head snaps up in response. Cutting his gaze back to the bushes and peering through the darkness as he blinks directly in Jimin’s general direction. 

“Hello?” He croaks out, blinking wildly as he attempts to focus on the blurred darkness that swirls before him. “Is anyone there?”

Jimin shakes, cursing to himself slightly. He bites on his lower lip, debating if he should immerse from the bushes. Somehow, reason loses, and he takes a hesitant step around the thickened body of the bush. Blinking over at the young man who is peering back at him with wide, ogling glassy eyes. 

“Hi I—” Jimin squeaks out. 

The young man shoots up to his feet in a soft swift motion, hand reaching out hesitantly. “Who are you? What do you want?” He spits out, voice suddenly very firm as he takes a step forward towards him. “How much do you want?” 

Jimin blinks at him, head cocking as he combs his eyes over him again. “I—? What do—” He stutters. 

He watches the young man fold his arms across his chest, which, Jimin notes, is adorned with a stack of glimmering golden jewelry. Each chain is dripped with gems, dazzling under the moonlight as it casts diamonds across the young man’s skin. 

“I can call my advisors and they’ll write you a check for as much as you want,” The young man breathes out. 

If Jimin was right, he thinks he catches desperation in the young man’s voice. He watches as he takes a step closer towards him, close enough for him to read the fear that is coloring his face. The way his eyebrows twist up in untamed fear as he blinks over at Jimin in anxious desolation. 

Jimin lurches, slightly taken aback as he drinks in the young man who is sauntering towards him. What Jimin now sees as shining leather shoes as they squeak across the grass. 

“I don’t know what you want— do you want one of these medallions? Name your price, I’ll give you anything just—” There is frantic agony coloring the young man’s voice now but he’s close enough to Jimin for him to truly drink him in in his entirety. “No one needs to know the prince was out here crying.”

Despite the thickened structure of his body, muscular arms that bulge from his silk tunic, lean legs that seem to shake as he stomps towards him. Despite being someone who seems to be carved from marble, shaped in the finest parts of Jimin’s imagination, Jimin sees a young man who is shaken, no, frozen with fear. Absolutely drowning in it. His face is now a ghostly pale, large brown eyes blinking at him as he stares at him agape, waiting for an answer. 

“Well?” He presses him.

Jimin gulps, suddenly very aware of how close they are and for a moment he wonders if he’s still alive. If this is some made up afterlife the last few sparks of energy in his brain have managed to scrounge up. Maybe he fell in the woods, snapped his neck to break his fall. Maybe Namjoon will find him in the morning; covered in fresh dew and patches of moss against his skin. 

But he can feel the heat of the young man’s breath against his skin as he breathes out in nervous timbre. Can feel the chill in the unfamiliar air as it curls across the pond in front of him. But he can mostly see the fear and grief currently shaving across the young man’s eyes as he blinks down at him in absolute certainty that this, this is reality. 

Jimin swallows thickly, finding his voice somewhere buried in his chest. “I— I don’t want anything,” He breathes out, and he notices the cotton that is swirling before him. 

The young man lurches back, large nose wrinkling up as he shakes his head. “You sort always want something. You want my picture, you want my secrets, you want my money—” There is bitterness in his voice now. Jimin notices the way his fists clench up against his chest as he speaks, “So what is it this time? Catch the king to be crying alone by a pond a month before his coronation and you’re gonna sell your story to the nearest paper?” The young man continues to spit out; voice wrought with anger. “That one story is going to change your life, isn’t it?” 

Jimin gapes at him, “I’m not— I’m just—” 

“What do you want?” The young man nearly shouts. 

The forest, though still around them, shakes with the power behind his voice. Jimin swallows thickly, heaving out a long, labored breath before he straightens his back. 

“I’m lost,” Jimin finally croaks out. “I was somewhere before, now I’m somewhere different and I want to go back where I was.” He shakes his head, because even as the words left his lips, they were not strung together well. “My fiancé will be worried—” 

So he swallows again, licking his lips before lifting his eyes to meet the young man’s eyes. “My name is Park Jimin,” He says, reaching his hand out towards the young man. He watches the way the young man’s eyes flit down to his open palm, then back up to meet his eyes. If he thinks he sees anger flash before the young man’s eyes before it’s washed with curiosity. Eyes narrowing as he drinks in his presence before him.

“Most people are too scared to shake my hand,” He mumbles softly, eyes white hot as he coasts it across Jimin’s face. He licks his lips, taking a soft step towards him. “I actually can’t remember the last time someone willingly asked to shake my hand. As equals.”

There is an air of superiority that wafts from him. Jimin doesn’t lower his hand, but he does feel it ache. Feel frost cling to it as he stretches it before them. After a moment, strung between the breeze that whispers between them, rustling brittle leaves above their heads. Jimin gulps nervously, but he watches as the young man eventually melts, large strong hand reaching out and wrapping his hand whole. 

“Park Jimin,” He repeats, gripping his palm tightly. He’s gazing at him with sharp, still curious eyes. 

“I am,” Jimin repeats. He wants to wince under the heat of his gaze, but he thinks he’d rather die. Instead, he boats his chest out slightly, “And you are?”

For a moment, he watches Jeongguk smirk; the curse of a larger one threatening at his lips. He scoffs, peeling back, but he doesn’t release Jimin’s hand, instead clinging to it slightly. After a moment of blinking rapidly, he eventually peels back. His gilded shoes, Jimin has now noted, digging it to the soft grass below them. 

“So, what’s the deal?” He asks, chewing at his lip as he peels his hand completely from Jimin’s hand and suddenly it’s cold again. All frost and cold air that’s engulfing him whole as he shivers in the middle of the foreign forest. “You sell your story of a crying prince a few months before his coronation to the highest bidder, never have to work another day in your life—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—” Jimin stammers.

“I’m your prince and you will answer me!” The young man shouts. 

His voice echoes through the clearing and Jimin takes a step back. Blinking up at the young man he’s barely spoken to for five minutes who is now shouting at him. Jimin has dealt with young men like him before; can smell the spoiled energy on the skin, dripping from him in droves.

Jimin instead gapes at him, shortening the distance between the two as anger sprouts through him, running white hot through the veins that snake through his body. “I don’t know who you think you’re yelling at because it certainly isn’t me,” Jimin growls. 

He’s close enough now to smell the hint of burnt candle wick that’s embedded into the fabric of his tunic. The vanilla that’s waxed into his hair. He’s also close enough to smell the underlying fear that is rattling through the young man. Jimin knows a cub when he sees one, and one is standing across from his now. An arm’s length away as he breathes heavily and shakily in mummified fear. 

Jimin swallows again, thickly. “I told you. My name is Park Jimin and I’m lost— I was out in the forest talking to my fiancé and now he’s gone—” From behind the prince’s head, he sees as another one of those glowing creatures flittering towards him. 

Jimin chokes in a gasp, dodging, feet skidding on the sand. Jeongguk blinks at him confusedly, before turning back and staring directly at the creature, unfazed. He looks back at Jimin, humming, “It’s just a woodland fae, they won’t hurt you.” 

The creature’s wings flutter beside Jeongguk’s shoulder, rippling in bioluminescent shades of cobalt and lilac before fluttering off back into the wood. Jimin then thinks he sees surprise color across the prince’s eyes, as if taken aback by his own words.

Jimin gapes at the fairy until it disappears, nervously turning back to Jeongguk. “I just want to go home,” He breathes out desperately. “I have someone who will be upset with me and I—I don’t know where I am everything feels wrong here—” 

Jeongguk is still staring at him, eyes slightly narrowed as he combs them over the entirety of Jimin’s face. He’s studying him, Jimin can read. Can see the way he washes over his every feature drinking them in in blatant curiosity. 

There is the bellow of something very loud that echoes through the woods, Jeongguk turns to face it, face screwing up angrily. “Goddammit,” He hisses out. He turns back to Jimin, frowning. “They’ve found me.” 

Jimin thinks he finally hears it too, feet stomping through crunching earth. Thinks he sees the flickering of an orange flame emerge from the wood. Two large men emerge, scrambling through the tangled vines towards him. One of them, clad in violet colored armor carrying a single golden torch steps towards him, dipping into a bow before speaking. 

“Your Highness,” He murmurs, before rising again. “We’ve come to retrieve you.” 

“I know,” Jeongguk growls, turning towards them slightly. 

“You make yourself very hard to find,” The other chirps, voice stilted as he heaves out a strained breath. 

“I know, that was the point,” Jeongguk replies with a roll of his eyes. He turns back to Jimin, darting his eyes between him and the two guards. 

Jimin watches as one of the guards’ hands reaches down to his belt, watches as moonlight catches on his sheath as he wraps a gloved hand around it. 

“Stand down,” Jeongguk says, waving his hand out dismissively. “I think we have a lost traveler, no need for violence. Why must you all solve everything with violence.” 

He turns back to Jimin, eyes laced with sudden warmth. “I can grant you time at the palace, if you like,” He hums out. “Until you find the one you’re looking for.” 

Jimin ogles at him, tongue sticking nervously to the roof of his mouth. He sucks in another icy breath, head suddenly spinning. Palace, prince, fluttering fairies against lakeshores. None of this is real, it couldn’t be. He’s most certainly fallen and hit his head in the woods at home. Hopes Namjoon can find him in time.

But there is something glittering in the young man’s eyes across from him, shimmering in two gentle eyes sewn a lot warmer than they were just moments ago. Thinks he sees a moment of trust flicker past but mostly curiosity. Thinks he feels it thread between them, despite his reasoning.

Above them, the trees break, and Jimin feels the glow of shimmering evening stars as they rain down on his skin for the first time. Feels the weight of this forest crushing him. The stipple of electricity that circuits the air. He climbs up the rocky, wet hill in a crowd of stumbling guards as they shuffle both he and the prince through the woods. 

Jimin, sucking in heavy, displaced breath as he follows them through weeping trees and swollen bush. Eventually they emerge into a clearing and Jimin sees, for the first time, an actual palace that looms ahead of them. The building is draped in gold and swallowed in adorning mirroring light. It’s massive, trailing upwards towards the sky as black marbled towers cut into the navy-colored sky. 

Places like this don’t exist, Jimin thinks. Eyeing the spectacularly painted walls that are adorned with an ornate swirl of color. Places like this shouldn’t exist, his thoughts continue, watching the way the torchlight outside dances along the walls and ignites them into a sea of orange kissed flames.

Jimin stumbles, pushed by the guards as he nears one of the doors. Turning his head towards the crown of the prince’s head, who is also turned towards him. He watches the prince open his mouth to speak but is immediately shuffled through in a congested swarm of agitating advisors and guards. 

Jimin squeals as he’s shuffled in nearly the opposite direction. Pushed into the palace’s nearly impossibly large wooden door and onto fluffy violet carpet beneath his feet. Inside, the palace seems to be working in overdrive as gaggles of black and white clad servants bustle around them. Balancing shimmering silver platters onto their palms or pushing a cart of ornately curated cakes between their gaping bodies. 

Every sense in Jimin’s body is sent into overdrive as he tries to balance out this strange gravity under his toes, but also the near explosion of ordered chaos that is currently exploding around him. He is pushed through the crowd, jostled into servants as he stumbles down the open hallway. Past glittering statues of armor and gilded frames of extravagant oil paintings. 

Jimin, in a clouded daze, feels a warm hand wrap around his wrist. He turns his head towards it, and through the throng of well-dressed butlers, he sees one staring at him with confused eyes. The man tightens his grip on him, pulling him closer towards him.

“You don’t belong here,” He murmurs.

Jimin blinks at him, head filled with cotton. “I—I uh—” He coughs out.

The man is pulling him closer, and Jimin watches the way he blinks stands of loose black silken hair from his eyes. He is staring directly at Jimin, or, more so as Jimin feels his blood curdle under his gaze, directly into him.

“You don’t belong here,” The man repeats, brows furrowing tightly together. “You’re a stranger.”

Jimin winces at the tightness of his grip around his wrist, attempting to wriggle free. “I just— I just—” He frowns.

The man is looking at him, now, with less confusion and more wonder. Eyes, one of them a glittering green in contrast to the others dark brown, trailing up and around him, face lighting up with excitement. “I can’t believe it, she was fucking right,” He murmurs, mostly to himself. “They’re all right. The myth— everything. This is crazy.” 

Jimin can feel himself nailed to the floor. Shaking under the man’s grip as more butlers shuffle past, jostling him to the side as the brush past him in haste.

“I don’t know what you’re—” Jimin begins, voice cracking.

Then, he’s being yanked, dragged through the group of butlers, down the congested ornate hallway and into, what Jimin assumes, to be the kitchens. He’s being brushed past chefs on violet-colored aprons. Wriggled through wooden tables of stacked lavender cakes until they reached the back of a man with dirty blonde hair. 

“Hobi, Hobi— you’ll never believe—” The dark-haired man is saying, voices filled with uncontained excitement. The blond man in front of them ignores him, still murmuring gently to the man beside him who is stirring at a pot of gurgling brown stew. 

“Hobi,” The dark-haired man presses.

The blond man sighs, turning slightly towards him, face drawn up into a scowl.

“I’ll be out in a minute, Taehyung I promise,” He frowns.

Taehyung, Jimin assumes, rolls his eyes. Before shaking his head towards Jimin, shaking their conjoined hands. “Do you know him?” He asks.

Hobi takes his eyes down Jimin’s frame, disconcerting eyes colored in judgement. When he reaches back up to his eyes they’re darkened with slight disgust.

“I do not, no,” He spits out.

Jimin shrinks under his gaze, still wriggling under the intensity of the man’s gaze. 

“Okay well look at him,” Taehyung breathes out. 

The blond man’s eyes narrow, combing his eyes over him intensely.

“That suit isn’t the best, I know we all want to be special, but trying to stand out during a coronation banquet—” 

“No, you asshole,” Taehyung growls, rolling his eyes. He finally releases Jimin’s wrist, but this time, he places his very large hand at his shoulder. “You don’t see him? His aura?” 

Jimin shivers as the door beside the iron stove smacks open. Two large men with matching violet suits fumble in, carrying sweating bags stuffed of fluffy green lettuce. Jimin lets his eyes trace back to Taehyung who is still wavering excited in his direction.

“He looks normal,” Hobi hums, crossing his arms over his chest.

Taehyung is turning towards him, mouth slightly fallen slack as he drinks in the sight of him. He reaches up to comb hair from his eyes, swallowing thickly. “He’s not normal,” Taehyung breathes out, slightly winded. “He’s full of energy. Pulsing with it. Saw it as soon as I left the ballroom.”

He blinks, very lightly as if he were to blink any harder Jimin might just disappear. He shuffles his feet under his gaze, “I just—” Jimin says flitting his eyes between Hobi and Taehyung, breathing in a ragged breath. “I don’t think—” He swallows nervously. “I’m lost.”

“I bet you are,” Taehyung laughs, swatting at the air beside Jimin’s cheek. 

Jimin flinches, darting away from his hand. Taehyung giggles, hand swimming through the air now beneath his jaw. Jimin’s eye shoot down to it, watching his fingers play through the air as if combing through putty. Then his eyes raise up to him, “I don’t know what you’re doing—”

“I think he’s the one from the prophecy, Hoseok,” Taehyung mutters tossing his voice over his shoulder.

Jimin watches Hoseok freeze, then he’s rolling his eyes. “Prophecies don’t really tend to come true, Taehyung,” He frowns. “Just call it what it is, a fairy tale.”

Jimin gapes at him, heart thrumming in his chest. “I’m scared and I’m lost—”

“You don’t see that?” Taehyung says, now brushing lightly at Jimin’s hair. Combing delicate strands through his hair. “He’s glowing, it’s like a fog really you’ve for to squint—”

“Leave the kid alone you’re gonna scare him,” Hoseok says, reaching on the metal table to their right and pulling the silver platter into his hands. 

Taehyung doesn’t stop immediately; he’s still gazing at Jimin with wide wondrous eyes. Finally, after a moment, he smiles, “Just because you don’t believe in magic anymore doesn’t mean you can project that onto everyone else.”

Hoseok is frowning very intently, eyeing Jimin with bitter disdain.

“Well, I’d like to keep my head, never mind you,” Hoseok says, sharply, eyeing Jimin darkly. “I have some plates to run,” slipping past them and squeezing through the busy kitchen and out the front door. 

Taehyung turns back to Jimin, eyeing him sweetly. “Ignore him, he’s just like the others. Believing in magic can be hard after centuries of it basically being a myth,” He tells him. Eyes still dancing around his frame. “And a king who’d have your head for it.”

Jimin’s hands fly to his face, suddenly very overwhelmed by the attention and the current buzz that’s ringing in his ears. He frowns, flustered as he peels his face from his hands, but keeps his eyes glued to his shoes.

“I’m fucking lost,” He heaves out, breathless. He can feel his neck reddening, burning the hairs at the nape of his neck. “I’ve been just wandering— I met this guy who says he was the prince—he was in the forest—?”

“You’ve already met the prince?” Taehyung gasps. “This is all moving very fast.”

Jimin scoffs, head spinning. He lifts his sleeve, wiping at his nose hastily and if he was correct, he thinks he can smell Namjoon’s heady cologne hanging to the cotton. That’s when he gasps out, sudden frustration flooding him as he steps back. Bumping into the wooden table behind him with a frown. 

Taehyung is watching him unravel, in contented focus before stepping towards him with an extended hand. “I’m Kim Taehyung,” He says sweetly, face lighting up in a boxy smile. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself before, I was just very excited.” 

Jimin’s eyes flit down to Taehyung’s extended hand, then back up to meet his sweet brown eyes. In them, one, he notices is a shimmering emerald green, he sees swatches of warmth. He doesn’t know why he trusts him, but he finds himself extending a shaky hand towards him. “Park Jimin,” He breathes out nervously.

Taehyung’s grip is tight, “Jimin,” He laughs. “That’s a pretty name.”

Jimin’s eyes cross the kitchen, which functions in coherent chaos. He can still smell the stew being boiled a few steps ahead. Feels the flame of a very large fire behind him, smells the roasted rosemary as a chicken crisps atop it. The ground beneath him is solid, neither concrete nor dirt, but he feels the weight of it beneath his toes. Feels the frantic steps of passing waiters as they shuffle past with packed arms and hands.

Jimin shakes his head, turning back to Taehyung who is still observing him with curious eyes. “I’m lost,” Jimin repeats, voice dripping with desperation. 

“I bet you are,” Taehyung replies.

“You keep saying that,” Jimin snips. 

Taehyung opens his mouth, very suddenly. Then let it slowly snap shut. He pauses, combing his eyes over him again, still riddled with excitement. “You’re lost, you want to go home, I don’t know how to do that, really,” Taehyung says. “Not really sure I want to let you go yet, stranger.” 

Jimin is shaking, but he doesn’t think he’s sure about what. His fingers are burning, but so is his chest, so are his legs. There is a buzzing in his head and a tug in his ribs pulling him somewhere he feels he knows where to, but his head can’t quite tack. 

“You can stay with me until we figure out why you’re here and how to get you home. How does that sound?” Taehyung asks softly, still combing his fingers through the air that is surrounding Jimin’s frame. 

Jimin winces, dodging his hand but nods because he doesn’t think he has a choice. 

He is very, very far from home.

Chapter Text

TWO ‘Far, Far, Away’

Jeongguk’s feet carry him across violet colored carpet, until he reaches the wooden floor of the parlor. It’s quiet in here, except for the subtle tap of toes in the room across from him. He reaches the wall, hand pressed against the gilded door frame. Then he pauses, flattening his back against lavender dotted wallpaper until the stomping on the other side of the door pauses. 

A moment, creaks against paneling that rival the heavy pants that Jeongguk suppresses in anticipation. He dares himself to peel from the wall, and curl around the open door to his left.

Bam! He collides face first with the curly haired boy who comes barreling into him from the opposite room.

“Got ya!” The boy exclaims, wrapping his arms tightly around Jeongguk’s shoulders.

Jeongguk laughs, throat tightening as he tries his best to wriggle free. “Let me go!” He laughs out, chest fluttering with lightweight giggles that debut on a gleeful tongue.

The boy tightens his grip and Jeongguk laughs because that’s all he has the energy to do. “I’m an orc and I’m going to eat you whole!” The boy exclaims, fingers wiggling under Jeongguk’s arms. “No kingdom for the prince! All for me!” 

Jeongguk’s laughter tickles through him as he attempts to wriggle free. The boy, however, only tightens his grip on him; both feet stomping against the carpet. They stumble into another room, this one cast under dark light and tanned carpet. Jeongguk is laughing too hard, he can barely breathe, only until he feels his back being pressed against something very cold and hard behind him. He pulls back, pushing his friend off as he focuses, very hard onto what appears to be a glass case behind him. 

“What’s that?” Eunwoo asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he narrows into the brightly lit box below them.

Jeongguk eyes it, because he’s seen it before. Mostly in passing as his mentors and advisors shuffle him along for his day’s lessons. Jeongguk gazes down into the case, eyeing the small violet jewel. “I’m not supposed to touch that,” He says, shaking his head. 

Eunwoo rolls his eyes, “What’s the point in being the heir if you can’t do what you want?” He asks, nudging him slightly. 

Jeongguk gazes up at the taller boy, then back down to the case. “That ring goes to my future wife,” He mumbles gently, eyeing the sparkling facets as the torch beside him glitters across the amethyst stone. Then he turns back to Eunwoo, “I’m not allowed to touch it until then.” 

“You’re the heir,” Eunwoo presses, shoving at Jeongguk slightly. “You can do whatever you want.” 

That word seems to mean a lot more to everyone else. Jeongguk weighs it against his tongue for a moment, wonders why it sounds so uncomfortable against his own as opposed to everyone around him. 

“Magic it out,” Eunwoo instructs. 

Jeongguk gasps, shaking his head furiously, “Eunwoo—I— I can’t,” He stammers out. “No one can. You know magic isn’t allowed here.” 

“And has that ever stopped you before?” Eunwoo murmurs. 

Jeongguk gulps, because it really hasn’t. Magic, that cold type that sends chilling frostbitten licks down his arms and his limbs and keeps his body at a very particular degree of chilled, is innate. He can’t control it, the way he uses it, or the why. It doesn’t appear often, but when it does it’s without warning. 

He can’t just magic a jewel from the case. 

He doesn’t think. 

He turns back to the case, furrowing his eyes as he focuses very intently on the jewel with heated concentration. 

Ice runs up his fingertips like slush, aching at his bones, hollowing up his chest and freezing his nose. He narrows his eyes at the jewel, watching firelight dance across the glittered surface in the case. He studies it, studies every sparkling shimmer, studies the ruby colored velvet pillow it sits upon, the way it digs into the cloth. 

Then, with one final effort of ice fueled inquiry he clenches his jaw and—

Pop! 

Jeongguk clutches awkwardly at the jewel that now sits, settled in his right palm. He heaves out an exasperated sigh, stumbling back slightly as the pressure that’d built up in his body slowly dissipates from him. Eunwoo is eyeing him with wide, amazed eyes. Then his eyes fall to the jewel, mouth agape. 

“You actually did it,” He exhales. 

Jeongguk blinks, focus settling back into his eyes as he lifts the ring up to eye level. He did in fact do it, whatever it is he did. 

Twirling the ring outside of the case, in his hand, it’s a lot smaller than he expects. He presses his fingers across the cold’s gem’s surface, then he’s eyeing up at Eunwoo with careful, confused eyes. “I did it,” He laughs out in disbelief, but he thinks this may be mostly to himself. 

Eunwoo smiles back, a lot more excited than Jeongguk. 

“I can’t believe the prince is a warlock—” He says, reaching up and towards him for the stone. 

Jeongguk flinches back, shaking his head furiously. “I’m not a warlock—” He growls, fury suddenly blooming in his chest. 

“Okay, but why can you do this then?” Eunwoo asks. His hand is extended, but he’s not reaching forward anymore. If anything, he’s blinking over at Jeongguk with curious eyes. 

Jeongguk gapes at him, then he’s snapping his mouth shut. He swallows, “I don’t—” He begins, but his voice dies. “I don’t know. But I’m not a warlock.” 

That part might be a lie; He doesn’t really know what he is. He knows he’s Prince Jeon Jeongguk, of House Jeon. He’s ten years old, he’s got perpetually ice-cold fingers and a head buzzing with anxiety. He knows he has a younger brother, a mother who barely pays attention, and a father who burns with expectation. A father who absolutely cannot know his direct heir has magic in his fingers. 

Jeongguk takes a step back, but Eunwoo follows him. “I’m not a warlock, Eun—” He grumbles out. 

“Okay, okay, you’re not a warlock, can I see it?” Eunwoo asks, breathlessly; eyes still tracking the ring. 

Jeongguk follows his gaze, sees the lack of humanity in it, uneasy as he feels his chest hollow out at it. “I’m putting it back,” He announces, shoving past him back towards the case. Then Eunwoo is tugging at him, fist gathering the cloth at his shoulder and yanking him towards him. Jeongguk rattles, but keeps his hand firmly gripped onto the stone as Eunwoo pulls him closer towards him. 

“It was my idea,” He growls down at him. “At least let me see it first—” 

Jeongguk blinks, feeling his eyes begin to water as he swallows anxiously. “I—” He gulps. “No, I’m putting it back, Eunwoo. I shouldn’t have taken it out in the first place—” 

“But you did,” Eunwoo growls. His voice bleeding with acidity. “How exactly are you gonna put it back? With magic?” 

“S-Stop saying that,” Jeongguk replies, shaking his head. 

“Everyone is gonna know that the prince is a warlock. You know how your dad is— he’ll probably have your head too—” 

Jeongguk lurches forward, fist aimed directly towards Eunwoo’s cheek. They tussle bitterly as he claws up at him, fist still clutched around the stone. After a moment they’re yanked apart. Jeongguk wobbles, looking up at the hand that has tightened its grip around his collar.

“What did we say about rough housing in the palace?” He hears.

He looks up to meet the angry eyes of his handmaiden, Madame Bu, a tight lipped older woman with silvery hair and cold eyes. She is frowning at him, and her grip has tightened.

“No running in the palace ma’am,” Jeongguk recites, shoulders hiked up in fear.

His handmaiden nods, but turns her hawk eyes towards the boy. A parliament member son, Eunwoo, Jeongguk’s closest and only friend. 

“I’m sorry ma’am, we were only playing—”

“There is no playing,” Madame Bu sneers. “Not in this palace and especially not with him.” When she finally releases Jeongguk he shrinks, suddenly feeling the weight of his friends eyes on him.

“I’m sorry,” Eunwoo frowns, lips curled down. “Your Highness,” he tacks on uncomfortably at the end.

The handmaiden swings him slightly towards the door. “Your father will be finished in only a few moments, I’m sure he’d be happy to see you,” She says pointing out and down the stairs.

Eunwoo tosses Jeongguk one last apologetic frown before turning back and trudging from the parlor doors. Madame Bu has turned her attention back to Jeongguk, reading him for a moment before speaking.

“You can’t just run off with anyone, your Highness,” She scolds.

“He’s not anyone, he’s my friend!” Jeongguk retorts shaking his head.

“Well, you’re not just anyone, Jeongguk,” She presses. “What if he hurt you?”

“Eunwoo wouldn’t hurt me—” He says shaking his head.

“You don’t know that, Jeongguk,” She sounds like she’s pleading with him now. She crosses her arms, ducking down to meet Jeongguk’s eyes. 

Jeongguk refuses to meet them at first, rebellious gaze tossed halfway across the room before finally surrendering. When he meets them, they’re a lot warmer than he expects; filled with sympathy. “You’re,” she begins, but halts. “You’re dignified, Jeongguk. You don’t toss around with people who are below you. God did not choose you to flounce around with others less than you.”

Jeongguk is ten years old, and he doesn’t quite understand what she means. Seongwoo happens to be several inches taller than him, as are a few more parliamentary children. Right now, the world towers before him so he’s not quite sure what she means by below him. Instead of questioning, Jeongguk chews at his cheek. Watches as his handmaiden combs her eyes over him before reaching forward and running a gentle hand through his hair. 

“Oh Jeonggukie,” She smiles, and Jeongguk swells at the informality in her words, finding comfort in them. For a second her arms hesitate, reaching out slightly as if itching to hold him. 

Jeongguk, in his ten years on this planet, nine years with this crown doesn’t think he’s felt the warmth of a hug before. Wonders if they’re as real as his storybooks claim they are. Wonders what it must feel like to feel the warmth of another pressed against him, heartbeat stuttering against his own, caged in. After a moment Madame Bu stands, peering down at him and outstretching her hand, hesitating as she waits for him to grab for it. But Jeongguk lurches back, fist tightening around the ring.

Madame Bu must notice it, because she eyes him suspiciously. Eyes narrowing as she cocks her head gently. “What’s that in your hand, Jeonggukie?” 

Jeongguk shakes his head, the metal edge of the ring prickling into his palm. He swallows nervously, “Nothing,” He lies. 

The air between them is deathly still, piercing, and ice cold. Jeongguk’s chest contracts, painfully then Pop! The pressure of the ring against his clenched palm disappears and from his periphery, he thinks he can see it glittering under the illuminated box lights. 

Madame Bu gasps, but only slightly. Lips pursed as her eyes dart between Jeongguk and the box across from them. Jeongguk tries to read her expression but fails. His heart instead chooses to flip in his chest as he worries about her unreadable thoughts. 

He can feel Madame Bu running her hands over his own. Flipping them upside down as she examines the webbing between his fingers, running her own delicate fingertips across the lines embedded into the skin of his palm. After a moment she flits her eyes up to meet him, worry coloring her gaze. 

“Was that you, Jeongguk?” She asks gently. “Did you do something to that ring in the box?” 

Jeongguk gauges the rage in her voice, eyeing her suspiciously. What he meets, for once in his life, is genuine worry. So he melts, sucking in a breath as he pinches his eyes together and nods. 

He can feel Madame Bu’s grip tighten. Thinks he can feel her pull him closer towards her for a moment. 

“Jeongguk,” She breathes out, worried. 

It takes a while for him to peel open his eyes, but when he does, he meets the anxious gaze of Madame Bu across from him. He watches as she bites her lips, shooting her eyes across the empty parlor then back to him. 

“How long have you been able to do that?” She asks softly. 

Jeongguk eyes his own hands now, curling his fingers to press against his palm. He doesn’t know when it started happening, but it did. Strange sparks of icy fire in his fingers that spark and madden. He knows it mostly happens when he feels too much, tries to swallow that down. He’s always had that energy in his hands, the fire in his heart. It manifests differently sometimes, in running the nearest grandfather clock back whenever Madam Bu comes to pick him up from playtime or making the greens on his plate disappear when the chefs turn their backs. 

This magic, he feels, has been buried deep inside of him for as long as he could remember. Burning and brewing. 

He shrugs, “I don’t know,” He croaks out. That part is the truth. “I don’t mean for it to happen, it just—” That part is the truth too. He sucks in an awkward breath, blinking across to Madame Bu with teary, shaky eyes. 

Madame Bu pulls him closer, smiling across from him nervously. He can tell she’s thinking, can read the dismay in her eyes as she attempts to web out a response. 

“You cannot let anyone know what you can do, Jeongguk,” She whispers. “Not a soul.”

“But sometimes I can’t help it!” Jeongguk cries, suddenly very panicked. “I’ll feel something, make something disappear— What if Father— what if he—” 

Madame Bu tugs him closer, tightening her grip on him. Jeongguk feels very safe here, cradled in her arms. He follows the pattern of her breath as she breathes in, breathes out. Tries to match it in time. Then, after a moment, Madame Bu is leaning forward to press her lips gently against Jeongguk’s hands. 

“Sacred hands, Your Highness,” She smiles. She kisses his hands again, and Jeongguk thinks he feels warmth settle into them, warming them from the inside out. Prickling, warm acceptance runs between his fingers. “Let’s just keep this secret between us.” 

Jeongguk breathes out again, swallowing his own tears that sting at his eyes. 

Madame Bu’s eyes shake, then she’s pulling back, only slightly. “Your father has returned. He wants to see you.”

Jeongguk’s eyes brighten teaching up and clasping for her hand.

“He wasn’t supposed to return until Friday,” Jeongguk says.

“Yes, perhaps things went well he could hurry home to you and your brother.”

Jeongguk doesn’t believe her. In his very short time alive, he understands his father is a little too busy to prioritize him and his brother. Has never been, doesn’t think he ever will be. 

Jeongguk follows Madame Bu until he reaches the large, gilded doors of his father’s office. Outside there are two very large men in violet coats who glare at them both. Upon seeing him, however, they bow deeply before straightening their backs back to the wall. 

“Your Highness,” The one to the left murmurs, head still slightly bowed to Jeongguk. 

“His Royal Highness would like to speak to His Majesty,” Madame Bu explains sweetly. 

Jeongguk swings their arms between them, letting his head roam the extravagant hallway of the palace behind them. The gilded picture frames, the sparkling chandelier that casts rainbows across his nanny’s cheek. 

“The prince is inside already,” The guard returns, reaching over and prying open the door behind him. “As is the queen consort.” 

Jeongguk delivers him a smile before he is yanked inside. 

His father’s office is small despite its significance. Each violet colored wall is lined with towering bookcases that are filled with old dusty books that Jeongguk has never been allowed to touch. His younger brother, Junseo, is sitting atop a silver couch in the back right corner. He runs the wheels of a bright red toy truck absentmindedly at the armrest. When he hears the door open his head snaps up, eyes lighting up when they fall onto his older brother. 

“Ggukie!” He squeals, he tosses his truck across the couch and clamors to his feet only for his mother, who hovers above, yanks him back down. 

“Your Highness,” Madame Bu whispers, dipping into a curtsey at Jeongguk’s side. She turns slightly, deepening the bow. “Your Majesty.”

At the furthest end of the room, beside the large wide window that spills in afternoon light, Jeongguk meets the eyes of his father. Despite the magnificence of his aura, one that carries undeniable power, Jeongguk’s father’s eyes are soft, like his own. They bleed with softness and what Jeongguk would like to interpret as kindness, as he stares at his son across the small office. He blinks at him, before pulling his hands from his pocket and waving him over. “Come here,” He smiles. 

Jeongguk peels his hand from the nanny and races over, ramming face first into his father’s waist and coiling his arms around him. They remain embraced for a while before his father runs a hand through his hair softly. “The palace is still here so I’m guessing you didn’t burn it down.”

Jeongguk laughs, cheeks flushing as his father runs a mildly affectionate hand through his hair. A rare occurrence. “How was the war?” Jeongguk asks, looking up at his father through the fan of splayed black bangs. “Did you fight anyone?”

Jeongguk’s father, Jeonghyun laughs, combing his hand through his hair. “Kings don’t fight, Jeongguk, dear. They rule.” 

Jeongguk nods, feeling his father peel from him slowly. This usually happens, the attempt at paternal intimacy, then the slow detachment. Jeongguk hates that he still allows himself the chance to get disappointed. His mother is still holding tightly onto his younger brother’s side, but Jeongguk crosses the room to reach them.

He plops down beside him, picks up his truck and hands it to him with a cheeky smile.

“I pray he’s been tolerable?” His mother asks, pulling the teacup beside her to her lips. 

Madame Bu nods, “Jeongguk is always a gem,” She smiles, crossing her eyes to him. “Just had to have a little talk to him about playing with parliamentary children—”

“Jeongguk,” His mother’s groans, teacup clattering against the saucer. “What did we tell you about that?” 

Jeongguk’s eyes his hands nervously, “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” He huffs out, running clammy fingers over his knuckles. 

“If you knew, you wouldn’t do it, now would you?” His mother snips.

Shame clouds him, he thinks he can feel his father edge up beside him, but it’s only to head towards his desk. He hovers beside it, letting his hand trail across the delicately carved wooden side.

“I don’t have any friends,” Jeongguk pouts, picking at the skin between his fingers. 

 “What about the Duke of Yongdae’s daughter?” His mother asks, absentmindedly stroking her hands through his younger brother’s hair. 

“She’s not,” He pauses, chews on his cheek and lowers his voice to a whisper. “She’s not very nice to me.” 

“You don’t need to be nice to be friends,” His mother shoots back with a shrug. 

Jeongguk’s eyes have not left the swirl of lavender on the carpet. After a moment, he pouts, eventually lifting his eyes to where his father stands. His father is looking at him with eyes that are crossed with something a too young Jeongguk can only interpret as sadness. He’s not quite matured to decode disappointment, but it’s there as well, cloudy across large brown as that pierce deep into his son. 

“It’s not about having friends, Jeongguk, a king doesn’t need friends,” His father tells him, slipping down into the leather seat behind the desk. “You need people you can trust.”

“I’m not king,” Jeongguk says, shaking his head.

“But you will be,” His father answers back. There’s finality in it, also a bit of sadness. “I unfortunately won’t get to see that, but your brother will. I think you owe him a good king, am I right?” 

Jeongguk knows there’s no other answer besides yes, so that’s what he provides. He spares his younger brother with a smile, and he returns it back, still running the small rubber tires against the soft fabric of the pale-yellow couch.

“You two are dismissed,” His father says waving his hand towards the handmaidens who waves her own out for them. Junseo leaps up from the couch and waddles across the room and grasps at her hand as his mother rises and follows.

Jeongguk hesitates, but eventually he rises. When he walks, he crosses past his father’s desk and he thinks he feels flames. It burns as he walks past it, as does his father’s gaze. Jeongguk doesn’t think he’d ever get used to it. 

“Actually,” His father suddenly says, leaning back in his chair. “Gguk, stay back. I want to talk.”

His brother casts him a worried look before being shuffled from the room by their mother and Madame Bu. The door seals with a quiet click and Jeongguk suddenly feels very aware of his surroundings. He shuffles his feet awkwardly, hand reaching up to scratch at the nape of his neck.

“You say that boy is your friend,” His father mumbles.

Jeongguk takes a moment to nod, eyes still cast down to the floor. He feels his father snaking his hands across his. Wrapping his own into the warmth of his palm as he cradles them gently in front of them. Jeongguk doesn’t get this too often, a father. A father with comforting words and an even softer touch. To him, father’s are a part of fairy tales. Far flung dreams of parental intimacy and understanding. But right now, his father is gazing at him with soft caring eyes, enough, Jeongguk believes, for him to believe in the fantasy for just a moment.

“Unfortunately for us, we don’t get to trust that easily,” His father mumbles. 

Jeongguk thinks he feels the beginning of tears pepper his eyes, so he ducks his gaze down to the violet carpet. Choosing instead to watch the way his shiny black shoes scuff at the textured rug. Jeongguk doesn’t have the privilege to cry, doesn’t think his tear ducts would even allow it. Thinks they were born dry, dusted with the illusion of fleeting emotion. Kings don’t cry, he reminds himself. They rule.

He feels his father’s hands squeeze at his own, and so he darts his eyes up upon command. “People want you. But not you, you,” His father continues gently, eyebrows twisting up. “Everything you are, everything you have. Your power, your privilege, your freedom. You cannot give that away to just anyone, Jeongguk. People will take advantage of you.” 

Jeongguk sniffs but doesn’t let his eyes fall. Instead, he steadies them on his father, trains them to study the entirety of his face. 

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Jeongguk?” His father says, leaning in slightly. Close enough that Jeongguk thinks he can feel the heat from his skin, the brush of his breath against his lashes. 

Jeongguk doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to his own father before. Tries his best to swallow his fear as he blinks over at him and feels him squeezing intensely at his hands. Gives himself a moment to wonder what exactly his father would die if he dared to reach forward and hug him. Instead, he nods his head, but he knows he doesn’t understand completely. Nods his head as he watches his father crack into a prideful smile. Wonders what this feeling that’s blooming cold in his chest is as he watches his childhood, at only nine years old, die in his father’s eyes. 

“That’s my boy,” His father smiles proudly. “I knew I could count on you.”

There is a hesitancy moment where Jeongguk’s father looks as if he wants to hug him, but he doesn’t. Jeongguk wants him to though; wants it more than anything, he feels. The hesitance lingers, spoiling between them before Jeongguk feels himself being freed with the release of his hands. 

There is a knock at the door, then a pause as his father beckons them in. An armed guard shuffles in, bowing gently before lifting his head back to his father. 

“They’re waiting for you in the courtyard, Your Majesty,” A guard hums softly to his father. “For the trial.”

His father nods in return, turning to Jeongguk with a devious smile. 

“Want to see what a king can really do?” 

The balcony they reach, as the doors are pried open for them by two masked guards in silver armor, reveal a small square below them. A small gaggle of people are inside of it, some crying, clinging to the other as a man is being settled into the tall wooden guillotine below. 

Jeongguk edges up to the balcony’s stone banister and peers down at him. Eyes laced in subtle plea. Jeongguk flinches, taking a step back, and slightly stumbling into his father who nudges him to the side as he settles into his spot on the balcony. Peering down at the man with angered disgust. 

“This man is a traitor, to king and country,” His father projects loudly from the balcony. 

Jeongguk nearly jumps at the bellow but keeps his eyes on the man who squirms again. His raven-colored hair casting blue under the golden rays of the weeping afternoon sun. 

“On accounts of sorcery, alchemy, and divination—” His father continued. 

“He’s innocent!” A woman screeches. 

Jeongguk watches as one of the guards below shoves at a woman harshly. Tossing her back as she wails again. Face blooming beet red as she scratches forward, against the weight of the shielding guard. 

“We, as a kingdom, have rejected the sins of sorcery,” His father continues. “So let this serve as a lesson for our people—”

“You are a fool,” The captured man says gently, nearly in chuckle.

Jeongguk barely catches it, but his father definitely does. He can feel the way he perks up, face screwed up into confusion as he gazes down at the man with angered eyes.

“Excuse me?” His father nearly laughs, taken aback. 

The man squirms again, clenching his fists, then releasing them as he gazes up at them atop the balcony with a strained neck. He shoots Jeongguk a dark gaze, then he’s looking back up towards his father, rolling his eyes. 

“I said you are a fool, King Jeonghyun,” The man continues, voice squeaking from the awkward angle. “A fool so blinded by hatred you can barely see what is right in front of you.” 

That’s when the man turns his eyes towards Jeongguk, and he freezes. Gulp too thick in his throat to swallow. He clenches at his fingers awkwardly, taking a small step back, because he can feel this man gazing directly into him. Past his skin, past his bones, directly into the cold pits of his soul. He thinks he can see him. The real him. The one he’s held guarded his entire life. That little blue light of guard magic he’s kept balled up inside. This man sees Jeongguk for exactly who he is.

Jeongguk’s father, however, doesn’t budge. His nose wrinkles slightly, “Moments before your own violent death and those are the words you choose to be your final,” He replies, voice gently framed. “Pitiful, very, very pitiful.” 

The man is still gazing at Jeongguk, smiling. “What’s pitiful is that you have no clue what is ahead for your own kingdom,” He exhales, slightly wheezing. “Can’t get rid of what’s always been, Your Highness.” 

Jeongguk’s father snorts, tossing his head back as he laughs. Jeongguk doesn’t think he can hear him though, too numb to feel anything around him because this strange, long haired man squirming in the case below him has him caught in a trance that feels too familiar to be real. 

Jeongguk takes another step back, this one further away from the balcony’s edge and closer to the door behind him because he thinks his heart is stuttering so fast in his chest he can barely breathe. 

He tugs at his father’s robe, hand flying to his chest as he clings to himself. “Father,” He chokes out. 

His father ignores him, still growling down at the man. “One less of you warlocks the closer we are to peace in this kingdom,” His father nearly spits. 

“Father,” Jeongguk repeats, tugging at his robe again. His heart is pattering so hard against his ribs he thinks it might just burst free. He feels his father swat at him blindly and she shuffles back against the weight of his hand. 

The man below him, for once, looks up at him in pity. Before turning his eyes back towards his father again. 

“Cannot get rid of what’s always been. Magic has always existed. Will always exist. Lives in the earth below us, in the very air you breathe,” His eye shifts between both Jeongguk and his father. “In your very blood—” 

“Silence!” His father shouts. 

Jeongguk’s heart has now crawled up his throat, caging there and he swallows again, thickly. Frozen where he stands, because the world feels like it’s cracking around him. His father waves his hand down towards one of the guards, who readies the roped pulley. The silver blade glistens against the afternoon sun, sends shimmers of diamonds against the man’s face. 

“Kang Seojun, is found guilty of sorcery, alchemy, and divination as I, King Jeon Jeonghyun see fit,” His father boasts and Jeongguk can hear the joy in his voice. Clouded between vicious beads of spite. “I sentence him to death.”

The man nods, as best as he can. The woman behind him wails, still constrained by the soldier. When the man looks up, he doesn’t say anything for a moment. 

“Can’t get rid of what already exists, your Highness,” He mumbles, squirming again as the rope pulley squeals above him. “Everything is balanced. You give what you take, take what you give. And the earth will always take what she needs. Will bring back what she needs.” 

Those words feel like a condemnation, a promise. Jeongguk can feel the magic in his words settling in his bones.

Jeongguk’s father scoffs, raising his hand towards the guard at the pulley with a nod of his head. Jeongguk closes his eyes when it happens, but he can hear the slice of the blade as it cuts through the man’s skin. The steady dribble of blood as it drips from the guillotine onto the dried dirt below.

“You’ll pay for this!” The woman shrieks, voice strained. “You, your heir, your entire family will pay! He’s part of a prophecy!” 

Jeongguk’s father growls, and Jeongguk flinches. “Silence!” His father shrieks down at the woman. “That so called prophecy is nonsense—” 

“It was written before he was born!” The woman continues, slashing at the guards as they attempt to collect her. “The heir is fated to—” 

The guards move in swift time, cleaning briskly but Jeongguk is still too afraid to move. He doesn’t like being thought of as part of a prophecy, especially one he has never heard of. His father is pressing forward, he can feel the heat of his body as he nearly leans over the balcony towards the woman. She slashes at the guards angrily, fists clenched as they wrangle her in their arms. Eventually she settles, heaving out a breath as she flits her eyes up between Jeongguk and his father. 

“Fate will have her way, Your Majesty, don’t fret,” She breathes out almost in submission. “Softly, and with wonder, but her way nonetheless.” 

Jeongguk has not opened her eyes, but he can feel the woman’s gaze on him, nearly burning through his eyelids, bleaching through to his eyes.

He can feel his father flag for the guards to whisk her away, can hear as she’s dragged away with careless force as feet scuffle against the concrete ground below him. Eyes still pierced shut, but he can feel his father’s hand on his. 

“Jeongguk,” He says, voice low. 

Jeongguk is hesitant to open his eyes, but when he does, he makes sure to lock his gaze onto his father. Ignoring the bloody mess being cleaned up below him. 

“Jeongguk,” His father repeats, this time embedded with a bit more bass. 

Jeongguk finally unwinds, eyes peeling open completely now as he blinks up at his father with fearful, watery eyes. His father gazes back down at him, expression unreadable, but hard. He watches as he swallows thickly, before speaking. 

“You understand why this was necessary?” He asks him. 

Jeongguk’s mouth gapes open slightly, but the words bead at the tip of his tongue. He thinks he knows, but not well enough to articulate. Magic is bad, magic is a threat to their kingdom. It must be purged, eradicated without anything in its wake. That feels like betrayal to the deepest part of himself, however. 

Jeongguk clenches his fists awkwardly, swallowing as he nods. “He was a sorcerer,” He answer gently. “And practicing magic is punishable by death.” 

His father is still eyeing him, almost suspiciously. He narrows his eyes as he glazes his eyes over his son. Then his shoulders melt back, craning his neck, only slightly. 

“It’s not about having friends, Jeongguk, a king doesn’t need friends,” His father tells him again, crossing his arms as he crosses his gaze back out to the small square. “You need people you can trust.”

Jeongguk’s eyes linger on his father for a moment before he finally musters up the courage to pull it out towards the square. 

It’s clean now, much to his relief. But a small red puddle still stains the hay clumped against the earth. Jeongguk winces at it, imagines it as his own. 

“You were not here before, so I don’t expect you to understand, but,” His father says, voice carried on the wind that whistles between them. “Kings can control lots of things, but they cannot control magic. That is why I did what I did.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t understand, but he pretends that he does. Nods humbly as his blond bangs sweep in front of his eyes, obstructs his view of the town square, of the irritating red stain that’s currently being scrubbed, but to no avail. 

His father tosses his eyes back down to him, studies him for a moment before speaking. “Understood?” He presses.

Jeongguk turns to him and smiles, a fake one, as he’s been taught for so long. 

“Understood,” He lies. 

Fifteen Years Later

“Eyes front, your Highness.”

Despite the warning, Jeongguk still squirms. 

On his right cheek, he feels a tug, but it’s not enough persuasion to pry his eyes from the window that sings golden sunlight on his brow. The world outside, much like most things in Jeongguk’s life, is framed by the abhorrently towering gilded window frames that equally diminishes and magnifies whatever is outside of it. 

Right now, amongst the sunshine, beyond the rusty iron gates of the palace courtyard, Jeongguk can see the throngs of people as they filed through the streets. Sees their bodies draped in their countries violet-colored flag. The clatter of hooves against the pavement. The swell of gold accents that sparkles along the sidewalk. He thinks he can smell the freshness of sweet treats being sold in his honor, in his family’s honor.

The curtain ruffles and Jeongguk squints as sunshine blinds his eyes. But it doesn’t erase the buzz that’s currently lighting up his veins or the chill in his fingers.

“Eyes front, your Highness.”

Jeongguk looks down as the tailor’s hands thumb at his collar. Noticing him flinching against his cold skin. He attempts to steady a smile, but knows it reads awkward, so he chooses instead to suck in a breath.

“Sucking in might not be the wisest choice while at the hands of a tailor,” Jeongguk’s young, silver haired advisor mumbles at his left. He raises his head from the small leather notebook he is currently scribbling in to toss him a warm smile. “Your Highness.”

Jeongguk growls, rolling his eyes and casting them back out towards the gilded window.

“Yoongi, how many times must I tell you not to call me your Highness,” he murmurs. He rolls back his shoulders, arms straining in the tight sleeves of his black suit jacket. “At least not here, in private. Makes me feel like I’m a thing in a crown. I’d like to be a lot more than that, especially to you.”

The tailor pats his shoulder and Jeongguk spins on command. Waddling with his arms outstretched, fingers curled down. He eyes himself in the mirror, watches the tailor pick at the hem of his jacket. It feels excessive he thinks, such detail for him only to stand out on a balcony and wave for ten minutes.

“My name is Jeongguk,” He mumbles, tossing his voice over his shoulder but he also thinks it’s a declaration to himself. “Ggukie, Jeonggukie, whatever. Not your Highness.”

The blond-haired advisor sighs, rises to his feet, and struts towards him. He combs his eyes over him, before reaching forward and straightening at the buckled collar below Jeongguk’s jaw.

“Jeongguk,” The advisor grins warmly, but Jeongguk can hear the discomfort in his voice. His hands have moved to his tie now, fluffs at its powder blue bulb at his neck. “You have a title bestowed on you and your family and by the eyes of the gods,” His hands brush over his shoulder, his touch generously friendly for someone of such low rank. Jeongguk welcomes it warmly. 

“You were chosen for this, even before you were born,” he huffs out. He pats at his shoulder assuredly, “Wear it proudly.”

Jeongguk returns his grin, but it feels artificial when it cuts across his cheek. On most occasions, he’d trust Yoongi’s words as gospel but today the words feel uniquely heavy when they land between them. 

“What if I don’t want to wear it proudly,” Jeongguk retorts, squirming in the tightness of the suit that’s been sewn onto his body. “What if I just want to…” The words stilt at his tongue, and he frowns, trying his best to spit them free. “What if I just want to be me, no crown, nor fancy title.” 

He pouts again, but this time with more earnest as he blinks down at his smaller, tinier advisor. “What if I just want to be Jeongguk. Not Prince Jeongguk. Not soon to be King Jeongguk, just…” He heaves out a hefty sigh. “Just Jeongguk.” 

Yoongi smiles up at him, smoothing the wrinkles on his shoulders as he pats at them gently. “You don’t have that luxury, unfortunately, sir, too many people depend on you.” 

Jeongguk pouts, swallowing the whine on his lips as he turns to face himself in the mirror. Sees the reflection of a lot of things. A reflection of regality, a reflection of responsibility. But he doesn’t see himself, he doesn’t think. Yoongi is still eyeing him, before scribbling something in his leather notebook again. “Remind me to tell you to schedule a hair appointment for you,” He says softly, pen scratching at the parchment.

Jeongguk pouts, crossing his eyes to glance at the long, soft silken strands that trail down nearly to his chin. “But I like it long,” He frowns. 

Yoongi chuckles gently, clicking his pen before looking back up to him. “It’s nice, Your Highness,” He tells him gently. “Not so much for a King, however.”

There’s a knock at the door, but no pause behind it. Instead, Junseo, Jeongguk’s younger brother strides in.

“What’s taking you so long?” He growls, champagne-colored shoes stomping across the carpet, running a hand through his soft blond hair. When he meets him, he tosses Yoongi a cordial smile but adverts his eyes back to his older brother. He crosses his arms, pouting, “Madame Bu is having a fit downstairs, please hurry up.” 

“They can’t start without me,” Jeongguk says shaking his head. The tailor nips at his wrist, yanks at the cream-colored undershirt.

“Who said that?” Junseo croaks back.

“I’m the king,” Jeongguk retorts with a snort. 

Junseo scoffs, throwing his eyes out towards the window, then back to his brother. “Not yet.”

The tailor pats him one last time, and Jeongguk spins to the mirror and grins. He smiles at the tailor and mumbles out a thank you. Jeongguk straightens at his collar before turning back to his brother. He stands before him draped in a plum-colored suit and a matching cream shirt, one that crawls fabric up to his neck. He looks extraordinarily, as he usually does in such formality. 

He wrinkles his nose at him, before turning to Yoongi.

“Aren’t you in charge of him?” Junseo yaps angrily. 

Yoongi shakes his head, “In charge, no. Responsible, only slightly.”

Junseo rolls his eyes, but it’s a carefree gesture. When he turns back to his brother he frowns again. “Well hurry up,” He presses. “Can’t leave the kingdom waiting all day.”

Jeongguk takes a few steps to his younger brother and boasts out his chest proudly, “Ready when you are.”

Junseo frowns, shooting his eyes up to his hair. “Madame Bu is going to kill you for the hair.”

Jeongguk reaches for the door only for his hand to be gently swatted away by a servant. The servant smiles sheepishly, tucking his face behind the door as he pulls it open. Jeongguk gapes at him, slightly annoyed by his lack of agency, but politely etches on a smile as he treks into the hall.

“So, I meet Madame Bu,” He begins, projecting his voice behind him as Yoongi shuffles up towards him. They begin down the stairs, Jeongguk’s leather shoes squeaking against the oxblood-colored carpet.

“Yes, you meet Madame Bu,” Yoongi says, flicking through his leather-bound notebook. “You go out to the balcony, you wave, head down to the courtyard to greet a few parishioners and—” He squints as they halt on a platform. 

Above them, a large oil portrait of Jeongguk’s father, in all his boisterous, magnificent glory, looms above them in its gilded frame. Jeongguk slightly shrinks in its presence, as he usually did around his father even in his mortal form. Jeongguk’s eyes flit to it, meets his father’s, edged with soft brush strokes on a hard canvas, and winces. He hoped those eyes could see him now, hope that if they were still alive and blinking, he might see pride in them.

“Then there’s luncheon with a few diplomats from the southern kingdom and finally,” Yoongi seals the notebook and heaves out a breath, “The ball.”

“The ball,” Jeongguk groans, tossing his head back and letting his eyes pinch shut.

“Yes, the ball,” Yoongi sneers back.

Jeongguk lifts his head and pouts, “Do I have to go?”

Yoongi snorts, tucking the notebook under his arm. “Do you have to go, Jeongguk please,” Yoongi answers with a roll of his eyes. “I’m not going to answer that question.”

Around them, the palace bustles in expectation. Anticipation buzzed through it, through the servants, nervously ducking into a bow as they shuffled past. Jeongguk can feel their energy, feel it ripple in anxious waves in his presence and he hates it. Hates the fear that clouds their eyes if even for a moment when his eyes meet theirs. 

“You know I don’t like those sorts of things, Yoongi,” Jeongguk whines, dipping his face into his palms. “All the talking and socializing and stupidly tight suits.” He pouts again, face itching in discomfort. When he looks towards Yoongi, he frowns. “That’s Junseo’s sort of thing, not mine.”

“Well, Junseo isn’t going to be King now is he?” Yoongi presses. There’s informality in his tone, lovable casualty but it’s mostly masked with sternness. He glances shiftily around through the empty hallway before taking a few ginger steps toward Jeongguk. He lets his hand dip under his chin and pulls the younger man’s eyes up to meet his.

What he sees in Jeongguk’s eyes, two large dips of the sweetest cocoa, too sweet to be king, is uncertainty. Uncertainty plagued with fear, a fear of not adding up.

I just—” Jeongguk begins, voice slightly dying as he swallows the sudden itch to cry that’s thickening in his throat. “I thought I’d have more time,” Jeongguk mumbles with a pout. “It’s barely been a month since he died, and I’ve hardly gotten enough time to mourn.”

Yoongi drops his hand and sighs, he searches his face for a moment, hands itching to grasp the too young king into a hug.

“There’s never enough time,” Yoongi says softly. “Never enough time to mourn, not enough time to be a prince, not enough time to breathe.”

Jeongguk’s eyes fall, fall to the carpet, to the way his shiny black shoes squeal on its surface.

“But you’re going to be King now, and time is whatever you make of it,” Yoongi resides. “Time bows to you now, not the other way around.” 

Jeongguk shrugs, can feel the presence of another servant as they round the corner, as fear beads up around them when they see him.

“Give me an hour,” Yoongi concludes, gently reaching forward and raking a fallen strand of golden hair from Jeongguk’s eyes. “One hour and then you can run off to whatever and I’ll pretend I don’t know where you are. Deal?”

Jeongguk meets Yoongi’s eyes and they’re friendly, the closest thing to a friendship he’s ever felt. It bleeds warm as honey, sticks to his ribs, and calms him. 

“Deal.”

2 weeks prior

The office doors shut with a snap, one that echoes up the wall. Rounds the cut corners, spills down the towering bookshelves until they reach him, again. Outside, the rain still thunders from the sky, splattering against the window across from him.  Tacking against the glass in pellets of splintering bullets.

Somehow, Jeongguk peels his head up from his hands. Drags them down his face and lets out a long, harrowing groan. Right now, in the quiet of this office, in the quiet of the hallway outside, he thinks he can count his stuttering heartbeat. Thinks he can feel it in his throat, drumming in his ears, crawling up and laying itself flat against his tongue. 

“Fuck,” He breathes out, nervously. He nearly crawls towards the desk, hands splayed out on the wood. “You’re right, I’m not ready to be King.”

He finds the eyes of his father in the oil painting across from him. Feels fury in his own as he gazes at him, studying the brushstrokes in the splotches across the canvas. Tries to find humanity in them.

“You knew I wasn’t ready to be King, yet you left me, why? Was this as punishment?” He presses. His lips are quivering now, cheeks flushed as he struggles to steady his breath. “Mom’s gone, now you’re gone. Fuck, I can’t do this, why would you leave me to do this?”

The steadily growing rage in his voice has pinched to a fever pitch. His hands, always cold and achy buzz with fury. When he glances down at them, down at his palms and clenches them. Noticing as bright blue light pulses from them. He shakes his head, furiously shaking his palms in an attempt to toss the magic from his fingertips. “Fuck,” He growls out, swallowing thickly, trying to swallow back the tears that are swimming foggy through his eyes. 

His hands find the red leather chair behind the desk, and he clutches at it. If he were crazy, he’d think he felt the phantom imprint of his father’s back against it.

“I’m not ready to be King and I don’t think I ever will be,” He frowns again, falling into the seat. “All my life I was raised to be prepared for this moment and yet, here I am. Not ready.”

In this chair, settled against its leather cushion and pressed tight against his thighs, tucked behind the magnitude of this desk he knows too well. Even here, tucked alone in the quiet of this office, with tears springing white hot against his eyes, he does think he can bring himself to cry. Magic still buzzes beneath his skin, pickling ice cold against his nerves. 

“Your heir spells magic and yet will still sit on the throne?” He asks, voice achy as he speaks. “You’d have my head for this wouldn’t you?”

His father’s eyes, though oily and painted in shades of muddy watercolor are still on him, owning every inch of him. He doesn’t think he could cry even if he wanted. But god, do they burn. Burn and sting and blind him so he buries his face back into the palm of his hands. 

There is a knock at the door and he freezes.

“Yes?” He croaks. 

There is a pause, then he hears as the diamond doorknob spins. There are soft padding feet next, not too far to his right.

“Your Highness,” He hears.

It takes a moment, but eventually he peels his head from his hands, turning towards the voice who he finds to be his newly appointed advisor, Min Yoongi. The blond man, not too much older than himself, is blinking over at him, hair flat and brown wool coat dusted with darkening rain.

“We’ve been looking for you,” He breathes out gently, taking another step into the office. “The funeral just ended we uh,” He clears his voice harshly, cheeks flushed red. “We need you for the banquet.” 

Jeongguk lets out a shaky breath, straightening his back and sniffing very loudly. He can feel his father’s eyes, oiled and scolding peering down at him. When he turns to Yoongi he smiles, rather fake, as he tightens his coat back across his chest. 

“I’ll be out soon,” He exhales, voice dripping with exhaustion. He turns to Yoongi, with reddened eyes and puffy, wet cheeks. He wipes at them furiously before turning back towards him, trying his best to muster up a coherent smile. “I’ll be out, I promise.” 

Yoongi must sense the lie, but he doesn’t press. His mouth gapes open, but only for a second. Then he’s snapping it shut, turning gently back out towards the door and sealing it shut with a subtle snap.

Present Day

When Jimin opens his eyes the following morning, the world still exists.

Not the way he’s used to, however. Air still feels heavier here, clinging to his lungs in a beaded manner. He pulls his hands up past scratchy wool covers, up to his eyes, and examines them. Still 5 fingers, he counts. He pulls his hands down to rub at his face. Sticking down his skin.

From the distance, he hears as someone, he assumes to be Taehyung, finishes a shower. There’s a clatter of metal against the sink, a pause, then the shuffle of frantic feet against the floorboards. Pipes squeak and wail with warm water.

Jimin still feels himself. Thinks this buzzing under his skin is his soul reminding him he’s still here. The thrum of his heart against his chest grounding.

You’re Park Jimin, he thinks, eyes tracing the dust that dances through yellow sunlight that is spilling in from the window above his head. You’re Park Jimin. You’re a writer. This isn’t real but you are. You are real.

He hears as birds sing outside the window. Soft melodies in a cartoonish manner. There is something in this moment, strung between the harmonies of whistling songbirds and the steady stream of perfect sunlight on his cheek and the sudden realization that that buzzing in his skin is excitement in the manner of Cinderella on early mornings to greet the sun Jimin grounds himself with sudden epiphany.

You’re Park Jimin, you’re a writer and by some magic you’re in a fairytale.

A real-life fairytale.

The bathroom door opens, and Taehyung pads out in a cloud of silver steam. He sees Jimin and smiles.

“You’re awake,” He breathes out, running a towel over his damp hair. He stomps out towards him. “How are you feeling?”

Jimin peels himself from the hardened mattress, rubbing at his eyes weakly.

“I—” He croaks. “Spacey, I think.” He pauses to gulp. “Like... very detached from my body.”

Taehyung smiles, “Magic does that,” He hums. “Takes a lot of energy to send travelers with magic, surprised it’s not raining outside to flush it all out.”

Jimin turns over to face him, eyebrows knitted tightly together in found anxiety. “I don’t belong here,” He murmurs.

He thinks of Namjoon, and his stomach flips. He rolls back over, running shaky hands over his face. “My fiancé,” He groans out. “He’s probably worried sick.”

He hears Taehyung’s wet toes against the stone floor as he tools towards him.

“Well,” He hears him say. “I’m certain you’ll see him again.” He hesitates. “Your purpose is different now, though.”

“I don’t care about purposes, I want to go home,” Jimin whines trying to swallow back the panic in his throat.

He turns to face him, face burning, “I don’t belong here, none of this is real.”

Taehyung blinks and Jimin follows the very real tracks of shower water as they slip from his bang down his cheek. Watches his long dark lashes flutter. Watches the rise and fall of a very real, solid chest as it rises and falls with a breath.

“I feel real,” Taehyung pouts.

Jimin fists at the wool beneath him and growls in frustration. Doors along the hallway slam shut as servants scurry out to begin their day. Jimin feels the beat of their steps as they pound against the carpet outside. His hand flies to his own heart, counting his heartbeats to remind him he’s still here; he’s alive. 

You are Park Jimin, he thinks; ignoring the buzz of energy that pulses inside him. You are Park Jimin. None of this is real, but you are.

He feels Taehyung’s hand on his shoulder, and he freezes. “You feel real too,” Taehyung continues, kneading softly at his shoulder. “You feel like flesh and bone, and muscle, but you also feel like magic.”

Jimin finally rolls over to face him, blinking back the tears that pepper his eyes. “Which doesn’t make you any less real. Magic doesn’t make anything any less real.”

Jimin gulps, and it sticks heavy to his throat. That feels childish, he thinks. To believe in magic to the point of delusion. To believe that it was magic that brought him here, grounding him to this earth, curled him into these sheets. But there is enough conviction in Taehyung’s eyes that he thinks he might just believe him.

Jimin tugs awkwardly on the sleeve of the suit jacket Taehyung had let him borrow. This, a little less formal than last night’s garb, is a stained lilac with gold trim. Gold trim, he finds, that is scratching very uncomfortably of the white fabric hunched around his neck. Taehyung is walking them down the crowded hallway. Past ornate purpled walls plastered with massive oil paintings slung up in gilded frames.

Their feet pad down the violet, freshly steamed carpet as they coil around the corner to their left. This hallway is engulfed in glimmering golden light. Mostly from the massive crystal windows currently being waxed down by two red haired men on rusted ladders.

Jimin trips, only slightly, watching as the morning sunlight is casting rainbows along the oil paintings. He feels very small here. One tiny strand of insignificance in this fantastical palace that runs in a sense of common normality Jimin never conceptualized in a fairytale. A fairytale, he scoffs as they round another corner. Past two women in matching lavender dresses who mop at bare wooden floors. Just beside them an open window that reveals a wide lush garden with dripping green topiaries.

“Stop fidgeting,” Taehyung mumbles, as they emerge into a steamy kitchen that bustles in structured coherency. Taehyung is turning towards him, swatting at Jimin’s hands now plunged into the neck of his shirt.

“You stand out enough,” Taehyung says, grabbing at his hands. Jimin pouts, craning his neck uncomfortably.

“I can’t believe they make you wear this,” He frowns, craning his neck again.

Taehyung directs them towards the open wooden table near the far right corner. Hoseok, from the previous night, is there, folding mindlessly at a few handkerchiefs. He looks up and smiles, before diving back down into his work diligently. 

“I think the best thing we can do for you is to get you situated into palace life,” Taehyung murmurs, reaching forward to fold at his own napkins. “You’re here for a reason, it’s just going to take some time to figure out what.” 

“Ignore Taehyungie, he thinks he’s a Seer,” Hoseok says with a roll of his eyes as he folds at the napkins.

“Excuse you I am a Seer!” He exclaims. Then he’s turning to Jimin, “Well, not a full one. My grandmother was though.”

“Seers don’t exist anymore, they died with the magic,” Hoseok explains, stacking his pile of cloth napkins onto the tray in front of him. “As did the fae, elves, the trolls—”

“Magic doesn’t stop existing, Hobi,” Taehyung sneers. He keeps his eyes on his own pile of napkins for a moment then he’s trailing his eyes up towards him, darting his gaze across the table. “It’s always existed, like water, like air. You can’t just, will it from existence—”

“Taehyung, stop,” Hoseok groans. There is slight annoyance in his voice, enough to pull Jimin’s eyes from his pile and darting them between the two men. He watches as Taehyung stiffens, watches as Hoseok clutches at the handkerchief. 

“You know the law, Taehyung—” He begins, voice strained.

“Yes, I know the law, Hoseok,” Taehyung replies rolling his eyes. The sunlight from the window next to them is spilling orange light onto his skin, making him glow. “But I also know how I feel, and the air hasn’t felt the same for a while, and you know it. It especially hasn’t felt the same since last night when he arrived.” 

Jimin gulps at his words, fingers loosening around the purple napkins as he suffers his feet where he sits. He can feel Hoseok’s gaze on him, feeling it burning through his skin as he takes judgmental eyes over him. 

“Just imagine what could change with a new king, Hobi,” Taehyung is whispering now, and Jimin assumes these words must be a lot more fragile than his last. These words sound precious, nearly blasphemous. Hoseok is leaning back into his chair and Jimin winces as it squeaks under his weight. 

“Taehyung, stop,” He mumbles, darting his eyes back down to his napkins. 

“Jimin shows up right before the coronation of a new king, please, Hobi, think for just a second,” Taehyung continues, dipping his voice to nearly a scratch. “A new king to usher magic back into the kingdom, Hobi you know the prophecy, everyone knows the prophecy—”

Hoseok slams the napkins in his hands back onto the table. It rattles beneath them and Jimin freezes. Feels the eyes of passing servants as they shuffle past with heavy, full hands. Taehyung is blinking over at Hoseok with an unreadable expression. Jimin thinks he reads parts of it as frustration.

“You’re still in the dark ages, Hoseok,” Taehyung growls. 

“I’m still in the dark ages, Taehyung please,” Hoseok answers, rolling his eyes. “Bringing up old prophecies from crackpot warlocks, those are fairy tales, Tae.”

“How could it be when we have living proof sitting right here?” Taehyung sneers back, featuring wildly towards Jimin. 

Jimin suddenly feels very self-conscious, squished between the two men. He grounds his eyes onto the plates, twists the fabric into two as he struggles to fold it neatly in two. After a moment, he feels Hoseok melt to his left. He dares himself a glance up, and he sees that his expression has melted too. Softer than before, nearly dripping with empathy as he gazes over at Taehyung from across the wooden table. 

The kitchen clatters with life behind them. Jimin can hear as someone stirs at a pot on the stove, hear the clank of metal and glass as plates are being arranged in wooden cabinets. Outside there are the clattering of stomping steps as a group of people stomp down the carpet hall.

“I just,” Hoseok begins, voice slightly cracking. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” He frowns. “You know what they do to blasphemers.”

“I’m not blaspheming, Hoseok, please,” He breathes out. “Jimin is magic, I can feel it.”

Jimin looks up, mouth gaping as he shakes his head. “I don’t— I don’t think—” He heaves out a breath. “I don’t think I’m magic, that’s— that’s a lot,” He laughs out. 

A pause, enough time for the door, that squeals open as a group of suited men slip in, one of which happens to be Yoongi. Who stomps in, scribbling at his clipboard and murmuring to a burgundy haired man to his left. 

“Something big is happening, Hoseok, and you know it,” Taehyung says as he rises from his chair. “Don’t get left behind.” 

Hoseok tosses Jimin an unwieldy gaze as he rises to his feet, and crosses over towards the group of waiting servants. Jimin scrambles behind him, chair squealing against the stone floor.

“Good morning, everyone, long night, right?” Yoongi says. His eyes are still on his clipboard as he scribbled manically onto the parchment. When he eventually lifts his head from the paper, he combs his eye towards the waiting group of servants. 

Then, he slowly peels a smile onto his lips. “Unfortunately, that’s going to be the first of many, but I know we’re all up to the task, correct?”

There is a low murmur between the servants, and Yoongi nearly counts their breaths. After a moment he sighs, “We are all very blessed to be serving his Royal Highness in his ascension, so if anything, you should feel proud, correct Mr. Kim?” 

Yoongi’s eyes are now on Taehyung who perks up upon his name being called. Taehyung’s eyes shift nervously, shoulders hiking up before he settles very gently onto a rehearsed smile. “Of course, Mr. Min.”

Another man bustles into the kitchen, hand reaching out to tug at Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi in turn coils around to face him, murmuring something back as he awkwardly nods his head to the man’s words. Jimin eyes him steadily, watching as Yoongi’s expression sours, then falls as the man continues to speak softly into his ear. Then, after a moment, Yoongi coils around, face still cast angry as he slaps at his temple frustratedly. 

“Goddammit,” Yoongi grimaces, tapping at his clipboard. He coils around slightly to the burgundy’s haired advisor. “He needs to draft a few outlines for the commencement—?” He flips through the parchment roughly. “He needs to draft a lot of things before the coronation. Goddamn it, I don’t think I can?” He scribbles at his clipboard. “I have to speak with the priests, coordinate shifts,” He frowns. 

“I’m sure he can do it alone,” The advisor hums. 

“You know he can’t,” Yoongi says with a roll of his eyes, “Needs his hand held all the time—”

“Well, we can assign a few speech writers from the southeast,” He answers.

Yoongi shakes his head, twirling the pen across his knuckles. “They’ve been sent up to the north to gather for his commonwealth trip later this month,” He replies weakly. 

Jimin reads the desperation in the man’s tone, glances up slightly as he scratches at the parchment frustratedly. 

“I can possibly help him in the evenings, but the amount of work that’ll double for the following days,” Yoongi growls. “I can’t be in two places at once, unfortunately.”

Then out of the blue, Jimin feels himself perk up, taking a small step forward as he pigeons himself further away from Taehyung’s side. 

“I can help,” Jimin chirps. 

He doesn’t know why he says it. The words slip from his tongue faster than he means, dribbling from fast lips as he watches Yoongi’s head snap up towards him. He feels Taehyung’s hand fly up to his wrist, snatching him closer towards him. But Yoongi’s face is distorting, mostly on unconcealed laughter as he blinks over at Jimin weakly. 

“Excuse me?” He asks, breathlessly.

Jimin gulps, and suddenly the gravity of his decision weighs on him. Feels as Taehyung tightens his grip around his wrist. 

“I uh,” He croaks sheepishly. “You said you need a writer.” 

Yoongi’s face is bright red, as he swallows a laugh. “I did yes,” He says. “Don’t know what that has to do with you.”

Jimin gulps again, but this time it’s a lot thicker than before. Taehyung is pulling him a little closer, but Jimin instead plants his feet very firmly onto the stone floor. 

“Well, sir,” He replies, voice dying slightly. “I’m a writer.”

Yoongi and the other advisor exchange hard glances before they both erupt into chortled laughter.

Jimin shrinks slightly under it, watching as sunlight from the window colors Yoongi’s blond hair is shades of sparkling gold. Yoongi eventually settles himself, “You a writer?” He says, swallowing his laughter as he goes to straighten his tie. “Servants can barely read, let alone write.”

Jimin stiffens, puffing his chest out slightly at the words. He thinks he can feel his anger broiling through him, burning at his cheeks. Taehyung is still pulling at him, but he wriggles himself fully free from his grip. Taking another step, this one a lot more confident than the last, towards Yoongi. He combs his eyes over the top of his clipboard, chewing weakly at his cheek before speaking.

“In the name of his Royal Highness, Jeon Jeongguk of House Jeon,” He reads, but the words are written in a loopy, feathered scrawl. He winces, leaning in slightly, cursing himself for his lack of glasses. Imagines them where they still sit atop his cluttered bedside table back home. Thrown between a half-used bottle of pain relievers and his tangled pile of rings and bracelets. 

“His Royal Highness requests the call of—” He hesitates as he squints over the paper. “The Duke of—”

Yoongi snatches the paper from sight, narrowing his eyes as he combs them over Jimin with bitter apprehension. He leans in, combing his eyes over every inch of him. Breathing him in as he assesses him sharply. 

“Who are you?” He mumbles, but the question seems mostly rhetorical. 

Jimin gulps, but he thinks he bows himself well enough to answer the question. “I’m Park Jimin,” He answers back, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I’m a writer, and I can help you if you want.”

Yoongi gapes at him, eyes finally tearing from Jimin and back towards the other advisor who shares an equally awestruck expression. Taehyung is shaking at Jimin’s right, but Jimin refuses the pull to look over at him. Instead, he keeps his chest boast out, nails digging into the skin of his palm.

After a moment of silent exchanges of weary glances, Yoongi clicks at his pen, the yellow feathered tip brushing against his nose. Turning back towards Jimin with an equally unreadable expression as before. 

“Follow me, Park Jimin,” He says, beckoning him forward as he begins back out of the kitchen.

Jimin’s feet, at first cannot move, but his head finally turns towards Taehyung. Eyes drawn up in simmering fear as he blinks over at him. 

“Well,” Taehyung mumbles at him below his breath. “You did this,” He hums. “Go.” 

Jimin gulps, eyes trailing the kitchen as several other big eyed servants blink over at him. He sees Hoseok blinking over at him from the ovens, fingers twisting through his apron loop. He feels Taehyung’s hand prodding at him, but the. his hand is back around his wrist. Jimin is shaking, but Taehyung’s hand, no matter the unfamiliarity of it, soothes him. 

“Be careful,” Taehyung murmurs. 

Jimin doesn’t know what that means, but he’s being pushed forward and out the doors behind a series of equally expressionless advisors.

Jimin is shuffled very hastily through the sparsely packed halls of the palace. Whisked past glaring oil paintings of faces he doesn’t recognize. Catching the gaze of confused servants who shuffle past with lingering, shifty eyes. He catches himself as he trips on the scuffed purple carpet. Above the heads of advisors, he sees the top of Yoongi’s head as it bounces in front of him. Watches the way he gestures wildly, pen still in hand. Feather flying about as he points absurdly around him. 

They coil around another corner, this one brighter than the last. The walls are painted a faded eggshell, Jimin notices. The adjacent windows spill bright yellow sunlight onto the gilded frames and make the white walls shimmer in small glittering rainbow specks. Just ahead they approach two large maple-colored doors, and Yoongi stops, just short of it and turns to face Jimin.

“So,” He huffs out, fingers flicking through the papers in front of him. “Mr—”

“P-Park,” Jimin stutters out, attempting but failing to keep his eyes from the large chandelier that glitters above his head. From the collage of framed oil paintings that are stacked on the wall behind Yoongi’s head. Somehow, he collects his interest, finds Yoongi’s eyes as he paints on a nervous smile.

“Mr. Park,” Jimin answers weakly. 

Yoongi scribbles something down, “Mr. Park, yes of course.” Yoongi is following his eyes, watching as he twitches slightly in front of him. “This is the office of his Royal Highness,” Yoongi explains, words slow and dripping with pressure. “I expect you to arrive here every morning and only leave once you’ve completed your day’s instructions with him.”

Jimin nods along, but his head feels very floaty as he struggles to maintain contact. Energy buzzes through him, as he fidgets with the hem of his shirt. 

“You will be required to read, write and draft several papers at his side. Edit and report back to me every evening,” Yoongi continues, but his eyes are colored a lot darker than his words. Jimin can feel his gaze searing into him. “Understood Mr. Park?” 

Jimin gulps, nodding weakly, “Yes, yes,” He answers.

Yoongi doesn’t answer immediately, he is still giving Jimin these dark glances, before he returns his eyes down to the paper in front of him. “He must be referred to as His Royal Highness, only,” Yoongi presses. “No eye contact unless he initiates it. Keep your head bowed, hands at your side.” 

Jimin suddenly feels very conscious of where he stands, his heels digging into his shoes. He drops his hands from the hem of his shirt, but that feels wrong, so he lifts them awkwardly, pressing them to his side. 

“This, Mr. Park, is a privilege,” The burgundy haired advisor mumbles. “Working for His Royal Highness is a blessing.”

Jimin nods along, but he follows the words very faintly. Watching as the advisor’s lips press into a very thin line. 

Yoongi is still scribbling at his parchment before he’s looking up; eyeing Jimin sharply. “Now I don’t know how you can do what you do, but that doesn’t matter right now,” He says with a sigh. The sunlight catches his eyes, and he winces, darting from the window. “But you’ve been called to serve your King so this isn’t the time to ask why.”

This seems like a lot, Jimin thinks. The weight of their words are both flighty and heavy as he follows along. 

“Understood?” Yoongi asks.

Jimin nods, cheeks numb. “Understood,” He answers back with a soft nod.

Yoongi eyes him once more before turning back towards the double doors. He gestures towards one of the armed guards, and Jimin watches as they spin on their heel to peel open the door.

The room they enter is grand. Jimin’s eyes trail up to follow the towering cherry oak bookshelves lined with dark covered books. Feet treading across now golden carpet towards the ornate dark wood desk in the back right corner. Yoongi is pacing them towards it, tapping slightly at the pile of manila-colored envelopes placed atop it. 

“These are a few references for his outline,” He murmurs, shuffling through the envelopes gently. “I suggest you read over them before you begin.”

Jimin frowns as Yoongi slips two very large folders into his waiting arms.

“He has a lot on his plate today,” He tells him softly. “He usually does, but there’s a coronation at hand.” 

Yoongi has returned to mumbling to the burgundy haired advisor, but Jimin is flicking through the papers.

“Excuse me, sir,” He finally chirps.

It takes a moment before Yoongi peels his eyes up to him. 

Jimin gulps before speaking again. “I uh—” He stammers. “It’s just very interesting you need someone. Need me,” He says weakly. He flicks through the papers with shaky hands. “He’s going to be the King and all, what does he need with me?”

Yoongi and the burgundy haired advisor exchange weary glances before they both burst into silent giggles. Jimin watches them before they swallow it down. 

“Well,” Yoongi says. “Speak to him for longer than 10 minutes and you’ll see why.”

“You must make sure he completes his tasks,” The older advisor says.

“He has a tendency to—” Yoongi clips in.

The brown-haired advisor laughs at that, something a little more insidious in it.

“His Royal Highness is a little—” Yoongi begins. He bites his tongue as he thumbs at the papers in his hand. The advisor beside him scoffs and Yoongi prods him with his elbow. He turns back towards Jimin. “He’s a handful,” Yoongi breathes out softly.

The other advisor scoffs. Jimin darts his eyes between them. Watches as he places another stack of papers atop the wooden desk. They slip and shuffle across it.

“It can be quite a lonely place, leading a Kingdom,” Yoongi murmurs.

“We are not here to be his friends,” The other advisor hums. “We’re here to serve to be sure that he does so in the most efficient way possible.”

Jimin can’t help but find sadness in that. Wonders how lonely the young prince must be.

Then Yoongi is darting his eyes down to his silver watch, “Ah, he should be down soon,” He murmurs, mostly to himself. He’s clicking his tongue, turning back towards the door before he’s coiling back to face Jimin with anxious eyes.

“He doesn’t listen to me anymore, not since he’s grown up,” There’s something hanging on the edges of his words, that much Jimin catches. He watches Yoongi as he hangs onto the diamond handle of the large maple door.

“He just needs,” His voice hangs softly, casting now gentle eyes towards Jimin. There’s protectiveness in his gaze, Jimin watches the way he breathes out. “He’s a lonely kid, hard to be a friend to someone with that much power,” Now there’s grief. Sticking between his words and his eyes and spilling from his lips. “Just…” He takes a deep breath. “Play nice with him. He’s a bit fragile—” 

There is a tug at his arm, and Yoongi is excusing himself from the office with a snap of the oak door in the frame.

When finally left to the quiet loneliness of the office Jimin lets himself succumb to the panic. Trips of the edge of the fluffy white rug beneath his feet as he stumbles towards the window. Peering out through crystal glass down to well tamed gardens with dripping green vines and lush bushes. He thinks he sees himself, the ghost of his reflection, peering back at him, and he breathes out, long and shaky as he struggles to maintain eye contact.

You are Park Jimin, he reminds himself. His hand flies to the ring that’s pressed cold against his chest. Rubs the hard metal into his flesh, retorts to use it to ground himself. You are Park Jimin. You’re a writer. You have a sister, a mother. A fantastic fiancé Kim Namjoon.

He blinks at himself, body buzzing still, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. You are Park Jimin, he breathes out. This may not be real, but you are.

There’s a muddle of voices from outside, and Jimin spins towards it. Hands still clutching at his ring as he listens intently to the litany of voices spilling muffled from outside the door. Chews weakly at his cheek as he watches the doorknob twist and linger open. Holds his breath as he watches as one very handsome young man strides into the office, a steady stream of people spilling behind him.

The Prince Jeongguk that enters the office is not the same as the one he’d met by the lake the night prior. That Jeongguk was regal, adorned in jewels and particular pride. This Jeongguk, this one dressed in a well pressed suit and messy blond bed hair to match. Swollen, sleepy eyes and a scowl cast across his face. He rubs at his eyes as he stumbles in, yawning thickly as he strides past Yoongi who is murmuring off a very long list of assignments for the day. 

“The meeting might be a little longer than usual, and then we have to call for the subcommittee to speak,” Yoongi continues, scratching at his clipboard with his pen. “Your day will end around approximately 10:30, but if you play your cards right, you could probably have your dinner sometime before that.”

Jeongguk hasn’t answered, he’s sunk down into the leather seat behind the desk, head flopping back against the headrest.

“Your Highness,” Yoongi repeats, watching Jeongguk with idle eyes.

It takes a moment for Jeongguk to answer, he lulls slightly, eyes flirting up and giving a slight double take when he finally sees Jimin. His eyebrows furrow as he combs his eyes over him. 

“It’s you,” He breathes out, but there is no animosity in his tone, mostly curiosity.

Yoongi’s eyes darts between them suspiciously. “You know him?” He asks.

Jeongguk chews at his cheek, eyeing Jimin with warm acquisition. Then, after a moment, he melts into a soft smile. “We’re acquainted,” He answers, still eyeing him.

Jimin freezes under his gaze, squirming in his place beside the bookcase.

Yoongi breathes in sharply, clicking his pen as he scribbles something onto his clipboard. “Well, that’s nice because he’s your new hand until the coronation.”

Jimin watches as Jeongguk’s eyes light up, sitting up slightly straighter in his seat. Jimin watches the way his eyes gloss with excitement, feeling very much like a shiny new toy on display. 

“A new hand,” Jeongguk breathes out, joy coloring his tone. “What happened to my last one? She was nice.”

“She’s just given birth to a baby boy,” Yoongi answers, slightly irritated as if he’d mentioned this more than enough times before. “She wishes you the best for your ascension.”

Jeongguk’s eyes are still on Jimin, bouncing around from the top of his down the scope of his nose, then he meets his eyes. Jimin watches the way the prince’s eyes widen, then another smile.

“Tell her I wish her the best as well,” Jeongguk says, eyes never leaving Jimin’s.

Yoongi is scribbling something on his clipboard again, but Jimin still feels very hot as the young prince continues to bore two very large brown eyes into him. After a quiet moment, Yoongi raises his head. “He’s going to be helping you with drafting your upcoming speeches,” He says gently. 

Jeongguk perks up at that, “Drafting?” His eyes flit between Yoongi and Jimin, but there is something light in his gaze. He blinks very slow, as if to drink everything in. 

“Yes, your Highness, drafting. You know that thing I’ve been begging you to complete yourself for months,” Yoongi sighs, snapping his clipboard against his chest. “I trust you need me no longer.”

Jeongguk nods, keeping his eyes on Jimin.

Yoongi bows one last time, before skirting back out the door with a quiet tap.

It’s quiet between them for a moment. It buzzes with energy, and Jimin listens as feet stomp, muffled outside the door. Listens to the hum of soft voices as they mumble outside. 

He squirms, mouth falling as he blushes towards Jeongguk. “I’m supposed to be your second hand,” He explains, though the words seem particularly foreign to his tongue. “So, if you need anything, particularly with writing—”

“You’re not from here,” Jeongguk blurts, crossing his arms across the shiny oak desk in front of him. 

Jimin doesn’t reply immediately, he crosses towards him slightly. “I— I am not,” He stammers.

He watches something close to excitement spark across the prince’s eyes. 

“Where is that, exactly?” Jeongguk asks.

Jimin’s mouth falls slack slightly, nose wrinkling up as his brain fizzes up with agitation. He’s only been here, wherever here is, for barely a day, and suddenly he doesn’t think his brain works anymore. 

You’re Park Jimin, you’re a writer. You have a mother and a sister. You have a wonderful fiancé named Kim Namjoon. He continues, chanting to himself as his hand flies up to his chest tightening around the cold metal of his ring that’s pressed to his chest on a chain. This place may not be real, but you are. He takes another step towards Jeongguk. “You probably haven’t heard of it,” He mumbles.

“Try me,” Jeongguk retorts playfully.

Jimin eyes him, before sucking on his teeth. “It’s called Seoul,” He smiles cheekily.

There’s no recognition in the prince’s eyes, only fascination.

“Like I said, I don’t think you’ve heard of it,” Jimin continues, hands gesturing wildly. “It’s not from anywhere near here. At all.”

Jeongguk nods along, eyes widening as he follows along.

The window beside Jimin is bleeding orange morning light into the office. Jimin wonders if that’s the reason it’s so warm. Or maybe it’s the heat of the prince’s gaze as he follows along to his words.

“It sounds fascinating,” Jeongguk finally murmurs, but he doesn’t seem sincere. Jimin giggles, “I guess you can say that,” He shrugs. Suddenly very aware of just how close he’s gotten to the desk. He brushes his hand against the wood, following slick waxed edges.

After a moment, he shakes his head, straightening his back. “I’m supposed to be helping you do your work,” He says, crossing his arms behind his back. “Or at least, making sure you get it finished.”

He reaches down for a folder and props it open, fingers skirting across the parchment as he steadied his eyes on the black ink. “I should probably get a little more acquainted with the source material,” He says, mostly to himself as he softly picks the folder up to read. “But I’m an excellent scribe of grammar. My publishing editor loves me,” He squeaks out. 

Jeongguk rolls his eyes with a scoff, falling back against the back of the chair. He crosses his arms across his chest. “Who cares, there’s always more tomorrow.” He pauses, and frowns. “I have a meeting with a few members of parliament today,” Jeongguk breathes out. He leans back into the leather chair and breathes out, long and shaky breath, eyes cast out the window beside him. He blows his golden bangs from his eyes as he leans back with a squeak. “I don’t really want to though.”

Jimin laughs softly, mostly in shock, setting the folder back down to bury his hands into his pockets as he lets his eyes fail to his shoes.

“We all have to do things we don’t want to do,” Jimin murmurs. “But this seems to be something that’s really time sensitive. At least that’s what Yoongi seems to feel.”

He can feel Jeongguk’s eyes on him, and he flits his eyes up to meet his gaze to find two, very large, innocent brown eyes blinking back at him.

“Your Highness,” Jimin tacks on for closure. The words feel foreign on his tongue. Jeongguk is still blinking up at him. Squinting as sunlight from the window blinds him.

“Okay, but what if I just...” Jeongguk pauses, fingers digging into the leather of the seat. Then, he pauses, eyes lighting up. He turns to Jimin, cocking his head slightly towards him. “Have you ever been horseback riding?”

Jimin gapes at the young prince, mind spinning as he struggles to comprehend the confuddling behavior before him. He’s barely been in the room 5 minutes and Jimin has had a difficult time following him, juggling the disarrayed stream of consciousness that seems to spill from him endlessly. If he weren’t so panicked from his current reality, Jimin might just be laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Jeongguk blinks back at him, eyes wide with innocence and just a hair of naivety. It bleeds over his gaze, down to the flush of rosy cheeks. This doesn’t feel like the prince by the lake. The scared one who boasts and screams about honor. Right now, he’s looking into the eyes of someone with enough childlike wonder for them both.

“I was told to make sure you start and finish your paperwork—” Jimin stammers.

Jeongguk scoffs, rising to his feet and padding to the back of the office towards a cluttered bookshelf.

“Who cares about the fucking paperwork,” He frowns waving his hand dismissively. “It’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.” He sucks on his teeth, turning back to Jimin, smile curling on his lips. “You never answered my question.”

Jimin stares back at him, and he can’t help the grin crawling onto his own lips.

“Have you ever ridden before?” Jeongguk repeats. There are connotations bedded in his tone, Jimin can taste the spice in them from here. Also, the heat in his gaze.

“I won’t let you get in trouble, I promise,” Jeongguk murmurs softly. “You’ll be with me, you’re safe.”

He smiles and it’s beautiful and blinding and tastes like a flavor of trust Jimin has never tried before. “Play hooky with the Prince.”

When they reach the East End barns on the far end of the palace, the sun is at its brightest. Jimin stumbles to keep up with Jeongguk, who is stomping down stone steps until they reach a brown wooden door. Jeongguk lurches it back, and with it whiffs out the stinging stench of hay and spiked manure. Jimin’s nose turns up in disgust, but Jeongguk’s face is painted in excitement. He weaves them through red painted stalls, feet stomping through sheared hay and dirt. They step past darkened horses that snort at their arrival, clobbers of hooves against the stone floor. 

They reach a chestnut colored one and she is lapping at chilled water. When they approach, she lifts her head, tan colored mane frayed out over her eyes. The horse blinks and seemingly smiles when she sees Jeongguk, before dipping her head back down to her water.

Jeongguk flicks open her lock and beckons Jimin in.

Jimin falters nervously, but eventually he slips in, keeping his back pressed tightly against the dark oak wooden wall.

“This,” Jeongguk announces boastfully, stepping towards the steed and running a gentle hand to her body. “This is Tabitha.”

There’s lots of pride in his voice, and Jimin can also see it in his eyes. Big and brown as he gazes at the horse as she lifts her head from her water and neighs. 

“She’s beautiful,” Jimin compliments and he means it, even if there is fear eating at his chest. But the creature he sees before him seeps with a majesty he doesn’t think he’s ever seen up close. Most of the horses he’s seen were less majestic, less groomed and through a screen. Growing up in the middle of a city usually deprives you of encounters with beasts as such. She seems to love Jeongguk’s touch though, nearly purring as he runs his hand across her body.

“Isn’t she?” He says, voice dripping with wonder. “Father gave her to me for my 16th birthday.”

“I’m sure your father gave you lots of nice things,” Jimin says, shifting his feet, but keeping his eyes on Jeongguk who is whispering soft words into the horses’ ears.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything at first, but Jimin can see something cross the young prince’s eyes. It looks a lot like grief. 

“Yeah, he did that a lot,” He finally mumbles. Though his eyes are on Tabitha, they’re a lot further off. Eventually he bows his head, but keeps his fingers tangled through her mane. “Think he thought that was love.”

Jimin shrugs, kicks mindlessly at a tangled ball of hay. The heel of his boot echoes through the barn. “I mean, it can be,” he replies.

There is something in Jeongguk’s head, Jimin can practically hear it. But he doesn’t say it. He swallows it down; whispers something sweetly in Tabitha’s ear before turning back to Jimin. “Wanna pet her?”

Jimin freezes, hand flying up defensively. “Ah, I’m a city boy, Jeongguk. I don’t know much about horses—”

He flinches back from the horse’s mouth, curling his hand fearfully against his chest. Jeongguk laughs, “Aww Tabby is a good girl, she won’t bite,” He says. He then directs himself towards her, nuzzles a soft hand through her golden mane. “You won’t bite him will you, girl?”

The horse neighs and Jeongguk laughs, pressing a soft kiss against her head.

Jimin lifts his hand apprehensively, hand shaking as it hovers above her chestnut-colored fur. The horse shakes and Jimin flinches back. He shoots his eyes nervously to Jeongguk who edges him on encouragingly with his eyes. Jimin shakes, then, very slowly, presses his hand against her. Beneath his hand, the horse breathes in deeply. Firm body rising under his palm, fur itching at his skin.

“She feels so—” Jimin begins, voice dropping slightly as he searches for the word he’s looking for.

“Alive?” Jeongguk completes. His eyes roam her body, hands brushing at her golden mane with careful fingers.

“Sometimes, I come down here and I watch her. Just let her out in the field and let her run. Let the dirt catch under her hooves.” Jeongguk’s voice is quiet, a bit of it drowned out by the freaks of the barn. His eyes haven’t dropped from her, glassy as he blinks them over her giant frame.

“She must like that,” Jimin remarks, patting hand itching strikingly close to Jeongguk’s.

Jeongguk shrugs, “I mean I guess,” he replies. “It’s all she’s ever known.”

Tabitha hisses and Jeongguk coos, pressing a soft kiss to her side as he combs at her hair with assuring fingers. When he pulls back, he’s frowning, eyebrows knitted up in twisted concern.

“I see her sometimes out there, she seems so free but then,” he drops his voice and his hand slightly. Casting his eyes out towards the open door to the barn. Morning sun spills in with golden delight, sparkling along the crunch of dead leaves that blister in its lit path.

“There are fences, there’s… borders that eventually stop her. There’s only so far she can run,” Jeongguk concludes, voice slightly cracking.

Jimin chews at his cheek, daring his hand to reach out across her ribs and clasp at Jeongguk’s. Jeongguk glances at him, eyes widening at the touch.

“Look at what she has though. All that field, all that freedom—” Jimin begins.

“But it’s not real,” Jeongguk refutes shaking his head. “She has no clue what’s out there. She’s holed up here, in a barn for me.” 

Jimin notices the glass in his eyes have hinted closer to tears. The rims of them have strained to a crushed, veined red. 

“You could show her you know,” Jimin says with a subtle shrug. “Show her everything she’s missing out on.”

Jeongguk’s mouth opens to respond, but he snaps it shut as quickly as he opens it. He sniffs, dropping his hand from Tabitha’s mane and raking it nervously through his own. 

This feels strangely intimate for someone he’s only become acquainted with a few moments earlier. Even stranger for it to be for a prince straight out of a fairy tale currently waxing poetic about his valiant steed beneath his grip. But talking to Jeongguk feels strangely easy, as if he’s known him for a lot longer than the hour they’ve been acquainted.

Eventually he watches as Jeongguk seemingly pulls himself together, grinning over to Jimin brightly. “Would you like to go for a ride?” 

Jimin gapes at him, blinking rapidly before shaking his head. “I— I don’t know about that—” 

“No, I think you’d love it,” Jeongguk says, blatantly ignoring him. He reaches down and grips at Jimin’s waist and with a tug, he yanks him forward with almost herculean ease and sets him haphazardly atop Tabitha. 

Tabitha neighs, shaking her head as Jimin grapples to steady himself. “Jeongguk!” He exclaims breathlessly. “You didn’t even give me the chance to—”

Jimin jostles atop the horse, teeth clattering in his jaw as the horse cobbles up towards Jeongguk.

“Jeongguk,” He exhales breathlessly. He pulls himself upwards, hands splayed out on the horse’s body. “Your— your Highness— we— really shouldn’t be out here—” The horse gallops under him with a neigh and he yelps. 

But Jeongguk is swinging up, catapulting himself behind Jimin atop the horse. Jeongguk jostles as he straightens himself, pressing his body flush against Jimin’s back.

“It’s gonna be fun, I swear,” Jeongguk says, slightly out of breath. He presses himself tighter against Jimin’s back. 

Jimin smiles, but it’s without reason. He can feel as Jeongguk reaches around him, loops his arms atop his as he grapples for the reigns. 

“I’ll do most of the steering, you just sit here and enjoy the view,” Jeongguk says, stealing Tabitha as she clobbers forward. Jimin doesn’t know why, but he allows himself to lean back, against Jeongguk’s chest, as Tabitha pushes through the open barn door and out onto the open field before them. 

There is fog ahead of them, but it melts from the air and hangs on the short blades of grass as the sun cuts through heavy clouds kissing it. Below them, Tabitha’s hooves cut through damp earth as she surges forward, body rocking below them. Jimin’s legs ache, but his eyes widen when he feels Jeongguk shift the reins and suddenly they’re going slightly faster. 

Wind wisps through Jimin’s hair, blows his thick bangs upwards; his sideburns itching at his cheek. He can feel the heat of Jeongguk’s breath at his neck and it tickles. He can also feel the smile that’s grown on the prince’s face as well. Eventually they meet the forest, towering trees draped in dripping emerald leaves and soft rain that drizzles from leaves to dried out branches below. They’re close enough that Jimin frighteningly reaches out and rakes a finger across them, drawing back a particularly damp index finger. He finds laughter on his lips sooner than he intends, leaning back to now press a hand to the leaves. He raises his hand to his face and laughs again, lets his hand meet the other. 

“You’ve really never ridden a horse before?” Jeongguk asks softly. 

Jimin finds a way to settle himself atop the animal, hands clinging to the chestnut-colored body. He swallows, clinging atop it. “No, I haven’t,” He breathes out. “I grew up in a city, not a lot of space or time for—” The horse bucks again and Jimin yelps. Small hands clinging to the horse’s mane. “Recreational horse riding,” He finishes, but his voice is small as he straightens his back.

Jeongguk runs a gentle hand to the small of Jimin’s back to steady him and he freezes under his touch. “What’s a city?” He asks softly.

Jimin whips strands of hair from his eyes, “A city?” He asks. “You don’t know what a city is?”

When he glances back at Jeongguk, who stares back at him with those big brown curious eyes he sees a lot of things, but most of it is clouded with genuine, innocent curiosity. 

Above them, soft spring air curls around them, sweeping along the scent of fresh pine and now damp grass, this deep into the forest. Jimin eventually stables himself atop the horse, jostling slightly as he pulls himself up.

“You don’t have cities here?” He asks. 

Jeongguk shakes his head, “Our kingdom is split into regions, then parishes, then towns,” He explains. He chews at his cheek, “The nearest, largest town is about 40 miles east.” He gestures through a brush of trees and Jimin takes a moment to admire the gentle structure of his hands. Wondering for a moment if they’re as soft as they look.

“That’s why so many of the servants prefer to stay in the palace rather than travel between towns,” He shrugs, hand falling back to caress down to twist gently at the horse’s honey colored mane. “I’ve only been to it once though. Been locked away in this palace my whole life,” He laughs at that last part, but Jimin doesn’t hear any actual humor in his tone. Thinks, if he listens hard enough, he identifies that low hanging, hollow sound to be closer towards sadness. 

Jeongguk’s silvery blond hair is twisting ribbons atop his head as spring wind continues to comb through his hair. He casts Jimin a quick rehearsed smile, the same one Jimin had seen him use that last evening at the lake. It lacks any actual warmth, and Jimin feels the chill of it from here as he gallops weakly beside the prince.

After a moment, they emerge into the clearing beside the lake. It looks different in the sunlight, less intimidating, much like the prince that’s still glued to his back. Jeongguk pauses, smiling up towards Jimin. “Tell me more about your kingdom,” He says suddenly. “Your kingdom of cities, Park Jimin.”

There’s that curiosity again, Jimin hears it hanging on the prince’s words as they approach the water. Jimin finds the strength to rock back against Jeongguk’s very firm chest, freezing only slightly at the touch. Spritz of warm freshwater splash against his cheek as small waves roll in. His hand darts up to pad it into his skin. He lets himself sigh, thinks about what he’s left. Feels a stone settle in the pit of his stomach.

“Like I said, it’s called Seoul and I’ve lived there my entire life,” He explains gently. “It’s full of giant silver buildings of metal that scrape the sky.”

He turns, watches as the prince’s large brown eyes widen, and his stomach flips at the sight. 

“There was an airport near my apartment growing up so sometimes, at night, I could feel the rumble of the planes as they land—” He pauses because he reads the confusion in Jeongguk eyes, but also mostly wonder. “Planes, they’re kind of like—” He pauses, chewing his cheek. “Imagine metal birds that fly people around in them.”

Jeongguk actually gasps, and Jimin has to suppress the giggle that captures his tongue. 

“That— that sounds—” Jeongguk begins, voice dying as he struggles to tack his own words. “That sounds magical.”

Jimin stiffens at his words, watching Jeongguk eerily. Jeongguk smiles, and it’s beautiful. He laughs a bit too, and that falls in soft melodies from his lips. 

“They probably told you not to mention that word around me,” He chuckles softly. He eyes Jimin sweetly, “I’m my father’s son, but not in every way. I’m not as much of an anti-magic asshole as him.” He pauses, chewing at his cheek.

Jimin nods, still apprehensive. 

Jeongguk has leapt from the horse, boots settling into the black sand with a crunch of his heel. He’s waddling forward towards the black licorice waves, despite the clear open sky above them. Jimin watches as the sunlight above him paints a gilded halo around his darkened silhouette as he approaches the shore. 

“My father would have your head for it, but I won’t,” He says turning back towards him. He cracks him another soft smile, soft enough to melt any apprehension that has chalked up in Jimin’s heart. “I promise.”

That feels solid enough, Jimin’s heart decides without him. He watches as Jeongguk reaches the shore; the toe of his boot suddenly soaked in sea foam. 

“So, you’re from a magical kingdom full of metal,” He continues, but this time his voice is cast over towards the lake. “What brings you to mine?” 

Jimin doesn’t answer, mostly because he thinks his tongue has swollen too big to find form. He wishes he knew, still getting used to this reality himself. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the fragile prince in front of him.

“Jeongguk—” He shakes his head. “Your Highness,” He corrects. “You have a lot of paperwork to finish.” 

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, a ghost of wind combing through his long, thick golden hair and Jimin forces himself to swallow down something thick that has caught in his throat.

“Jeongguk—” He catches himself. “Your Highness—”

Jeongguk turns towards him, golden skin cast bronze under the glow of the afternoon light. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a very large stick shoved up your ass?” He says with a chuckle on his lips as he waddles back towards him. He casts him a glowing smile and Jimin finds himself melting. Melting as Jeongguk tosses himself back onto the horse and settles back up, tightly against his back.

Then, his words register and Jimin frowns, bucking as the horse beneath his skis on rock as Jeongguk steers him back out towards the forest. He grapples at the horse’s brown mane. Small hands pulling as the horse bucks forward. Jeongguk turns and laughs, ringing like windchimes to Jimin’s ears. 

Jeongguk steers back, reaching out to settle the horse that’s jostling Jimin atop her. Eventually, with Jeongguk’s honey voice, and honey touch, she settles. Jimin rocks forward and settles, whispering out a thank you as Jeongguk smiles in return.

They make their way through the forest, the horse’s hooves clobbering against pebble and rock. Jimin feels as the prince behind him bounces atop the brown simmering horse. Watches as his own glossy black hair glimmers like silk under the hot sun.

This may not be real, but you are, he reminds himself. But reality begs itself differently as he succumbs to the freshness of the spring wind against his skin and the tickle of Jeongguk’s breath against his neck.

“Yoongi thinks I need a babysitter,” Jeongguk says eventually, voice casting up towards Jimin very suddenly. He reaches forward, hand reaching forward to lift a fallen emerald vine. Waiting for Jimin to duck under and he follows. “I don’t need a babysitter,” Jeongguk continues.

The clip clop of the horse hooves against the dirt echoes between the trees. Jimin studies it, letting the beat of the rhythm settle in his bones.

“I’m 24 years old,” Jeongguk pouts.

“24-year-olds do what they’re supposed to do,” Jimin says, shaking his head and ducking under a down branch. “24-year-olds don’t go hide in the forest away from their responsibilities and put someone’s new job in danger.”

Jeongguk turns to face him, face screwing up uncomfortably and Jimin turns back and watches as his mouth opens and closes as he struggles to piece together words. Jimin reads anger cut across his gaze, then frustration, but soon after he reads that same curiosity from the night before. 

“My whole life is nothing but responsibilities,” He breathes out, but he’s mostly speaking to himself, Jimin knows. “So what if I want to ride my horse for an afternoon? Don’t I deserve it?” 

Jimin recognizes the privilege dripping all over his words but chooses not to reply. This part of the forest, Jimin thinks, feels vaguely familiar. He thinks he can feel familiar energy beading through the tree bark that surrounds him. 

“Wait,” He blurts out. 

Jeongguk gasps, slightly, tugging at the horse’s reins as Tabitha halts beneath them. Jimin eyes the trees, eyes narrowing as he drinks in his surroundings. The drip of low hanging vines, the scattered pale rocks. It’s all the same, but if he’s in any way right, if this tugging in his chest suggests right, this tree; the unremarkable one that stands before them was the same one that got him here. 

“What’s wrong?” Jeongguk asks softly behind him.

Jimin blinks at it, drinks in the scuffed bark; the whistle of swinging green leaves and chalked up brown moss that paints its trunk. Draped in early morning light it lacks the blue pulsing magic that slipped from it last night. Jimin thinks he can still feel its pull as he blinks over at it with wide confused eyes. 

“I—” He begins. He grazes his eyes over it, swallowing thickly. “It’s nothing.” 

He can feel the tickle of Jeongguk’s breath at the nape of his neck. Then the hesitant buck of the horse beneath them as they slowly begin back past it. Never severing that pull in Jimin’s chest. Once they climb past it, he thinks he can finally breathe again, and so he melts back, falling slightly slack against Jeongguk’s chest.

“Last night,” Jeongguk murmurs, petting gently at the horse. “You haven’t told anyone about it have you?”

Jimin frowns, of course he hadn’t said anything. He twists his fingers through the horse’s mane, fingers curling through silky brown strands. “I told you I wouldn’t,” He replies. “If I made a promise, I intend to keep it. Why wouldn’t I?” 

Jeongguk doesn’t answer back; he’s squinting his eyes as the sun bleeds to his eyes. “Well not a lot of people are very honest with me,” He replies in a whisper. There’s hurt in his words, Jimin can hear that much. He watches as the young prince takes his fingers through the horse’s honey’s mane. 

“Well, I have no reason to lie,” Jimin replies softly. “Your secret is safe with me, Jeongguk.” He flashes him a brightened smile. “Your Highness,” He tacks on with a shake of his head. The words still feel very unreal on his tongue. He can feel Jeongguk’s energy beside him. Feel it bubble and peel in ripples of softening trust. 

“Your first day as my hand, we should have fun,” Jeongguk finally blurts after a moment.

“You have work to do,” Jimin says, shaking his head.

“I always have work to do,” Jeongguk says shaking his head. “Always have papers to sign. Always have meetings to attend. What’s wrong with one afternoon of fun?”

Out here, Jimin thinks he can breathe smoother than he’s breathed since landing here. Pressed tight against a foreign chest, but one that feels too safe for such unfamiliarity. But one he thinks he’s willing to learn. 

When Jimin returns to the kitchen, after an afternoon in the woods sat atop a clobbering horse, he hears the chatter first. He presses a hand to the cold wooden door and presses himself into a heated, but relatively quiet kitchen. A group of servants huddle around the wooden table in its center. Slurping gently around small bowls of ramen. Their eyes draw up to Jimin, and he freezes under their gaze.

“Jimin!” He hears Taehyung before he sees him. When his eyes finally catch him, he watches as Taehyung’s head of shiny black hair bobs up from the crowd. Eyes brightening as he beckons him closer to him. Jimin pads towards him, past ogling wide eyes until he reaches him. Taehyung smiles, cheeks stuffed as he pushes his bowl of ramen towards him.

Jimin mumbles out a thanks, plopping into a squeaking wooden chair beside him and he winces in the pain of strained muscles he never knew he had. Fingers wrapping gently around wooden chopsticks.

“You’ve had a long day,” Taehyung says gently, turning towards him.

Jimin scoops gently at the ramen into his mouth. He swallows letting the broth warm his tongue.

Then he’s coiling towards Taehyung. “Very long, yes,” He replies with a weak smile.

Taehyung smiles, but suddenly it drips into an irritated scowl. “You didn’t tell me you were a reader,” He says. Shoving at Jimin’s shoulder slightly and nearly knocking him from his seat. 

Jimin chokes, struggling to swallow as he turns his head back. He coughs, patting at his chest. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know,” He chuckles to himself slightly. “How was I supposed to know it’d be a big deal?” He presses back. He frowns, eyebrows knitting together. “I mean, I’ve written these sort of stories before I never thought about if the characters could read or not.” 

Taehyung’s expression is painted in frustration and fascination. His mouth falling agape as he gazes over at him softly. 

“So how was our baby prince today?” Hoseok chirps from across the table, mouth full of ramen.

The kitchen erupts into laughter, echoing from rounded walls, but Jimin wrinkles his nose.

“He was fine, actually,” Jimin retorts, spooning through the ramen.

“Of course, he was, he likes pretty boys,” Hoseok tacks on with jest. He spoons through his own ramen. “Pretty boys who can read him nice bedtime stories—”

“Hobi,” Taehyung warns gently, eyes narrowing.

Hoseok pauses, thinking as he chews roughly at his ramen. Then he’s dipping his eyes back down to his bowl “I’m just saying, he has a type.”

Jimin turns bright pink under the attention, choosing instead to detach from it and bury his gaze into the foggy red broth.

“He needs help writing his speeches,” Jimin finally replies, stirring his chopsticks through the noodles. “If I can be of any help—” 

“That kid runs through ‘hands’ like the seasons,” Hoseok says with a roll of his eyes. He crosses his arms across the table, just as Taehyung shoots him a vicious glare. “What?” Hoseok whines, arms flailing up defensively. “I’m just saying he needs to be careful.” 

The Jeongguk they’re describing doesn’t feel like the one he met today. The one who feels extraordinarily vulnerable, whose big brown eyes drip with an intangible sadness Jimin cannot place but is determined to smear. Prince Jeongguk, His Royal Highness, doesn’t feel like Jeon Jeongguk, the wide eyed young man who rambled on for a long amount of time over the dripping vines that crawled up the tree bark. Or who seemed to know exactly how his horse was feeling as he guided her through the thick wood. 

“He’s—” Jimin starts, trying his best to swallow his smile as he thinks of him. “He’s not dangerous or anything. In fact, I think he’s really nice—” 

“That’s what his last few hands said,” Hoseok scoffs, with a roll of his eyes.

The table quiets: soft whispers falling hush as the servants dart their eyes between Hoseok and a now wide eyed Jimin who blinks back at him with confuddled eyes. 

Jimin eventually gives in, ducking his eyes back down to his now cold ramen before he’s skirting it back towards Taehyung. 

“I’m not really hungry anymore,” He mumbles, the wooden bowl squealing across the tabletop. “I think I’m going to head up and go to sleep.” 

Taehyung’s mouth opens, dismissively, but eventually he melts. Nodding gently as he runs an affectionate hand across Jimin’s shoulder. 

“I’ll be up soon,” Taehyung replies softly. 

Jimin smiles weakly, tossing Hoseok one last smile before shuffling back out the kitchen door. When Jimin finally reaches outside the door he allows himself to breathe. Raking in heavy gulps of breath when he first hears their voices, wading through the sifting wooden door beside him. 

“He shows up completely out of the blue and you just trust him?” He hears. 

That’s Hoseok’s voice, he knows for sure. Seeped in uncertainty and a slight drunken drawl from his wine. 

There are murmurs of agreement echoing through the kitchen. Rounding past the doors and piercing right directly into Jimin’s heart. He winces when he hears a few more chime in agreement. 

“But the prophecy—” That voice is Taehyung’s, piercing through the bowels of hushed worries.

“Taehyung forget that made up prophecy and just think for a second, like a rational human being,” Hoseok continues. 

There is a tap at the table, tap against hollowed wood and the squeal of something crossing against it. A few hands pat on the table, and Jimin can only imagine it’s Hoseok rising to his feet. 

“Prophecies aren’t real, and neither is the magic. It’s gone, Taehyung,” Hoseok begins, voice echoing with certainty. “The old king made sure of that and it’s time for you to get out of your head.”

“Explain Jimin then?” Taehyung retorts, voice straining. “You cannot explain his appearance without understanding that magic is—” 

“The magic is gone, Taehyung!” Hoseok shouts back, but his tone is almost sad.

Jimin sucks in a worried breath. Eyes darting around the emptied dark hall of the kitchen hallway as he presses himself tighter against the wall. 

He can feel the press of energy from the kitchen. Feel the way it wades into a low numbing strain as chairs squeak and wooden bowls squeal. He thinks, if he tries hard enough, he can feel Taehyung’s energy as it deflates under Hoseok’s hostile attention. 

“You’re being really mean,” Taehyung finally chirps, and Jimin hears sadness dripping all over his tone. 

There is a pause, Jimin can what as the brown grandfather clock across from him murmurs and ticks in the echoed silence. He measures his breath as he counts them. 

“I’m not being mean, I’m being reasonable,” Hoseok replies, and there’s no malice in his tone whatsoever. Jimin thinks he can even hear pity. “I also don’t want anything to happen to you. You remember what the king would do to you.” 

“He’s not here anymore,” Taehyung answers sullenly. 

“But his son is,” Hoseok shoots back. 

“He’s nothing like him,” Taehyung answers through pouted lips.

There are a few more moments, then Hoseok speaks again. 

“You can’t trust someone you’ve never met before,” He mumbles through a frown.

“If the prince can, why can’t I?” Taehyung combats. 

There’s a pause, more echoed silence. More sounds of squeaking chairs and hollowed grandfather clock that rummages through time. 

He hears Taehyung part his lips, thinks he can even hear him smile. “And that’s the magic, isn’t it? Trust?” 

Madame Bu still dresses him, even though he protests. Still prepares his evening baths, lays freshly pressed nightgowns onto his bed each evening. He protests, because he’s an adult now. Well past the age where these amenities are required. His protests fall on deaf ears, as usual, as he gives into her maternal care because no matter his words, he can’t help but adore the attention.

Tonight, however, she’s preparing his tea. Jeongguk hears the clank of the metal spoon as she stirs sugar into his mug. Jeongguk raises his arms, waiting as one of his younger maidens goes to unbutton his dress shirt, then shuffles from the room in quiet haste. He stares at himself in the mirror, past long tresses of silky blond hair and exposed collarbones, unable to swallow the smile currently tugging at his cheeks. 

“You’re very cheerful, Your Highness,” Madame Bu giggles, as she emerges from his bathroom, nightshirt folded in hand. 

Jeongguk’s smile grows, despite reason. His head falls back, eyeing the crimson ceiling as he tries to tack his thoughts. “It’s nothing it’s just—” He pauses, swallowing his tongue as he feels his cheeks flame. “No really, it’s nothing.” 

He doesn’t know why he feels like this; wonders where this current flush of joy is stemming from, but he welcomes it all the same. Welcomes the way it settles in his belly and warms up his chest to kiss his cheeks. Warms him up for once in his life. He thinks of the color of Jimin’s permanently rosy cheeks and flushes again at the thought. 

“Look how pink you are,” Madame Bu giggles again, crossing from the ornate dresser back towards him, silken dressing gown in hand. 

Jeongguk turns from her, shielding his face, “Am not,” He pouts. 

Madame Bu swats at his hand gently, and he follows, lifting his arms again only to let her reach up to drop his dressing gown over his head and slip onto his body. 

“I know infatuation when I see it,” His maiden smiles cheekily, reaching forward to flatten his hair. Then gently, she cups at his cheeks. 

Jeongguk brightens as he blinks back at her, his own head toppling as he tries his best to digest her words. 

“Infatuation?” He asks, words sounding clunky as he speaks.

The fireplace across from them crackles, sending sparks of red and gold up from crisping logs and tickles at Jeongguk’s bare toes. 

“I’ve known you for very long, dear, I think I can read you well enough. I think I know when you’re happy,” She smiles, old, friendly face wrinkling up. She pats his face one more time before crossing over his room towards his drawer as she folds gently at his clothes. 

Jeongguk fidgets where he stands, suddenly very aware of every limb in his body and his sudden ability to use them. His arms flail beside him, bare feet padding in place on the floor as he lifts his fingers to chew weakly at his nails. He watches as Madame Bu finishes folding his clothes. His own words congested on his tongue as he opens his mouth to speak, voice stunted. 

“This isn’t coronation excitement, because who would be excited about that?” She laughs, now pouring him a glass of water. Then she turns around, meeting a still awkward Jeongguk who gapes over at her with desperate eyes. “So, I can only wonder,” She pauses, dropping her voice low enough that it stays between them two and only them two. Low enough to evade the ear of the two-armed guards who linger just outside his bedroom door. 

“Who is the young man who has you so flushed?” She asks quietly, with a smile. 

Jeongguk exhales, breath hot. He can feel his eyes shake, then he’s snapping his mouth shut again, jaw straining. Madame Bu crosses over the room back towards him, placing his glass onto his bedside table. Then she’s turning back to him, eyes warm as she speaks.

“It doesn’t have to be like last time,” She whispers gently. 

Jeongguk gulps, shaking his head. “I don’t even know him,” He croaks back, shaking his head. “He shows up at the lake, out of the blue almost as if—” 

“As if by magic,” Madame Bu replies, dipping her eyes to chase for Jeongguk’s attention.

Jeongguk thinks he identifies this feeling, the warm one rushing down his throat to warm his chest to be fear. Then relief, washing white hot across his ribs and burying into his heart. 

“We’re not supposed to talk about that,” Jeongguk says shaking his head. 

Madame Bu chuckles, softly. “Says who?” She asks. “The King?” She tacks on, this time with a hearty laughter. 

Jeongguk can help but laugh himself, her words baking in his chest as he reaches up to swatch at damp eyes. 

“And I wonder who that’ll be in a few weeks?” Madame Bu continues lightly. 

Jeongguk smiles, letting his legs give out as he falls with a slump onto the bed below him. It rocks under his weight, squeaking as he looks up at her with wide, brown eyes. “Magic doesn’t exist anymore,” He retorts. “Great grandfather made sure of that.” 

He doesn’t know who he is talking to, because he’s mostly talking to himself. He hasn’t done any magic in years, and he wonders if maybe, finally, he’s learned how to successfully suppress it.

Madame Bu crosses to sit beside him, reaching forward to twist her fingers through his soft blond hair. Jeongguk purrs under her touch, eyes fluttering closed as he allows himself to fall victim to her maternal touch. He can’t recall his mother ever doing this, something this far from protocol. 

“You can’t get rid of something that always has been, Jeongguk,” She says gently. Brushing golden hair from his eyes. “Magic, anger, love,” She pauses and Jeongguk’s eyes open at the sudden halt in movement. “Always has been, always will be.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t want to believe in magic, even if it pulses through his own veins. Even if he thinks he feels it when he looks into Jimin’s eyes. Or watches the way the brunette rolls his eyes at his dumb jokes. Or the way he always seemed to have the right words, the right cadence, the right touch. 

“He’s my hand,” Jeongguk hums. “And I’m engaged, remember?” 

Madame Bu smiles, patting at his cheek. “It doesn’t have to be like last time.” 

It doesn’t feel like last time, at least. This feels too instant, almost predestined. There’s no explanation for him to be succumbing to these butterflies so quickly. Especially not for his hand. Madame Bu reaches towards him and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek, rising to her feet and crosses back to his door. She bends to blow at his torch when she hears his voice cut through the dimmed bedroom. 

“I haven’t done any magic since the last time, that evening,” He mumbles, voice slightly muffled by the pillow beside his head. There’s a pause, mostly Jeongguk holding his own breath as he lets it burn through his lungs. “Goodness, I think I’ve held it in so long I’ve barely let myself feel like me. All this ice in my fingers—” He lifts his hands up, curling his fingers around in the dark.

Then he turns his head to Madame Bu, blinking through the darkness.

“Want to know a secret?” Jeongguk asks, because he’s succumbed to this feeling of submission, if only for a moment. He blinks again, eyes shiny, then he’s smiling up at Madame Bu, suddenly feeling very much like the young kid prince he was just a few short years ago. “I saw a real life, woodland fae.” 

Madame Bu halts; it’s one thing to play into myth, another to hear of its accounts firsthand. Jeongguk thinks he can read the panic in her eyes. 

“A—a woodland fae?” She stutters. 

Jeongguk smiles, tucking his face into his pillow. “I couldn’t believe it either. It was that night on the lake. Jimin shows up, out of the blue and beside him I see flying right by his ear— a woodland fae. Little furry blue body whizzing about through the air.” He hums, breathing in the fresh lavender Madame Bu must’ve smeared across his sheets. “It was incredible. I’d only ever seen them in those old textbooks. It was just like—”

“Magic,” Madame Bu finishes, but it’s laced with such disbelief Jeongguk’s eyes open at their arrival. He peers over at her, as she drapes herself across the doorframe. Eyeing him in shocked, panicked, disbelief. 

Jeongguk thinks he feels it too, but he chooses instead to swallow it down. “Every part of my magic started lighting up. That ice in my fingers came back.” He pauses, licking his lips, then he bites nervously. “What does this mean, Madame Bu?” 

Madame Bu gapes at him, and Jeongguk can read the disbelief in her eyes. After a moment, she smiles, delivering him a curt nod, still nervous as she opens the door. 

“I think it means…” She pauses, biting her lip. “Something might be coming, Jeongguk. And we’ve got to be ready for it when it does.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t understand what she means, but he sees both fear and uncertainty in her eyes. 

“Good night, Jeongguk,” She exhales, but there’s tension in it, binding. “Sleep well.” 

When Jimin wakes, the sun is a lot brighter than he’s used to. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this sun, the way it blares and glitters with flecks of shimmering gold in his eyes. He reaches up to cover his eyes, rolls over to peek towards Taehyung’s bed to find it, freshly made. His eyes narrow as he leans up, combing his eyes over fluffed pillows and squared sheets. Eyes over the bright glittering sun that’s darting sun blotches across their cream-colored room then, his heart sinks.

“Oh shit,” He breathes out, tripping over his sheet as he scrambled towards the poorly folded uniform, he’d sloppily tossed over his chair last night.

He stumbles into the packed kitchen a few minutes later, feet clobbering against the wooden floor. Yoongi turns to face him, eyebrow quirked up as Jimin rounds around the metal table towards Taehyung who is standing obediently in the congested group of waiting servers.

Jimin slides beside him, squirming as he feels Taehyung prod at his side.

“Where were you?” Taehyung presses.

Jimin is still tucking his shirt into his pants, past missed belt loops.

“I overslept,” He grumbles. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes, “I don’t know your schedule. You’re the prince’s hand now.” He pauses, lips quirking slightly. “You’re special, who knows what your special schedule may be—”

Yoongi is beckoning him now, and Jimin dips into a nod as he stumbles towards him. Tugging at his own sloppily tucked collar as he shoots Taehyung one last nervous smile as he follows Yoongi back out the kitchen door. 

“Mr. Park,” Yoongi says as they begin down the packed hallway. 

Jimin trips as he follows behind him, mind too far away for this early in the morning. He shakes it, brushes off uncombed hair as it falls past his ears, tickling at the nape of his neck.

Yoongi is nearly jogging, strutting down the hallway, coiling past right corners. 

Jimin heaves out a breath, lips loose as he reaches down to rugged at a scrunched-up arm of his sleeve. 

“You were late,” Yoongi continues, turning another corner. Past a group of huddled servants who scrub at the glossy wood floor. Jimin chokes out a nervous laugh as he trails behind him gently. They reach the two wide maple doors of Jeongguk’s office and Jimin takes this moment to swallow in a breath. Yoongi is glaring at him with narrowed eyes, eyeing him suspiciously.

“It won’t happen again,” Jimin exhales through staggered breath. “I promise.”

Yoongi probably doesn’t believe him. His eyes are still narrowed, chest boasted out. Then he’s rolling his eyes, shoving a sloppily shifted stack of papers into Jimin’s arms.

“I trust he’s been giving you grace,” Yoongi frowns.

Jimin croaks, shifting his weight as he settles back on his heels. The paper sloshing around in his arms. “He’s been—” He begins with a smile. “We’re working on it.”

Yoongi again, doesn’t believe him. Jimin can read the annoyance as it colors his eyes. “Well, he seems to like you,” He says cautiously dismissive. “He tends to be picky.”

 Jimin’s heart spikes at that. He thinks he can feel his cheeks flushing, burning as he brightens under the praise. “Does he really?”

That piques Yoongi’s interest; his eyes are back on Jimin as he combs them over him again. This time, laced with a little more apprehension than before. Jimin shrinks under him, watching the way his eyes dance across him. 

“He does,” Yoongi replies, very slowly. As if measuring his words a little closer now. Another short breath and he’s turning back towards the door. “I trust you don’t need my help to find the office door.” He says. 

Jimin smiles, but his cheeks still burn as he considers why the prince would trust him so quickly. Yoongi beckons him towards the door with a subtle nod. Jimin returns it, watching as Yoongi reaches forward, and opens it. Jimin slips in, head bowed as he struts into the office. Winding around as the door closes behind him with a snap. 

Here, in the sanctity of the office, alone, he doesn’t think he feels panic again. 

He listens as the clock on the left-hand wall clicks along the seconds. Breathes in stuffy air as he pads towards the desk, planting the stack of papers on it with a sigh. Here, in the sanctity of this office, where the air seems thicker and the regality drips from every corner, he thinks this could very well be as close to peace as he’s felt since he’s arrived in this very, very strange place.

He shuffles the papers atop the desk accordingly, head suddenly lifting when he feels a pair of big brown eyes glaring at him from across the office. Jimin can only assume the large oil painting that peers down at him from across the office can only be Jeongguk’s father. His eyes, however, are colder than Jeongguk’s; sharper. 

There’s something vicious in them, Jimin can’t tack what it is exactly, but he shrinks under the displaced, inhuman gaze. Wonders if Jeongguk’s eyes will get sharper over time; if swells of honey and warm chocolate will freeze as he ages on the throne. Wonders if he’s looking at the young prince’s future.

Jimin’s back is to the door, peering over at one of the bookcases when he hears footsteps outside the door, a pause, then the swish of maple doors against the carpet as Jeongguk stumbles in. He turns, suddenly, watching a red-eyed Jeongguk saunter in quickly. Hair fluffy and disheveled as he plops down into his chair with a groan. He eyes the papers on the desk, nose sniffling as he coasts his eyes across it, then, he raises his eyes to meet Jimin’s. “Good morning,” He breathes out, voice cracking. 

Jimin hesitates, head cocking slightly as he combs them over Jeongguk wearily. He knows sadness when he sees it; has worn the mask well himself for as long as he can remember. “Good morning, Jeongguk,” He replies softly, voice careful as he trips his gaze over him. He takes a step closer, feet squeaking against the freshly cleaned carpet. “Are you okay?” 

Jeongguk freezes, surprised, as he clutches at one of the folders in his hand. He keeps his eyes down, lashes fluttering awkwardly as if doing their best to contain the tears Jimin knows are threatening at his eyes. 

Jeongguk doesn’t answer, he dives into one of the folders, reading over Jimin’s work as he flips the pen across his knuckles. Jimin watches him, edging closer to him and stopping just in front of his desk. From this close, Jimin can definitely taste the sadness on him. The smudge of fresh tears, smeared on his cheeks. 

His tongue presses to the back of his teeth, worry colored on it. He wants to say something, he doesn’t know what, or how, but it’s there and it’s burning. Jeongguk scribbles something in the corner of the parchment. “Most of my hands just… leave when I do this,” Jeongguk explains. “This is the boring part.”

Jimin is eyeing him with suspicious eyes, as if he’s weighing something in his mind. After a moment, he opens his mouth. “Work is only as boring as you let it be,” He mumbles, noticing Jeongguk’s diversion and allowing it. He turns on his heel and hovers over towards the window, sliding open the velvet curtains. He lingers at it, eyeing the sprawling courtyard, and Jeongguk watches him, watches his eyes comb outside. Past the forest where they’d met, out towards the shimmering lake outside.

Jeongguk’s fingers catch at the top right corner of his desk, watching them trace the carvings dig into its side.

“You were looking at my library, when we came in,” Jeongguk blurts out suddenly. Jimin blushes and it’s just as stunning draped in sunlight, Jeongguk notes. It bleeds from the apples of his cheeks up towards his ears. Coloring them the sweetest shade of bubblegum pink.

“About that—” Jimin begins defensively.

“Don’t,” Jeongguk says, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize.” He abandons the stack of papers on his desk and rises to his feet. When he turns, he faces his bookshelf, combs his fingers along the spines of the books.

“You like to read?” He asks.

Jimin hesitates for a moment, before slowly taking a few small steps towards him. “I guess you can say that,” Jimin explains softly. His voice is distant as he speaks. He pauses. “I’m a writer,” He finishes with another blush. “Can’t be a good writer if you’re not a good reader.” Then he frowns, “Not a lot to read in this palace though.”

It’s Jeongguk’s turn to blush, it bleeds from his cheeks and down his neck. When he looks up, he winces, a shrug on his shoulders, “I guess you could say that.” 

Jimin has crossed back near him, and Jeongguk smiles.

Jeongguk pauses thinking, mouth opening as if to speak, then snapping it shut, very suddenly. “I have a few notes one what you wrote,” Jeongguk says, ushering him back towards the desk. 

Jimin follows, watching as Jeongguk beckons him to sit in his leather-bound chair. He hesitates, but Jeongguk insists. Head flailing as he pulls the chair out for him, hand waving gently down towards it. 

Jimin hesitates, then he sinks, slowly into the seat. He doesn’t know what he expects; it’s not as if he’s sitting on a throne. He switches his hips as he fights to find comfort. Jeongguk is above him, beaming, pressing a series of pens towards him. 

“I’m not supposed to have anyone sit in the chair,” Jeongguk whispers to him, obviously thrumming with excitement. “It’s cool though, right?” 

Jimin nods back, but he thinks he mostly feels fear. Teeth chattering slightly in his jaw as he clutches at a pen, thumbing over the paper in front of him.

This may not be real, but you are. 

“I have a meeting with a few members of Parliament in two days at noon,” Jeongguk finally mumbles, leaning down to flick aimlessly through the stack of papers on his desk. “But today I have meetings to prepare for that meeting.”

Jimin nods, but he is still scribbling at the notepad in front of him. After a moment, he looks up, smiling. “I don’t like meetings, too stuffy and formal,” He says gently. Then he’s turning back to the paper, “Like why call for an entire collection of people for something that could be stated in an email?” 

Jeongguk is gazing at him with an unreadable, warm expression. He scoffs slightly, but there isn’t any animosity in it. His eyes are too laced with curiosity for that. They stay on Jimin as he folds back into his chair. “You’re really funny,” He laughs out breathily, almost drunkenly as if under a spell. 

Again, Jimin blushes under the praise, breaking their conjoined gaze as he darts his own back down to the paper and scratches nervously at it. “Well, I can stay here. Gives me a little bit more time to read over everything while you’re gone.” 

“No,” Jeongguk snaps. It’s an order, but Jimin doesn’t think he means it to be. He watches the way the young prince flushes at his own word. Watches as he ducks his head back to his desk, long strands of blond hair sweeping over his eyes. “I uh, I mean,” He continues, a little softer this time. “I mean, it’s your duty to be at my side until I release you for the night.” He gulps, and Jimin tracks the way his throat bobs with it. 

“Right,” He answers, pressing the pen back to the paper. “I’m your hand and all.” 

Jeongguk nods with it, almost melting with an awkwardness Jimin thinks may be invading his own chest. 

“Right, my hand,” Jeongguk repeats. He’s crossing over the office until he meets the window. His fingers thumb through the soft yellow curtains. Peeling it back as he winces out and down into the gardens. 

“They’re going to build a monument for my father,” He finally croaks after a moment of silence. “That’s what this stupid meeting is about.”

Jimin smiles, leaning back into his chair. “That sounds nice,” He replies gently. “I’m sure he deserves it very much.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is still tossed out of the window, down to the lush gardens below. Jimin can see the way his very broad back tenses or a moment, then a nervous hand flies up to comb through his hair. “I mean, I guess so,” Jeongguk finally says, but his words are feather light. He winces from the sun again. “I guess you could say that.” 

Jimin bites at his own tongue, “Where I’m from, our late great leaders get lots of things in their name. Highways, museums, libraries—” 

“Libraries?” Jeongguk asks, coiling around. “For the public?”

Jimin lurches back slightly, startled, “Uh, yeah?” He searches Jeongguk’s face, only to find genuine shock, then confusion as it colors across his face. Then after a moment, he feels his own eyebrows twist up. “Are you telling me there are no libraries here?” 

Jeongguk’s face contorts, as if there’s a hint of disgust on his tongue. Then he’s shaking his head. “There’s libraries of course, tons of them in the palace—” 

“I mean, for your people?” Jimin says and he can’t help himself, suddenly realizing just why Yoongi was so amused by his own admission of his ability to read. “Can your people visit them? Borrow books?” 

Jeongguk gapes at him, face etched into a subtle frown as he thinks very intensely. Jimin can smell traces of anger and confusion as they wrestle through him. Watches the way the sun is now painting his face in slabs of golden noon tint. Jeongguk is now crossing his arms, mouth falling slack as he very obviously attempts to measure his words. “Reading is a privilege,” He finally answers. There’s isn’t any malice in these words, but he states them as if they were fact. 

“Yes, it is,” Jimin replies, chest heating up. “But it doesn’t have to be.” He pauses, sucking in a breath. “Reading is… magic, Jeongguk. Everyone deserves that.”

This time, Jeongguk’s face is mostly uncomfortable. As if he’s been faced with an emotion he hasn’t been forced to confront before. After a moment, he’s turning back to the window, entire face engulfed in light. He doesn’t wince this time. 

There is a moment that hangs between them. Jimin counts the seconds, past the clicking clock that hangs above him. Or the padding of feet down the hallway outside the door. He counts the heavy breaths Jeongguk is drinking in. Counts how many times he watches the prince’s back rise and fall before he hears, with slow reprieve, his mouth part. 

“I will have lunch, then you are to escort me to my first meeting,” He deadpans. He doesn’t turn around, but Jimin knows he’s itching to. Can see the pinks of his fingertips as he pinches absentmindedly at the elbow of his black suit jacket. After a moment, he watches the prince give in, coiling around to meet Jimin’s eyes. Jeongguk’s aren’t any warmer, or softer. In fact he thinks they’ve hardened ever so slightly. 

“Understood?” He presses, a little more pointed than before. 

Jimin nods, pulling on a gentle smile. “Understood.”

Out here, the sun shines bright and blinding but it doesn’t burn. 

Jimin marvels at it, as he dunks his white blouse into the water, marvels at the delicate way the sun kisses his skin, honeys it, but never scars it red. This artificial sun, in all its magical glory feels too good to be true in every sense of the word. Taehyung is across from him, scrubbing gently at his own clothes. He’d taken them to the nearby river to wash their clothes. Says he prefers to spend his weekend afternoons out here away from the palace but still in its shadows. 

“Gives me time to breathe, doing something for myself for once,” He told him as they stumbled down the grassy hill to the sound of gurgling spring water as it slapped at the shore. 

In his few weeks he’s been here, Jimin has grown accustomed to his new reality. The one where he wakes up to this artificial sun, walks down freshly pressed carpet. Past armored guards in a giant gilded palace to meet a young prince in an office where they never seem to work as much as they should. Jimin has found himself smiling a lot more than he’s ever been used to. Being whisked to different parts of this seemingly never-ending palace. Has found himself laughing and swallowing back giggles more than he’s ever thought imaginable at the young prince’s foolish words.

In his short time here, Jimin has felt more alive in a reality that shouldn’t be real. In his short time here, he thinks he’s succumbing to its pretenses, his real reality; the one with a fiancé, a job, a family that probably wonders where he is feels far too distant to still be real. 

He dunks his blouse back into the water, then he’s looking up at Taehyung. He’s standing awkwardly, brown corduroy pants rolled up to his knee as he splashes his own clothes down into the water. “Taehyung,” Jimin mumbles, but Taehyung doesn’t hear him. His eyes are very much glued to the bundle of clothes in his hands as he splashes the blue again. 

“Taehyung,” Jimin presses. This time, Taehyung lifts his head, dark brown sticking to his forehead as he wipes at it gently. 

“Yes?” He answers shallowly, squeezing at his top. 

Jimin hesitates, fingers circling the water, cool under the pads of his fingers. He breathes out, awkwardly, “I was just thinking,” He murmurs. 

“That’s good, my mother always said thinking is the best thing you could do,” Taehyung laughs softly, darting from the sun as it splinters down through whistling leaves. “Keep that brain running.” 

Jimin smiles, but it’s hollow. He focuses on the gentle caress of the water beneath his hands, does his best to clutch it, letting it run through soft open fingers. “I’ve been here a while and I was just thinking,” He pauses, breath staggered. Then he raises his eyes to meet Taehyung’s. “You keep telling me about this prophecy, this weird magic oath thing—” 

Taehyung chuckles, waddling awkwardly towards a rock and plopping down on it. His feet are still submerged in the water, wading his toes through the warm water beneath him. “It sounds a lot grander than it really is,” He tells him, folding his wet top onto the rock beside him. “Centuries ago, there was magic everywhere. According to my great grandmother, you could feel it. Buzzing, pulsing.” 

Taehyung’s words ebb with suspense. Jimin watches as he gestures wildly, droplets of water sprinkle from the tips of his fingers. “Creatures lived in these woods, we had witches, warlocks, seers,” He smiles as he points towards his own green eye.

Jimin laughs with him, finding his way to the shore and squatting down towards the sand. Taehyung’s eyes dart around the woods awkwardly, then he’s looking back towards him, leaning in. 

“Magic was in abundance, everywhere,” He continues softly. “We even had schools for it. That’s where my great grandmother learned what she did.” He pauses, hesitating.

“Our people were hungry though, food was scarce. Hunting prohibited. Down at the capitol we had trading, but it was done directly through the royal family. Prices were sky high, no one could afford that,” Taehyung growls bitterly. “Got bad enough people resorted to eating our dead.” 

Jimin’s stomach drops, and he lurches back. “That’s horrific,” He gasps. 

Taehyung’s eyes darken, “Yeah, it was terrible. A literal living nightmare. Me and any of the other help being here is a miracle because our people were down bad. Very bad.” 

Jimin can hear the anger in his voice, listens as Taehyung attempts to tame it. He can’t tame the fury currently broiling on his expression. He scowls, eyes on the water as he watches it crash against the rock beneath him, painting it dark. 

“For hundreds of years our people starved while everyone in that palace lived immaculately large.” 

Jimin understands envy, because he felt it himself every day of his life. Understands swallowing it down as he walked from school to work at 16. When his hands were always dry and achy from a long day at work but still had enough power in them to help his sister finish her homework at night. Envy of the powerful, of the privileged, he thinks, is always justified. 

“Our people didn’t have much, but we did have magic. And with magic, you have freedom,” Taehyung tacks on with a slight smile. “We had the witches, they did their best for us, but the main rule of magic is—” He pauses, smiling. “Just as you cannot take away what has always been, you cannot create something where there’s nothing. Magic comes from the earth, an exchange. Cannot create food where there is none. There has to be balance.” 

Jimin follows his words closely, mesmerized by the way the water kisses at his toes. The sun above him is still pressing warm caresses to his skin, wind splaying his dark hair up and out above him in tangles of ribbons. 

“So, angry, our people demanded justice, stormed the palace, demanded justice from our king,” Taehyung continues. He pauses, pursing his lips, wading his feet in the water. “Hunger heeds success, I think. Only so much one can do, only so far one can go on empty stomachs,” His voice hitches, then he’s tossing his gaze back out to the water. 

There is a moment between them, enough time to memorize the sounds of the forest buzzing around them. Eventually, Jimin speaks. “So he punished you,” He guesses, but it feels right to say. Enough so that he continues. “Banished magic from the kingdom?” 

Taehyung nods, clicking his tongue softly, “You got that right,” He replies bitterly. He turns his head, and Jimin thinks he sees glossy tear strung eyes. 

“But why? Why ban magic?” Jimin asks, mouth agape as he swishes around in the water. 

“Because magic, just like the books he later burned in fear that we’d ever remember what he did,” Taehyung continues, voice warm as he breathes very slowly into his words. “They bring people hope, Jimin. And with hope, hope that something could be better than whatever they’re living right now… is a threat to absolute power.” 

Jimin gapes at him, chest suddenly feeling very tight, nose running hot as he blinks over at Taehyung in a confused gaze of worry. He clenches his jaw uncomfortably, nose scrunching up before he speaks. “And what does that have to do with me?” He asks, voice slightly dying. “Why am I here? Why was I brought here?” 

Taehyung cocks his head as he peers over at him, “You can try to get rid of magic, but not every bit of it. There are strings of it everywhere. Bleeds into the fabric of a place, into the people. Through realities. Hope does that,” He says softly. 

He kicks his feet through the water. “This eye has been in my family for centuries, has seen a lot of things. My great, great, grandmother had it too said she saw a foreigner coming in. A piece of our magic that was stored away in another world for safe keeping. Saw them returning and bringing magic back to the kingdom.” 

“Am I that foreigner?” Jimin presses, slightly panicked at the sudden realization that centuries of hope hung on his very small shoulders. He’s never felt special enough to have this much reason for existing. Taehyung doesn’t answer immediately, he stands up, goes to dunk the rest of his clothes into the water. It takes a moment before he speaks again. 

“How much do you miss your home?” He asks softly. “How much do you miss him?”

Jimin thinks of Jeongguk, wonders what the prince must be up to right now in that giant gilded palace through the trees. Wonders if he ever gets to spend an afternoon in bed. Maybe he’s shuffling through the papers Jimin had left him the night before. Again, in that lonely office, under the stagnant, frozen gaze of his father’s oil painting to keep him company. Jimin’s chest aches and he thinks it’s yearning.

Then it strikes him very suddenly, the him he was supposed to be thinking about. Jimin curses himself; he misses normalcy, the comfort Namjoon gave him. He misses his sister, he thinks, somewhere in the trauma invested cobwebs called his heart he misses his mother. He misses waking up in his bed, covered by fluffy sheets that smell like pale perfume and spilled coffee. He misses walking to his local coffee shop to write, but mostly observing the world around him. He misses reality, no matter how stitched to this one he thinks he’s becoming. No matter the fact that he thinks he owes the majority of that to the charming young prince who seems to adore him just as much as he feels he may adore him. 

Jimin doesn’t answer him, but Taehyung knows he doesn’t need to. Hums to himself as he goes to dip his blouse into the soapy water. 

“I was born in this palace,” Taehyung murmurs. 

Jimin halts, eyes widening as he peers at him through the sift of hanging cloth between them as a breeze whistles past. He sees Taehyung peering back at him, face contorted in a smile. “Lots of the help was born here. Working here is as much as an ancestral monarchy as that crown.” 

Jimin’s fingers have reduced to prunes, but he keeps them submerged into the soapy water beneath him. Splashing around now cooling water as it laps at the shore. 

“I’ve never seen outside this, or these trees,” Taehyung continues with a nod of his head. “But you show up here out of thin air.” He smiles as he scrubs gently at the pants. “As if by magic. And you bleed hope everywhere. On everything you touch. Scooped up by the prince almost immediately. As if it were already written,” He pauses again, face twisted up in a smile. “So, I don’t know, Jimin, you tell me. What do you think?”

Jimin’s heart is swelling, he casts his eyes down to the browning water, follows swirls of caramel-colored bubbles, soaking the pants in his hands. He thinks they would match Jeongguk’s eyes. Fuck, not Jeongguk. Namjoon. His fiancé, Namjoon. His fiancé in a reality that seems to be slipping away like these bubbles between his fingers. “Is that why you trust me so much?” Jimin whispers weakly, fingers still draping through the chilled water. “Because of magic?” 

Taehyung pauses, chewing on his cheek. “Is that not enough?” 

Soft wind howls between them, and Jimin wades in it. This place may not be real, but you are, Jimin reminds himself, but that’s beginning to feel like as much a dream as anything.

Jeongguk, is a boy who never stops moving, Jimin has learned from his many times in his office. He’s usually fidgeting, or swaying, or humming gently as he taps his pen against the wooden desk in rhythmic intervals as Jimin recounts back the words written across his paper. 

Today, he’s opted for tea outside. Up on a stone balcony that overlooks the lush grounds of the sprawling palace gardens. This view, Jimin thinks, is archaically romantic as he places a hand atop the cold stone banister to lean over slightly to gaze down at one of the servants trimming at the bushes. He thinks he can smell fresh daylilies as they swirl forgotten in the prickling fountain that spits out against marble. 

He breathes in a breath, still not acquainted with this air, but lets it settle fresh in his lungs. This view, he thinks, mesmerizing and captivating, is enough to get used to. No matter how real or unreal it may be. 

When he settles down into his seat, he finds Jeongguk is staring over at him with those strangely captivated eyes. Drinking him in as if the view beside him isn’t enough. Jimin blushes under it, ducking his eyes to skip through the small stack of parchment he’d sat on the yellow tablecloth. 

“Uh,” He chokes out. “There’s a few things we have to go over before your trip in a few days.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t answer immediately, he blinks once, very slowly, before leaning down to plop a sugar cube into his fragile porcelain cup. 

“Ah yes, the commonwealth trip,” Jeongguk says, slightly groaning. “Yoongi says it should be easy, I’ve done speeches like this before.” 

Jimin scribbles something onto the paper, then he’s looking up. “Yes, that’s right, however,” He scribbles again, then he’s looking up, meeting Jeongguk’s eyes. “You’re speaking to your people, it should mean a little bit more to you than just another speech,” Jimin murmurs gently. His eyes are back on the paper, ears prickling to the sound of his pen scratching across the parchment. But he can feel the heat of Jeongguk’s gaze, tugging his eyes back up to meet. 

He caves, looking up and Jeongguk is staring back at him. Gaze cast in subtle confusion as if his last words weren’t clear enough. Jimin lets out a sigh, setting his pen down on the table. He watches as it rolls a little on the tablecloth, catching on the teacup with a soft clang. 

“What I’m saying is,” He begins, but he isn’t too sure he knows what he’s saying. He knows what he’s feeling. That same tugging sensation that’s been tightening every day since he’s arrived, as if binding him here to this land, to this air, to this bright-eyed boy across from him. 

“These people should have more capital in your empathy than any of those parliament men you meet with,” Jimin continues gently. He thumbs at the handle of the teacup, staring down into it as the tea bag stains the water inside it copper. “Your coronation speech isn’t just another speech.” He pauses, drinks in another lungful of fresh air. “This coronation isn’t just a celebration of you. It’s a celebration of this kingdom as a whole. Commonwealth included.” 

He dares to glance up and meet Jeongguk’s eyes, expecting anger but is only met with an unreadable, soft gaze. He thinks he can hear the gears in the prince’s brain churning as he chews at his cheek. “I don’t know… invest in that. Invest in your people,” Jimin says softly, words carried on the wind that combs between them. “They make up this kingdom. Not just you. Not just stuffy men in suits.”

Jeongguk looks as if he wants to respond, mouth falling slack, but then he snaps it shut. Hand reaching forward to his teacup and pulls it to his lips. Jimin dives back down to his paper, but he can still feel Jeongguk’s eyes as they bore over across from him. 

“Stop staring at me,” He mumbles, eyes never lifting from the paper. 

“I’m not staring at you,” Jeongguk retorts with a laugh. 

This time, Jimin does lift his eyes to meet him. Squinting slightly as he darts away from the sun that bleed gold behind Jeongguk’s head across the balcony. 

“We have work to do,” Jimin says. “Mostly me, I have work to do. This speech is really important, Jeongguk.” 

He watches the way Jeongguk’s lips quirk up into a playful smile. “I’m sorry I’m acting like a kid,” He hums, leaning forward to straighten his back. “Where do we begin?” 

Jimin eyes him suspiciously, smelling the playful nature on him. He narrows his eyes, pushing the teacup aside and sliding the papers towards him.

The breath Jimin releases a few days later, is reserved, mostly because it chunks up in his lungs before he can exhale. His eyes trail up, wide and colored with wondered awe as he steps into the ballroom in front him.

“I just want to make sure we ordered the appropriate number of daylilies,” Yoongi breathes, scribbling on his clipboard. He turns towards another advisor, mumbling something Jimin can’t make out, but he doesn’t think he wants to. Right now, he is truly relishing the splendor of being in an actual ballroom. This one, ripped straight from a fairytale and planted in all its massive, obtuse glory.

They stroll past a few ornately carved gilded columns, and Jimin must bite his tongue not to reach out and touch them. They stop near the far east corner, past an open window that is currently spilling silver moonlight onto the glossy marble floor. 

“If there isn’t enough, I’ll call the florist tomorrow to make sure,” Another advisor murmurs, and Yoongi scribbles again.

From the corner of Jimin’s eyes, he thinks he sees Jeongguk smiling over at him. He ignores that, choosing instead to continue scribbling at his own notepad. Jimin feels like his wading atop ocean water.

“It’s cool, isn’t it?” Jeongguk whispers, nudging him gently in his side.

Jimin’s eyes finally dart up to meet the prince’s, and when he does, he melts. “Uh yeah it is,” He answers, with a nervous laugh. 

Jeongguk is still gazing at him sweetly, opening his mouth to respond then Yoongi is turned towards them.

“I trust you’ve been keeping you your notes, Park,” Yoongi is mumbling to him. 

Jimin blinks, nodding dumbly as he presses his notebook against his chest. 

“His Royal Highness has a fairly big speech coming up for his commonwealth trip, but we’ve got to tackle this Parliament meeting first,” Yoongi continues, eyes darting between the two. 

Jimin tries to keep his eyes on Yoongi but can feel Jeongguk’s gaze burning into him. “I’m pretty good at writing persuasive essays,” Jimin gleams brightly. “At least my high school teachers thought so.” 

Yoongi and the other advisors quirk their eyes at them before turning back towards each other to murmur more about long drawn-out logistics around the coronation. Jimin spins slightly on his heel, eyeing one of the gilded columns, still feeling Jeongguk’s eyes burning into him. 

“Touch it,” Jeongguk smiles rebelliously. 

Jimin gapes at him, eyes darting between Jeongguk, the large, gilded column, and the murmuring advisors. 

“I—” He begins, voice cracking as he lowers it. “Stop, I’m supposed to be paying attention.” 

Jeongguk edges closer towards him. “It’s a column, you’re intrigued—” He’s close enough now, Jimin can smell the hints of his sweet floral shampoo. “Touch it,” Jeongguk edges again, nudging him.

Jimin’s mouth falls slack as he edges closer to the column. There is heat beneath his fingers, buzzing white hot. He flirts his eyes up, watching as Jeongguk eggs him on. Big brown eyes blown wide as he nods his head encouragingly. Jimin can’t identify what he’s feeling, because he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this before. This rush of haunting exhilaration that’s pulsing through his body. Doesn’t think life ever gave him the chance. But here he is, in this strange reality, being peer pressured by a fairy tale prince to reach out and caress something that’s worth more than he can imagine, and he thinks, no, he knows this is only a hint of the freedom he’s so longed for, for so long. 

A chance to be a kid again. 

“Did you catch that?” He hears, shattering him from his thoughts and slinging him back to reality. 

Jimin blinks, eyes washing over themselves as he realizes a large set of eyes peering back at him. He swallows thickly, “Yeah, yeah,” He says, reaching for his pen and scribbling down a long string of nonsense. 

When he’s finished, he looks back up, a smile curling across his cheeks as he nods towards Yoongi. “I got it,” He assures him, but he can feel Jeongguk shaking out a stifled laugh beside him. 

Yoongi’s eyes narrow as he darts his eyes between them again, snapping his folder shut. “Alright, since this is settled, I can see you off to your chambers for the night—” 

Jeongguk shakes his head, “I still have some business with Mr. Park,” He says, crossing over towards him and nudging him affectionately. “As soon as we’re finished, I’ll have him escorted back to his chambers.” 

Yoongi eyes him suspiciously, chewing nervously at his cheek. Both he and Jeongguk exchange dark, unreadable glances before Jimin watches Yoongi melt, delivering Jeongguk one last bow and shuffling from the ballroom with the other advisors. The giant gilded doors are pressed shut and Jimin lets out a sigh of relief, finally drawing his eyes up and back towards the ballroom. He can feel Jeongguk’s eyes on him, as can he feel the way he smiles as he nears him. 

“You never touched it,” Jeongguk says, inching closer toward him. 

Jimin scoffs, eyeing the sparkling diamond chandelier that dazzles above them. Soft orange light from the open window is spilling out onto it, coloring the marble floor in shades of fabulous sparking glimmers of rainbows. He finally turns his eyes to Jeongguk and breathes out in shaky wonder. “I’ve never been in a ballroom before.” He shakes his head, eyes trailing back up the gilded columns, up the glittering jade encrusted arches with a sigh. “I mean, I’ve been in them. They’ve hosted a few of my book releases in them. But this, Jeongguk, this,” He thinks he can feel the weight of the room settling in his bones, seeping into his marrow. There is regality in these walls, ebbing from gilded stone and crusted diamond walls. He casts his eyes away from the walls and back to Jeongguk, giggling slightly. “Goodness Jeongguk, do you know how amazing this place is?” 

Jeongguk shrugs, spinning with sleek control over the shiny floor. “I guess,” He replies, the heel of his shoe squealing against marble. 

“You guess?” Jimin scoffs, takes a step closer towards him and notices the way the setting sun is making his skin glow in pale shades of tangerine. 

“Jeongguk this place is,” Jimin begins, digging his hands into his stuffy black pockets. “I wish you knew how blessed you are. Living in a big old palace, handmaidens at your feet, a whole legion of people at your command—” 

“It isn’t—” Jeongguk begins, wincing as he leans back against a column. He exhales a shaky breath, lips pulled into a soft pout. His eyes are on his shuffling feet, too scared to meet Jimin’s gaze. “It’s not as fun as you think it is. Living in a bubble.” 

Jimin laughs, drawing himself closer to the prince. Edging closer into his space as he breathes him in, breathes in hints of mint and salt water. Jeongguk always looks so much younger up close. Away front he gaudy suits of glimmering gold and violet he can see the wide, doleful eyes of someone who is in way over his head. Jimin bites back the want to reach forward, tangling his fingers through unruly hair twisting in the offset breeze sifting in through the open window. 

“Do you want to dance?” Jeongguk chirps, peeling his back from the wall and edging closer towards him. The heel of his feet clank against the floor towards him, Jimin counts his steps.

Jimin gapes at him for a moment, head cocking as he watches the prince reach out a hand, and if Jimin was correct, by the shift in the light he thinks he might just see his hands shake. Jimin in turn hesitates, lifting a hand, hovering it over the prince’s larger one. His eyes flit between them. Sucking in one last, shaky breath and letting his hand fall gently within Jeongguk’s warm grasp. 

Jeongguk smiles, chest pressing out as he pulls Jimin flush against his chest. Jimin lands with a thump, wincing slightly at the impact. He feels as Jeongguk lets his free hand slip down to the small of his back. “Have you ever danced before?” Jeongguk asks. 

Jimin shakes his head, “I mean I’ve danced yes—” He squirms slightly beneath him. “A little less formal, though.” 

Jeongguk shakes out a laugh, straightening his neck. “I’ll teach you, don’t worry,” He smiles sweetly. 

“I’m no dancer, Jeongguk,” Jimin says nervously. “I dance drunk in clubs where it’s dark and no one can see me but here?” He wags his hand around the wide-open ballroom. Suddenly feels the pressure of the situation settle in his bones.

Jeongguk smiles down at him, assuredly. “No need to worry,” He smiles sweetly, lips pursed. “You’re in sacred hands.”

Jimin peers up at him, through fluttery, soft lashes. Feeling Jeongguk’s grip on his back tighten and somewhere, deep in the pit of his gut he believes him.

The first spin, Jimin notes, is weightless. Jeongguk glides them across the marble floor, the heels of their black shoes tapping in rhythmic time. 

“See? Not too bad right?” Jeongguk breathes out, and on his voice carries feathers of joy. Jimin clings to it, as he does his body as they twirl along the center of the ballroom.

Jimin lets his head fall back, eyes flitting back up to the chandelier and watching starlight dusted light sparkle diamonds onto their skin. He clings tighter to Jeongguk’s arms, feeling the prince tighten his grip onto him. The outside window is spilling cool evening wind on them, and the breath of something tangy as blue traced electricity seeps around them. Jimin feels it prick at his skin, but he also feels Jeongguk’s breath against his cheek and he lets his head swing along to the music strumming with imaginary tempo in their heads. 

He hears Jeongguk laugh, and that’s it. Jimin laughs too, a low soft, giggle pressed from his lungs. Then, it blooms throughout him, seeping from his lips to his bones and radiating with a buzz all over him. He’s never felt this before he doesn’t think. This newfound joy charging through his body, but he feels it for the first time here is Jeongguk’s arms; painting giggles across the ballroom floor. 

When they finally come to halt, beside the open window to cool their skin and catch their breath. Jimin clings to Jeongguk’s shoulders, gazing up at him as he gulps down two very large lungful’s of breath.

Jeongguk has not loosened his grip on his waist. In fact, he’s currently skating an unreadable expression across the scope of Jimin’s face. He narrows his eyes, blinking over at him, very intently as if something is stuck at the seams of his lips. Then Jimin is shaking himself loose, scrunching his nose as he attempts to drink in a breath to fiery lungs. 

“I uh,” He stammers softly, flattening his shirt against his chest. “I ought to go, you have a big day tomorrow.” His eyes nervously flit up towards Jeongguk. “With the Parliament meeting.”

Jeongguk’s cheeks, from what Jimin can see through the tumultuous dark ballroom, are a pinched bubblegum pink. He watches as the prince bites his lips, eyes darting down to his shoes. “Yeah, yeah of course,” He answers gently. His hands are now tucked in his pockets, nervous knuckles cutting through the fabric as he balls his fists inside them. “Parliament, right.” 

Jimin reaches over to the windowsill, grabs his clipboard and presses it to his chest. He looks back up to Jeongguk, painting a nervous smile onto his face. “I uh,” He begins, voice a subtle echo against rounded gilded walls. “This was fun,” He breathes out, voice dying slightly on his tongue as he succumbs to his nerves. “You’re a fantastic dancer,” He finishes. “And a really good teacher,” He tacks on suddenly with a matching flush of red at his cheeks. 

Jeongguk’s smile melts over his expression, “You’re a good student,” He replies.

From the window spills more starlight, but it pales in comparison to the stars in the prince’s eyes. Large pools of chocolate brown that dazzle as he looks at Jimin with too much admiration. Jimin shrinks slightly under his gaze, taking one soft foot back. He clears his throat, “I’ll see you in the morning, your Highness.” 

Jeongguk seems to hesitate. Hand reaching out suddenly to grab at Jimin’s arm. “Actually,” He breathes out, nearly buzzing with excitement. “Want to see something cool?” 

Jimin never imagined one day he’d be running through a palace, fingers intertwined with a prince. But here he is, being dragged through the darkened gilded palace after sundown. Feet tripping across coughed up carpet as Jeongguk tightens his grip around his wrist. Flinging him around corners and past raging fires that lick and burn against his skin. 

They reach a hallway and Jeongguk halts. Jimin collapses into him with a grunt. He can feel as the prince settles him up straight, running affectionate hands across his shoulders. 

“Okay so,” Jeongguk begins, eyes brightening as he speaks. “After I saw you in the office the other day I got to thinking,” He pauses, nearly jumping out of his skin with excitement. He reaches forward, hand pressing against the pink floral wallpaper. 

Jimin eyes him curiously, still drinking in heavy gulps of breath. Jeongguk seems to be testing him, he can feel his energy as he tugs at his hand weakly. 

“I don’t know why I trust you so much, but I do,” Jeongguk murmurs gently. “Walked into my life and I trusted you from the moment I met you.” His free hand slips from Jimin’s shoulder, down to his hand and he grips it. “Do you trust me?” 

Jimin blinks up at him as he heaves out a shaky breath. Because, reason, tells him no. His heart is racing in his chest and thrumming out against his ribs. He focuses on the weight of Jeongguk’s hand in his own. The softness of his skin against his palm; the press of gentle, chilled skin as he tightens his grip. He doesn’t have a reason to trust him, or this reality for that matter. But there’s this strange pressing feeling in the pit of his gut, the same he used to feel when he was younger, the same that he felt as he slipped through the tree bark that fated evening that landed him here in this strange reality. That strange, warm, all-consuming feeling he cannot deny, no matter how hard he tries. 

He sees the sparkle in Jeongguk’s eyes, and of course he trusts him. Trusts him because his heart tells him to. 

“Yeah, yeah, I trust you,” Jimin breathes out, nearly in song as he nods his head. 

He watches Jeongguk’s face light up, then he’s pressing forward. 

“Okay this is going to be weird— don’t scream,” Jeongguk rambles on in preamble, shaking his left hand as if it buzzes. Then he’s pressing forward. Palm print glowing bright blue against the wallpaper then he’s slipping through it like butter, and he’s pulling Jimin with him. 

Where they land, is colder than they were before. Jimin feels Jeongguk tightening his grip on him, tugging him closer. 

“Jeongguk?” He breathes out, in a slight panic. “W-Where are we?” He shakes slightly. “How did you—?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer, he’s leading them down another darkened, tight hallway. In the limited, blue light Jimin watches as his breath smokes before them like cotton. Jimin tries to come to terms with what he’d just seen; the identical blue light as the one that brought him here. But they’re stopping, in front of the one very large oak door. Jeongguk turns to him, nearly shaking with excitement. 

“I could’ve taken you the long way around, but I got excited. I’m sorry,” He laughs slightly. He snaps his fingers and two torches above them erupt into flames. Jimin gasps, leaping at it as he winces at the sudden rush of blinding orange light. 

Jeongguk laughs again but tightens their intertwined hands. “I haven’t done that in a while, goodness, feels very weird.” He says, a visible shiver running across him. “Still trust me?” He asks and there’s vulnerability in his tone. 

The world is consuming and overwhelming but Jimin nods regardless because of course he still trusts these hands, that smile beaming across from him. Jeongguk smiles, nose scrunching as he turns, leaning forward and prying open the wooden door. 

The door squeals open, and Jimin blinks weakly as Jeongguk ushers them inside. Heeled feet pad against the stone floor as they step in. Chillier air meets them and Jimin’s skin blooms in goosebumps. A few more steps and Jimin squints, attempting to bring the room into focus when above them, a torch ignites. Setting the room aglow into orange wonder. 

They’re in a library, Jimin’s brain finally registers. A large, seemingly never ending one with rising spiral columns stuffed full of thick, ancient books and rusted black ladders to reach. 

“I just thought, uh,” Jeongguk says, nervously combing his hands through his hair. He rocks gently on his heels. “You like to read, so I just thought…?” He breathes out nervously. His hair fans out from it; splaying out from his forehead. 

“Since there’s so many of these libraries I just thought—” He pauses, but this time he releases a long shaky breath. Settles his weight into his feet and lets his eyes flutter closed. He pees his hands from his pockets, and when his eyes open, they are full of admiration.

“You love to read,” He says slowly, obviously measuring his words. “I have so many books I’ll never touch,” He smiled weakly, and Jimin notices the way the back of his ears flame. “Maybe you can tell me about them.”

Jimin feels his eyes water, as he trails his eyes up and around the massive library. Past the line of never-ending books that sprawl outwards. Down the massive wooden shelves, past the flickering candelabras that paint their spines gold. Jimin can’t help the way his hand flies up to meet his mouth, taking small steps forward. He eyes a few shelves near him, the dark scrawl embedded into the spine of each book, and he turns on his heel. Shaking his head furiously, “Jeongguk these books are ancient, I wouldn’t dare touch them,” He says breathless. 

“These books have been holed up in this library for centuries, no one has touched them in hundreds of years,” Jeongguk replies, making steps towards him. He stands beside Jimin, hip subtly pressed against the others. “That’s the problem, I think. All this knowledge held captive in here.”

He listens to the way Jeongguk breathes out, follows the shake in lungs. Then he’s turning to face him; warm chocolate eyes melting in a gaze so sweet Jimin can feel his teeth rotten at the sight of him. Intention is pulling him closer to the prince, but reluctance yanks at his ankles. He wobbles where he stands, settling his weight against the wooden floor and he watches Jeongguk’s face light up at the sight of him. 

“Do you like it?” Jeongguk asks softly. 

“Do I like it? Jeongguk there are no stupid questions, but that right one there might be,” He laughs. He dares to reach out, letting his finger crawl across the spine of a purple-colored book. Picking up flecks of dust on his skin. Excitement shoots through him, and he bites down on his lower lip in an attempt to swallow his squeal. 

“This is so fucking cool, you have no idea,” He says, teeth chattering in his jaw. He turns back to face the prince, “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you.” He hopes he sounds sincere, because his heart is currently moments from bursting. 

Jeongguk seems to like that answer, because he visibly melts at Jimin’s words. “Yeah? Good,” He breathes out shakily. 

There is a rattle outside the door, and Jeongguk’s head snaps to it. Another rattle, followed by large bolstering steps on the carpet outside the door. Both Jimin and Jeongguk concentrate on it, eyes narrowing on the sudden silence. Then, they watch as the golden doorknob begins to spin. 

“Goddammit they took the long way around,” Jeongguk growls under his breath.

Jimin feels Jeongguk’s hand wrap around his wrist before he sees him. Then he feels as he yanked, very sharply down the darkened hall of the library. Jimin giggles wildly, clapping his hand over his mouth when he sees Jeongguk turning back towards him with playfully sharp eyes. 

Their footsteps pound against the wooden floor, clanks of heels against scraping wood when Jimin is pressed into a corner beside the window. Jeongguk has flung himself atop him, peering around the towering bookcase in front of him to peer back down the hall. Two steps clop in, then the sound of metal as a sword brandishes in a holster. 

“Your Highness?” The voice bellows. The feet take a few more steps again, padding closer towards them. “Your Highness, are you there?” 

Jimin is pressed flush against Jeongguk, their chests nearly molded together as Jeongguk continues to eye through the open stack of books towards the kings guard who shakes his head in search of them. Jimin is close enough, closer than he’s ever been to the prince, that he can feel the thud of his heart through his shirt. Pressing in equally rhythmic time as his own. The tickle of Jeongguk’s hair as it brushes against his cheek. He can smell the sweet polish on his skin, the clutter freckles at his nose, the way the iron torch above them is painting his eyes in shades of honey and chocolate. Wide gaze still cast up and out towards the guard who is inching frightening closer to them. He’s close enough, he thinks, to wrap his hands around the prince’s waist. Warm and solid beneath his touch. Close enough to know just how much he’s going to miss his touch when they part. 

This may not be real, but you are, He reminds himself, but Jeongguk feels very real and solid above him. Real and solid, and human. 

“Your Highness?” The voice begins and he’s close now. Only a few rows away, Jimin can judge by the way his voice rattles against the books tucked under his back. “Your Highness you are needed in the south court—” 

Jimin’s eyes widen, but Jeongguk shakes his head with a laugh. Pressing a gentle finger to Jimin’s lips as he keeps his eyes steady on the guard who steps closer towards them, oblivious.

There are more steps, further back and ringing through the library. “He’s apparently been spotted in the west gardens,” Another guard announces from what Jimin assumes is the doorway. He feels Jeongguk melt atop him, then listens as the guard nearest to them curses. Metal clanging together as he stomps away from them and back towards the door. 

“God dammit,” The guard curses. “He’s too old to be running amok through the palace like he did when he was young—”

The doors slam shut, and a moment wades between them. Jimin looks up at Jeongguk, blinking and feeling his eyelashes flutter against Jeongguk’s finger still pressed to his lips. He lets it fall, eyes still on the door. When the door finally settles, he turns back to Jimin, slowly dropping his finger. 

“This seemed like a lot of effort to avoid doing your job,” Jimin smiles.

9 years earlier

Eunwoo’s lips taste like the cheap champagne that they stole from the kitchens. Jeongguk has his hands curled around the nape of the older boy’s neck, nails dug in skin. But his lips are pressed flush against the other, tongue licking at the seams. Jeongguk is fifteen years old; but his heart flutters with a love he’s never felt before. Doesn’t think he’ll ever feel again.

Right now, they lay on a knitted yellow blanket under the swell of a dipping weeping willow. Leaves tickle at their skin as spring wind wishes past, drapes them in green brush. They’re somewhere in a lost part of the back gardens. Far enough from the palace that Jeongguk feels mostly like Jeongguk and not like the prince. Something that doesn’t happen often. Jeongguk is supposed to be shadowing his father today, but he’s chosen to slip away instead. Duties be damned.

Eunwoo kisses him sweetly before pulling back, cheeks flushed peach. “I don’t think I’ll never get used to this,” He mumbles. Jeongguk peels his back from the blanket, knows he’s flushed as well if his racing heart is anything to judge from.

“Get used to what?” Jeongguk asks, patting at his cheeks, willing them to cool.

Eunwoo smiles, reaches across to rake sweet fingers through Jeongguk’s hair. “I don’t know… out here, drinking champagne…” he drops his voice, narrows his eyes, leans closer, “Kissing the prince.” 

Eunwoo mentions his status too much to make most people worry but Jeongguk is 15 and in love and watches him through rose colored glasses he refuses to clean.

“So is that all you’re here for?” Jeongguk asks, wrapping arms around his waist. He kisses his neck, then leaves a sloppy kiss to his jaw. “Kissing the prince?”

Eunwoo laughs, “I mean… not only.”

Jeongguk giggles when he knows that he shouldn’t. Eunwoo captures his lips, and it rips love like lightning through him. Jeongguk tugs his arms around in, pulls hums close enough that the world is pressed flush against him. 

Jeongguk has been kissing Eunwoo since he was 13 years old, and he thinks it gets sweeter every time. After lots of turmoil and realizing that that fluttery feeling he felt whenever he saw the member of parliament’s son meant he actually liked him more than he thought he should. That he liked boys more than he thought he should. More than a future king who owes his kingdom an heir, ever should.

Eunwoo, Jeongguk’s closest thing to a friend turned out to actually be cute and surprisingly a very good kisser. Jeongguk tosses his head back, eyes sealed as he lets Eunwoo press at his neck. Letting him run exploring hands up the soft cotton of his shirt. 

“Do you think your father will notice that you’re gone?” Eunwoo asks, wet lips moving along his skin. 

Jeongguk scoffs, hair tickling at his eyes. “Does he ever notice when I’m gone?” 

Eunwoo is tracing his tongue along his jaw, hands massaging at his ear when he pauses, pulls back and narrows his eyes. “You should talk to him.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t respond immediately. He turns his head, lets wind play through his hair. “I don’t think I’ve had a real conversation with my father since I was 7 years old.” He says, voice cast out further than he means. “He doesn’t care unless it’s about the throne.” 

“You don’t know that, Guk—” 

“Why are we talking about my dad when you’re supposed to be kissing me?” Jeongguk snips. 

Eunwoo’s eyebrows tangle up in concern as if he has something on his tongue, before he dips his head back to kiss at Jeongguk’s abandoned jaw.

That’s when he hears the first snap.

Jeongguk freezes at it, yanking his head up violently. “What was that?” Jeongguk asks, voice shaky.

Eunwoo has not relented on his neck, tongue drawing up the vein at his right. “I don’t think it was anything, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk nods, but still feels on edge. He lets his head fall back but then; he hears another snap. It shutters through the trees before them.

“No, Woo, don’t tell me you don’t hear that?” Jeongguk says peeling himself from Eunwoo’s lips. “It sounds like a camera—”

And there, between the thinner leaves of two large trees Jeongguk sees light sparkle of light against the lens of a pair of glasses. 

Jeongguk yelps, shoving Eunwoo away. He flails, clamoring to his feet as he stumbles towards it. It’s a reporter, he sees, ducked between broken branches, notepad still in hand. Jeongguk turns to face Eunwoo who is wiping spit from the side of his mouth.

“Do you see him?” Jeongguk exclaims, pointing towards him.

Eunwoo’s eyes narrow but he shakes his head.

Jeongguk then snaps his head towards the reporter as he crawls towards him.

“Sir,” Jeongguk croaks nervously, feet reaching just outside the brush of the forest where the reporter stands. “I don’t know what you’re writing—”

The reporter blinks at him, snorting as he goes to shove his notepad into his suit pocket.

Jeongguk yells, “Stop!” He exclaims. He claws at the leaves but the reporter leaps back dodging him. “Please, please stop.”

The reporter shakes his head, “Your Highness I—”

“What do you want? Money? Do you want money?” Jeongguk feels a little out of himself now, hands shaking nervously as they remain outstretched before him. “I’ll give you whatever you want, want out of the war? I’ll make sure your name is never drawn—”

The reporter doesn’t say anything, he blinks at him a few more times before bowing his head and leaping through the leaves and out of sight. Jeongguk stands frozen, watches the leaves rustle as the reporter disappears. After a moment, he feels a hand pressed to his shoulder.

“Jeongguk—” Eunwoo begins softly.

“My father is going to kill me,” Jeongguk says shaking his head and Eunwoo’s hand off, raging forward and kicking at a rotten tree stump before him.

He screams, he thinks, until his chest bleeds itself of fury and frustration and whatever else is bottled up inside of him.

Eventually he coils around, meets Eunwoo’s worries eyes.

“Ggukie, it’s gonna be fine,” Eunwoo hums out, eyes watering up.

“It’s not going to be fine, Woo,” Jeongguk spits. He combs his hand through his hand with angry, nervous fingers. “Maybe it’ll be fine for you, but it for me—”

“Who said that? Guk who said it won’t be fine? You don’t know that—”

“Because I’m the fucking prince!” Jeongguk roars. He feels out of himself, head fuzzy with so much displaced anger he thinks he might just burst from it. Eunwoo doesn’t understand, nor would he ever, Jeongguk thinks. No one on earth who could understand the pressure that weighs like stone in his chest that he knows will never go away.

There is cold pressure building up inside him. He shakes at his hand furiously, as a means to slip it from himself. Eunwoo is peering at him with nervous apprehension. “Jeongguk—” He breathes out, chasing for his gaze. “Are you okay?” 

Cotton-like, cold breath slips from Jeongguk’s lips. “Get away from me,” He breathes out, breath slinking up past his lips as if he were standing in a winter snow.

Eunwoo is watching him nervously, chewing on his cheek as he focuses on his breath. “Jeongguk—?” 

“I’m going to be your king someday,” Jeongguk says once the icy fire of anger has heightened if only a bit in his chest. “There’s going to come a time where you’re going to have to bend the knee for me. And not just in my bedroom or in a broom closet or a fucking field—” He sneers the last part, eyes tossed out to the forgotten. blanket behind him. He thinks he hates it, thinks if he could, he’d burn it all to ash. “But in loyalty.”

“I know you’re going to be king, Gukkie,” Eunwoo says, voice weak. 

“Do you?” Jeongguk says, but he wonders if his words are a little more rhetorical than he’d meant. He eventually finds himself sinking, legs giving out until he’s pressed into a tight squat, head curled against his knees. If he could vomit, he would; maybe then he’d purge every sick emotion that’s buried itself deep inside of him.

He feels Eunwoo’s hand on his arm, but he shrugs him off, but not of his own accord. There’s pressure being pulsed behind the young man’s touch, and he’s lurched back by a power he cannot place. His eyes jolt up in horror, “What’s your problem?” He spits.

“Don’t touch me,” Jeongguk nearly bites. 

Eunwoo is lurched back again, more violently by the energy pulsing from Jeongguk’s unravelling frame. Falling with a splat against the grass with a grunt as he’s rolled back again by the invisible power pulsing from Jeongguk. Jeongguk has done magic before, but never this. Defensively, and out of his own control. He feels himself succumb to it, nearly all encompassing as it pulses with ice cold rage beneath his skin.

“What do you want me to do?” Eunwoo wails weakly., blinking up at Jeongguk with brightened, fearful eyes.

“I think it’d be best if you left,” Jeongguk snips. 

Eunwoo doesn’t move for a moment, because he doesn’t think he can. Eventually Jeongguk feels him peel himself from the ground and linger across him. Then he walks, footsteps crunching through dried grass and back away from him.

“I don’t…,” Eunwoo begins, massaging at his arm weakly. But his voice drops. “I’ll see you around, Gukkie.”

When Jeongguk eventually rises to his feet, the air is a little less sweet. He rubs at his eyes and turns out towards where they laid only moments before on an abandoned now forgotten yellow blanket.

Junseo doesn’t stop annoyingly kicking him under the table. Jeongguk shoots him a dangerous glare but Junseo only giggles, now reaching for his glass and pulling it to his lips.

Jeongguk’s father is spooning at his ramen, but he has not met his son’s eyes once since they sat for dinner. A rare occurrence being that his father is usually too busy with paperwork in his office to spend more than 20 minutes, let alone an entire meal together. But tonight, feels different, Jeongguk can feel the tension slip between him, his brother, his father and his tight-lipped mother who is chewing quietly on her chicken at the other end of the table.

“Sanyoung, would you kindly excuse us for a moment?” His father announces suddenly, breaking through the silence and dismissively waving his hand towards the servant who stood beside him.

Sanyoung nods, then coils his body back out towards the kitchen.

Then it’s only them. A family in a too large dining room with dim candlelight and eyes from golden portraits glaring down at them. Jeongguk shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, before dipping his head to his silver plate, prodding at the spinach with a chopstick.

“So, when were you going to tell us?” His father mumbles.

Jeongguk freezes, heart stitching in his chest. He looks up and his father still hasn’t raised his head from his bowl. 

“Tell you what, sir?” 

Junseo has frozen himself, eyes flirting between his father and Jeongguk nervously. He meets Jeongguk’s frightful gaze and lots of questions ghost his eyes. Eventually, Jeongguk’s father leans back in his chair, it squeaks under his weight. The sound echoes through the room but rings hollow in Jeongguk’s ears. Jeongguk’s father’s finger curls around the napkin in his left hand.

“A couple of days ago, my advisor came into my office,” he says softly. “Said the Herald had a story they were planning to break.”

Jeongguk’s heart squeezes so tight in his chest he thinks his vision goes white. It’d only been a few days since the incident and Jeongguk still hadn’t had the courage to mention anything to his father.

“Luckily, we have a few moles at the paper. Killed the story before it even made it to the editor’s desk.”

Jeongguk’s lungs have released all the breath left in them and he’s choking. He blinks at his father a few times, eyes dizzy.

“I’m— Father I’m sorry,” Jeongguk stutters out weakly.

“I didn’t raise a coward, Jeongguk,” His father’s voice is grim. “I didn’t raise a—”

“You’re going to be king, Jeongguk,” His mother eventually chirps. 

Jeongguk raises his eyes to her and thinks he sees the hint of tears at her eyes. They glisten, soft wash of candlelight glittering in them.

“Are you not thinking of an heir?” She squeals, almost like she’s suppressing a scream.

Jeongguk’s eyes fall to his brother, but he is gaping over at him with a wide mouth. 

Jeongguk instead drops his gaze to his hands. Wrestles his fingers across each other nervously. Around him, Jeongguk feels shame. He feels it drip from each person whose eyes bore so hot into his skin he thinks he might catch aflame.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Jeongguk eventually croaks.

“No, what you mean is you didn’t mean to get caught,” His father growls, shaking his head.

Jeongguk’s sniffles but swallows it down in the form of a cough.

“You’ve been playing around with that Eunwoo boy for too long,” His father growls.

Jeongguk’s eyes raise in surprise as he turns to his father.

“You think I didn’t know?” His father snorts. He wags his finger around boisterously. “I have eyes and ears all over this palace. The handmaidens hear everything, Jeongguk.” 

Jeongguk has settled his eyes on the candle that flickers in front of him. He knows his mother and brother have dropped their gaze, but his father hasn’t. It burns through him, relentlessly until eventually Jeongguk raises his eyes to meet it. It burns like the direct kiss of sunlight, slips of anger, frustration but mostly, shame. That is a king’s gaze, and one Jeongguk knows he’ll never have the strength to develop. Not even if he tried.

“I don’t care what you are or who you love,” his father warns with a low rumbling voice. “But you will not be sacrificing the integrity of this house, of this kingdom because of it is that understood?” 

Jeongguk’s mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Instead, he nods, fatherly dumbly.

His father’s eyes remain on him for another burning moment before returning once again to his ramen. Jeongguk is too ashamed to meet his brother’s eyes but feels him kick at his feet again.

He raises his eyes slightly from his plate to see his brother’s eyebrows knit up in concern, but he shakes his head, twisting his fingers nervously around the cold metal of the chopsticks.

“That boy and his father are gone. They’re out of the palace and they are to never step foot in here ever again is that understood?”

Jeongguk doesn’t respond, keeps his eyes on the way the candle warps itself against his glass. Casting shimmers of good against his plate. He swallows the chilly magic that bites in his throat, casting it deep down, far away. Tucked somewhere he hopes to never find again.

“Your duty is to this kingdom, is that understood?” His father spits again.

Jeongguk nods because he has no choice not to. 

It’s a few weeks later, when Jeongguk enters his father’s office, there are three people who raise their heads to meet them. One, is Advisor Min, an older man with king frizzy white hair who is scribbling at his clipboard. He stands beside a cherry woods desk, where Jeongguk’s father is seated, sipping gently at a cup of steaming tea.

However, in the far-right corner of the room, draped in golden sunlight from the window that glimmers beside her is a beautiful dark-skinned girl Jeongguk has never seen before. He bows his head politely as he steps into the room. As the guard behind him snaps the doors shut behind him and Advisor Min lights up at his arrival.

“Your Highness, you’re here, good,” He exclaims, snapping his pen onto the clipboard and tucking it under his arm. He pigeons himself slightly towards Jeongguk’s father and himself, smiling awkwardly as he waves between them. “There is someone here we’d like you to meet.”

The girl straightens her back to that, and Jeongguk turns towards her, smiling weakly. She’s beautiful, he notes. Beautiful, buttery dark skin. Bright, round eyes that blink back at him through fluttery long lashes. She sucks in a breath, chest heaving slightly in the corset of her butterscotch-colored dress.

“Her name is Princess Zuhrah,” Advisor Min murmurs sweetly towards him. 

Jeongguk watches as the young girl with long black cotton like hair and cinnamon colored skin nods towards him, face drawn up into a doleful smile. 

“She is from the kingdom Attawa, just south of our borders,” Min continues. 

The princess nods her head and smiles sweetly enough to Jeongguk he thinks he might feel his chest tighten at it. “It’s very nice to finally meet you, My Grace,” He breathes out and her voice matches the brightness of her appearance, like bells.

He tries to smile back, politely, because that is what he was taught. Then he is turning back towards Advisor Min, face dropping confusedly as he waits for further instruction. 

His father darts his eyes between them, then he is pulling his teacup to his lips. Pressing gilded China to the seams of his mouth before speaking. 

“I would like to believe you know why you two are meeting,” He says softly.

Jeongguk looks back towards Zuhrah, eyeing her up and down before turning back to his father, shaking his head. 

“Civility between nations is vital for peace between two kingdoms,” Jeongguk rambles; reciting words he thinks he remembers from textbooks. He thinks it sounds right, judging from the way his father nods along to his words. “We do not have much business in the south kingdom, however,” Jeongguk continues, crossing his arms behind his back. He shoots Zuhrah another soft smile, and she delivers him one in return. Jeongguk notes the brightness in her smile, the sparkle in her teeth against the depth of her skin. 

Jeongguk’s father’s eyes are between them, he watches the way they exchange awkward glances before he takes another sip from his cup. Placing it back down onto the saucer on his desk. 

“The south has much to offer our kingdom,” His father begins, clearing his voice. There’s rattling in his lungs, Jeongguk can hear it sticking to his words. “As do we theirs.” 

Light from the window catches gold against Zuhrah’s skin and it shimmers. Jeongguk admires it, but not enough in lust. He identifies that feeling as admiration; admiration in the beauty of her appearance, the beauty of her smile, the beauty in those lush cotton curls that drape against her exposed shoulders. An admiration, he knows. Not a want. No matter how beautiful, how sweet. He does not want her. Not solely because of her femininity, but also because he did not choose her. Jeongguk could never want someone he doesn’t choose. 

He casts her another smile, then he’s turning to his father. Eyes undoubtedly confused when he sees his father smile, down into his cup, as he lifts it to his lips. Advisor Min shoots him an awkward smile before he is turning back to his clipboard, flicking through it. 

“You are to be married,” His father announces, voice tossing through the room as he presses the cup fully to his lips, and swallows. 

Where Jeongguk expects panic, he feels an absolving numbness. He takes a step backwards, eyes darting between his father, Advisor Min, then finally, Zuhrah, whose expression has not changed. She blinks over at him, eyebrows stagnant as she crosses her legs in her illustrious, yellow gown. 

“I—” Jeongguk finally croaks. He laughs, but it’s weak. Mouth falling slack slightly as he tries to collect whatever this is he is feeling right now. Tries to tack his emotions in his chest as it buzzes through him. “I don’t— I don’t understand.” 

“Just as I married your mother of the East, your grandfather married your grandmother of the North, you shall marry Princess Zuhrah, of the South,” His father blathers. Words falling from his lip like gospel. “You two have been promised to the other since before you were born.” 

Jeongguk sucks in a breath, sudden stinging in his eyes distracting as he fumbles back. Shoe catching on the carpet as he settles back against the window. He folds his arms across his chest, hoping the pressure will pin the tears that are currently threatening at his eyes. “I—” He turns back to his father, suddenly very weak. “Father,” He breathes out desperately. 

His father’s eyes darts to Zuhrah, who again had not melted from her previous stature. She has squirmed slightly, but she remains mostly frozen, blinking at Jeongguk with wide, hapless eyes. He thinks he may for a moment, see them shake, but she darts them down to her silk gloved hands. Twisting them across her lap. 

“Min, can you see the Princess back to her chambers? I would like a word with my son,” His father mumbles, but his eyes remain on Jeongguk. Watching as his son squirms where he stands beside the window. Eyes cast down to the gardens where the wind plays ribbons in the trees. 

Jeongguk hears as Zuhrah rises, hears the rustling of her dress as she nears him and bows. 

“It was nice meeting you, My Grace,” She smiles, and it’s sweet. Jeongguk nearly feels bad for the way he tosses her a reluctant goodbye, head turning back to the window as he listens to Advisor Min escort her out of the office. 

The door closes, rattling the room around them. Jeongguk can hear his father’s breathing, labored, as he stares over at him. Can hear as he taps at his desk, counting the moments between them before he speaks. 

“You were born with one purpose, Jeongguk, I don’t think you truly understand,” His father begins. Jeongguk can hear the rage in it, boiling and simmering as he contains it behind his desk. He can’t bring his eyes to him but can feel the heat from his words scorching at his already reddening ears. 

“You were born to sire an heir for the Jeon royal line, just as I did. Just as every king in this family has done for centuries,” His father continues, voice cast in a low simmer. 

There is a moment where Jeongguk thinks he may hear the pain in his tone. But he mostly hears the rage in it. 

“Jeongguk,” His father rages, seething.

Jeongguk ignores him, eyes still out the window as he envies the freedom of the wind. 

“Jeongguk,” His father presses, this time with enough bridged rage Jeongguk is actually burned by it.

He turns, very slowly, with bright red eyes towards his father. He sees madness in his father’s eyes; also, grief, but he doesn’t know where to place it. After a moment, his father coughs again, rattling. Clenching his fist against the wood of the desk. A crackle against dense wood, Jeongguk flinches at it slightly. 

“I don’t want this,” Jeongguk finally breathes out, but it’s hard to get the words out around his impending tears. He can’t cry now, not here. Not in front of his father. 

“This is not about what you want,” His father sneers, voice acidic. “None of this is about wanting anything.” 

Jeongguk gapes at him, chin quivering as he swallows back the tears that are moments from piercing at his eyes. So, he swallows, thickly face stagnant. 

He watches as his father rises from his seat, towering. “Do you think I don’t know what you are?” 

Jeongguk takes a step back, dropping his arms as his heart begins to crawl up his throat. “I—” He begins, voice cracking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Jeongguk’s father laughs, voice bellowing as it rounds the office. He crosses his arms as he walks from the back of his desk, long striding steps across the carpet. 

“If we had what we wanted, Jeongguk, I wouldn’t have chosen a— a— pervert for an heir, but here I am, here we are,” His father spits, raking his eyes over Jeongguk coldly. “We don’t always get what we want, do we?” 

Jeongguk breaks, but he doesn’t cry. He turns, heaving large gulps of air as he keeps his eyes out the window. Trailing them past the gardens past the trees to whatever it is outside the palace courtyards. He envies the freedom in the wind, freedom in the trees. Somewhere out, far away, he thinks he hears his name, calling him, but he ignores it. Chooses instead to concentrate all his efforts to keep these stubborn tears from freeing themselves. 

“If you think I didn’t know all about that, Eunwoo boy slipping out of your bedroom every morning before Min arrives for your early arrangements,” His father spits again. “You have guards, Jeongguk. And they answer to me.” 

Jeongguk does not notice the blood on his tongue, until he tastes the zinc. Warm fresh blood as it slips down his throat. He frowns at it, realizing suddenly just how hard he’d been biting at his cheek. He can feel his father nearing him, feel the heat of his essence as he stalks up behind him. 

He turns slightly, away from his heat. 

“You cannot trust him,” His father spits. 

“You do not know that,” Jeongguk mumbles, voice barely audible. 

“I am King I am no fool, and I am telling you—” 

“You don’t know that,” Jeongguk presses, conviction coloring his tone. He finally turns to face his father, eyes glittering with red tears. He chews at his cheek again, uncaring of the pain searing through the muscle there. “You don’t know him.” 

Jeongguk’s father chuckles, now beside him at the window. Jeongguk can see the reflection of his father’s face cast in it. Stoic, heated, angry. 

“I don’t know him, but I know of him,” His father mumbles, shaking his head. “I know men like him. Flies drawn to a flame.”

Jeongguk shakes, fingers curling tight against his chest as he breathes in sharply. 

“I do not love your mother, I do not have that luxury,” His father says, voice splitting the room as it cracks around them.

Maybe Jeongguk is childish, naïve to think he could ever marry for love. But there’s magic in that, perhaps the last of it that this kingdom has left, and he clings to it. Heart clutches at it as it ladders wildly in his chest.

“You were born with one purpose, Jeongguk.” His father continues.

“To sire an heir,” Jeongguk finishes finally, voice far away from himself, enough so that the strength in it surprises him. He turns to his father, after enough time he thinks his eyes have settled back. They don’t shake as much, almost as if he believes his lie. 

He sees the hardness in his father melt, only briefly. Then he is turning, trotting back to his desk where he sits with a grunt. Shuffling stacks of papers around as he begins to scribble faintly at them.

“That’s my boy.” 

Present Day

The prince is nervous. 

Jimin can tell by the way he is shuffling awkwardly outside the door as Yoongi drones on about the expected meeting. Jimin watches as Jeongguk pulls his fingers to his teeth and chews absentmindedly. Lips pulled tight as he blinked down at Yoongi with foggy, hapless eyes. 

“It shouldn’t be longer than an hour, just going over the basic semantics of how we plan to begin building,” Yoongi begins.

Jeongguk nods along, but there isn’t anything tactile to it. His eyes are still faded, ghosting over Yoongi’s face before flitting, for only a moment, in Jimin’s direction. Jimin freezes, watching as Jeongguk’s cloudy eyes blink at him, buzzing with electricity. Then he’s back to Yoongi, nodding along absentmindedly. Then Yoongi snaps the folder shut, “Just let me begin in first to prelude, then you’ll be welcomed.” 

His eyes are on Jeongguk’s fingers, then back up to meet the prince’s eyes. 

Jimin knows he wants to swat his hand down but watches as his advisor bites back the temptation. 

“Your Highness,” He smiles coldly, giving him a curt nod. He shoots Jimin a smile before ripping the door open and dipping into the small conference room. 

Alone in the hallway, Jimin wades beside Jeongguk. There are two armor clad soldiers standing at either side of the large oak doors. Jimin examines them for a moment, examines their stoic gazes, examines the way the light is catching against the gold on their uniform. Then he turns and watches the way the prince still chews at his finger nervously, before he spits it out with a curse. 

“He hates it when I bite my nails,” He murmurs softly, nearly a whisper. Then he’s turning to Jimin and smiling. “Says no one wants a king with hangnails.” 

Jimin giggles, tucking his chin against his chest as he buries his laughter at his feet. Then, in turn, he tightens his grip on the folders in his hand. “Hangnails should be the least of your worries.” 

Jeongguk laughs at that too, stuffing his hands into his pockets and letting out a low, hardened sigh. Jimin measures the weight of it, measures the way the prince’s cheeks have shallowed into a ghostly white. The way his eyes have fluttered closed as he tries his best to even out his breath.

“I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this before,” Jimin says, taking a small step towards him, shoes scuffing up on the carpet. “But it’s okay to be nervous.” 

Jeongguk’s head darts up towards him. “I’m not nervous,” He spits out. 

The crack in his voice however gives him away. There is a heaviness all around them; heaviness in the air, Jimin noted when he first arrived here. Heaviness in the way the sun seems to spill into the windows like molten gold. Heaviness in feet of stomping soldiers in a nearby hallway. 

There is heaviness all around them, weighing like bricks and stone and marble like the columns that tower above them. Jimin can’t imagine just how heavy it must weigh on this young prince’s shoulders. After a moment, Jeongguk swallows thickly. Straightening his back as he keeps his eyes glued onto the wooden doors in front of him. 

“Father told me kings don’t get nervous,” He finally says. He scratches his neck upwards, “No one want a king with clammy hands.” 

Jimin gapes at him for a moment, flattening the papers against his chest. He eyes the prince, eyes the innocence in his eyes and melts ever so gently. “A king may not get nervous,” He mumbles, leaning in closer, close enough to prod him playfully in his ribs. “But I think Jeongguk can.” 

There is something soft blooming in Jeongguk’s eyes. It might be admiration, bleeding with sparkled red happiness as he watches the prince melt in front of him. It takes a while, between twisted eyebrows that melt into concession and a smile that warms like honey across the prince’s cheeks, Jimin sees contentment. 

He doesn’t know why he trusts this prince so much. This place is fantasy, and he is not. Has to bite back the very real feelings of adoration blooming in his chest when he feels the heat from Jeongguk as he brushes up against him again.

You are Park Jimin, He reminds himself. This place may not be real, but you are.

After a moment, Jeongguk’s shoulders relax. He breathes in very deeply, letting his eyes flutter closed; then exhales. 

“I’m not very good at speaking,” He finally blurts. He turns to Jimin, opening one eye gently. “Or presenting what is going on in my brain. It’s like—” He hesitates, eyes flitting around nervously. “I know what I’m thinking, I know what I’m feeling I just don’t—” He bites his tongue, letting out a sigh. “If you saw the way those Lords in there look at me.” 

“Who cares how they look at you,” Jimin clips back, he shakes his head, digging his gaze deeply into Jeongguk’s. He presses it forward, eyebrows knitting together. “I’ve had to stand in front of a boardroom of people with an idea for a book I had written. I knew no one in there gave a shit about what I wrote but that didn’t matter because I did.” He prods Jeongguk against, but this time, Jeongguk doesn’t peel back. If anything, he melts towards him. 

Jimin notices the heady, musk scent of his cologne. Also, the specks of white strands that spurt from his scalp, tucked delicately behind his ear. Jimin has to bite his tongue before speaking. 

“If you don’t believe in your words, who will?” Jimin presses again, but this time, with a soft smile. “Every person in that boardroom right now has one thing in common and it’s the fact that you’re going to be their king pretty soon.” He nods his head gently towards him. “Show them.” 

The doors in front of them swing open, and Jimin leaps at the sudden gush of air that fans out towards him. Jeongguk’s eyes are still a little apprehensive, then he turns, throws his head back; large nose pointing upwards as he breathes in deeply. 

Then, Jimin watches him transform. Watches as the once shy prince struts into the room; chest boasted out and warm charismatic smile painted across his cheek. 

Jimin shuffles behind him, watching as Jeongguk crosses the front of a well packed room as men bow their heads as he struts by. He reaches a dark oak table at the front of the room and smiles gently again. He hovers awkwardly beside the protruding leather chair in front of him, eyes darting to Jimin who points his gaze at him confusedly. 

Around him, there are slight mumbles being tossed around before, eventually, it clicks and Jimin reaches forward, pulling out the chair and beckoning towards it with his hand. Jeongguk smiles, but Jimin can read the playfulness in his eyes as he sinks into the plush leather. Then he places his hands atop the table and nods his head. 

“You all may be seated,” He exhales gently. 

The room is filled with the sound of chairs being scuffed against the wooden floor as the men sink into their seats. Soft exhales of relief as he shuffles the papers at their desks and peers up towards Jeongguk with red noses and bloated faces. 

Jeongguk, Jimin notices, sticks out amongst the group of mostly aging senators. Has to choke back his laughter as he compares the baby-faced prince who is shuffling papers around the desk in front of him and the melting frown of aging men who blink at him respectively. 

“Today we are gathered to discuss to surrection of the monument for King Jeon Jeonghyun,” Yoongi finally blurts as he makes his way from the window towards the desk. His eyes are on a stack of thick yellow parchments that he is currently thumbing through at lightning speed. He finally finds one and chews at his cheek before speaking again. “Current budget sits at 44 million won.” 

There is a pen in Jeongguk’s hand, but it weighs awkwardly between his fingers. Jimin watches as the prince goes to scribble something on his paper. Then he hesitates, hand stiffening before he lifts his eyes up towards Yoongi. 

“There was a vote on it last week, 40 ayes, 3 nays,” Yoongi continues to drone. He flicks through a few more papers. “We are aiming for construction to begin in the southeast of the capitol beginning two weeks from the coronation.”

Jeongguk finally scribbles something, but Jimin can see from his place at Jeongguk’s side that his eyebrows have furrowed as he does. Then he watches the prince place the pen back onto the table, drifting back against his seat and folding his arms across his chest uncomfortably. 

“Are the gardens still implemented in the design?” A large man with a shiny bald head and ruffled mustache croaks from the front. 

Yoongi looks up, then his eyes fall back to the parchment. His fingers rustle through the stack before wiggling one free. He licks his lips as he reads, then he’s nodding. 

“Yes, 64 acres, yes,” He says again. 

“And taxes,” Another man, this one with a lighter voice and short buzzed black hair hums. “The increase?” 

“Only 7%,” Yoongi murmurs with a disconnected nod as he shuffles through the papers again. “Those will be placed on small business owners and citizens at the capitol and adjoining commonwealth however, not the ruling class.” 

That makes Jimin’s face scrunch up in disapproval. Jeongguk must notice it though, because his head tilts up slightly to meet Jimin’s eyes. He reads them for a moment, then his own face twists up. He turns back to the sprawling group of men, mouth falling agape before he speaks. 

“There was a parish tax increase last year,” Jeongguk finally chirps. 

Every head in the room spins towards him, and despite only being at his side, Jimin can feel the heat from their eyes as they shoot pointed daggers towards the prince. He watches for a moment as Jeongguk squirms in his seat, unfolding his arms as he looks up towards Yoongi who is gazing at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Yes, there was, your Highness,” Yoongi responds, tone laced with an air of gentleness Jimin can tell bothers Jeongguk. Judging from the way his face twists up at it. 

“The tax increase was implemented because of upping military spending,” Yoongi continues, still with a soft tone. One usually delivered towards children. “We are in a war, your Highness.” 

Jeongguk gapes at him, mouth falling slack as he struggles to string together his words. Jimin bites back the urge to reach forward and shield him from the eyes piercing back at him. Beads of furious gazes spotted around the circular conference room. Then Jeongguk is sitting up, lips pursed as he reaches for his pen again. “It just seems like doubling the commonwealth tax by 14% in a year is a bit—” He pouts, words obviously sticking to his tongue to wet his lips. “Not very fair.” 

The room erupts into hums and hisses. Jimin picks up on a small chortle of laughter from a few men across from him. He shoots them a dark glare before returning his eyes to Jeongguk whose ears are turning bright pink from behind. After a moment, Yoongi is stepping towards him. Dark heels pressing against the wood as he nears the desk. 

“There’s… logistics that goes into calculating these sorts of things, Jeongguk, it’s not just throwing things against the wall to see if they’ll stick,” He tells him. Hand reaching out, as if to console a crying child. “It’s a lot that goes into it.” 

“I understand that—” Jeongguk retorts with a shake of his head. 

“Does he really?” A small voice whispers through clenched teeth. 

Both Jimin and Jeongguk’s heads dart towards the source of it, which seems to be the large heavy voiced man from before. He blinks back at the two innocently, before turning his gaze down to his folder to scribble gently at the parchment. 

Jeongguk doesn’t speak immediately. He snaps his mouth shut, hard enough for the weight of his teeth to clang as he sucks in a heavy, displaced breath. He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat, then he’s turning back to Yoongi, voice more timid than before. “I was just thinking,” Jeongguk begins, to another wave of soft chuckles and contained laughter. Jimin watches his ears, the ones that are now bright red beneath his softly coiffed blonde hair, twitch. “I was just thinking, maybe, we could build something different in his name.” 

The room erupts in uncomfortable banter; dark voices echoing through the hall. Yoongi scoffs, slightly taken aback as he scans Jeongguk’s face for authenticity. “Your Highness—” He begins with a measured laugh. 

“We’ve built monuments before. My grandfather had one, my great grandfather. Hell, this palace is named after one of them,” Jeongguk continues. “I was just thinking, we could do something different. Something to usher in a new dynasty—” He hesitates, eyes flitting up quickly as he nervously smiles at Jimin, then back down to Yoongi.

Yoongi catches it, catches the lightning-fast movement. Then his eyes are narrowing towards Jimin, boring through him before settling back on Jeongguk. 

“We could build a library,” Jeongguk finally finishes. 

The room grows deadly silent. Shuffles and scuffs of paper against wooden desks ring across the hall. After a moment, tensed and brittle, Yoongi taps his hand against the desk. 

“We have seven libraries in the palace, your Highness—” He begins. 

“That’s not what I mean,” Jeongguk says shaking his head angrily, almost in a tantrum. “I mean for our citizens. A library for the commonwealth.” 

Where there was once silence, debuts laughter. Soft chuckles slip from the group of men as they shake their heads dismissively. Jimin watches the way Jeongguk’s fists curl up in his lap. His neck blooming bright red beneath his collar. 

Yoongi is gaping at him with a wide mouth, as if the words evaporated from his lips. Then he’s smiling, eyeing the parchment in front of him as he nears him again. “Your Highness,” He says, voice still padded with softness. His eyes are soft too, speaking as if he were diffusing a petulant child from explosion. “That’s not— that’s not possible. What you’re suggesting Jeongguk, is—” 

“Inconceivable,” The large man finishes. There is genuine confusion in his tone as he presses himself forward against the table. “Literacy is a privilege granted to royalty and our ruling members of parliament, your Highness.” 

Jeongguk nods his head, “Yes I understand, however—” He begins. 

“If we start allowing anyone to be able to read then—” He sucks in a breath, quick and angry. 

Jeongguk, from Jimin’s distance, looks very close to tears. He’s biting on his lips as he blinks back at Yoongi then, he’s burying his gaze into his hands. “I was just thinking about investing in more than just a monarchial legacy,” He hums gently. “Not everything is about a legacy.” 

“It is,” The fat balding man chokes out. 

Jeongguk’s head doesn’t rise to meet him, but Jimin’s does. Watches the way the man shifts around uncomfortably in his seat as it squeaks under his weight. “This kingdom still exists because of that legacy.”

Jeongguk is quiet, chewing at his cheek as his eyes poke around his hand as they wrestle on his lap. “Well, that’s not the kind of king I want to be,” He finally answers, but his voice lacks courage. Drips with uncertainty as he finally lifts his head. “100 years ago, we outlawed magic, then literacy. I genuinely don’t think this is a good direction for our kingdom—”

“This kingdom still stands because your great great great grandfather had the courage to protect it from freethinkers and warlocks,” The senator spits back. His nose wrinkles up, tone combative. “If you plan on keeping your crown, I suggest you do the same.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Jimin can see his chin wobble before he’s reaching for his pen, scribbling something small onto the parchment before peeling back into his seat. For the rest of the meeting, one that returns to a state of normalcy between clicking pens and scattered coughs between proposals, Jimin keeps his eyes on the young prince. Keeps his eyes on the ways his usually bright brown eyes are cast down to his parchment. One that he’s opted to decorate with a series of poorly themed squiggles and scratched out boxes. 

His eyes don’t rise until his name is called, he nods, then they’re back down onto the parchment; soulless. When Yoongi adjourns the meeting, he rises swiftly, cutting past Jimin without a word and bursting through the two open oak doors that await him. 

Jimin makes a mental note to trail behind.

Jeongguk is quiet in their next meeting. This one is a little less formal, in a smaller conference room surrounded by a group of disgruntled priests who drone on about processions and service to follow the coronation. Jimin keeps his eyes on Jeongguk though, watches the way his eyes glaze over as he twirls the pens across his knuckles. The way he nods his head, but not actually paying attention. Jimin can see the detachment in his gaze, the restlessness in his leg. He also thinks he can spot the sadness that has draped over him as well. Dark and sulking as he heaves out sporadic sighs in discontent. 

They end up in his office later than usual. Jimin is scribbling down the last of his notes, seated across the wide desk from Jeongguk. There is weight in Jeongguk’s presence right now. Jimin can feel the brunt of it as the prince buzzes across from him with pinched nerves and contested fidgeting. 

“God everyone thinks I’m so stupid, don’t they?” Jeongguk breathes out suddenly through clenched teeth as if through mid-thought.

Jimin doesn’t look up immediately, but when he does, he sees Jeongguk has cast his eyes out the window. Out past the darkness where only the glow of the outside torches flame and spark gold against the windowpane. 

After a moment, Jimin leans back slightly, chewing at his cheek. “Jeongguk, why are you saying—” 

“You think I don’t see the way those men look at me? Like I’m some sad, empty brained royal who doesn’t have a single thought in his head?” Jeongguk spits back. “Or the way the servants whisper about me? Does everyone think I’m too stupid to pick up on that?” 

He’s frustrated, Jimin can see the way his face has bled a beet red as he sucks back a beady breath. His eyes flirt down to where the prince has his fist clenched in his lap, leg bouncing. 

Jimin hesitates, mouth falling agape as he leans forward, slightly. “You’re not stupid, Jeongguk, no one thinks you’re stupid—” 

“Why are you here then, huh?” Jeongguk sneers, finally turning to face him. Revealing two large brown eyes glossy with tears. They haven’t broken, only ebbing as he pierces his gaze over to a nervous Jimin. 

“I’m 24 years old, I’m going to be king, and they don’t even trust me to write my own words,” Jeongguk finishes. Those last few words twisted heartbroken and sullen slip from his lips a lot more cracked than the previous ones. 

“You’re not stupid, Jeongguk—” Jimin begins. 

“But you’re supposed to say that!” Jeongguk presses, voice cracking again. “Everyone in this goddamn palace has a sworn duty to say these things. To treat me like a thing in a crown but never as an actual person with an actual heart with real, human feelings?”

Jimin can see the pain cross the young prince’s eyes, see the nervous way he chews at the inside of his cheek. Sniffling sharply as he diverts his eyes back out the window towards the blackened sky outside. The fireplace across from them crackles and ebbs; Jimin can feel the heat of its glow as he edges closer towards the prince, closer than he’s ever dared himself to before. 

Jimin has had lots of reasons to doubt this reality, doubt the authenticity in its matter and mass. Doubt the air, doubt the water, doubt the earth beneath his feet. But it’s hard to deny just how real this feels, to be so close to another, and feel the very real pain of heartbreak pulsing from him. Jimin is sitting across from a very real person, experiencing very real pain, only a monster would deny. So, he dares himself the chance to reach over and drape a gentle hand across Jeongguk’s clenched one.

He feels the prince freeze below him; thinks he can measure the way his breathing hitches in his chest as two large brown eyes dart down to their conjoined hands, then trails, very slowly up until they lock eyes. Jeongguk mostly looks shocked, then confused, then briefly humbled. Jimin paints on an assuring smile, squeezing gently as he leans in, close enough for his breath to pill on the prince’s cheek. 

“You are not stupid, Jeongguk,” Jimin presses, voice firm. “I don’t know who told you that, or what has led you to feel like that, but you are not stupid.”

The prince doesn’t believe him, it takes a while to crack through stone, past years of molded trauma and pain but Jimin tries his best by squeezing the prince’s hand a little tighter. 

“I’ve only known you for a short while, but you are incredibly smart, incredibly kind, and incredibly human,” Jimin continues, eyes flirting across Jeongguk’s face. This time, his hand rises, combs a strand of Jeongguk’s golden hair from his eyes and tucks it gently behind his ear. He doesn’t know why his hand lingers there, but it does. Pinching gently at his heated earlobes.

“Once you believe that in yourself, no one can take it away from you,” Jimin continues, hand dropping from his ear but not stopping as they round down past his jaw gently. “No one can take that from you,” He repeats. 

It takes a while to crack through stone, past years of molded trauma and pain but Jimin thinks he can see the beginnings of its erosion in Jeongguk’s eyes. Cast a little softer than before. He thinks he feels Jeongguk nuzzle against his hand before he drops it, settles it atop his other that still has Jeongguk’s wrapped tightly in it. 

Between them, between the fireplace that smokes and crackles and paints Jimin’s right cheek very hot, he begins to feel his chest tighten. This feels a lot more real than he’d ever intended since landing face first in a fairytale land that shouldn’t exist. Feels too real to be true, as Jeongguk blinks back at him with adoring eyes and a sweetened smile. Jeongguk casts his eyes down to their hands, then back up to Jimin’s eyes. For a moment, hesitant. 

“No one has ever touched me before,” He mumbles, almost in surprise. Too precious, too gentle. “At least not without a bow before.” 

What Jimin seems to read in Jeongguk’s eyes seems to be relief, but there’s a lot swimming in them. It’s hard to be sure. 

You are Park Jimin, He reminds himself. You’re a writer. You live in Seoul, South Korea. You have a fiancé, a sister, a whole world waiting for you at home. 

Wherever home may be now. Because he feels very close to it, right now, gazing into Jeongguk’s eyes. There is a moment of silence, bridged between Jeongguk’s quickening breaths and the feeling of his leg bouncing sporadically against Jimin’s. 

Jimin hesitates, clutching the pen tighter before pressing it down to the paper. He looks up towards Jeongguk, pursing his lips before speaking. 

“Are you hungry?” He asks gently. 

Jeongguk blinks over at him, confused. “Hungry?” 

“Yes, are you hungry?” Jimin asks again, this time leaning back in his chair. He watches the way Jeongguk wrinkles up his nose. “I make a mean bowl of ramen, like nothing you’ve ever tasted before. My baby sister, if she were here, would totally vouch for me for sure.” 

Jeongguk’s face is twisted up as if he’s weighing the question. Jimin can see the way his eyes shift awkwardly; thinks he can even track the weightlessness of his breath as it hitches up on his tongue. He thinks he’s figuring out whether to trust him or not. Weighing his options, weighing his losses. 

Jimin wouldn’t fault him though. Today has been rough and long and tedious; He’s been through a lot and Jimin can see the exhaustion in his eyes. He leans across the desk, drapes a hand over Jeongguk’s again. This time he grips it. 

“Scallions, potatoes, full of chili powder and a runny egg on top,” He continues brightly. “You’re going to love it I promise.” 

Jeongguk’s eyes shake, achy. Jimin can feel the tension of his hand under his palm, see the tension tugging at his eyes. Then, for a moment, he melts. 

“Not allowed runny eggs,” Jeongguk frowns. “Not good for me, I don’t think.”

Jimin shrugs, smile crawling across his lips as he runs an affectionate hand over Jeongguk’s. 

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them now will it?” 

The kitchen, this late at night, is mostly abandoned. 

There are two servants stationed beside the stove, murmuring gently to each other when they enter. Freezing when they watch Jeongguk strut into the large room. One, this one with flaming red hair, leaps up; head dipped into a bow as she shuffles up from her seat. It scrapes across the stone floor, and she winces. Eyes dipping between Jeongguk and Jimin, over to her equally nervous co-worker. 

“No need for panic,” Jeongguk smiles, and it’s soft and overtly gentle. He bows his head back towards her. “It’s late, you two don’t need to still be here.” 

The servant’s mouth drops, hands slipping where it’s clutching at the table in front of her. “Y- Your Highness,” She stutters out. “We’re stationed here in case we are of any service to you—” She hesitates, eyes darting between Jeongguk and Jimin. “Or guests.” 

Jeongguk grins, “Well take it as an executive order from your prince,” He nods his head towards the door. “You are relieved for the night.” 

The two servants brighten, eyeing each other excitedly. The other servant jolts up, both mumbling out a litany of thank you’s before finally leaping from the room. 

Alone, in a deserted kitchen, Jimin watches as Jeongguk crosses over towards one of the benches and drapes himself across it. He props himself up, face on the palm of his hands as he blinks over at Jimin with readying eyes. 

“So,” He says. “This ramen you boast of.” 

Jimin can’t help the giggle that slips from him. He crosses the kitchen, towards the wooden pantry as he shuffles out a small pouch of folded fabric, continuing a string of twisted noodles. He approaches the fireplace, tossing the noodles into the pot as he fills it with water. “I bet if you told them two to tap dance right now in front of you, they would’ve,” He says, eyes trained on the boiling pot of water. 

He can hear Jeongguk tapping his finger atop the wooden tabletop, also the way his breath hitches in his throat. 

“It’s their sworn duty to serve me,” He answers back, but there’s weakness clung to his voice. “Not a lot of fun though. Most of them wouldn’t even be here if they didn’t have to.”  

Jimin eyes the bubbling pot, then he’s coiling around. Padding towards a different shelf as he rustles through it for spices. “It has to be a little fun though, admit it,” He laughs out, wrapping his hands around the spices as he makes his way back to the pot. He sprinkles them in, watching the way they stain the water in swirls of red and oranges. “Having people wait on you, hand and foot. Having people do the things you say. Do things you want them to do? Having power,” He breathes out, peering over his shoulder towards Jeongguk. “Must feel nice knowing you mean something to people.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers are tracing the swirls in the wooden table. Then, his nose scrunches up as he thinks. 

“It’s not real unless they want to,” He finally answers, and it falls like a whisper from his tongue. “Obedience isn’t… real. I don’t want… obedience.” There’s a subtle hint of disgust there, a top note. “I just wonder sometimes what they would be if they weren’t here. If they didn’t have to be here. Maybe teachers? Performers? Librarians, perhaps?”

Jimin turns on his heel, blinks over at Jeongguk very cautiously. Arms folding across his chest as the pot boils at his elbow. He chews at his cheek, subtly. “What do you want, Jeongguk?” He asks. 

Jeongguk hesitates, he probably knew the question was coming, but the answer still hasn’t manifested on his tongue yet or spelled out in his brain. Jeongguk knows what he wants, it’s itched at him his entire life. Doesn’t know if he can articulate that though. Might find it muddied up on his tongue.

The pot behind Jimin whistles and he spins to tend to it. Drains it in two bowls and begins dressing them accordingly. “When I was a kid, my mom would leave me alone with my baby sister,” Jimin explains, garnishing the two bowls of steaming ramen. “We didn’t have much to eat in the house, but we had ramen. As most families do.” 

He’s taking them eggs he’d cracked atop the stove and scooping them up with a wooden spatula, draping it over the noodles as he feels Jeongguk’s eyes bore into him. “I did what I could to make this as gourmet as I could. I’d tell her stories and fairy tales as I cooked. Made her feel like a princess even though we lived very, very far from that,” He laughs, finished as he stabs two chopsticks into Jeongguk’s bowl and slides it over towards him. “Make what you can from what you have.” He finishes with a smile. 

Jeongguk eyes the bowl wearily, eyes skirting up to Jimin then back down to the red noodles below him.

“It’s not poisoned, I promise, Your Highness,” Jimin says with a sharp bow of his head. “In fact, watch,” He digs his own chopsticks into his own bowl and scoops it into his mouth. He hums, because this, for the first time, tastes like home. Warming his tongue and that spot he’s been itching for since he’s arrived in this reality. He feels his soul melt to it, as does his body as he slacks against the countertop. 

“It’s delicious, I promise,” He laughs out, scooping out another mouthful. 

Jeongguk hesitates, then his fingers reach for the chopsticks. Rolling them through the ramen before scooping some up and plopping it into his mouth. Jimin watches his expression dance. From curiosity, to fear, to excitement, before settling on surprise as he swallows very thickly. 

“Well?” Jimin presses. 

Jeongguk smiles, and it’s genuine, Jimin can see that much to be true. “It’s delicious,” He hums out, eyeing the soup again. “I- I’ve never tasted anything like this before.” 

Jimin laughs, chest swelling with a pride he cannot place. “Poverty makes you creative. Imagine the master chefs you have in your kingdom right now?” He scoops more of his own ramen into his mouth and grins again, cheeks full. “Make what you can with what you have,” He repeats, this time with a sweet wink.

Jeongguk digs back into his ramen, pulling it back to his lips as he slurps more down. He focuses on the swirl of savory scent as he dives his nose into the bowl. Tries to ignore the weight of Jimin’s presence in front of him. The one that makes him itch to speak to call for his attention in any way. He clutches at his wooden chopsticks awkwardly, then, he’s looking up. Watching as Jimin’s raven head bounces he slurps at his food. Tries to swallow down the admiration that’s gurgling in his chest. 

“So, when I’m crowned king, I have one more duty to complete,” Jeongguk blurts. Mostly because his tongue has held this secret long enough. Wonders why he feels the need to stomach these emotions so bare to Jimin. He watches as Jimin raises his head slowly, weighs his expression before speaking again. 

“I’m engaged to be married,” Jeongguk explains, stirring his wooden chopsticks through the bowl. He chews at his cheek, then he’s looking back up to Jimin. “Effective immediately as soon as I’m crowned as King.”

Jimin doesn’t know why his heart sinks at that. Wonders why his chest tightens at the thought of the prince in another’s arms. Wonders why his stomach curls at the thought of him betrothed to another makes him feel so sick. So, he distracts himself by spooning out his own ramen. 

“How interesting, so am I,” Jimin replies, hoping it’d soothe him, but it doesn’t. He thinks he sees something strange flicker across Jeongguk’s eyes.

“Apparently, I owe my kingdom a son,” Jeongguk murmurs instead, still stirring the noodles through the chili-colored soup. “Just like my father was expected, and my grandfather had been before him.”

There is hurt hanging on his words, Jimin catches that much across from him. He watches as the prince mindlessly combs a hand through his hair, eyes following the stir of herbs through his soup. 

“I’m obligated,” He mumbles, voice still achy with upset. “The only reason I’m alive is because I’m supposed to make sure my family’s bloodline keeps going; stays pure.”

“Don’t say that,” Jimin retorts, coming out more pointed than he means.

“It’s true,” Jeongguk whines back. He looks up, with wide glossy eyes. He sniffs only slightly, before darting them back down to his bowl. 

“It didn’t have to be me. There’s no reason it had to be me. It could’ve been my brother,” He mumbles through pouty lips. “I just made the mistake of coming first.”

Jeongguk’s usually bright eyes seem foggy with pain. He’s still got them cast down into the depths of his bowl, swirling his chopsticks through a quickening cooling red bowl of ramen.

Jimin, in turn, gulps. Leaning forward to spoon down into it with his own chopsticks. He swims them through before pulling a chunk of curry-colored noodles free and plopping them onto his tongue. He flashes Jeongguk a sweet smile before slurping them down.

Jeongguk gapes at him, watching as the final noodle slips past Jimin’s two very full lips. Watches as his throat bobs as he swallows. It takes a moment before he trains his eyes to lift to meet Jimin’s.

“Being obligated to do anything is very,” Jimin begins, wiping his mouth on the forgotten napkin beside them. “It’s not the best. As you know. You should do things because you want to. You love who you want, hate who you should. No middle ground. No compromise.”

Jeongguk is watching intently as Jimin slurps down another chunk of noodle. 

“The hard part is when you never get a chance at being selfish,” Jimin continues, mouth stuffed full of noodles. He chews, fingers wiping at the seams of his mouth. “Some of us never get to be kids. Kids shouldn’t feel the weight of their families on their back.” 

He dunks his chopsticks back into the bowl, stirring it around but he can still feel Jeongguk’s eyes on him. Can feel the heat of his gaze as he pulls the noodles back to his lips. 

“Or the weight of a whole kingdom,” Jimin continues softly. “Growing up shouldn’t mean the death of your childhood. Shouldn’t mean the death of freedom.” He sucks on his teeth. “There’s always freedom, when you fight for it.” When he looks up, he finally locks eyes with Jeongguk. Thinks he feels the earth shatter beneath him.

There’s too much weight in his gaze. And he feels the earth’s gravity shift under his feet. He thinks this is what he’s been looking for, for so long. There is epiphany blooming like hot springs in his chest. Thinks he can feel it spilling into his heart. 

You are Park Jimin, he reminds himself. You’re a writer. You live in Seoul, South Korea. You have a sister and a mother, and a fiancé named Kim Namjoon. 

Jeongguk’s cheeks are burning again, Jimin notices. There is a flush of rose stippling across his cheeks. Jimin can count the moles that dot along his skin this close. The soft fan of dark lashes that flutter at those large brown eyes. Jeongguk blinks once very slowly and Jimin has to fight the urge to lean forward to kiss him. 

You are Park Jimin, he reminds himself. And you are madly in love with Prince Jeon Jeongguk.

Chapter Text

THREE ‘Clock Strikes Twelve’

The village Taehyung’s family lives in, on the outskirts of the palace borders, is smaller than Jimin would have imagined. They’d mostly walked through what Jimin has come to realize is this realm’s everyday weather—perfect sunshine, sparse clouds and light breeze— down the grassy hill towards a small cluster of poorly constructed wooden homes. This one they reached, after trudging through muddy ground and sticky hay, is only marginally bigger than the others. 

He watches as Taehyung turns to him, casting him a bright, nearly nervous smile. “Don’t be nervous,” He says, but his voice slightly cracks. 

Jimin giggles, “I won’t be if you aren’t,” He retorts gently. 

Taehyung’s square smile broadens, and he turns back to the flimsy brown door and raps at it gently with a tap of his knuckles. 

There is gentle chaos erupting on the other side. Jimin listens as small feet pound around inside, some yelling, then the door is slung open revealing a very small girl with curly black hair and identical square smile as Taehyung. Her eyes flit across him, then, acknowledgement washes over her as she slings herself forward and wraps both arms around Taehyung’s waist. 

“Taehyungie!” She exclaims, nearly knocking him backward. She presses her face into his chest, breathing him in before she peels back, combing soft eyes over him. “I knew you were coming! I told Ma you were coming I could smell it in the air,” She exclaims breathlessly. “You know how I smell things, I smelled it. Practically felt your knocks in my chest—” 

Her eyes skirt to Jimin and she freezes, and he watches as her nose wrinkles up slightly as she smells him. “You,” She sucks in another breath, nose itching as she leans closer to Jimin only slightly. After a moment she looks back up at Taehyung, eyebrows quirking up. “He smells odd.” 

Jimin wrinkles under her gaze, fingering at the hem of his blouse as he dashes his eyes back up to Taehyung worriedly. Taehyung slinks the girl off carefully, but keeps his arms wrapped at her shoulders. “I know, didn’t quite smell him, but I could see it all over him,” He waves a hand over Jimin gently, shooting him a gentle smile. 

“Gyuri, this is Jimin, he’s a visitor,” He concludes softly. “Jimin, this is Gyuri, my younger, very annoying sister.” 

Gyuri eyes him darkly, nose flaring out as she breathes him in again. Blinking rapidly as she leans in again for another whiff. “Where are you from?” She asks. 

Jimin gapes at her, eyes flitting between the small girl and Taehyung who beckons him on with a subtle nod of his head. 

Jimin glances back at Gyuri, unsure why he feels so nervous in the presence of a young girl. “I uh—” He begins, voice shaky. “I’m not from here. Or anywhere around here for that matter.” 

Gyuri’s nose turns up as she takes another long sniff. Then her face wrinkles up in slight disgust. “Your skin smells like metal,” She frowns in revulsion. “Smoke and metal—” 

“He said he’s not from here, now you’re insulting him?” Taehyung said, pushing her into the front door and beckoning Jimin in behind him. 

Jimin hesitates, foot lingering on the dried grass just outside the subtle raised step into the house. He eyes around the wooden doorframe, watching as Taehyung wrestles his sister into the golden lit home, past a large tan grandfather clock that ticks, ticks away in time. 

He swallows down his apprehension, then takes one final step into the house. Foot landing with an unimpressive stomp against the wooden floor inside. He can still hear Taehyung, fumbling into the small kitchen to his left. His sister whining something ineligible about missing him and cursing the palace for stealing her brother away. 

The amber colored walls are dotted with smeared paint and what Jimin can only assume is art arranged from the outdoors. Conjoined sticks and clobbered wood and mud gathered in sprays of arranged flowers and dried muddy vases. There is a fire pulsing somewhere nearby, Jimin can smell the embers as they crackle and spit ash into the air. There must also be a stove, brewing something very delicious and curry scented, swirling through the thickened air towards him. Enough to make his belly sing in longing. This home, though small and made with primal hands is filled with warmth and welcome and Jimin is suddenly embraced with envy. 

He hears Taehyung calling him from the kitchen and he follows it. Reaching the doorframe where he meets Gyuri, once again draping herself across his back and a woman stirring at whatever is brewing atop the stove top. Her back is to him, but Jimin can see the grace in her movements, and just how much they remind him of Taehyung so he can only assume the woman to be his mother. 

Taehyung is murmuring something to her gently, then he turns to Jimin, beckoning him closer. “Ma, I want you to meet someone,” He breathes out, reaching for Jimin as he takes small, pebbled steps towards him. 

Jimin is close enough now that he can feel the heat from the fire as Taehyung’s mother stirs at it. Chewing at the inside of his cheek as she curls closer towards her apprehensively. “Ma, this is Jimin, he’s my friend,” Taehyung announces, hand wrapped tightly around Jimin’s, tugging him closer. He turns to Jimin, leaning in slightly. “Jimin, this is my mother,” He breathes out gently. “She can’t see you, so she’s going to need your hand.” 

He tugs him closer, enough that Jimin’s foot skips slightly towards the floor then he’s beside her. Feeling the steam from the brewing pot wet his cheek as the tall woman coils around and finally faces him. 

Her eyes, much to Jimin’s surprise, are a bright green, much like Taehyung’s, except they seem to glow and pulse with each blink. Jimin gasps but swallows it only slightly. He feels as Taehyung tucks his hand into his mother’s palm. Wrapping them tightly together before taking a small step back. 

Taehyung’s mother clenches around him, eyes coasting over him intensely as her grip seems to warm over every part of him. “You feel like you’re a very long way from home, aren’t you, Jimin?” She murmurs, and her voice is smooth as honey. 

Jimin finds himself nodding, even though he doesn’t know if this reaction is totally his own. Taehyung’s mother’s face twists up into a soft, gentle smile. Much like her son’s as she loosens her grip, but only slightly. “Very happy you’ve finally decided to come back home. We’ve been waiting a while.” 

Jimin gapes at her, and to pull his gaze away is too hard, like pulling sap from bark. But eventually he does, leaving himself lightheaded as he blinks up at Taehyung weakly. 

“Ma is a Feeler,” He explains, nodding his head. “I got the Eye, Yuri’s got the Nose, Ma has the Hands.” 

Their grip loosens, and eventually, Taehyung’s mother drops his hands with a delicate pat to his palm before turning back to the stew and giving it a gentle stir. Taehyung beckons him to the table and Jimin follows him as they both sink into the wooden chairs.

“Doesn’t he smell strange, Ma?” Gyuri frowns, leaning against the table, combing her eyes over Jimin with a frustrated scowl. “I’ve never smelled anyone like him before.” 

“Well, that’s because there’s never been anyone like him before,” Their mother replies, leaning down as she pulls the spoon to her lips and sips. “At least not from my knowledge.” 

Jimin feels very self-conscious. Choosing to divert his eyes down to his fingers and pick nervously at his skin. 

“He’s living with me, in the palace,” Taehyung explains, crossing his legs as he reaches for an apple atop the table. “But he’s working directly with the prince.”

Only Gyuri gasps, as she clobbers closer to Jimin. Nearly draping herself across the table as she pines for his gaze. Jimin notices that Taehyung’s mother has halted stirring, back stiffening. 

“You’re working with the Prince? Prince Jeongguk?” She gushes, cheeks flaming. “Is he as gorgeous up close as he is from afar?” 

Jimin’s mouth slacks as he darts his eyes between Gyuri who is very close to his face right now, and Taehyung’s mother who is slowly curling around to face him. 

“He uh—” Jimin begins with a stammer. “I mean, I guess so—” 

“He’s helping him write his speeches for the coronation,” Taehyung explains, biting deeply into the apple. “Also just… helping him in general.” There’s a lot bedded in his tone, enough to usually warrant a slap on the arm, but Jimin feels very overwhelmed right now. 

He shoots Gyuri an awkward smile as she gasps. 

“You can read?” She asks, fascination coloring her tone. “And write?” She breathes him in, eyes fluttering shut. This time when they open her expression has melted into adoration. “Teach me! Teach me!” 

Jimin swallows, very flustered, when he feels his hands warming slightly. “I’d love to—” He darts his eyes back to Taehyung’s fearfully. 

Taehyung’s mother crosses to him, bowl in hand. She sets it atop the wooden table and scoots it across to him gently. Then she’s reaching across the table to him and wrapping her hand around his. 

“You feel homesick,” She mumbles softly. 

Jimin pouts, feeling his chest ache at the thought. His homesickness feels very disjointed, as if it’s for something unreachable at this point. He pouts, nodding slightly. “I think so,” He finally replies. 

Taehyung’s mother smiles, and it mirrors Taehyung’s. “Well, I just want you to know that whatever home you’re dreaming of was never really yours to begin with,” She mumbles. “No reason to wish for home when you’re already here.” 

Jimin blinks at her, head cocking in confusion. He can feel his fingers starting to burn, but he isn’t sure if it’s of his own doing right now. Taehyung’s mother is running their hands together, softening gentle circles into his palm. He darts his eyes down to their conjoined hands then back up to meet her eyes. 

“I— I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He stammers. 

“Our people’s magic was tethered, but not completely.” His mother mumbles. “Can’t get rid of what always was. It sheds ribbons, pieces of magic sent to different realms, for safekeeping.” Taehyung’s mother chuckles gently. “We’ve got a Seer, a Smeller, and a Feeler in one room.” She pauses, leaning in slightly. “And how might you introduce yourself?”

Jimin is suddenly very aware of his place in this room. Also, the way his fingertips are now bursting with heat and a subtle blue light. He eyes then embarrassed, shooting his gaze up to Taehyung who is gazing back at him in wonderous delight. Jimin’s eyes trace back to Taehyung’s mother, back to her two glowing green eyes, and swallows in fear. 

“I uh,” He stammers out. He’s never had to confront himself before, at least not out loud. Never had words to tack what he can do. “I can—” He hesitates, because this feels like blossoming. “I guess you can say I can bend time?” 

The fire crackles beside them and Jimin welcomes its warmth. Feels it bleed into his own and spill out into the room, numbing the surprise around him. Taehyung’s mother smiles gently, patting at his hand and Jimin lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding his entire life. Thinks he feels home for the first time in this strange realm that doesn’t make sense.

But him and this strange little thing called his magic makes a little, no a lot more sense here. As if it’d been waiting to return after years away.

“Welcome home, Jimin.” 

“Your mother is very intimidating,” Jimin gulps later, watching as Taehyung knocks back his drink.

They are in a very crowded, muggy pub now. Taehyung insisted on dragging him to the center of town. Now he’s in a congested pub, pressed against the back of very tall, very musty old men as they drunkenly shoot back their shots against the wet bar top. Jimin curls his hands around his room temperature glass of water, pressing it tighter towards his chest. The man behind him bumps into him, and it sloshes up the glass, staining a slight darkened smear against Jimin’s blouse as he turns his nose up in disgust.

“You don’t want anything to drink?” Taehyung asks, flagging the bartender for another drink.

Jimin shakes his head, cradling his drink closer to his chest. “Nah, I’m good.” He says, shaking his head. 

The bartender slides Taehyung another drink and he swallows it heartedly, foam smearing at the seams of his lips as he pulls it back down with a clang against the bar top. 

“You don’t drink,” Taehyung drunkenly slurs, and it isn’t a question. Mostly stated as a fact as he pulls the drink back up to his lips. 

Jimin giggles, pulling his own drink to his lips and taking a slight sip. “I don’t, no,” He says softly, voice muffled into the glass. He pulls it back down and shrugs. “Didn’t look very good on my mom, didn’t think it’d look good on me either.” 

The pub pulses and Jimin lets himself give into it for a moment. He’d read and written about these pubs before. Seen them in his favorite high fantasy films but never thought he’d find himself in one, under flickering dark torchlight as large, bearded drunken men drone on over drinks and conversation. He tries to swallow his excitement in his glass as he pulls it back up to his lips.

“I’m sorry if my mother and sister were a bit…” Taehyung begins, cheeks flamed red as he swallows another sip. “They can be a lot sometimes.” 

Jimin shakes his head, “No, no, it’s nice. I have a younger sister and mother too. I get it,” He laughs gently. “Not as nice as yours, very jealous I must say.” 

Taehyung is drunk enough, Jimin can tell that his vision is swimming as he dances it all over Jimin’s frame, unable to tack to his gaze. He leans forward, “Do you miss them?” 

Jimin drinks in a breath, hand suddenly tightening around his glass. If he wants to be brutally honest with himself, he doesn’t think about them as much as he should. Ever since landing here, his bones have gotten acclimated to the gravity and the air finally settling heavy in lungs as if it’s always been like this. Here, he thinks he feels closer to the Jimin he could’ve been, rather than the Jimin he was forced to be. 

If he thinks hard enough, the magic of this place seems to have fogged up his memory because it’s hard to place the brightest of his sisters’ smiles, the color of her hair, even the weight of her arms as she pulls him in for a hug. Doesn’t know if that’s his own fault or this realm’s anymore. Maybe he’s finding it hard to remember her because he doesn’t want to anymore. 

He takes a nervous gulp of his water, letting it rush and cool his insides. Taehyung notices and mirrors him. Finishing the last of his drink and slamming it back down with a hollowed glass clank. 

He sniffs slightly. “You didn’t mention your dad,” He says softly. 

Jimin hardens at that, he’d learned to tuck things away early and that is one of those things. Most feelings he’d attached to his father were too morbid for him to experience in public, but here they are again. Gurgling up free and stinging at his eyes. 

He buries his gaze into his glass, following the way the torch lights above him warp and wave through the echoed water’s surface. After a moment he pulls his gaze back up and with a shrug he responds, “There was a war.” 

Taehyung closes his eyes, reaching forward as he drapes a hand over Jimin. 

For all the things Jimin denies, this feels very real, real and intimate and strangely, strangely, human despite Jimin’s reluctance to believe.

This feels more real than anything he’s ever experienced in this realm or not. 

“Ah, a war. There’s always a war,” Taehyung mumbles back. He wrinkles his nose, peeling his eyes open as he frowns. “Takes a lot more than it should from the least of us.” 

Jimin wants to cry but he doesn’t because he’s in public, never in public. These tears are reserved for the discomfort of his own privacy.

“Well, he left one day for the war and never came back,” Jimin says, lips pressed to his glass. He thinks he feels the beginning of tears in his eyes. “Magic can’t bring him back, can it?” 

Taehyung shakes his head, “That’s not what magic is supposed to be for.” 

Jimin feels his gut turn as he frowns. This is bringing up too many emotions he’d sworn he’d swallowed down years ago. 

“There’s always dark magic, duh. But earth magic is always forward, always thinking forward,” Taehyung continues, drooling slightly as he finishes his drink. Slamming it against the wooden bar top. He swallows and smiles. “And it’s rooted in love, always rooted in love. Love homes hope. Love brought you here, right?” 

Jimin doesn’t know if that’s right, but he feels like it is. He swallows down the last of his water, tugging on Taehyung’s sleeve. “I have a trip with the prince coming up tomorrow morning. I can’t be here babysitting you while you get hammered,” He says, pulling him slightly. 

Taehyung jostles under the weight of his push and he laughs. Wiping at the seams of his mouth as he struggles to focus his eyes onto Jimin’s frame. 

“Like I said,” He says gently. “Love.” 

Jimin had never seen a real carriage before. 

But here, one stands directly in front of him; in a long-manicured line of golden ones as they’re busily being stuffed full of extravagant luggage for the prince’s trip. Jimin weaves through them, nearly tripping over the handle of a silver plated one, carved with ornate floral design as he stumbles up to Yoongi. Yoongi is murmuring to another advisor, wooden clipboard in hand. It takes a moment, but he eventually turns to Jimin and grimaces slightly. 

“As you know we have a commonwealth trip. Visiting our neighbors to the south,” Yoongi says, watching as Jimin struggles to maintain eye contact, and not to the shimmering white horse that is bucking only a few feet ahead under the hot sun. “This is in preparation for his Highness’s coronation, to connect with the people of his kingdom, but not just locally,” Yoongi continues, fighting for Jimin’s gaze. 

It takes a moment, but Jimin focuses back on Yoongi whose nose is turned up towards him slightly. He chews on his cheek, before looking back down to the clipboard and scribbling something mindlessly. “Usually, speechwriters and hands don’t leave the palace for trips with the prince. He has direct handlers for that, but His Royal Highness insisted on your joining—” 

“He did?” Jimin says, voice enthusiastic. He catches it himself, falling back onto his heels and curling his head down into a subtle bow. “I mean, that’s nice— I mean. It’s an honor—”

“It is,” Yoongi agrees, but his eyes are sharp. He sucks in a breath, pulling the clipboard to his chest and taking a step towards Jimin. He eyes him, trailing from his toes until he meets his eyes again. 

Around them, the controlled chaos of the prince’s calvary buzzes around them. Jimin is very aware of how small he is standing beside Yoongi, and he swallows. Tacking on his best, most professional smile. After a moment, Yoongi doesn’t say anything, just crossing past him with a huff and waving another advisor down. 

Jeongguk joins him in the carriage an hour later. After shooing away all his advisors who insist on climbing in behind him, he settles, very comfortably against the plush violet seating behind him, melting into with a sigh. Jimin’s eyes are down at his hands, but eventually, the view outside of the open carriage window catches his attention. 

Outside, the world has exploded in a swirl of peaches and cream-colored clouds. The sun kisses each one in spreads of honey rays that paint the sky. 

Jimin has not seen anything more beautiful, he thinks. Not in the tangerine sun rises he experienced every morning trekking through the city with his father when he was young. Not the smile of his baby sister when he slides him his share of desert. Not even his mother’s crocheted blankets that draped over the torn brown couch in their living room. No this, this in all its celestial glory; a scene painted in soft strokes from the brush of the angels themselves. This, Jimin knows, is an honor to witness such beauty. 

He can feel Jeongguk squeeze at their interlocked hands and suddenly his face is beside his, peering out the window to the handsewn heaven outside. 

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” Jeongguk grins cheekily, peeling open his eyes. 

Jimin turns towards him and can taste the eagerness on his tongue as if he were swallowing his own excitement. 

“Sometimes when I was younger and my father would take me on trips with him, very rarely, but when I would go, I would stare at these windows and imagine I was bouncing on each cloud,” Jeongguk remembers, edging closer towards the window, but ultimately closer towards him. He presses their legs together gently. But his eyes are far gone, tossed out to the clouds. They eventually find Jimin’s again, then Jimin’s lips, then back to Jimin’s eyes.

Jimin squirms under his gaze, leaning back against the plush seat.

“I thought—” Jeongguk begins weakly. “I thought you might like that. Maybe it could inspire some of your writing?”

Jimin nods, “It could, thank you.”

The bumpy forest road rocks them, slightly jostling Jeongguk into Jimin who smiles nervously. Tucking his head back against the plush violet seating and exhaling a sharp breath. One turbulent jostle and his engagement ring, the one he keeps looped around a long silver chain jostles itself free. Jeongguk’s eyes immediately fall to find it, eyeing it quietly as Jimin nervously tucks it back behind a button in his shirt. 

“You say you’re engaged,” Jeongguk finally blurts, and the energy seemed pressed as if he’d been keeping it behind sealed lips only for the words to slip loose without warning. Jimin’s eyes trail up to meet him, and the Jeongguk who blinks back at him seems to be bloated with emotions he doesn’t have the energy to keep tacked in. He jostles with the pull of the carriage, blinking back at Jimin with measured coolness. 

“I am,” Jimin answers, tucking the ring behind his shirt. 

“What’s his name?” Jeongguk continues, eyebrows twisting up. 

“You wouldn’t know him,” Jimin replies. “Or his family name, I promise.” 

“I didn’t ask if I knew him, I just asked his name,” Jeongguk replies with a snide frown. 

Jimin presses his lips together, eyes darting between the melting sun outside the window, then back down to the cool ring that seems to be pressing hot against his chest. He inhales sharply before answering, “Kim Namjoon,” He finally replies. “He’s my best friend from when I was a kid.” 

Jeongguk is staring at him, eyes nearly burning through every inch of him. He rocks with the sway of the carriage as it jostles through the wood, but his eyes never fall from Jimin. They remain, slightly narrowed, as he drinks him in in absolute silence. 

“You don’t love him,” He finally says. “Do you?”

Jimin yelps slightly, “Excuse me?” He says, hand unconsciously finding its way to the outline of the ring against his shirt. 

Jeongguk shrugs, but Jimin thinks he sees a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s been weeks since you arrived, and you’ve mentioned him once. In passing,” He replies. 

Jimin frowns, watching as the bleeding sun begins to set behind the forest trees, trees, Jimin have noticed, that have slowly stretched into something a little longer, wetter and a lot more tropical. The lanterns that have been slung to the side of the carriages are sending flickering golden light against the jungle, as fireflies dance from them in low dancing buzzes. He can still feel Jeongguk’s gaze on him however, but he refuses to meet it. 

“Well, you’ve mentioned your fiancé once too, what’s their name?” Jimin presses, slightly accusatory. 

Jeongguk rolls his eyes and laughs, “How defensive,” He chuckles, tossing his palm beneath his chin as he gazes out of the window. He inhales a deep breathe, “Still haven’t answered my question.” 

“And you haven’t answered mine,” Jimin retorts. 

Quiet blooms between them, as does understanding. Jimin can feel it as Jeongguk finally turns to face him again, face pulled into a soft, knowing smile. 

“Her name is Princess Zuhruh Aseem. She’s from the Southern kingdom. We were promised to each other when we were children,” Jeongguk says coolly, but Jimin can hear the hurt in his voice. He can also see it melting across his expression, eyebrows slung low. Mouth pulled into a light line. “I don’t love her though. I don’t think I’m supposed to. My parents didn’t love each other.” 

Jimin frowns, because he doesn’t think he’s seen love before either. Thinks that’s why he was reduced to writing them in his own fairy tales. He’s playing with his fingers when Jeongguk speaks again. 

“But I dream of love though,” This time his voice is smaller, still centered in his chest as he speaks. “Dream of something that is more than enough, more than what is expected, you know?” 

Of course, Jimin knows. Has felt like that for longer than he’d care to admit. He finally submits to meet Jeongguk’s gaze and feels his chest tighten at the sight of him. “I love Namjoon because I’m supposed to,” He answers, and it feels more like a confession to himself. “Lots of things I worked very hard for depend on it. I….” He hesitates softly. “I don’t really have a choice, really.”

Jeongguk makes him want to confess though, doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this around someone before, let alone a stranger and it honestly frightens him. 

After a second, he hears Jeongguk breathe out sharply, just as the carriage turns towards a brightly lit building seemingly stuck in the middle of a jungle. “You should do things because you want to. You love who you want, hate who you should. No middle ground. No compromise,” Jeongguk says after a moment, eyes filled with adoration. He smiles and with it, Jimin melts. “I wonder what amazing person told me that?” 

Jeongguk’s royal suite, nestled at the top of the commonwealth’s most expensive part of town, takes Jimin a lot longer to access than he originally planned. After having to pass through several rounds of intense security clearances, Jimin eventually makes it to the steps. He drags the bags onto the platform, leaning over towards the golden handle and grabs at it, waiting for the door to swing open to slide through. Jeongguk leaps through the door, squeezing through the small split and stumbling onto the platform beside him. 

“I told you, I’m supposed to be doing this,” Jimin begins weakly as the bags clip up onto his hip.

“I know what you told me, but I’m not listening, okay?” Jeongguk insists. He reaches over and snatches two of the bags from Jimin’s grip. “I can help carry my bags, it’s the least I can do.”

Jimin pouts, rolling his eyes. “This is my job,” He insists darkly. “Don’t you have prime ministers to speak to or something?” 

“Actually, I’m free for the evening,” Jeongguk responds, spinning the wheel of the luggage with the toe of his shoe. It squeaks against the marble floor, rattles around the tiny body of the small staircase. Jimin almost feels the sound crawl up his arm. 

Right now, the two grow strikingly conscious of the compact surface area of the staircase as they begin their ascent. From their distance, barely a breath away from the other, Jimin can smell the sweet floral scent of Jeongguk’s shampoo. See the flecks of gold that highlights his hair. He watches as Jeongguk tucks the strands behind his ear nervously and Jimin sees a small earring hole, one he hadn’t noticed before. Before he can open his mouth, the door squeals open at the hands of two guards already nestled inside. 

Before them lays a sprawling hotel suite draped in gold and marble. Jeongguk motions for him to walk and Jimin takes one stumbling step out and into it. 

There’s a stench of wealth, Jimin hasn’t ever smelt before. Not even in his own accumulation of it at home. It drips from the gilded artwork that frames the walls to the fluffed carpet at their toes. Straight ahead of them, large clear patio doors span the expanse of wall, and peach colored sunset drip in muted from the indigo-colored curtains, spilling out onto the white carpeted floor at their feet. 

Jeongguk is watching him; he can feel his gaze on his back as he strides behind him. Eventually Jimin coils around, “This is—” 

“A lot, I know,” Jeongguk replies, darting his gaze around. He’d stayed in dozens of royal suites before but for some strange reason, right here in this particular one. With Jimin gazing around with awestruck eyes that resembled something very similar to disgust made the experience a little less enjoyable. 

“I mean, yes, it’s a lot,” Jimin answers, stepping out a little further. He notices a cracked door in the far-right corner, which he guesses is the master bedroom. “But you’re a prince. You deserve a lot, I guess.” 

“Do I?” Jeongguk asks following him towards the bedroom.

Jimin pushes the door open with his index finger and he’s right. Inside, the room that drips with cherry-colored walls and dark wood furniture lies a large sprawling bed with nearly a thousand pillows. Each one, dark blue in color looks incredibly soft, spilling cotton and silk onto the sheets. Jimin turns to face him and Jeongguk thinks he knows his answer. Judging from the war of emotion that shutters across Jimin’s eyes. 

“Let’s just say,” Jimin replies, parking one of Jeongguk’s bags in the corner of the room and leaning down to flick on the light. “Where I’m from, an exorbitant display of hoarded wealth isn’t received with open arms like this. Especially for the monarchy.”

Jeongguk eyes him, shuffling across the room and leaning on the large wooden canopy at the bed’s right corner. “What do you mean?” 

Jimin’s mouth opens, but he snaps it shut immediately. Jeongguk challenges him, in ways no one he’s known before has. His face scrounges with emotion, fluttering between anger, fear, regret. Somewhere, his face settles sweetly on an emotion that resembles sadness. It deepens between his eyes, settles in the heaviness of his brows. 

“My parents couldn’t feed us sometimes when I was growing up,” Jimin whispers. There’s a bit of shame that colors his voice, it hangs low on each word that slips past his lips. He ducks his head, eyes settling on his shoes. “My father lost a couple of jobs before he eventually found one. Mom said it was a miracle.” 

His voice cracks on the last word, and Jeongguk thinks his heart does too. There’s something in his fingers that itch to reach out, but he chooses instead to let them twist on the bed’s fluffy comforter nervously. 

“But I don’t believe in miracles. Or the angels or… or any of that. Not when I’ve seen people starve. Not when I’ve seen children cry because they’re so hungry. And you have all of this,” The last of his words come out in a spat and Jeongguk flinches at it.

Jimin’s previous shame has slipped to Jeongguk now. He feels it burn down his neck and slip hot through his chest. He suddenly becomes frighteningly aware of the cashmere of the bed’s dressing and the soft cherry wood of the bed’s frame. 

“Jimin, I—” 

“It’s not your fault, Jeongguk, you were born for this,” Jimin smiles, kicking at the luggage slightly. He looks up and meets Jeongguk’s eyes, there’s too much sadness there. “It’s not your fault what you were born into.” 

Jeongguk thinks he catches sarcasm in his tone, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“I don’t know what I can do to make up for that,” Jeongguk says, taking a few dark steps forward. 

Jimin waves him off with a laugh, stepping past him and back out towards the hall where the other few bags still sit. “There’s nothing you can do about me growing up poor, Jeongguk,” He says hoisting two of the bags up. “It’s a whole system you got to dismantle, it’s a lot bigger than you—”

“Is it?” Jeongguk presses, following him like a puppy from hall to the bedroom and back. They end up back in the hall, settled by the balcony doors where the sunset is still bleeding out under the curtains. It spills peach onto Jimin’s shoes, crawls pink on the carpet. 

Jimin is eyeing Jeongguk with suspicious eyes, “Yeah, it is,” He replies apprehensively. “You can’t just… think you can flip everything on its head by just talking to me. It’s a lot bigger than you.” 

 “It doesn’t have to be,” Jeongguk says, shaking his head. “What’s the point in all this power if I don’t actually use it?” 

Jimin doesn’t say anything; he lets his eyes narrow and drink every part of Jeongguk in that he can before ducking his eyes back to the door. Jeongguk notices his hesitance, reaches out despite himself to grab at his arm, “I can’t know if you don’t tell me.” 

Jimin doesn’t tell him he’s perfectly capable of educating himself, but he bites back his tongue. He wriggles his arm free, grabbing the last black bag and delivering Jeongguk a small bow. 

“I’m going go steam your clothes for tomorrow in my room,” He says softly. “I’ll make sure they’re hung up in the front closet, along with your shoes. Maybe edit your speech for tomorrow.” He begins back towards the door and it’s only when he hears the silent click of the elevator door does Jeongguk notice that Jimin hadn’t tacked on the sarcastic “Your Highness” as he usually does.

Jimin’s room is one floor down from Jeongguk and the difference in quality is more than surprising. Smaller, more like a broom closet than an actual room, Jimin struggles as he presses the iron to Jeongguk’s shirt as he stretches it out to comb it across its surface. He’d shimmied the window open, only to be facing another brick wall from an adjoining building. But he can still smell the freshness in the air. Along with a nearby body of water, Jimin can smell the spring of water as it thickens the already humid air.

He stirs to the sound of light rapping at his door. Stationing the makeshift iron on its crane and curls around the breath of billowing steam and stumbles towards the door. The rapping continues, increasing in intensity as Jimin stumbles past his haphazardly tossed shoes and flailing towards the door. 

“I’m coming dammit!” He exclaims breathlessly, hurling himself towards the door and yanking it open.

On the other side reveals Yoongi, his arms are crossed as he waits and when the door swings open his eyes widen in surprise. 

“Mr.— Mr. Min,” Jimin breathes out, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. 

Yoongi’s eyes narrow as he combs them over Jimin, “His Highness requests your company.”

Jimin hiccups, flitting his eyes back to the iron that still coughs out deep in his room. He turns back to meet Yoongi’s gaze. “Me? Why?”

“I think we both know why, Mr. Park,” Yoongi replies with an annoyed shake of his head. 

Jimin blushes at that, turning back towards the iron. “I need to— I need to at least cool the iron, so I don’t burn down the hotel.” 

Yoongi doesn’t respond, but he does pivot his body against the wall in waiting. 

Jimin stumbles back through the room, slips on his red slippers and tosses on his dressing gown spritzing the iron with cool water, before hurdling himself back out the hotel door towards Yoongi. Yoongi doesn’t respond, he begins padding down towards the steps and Jimin scurries behind him obediently. 

Their feet scuff against the hard tan carpet and Jimin slightly trips on it. Watching as Yoongi strides ahead of him, soft blonde hair combed back in a slightly more casual manner than he’s used to. 

They reach the steps and Yoongi reaches the stone door and pry’s it open, motioning with his head for Jimin to walk through. Jimin follows him, feet echoing through the chilled hall as they ascend down the steps in silent harmony.

After a few moments, Yoongi opens his mouth to speak. “Whatever you’re doing I suggest you stop,” He murmurs.

Jimin freezes, letting his eyes ghost over his body before pulling back up to meet Yoongi. Yoongi, who is a few steps ahead of him pauses, coiling around. His eyes hold quiet reservation, but there’s warning in them.

“I’m not—” Jimin croaks out nervously. “I’m not doing anything—”

“He. Is. Your. Prince,” Yoongi spits out. He takes a few steps down towards Jimin but still looms above him. Peering down his nose towards him with narrowed, angry eyes. He’s closer now, breath suddenly hot on Jimin’s skin. Jimin shivers under the darkness of his gaze, taking a small step backwards until his back touches the cream-colored wall behind him.

“I know that Mr. Min,” Jimin responds weakly.

“Do you think it’s appropriate for a prince to request the presence of his servant in the middle of the night?” Yoongi spits. “For you to meet him in your dressing gown?”

Jimin plucks at the cotton collar of his dressing gown and frowns. He hadn’t too much thought about his attire when he’d dressed so quickly. He also can see how this was a lot less than formal for a meeting with the most powerful man in the world.

“This is a lot bigger than you,” Yoongi spits out, eyes impatiently settling on the dinging elevator button. “It’s bigger than me. You’re playing with someone who is bigger than us. A god, Mr. Park.”

The door from the nearest floor above them swings open and Jimin leaps at the sound. A gaggle of guards stumble out, eyeing them sharply before slipping past them as they descend the stairs.

Yoongi coils back around, leaping up the stairs and towards the door. Jimin follows behind Yoongi, watches as he prods a key beside the door. Listens as the doors snap open.

Jeongguk isn’t a god. He’s flesh and bone and too much cologne, but he’s no god. No god eyes shake with worry the way the young prince does. No god mumbles in discontent, shaken with brittle confusion. Despite the crown, the jewels, the title that brands every inch of Jeongguk’s immaculately contoured frame, he’s no god, Jimin thinks. 

The doors swing open, revealing the long-lit hallway to Jeongguk’s suite, but Yoongi doesn’t move. What he does do, is turn to face Jimin, eyes laced with such cautious venom Jimin nearly chokes on it. 

“Whatever game of seduction you’re playing—” Yoongi begins.

“I’m not trying to seduce anyone—” Jimin stutters back.

“We’re mortals, Mr. Park,” Yoongi sneers back. “You and I are not like him. Never have and never will be. You’ve got to accept our place in life, not stir it.” 

That makes Jimin flinch, and he frowns at the trigger as he goes to bury his hands into his pockets nervously. The suite is empty and dark except for the light padding of bare feet on plush carpet. Eventually Jeongguk emerges, damp hair and in an abnormally large black shirt draped over his body. His face lights up when he sees Jimin.

“Jimin!” He exclaims raking a hand through his hair. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” 

Jimin blinks at him but shakes his head, “No,” He whispers out. “No, you didn’t.” 

He takes a step from steps and his body bounces from the weight, he turns back to Yoongi who grins at him politely. 

“Have good night, Mr. Park,” Yoongi smiles. He bows his head towards Jeongguk, “Your Highness.”

When the door shuts and seals with a snap of the lock, Jimin feels Jeongguk tugging at the sleeve of his dressing gown.

“He didn’t scare you too much did he?” He asks. “I know he can be a bit intimidating—”

“He was fine, Jeongguk,” Jimin lies, obviously rattled. Hopes that Jeongguk doesn’t notice the nervous shift in his eyes. From the way that Jeongguk blinks back at him from behind the damp silken bang of his hair, he doesn’t, Jimin believes. He follows Jeongguk through the darkened suite until he meets the balcony. This time, the curtains are slung back to reveal a wide sprawling savannah outside. There’s a small glass table and a few chairs. Jimin notices the flap of paper in the wind beside a plate of colorful food.

“I was writing my speech for tomorrow, got a little lonely,” Jeongguk tells him, leaning against the cool metal of the balcony door. “I probably should’ve asked you if you wanted to come though, now that I think about it.”

Jimin waddles onto it, feet padding against the concrete before reaching the stone ledge. Outside, the jungle sings. It breathes in late evening, sweet green leaves dancing in the wind. The sky is painted in navy blue, and it spills down onto the leaves, dripping the earth below it in moonlight. Jimin can hear the soft growl of animals, hear their evening melodies. 

The world is a lot bigger than he imagined, it sings and breathes in shifts of chilled wind and the sweet sugar of restful evenings. Right now, as he stands at the horizon of his ever-widening world, Jimin whispers out disbelief. A poor boy shouldn’t be granted this privilege. This was the view straight out of a fairy tale. He feels Jeongguk snake up behind him, leaning onto the ledge and casting his eyes out towards the jungle.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” He mumbles.

Jimin doesn’t respond, eyes too drunk on the scene before him. Eventually he closes his eyes, breathes, and lets the sugar of the air coat his lungs. When he opens his eyes again, Jeongguk has neglected the beauty of the scene before them and opted to gaze lovingly at Jimin instead.

He blinks, eyes wide with adoration. Jimin burns under his gaze, combing a nervous hand through his hair.

“I was steaming your clothes for tomorrow,” Jimin tells him, still slightly breathless from the way that he was looking at him. “So don’t blame me when you have wrinkles in your trousers.”

Jeongguk laughs, finally dropping his eyes from Jimin to stare down at his hands as they clutch the stone ledge. “I’m sure I’ll sweat them out here, no question about it.”

Jimin turns to the table, points to the notepad of yellow parchment. “You said you were writing your speech,” He says, crossing past him and towards the chair. “I told you I was going to try to edit it when I finished your clothes.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jeongguk groans. “I don’t know, I was thinking and just started writing.”

He watches as Jimin pops a piece of green fruit into his mouth. 

“So, you didn’t actually invite me up here for help?” Jimin prods cheekily.

Jeongguk’s mouth drops open in defense but the color in his cheek deceives him. “I didn’t— that’s not— I mean—” He stammers out.

Jimin laughs and it echoes through the trees.

“It’s fine Jeongguk, it’s nice to know you think I’m so good with words,” Jimin is sitting, picking up more fruit and chewing on it. “It’s my job.”

Jeongguk crosses the balcony and sits across from him. “That was only a part of it,” He says softly. “I did want to see you too.”

Jimin feels his cheeks burn and he doesn’t know if it’s because they’re packed with fruit or if it’s because Jeongguk knows exactly what to say to make him blush.

“So,” Jimin says, patting at the notebook. “Show me what you got.”

Jeongguk grabs the notepad, silently reads over the first few lines chewing nervously at his lip.

“You can’t be nervous reading to me, Jeongguk,” Jimin giggles. “You’re gonna be reading this to an entire country tomorrow.”

“I know, I just—” His voice lingers, eyes sipping back down to the paper. “It gets hard writing when I’m not really that smart.”

“What did we say about that?” Jimin replies, scolding.

Jeongguk’s ears have bled red in embarrassment. He buries his face into his hands before speaking, a muffled sigh blowing out from between his clasped hands. 

“I get the pleasure of listening to parliament every day. I get to listen to those men stand and deliver the smartest words and I just—” His voice weakens. He casts his eyes off, head eyes stinging. “I could recite the constitution if I had to. Who helped write it… when—”

“You’re not stupid, Jeongguk,” Jimin says sternly. The slight anger in his voice startles him, and Jeongguk responds by meeting his eyes. Jimin looks angry; as if he’s scolding a young child. The evening breeze is tangling his hair, but it does nothing to soothe the rigidity of his face. He blinks once, then twice, ever stoic.

“You’re not stupid at all, Jeongguk, remember I said stop saying that,” Jimin presses again. He leans forward slightly. “Do you understand me?” 

Jeongguk chuckles slightly, eyes now on his own fingers. He digs his nails into his pajama pants. “Admitting I’m not the brightest doesn’t make me hate myself, Jimin—” 

“Who told you that you were stupid? Was it one of your teachers growing up? Your parents?” Jimin continues. His anger is now more pointed, as if finding the culprit to Jeongguk’s insecurities would give reason to it.

But Jeongguk laughs, “It was me.” 

Jimin doesn’t say anything, he gulps and leans back. His anger simmers in his chest. “You’re not stupid, Jeongguk.” He repeats, almost in a chant. “I don’t know who led you to believe that but you’re not. We’ve talked about this.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t seem to be listening, and after a moment, Jimin reaches over and snatches the paper from him. Curling the paper up towards him to read. Jeongguk is pouting across from him, but he makes no effort in retrieval. He simply watches him with big fearful eyes.

Jimin reads to himself quietly, brushing the paper down as the wind laps at it from the side. After a moment, he looks up, shaking his head. “My grandfather won us this land.” He reads, then he frowns, “Maybe… don’t mention that.”

Jeongguk’s brow furrows, “What do you mean?”

Jimin doesn’t answer immediately, “Land can’t be won Jeongguk. It can be given, sold, but not won—?”

Jeongguk is shaking his head, “No, my father won this land in the Great War—”

“Your father won nothing,” Jimin shoots back. There’s venom in his voice now, cold and lifeless. He’s eyeing Jeongguk with vitriol. He’s gripping the paper tightly, and only after a moment does he calm, settling back in the chair and casting his eyes far off and away towards the trees. 

The sky is growing purple, clouds a glowing indigo. Jimin lets his eyes drop close, let’s the soft early winter breeze slip past his cheek. Let’s the chill nip at his skin. Their winters are warmer here than back home, Jimin thanks the winds. Jeongguk doesn’t say anything, he only watches Jimin with quiet eyes. After a while, Jimin’s mouth parts. 

“I lost my father in some man’s so called ‘Great War’,” He mumbles softly; right now, his voice is drawn so far away. Strung on a string between two barely parted lips and a lax tongue. His eyes are still on the jungle, following the leaves of darkening green as the sun falls.

“He left when I was ten years old, walked out our front door in a lapel and hat to fight in an almost never-ending war,” He laughs, but it rings hollow past his lips. “Left and never came back. Was it worth it? Losing my father so someone can say they won? Won land?” 

When Jimin’s eyes cross to meet Jeongguk’s they’re stone cold. There are ghosts within them, and they swim in grief and worry and mostly longing. He blinks at Jeongguk twice, “I hope your grandfather got whatever he wanted from that war.” He pauses, words rattling in his brain. “But sending someone else’s father off to die and steal the land of another isn’t winning, Jeongguk, please tell me you understand that.” 

Jeongguk nods, heads suddenly a lot heavier than he remembers. He gulps, watching as Jimin dips his head to read again, and when he finishes, he reaches across the table and places the notebook softly into his lap. 

“I think the speech is lovely, Jeongguk,” Jimin smiles at him. The smile that crawls across his face is hollow and Jeongguk catches it immediately. 

“So how can I improve?” Jeongguk asks, straightening his back.

Jimin has resorted to chewing on his nails, eyes cast out over the balcony ledge, after a moment, he takes a deep breath.

“People don’t want to know of your victories, Jeongguk,” He says. “They probably know them better than you.” He leans down to plop another piece of fruit into his mouth. “They want you, Jeongguk. This isn’t just your coronation it’s theirs too. How will your reign be different from your father’s?” 

Jeongguk circles himself uncomfortably in his seat. “I hadn’t thought of that,” He answers softly. 

“I know,” Jimin says, leaning forward for another grape. He chews at it with a gentle smile. “That’s why I’m here.” 

The morning of the speech, Jimin wakes up nervous.

Nervous enough, he forgoes eating to hobble downstairs to the front lobby with an empty stomach as he prepares in silent anxious flurry. Looking outside the window, observing the jungle outside. When he hears the scurry of feet against the floor. He turns to find Jeongguk, being prepped as he glides into the lobby. A woman is combing at his hair with a blue wide toothed comb, another patting at his shoulders to smooth at the padding on his navy-colored suit jacket. 

Yoongi is in front of him, babbling about something Jimin can tell Jeongguk does not care about. He sees as Jeongguk scans the room, yawning, then meets Jimin’s eyes and brightens. 

Yoongi notices it too because he grimaces, “Speech, banquet, 2 meetings then you’re free, got it?” He says, tapping at his clipboard. 

Jeongguk is nodding mindlessly, crossing over the lobby towards Jimin. His entourage stumbles behind him, as does Yoongi as he shoots Jimin a dark frown. 

When Jeongguk finally reaches Jimin he seems to melt in his presence. Cheeks warming as he breathes out a soft, “Good morning.” 

Jimin smiles back, “Good morning, your Highness,” He replies. 

Jeongguk leans towards him slightly and the hair stylist behind him frowns as she reaches up to her tippy toes to comb at his hair. 

“I finished my speech last night after you left,” Jeongguk says, chest slightly broadening in pride. “I think you’ll be proud of me.” 

“Of course, I’ll be proud of you, Jeongguk,” Jimin answers. “I always am.”

Yoongi darts his eyes at him at the informality in his tone and Jimin shakes his head. “Your Highness,” He corrects with a stutter. “I’m sure it’s an amazing speech.” 

Jeongguk seems to brighten even more so at that. Nose scrunching up excitedly as he pats at his own chest awkwardly. 

Yoongi rolls his eyes, scribbling at his clipboard. “Speech, banquet, meetings. Understood your Highness?” 

It takes a moment for Jeongguk to respond. Jimin blushes under the prince’s gaze as he seems to drink him in in all the morning glory that is currently spilling in from the wide window beside them. Jimin fidgets, suddenly very aware of his gaze and darts his hands up slightly to pad at his reddening cheeks. 

“Your Highness?” Yoongi presses again, leaning in towards him. “Is that understood?” 

Jeongguk pulls his gaze away, blinking numbly before nodding his head. “Understood.”

He watches Jeongguk as he hobbles up to the podium as the crowd below him sways in gentle unrest. Faces scowling up at him in what Jimin seems to register as frustration and disgust. 

Jeongguk squints as the sun pierces through spotted clouds that seep down at him, raising a hand to cover his eyes. He darts his eyes back to Jimin, who freezes slightly. He wishes he could help him. That he could stop time, just for a moment, but this seems like the perfect time for Jeongguk to seize the awkwardness and seize it. Jimin then nods his head gently back in the direction of the podium.

Jeongguk is nervous, Jimin can see it in the way he’s clutching at the podium. And the way his back is tense beneath his jacket as he peers down at the increasingly agitated group of waiting people. 

“I am Crown Prince, Jeon Jeongguk. Soon to be your King, Jeon Jeongguk in seven day’s time,” Jeongguk croaks out. He pauses dropping his head to lick his lips nervously. “I appreciate the tokens of honor and appreciation you have bestowed upon me for my coronation. The hotel, the food, the service has all been outstanding, thank you.” 

The crowd sways gently, and Jimin can feel the dismissal on them. Watches as a few boys up front drop their heads in quiet discharge as they choose instead to chew at their nails in boredom. A woman a few rows back yawns, cradling the baby in her arms tighter against her chest.

Jeongguk’s mouth gapes, then he swallows, gently. “Coronations are a lot on a kingdom. On our people, on expectations. So, I’m standing before you asking for a lot,” Jeongguk continues, nervously. His eyes flit down to the paper that flaps against the podium in the softening wind. Then he looks back up to the crowd before him. “I’m also standing in front of you, as your Prince,” Jeongguk stammers out, voice echoing through the open plain. “And asking for your forgiveness.” 

The crowd bursts into bubbles of murmuring and confusion as they blink back up at Jeongguk confusedly. Jimin can feel Yoongi shaking his head, mumbling something under his breath as he goes to peer down at his clipboard. 

“I’m apologizing on behalf of my family, my father, my grandfather and every other king that ruled before them. And the sins we have committed against the people we swore to rule and protect,” Jeongguk continues, and Jimin thinks he can see as the prince’s face melts in genuine upset. “It’s an honor to rule and when that honor is broken—” He pauses, and swallows. Straightening his back as he clutches the podium. “I cannot rewrite the things they did, but I can change things moving forward.” 

Yoongi is buzzing beside Jimin, shaking his head subtly as he glances down at his own paper. “This isn’t what we agreed to—” He murmurs frustratedly. He turns slightly to Jimin, eyes narrowed in a venomous glare. “What did you do?” 

Jimin gulps, shaking his head. “I— I didn’t do anything—” He replies, because he didn’t. Or he doesn’t think he did. 

But he sees the folds of his own words reflected in the mature prince currently spilling out words of apology and contempt to the people in front of him. This feels like a different Jeongguk, Jimin can practically taste the maturity spilling from him and he beams at it. He didn’t think he did anything, but apparently, he did. 

“This is a different kingdom and this I swear,” Jeongguk continues, chest boasted out proudly. “Build schools and libraries in every town and village after my coronation.” He brightens slightly, turning his head slightly to face Jimin. “The magic of literacy isn’t a privilege anymore, it’s a right.” 

The crowd bursts into cheerful applause and Jimin lifts his hands enthusiastically to join them. Jeongguk preens under it, blushing to drop his head back to the podium to finish his speech.

Yoongi holds the door for him, and Jeongguk dips his head to walk through it. He eyes Jimin as he does, nearly tripping on the tail of the carpet as he enters the small, collected waiting room backstage. 

The crowd outside is still buzzing, Jimin can feel their energy as they begin to spill from the open hall and back onto the crowded streets. He turns back to Jeongguk who seems to be in a confused area of anxiety and excitement as he rocks back and forth where he stands, chewing weakly at his nails. He pokes his head up as the curtain billows revealing the thinning crowd. 

“How did I do?” He asks. 

Jimin opens his mouth to respond, but Yoongi’s eyes flit towards him angrily. So he snaps it shut, painting on as encouraging of a smile as he can. 

Jeongguk turns to Yoongi, eyebrows knitting up in apology. “I know you’re going to be angry—” 

“That wasn’t the speech we agreed on,” Yoongi sneers through clenched teeth. He rubs at his temple, pinching his eyes together. 

Jeongguk gulps, “I— I know. I just decided to make a few changes, that’s all—”

Yoongi seethes, rocking forward as he drops his hands from his head. “You cannot make promises you cannot keep, Your Highness—”

“Who says I’m not going to keep them?” Jeongguk replies, softer than Jimin expects. 

The curtain billows, and from it Jimin thinks he sees a boy excitedly whispering to another. Watches in fondness as the two boys seem to buzz with unhinged excitement over the prince’s lingering words. 

“I’m not my father, Yoongi,” Jeongguk says lowly, crossing his arms. 

“I understand that Your Highness, but there is precedent,” Yoongi stutters out, running a frantic hand through his hair. “Next thing you know you’ll be ushering magic back into the kingdom—”

“What’s the point in having all this power if I don’t use it?” Jeongguk asks, stepping closer towards the smaller advisor. “What’s the point in having power to rule if I’m not going to help the people I’m governing?”

“Literacy is a privilege, Your Highness,” Yoongi interjects.

“Yes, well it doesn’t have to be,” Jeongguk retorts. 

At that, Jimin feels his chest warm in something that feels very close to pride. Feels it warm and bleeds and spills from his heart and sticks to his ribs. He inhales in a gasp, but it’s not audible. Surprised at Jeongguk’s echoing words as he blinks up at the prince in admiration. 

Yoongi is beet red, face twisting up as he paces in front of the prince. After a moment he saunters up towards him, eyebrows knitted up in frustration. His eyes flit between Jimin, then back to Jeongguk. “You give those people too much power and they won’t need you anymore,” He replies bitterly. 

Jeongguk sucks at his teeth, rolling his shoulders back. “And who says that’s a bad thing?” 

Jimin watches shock, then anger color across Yoongi’s flabbergasted expression. After a moment, he steps back, nodding gently as he goes to bend and scoop up his clipboard. “Your father would be ashamed,” Yoongi growls, pressing the clipboard on his chest. 

“Been there, done that,” Jeongguk replies sharply, rolling his eyes. “Lived to tell the tale.” 

Yoongi opens his mouth to reply, but snaps it shut with an audible chomp. Then he’s spinning on his heel and bursting through the doors and back to the waiting set of carriages outside. 

Jeongguk deflates, exhaling sharply as he goes to drop his arms. It takes him a moment to spin to meet Jimin’s gaze, but when he does, a small smile crawls on his lips. 

Jimin can’t help the smile tugging on his lips, “The speech was incredible, Jeongguk,” He says gently, with a nod watching the prince brighten across from him. “You really have a way with words. You should be very proud of yourself.” 

Jeongguk takes a step closer to him, and Jimin watches as she sheds the apprehension from the previous heated engagement with each step. Eventually he reaches him with relaxed shoulders. “Well,” He says softly. “I learned from the best.” 

Jimin meets Jeongguk later that evening, after all his affairs and speeches are in order. He sneaks up the staircase towards him, past the security who pretend they don’t see him. The door snaps behind him and he pads closer to the balcony. 

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” He hears Jeongguk say, voice twisted up in frustration. 

Jimin hears someone growl slightly, then watches as a shadow warps towards him, cast from the balcony. 

“Jeongguk, you’re not thinking rationally—” The man answers him, and Jimin identifies it as Jeongguk’s other advisor. Can see the way his silhouette is cast with arms crossed on the balcony. Jeongguk doesn’t reply immediately, Jimin can hear the way he paces the balcony’s stone floor. Then he pauses, “I’m thinking very rationally, actually,” He answers. “Thinking clearer than I ever have in my entire life.” 

He sounds exhausted, Jimin can also see the way his shadow is slumped over the balcony’s banister. 

“This is dangerous, Your Highness,” His advisor says, voice slung low as he approaches him. “You can’t just give people these freedoms. It’ll lead to chaos— who knows what else—?” 

“Or they’d take my crown?” Jeongguk asks softly. 

Jimin thinks he can hear the almost relief in his voice. Can hear it as Jeongguk seems to breathe it out like a wish. His advisor seems to notice it too, because he’s closer to Jeongguk than ever before. 

“People need aspirations,” His advisor murmurs darkly. “A symbol to aspire to. You cannot just swoop in and expect to change the way this kingdom has been run as soon as you’re crowned king. There is precedent to subscribe to,” He pauses, and the wind cuts between them with a howl. And Jimin dares to press closer.

“I’m not going to be my father’s king and you know that, Seejin,” Jeongguk presses. 

Jimin is close enough to the balcony door, he thinks he can see the way the prince is shaking.

“It’s just I’ve been thinking lately about what kind of king I want to be,” Jeongguk continues, eyes cast down to his fingers. “And everything that’s expected of me.” 

Jimin feels his chest tighten at that, taking a step forward towards them. Jeongguk catches sight of him and smiles, straightening up as he begins towards him, “Jimin,” He breathes out and there’s the relief again. 

His advisor frowns, darting his eyes between them as he crosses his arms across his chest. Jimin feels the heat of his gaze as he stares at him angrily. Then he’s turning back to Jeongguk, bowing slightly. 

“Don’t let other people get into your head, Your Highness,” He growls. Bowing once more before cutting between them and beginning out of the suite.

Jeongguk melts, slinking back against the stone. He eyes Jimin for a moment, before slowly letting a smile paint onto his lips. “He’s an asshole,” He says with a laugh. He turns back to the jungle, laying himself against the stone and yawning slightly. 

Jimin edges towards him slightly, hesitantly, before pressing himself beside him against the railing. He keeps his eyes on Jeongguk, but Jeongguk’s, are on the jungle in front of them. 

“He’s right you know,” Jimin murmurs softly. 

Jeongguk turns towards him, eyebrows knitting up in confusion. Jimin stretches himself out, propping himself up beside him as he chews at his lip. Words reeling through his head as he tries to contain a single thought.

“You don’t need anyone telling you what type of king you need to be, how to run your kingdom. Not Yoongi, not your advisors, not me,” He pauses, hesitantly sighing. “Not even the memory of your father.” 

He brushes him slightly and electricity stipples between them. As it does outside where flickers of blue and yellow light seems to dot through the darkening jungle. Jimin traces the light, then he finds Jeongguk’s eyes again. “You be the king you want to be. No one else.”

Jeongguk is eyeing him, a litany of expressions fluttering across him. Then he’s crossing over the table and plopping down at it. 

“My father loved me the best way he could,” Jeongguk tells him, chewing quietly on the grape. He thinks he can feel Jimin’s eyes on him. Thinks he can feel the wind as it wisps past them, scents of fresh grass on its tails. “It’s not custom to be… affectionate in our House,” Jeongguk mumbles. He chews at his cheek bitterly, “Affection is a weakness, no one wants a weak monarch.”

He casts his eyes out towards the jungle, listens to the cicadas that sing in the branches of swaying trees. his eyes are stinging so he swallows it down, but his throat burns too. “If my father knew how to show love, I think he would’ve shown it. I know he loved me. I think. He never really said it, he never really showed it but,” He gulps through his discomfort, winces when it slips down dryly. 

Jimin is still eyeing him, eyes blinking and Jeongguk thinks he sees the hint of tears in his eyes, but he’s too distracted by the burn of his own. He swats at his face, and gulps in a sigh.

 “I’m being so fucking stupid, I’m sorry,” Jeongguk says shaking his head.

“No, you’re not,” Jimin says, eyebrows curling up. “Showing emotion isn’t stupid.”

Jeongguk laughs and it’s colored with discomfort and vulnerability. He lets his head fall back against the hard wicker wood of the chair, eyes tracing the violet sky towards the moon that combs out of the clouds. He follows his heartbeat and wills it to slow.

“Learning to love,” Jimin finally says, “Is a conscious effort; it’s hard work. Like growing up.” 

The moon’s debut is in the sweep of a now deep indigo sky and at the footsteps of glimmering stars. Jeongguk wouldn’t mind getting lost in it.

“Learning to show that love is a little bit harder.” Jimin finishes. “Also, like growing up.”

Jeongguk doesn’t know when Jimin has risen to his feet, but he has, and he’s crossed over past the table and settled at Jeongguk’s knee. Jimin grasps Jeongguk’s hand and clutches it tightly, making sure to curl his fingers through the king’s. It’s tight, it’s intimate, it’s loving.

“If someone loves you, they show it in the best way they can,” Jimin says, peering up at Jeongguk through fluttering eyelashes. He tightens his grip, “Once you open up and allow yourself to be vulnerable to your emotions it’s— it’s—” His face screws up as he clings to Jeongguk’s hand as if he were to let go, he’d lose him. 

“It’s liberating, Jeongguk,” He finally breathes. He smiles and it’s beautiful and drunk with love. “To love, to be in love, and know that love in return without question. It’s the freest you’ll ever feel.”

He doesn’t know if he’s speaking to Jeongguk or himself anymore. He thinks he feels a springing epiphany blooming in his chest. Jeongguk is rising to his feet, strutting over towards the tiny glass bar parked just outside the balcony door. He turns around and wags the bottle in front of him, but Jimin shakes his head.

“I don’t drink,” He explains softly, with blushed cheeks.

Jeongguk laughs but catches himself. Pouring his own drink as he turns back towards the window. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

Jimin’s eyebrows knit up, “What?”

Jeongguk sloshes the drink around in his glass before looking up at him from the rim. He shrugs, “Dunno, most people drink. Guess you can say our kingdom has a bit of a drinking problem. War probably does that to people.” 

Jimin smiles awkwardly, choosing to reach over to grab for a grape and plop one into his mouth. 

“Is the not drinking a conscious decision?” Jeongguk asks, taking a swig from his own glass. 

Jimin sniffs, chewing weakly at the grape. He pulls back slightly, “I mean, I guess,” She replies with a shrug. That doesn’t suffice, Jimin can tell the way Jeongguk wrinkles up his nose. He drinks again, eyeing him from across the rim. 

“My mom drank a lot,” Jimin finally replies. He takes a deep breath, “More than a lot actually.”

He can feel Jeongguk looking at him, but he’s too embarrassed to meet his eyes. Instead, he keeps them on the grapes and the way the light dances across them.

“I mean, she always drank, but after my dad left for the war… then when we got the news he wasn’t coming back—” He pauses because he feels the first sting in his eyes, and he ducks his head. There’s weakness in crying, he thinks. Though he preaches a gospel differently to Jeongguk he feels for quite differently for himself. He’s too grown up for something as trivial as tears. He doesn’t want to cry, not here, especially not in front of Jeongguk.

But there’s nothing but warmth pillowing from Jeongguk’s presence, quiet understanding as he gazes over at him softly.

“I saw what it did to her. Saw how mean it made her, saw how it took her away from her kids. And I didn’t want that, didn’t want to be like her,” Jimin explains. 

Jeongguk blinks at him, a small, warm smile blooming on his lips. 

“You’re nothing like her,” Jeongguk replies gently, reaching up to place a hand at Jimin’s shoulder. 

Jimin peels his head up, frowning. “You didn’t even know her,” He laughs slightly. 

Jeongguk shrugs, “You’re right.” He pauses but tightens his hand at his shoulder. “But I know you and I know how warm and kind you are. A little bit of a hard ass who needs to loosen up, but a sweet one nonetheless.” 

Jimin can’t help but laugh, and it’s enough to loosen the tears that have bedded in his eyes. He reaches up to swat at them and for some reason, he finds no shame in the action.

“Growing up too fast isn’t fun, don’t worry, I get it,” Jeongguk continues with a cheeky smile. “I very much wanted to be like my father. But I’m choosing not to. Choosing to be better, to be brighter. Choosing the magic I want to put out into the world. My own destiny.” Jeongguk hesitates, then he’s pulling Jimin into a right hug. 

The action surprises Jimin at first, bones rigid as he feels Jeongguk wrap his arms around him and caging him in. Then, after a moment, after a moment of counting Jeongguk’s heartbeat in time with the whispering crickets that sing just outside the window he allows himself to melt against him. Cheek pressed against his chest as he lets his eyelids flutter closed, as he relinquishes control and allows himself the chance to be cradled.

“It’s been a long road for me, things I’m still unlearning but, I’m making it. Love the way you can remember?” Jeongguk tacks on and it makes Jimin smile, face still smudged across Jeongguk’s rising chest. After a second, Jeongguk pulls back and peers down at Jimin with a bright, hapless smile. 

Jimin knows what he’s thinking, and he thinks he loves it. Can never track the trail of the prince’s thoughts and it leaves him breathless and slightly anxious, but he admires the spontaneity of it. Has been craving this his entire life.

“How does a boat ride sound?” Jeongguk asks, tugging Jimin up, because it’s tilting more towards commanded suggestions rather than a request.

Jimin smiles, giggling because he can’t imagine ever saying no.

Outside seems to be buzzing with the same weighted energy from when he first landed in this realm. Jimin feels it in the air as Jeongguk drags him across the dark, black sand beach towards a small gaggle of boats that float on the shimmering shore.

“Yoongi said if I wanted to take a ride, I should call him and have one of my guards take me,” Jeongguk says, finally releasing Jimin’s hand to shuffle forward and grab one of the boats from the sand. He then turns to Jimin and rolls his eyes. “How annoying is that? Can’t even take a boat ride without permission.”

Jimin laughs crossing his arms because he isn’t sure what else to do with them now that he’s not holding Jeongguk’s hand. “Well, you are precious cargo,” He smiles.

He hears Jeongguk snort, hopping into the boat as it sloshes and rocks against the black water. Then he turns, hand outstretched towards Jimin. Jimin hesitates, eyes flitting between Jeongguk and the darkened lake in front of him. 

“Don’t worry I’ve been rowing since I was a kid,” Jeongguk assured him.

That wasn’t it, Jimin thinks. The air out here buzzes even more so than before and it’s making every nerve in his body song and prick with unexplainable anxiety. But he sees the warmth in Jeongguk’s hand, and his eyes and knows his heart doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

“I’m trusting you,” Jimin says, reaching for his hand as he takes a step into the rocking boat.

Jeongguk laughs, helping him down into the small wooden boat with a plop. They sit rocking, as Jeongguk steadies it and begins their journey out into the water. Jimin doesn’t breathe at first, listening to the sound of the sloshing waves and the crickets that sing from the draping leaves that cut through the black glass below them.

Then, in the darkness, a blue streak of light ripples past and Jeongguk gasps, halting his movements.

Jimin freezes, “What was that?” 

Jeongguk’s eyes flit between Jimin and the blue light. Then a fluorescent green one ripples past, glittering as it dips what Jimin catches to be a wing into the black water below them and sets the water into a shimmering ray of neon light. Jimin gasps, unconsciously reaching forward for the water. Then he’s looking back up to Jeongguk.

“What was that?” He repeats, wonder dripping over his tone.

He watches Jeongguk’s eyes brighten, sparkling like the light that swirls around them. “A woodland fae,” He breathes out, tone equally wondrous.

Jimin watches Jeongguk’s face brighten as another one, this one a shimmering pink, streaks around his head. 

“When I was a kid, these things were legends, they died when magic was banned,” Jeongguk explained softly, hand lifting to claw through the trail of light the fae had left behind. Then he’s looking back to Jimin, “The first and last time I saw one of these, was the night you showed up. Out of the blue, just like magic,” He breathes out. 

The electricity that claimed the air seems to be buzzing around them at a frightening rate. Jimin’s heart seems to have clawed its way to his throat. Jeongguk is eyeing him, not in suspicion, but in wonder. As if he cannot seem to tack the practical sense of the person currently sitting across from him in the boat that gently drifts along the waves. 

“Who are you?” Jeongguk asks, and there’s genuine curiosity on his tongue. 

Jimin swallows, breathing out nervously as another fae whisks past him. He blinks across to Jeongguk and lets out a lofty sigh. “I’m Park Jimin,” He answers, because that’s all he’s got. All he’s ever had. “I’m a writer from Seoul who believes in fairy tales.” 

Again, he can’t read the prince’s thoughts. Can see, in this limited light, the way his eyes twinkle like the lights that sparkle above him.

“I can see the stars out here,” Jimin breathes out in wondrous delight mostly to himself, eyes feigned up to the sky that twinkles above them.

The boat sloshes below them, but Jimin can feel Jeongguk pulling himself closer to him. Legs intertwining as they nestle across from each other. There is a look in the prince’s eyes as he scans him, softly, eyes filled with a near childlike wonder. As if he’d never seen anything as magical before. 

“You look really pretty, under the lights,” Jeongguk mumbles, reaching up to comb his fingers through Jimin’s hair. The fairy light was casting it in shades of cobalt blue. He pauses, for a moment. Fingers lingering right beside his ear and twisting absentmindedly at the hair that resides there. “I mean, you always do—” He stammers awkwardly. “Look pretty, I mean. But under the lights you just—” 

Jimin watches him bite his cheek, watches the way his skin hollows then flatten. His eyes widen for a moment, and his mouth falls agape as if words linger at the tip of his tongue. 

Jimin, feels breathless here. So close to Jeongguk, under the swallows of fluttering fairies that have set this darkened lake into a bioluminescent glow. He watches the way the lights above them cast Jeongguk’s skin in rose colored light, dancing a fan of rainbow across platinum strands. And he reaches out, running his fingers through them because he can’t help it. 

This may not be real, but you are, He reminds himself. But that no longer feels true. Not with a very real chunk of silky strands pressed against his palm and Jeongguk’s very real breath, still stained with wine, wetting his cheek. 

This is real and so are you, Jimin concludes. Allowing himself the chance to lose himself in the sparkle of Jeongguk’s eyes. Those very real, brown eyes that seem to burst with a love as solid as his hand on his knee. He hasn’t figured out why he’s here, and he isn’t sure he needs to anymore. Thinks he’s found the reason sitting across from him in this tiny wooden boat that sloshes against gentle waves below him. 

“You can’t find reason with magic, it exists beyond our comprehension,” He remembers Taehyung’s mother and her delicate voice. “We can only thank it for what it gives us and nothing more. Can’t overthink it.”

You are real, he is real, this world you’re in is real, He chants to himself. And these feelings you feel are too.

Jeongguk’s eyes flit down to Jimin’s lips, then back up to meet his eyes.

“You want to kiss me so bad,” Jimin teases softly. 

Jeongguk giggles, head tossing back only slightly. “I guess you can say that,” He replies, twisting their fingers together. 

Jimin’s fingertips buzz, and he thinks Jeongguk’s does too because he jumps slightly. Around them, the fairy lights seem to brighten. Energy buzzing between the lighted beings as they fizz around their heads. Jeongguk’s long hair twists above him like ribbons by the wind, blinding him slightly. 

The world around them seems to rejoice, Jimin can feel the jubilee stringing like lightning above them. Across the dancing leaves in the swinging trees, down to the splattering water that beats the boat below them. Witness to the fate of a prophecy unfolding before them.

Jeongguk tightens their fingers and Jimin feels what he identifies as relief wash over him. Something he doesn’t think he’s ever felt in the hands of another. Responsibility has plagued him too long but here, wrapped in their own bubble of his own contentment, Jimin allows himself the chance to breathe a sigh of relief for the first time in his life.

“Want to see something cool?” He blurts, very suddenly. 

Jeongguk’s eyes narrows suspiciously, then he’s melting, nodding enthusiastically. Jimin smiles back nervously, scooting closer as he lifts his head to the glowing sky above them. He eyes a fairy as it flutters past, then he closes his eyes tight, frowns, and lets the heat rush in. 

The heat rushes past his fingers, up his forearms, and spills into his chest. He hasn’t done it in a while, so he gasps at the pressure, but eventually succumbs to it. Letting it pulse out in fractured waves. He pops one eye open, then another, watching as the fairy he’d spotted earlier seems to freeze in midair, as if caught in molasses. Leaving a glowing red ribbon behind in its fluttered state. 

One by one, the fairies freeze, leaving streaming ribbons in their wake. Wrapping both Jeongguk and Jimin in a glowing bubble of fluttering, glowing light. The leaves halt mid swing, the water freezes below them, pulled back in an impending wave. The air around them stills enough that Jimin can hear the way Jeongguk’s breath has caught in his throat as he blinks at the world around them with wide, wondrous eyes. 

He eventually lowers his gaze back to Jimin, throat bobbing. “Wha—you can—?” He pauses, swallowing again. “Stop time?” 

Jimin has never defined it, but he likes to think it’s closer to freezing it. Time will always exist, always flowing, never stopping. But he’d like to think he freezes it, in a bubble for safe keeping. Frozen, but always melting.

“Where I’m from, I’m not supposed to be able to do this,” Jimin begins, reaching his hand down from the side of the boat to play with the water, frozen, yet malleable like puddy under his hands. “Magic doesn’t exist where I’m from. At all. Well, I didn’t think it did.” 

He swims his fingers through the chilled, puddied water. Then he looks up, shoots Jeongguk a sweetened gaze. “But no matter how much I can slow time, I can never stop it completely. No matter how much I may want to.” 

He thinks of his father, and the weight of his hand on his shoulder. Wonders what would’ve happened if he could’ve stopped time completely. Kept his father frozen there, safe in their apartment. Away from the war that was never won. If he could’ve glued his family back together, in that safe little bubble away from the horrors of the world, forever. 

Then it hits him, as he watches a fairy slowly skate in slow motion above the crown of Jeongguk’s head. Time doesn’t stop, for anyone. Not for peasants, not for kings, or princes. Time slaves for no one, not a soul. It may slow, or speed, or skate like floating fairies, but it always passes. Softly, and with wonder, but passes all the same. 

Jimin thinks he realizes this in a moment, that accepting that, is what it means to truly grow up. He must seize the time he has while he has it, he thinks. And right now, he thinks, he really wants to kiss Jeongguk.

“I am going to kiss you now,” Jeongguk murmurs suddenly, leaning forward as if reading his mind. His eyes flit down to Jimin’s lips, then back up to meet his eyes. “Is that okay?”

A prince doesn’t ask permission, but he always does with Jimin.

Jimin laughs nervously because he’s sure he’s lost his ability to speak. He can practically feel his heart crawling up his throat, bedding on his tongue. So he nods, lips pursed, as he catches himself, mesmerized in the prince’s sparkling eyes. 

When Jeongguk’s lips press to his own, their bubble bursts. With light, with wonder, and careless love. It feels like coming home, like a bubble has burst and is seeping white hot reassurance that this is real. Very real. Real lips against another, the heat of real, shaky breath as Jeongguk’s nose pressing gently into his cheek. Very real hands as they explore him. This is real, always has been, always will be. In this bubble of contentedness, this is real, Jimin knows.

Jimin surges forward, overwhelmed with the heat inside him, also with the emotion of finally letting go. Of allowing himself to breathe in the arms of another. He chases Jeongguk’s lips with hunger, licking at the seams of his mouth as he pulls him in. Pressing their chests together as he drinks him in fervor. Jeongguk breathes him in return, hands pressed between the small of Jimin’s back and the nape of his neck. He pulls back, breathing deeply as he coasts blown out eyes over Jimin’s frame. 

“God damn you, Park Jimin of Seoul,” He exhales, voice colored strained. He dances his eyes over his again, as if he can’t get enough of the sight of him. “God damn I think I might just love you.” 

Jimin pounces again, kissing him with even more fervor. As the fairies break through their bubble, bursting free and fluttering from stunted time as they whizz past. The water sloshes against them, melting from its previously frozen state and smacking against the boat. It rocks them closer together, and Jimin doesn’t mind. Twisting his arms tighter around Jeongguk’s neck. The world melts back into focus, time slipping past normally again. But Jimin eventually, and reluctantly pulls back. Blinking back at Jeongguk with love drunk eyes, as he determines just how real this is. 

Because things like this don’t happen to people like him. 

Life is just this, he thinks, but it can’t be this. 

That gets a little harder to believe when Jeongguk is looking at him as if he hung the stars in the sky with his own bare hands. So he leans back, eyeing the sky above them and smiles. “Hmm,” He breathes out softly. “You can see the stars from here.”

In the days back at the palace, time moves faster than Jimin would like. Narrowing down to days before the coronation, he sees Jeongguk less than he would like. Usually being swept away for meetings or fitting, he sees Jeongguk mostly in passing. Jeongguk usually shooting him desperate, longing eyes as he’s rushed past in a busy flurry of advisors and handmaidens. 

But when they do meet, as usual, time stops for them. 

Jeongguk has led them to an office, further in the West Wing of the palace. It’s quiet here, lack of foot traffic makes Jimin’s shoes chalk up on the purple carpet. Jeongguk’s grip is firm around his wrist as he yanks him in behind him. Scoping the hallway before closing the oak-colored door with a quiet pop. 

Jimin watches him as the prince paces, combs a hand through his hair nervously. He then pauses beside the window in the far-right corner and gazes out of it. 

“You said you wanted to see me—” Jimin begins.

“We kissed,” Jeongguk blurts, spinning around. His eyes are crazed, laced with tension and anxiety. Jimin notices that he’s shaking, hands fidgeting across the other as he palms at his hair again. Kings don’t fidget. Kings don’t shake. Jimin doesn’t respond immediately. He blinks slowly, straightening his back. “We did,” He eventually murmurs. 

Jeongguk looks like he’s lingering on each word Jimin has uttered. He nods his head along to him, waiting for him to finish. 

“We kissed and the next morning you were gone, you didn’t even talk to me on the way back—”

“I didn’t want to distract you from your trip any further—” Jimin answers coolly. 

“You weren’t distracting me, Jimin, please,” Jeongguk whines. His eyes are glassy with tears as he speaks. He takes a few steps closer to him, noticing as Jimin responds by taking a step back. 

Jeongguk hesitates, face fallen in shock. “Why are you acting like this?” He says, hands reaching out. 

Jimin swats him away, face screwed up in discontent, “Like what? A professional?” 

Jimin watches Jeongguk’s heart break across his face. It shatters in his eyes first, brown eyes sewn in shock. He retracts his hand, and it hovers awkwardly at his side. 

“When did all of this happen?” Jeongguk whispers through gritted teeth. “Did you talk to someone—?”

“You said you wanted to see me, Jeongguk,” Jimin shoots back, trying to hold back the way he shakes. He blinks roughly, coughing back the tears that threaten at his eyes. Jeongguk gapes at him and swallows. He watches as Jimin backs himself to the door, lets a limp hand grapple blindly at the golden doorknob. 

“Why are you acting like this?” Jeongguk croaks out, voice cracking. “You can’t pretend that you don’t feel something—” 

Jimin shoots towards him, feet stomping against the carpet until he reaches Jeongguk. “Because this isn’t supposed to be real,” He groans, face growing beet red and blinking at Jeongguk through teary eyes. He blinks very hard at him, and his vision glowers with what he can only assume to be fear. “Where I’m from, things like this don’t exist. Princes, fairy tales, magic.” He groans when he remembers. “Fuck, Jeongguk, I have a fiancé at home.”

“We’ve talked about this before, Jimin,” Jeongguk replies. He saunters over towards him, and this time, Jimin doesn’t lurch back. He allows himself to be touched, allows Jeongguk’s hands to reach out and wrap around his own. 

This is real and so are you, Jimin reminds himself. He allows himself to be swallowed into Jeongguk’s dreamy gaze, tries to stop his throat from clenching at the sight of him. After a moment, Jeongguk takes a step forward. Swallowing Jimin in a tight hug as he rocks them gently back and forth. 

The floorboards squeak below their weight, but if Jimin closes his eyes, he thinks he can feel the weightlessness of the ballroom. The way the wind felt in his hair as Jeongguk coiled them around in a swinging dance. 

“You shouldn’t make me this happy,” Jimin whispers, lips pressed to Jeongguk ears, but he thinks it’s mostly said to himself. He sucks in another breath, pulling back and combing his eyes up Jeongguk’s frame.

Jeongguk looks elated, however, “Likewise, my hand,” He replies with a roll of his eyes. 

Jimin laughs heartily, trying his best to dispel the qualms of nervousness that are ballooning in his chest. He reaches up to kiss at Jeongguk’s jaw, then he pulls back, slightly. “You have a ball to get ready for tonight,” He says, “I know Yoongi is searching for you right now.” 

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, lightly circling his fingers at Jimin’s right shoulder affectionately. “When is he not?” 

Jimin doesn’t respond, just watches the way the sunlight from the window is washing Jeongguk aglow. He waits a moment, counting the steps of another as they echo down the hall across from them. Then he’s bending forward and pressing a light kiss to Jeongguk’s lips. He can feel Jeongguk melt into him, nose prodding gently at his cheek, then he’s pulling back. 

“I’ll be seeing you there too,” He replies softly. 

Jimin shrugs, nose wrinkling up slightly. “Working, serving you cakes and caviar,” He replies, rolling his eyes. “I’ve never been to a ball before.” 

Jeongguk is kissing him again, but this one is quick. “They’re not as fun as you may think.” 

It is later that evening, as Jimin and Jeongguk emerge from their forgotten library with messy hair and swollen lips, that Jimin first sees it. Jimin’s eyes flit to the glowing glass box to his right, footsteps slowing to a halt. He takes a few steps forward, eyes unable to leave it as he drinks in the warm light surrounding it. 

“It’s pretty, right?” Jeongguk says, appearing by his side as he saunters closer to the box. 

Jimin nods but doesn’t turn to face him. His eyes can’t move from the glass, or the sparkling ring inside of it. He places a soft hand to the glass, leaning down to eye it closer. 

“It’s one of the crown jewels,” Jeongguk explains, leaning on the glass and peering down beside Jimin. “There are dozens all over this palace though.” 

“The crown jewels,” Jimin repeats, eyes following the way it sparkles under the light. “Does that mean it was probably stolen?” 

Jimin finally turns his head and watches as Jeongguk blooms red. He gauges his reaction but doesn’t see anger in it at all. 

“I guess you can say that,” Jeongguk murmurs. He pauses, swallowing. “Actually, I’m pretty certain you can say that.” 

He takes a moment to eye Jimin, sweetness dripping all over his gaze. The orange light is making his skin honey and his fluffy blond bangs are obscuring his eyes again, so Jimin reaches forward to comb them from his eyes. Jeongguk whispers out a thanks, then he narrows his eyes, as if readying to speak. He turns back to the case, nose scrunching as he focuses very intently on ruby that shimmers inside. 

Jimin stares at him confusedly, suddenly very aware of the drop in temperature in the room. Noticing the way the air is prickling ice cold against his skin. Noticing the way Jeongguk is pouting, eyes strained down at the ruby ring as it sits, cautiously on the pillow when—

Pop! Jimin blinks, and it’s gone. Abandoned from the red pillow it was displayed on only moments before. He can’t help the gasp that escapes his lips next, turning to Jeongguk with eyebrows twisted up in confusion. 

Jeongguk is turning back to him, shoulders relaxing as he pulls the ring from his clenched fist with a mischievous smile. 

“Cool, right?” He asks, waving it between them. 

Jimin gapes at him, mouth quivering in a loss for words. He blinks down at the ring, then back up to Jeongguk who seems to be glowing in front of him. 

“Jeongguk— I—” He stammers out. 

“I’m not allowed to touch this, not until my wedding day, for my betrothed,” Jeongguk answers, grabbing for Jimin’s hand. 

Jimin squeaks at their contact but settles with the buzz of electricity that shoots between them. He watches Jeongguk roll the ring around in his hand, then he’s looking back up at him. 

“I don’t know why I trust you, but I do,” Jeongguk says, voice low, but firm. He breathes in, and Jimin watches the way his eyebrows tighten slightly. Then he’s looking back up to him again, eyes draped in adoration. Jimin knows why he trusts this strange, buzzing prince who never seems to sit still. Who is always strung with a plethora of ideas and emotions, who is always pulling him somewhere he doesn’t need to be, but always seems like the right place. This prince who makes him laugh too much, even in stuffy meetings with Yoongi, or makes him grin on long walks through the gardens as he trails behind him and his entourage of advisors. 

He thinks he trusts this prince because of the joy he brings him. Because of the joy he seems to bring to the prince himself. Jimin thinks he’s better with him than he would be without him. Then Jeongguk is pressing the ring into Jimin’s palm, then leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his skin. 

“Keep it safe for me, okay?” He asks softly. 

Jimin’s heart flutters and soars and nearly leaps from his smile onto the floor between him. 

He couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

Jeongguk pauses as they reach the door to the bedroom. His brother is inside, stirring at his drink as he murmurs something gently at a servant who is steaming at his clothes.

Jeongguk turns back to Jimin, who is juggling the pile of papers in his hands awkwardly. “You may retire from my side for the night,” He tells him softly. “I mean— if you want— I don’t want you to—” 

Jimin laughs, tossing his head back a back away from his eyes as he finally settles the papers in his hands. 

“Ah, I’ll be fine, I have a few things to edit for you to look over before your coronation tomorrow,” He smiles. “Then you’ll see me, tonight. For the ball.”

“For the ball,” Jeongguk echoes, smiling back, awkwardly, because he doesn’t think he can control his face anymore, not with Jimin smiling up at him with radiant eyes. 

He thinks he can feel his brother’s gaze on him now, hot and heated from inside the bedroom. He shuffles awkwardly where he stands, feet pressing harshly into the carpet. “Ah, you’re right,” He blushes, letting his eyes drop to his feet. He drinks in a breath, before lifting his eyes to meet Jimin again. “I’ll see you tonight, then.” 

Jimin smiles again, front tooth catching on his lip as he bows his head gently towards him. Raven hair fanning and falling into his eyes. “Yes, tonight, Jeongguk,” He croons out softly, head dipping only slightly as he spins on his heel and skips back down the hall. Jeongguk nearly melts where he stands, pausing to watch as Jimin’s small figure dances down the hall. Down purple carpet and finally cuts the corner and disappears. 

Every breath Jeongguk releases feels like electricity skipping through his veins and he does his best to drink it back down before turning very harshly as he stomps back into the bedroom. The guards, pinned to their corners of the room, bow at his presence as he strolls past towards his bed where he sinks, choosing to eye down to his shoes, then up to Junseo, who is peering at him coldly from atop his wine glass across the room.

Jeongguk settles into the bed, patting at his messy hair, still drunk on Jimin’s presence when a short blond-haired servant bounces up towards him to begin untying his shoes. He thinks he can still feel his brother’s gaze, heated and pointed as he begins to eat, but chooses instead to ignore it. Tries to swallow this affection that seems to be choking him. 

After a moment, between the slurps from the wine glass his brother holds clenched in his hands, he hears Junseo open his mouth to speak. 

“You’re getting sloppy, brother,” He says, shattering the silence of the bedroom. 

Jeongguk glances up at him wide eyed, cocking his head slightly in confusion. 

Junseo tilts his head towards the door that still slightly swings. “Was that your new hand?” He asks. 

Jeongguk nods, “Yes and he has been for a couple of weeks. He’s helping me with my speeches. With my speech for the coronation, in particular,” He continues, mindlessly darting his eyes back down to his now bare feet.

He stands, as the handmaiden begins at his blouse, watching as the other slips from his closet, folded violet tunic in hand. Junseo goes to slurp at his drink again but doesn’t let his eyes fall from his brother. Once he swallows, he leans back against the doorframe of the closet and crosses his arms. 

“You’ve got to be more careful, Guk—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Junseo,” Jeongguk snaps back, chest bare as the handmaiden slips his blouse free. 

He feels extraordinarily exposed here, not with his brother’s gaze on him, or just how naked he feels, shirtless in front of several handmaidens who are beginning with his royal garb. He feels exposed, he thinks, because of his own vulnerability.

Juneo doesn’t say anything at first, instead he lets his head fall back and a laugh fall from his lips. “I’m a lot of things, Ggukie, but I’m not blind,” He says with a chuckle. He combs hair from his eyes, “Your googly eyes every time he made a move close to you.” He scoffs, dipping the wine glass to his lips again. “The messy hair…. The hickeys that cluster at your neck—” 

“Jun,” Jeongguk growls in forewarning. His eyes dart between the hapless, oblivious handmaidens who have slipped his tunic on and are working at his gilded buttons. 

Junseo rolls his eyes, licking his lips, still red with the wine. “I’m just saying you’ve got to be more careful.”

“This isn’t what you think it is, Junseo,” Jeongguk lies, shaking his head. Of course, it’s what he thinks it is. When even the mention of Jimin’s mere existence is enough to make his heart leap at the thought. He can feel his cheeks reddening at the thought of him, spilling down to heat his chest. 

“Do you not remember what happened last time?” Junseo asks, softly.

Jeongguk freezes. Of course, he remembers what happened last time. Doesn’t think a day goes by when he doesn’t. It haunts him, quite literally. Has led him to cower more in the shadows than he should. Jeongguk sits up and unfolds his arms, face screwed up in a petulant scowl.

Junseo notices and frowns, slightly cursing himself before speaking aloud again. “I want you to be careful, Ggukie. Imagine what the papers would say if they found out? “Prince falls for servant,’ they’d eat you alive.”

“I haven’t fallen for anyone, Jun, he’s my hand,” Jeongguk lies with a shake of his head. 

“Okay, I believe you,” He responds, picking up his abandoned glass and going back to sipping at his wine. His tone however says differently and that makes Jeongguk furious.

Jeongguk has never been a good liar, they both know. He’s been in love only once before, and this feels nothing like it. He heaves out breath to speak when from the bedroom door another servant head sneaks out. His eyes widen at the tension, he blushes, then turns back to Jeongguk, cheeks aflame.

“There is a call waiting for you in your office, your Highness,” He murmurs. “Your guests are beginning their arrival for the ball.”

Jeongguk smiles politely, “I’ll be down in a moment,” He replies. This time his smile sprouts a lot more organic, “Thank you.”

The servant bows his head, flirts his eyes between the two before ducking back into the hallway. There is a moment of pause between the two. Junseo’s glass clicks against his nails as he sucks on his cheek. He finally looks up towards his older brother, eyes a lot more compassionate than Jeongguk was expecting. 

“You’re going to be King,” He says.

“I know,” Jeongguk replies softly. 

“You’re engaged to be married,” Junseo continues. 

Jeongguk’s heart clenches at the reminder, just as his handmaiden finishes his buttons. 

“Lower slightly, Your Highness,” She murmurs softly, with a polite, nervous smile. 

Jeongguk obeys, squatting slightly and tipping his head as he watches one of the handmaidens padding up towards him, red velvet pillow in hand. He lowers his eyes, listening as she lifts the small golden crown from the cushion, and presses it gently against the crown of his head. When he lifts his head, towards the mirror that echoes before him, he sees himself for the first time. 

He sees the long violet colored tunic that brushes at his knees, the gold of his shoes, the gold of his hair, the gold of this crown nestled atop his head. He sees, crowned prince, Jeon Jeongguk. Who, in less than 24 hours, will be king. 

Then, as he steps closer, as the candles flicker and honey the darkening room, he catches his eyes and catches a glimpse at just exactly who he wants to be. 

“Can I have a word with my brother for a moment?” Jeongguk asks softly to the handmaidens. They dip their head in obedience, slipping out and past him out the bedroom door. Sealing it behind them with a click.

The room whistles in their absence. The fireplace crackles and flames and Jeongguk takes a few steps towards it. He reaches his hands out, letting chilled fingers warm in their glow.

“Do you want this?” He asks, softly. 

Junseo’s breath hitches in his throat. “Want what?” He asks curiously. 

Jeongguk doesn’t answer immediately. He sucks in a breath, yes mesmerized by the way the firelight is setting his skin aglow. Thinks it reminds him of the way his hands feel wrapped in Jimin’s. Then he’s coiling around, eyeing his brother with wide eyes. 

“This?” He asks, pointing up towards the crown that now sits, limply on his head.

Junseo’s eyebrows twist together, unsure if he’s hearing him right. “Want… want what?” Then it hits him, and he’s padding over towards his brother with furious steps. “The crown? You’re asking me if I want the crown?” 

Despite his incredulous inquiry, Jeongguk blinks back at his brother haplessly. Barely blinking as he tracks the flicker of the flames as they echo in Junseo’s eyes. 

“Jeongguk, do you hear yourself?” He asks, shaking his head. 

“Yeah, I do, so I’m gonna ask again,” Jeongguk replies. He takes a step forward, heeled boots clicking against the floorboards. “Do you want this?” 

Junseo gapes at him, lips parting as if words hang on the tip of his tongue, begging for release. He swallows in a breath, shaking his head. “You’ve gone mental,” He laughs out. “Are you doing this because of that new hand of yours?” 

Jeongguk isn’t sure of lots of things, but he is sure of one thing. He’s never wanted this or this crown. This responsibility. Has felt the weight of it on his shoulders for longer than he’s wanted. He’s envied his younger brother, envied his freedom to navigate this world on his own accord. This has nothing to do with Jimin, but Jimin has helped him see what he had failed to in all his years stuck in these palace walls. Helped him find the words he’s been struggling to find for so long. Time slaves for no one, neither does magic. So, he must take what he can. And this, he thinks, is what he can do. 

“I’m asking you again,” Jeongguk says, tilting his head and prying the golden crown from his head. “Do you want this?” He asks again, slightly begging. He doesn’t feel ashamed of it either as he wags the crown in front of his brother desperately.

When Junseo doesn’t respond, he shoves it against his chest, padding away from him as he chokes out a breath, “Take it, I don’t want it.” 

Junseo clamors back, feet skidding from the pressure of it as he watches Jeongguk edge back towards the bed. Watches the way his shoulders rise and fall and tremble. 

Junseo clutches the crown, eyes down towards it. Watches the way the golden flames across from him dance across the metal in warped, distorted waves. Then he eyes up to his brother. “You’re nothing like him, Ggukie, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Junseo says softly, padding towards him. 

Jeongguk’s back is shaking, he sees. Sees the way it clenches under his tunic as he steps closer. “I know you think you are, but you aren’t.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t reply, but Junseo can feel the chill spilling from him. He tightens his clutch on the crown. 

“He was mean and cruel,” Junseo continues carefully dragging himself closer to his older brother. “He put his obsession with power over his heart. Ruined lives all over this kingdom.” 

He hesitates, only inches away from him, then his hands reach out to grab him. 

When he pulls Jeongguk around, he meets glowing blue eyes and clenched fists. He lurches back, shock shadowing him as he clutches tighter at the crown. “You’re nothing like him, Jeongguk,” His brother repeats.

He’d never shown this to his brother, but he’s sure he’d known. He’d witnessed Jeongguk’s many disappearing acts, watched his older brother’s hands glow the same blue his eyes are right now. He’d always known the magic in his brother, but never truly question it’s extent.

“He thought I was soft, that I trust too easily,” Jeongguk spits back, furious. “A king can’t be soft.” 

“What’s wrong with soft?” Junseo asks. “You were the best thing about growing up in this place. Always so thoughtful of me, checking in me. Playing with me and my stupid trucks.”

The words melt at Jeongguk’s heart. Junseo can see the way rage filled, cobalt eyes soften as he speaks. Junseo circles the crown between his fingers, then he’s reaching forward and pressing the crown gently back onto Jeongguk’s head. 

“This isn’t mine, Jeongguk. It’s yours, it’s always been yours,” He mumbles. “Think of all the good things you can bring to this kingdom with this.” 

Jeongguk thinks of Jimin, thinks of his smile, thinks of his words. Thinks what it means to truly invest in a kingdom. To invest in himself. The weight of the crown doesn’t feel as heavy, with these words. He winces as he lifts his head. Watching as his brother reaches across to fan golden hair from his eyes. 

Junseo watches the cobalt melt from his eyes and smiles. 

“You’re nothing like him, Jeongguk.” 

Jeongguk wants to believe him, but he’s never sure of anything. 

Evening falls on the palace, as dignitaries and adjourning kingdoms spill into the palace gates. Jimin watches from the kitchen windows nervously, watching as carriages brisk past glimmering evening torches and begin up the rounded gravel cul de sac towards the palace doors.

He feels as someone tugs at his arm, and he coils around to meet a bright-eyed Taehyung who is shoving a set of napkins into his arms. 

“I know your boyfriend is getting crowned tomorrow, but you’ve got a job to do,” Taehyung says, pulling him towards the table. 

Jimin’s eyes widen as he eyes the busy kitchen for any prying ears. Most of the other servants bustle around in quickened haste, oblivious to them as they begin folding at the purple-colored handkerchiefs. Jimin edges closer towards Taehyung, shaking his head, “He’s not my boyfriend,” He replies, shaking his head. 

Taehyung giggles, finishing his stack quickly and moving on to help Jimin who is still stumbling to finish his third. “Uh huh, yeah,” He says rolling his eyes. He leans forward, “Jimin, the handmaidens see everything.” 

Jimin blushes, letting the handkerchief fall to the table as he reaches up to drape his hands over his face. After a moment, he peels them away. Watching as the kitchen functions in high strung chaos in preparation for the ball. Jimin has seen enough fairy tales to see the magic of royal balls. But never the chaos behind the scenes that determine the functionality of them. 

Across from them the oven purrs out hot steam as one of the chefs bends to open it, prying out a sheet of a dozen freshly baked cakes. A few servants beside them busy themselves with popping corks of shimmering golden champagne. Pouring them into glittering glasses with delicate care. Jimin thinks he can smell as tomatoes are being chopped against the cutting boards behind him; being tossed into freshly tossed salads in glittering crystal bowls. 

This is for Jeongguk, all for Jeongguk. All in his honor, all in his name. All in praise of his ascension tomorrow morning. Jimin feels pride in his heart at the thought of it and has to swallow it down because it wasn’t for him, personally. If it’s not for him, why does he feel so damn proud? 

Taehyung must catch his thoughts because he waves his hands in front of him. “Out into your little dream world again thinking about your soon to be King boyfriend,” He says, sliding the napkins onto a silver tray and heading onwards the flapping kitchen doors.

Jimin follows suit, grabbing his own tray of napkins and beginning out behind him. He follows Taehyung as he snakes them through the palace hallways. Past servants who nervously hurry past, silver tray balanced on stiff arms. Pushing past and towards the glowing ballroom ahead. Jimin feels his throat catch in his throat as they near it. Towards the booming orchestral music that lulls out. Towards the gradually thickening hum of voices and clinking glasses. 

When they reach the ballroom, Taehyung turns to face him. Smiling softly as he balances on hand with the silver tray, another to reach out to press against Jimin’s shoulder softly. 

“Isn’t it interesting,” He breathes out, eyes coasting across Jimin’s frame. He reaches to strengthen at his black tie. “We first met at a ball, now here we are, at our last one before the coronation.” 

Jimin watches Taehyung’s eyes, watches the way they widen then softens. Almost as if he’s getting one final look. Drinking in his presence for the last time. He hates the way it makes his heart flip. Another servant pushes past them into the packed ballroom, and it jostles Jimin closer to Taehyung. Who laughs back, going to straighten him with his free hand. “Very happy you came into my life, Park Jimin,” Taehyung continues, gently patting at his head. 

This feels like a goodbye, and Jimin hates it. He twists his face up uncomfortably. 

“What’s going to happen to me?” He asks just as the crowd in the ballroom erupts into applause. “After the coronation, after he’s king. What’s going to happen to me Taehyung? Am I ever going home again?” 

He doesn’t know what home is anymore. This realm has stripped enough of his grief for it that he isn’t sure if he really wants to return, or if that is just an obligation now. Wonders if anywhere can be home without Jeongguk. 

Taehyung’s eyes dart from the crowd, then back to Jimin. Gaze dripping in melancholy as he takes a deep breath. “I can’t see that far, Jimin,” He says, pointing up towards his green eye. 

Jimin frowns, opening his mouth when he thinks, from the corner of his eyes, he thinks he sees the top of Jeongguk’s blond hair as it emerges from the shuffling crowd atop the grand, gilded staircase. When he sees him, he freezes, almost as if time stops, but not of his own accord. 

Jeongguk, Prince Jeon Jeongguk, of House Jeon, dressed in shades of violet and gold, and adorned with a glittering gold crown sat atop his head of long, fluffy blond hair, makes his way to the thick golden banister and pauses, peering down at the crowd who beam up at him in jolted glee. Jimin watches the way his chest boasts out, a smile crawling across his lips as he returns that happiness. Waving down at them with a soft hand, eyes colored in a joy ill defined. 

He belongs here, Jimin thinks. Jeongguk deserves to be adored and worshipped and loved like this in clouds of beaded glory and rejoice. Jeongguk was born to be king. It is written all across his frame as he continues to wave down at the crowded ballroom of delighted dignitaries. 

Then, like magic, he sees him. Eyes cutting through the thick crowd and falling upon Jimin, beside the columns, and lighting up like the sun at the sight of him. 

Jimin shrinks but smiles back. Giving him a curt nod and sweetened, prideful smile as he abandons his tray on the table beside him to clap for the ascending king because he deserves it. Because even with every eye on him, Jimin can’t help but melt at the fact that Jeongguk’s eyes burn on him, and only him. 

Jimin can feel as Taehyung slinks up beside him, laughing into his ear. “And you say that isn’t your boyfriend?”

Jimin leans against the stone banister in a tucked away balcony, heaving out a hollowed breath. He’s still close enough to hear the hum of voices spilling out from the ballroom. The pluck of gentle violin strings, muffled as the balcony door seals with a snap behind him. 

Out here, alone on an abandoned balcony, Jimin drinks in a breath. Cold and chilly from the evening. Relishing the feeling of the ice on his dampened skin from whisking around the ballroom, balancing a single silver tray at hand. He’d spent the majority of the evening avoiding Jeongguk’s incessant stare from across the ballroom. Trying to focus on his task at hand— trying his best to avoid spilling champagne on the guests and doing it all with a smile. But Jeongguk’s eyes followed him, gaze magnetic as he attempted to not make a fool of himself in front of increasingly drunken dukes and duchesses. 

Jeongguk was eventually pulled away to speak to someone, much to the prince’s chagrin. Jimin could read that much in his frown as he’s yanked by Yoongi across the ballroom towards a silver haired woman who greets him with a wide grin. 

Jimin had taken this time, and his cleared tray, to find an abandoned balcony.
One at which he could slip into without a trace. It is here where he drapes himself across the stony banister and lets out a soft, exhausted sigh. Laying his chin against the stone and letting his eyelids flutter shut. 

That’s when he lets the heat slip out. Out from his fingers, out onto the stone in front of him where he feels the air around him still. The music behind him slows to a lull, drifting notes spilling in muffled through the glass door, soft voices slung in low, drawled slurs as time around him freezes. 

He opens his eyes, out towards the trees, out past the moon, up to the stars and lets himself breathe. He flinches when he hears the glass door behind him fidget coiling around and watching as the golden handle spins and Jeongguk stumbles out. The world streams back into focus back into time. Watching as Jeongguk steps onto the balcony, eyes wide as he paints a joyful grin across his face. 

His hands are beside him, however, tugging someone along.

“Jimin,” Jeongguk breathes out, inching towards him. “I didn’t know you were out here.”

Jimin’s eyebrows quirk up confusedly, watching as Jeongguk nears him. He turns his head slightly as the person, previously draped in shadow, slinks up closer towards him. 

It’s a woman, only slightly shorter than Jeongguk, who seems to beam in golden delight as she presses herself together against Jeongguk’s side. The torches that flicker above them are casting her already cinnamon brown skin into gilded shades of warm honey. Her long, coily black hair is cradled into an ornate bun atop her head, adorned in rubies and jewels. Her red ball gown drapes beside her as they approach him. Jimin frozen where he stands as he feels his face twist up in confusion. 

When Jeongguk reaches him, Jimin is certain he sees the embarrassment on his face. But he also thinks he can see the obvious discomfort in his hiked-up shoulders and twisted eyebrows. 

The woman smiles, nodding her head gently in Jimin’s direction. Jimin smiles in return, taken aback by her beauty as he flits his eyes between them, then down to where their hands are currently intertwined. A lump bulges in his throat, and he attempts to swallow it down. Forcing on another smile, this one a lot hollower than the last onto his lips. 

“This is Princess Zuruh Aseem,” Jeongguk announces awkwardly. “She’s my betrothed.” 

Jimin opens his mouth to speak, but every word he wishes to speak dies on his tongue. Instead, he chooses to snap his lips shut, bowing his head again to the beautiful princess who is gazing at him with brightened, sweet eyes. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Your Highness,” He breathes out, hoping his words are sweeter than they taste. 

When he lifts his head, the princess is beaming. Squeezing Jeongguk’s hand with ill contained delight. 

“Nice to meet you too—” She pauses, flirting her eyes to Jeongguk who nods. 

“Jimin. He’s my—” He hesitates, mouth quivering for a moment. “He’s my hand. He also helps write my speeches.” 

“Ooh, aren’t you smart?” Zuhruh giggles, but there’s slight teasing in her tone. “A servant who can read, how peculiar.” She continues gently, cocking her head. The gold twisted around her neck clangs with the small action. “I bet you’ve made your family proud.” 

Jimin feels like he’s going to burst, he thinks. Every inch of him burning and searing as he struggles to contain whatever buzzing that’s in his fingers from bursting free. He finds Jeongguk’s eyes and panics only slightly. Then he’s swallowing his tongue again, forcing another smile onto his lips. 

“I hope so,” He answers, but his voice releases it as a croak. 

Jeongguk’s face finally breaks, and Jimin sees the humanity in his gaze. Also, the sadness as he watches Jeongguk’s hand loosen around the princess’s. After a moment the door lurches open with a squeak, and a brown skinned man pokes his head out, bowing it slightly before speaking. 

“Ma’am, you’re needed in the ballroom, Your Highness,” He murmurs, before dipping his head back into the door.

Zuhruh turns to face them, cheesing sweetly. “I’ve been summoned,” She says with subtle annoyance. She rolls her laugh and giggles and there’s melodies to her voice. Then she’s bending over to press a chaste, sweet kiss to Jeongguk’s cheek. 

“I’ll see you inside?” She asks as she pulls back. 

Jeongguk is flushing red but nodding. “Yes, yes, see you inside,” He answers, flustered. 

Zuhruh giggles, turning back to Jimin and smiling. “Nice to meet you, Jimin.” 

Jimin doesn’t answer, but mostly because he doesn’t think his body still has the ability to move. They both watch as she slings herself around, full, blood red dress draped across the balcony floor as she glides herself back inside. The door closing behind her with a snap. 

When she leaves, the tension deflates between them. Jeongguk is sighing, edging closer to the balcony banister and flinging his waist across his so he dangles, ever so slightly into the breeze. Jimin doesn’t say anything at first, he simply saunters up beside him. Hand lifting slightly as he hovers it over his back. Then, daring himself to, he presses it gently to the small of Jeongguk’s back. 

“She’s pretty,” He finally murmurs. “And nice. She seems nice.” 

“She is yeah,” Jeongguk answers, voice muffled from where he’s buried his face into his hands. After a moment he peels himself away, gazing over Jimin with an exhausted expression. 

“At least your future queen is nice and pretty,” Jimin says, still running his hand across Jeongguk’s back. “You could’ve been promised to an old hag with a mole and humpback.” 

He watches and Jeongguk melts into a laugh, running his hand up through his hair while it falls back like gilded silk to his eyes. He then casts them towards the door, where, through the curtained glass door he thinks he sees the coily haired crown atop Zuhruh’s head as she ushers towards another group of dignitaries. 

“My future queen,” Jeongguk repeats, but Jimin can hear the grief in his tone. Can also feel it as his back tightens below his touch as he speaks. After a moment, he’s being embraced, draped into Jeongguk’s arms as he feels the prince press his nose against his temple and breathes him in. Jeongguk must feel Jimin’s frozen frame below him, because he’s pulling back, eyebrows twisted up. “What?” He asks with a laugh. 

Above them, the silver moonlight is setting Jeongguk’s platinum hair aflame in shades of shimmering frosted pearl. He looks beautiful here, golden crown sat limply atop his head, eyes sparkling as he gazes down at him with soft, adoring eyes. Jimin doesn’t need to use his power to stop time, he feels it whenever he gazes into the prince’s eyes. 

“I uh—” He stammers, unsure of why his tongue feels so thick. He swallows, shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the fog currently pressing into his skull. 

“I was uh— don’t you have a ball to be enjoying?” He finally finishes. Snaking up to press a gentle kiss to his nose. “A ball in your honor to celebrate your ascension?” 

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, then his nose is pressed back to Jimin’s temple. Pressing delicate kisses to the skin, “This isn’t really for me, just a reason for these very rich people to come together and talk about how rich they are and drink very expensive wine.” 

Time around them still lulls and sloshes, but they rock to it. Jimin goes to press his head against Jeongguk’s chest. Counting the heartbeats as they drum against his ribs. After a moment, Jeongguk pulls back, smiling wide. “After the ball, you should come by my room,” He hums.

Jimin can’t help the smile that paints across his cheek, “I can’t— Jeongguk tomorrow is your coronation.” 

He thinks he can hear the music speeding up. Still muffled by the glass doors. Voices still slow and slurring, trees still whistle and tapered time. Jeongguk nods, blinking down at him cheekily. “I know,” He breathes out. He bends to press a delicate kiss to his temple. And the world begins it’s slow defrost into its usual tempo. The music strings along as normal, voices slog out from the sealed door as usual. Above them, wind whistles through the trees. Whipping through crunching emerald leaves as they snap in beat. 

Just outside that glass door the world still exists, time still beats along. But Jimin is too busy enamored by Jeongguk’s touch. 

Jeongguk pulls back, combing his hands through Jimin’s hair one last time. 

“There’s no one else I’d rather spend my final night as the prince with.” 

Jeongguk’s room, as he finds it, is left in absolute disarray. 

Scattered shreds of cloth litter the sparkling wooden floor. Uncapped cologne bottles clustered around the drawers, inside out suit pants lay sprawled out on the sheets. Jimin giggles as he swats at them, falling onto the sheets with a laugh as he peers up to the nearly never ending ceiling in amazement. Heaving out a breath as his eyes draw up to the magnificently ornate painting that peers down at him. 

“It’s kind of a mess, I’m sorry,” Jeongguk says as he snaps his bedroom door shut with a snap and a lock. He presses his back to it and smiles over at him sheepishly. “We were running late, I was acting hardheaded about my attire—” 

Jimin just giggles, melting into the butter like sheets. He flips slightly, bouncing gently because this feels like floating on a cloud. He laughs again, bouncing even more as he lets his body succumb to the sheets and his skin sing against the purple satin pillows. Jeongguk is slinking up towards him, then he’s tossing himself onto the bed with a plop.

Jimin turns to face him, and he knows his face is red and splotchy but right now he’s filled with uncontrolled delight. Jeongguk meets his eyes and descends into giggles himself. Bouncing them even more so against the elastic like mattress until his fingers reach out and pull Jimin towards him with ease. They melt together like that, a wrestling ball of untamed giggles and smacking lips as they tangle through the already messy sheets. After a moment, Jimin pulls back. The sheets pulled up over his head as he presses into Jeongguk’s lap and pulls up. Gazing down at him with joyful delight. 

“Your last night as a prince,” He says, bending down and pressing a messy, wet kiss to his lips. Nose pressed against the soft skin of Jeongguk’s cheek. He pulls back, breathless and delirious. “And you want to spend it with me? I’m very honored.” 

Jeongguk is gazing up at him, eyes laced with a certain brand is discomposure and tangled adoration. He’s kissing Jimin again, because he can never help himself. Messy, and uncontrolled, lips past the seam of another. Kissing at his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the space above his lips. Kissing and worshiping every part of this magical being sat atop him. 

“The feeling is mutual,” Jeongguk answers in breathless reprieve. Hands claws at the hair tangled at the nape of Jimin’s head as he pulls him back down to his lips. After a moment he’s above him, skin sweaty and chest heaving as he gazing down at Jimin with wide, wondrous eyes. 

The fireplace that crackles beside them melts at their skin, but Jeongguk thinks there’s enough fire in his chest to add to it as well. He drapes himself downward, fidgeting with Jimin’s buttoned blouse as he liters his chest with a series of melted kisses. 

“I would spend every night with you if I could,” Jeongguk pulling up and moaning into Jimin’s mouth. Successfully slipping Jimin’s blouse off and tossing it into the already large pile of accumulating clothes. “My first night as king,” He continues, now pressing kisses against his neck, then his chest. “My fiftieth night as king,” He continues, now working with his own blouse and slipping it over his head. 

He peers down at Jimin, eyes wide with wonder and love and absolute adoration Jimin has never seen in someone else’s gaze before. Didn’t know someone could look that lovestruck, especially not when looking at him. 

“I want to spend every night, every morning, every day of my life with you, Park Jimin,” Jeongguk continues and the truth in his words sting. “Sacred hands, my sacred hand,” He says softly, gathering Jimin’s hands and littering wet kisses to his knuckles. 

Jimin gapes at him, throat bobbing as he swallows. He pulls Jeongguk down to meet his lips, crashing together as they tangle in the sheets together once more. Jimin has been in bed with lots of people. Has explored too many bodies, in this weird lifelong attempt to find himself. But he’s never found himself here, pressed against the body of another, wishing in some way there was a way to meld his body into the other. 

Jeongguk has opened his dresser drawer for what he can only assume to be lube and worked Jimin open on the sheets by the time he comes to himself. Comes to the realization that this is as real as it’s going to get. 

Jimin has spent a long time trying to find reality, trying to come to terms with what was in his head, and what was real actual matter. Made of real actual substance, actual depth with no illusion. Trying to find himself. And he thinks he’s found it now, here, buried in butter-colored sheets as Jeongguk, the prince of his dreams, slowly pressed into him.

Jimin finds himself pressed against the mattress, hands flying up and prodding into Jeongguk’s back as he feels the prince press into him. 

“Jeongguk,” He breathes out, voice shaky. 

Jeongguk stills, nose pressed into the crook of Jimin’s neck as he presses a small litany of kisses into his skin. After a second, he moves, and the world along with him as he rocks into him again. Jimin’s head falls back against the pillow as he sings out a moan. Hands now fisted into Jeongguk’s now messy, golden hair. 

The bedframe Jimin hadn’t noted before, is tapping against the violet wallpapered wall with a staggered beat. Mattress squealing under their weight as Jeongguk pulls himself up with a huff, gazing down at Jimin with heavy lidded adoration. 

“You’re so pretty,” Jeongguk nearly pouts as he rocks into him again. “You’re so beautiful. The best person I’ve ever known.” 

Each praise makes Jimin’s skin set aflame. He preens under it, legs reaching up to wrap around his waist as he claws at Jeongguk’s chest without reason. 

“Best… best day of my life was when I walked into my office and saw you,” Jeongguk continues, chest reddening. He leans forward to press a stray kiss to Jimin’s lips as he chases his high. “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me.” 

Jimin feels very hot, like he usually does whenever his own magic gets to be too much and clogs at his chest and hands. He blinks up at Jeongguk and gulps, watching as the prince seems to glow that faint blue, he’d seen only a few times before. But this time, he thinks he feels a click.

“I love you, Jeon Jeongguk,” Jimin croaks out, rocking his hips down against Jeongguk. Because truer words had never been spoken before, truer words would probably never be spoken again. A near spell binding them together as he chokes in a breath.

Time around them stops, Jimin can feel the way the world collapses into their own, heated bubble. The only sounds around them the slap of skin on skin and the mattress wailing below their weight. If Jimin could, he could stay like this forever, tangled up in a heated blue glow with Jeongguk. Letting himself burst with love and light and blue filtered magic. When they finish, Jimin first, spilling between them only for Jeongguk to follow. Time finally consumes itself again. 

They finish together, in a burst of cobalt colored celestial light and glory. Jimin scratching into Jeongguk’s arms, Jeongguk suppressing a groan against Jimin’s neck. Jeongguk falls with a sigh into the bed beside him, chest heaving as he breathes in long, drawn out breaths. Eyes transfixed at the ceiling above him.

There’s a buzzing in their blood, they both can feel. Magic that glows bright blue from their bones and Jimin reaches over to claw at Jeongguk’s chest, and the touch sends electricity shooting through their skin. After a moment when the magic subsides, Jimin flips over to face Jeongguk, eyes tangled with sweetness. “So,” Jimin murmurs gently, he folds himself over in the sheets, nose scrunched up as he tilts his arm up to hold his head as he gazes over at Jeongguk lovingly.

Jeongguk mimics him, coiling his head and propping it up on his hand as he peers back at him. “So,” He echoes. 

Jimin chews at his cheek, eyes flitting across Jeongguk’s frame before he opens his mouth to speak. “You’re going to be king tomorrow,” Jimin whispers, voice small as it echoes through the large bedroom, still drinking in breath to stop his heat from hammering so hard in his chest.

Fire crackles in the fireplace across from them, Jeongguk can feel it on his toes as he curls them in closer to Jimin’s beneath the sheets. 

“I am,” He replies softly, finally allowing himself to sink back into the pillow, but not before reaching forward and twisting his fingers through Jimin’s raven colored hair. 

Jimin presses a kiss to his palm and sighs. “So, what then?” 

Jeongguk blinks at him confusedly, “What do you mean?” 

Jimin’s face is contorted painfully, as if whatever words lie on his tongue are too bitter to speak. Eventually he opens his mouth with a frown. “I just mean,” He begins, voice cracking. “I’m just thinking…” He hesitates again. Then he’s flopping back onto the squashed pillow beneath his head, eyes tracing the ceiling and the ornate paintings that are scrawled across it. “How long after the coronation is your wedding?” 

Jeongguk frowns, sitting up slightly to peer down at Jimin who refuses to meet his eyes. “Jimin,” He growls slightly. “What are you talking about?” 

Jimin eventually turns to meet his eyes, and Jeongguk can see, from the flickering firelight that there are tears in them. “You’re engaged to be married, Jeongguk,” Jimin murmurs back, voice catching at the back of his throat. 

“I’ve met her once, twice, if you count tonight—” Jeongguk retorts, anger slightly broiling in his chest. “Besides are we going to talk about this now?”

“You’re going to become King, get married, have some kids and what am I then?” Jimin continues ignoring him, sniffing slightly. “What am I now? A secret? Is this all I’m going to be to you? Your hand who you can play around with in the dark? Until it’s time to put on your big boy pants and be king—”

Jeongguk tosses himself over Jimin, pressing himself into Jimin’s lap and clasping their hands together. Jimin peers up at him with shaky, red eyes. Frown etched nearly permanently onto his face. 

Jimin has always had a plan, has never been one to make it without one. Jeongguk thinks he can see the sparkle of tears as they web through his eyelashes with each blink. 

“You’re Park Jimin, and I love you,” Jeongguk answers, tightening their hands. Jimin blinks up at him, and Jeongguk feels as if his gaze is boring directly through him. Can feel it burning through his skin and bone. 

Jimin sniffles again, and Jeongguk watches the way his throat bobs with it. Watches as he exhales slowly, curling his own smaller hands around Jeongguk’s wrists. Watches the way his chest rises as he drinks in a breath, then exhales shakily as he blinks back up at Jeongguk with sad, conscious eyes. Jeongguk reads epiphany in them, watches as Jimin draws to a simple conclusion, but doesn’t press him on what it is. 

“Jeon Jeongguk, I love you too,” He replies so simply as if there were no other truth in the world. Jeongguk can read the simplicity of it in his eyes, feel it in the grip Jimin currently has on his hands. “But… it’s not that easy,” Jimin tacks on hesitantly. 

Jeongguk falls back slightly onto the mattress as Jimin pulls himself up. He thinks he’s feeling his heart break. It’s only happened once before, but this time feels a little harsher. Burns a little hotter in his chest, sends his nerve sin hyperdrive as they dance under his skin. 

“W-What are you talking about?” Jeongguk asks, slightly desperate. 

Jimin is hesitant because he’s always so careful with his words. His mouth is slack, lips pursed as he breathes in a breath before speaking again. “I’m not— I’m not from here, Jeongguk. I have a home, a fiancé, a sister, a career,” Jimin continues, still rubbing gently at Jeongguk’s hand. “I’m not giving it up just to be the side toy of the future king. I’m just not doing that, Jeongguk.” 

Jeongguk wants to cry, but he refuses, swallows it down instead. He blinks across at Jimin and pouts. “You’re not my toy, Jimin, I love you—” 

“Sometimes, growing up means doing things we don’t want to do,” Jimin continues, dragging himself across the mattress until he’s close enough to cup at Jeongguk’s jaw. 

“What are you saying?” Jeongguk frowns, dodging his hands. Despite his reluctance to cry, his eyes nearly break. His vision is spotty and blurry as he blinks over at Jimin, face cast in a frown. The heat from the fireplace is numbing his cheeks. “You sound a lot like you’re planning on leaving.” 

Jimin doesn’t say anything, but his eyes do. He’s close enough to run a gentle hand through Jeongguk’s messy blond hair; tucking a strand behind the prince’s ear before he surges forward and presses his lips to his. Jeongguk succumbs to it, rocking forward and kissing him with building frustration. Breathing heavy through his nose as their teeth clatter and clang together. After a moment he pulls back, breathing frantically as he rakes his eyes over Jimin for what feels like the last time. 

“At least stay for the coronation,” Jeongguk frowns, face coiled up in building sadness. He leans forward and kisses him again. “Please?” 

He’s desperate, his voice aching as long as he tries his best to swallow his sadness. 

Jimin smiles at him with decaying melancholy. Leaning forward to capture his lips into another kiss, because he can never help himself. 

“I wouldn’t miss that Jeongguk,” He breathes out as they part. “Wouldn’t miss that for the world.” 

When Jimin wakes, Jeongguk is still asleep. 

Lost in the trenches of his own slumber as he snores, against the pillow beside him. Jimin coils around and studies him, studies the way his golden hair is splayed out on the pillow below his head. The way his nose is prodded up as he gulps in a breath, exhales with a loud, gruntled whistle. Jimin smiles, reaching forward to admire him as he combs the few flyaway strand soft hair from his eyes. He watches as Jeongguk sighs into the touch, melting further into the sheets, a small smile twisting onto his lips. 

Jimin could stay here forever, he thinks. Twisted in the sheets with someone he truly loves. Beside a fire that never seems to die and sheets that drip with the heavy scent of lavender and the love they’d managed to spin in them. He didn’t think this sort of love existed, but apparently it does. His heart wouldn’t lie to him and here it is, beating in time with the prince he’d conjured up. The prince who seems to love him with an equal amount of love and devotion. 

“To love and be loved back,” Jimin murmurs, leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to Jeongguk’s cheek. Jeongguk stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. Melting even further into the sheets with a murmur and a breath. As if the sound of Jimin’s whispers were a lullaby, just for his ears. “Is the freest you’ll ever feel.”

Jimin admires him a little more, before sitting up with a groan. It’d probably be smarter not to emerge from the prince’s bedroom the morning of his coronation in the same clothes he’d worn the night before, so he decides to dress himself quickly and begin back to his room with Taehyung. 

He struggles to find them; mostly scattered on the floor below the bed. Choosing to leave his shirt untucked and pants barely buttoned as he tiptoes to the door. Tossing Jeongguk, who lays oblivious in his giant bed that’s way too big for one person, one last smile before opening the door with a creak.

The hallway, thankfully, is abandoned and Jimin sighs in subtle relief. Clicking the door closed as quietly as he can as he begins down the hallway with carefully placed steps. The windows reveal that it’s still dark, morning sun barely visible as silver colored clouds thicken in the sky. 

Jimin has reached the end of the hallway, hand pressed against the golden doorknob when he hears him speak. 

“You thought you’d make it without anyone noticing?” 

Jimin freezes, back tightening as he curses to himself. He swallows in a breath, coiling around to meet Yoongi, who is at the opposite end of the hallway. Peering down at him with a knowing smile. It’s still dark, but Jimin recognizes his footsteps as he begins towards him. Arms folded behind his back as his shoes pad against the violet carpet. 

When he’s six feet from him he pauses, raking his eyes over Jimin’s disheveled appearance. He chuckles slightly, shaking his head. “I’ve had to clean up Jeongguk’s messes before and I prefer not to do so on the morning of his coronation,” Yoongi continues, sucking at his gums slightly. 

Jimin blushes, eyes down to his unlaced shoes, because he feels too ashamed to meet Yoongi’s eyes. 

“I uh—” He stammers out, not quite coherent enough to formulate a real sentence. “It’s not what—” He pauses, clearing his voice. “This isn’t what you think it is.” 

With that, Yoongi laughs. It booms slightly, echoing through the hall and barreling back to Jimin’s ear with a contorted ring. He bows his head back, before settling back into a postured stance. 

“I’ve known the crown prince for a lot longer than you think,” Yoongi says with a laugh. “He hasn’t learned how to put the needs of others before himself,” He continues and shrugs. “We’re working on it though.”

Jimin gulps, watching as Yoongi studies him. Eyes combing over every inch of him in the poorly lit hallway. “What do you want, Park Jimin?” He says, edging closer to him. 

Jimin presses his back against the door behind him. Voice suddenly very caught in his throat. He breathes in but it stings, and he frowns at the pain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He replies, mostly because he’s honest. Yoongi, in all his time knowing him, has painted himself to be a lot more villainous than he thinks he really is. He’s never quite figured him out. Has wondered if there really is anything to figure out. Perhaps, in this realm, Yoongi has resided to fill a role Jimin has yet to cast. 

Yoongi doesn’t answer him, instead he sucks his teeth again. 

“We were in the middle of a coronation. Desperate for help, desperate for readers, for writers and here you show up, out of the blue,” He’s closer now. Close enough for Jimin to taste the genuine curiosity on him. But also, the anger, broiling and simmering at his core. He’s eyeing Jimin all over, trying to tack him down.

“Just like magic,” Yoongi continues with a frown. He’s gazing at Jimin again, but this time, a little further, past his skin and bones and directly into his soul. Jimin feels himself buzzing at his gaze. Shaking as he presses himself as tight against the door as he can get. 

“So, what is it?” Yoongi asks again. “What do you want? Why are you here?” 

Jimin gapes at him, listening as the rain begins to patter against the windows. Droplets streaming down the windowpanes and polling at the sill. 

Jimin breathes in, because he hasn’t thought of this, actually. Why is he here? He’s thought a lot about how he got here. If it’s this so-called magic in his nerves that brought him here. If it’s Jeongguk’s magic. Or maybe a mix of the two, he isn’t quite sure. He’s heard of prophecies and myths, been strung into them more than he can count, but it never occurred to him exactly why. Why was he brought into this realm? Was it to complete this so-called prophecy that’d been drafted up before he’d been born? Was it to bring magic back to this kingdom? Those words feels foreign and laced with ill tied magic Jimin can’t subscribe, but he knows how he feels and he feels a lot of things, but mostly an intense amount of love for the prince currently sleeping in blissful ignorance a few doors down. 

He doesn’t understand magic, his own magic, Jeongguk’s magic and he doesn’t think he needs to. In this realm, his own realm, or any other. Jimin has learned to write his own destiny, create his own magic. No matter the reason. 

“You’re not as slick as you think you are,” Yoongi presses, eyebrows knitting together as he steps closer towards him. “What do you want from him?”

Jimin doesn’t know, mind blanking as he takes a step back, “I don’t—” He begins, voice cracking. “I don’t want anything—”

“Status? Do you want status?”

Jimin wants a beach, he wants warm arms tightened around him. Periwinkle skies and sand between his toes. Jimin wants to breathe. And he wants someone to breathe with him.

“I want to go home,” He surrenders, eyes welling with tears. 

Yoongi’s smiles, and it’s wicked. “Exactly,” He says with a nod of his head. 

He slightly skirts himself to the side, beckoning him towards the oak doors.

Jimin swallows thickly, turning only slightly back to Jeongguk’s bedroom doors, then back to Yoongi who is still eyeing him darkly. 

“Thank you for your service, Park Jimin,” Yoongi says as Jimin begins his descent down the grand staircase. “Your King thanks you.”

“It’s not good luck to ascend to the throne while the sky cries,” Jimin hears as he bursts through the kitchen doors. The two women, both with long raven hair and dressed in newly pressed violet uniforms are facing the window. Watching as rain cuts from the silver clouds above them and rains daggers down against the windowpane. 

“Rain on coronation day is bad luck. How your reign begins predicts the way it’ll sustain,” One of the women hums out. She pouts, turning herself slightly away from the window to begin to pile the napkins onto her tray. “It’s a shame, he seemed so nice.” 

Jimin cuts past them, back towards the adjoining back door that faces the woods when he feels a hand lurching him backwards. 

“Where are you going?” Taehyung murmurs, turning him to face him. 

Jimin blinks up at him, gulping in staggered breath. He shakes his head, eyes stinging as he struggles to focus them.

“I—” He chokes out, barely able to catch his breath. “I can’t be here anymore, Taehyung.” 

Taehyung’s face drops, then he flits his eyes around the busy kitchen as the room continues in structured chaos. The energy is palatable, excited even. Jimin can feel it buzzing from the servants as they excitedly dance around each other silver trays and rackets in hand. Taehyung scoots them closer to the back door, away from the kitchen’s electric energy. Leaning against it as he folds his arms across his chest.

“What do you mean you can’t be here anymore?” Taehyung finally presses, but gently. “Did someone say something to you?”

Jimin can feel the beginning of tears in his eyes, and he goes up to claw at his face. “I don’t know I just—” He shakes his head frustratedly. “I’ve just been thinking—”

“I encouraged you to think, but not like that, Jimin,” Taehyung says. “Not if you think yourself into a box thinking you don’t belong here.” 

Jimin can feel himself shrinking; he can also feel the heat in his fingers burn at his nerves. He chews weakly at his lips, casting his eyes down at his twisting feet, then back up to meet Taehyung’s eyes. 

“I think I need to go home, Taehyung,” He murmurs. 

He watches heartbreak flutter across Taehyung’s gaze. 

“Wha— I thought you were home, Jimin,” Taehyung replies deflating.

Jimin thought so too, but now he isn’t so sure. He can hear the rain sputtering outside, clattering against the wooden door to his right. Can feel it wetting the soles of his shoes as it spills in from the crack below. He wonders for a moment, if it’ll be warm against his skin. 

“I think it’s time for me to accept reality,” Jimin spits back, but most of his frustration is directed at himself. “Wake up from whatever daydream I’ve been living in and come back down to earth.” 

“Jimin, you’re not speaking like yourself,” Taehyung says, tugging him closer. 

Jimin shrugs away aggressively, hand now on the golden doorknob. He heaves out a breath, staggered and pointed. Trying to ignore the stinging in his eyes. “This isn’t real, none of this. Not you, not Jeongguk, not this— this—” He looks down at his own hands with bitter disgust.

Taehyung’s eyebrows are twisted up in obvious hurt, then he melts. Eyes narrowing as he combs them over Jimin gently. 

“You’re saying that because you’re hurt—” 

“I’m saying it because it’s the truth,” Jimin hisses back. He doesn’t know where this anger is coming from, but it doesn’t feel like himself. From the dark windowpane bedded in the door, Jimin sees the dark reflection of his mother looking back at him and he curses it, curses himself, curses everything that brought him here.

He doesn’t say anything, just tears the door open and rips out into the waiting rain outside. Each drop burning into his skin, seeping down into his marrow as he barrels down the soggy wet hill and into the waiting trees. 

He doesn’t know how he finds it again, but he does. Feels it pulling him towards it as he skates on wet earth towards it. When he finds it, the same towering oak tree that brought him here, it glows with the same cobalt light it had before. As if it’s been like this ever since, waiting for his return. 

Jimin skirts up to it, eyeing it with sheepish agony. Blinking through the rain that stencils in from the dancing leaves above him; drawn towards the cold blue light that seeps from its bark. He hesitates, raising a hand to it. Wonders if this is the right decision. If this will even return him home. 

He drinks in a breath, whispers one last apology to Jeongguk, who he hopes by some magic, on the wings of woodland fairies hears it; before pressing his hand to the tree.

Chapter Text

FOUR ‘Happily Ever After’

Going back is smoother than when he left. 

He’s not quite as jolted, thrust firmly back into the forest he’d abandoned all that time ago. Here again, back in his original realm void of magic he finds that this gravity is lighter than he remembers. He wobbles, falling with a grunt against the soil below him. 

Above him, the sun weeps yolk colored light down onto his skin and he frowns because it burns. It’s summer, muggy and hot and uncomfortable in all the ways to remind him he’s home. Or, whatever home he originally inhabited. 

It takes a while to return from the woods, back to the large, luxe cabin they’d rented for their rehearsal dinner that’s now abandoned. It takes a while for him to hail a cab that would actually stop for him. Even longer for another one that he could convince to give him a ride without guaranteed payment.

Jimin lingers outside the eggshell-colored door to his own home awkwardly, feeling very much like a stranger. The world here, this realm, his home realm, is lighter, but he feels stunted. Feet pressed awkwardly against the tiled floor below him. 

He thinks he can hear the soft murmuring of voices from inside and he freezes even more so. Fingers twitching at his hip as he fights to reach his fist up to the door. 

There, he hesitates, breath catching in his throat. There is life happening on the other side of this door, a life he’d abandoned and isn’t sure if he fits anymore. If it’s even a life he still wants. He clenches his fist, hovering it over the door. He’s learned a lot in his time away, and he thinks he’s learned what it means exactly, to grow up. So he swallows his fear, puffing out his chest in feigned courage and raps at the door in gentle accord. 

There is silence, then the shuffling of feet as they pad towards the door. It swings open, to reveal his sister, Hyunjin, blinking back at him in wide eyed wonder. 

He sees the glaze of confusion, then, recognition blinks into focus as she combs her eyes across his frame. “You’re joking,” She whispers, but it seems to be mostly to herself. She takes a step forward, almost as if to drink him in. “Jimin— are you really—?” 

More feet pad from deeper into the apartment. Larger ones, and Jimin sees as Seokjin peeps into the door frame, eyebrows twisted up as he blinks over at him. “I can’t believe— Jimin—?” 

Jimin exhales sharply, eyes flickering between both Hyunjin and Seokjin, struggling as he lifts his hand to wave. “Hi,” He squeaks out, because that’s all he has the courage to right now.

Then he’s engulfed into a strangling hug as Hyunjin tosses herself over her brother’s frame. Squeezing him as she digs her chin into his neck. “Jimin I was worried sick!” She exclaims, tossing him back slightly. 

Seokjin is stepping closer towards them, opening the door wider as he drapes himself across the doorframe to study him. 

“Where did you go? We’ve been searching for you for so long—” Hyunjin croaks out, voice shaky.  “Next thing you’re here, then you’re gone it was like—” 

“Like magic,” Seokjin finishes, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. 

He and Jimin lock eyes, just as Jimin goes to wrap his arms around Hyunjin who is now mumbling incoherently into her brother’s ear. 

That’s when Jimin hears him, large, stumbling steps as they stomp into the living room. Pushing past Seokjin as he peels the door as wide as it can go and blinks at Jimin in disbelief. Namjoon, cell phone in hand, gapes at him, face falling slack as the phone slips from his ear. There’s still a voice stuttering from the other end, but the only thing Jimin can concentrate on is the way Namjoon’s eyes seem to melt when they meet his own. 

“Jimin,” He breathes out, almost as if his sanity strings on the feathers of his own speech. “Jimin I can’t— there’s no way—” 

Jimin blinks at him from across Hyunjin’s shoulder, then he’s peeling himself free. 

“I—” He says, uncurling himself. “I know I’ve been gone for a bit—” 

“A bit? You’ve got to be joking,” Namjoon presses, and Jimin thinks he can hear something close to anger simmering in his voice. 

Jimin blinks at him, eyes darting between Seokjin and Namjoon in the doorway and Hyunjin who is now combing her hands through his hair as if checking if he were still real. 

Jimin’s body has aged very much in the three months he’s been gone, but he thinks he sees something different in the three people gazing back at him. 

Hyunjin, has ditched her usually neon blue hair for something a little more conservative. A short, blunt bob that cuts right at her chin. Seokjin’s hair is a little longer, dark brown locks brushing at his collar. But Jimin sees the most difference in Namjoon, who is now a platinum blond. In his face, however, are permanently etched lines of worry, nestled between his brows and eyes dampened with what Jimin can only assume to be grief. 

“I—” He swallows, taking a small step forward and wriggling free from his sister’s touch. “How long has it been— here— exactly?” 

Namjoon looks like he’s on the verge of both laughing and crying, but he seems to swallow both emotions. He steps forward, closer to Jimin, to drink him in. 

Jimin blinks up at him, not understanding why he’s so afraid. 

Then, Namjoon melts. “Jimin,” He chokes out. “It’s been two years.” 

Jimin is sprawled out on a couch he didn’t pick out, tucked under several thick blankets as he wriggles his toes beneath them. Seokjin and Namjoon have disappeared somewhere into the apartment, but Hyunjin is still here. Wading towards him from the kitchen, hands wrapped around a streaming yellow mug. She hands it to him and he grabs it and whispers out a thank you. Feelings she crosses over him to the other end of the couch. 

It’s still raining outside, enough that the sky is painted silver with log lying fog that clouds the building tops. Jimin thinks of Jeongguk, as he always does, thinks of him waking up to a morning like this on the day of his coronation. Wonders if he’s possibly upset. 

He thinks he can hear Hyunjin speaking, and he coils his head to meet her, doing just that. She pauses, mid-sentence, curling her legs into her chest as she leans onto the arm of the couch. Blinking up at her brother with quiet, shifty eyes. 

“Where have you been, Jimin?” She asks softly. There is no interrogation in her tone, just curiosity. Jimin sees it in her eyes as well. 

He, in turn, buries his nose into the mug and lets it steam at his nose. Hopes that the tea will ground him back to this realm. When it doesn’t, only slipping numbingly down his throat he closes his eyes and drinks in a breath. Eventually he turns back to Hyunjin, smiling softly, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” 

Hyunjin’s nose scrunches, bitterly, then she’s crawling over the couch, draping herself over him. 

They sit there, breathing together as the rain taps against the floor length glass window. Jimin is still struggling to feel grounded, but somehow in Hyunjin’s arms he feels closer than he has since he’s arrived. 

After a moment, Hyunjin pulls back, breathing gently. She looks at him with hesitation, “Mom’s gone.” 

Jimin frowns, nose turning up as he combs his eyes over her. Her words slipping through one ear, then the other, completely missing the brain in between. “Wha—She— what do you mean—?” 

“She wasn’t as clean as we thought,” Hyunjin continues, chewing weakly at her jaw. “Alcohol poisoning,” She concludes, as if the words ache to speak. She smiles weakly, “You were right... Now is the time to say I told you so.” 

Jimin doesn’t feel right, in fact, he isn’t sure what he feels. He turns to place the mug on the table in front of him, then he’s bending to comb his hands down his face. Letting the incoming guilt wash over him like he expects. He wrestles in a hollow sigh, then he feels as Hyunjin tightens her grip on him. 

“She knew you’d come back though,” She murmurs, stroking her fingers through his hair. “We all kind of gave up, but Ma? She knew.” 

Jimin pulls back, even though the guilt tries to weigh him down. His eyes are blurry, but for once he doesn’t try to hide them. Simply blinks as they smear and smudge his vision of his sister across from him. He thinks he finds freedom in this newfound emotion. Thinks letting himself feel so freely is liberating. Even if the guilt clips at his chest, he’s not afraid to let it spill out from his eyes. Especially in the presence of another. 

Finds freedom in this vulnerability. Especially wrapped in the arms of another. 

“She loved us the way she could. As best as she could,” Hyunjin continues softly. 

“She was a monster,” Jimin growls back.

Hyunjin doesn’t fight him, Jimin watches the way agreement flirts across her face. “Lots of things were taken away from her,” Hyunjin finally murmurs. “Lots of her own trauma clogged up, spilled out in the way she loved us. In the way she couldn’t love us.” 

Jimin hates this. Hates the fact that he’s grieving someone who doesn’t deserve it. Hates the fact that his eyes water and burn in memory of someone who’d never reciprocate it in return. But growing up, he’s learned in his short time away, means wrestling with emotions he’d usually choose to tuck away. Confronting these feelings headfirst, neither in victory or defeat but simply admission. 

He could never forgive her, not for the years he’d spent holed up in his room. Not for the years of verbal abuse that still bloom and traumatic itch he can’t scratch. He’ll never forgive her for the pain she caused him, but he’ll let himself feel it. Feel it enough until one day he can feel it, and it won’t burn as much. 

“But you’re not a monster. You didn’t let her make you one,” Hyunjin continues. 

Jimin can feel his heart swell, leaning over to engulf his younger sister into a tight, blinding hug. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. 

“I just want you to be happy, Jimin, I hope you know that,” She murmurs, mouth muffled against his chest. “No matter where you are, I just want you to be happy.”

Namjoon is pressing into the room, now changed into a pair of jeans and t-shirt as he hovers very awkwardly across from them. Hyunjin eventually peels herself from Jimin’s arms, flitting her eyes between them before pulling herself up from the couch. 

“I’m gonna go help Seokjin for a minute,” She mumbles, padding back past Namjoon. She prods him gently with her index finger, before disappearing into another room. 

Namjoon fidgets awkwardly, before melting into the couch across from him, back straight. He doesn’t fold into himself like Jimin is used to. He rolls his shoulders back, as if preparing for something. Face stoic as he avoids Jimin’s gaze. 

Jimin in turn, reaches forward to wrap his hands around his abandoned mug, letting the warmth seep into his skin. Tripping his eyes across his living room— goodness, this isn’t his living room anymore. This, doesn’t feel like home anymore. There are no pictures of him in this living room. Making him feel even more like a ghost than he had before. The walls are now a darker brown, books stacked against the walls and sheet music scattered on the table. 

This feels like Namjoon’s home now. Every part of it dripping with his personal touch. Jimin isn’t sure where he fits in anymore. 

“So,” Namjoon finally hums, voice cracking and echoing across the walls. He clears his voice nervously, eyes pressed to the brown carpet beneath him. 

Jimin blinks over at him, wide eyed, “So,” He echoes, unsure of what to say because words have abandoned him. He bends to set the mug on the coffee table, tucking his own knees to his chest as he swallows thickly. “I don’t know what you want me to say, really—” 

“I missed you,” Namjoon squeaks. He still hasn’t lifted his eyes. He’s picking at the skin on his fingers nervously. 

Jimin’s heart aches, because he doesn’t think he feels the same. No, he concludes, he knows he doesn’t feel the same. He missed the idea of Namjoon, but not him in particular. Not his smell or his touch, not the sound of his voice, or the way his face lightens up when he smiles. It’d been long enough that time had stalled whatever feelings he’d managed to conjure up for him in the first place.

“I got back to the party and felt so bad about everything I said,” Namjoon murmurs, voice a low grumble. He pauses, chewing at his cheek. “I was coming back out to the forest to apologize, and you were gone. I thought you could’ve slipped. Or maybe you’d found the nearby lake and fell in I don’t know. You wouldn’t just leave like that,” His voice is growing more and more distraught as he speaks. 

Jimin watches him in feigned, guilted horror. Feeling his own chest tighten as he watches Namjoon unfurl before him. 

“I think, I didn’t want to admit that you’d left me. Would rather have thought you slipped and fell than admit the fact that you didn’t want me the way I wanted you,” Namjoon says, slightly laughing. 

“That’s not true, Joon—” Jimin clips, shaking his head. Unconsciously reaching forward for his hand. 

This time, Namjoon raises his eyes to meet his own. Melted with anger and subtle embarrassment. He tightens his lips dismissively, “C’mon Jimin,” He says, rolling his eyes with a scoff. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why we were getting married in the first place. Why you chose me.” 

Jimin gapes at him, mostly because he thinks he’s feeling the embarrassment too. Feeling it seep into his bones and weigh him down onto the couch. He couldn’t move if he tried. Couldn’t blink, couldn’t breathe. It’s jarring being exposed, he thinks. Especially in front of someone he thinks he loves. But not in the way that matters. 

“We searched for weeks, throughout the entire forest. Then the surrounding suburbs. It was all over the news. Kind of a big deal when world famous writer Park Jimin disappears without a trace on the eve of his wedding,” Namjoon laughs, but Jimin can taste the sadness in it. He finds the will to crawl over towards him, dragging the blanket with him. When he reaches him, he pauses, hesitates, before draping one hand over Namjoon’s shaking one. He grips it fearfully, then, pulls it up to his lips to press a gentle kiss to it. 

Namjoon freezes, eyes skirting from their joined hands to Jimin’s eyes. “I spent a long time wrestling with a lot of feelings and all of them had to do with you, Park Jimin,” He frowns. “Where you were, why you left. What I failed to do to make you want to leave in the first place. So many loose threads that needed dusting.” 

Namjoon is crying, something he’s never been afraid to do. Especially not in front of Jimin. That’s something Jimin has always envied he thinks. But jealousy isn’t good, he knows, especially when you claim to love that person. Namjoon turns to Jimin, eyes glossy and red and quivering. “I don’t care where you went. I don’t think that matters anymore,” He says softly. “But before you go again—” 

“Who said I’m leaving again?” Jimin interjects. 

Namjoon rolls his eyes, but it’s with jest. “You’re not happy here and we both know it,” He says softly. It sounds like a resolution reached a while ago, but Jimin refuses to come to terms with. Like most things, he’s learned.

Namjoon sniffles, in tune with the rain that’s still beating pellets into the window. “Like I said, letting go is hard. Especially when you think you’ve come to terms with it then they show up at your door unannounced,” He laughs, smiling as he chooses himself to tighten at Jimin’s grip.

“But at least, this time, before you go,” He pauses, voice settling uncomfortably in his chest. He locks eyes with Jimin, eyebrows twisted up in discomfort. “Were you at least happy? Wherever you were?” 

Namjoon has always been incredibly selfless. Jimin thinks he has been too, but Namjoon’s selflessness was settled for all the right reasons. Without obligation, or the strain of commitment. He cared not because he should, but because that’s exactly what Jimin needed. Someone to love and care and cradle him. Namjoon was the right person, sufficient, but never enough. Jimin feels guilty for holding his heart captive for so long from someone who deserves it. 

If Jimin had it his way, he’d be just like Namjoon when he grows up. 

Jimin exhales shakily, because he thinks of Jeongguk’s smile, and his laugh. The goofy way he struts down the palace halls when he thinks no one is looking. He listens without judgment, loves without obligation. 

Of course, Jimin was happy. 

He doesn’t have to answer, because Namjoon reads it in his eyes. He swallows, turning his head as he nods his head gently. As if wrestling with the conclusion he knew he’d get, but wasn’t prepared for. 

“I’ll look after Hyunjin. Even though I admit she doesn’t need anyone looking out for her. In fact, she did more looking out for me. Her and Seokjin,” Namjoon’s cheeks flush when he mentions him, ducking his head bashfully. 

After a moment, Namjoon releases a breath, and it feels a lot like letting go. He smiles softly, squeezing Jimin’s hand a little together. Because no matter what Namjoon is kind and loving and always more than enough.

“If anyone deserves a happy ending it’s you, Jimin.”  

The door opens, and Jeongguk does his best to turn towards it, but fails as one of the tailors tugs him back towards the mirror; as Madame Bu continues powdering at his cheeks.

“Who is it?” He says instead, listening as the feet pad towards him softly. 

“It’s I, Your Highness,” Yoongi replies, closing the door with a snap and stepping closer to him. Jeongguk listens as Yoongi inhales sharply. “I was just checking on you before the ceremony.” 

Jeongguk laughs, because here he stands, arms outstretched, starfished, as handmaidens and tailors sew and tie and ribbon him into a ceremonial dress, he feels very foolish in. The sleeves, bulky and violet weigh down on his arms, but he doesn’t complain. Nor does he complain of the tightness currently squeezing at his quads. He frowns down at the construction happening below his waist, then tosses his head, as best as he can, back towards Yoongi. 

“We’ve got a whole King at our hands,” Madame Bu coos, now going to apply a heavy amount of blush at his cheeks. 

That makes Jeongguk actually blush, letting his head drop to where his feet should be, but is instead met with the very wide skirt of his purple ceremonial gown.

“I knew this would be a big deal, but I had no clue just how heavy this all would be,” Jeongguk frowns. He watches as Yoongi slinks up towards him, eyes shifty in the reflecting mirror. “I’m sure we could do without fifty pounds of silk and wool, right? I could still be crowned king in just a suit and tie?” 

He thinks he can hear Yoongi laugh, but it’s muted. Thinks he can hear apprehension in it, because he’s turning back, shuffling the tailors below him slightly as he cranes his neck towards the small advisor. 

“What’s wrong?” Jeongguk asks, eyebrows furrowing. 

Yoongi doesn’t respond, only paints a weak smile across his cheeks as he blinks back at the prince through the glossy mirror. Expression soured with guilt. 

“I uh—” He begins, voice cracking. He clears it, straightening his back. “I can’t believe we’ve actually made it to today.” 

Jeongguk narrows his eyes for a moment as he drinks him in, drinks in the guilt he smells on him, but doesn’t question it. Instead, he turns back to the mirror and fidgets. The tailor swats at him frustratedly, and he straightens his arms again. 

“Neither can I,” Jeongguk instead replies, eyes back to himself in the mirror. Studying the reflection that blinks back at him. Under the golden silk and padded violet robes; beneath the draped jewels and bedded, glimmering gemstones he thinks he sees himself. Quivering and doe eyed, but him, nonetheless. 

“Weird,” He pouts, cocking his head. Eyes never leaving the mirror. “Been dreaming of this day my entire life, running away from it almost. But it’s still here. Still came.” He sniffles, clenching his fists in an attempt to revive the numbing that pulses through it from holding his arms out so long. Then he turns to Yoongi, smiling with casual melancholy “Can’t run away from things,” He smiles. “At least that’s what Jimin always says.” 

Jeongguk watches the first crack in Yoongi’s facade at the mention of Jimin’s name. Watches as he squirms slightly, face wincing. 

Jeongguk notes it, but turns back towards the mirror, “Speaking of Jimin, we uh—” He pauses, noticing the packed room and decides not to air out his own dirty laundry and what he got up to the night before in front of them. “Have you seen him? He said he was going to come by before the ceremony but he…” He trails off, fingers clenching as he thinks of waking up in his bed this morning to empty, cold sheets that smell too much like Jimin. Remembers burying his face in the pillow beside him and murmuring out a muffled groan to find himself alone, frowning as handmaidens barged in to pry open the windows. 

Jimin had promised him. Had made it his word to stand by his side before Jeongguk’s coronation. Jimin had promised him, and if he’d taught him anything in their time together, is that keeping your words was a righteous man of his word. 

Yoongi fidgets beside him, then he’s pulling his clipboard from his chest and peering down at it. “They’re going to need you at the altar by 10—” 

“Yoongi,” Jeongguk repeats. He doesn’t raise his voice, but he keeps his eyes on him through the mirror. Blinking as he breathes in a shallow breath. 

Yoongi jerks his head up, frowning. Jeongguk can see the way the smaller man tenses. Knuckles white as he clutches at his wooden clipboard. Then he’s rolling his eyes. “You’re going to be King, Your Highness,” Yoongi begins softly, now closing his eyes. 

Rage gurgles in Jeongguk’s chest as he lowers his arms, much to the chagrin of the tailors. He waddles to Yoongi, only slightly. “Excuse me?” He presses.

Yoongi gapes at him, frowning. “You’re going to be King, Your Highness. You’re engaged to be married. You have a kingdom to run and delegate—” He pauses catching his breath. “You do not have the time or quite frankly, the need to be fooling around with the help.” 

Jeongguk gasps, lurching back as he blinks over at Yoongi with shaky, angry eyes. He can feel as one of the tailors is sewing frantically at his side and he swats at them frustratedly. 

“How dare you,” Jeongguk hisses, squirming closer to Yoongi. “You have absolutely no right determining what I can and cannot involve myself with. Who I can and cannot love? I am your King!” 

“Not yet,” Yoongi presses, jaw clenched. 

Jeongguk broils with fury, hands shaking and suddenly very cold as he feels Madame Bu slink up towards him. She wraps her hands around his, patting it gently. 

“Your Highness, I think we just have a few more adjustments—” Madame Bu begins. 

Jeongguk snatches his hand from hers, prodding a finger directly into Yoongi’s chest. “What did you say to him?” Jeongguk sneers, hands now glowing a muted blue. “Did you say something to him to make him feel—” 

“Jeongguk, I need you to calm down—” Madame Bu begins, eyes flitting between his hands and the pressed eyes of the crowded room.

“I made a vow to your father when he died that I would protect you,” Yoongi replies, and there’s no malice in his voice. Only genuine concern, because there’s always that when Yoongi is involved. As meticulous as he is, as stoic as he is, as seemingly cold as he is, Yoongi is filled with love and unwavering loyalty towards the prince. Would do anything for him if he could. 

“The night of that incident all those years ago, when your father made the call to squash the stories, to calm the gossip he made me swear to make sure it’d never happen again,” Yoongi croaks out. He sniffles slightly, but never drops his stoic manner. “I did it because I love you and this country too much to watch you succumb to temptation.” 

“Temptation?” Jeongguk repeats. “Jimin is not temptation! I love him!” 

The room’s buzz freezes, like the air that’s pilling from Jeongguk and spilling out into the massive room around them. He can feel every eye on him right now, watching him intently as he shakes in frosted anger in front of them. After a moment, he realizes it’s less about his confession and more about that fact that his hands are engulfed in illuminating, cobalt light. 

He stumbles back, pulling his hands up to his face and shaking them frustratedly. Yoongi is gaping at him fearfully, taking a slow step back into another wide-eyed servant. 

“Goddammit,” He growls, trying to shake the light from his hands, but to no avail. When he darts his head up, Yoongi is still staring at him, flabbergasted. 

“Where did he go?” Jeongguk asks, because even through the hazy fog of his own powers being revealed, the only remaining thought in his head is Jimin, if Jimin is okay, and how he can see him again. Yoongi doesn’t answer him, eyes still glued to Jeongguk’s glowing fingers. 

“I said, where did he go?” Jeongguk says, surging up towards him, knocking over a small pile of cluttered pins and needles. A small spiral of purple thread rolls out by his feet and clips at his ankles.

Yoongi’s eyes dart between his hands and his face, his own still painted in disbelief. “I—I—” He stammers out. “I don’t know— he ran off for the forest—!”

Jeongguk wastes no time, shoving past and scatting towards the door. His ceremonial dress drags behind him, silk slipping across the scuffed wooden floors. 

“Your Highness—” Madame Bu says, voice trotting up behind him. “Your coronation.” 

Jeongguk pauses, but only for a moment, lingering by the door. His hands still glow, can still feel the energy pulsing under his fingers as he clutches at the door frame. 

He combs his eyes through the room, past the gaggle of frozen handmaidens and awestruck guards. He watches Yoongi who blinks back at him in horror, then finally to Madame Bu, who is gazing at him with what seems like carefully crafted knowing. He thinks he may even see a hint of a smile tug at her cheeks. 

Jeongguk rips at the ceremonial belt that had been squeezed at his waist, letting it drop, along with the jewels that adorn it, Rolling across the wooden floor with a weighted tap. 

“Take it,” He frowns down at it, and he thinks he tastes freedom for the first time. “I never wanted it anyway.” 

It’s still raining when he reaches the lake. He’s lost the majority of his ceremonial gown in the process. Most of it shredding from incomplete tacking as he clambers down the soggy grass hill and into the refuge of the wood. He gasps out a breath, combing back strands of soiled hair as he trudges through bush and claw at branches. Following the sound of the gurgling lake in front of him. His hands still freeze and pulse blue, a nearly gilding light as he claws his way through the steamy forest. 

When he reaches the lake, he gasps out another breath. Turning towards the trees and standing before it awkwardly. He doesn’t know why he’s here, but he feels a tug towards it. An echo from some deep hidden magic he can’t explain, but when has he ever.

“Godammit, Jimin,” He murmurs out, pressing his hands to their bark and clawing at it. “Where did you go?” 

Rain pours, but Jeongguk doesn’t bother the way it’s currently slathering his blond bangs against his forehead because all he can focus on is the bare bark that streamlines above him. 

“Goddammit,” He curses again, clawing at it. Then he kicks it, then he slaps it and punches and throws himself at it. He pours every bit of rage that seems to be pouring from every inch of him and spilling out as he thrashes at the bark. 

The only thing that stops him, he slips. Foot squealing on soaked soil that sends him flying backwards and onto his bottom. He lands on his back, eyeing up through the leaves as rain continues to spill down from silver skies. Pattering down on his ever-numbing face. He blinks through it, but doesn’t bother to clear it. The rain seems to be the only thing that reminds him that he’s still here, hazy brain and delirious. 

“I can’t do this without you Jimin,” He mumbles, lips glossy from the rain. 

He turns his head as raindrops stream down his cheeks. “I don’t want to do this without you.” 

His voice dies, and he lets his eyes close. Letting himself drown as the rain kisses against the thin skin of his eyelids and he allows himself to cry. 

That’s when he feels it. The first tug of that same mysterious tug in the center of his chest. He doesn’t peel up immediately, but only when he hears an almost rip through the bark. When he does peel up, but only slightly he’s blinded by bright, glaring cobalt light that engulfs the forest. 

His arm rises to shield his eyes, then he hears a grunt. Dodging the light as he peels around it to see, what he can only assume to be Jimin’s small arm as he claws himself through the brightened blue light. 

Jimin gulps in a breath, heavily and with haste as he stumbles up to his feet.

Jeongguk blinks over at him, slightly blinded by the rain. “Jimin?” He breathes out restlessly. 

Jimin leaps towards him without thinking, tossing his arms over his shoulders as he presses his chest against his. Tucking his chin over his shoulder as he breathes him in. “I’m sorry,” Jimin murmurs into his ear, shivering. “I left and I’m sorry I probably missed everything—”

Jeongguk is frozen beneath him, but Jimin is taking his hands all over him. Across his shoulders, down his spine, across his stiffened arms, as if measuring if the person in front of him is real. 

After a second, he peels back, clawing wet slabs of hair from his eyes and cupping at his jaw. 

“Jeongguk,” He breathes out. 

Jeongguk blinks at him, because he feels delirious, and despite having Jimin so close to him now, despite having him pressed against him. Despite his hands cupping at his jaw and pulling him closer, the being in front of him feels fake.

“You’re not real,” Jeongguk murmurs, mostly to himself. Blinking as more rain pours from the sky nearly blinding his look at him. “Yoongi he-he— he made you leave. You left, you can’t—” He gulps, wincing as he blinks his eyes even harder. “You left.” 

Jimin smiles, pulling him into a wet, hollow kiss. “I did,” He says, lips sliding against his. Then he’s pulling back, tucking wet strands of gold behind Jeongguk’s ears. “I did, but I’m back now. And I’m never, ever leaving again, I swear.”

Jeongguk gapes at him, finally reaching his hands up to Jimin’s frame. Running his hands across his shoulders, through the slabs of wet matted hair, glued to his cheek. Then, his eyes focus, finally, on Jimin’s eyes and he melts. 

Jimin, through the thicken brush of clobbering rain that cuts like silver streaks between them; Jimin feels real, he looks real, and by the flavor of his lips he tastes real. He pulls himself forwards again to taste them again, just to be sure and Jimin melts against him. Nose prodding into his cheek and slipping down his jaw. 

When they separate, they both gulp in heaves of humid air, sticky to their lungs and ribs. Jimin is gazing at him through exhausted eyes, running his hand across his face, tugging at his cheek. 

The forest around them seems to sing; Jeongguk thinks he hears as animals’ rustle around in through the bush, hooves clobber against wet earth. The sound of woodland fae singing in rejoice of a prophecy fulfilled.

“You left because of Yoongi,” Jeongguk says, knees digging into the damp soil. 

Jimin stiffens, eyes flitting across Jeongguk’s face before he answers. “Not just because of him,” He says softly. “It had a lot to do with me too, not going to lie.” He’s looking at Jeongguk as if he can’t believe he were real. Thumb rubbing across the underside of his jaw.

“Where did you go?” Jeongguk asks. 

“I went back home, actually,” Jimin replies. He sits back on his legs, chewing at his cheek weakly. “It’s a lot harder on the journey back, I think.” He pauses, then he’s edging closer to him, tossing his arms over Jeongguk’s shoulders and burying his face into his neck. Wet nose prodding against him as he attempts to breathe him in. Attempts to etch the mold of his bones into his own skin, to never forget exactly how he feels right now. After a second, he pulls back; but never lets go. 

“I went home and didn’t realize that wasn’t my home anymore,” Jimin continues, feeling his eyes sting with tears he doesn’t think he’s ashamed of anymore. “That chapter in my life is over. A new one starts right now, right here with you.” He kisses him again, slowly, as if writing a lullaby with his lips. 

“But you’ve got a coronation you’re supposed to in,” He says after a moment, leaning back onto his haunches to catch his breath. 

Jeongguk rolls his eyes, “Who cares?” He growls slightly. 

“You should,” Jimin replies sharply. 

“I gave it up.”

Jimin gasps, “You shouldn’t.” 

Jeongguk pouts, blinking up at Jimin through the rain and shadow. He furrows his brows, steadies his breath. “I would give up a thousand kingdoms for you, Park Jimin of Seoul,” Jeongguk replies with stoic, warm regard. Because he means every word. That crown means nothing, in retrospect. The jewels, the gold, the drapes of silk and chambray pales in comparison to the feeling of Jimin wrapped tightly in his arms. Can’t imagine a world where he ever lets him go. 

Jimin shakes his head, pulling them apart slightly. 

The rain has eased, if only a bit. Only sputters of soft droplets spill from the heavy silver clouds above the trees. Jimin has rocked back, crossing his legs and grabbing both of Jeongguk’s hands in his own. Gripping them tightly, as he leans forward, eyes narrowed. 

“I’ve had to learn how to grow up, and what that means,” He begins, softly caressing Jeongguk’s hands. “What it means to be an adult in the world. What it means to be responsible. Doing things you don’t want to do. Doing things you need to do. You don’t have control over the world you live in. Or its expectations. What it expects from you.” 

He takes a moment, and despite the rain that has stained his cheeks in permanent streaks of cold penned droplets, Jeongguk can see the tracks of tears cutting through them. The shake of his eyes as he pins them on him, as if pouring every bit of his soul into his words. Can feel it in the squeeze of their hands and Jimin leans closer to him. 

“Most people don’t get to make the world they want to live in. Shape its politics or values,” Jimin continues. He leans forward, so close to Jeongguk he can feel the heat of his breath on him. “You do.” 

Jeongguk thinks he can feel his own tears. Feel them burn and cloud the vision of the magic across from him. After a second, he dips his head, letting them fall free and splatter against the already wet dirt below him. 

“This world can be whatever you build it to be, Jeongguk,” Jimin continues, following his head down. “Just as free and loving and open as you are. A world where people can read, and teach, and study magic. Live magic without fear.” 

He chases for Jeongguk’s gaze and eventually captures it. Pulling his head up, with a smile. “You are nothing like him,” Jimin whispers, voice solid between them. He breathes in, tracking Jeongguk’s shaky red eyes. “Build yourself the happy ending you deserve, Jeonggukie.” 

Jeongguk has never been so consumed with love before. He feels himself crawling forward towards Jimin, fingers digging through the dirt. Tearing up blades of forgotten grass and rubble beneath his nail as he nears him. When he does, he surges forward, with enough force to knock him onto his back. 

They stay like that for a while, twisting their bodies into the moistened earth below as the sky rumbles in fated rejoice. After a moment, Jeongguk pulls back, beaming down at Jimin who seems to be bathing in a sea of cobalt light and he can’t imagine a world where he loves anyone more.

Jimin is cradling Jeongguk’s hands, glowing bright blue, close to his lips. “Sacred hands, Your Highness,” He murmurs, pressing soft kisses to his knuckles.

Two years later

Jimin is nervous. 

Enough so, that his hands continue to fidget with the awkwardly placed buttons at the nape of his neck. 

“You keep messing with that thing, you’re gonna pop it right off, and Madame Bu will not be happy about that,” He hears Jeongguk scold him from across the room. 

Jimin in turn, coils away from the window, eyes narrowing as he watches Jeongguk who is currently prisoner to a barrage of handmaidens as they sew frantically at his own black suit. Jimin spins back, eyes finding himself in the mirror. It’s been close to two years since he crawled out that tree of cobalt light and into Jeongguk’s arms, and he hasn’t looked back since. 

Two years since making his place in this weird realm that feels more like home than it should, two years since being crowned— or knighted— a duke. Jimin isn’t sure the ceremonious banner behind the wording, but he does remember he enjoyed Jeongguk’s sweet smile as he laced a very heavy medallion around his neck at the commemoration. 

Right now, Jimin watches the light from the window dance across the mirror in streams of spectacle and gold. He takes a step closer, a step closer to himself, as he narrows into the person peering back at him. Chest warming, and a smile tugging on his cheek because he thinks, for the first time in his 28 years with a beating heart he might just be proud of the person who is looking back at him. 

Outside the window to the right, he sees as the steady stream of carriages pull into the front courtyard’s graveled parkway. Jimin watches as a few park, watching as children spill out excitedly and race up the marble staircase towards the wide font oak doors. 

“You’re nervous,” He hears, then he feels arms snake around him. 

Jimin breathes out, pulling his eyes from the window then back towards the king with now shorter, but blonder hair who has his nose nestled into his neck. 

Jimin pouts, peering at him through the mirror. “Being a grown up means not being afraid of admitting when you’re scared,” Jimin breathes out, noticing the shakiness in his own voice. He spins on his heel, enough so that he’s facing Jeongguk face first. Blinking up at him through watery, fearful eyes. “I don’t feel very grown up right now, though.” He breathes out. 

Jeongguk’s face brightens, then he tosses his arms around Jimin’s shoulder’s and pulls him into a tight hug. “You should be very proud of yourself,” Jeongguk says, slightly muffled against Jimin’s neck. “You’ve worked very hard these past few months.” 

Jimin agrees, and he thinks that’s what scares him the most. The thought of spending so many nights organizing, sorting, arranging and building, only for it all to end up a lot less than he hopes. 

Outside he thinks he hears a few more children’s giggles and it makes him tighten even more. After a second, Jeongguk pulls back, fighting for Jimin’s hapless gaze as he tightens his grip on his shoulders. 

“What you’re doing today is going to change lives, Jimin,” Jeongguk says, shaking him only slightly. “None of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for you.” 

Jimin blinks back up at Jeongguk, whose gaze is so sincere, he can’t help but smile himself. 

“It was a collaborative effort,” Jimin assures. “Couldn’t do this without you either.” 

Jeongguk melts at that, scrunching his nose through a smile before leaning forward and pressing a soft, chaste kiss to Jimin’s lips. Because he feels the same, would always feel the same. They both found liberation in each other, because of each other. 

The door squeaks open, and someone clears their throat at it. Jeongguk pulls from Jimin, who blushes chastely, ducking his head as he watches Yoongi hover awkwardly at the door.

“Your Majesty,” He says, bowing towards Jeongguk. He then turns to Jimin, blushing slightly. “Your Grace,” He tacks on politely. He taps at his clipboard slightly, “The last carriage of children has arrived, we’re on schedule to begin shortly.” 

Jimin nods, sniffing slightly as he straightens his back, “They’re in the court lobby?” 

“They’re in the court lobby, yes, Your Grace,” Yoongi says, scribbling at his clipboard. Then he’s pulling his eyes back up to them, tacking on a smile. 

“We’ll be out shortly,” Jeongguk says with a nod. 

Yoongi returns it, eyes flitting between them, before skirting back out the door and sealing it with a snap. 

They count a beat, then Jimin feels Jeongguk coiling him around. They meet eyes and Jimin feels his heart tighten and burn at his gaze. He can feel Jeongguk’s arms tighten around him, then lips pressed to his ears. 

“You’ve got this, Jimin,” He says, pulling back, only to lace their fingers together. Then pulling their conjoined hands up to his lips to kiss them gently, ghosting over the matching gold ring, the one with ruby placed at its center, on his left finger; never dropping his eyes on Jimin’s. “Sacred hands, Jimin,” He says, kissing his fingers again. “We’ve got this.” 

Just outside the door, Yoongi is lingering, murmuring to another advisor when the door opens then snaps as both Jimin and Jeongguk file outside. Jeongguk is immediately swept forward, as a series of guards and advisors rush to him and begin him down the hallway towards the stairs. 

Jimin walks quietly beside Yoongi, fidgeting awkwardly at his suit as they pass through the hallway. After a moment Yoongi pauses, tucking his clipboard under his arm as he reaches for Jimin’s sleeve. Twisting it slightly to tuck the annoying band under his jacket with ease. 

Jimin watches him with wide eyes, and when he finishes, pauses. Hands coming back down to his side as he blushes gently. 

“Thanks,” He breathes out, voice small. 

Yoongi doesn’t reply immediately, nodding his head as he heads to the large oak doors in front of them. 

They step together quietly, Jeongguk being shuffled away as his advisors continue to spill an onslaught of information his way. Yoongi hovers back slightly, looking up to Jimin awkwardly before reaching for the door. Fingers hovering just above the golden knob. 

“Your Grace,” Yoongi says, clearing his voice. 

“Jimin,” Jimin replies waving his hand weakly. “My name is Jimin.” 

It’s the first time he sees Yoongi blush, ducking his head back down to his shoes. “I just— I’m just—” Yoongi continues flustered. He sucks in a breath, slowly, then rises to meet Jimin’s eyes. 

They flit over towards Jeongguk who is murmuring something to another advisor; another handmaiden is behind him brushing at his hair delicately. Jimin pulls his eyes from him, then back to Yoongi who seems to still be wrestling with his own words. 

“He seems happy,” Yoongi finally blurts, deflating slightly. He turns to Jimin, and Jimin thinks he can see the beginnings of a smile lighting up his face. 

Jimin smiles, because he always seems to be whenever he looks to Jeongguk. 

“He does,” He answers, mindlessly twirling his ring on his finger. He turns back to Yoongi, grinning. 

“That, I think,” Yoongi continues, swallowing thickly. “That has a lot to do with you.” 

Jimin gasps slightly, spinning towards him with wide eyes. In his short time back, he and Yoongi haven’t said much to each other. Not as much at Jeongguk’s coronation that happened a little later than expected, not at their wedding a few months after, not at Jimin’s ascension of nobility to duke. They speak in passing, between meetings, but never directly like this. 

Jimin can tell Yoongi is struggling to articulate his emotions, can see the way his face has reddened, and his eyebrows have knitted together uncomfortably. Years of repressive action and status quo. So Jimin reaches across to him to press gently at his arm. And for only a second, he watches Yoongi melt. 

Yoongi skirts his eyes up to meet Jimin’s and he smiles sheepishly. “I made a promise to his father that I’d keep an eye out on him,” He murmurs. “Make sure he’s safe.” 

Jeongguk is smiling, laughing even as Madame Bu fusses with his collar. Literal magic to Jimin’s ears. Yoongi’s eyes are back on Jimin, and he leans in with a smile. “I couldn’t do that without you,” He says, and there’s gentle submission in his voice. “Thank you.” 

Jimin melts, fingers itching to pull Yoongi forward into a tight hug. He resists it though, choosing instead to smile as brightly as he can. 

Jeongguk is padding towards him, the image of the sun as he crosses to Jimin’s side. “Are you ready?” He asks, reaching his hand out. 

Jimin eyes it sweetly, shooting Yoongi one last smile before placing his hands into Jeongguk’s. “I think I am.” 

Jimin emerges out onto the balcony, peering down at the large group of children below him in the courtyard below. They scatter around in a swarm of giggles and excitement, murmuring as they watch both Jimin and Jeongguk begin out onto the stone balcony. Jimin fidgets, hand tightening as he drinks in the enormity of the courtyard, the enormity of the balcony. Jeongguk had taken him out there before, only once, telling him how this was the balcony his father would lead him to in order to watch the trials for crimes against the kingdom for using magic. 

“I avoided this part of the palace for a long time,” Jeongguk had told him one night, eyeing out to a then empty courtyard. Watching as leaves wrestle through the wind against the concrete below. If he looks hard enough, he thinks he can see the imprint of the guillotine in the grass and he winces. 

“This place has seen so many people wrongly convicted for something they couldn’t control,” Jeongguk mumbled, tossing himself over the balcony’s banister. He paused, turning back to Jimin and cast a sweet smile. “But it doesn’t always have to be like this.” 

So here Jimin stands, awkwardly on that same balcony, as children buzz below him. He can feel Jeongguk’s hand at the small of his back, his own eyes melting down to the small sheet of paper that is currently in his hand.

“I stand before you today,” He begins, voice shaky. “With my husband, His Royal Majesty,” He tacks on, casting Jeongguk a nervously sweet smile. “Because I want to promise you all something.” 

The children below gaze back up at him, and Jimin catches a few of their eyes. Sees the restlessness in them, the excitement that buzzes from one pair of bright eyes to another. 

“I’m here, where I am, on this balcony, because of how much I believed in words. Because I dared to dream,” Jimin continues softly, slowly abandoning the paper to gaze out and down the balcony onto the courtyard. “But dreaming only gets you so far if you don’t have access to opportunity.” 

Every single choice Jimin has ever made has led him to this point. To his prince, to his palace, to this life he’d only ever dreamed in far flung fairytales and fantastical delusions. This is a twist of magic, and fate and prophecies unfurled. Now he needs to pay it forward, a thank you to the gods for bringing him here, for bringing him back home. 

“We’re opening an academy of magic and academics, effectively open immediately, to every child and townsperson who wishes to attend,” Jimin continues. 

Below him, the children erupt into frenzy, leaping across each other in uncontained excitement. Jimin giggles, and he feels Jeongguk slink up beside him, face mirroring in excitement. 

Jimin turns back out to the crowd, letting out a slow, measured breath. “There is magic in knowledge. Magic in learning, magic in opportunity,” He continues. He casts Jeongguk a sweetened smile, heart tumbling through his chest at the sight of him. Thanking every ounce of magic that brought him here, back home to Jeongguk. 

You are Park Jimin, He reminds himself. You’re from Seoul, South Korea. You’re a writer. You love King Jeon Jeongguk. You’ve got magic in your veins and so does he. 

He turns to Jeongguk, never dropping his eyes, because he’s scared if he blinks he might disappear. Jeongguk must sense it, because he’s weaving their fingers together as he pulls it up to press a gentle kiss to it. 

You are real and so is he, He reminds himself. So is your love for him. There’s never been anything as real as this.

“Everyone deserves a happy ending.”