Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The problem with being the High Jade Emperor of The Second Heavens, Seokjin mused, was that people made wish-granting factories out of you.

Like thunderclouds rolling in an impending storm, humans of the Earth hurled their prayers at him tirelessly, day after day. Wishes came in many forms—messages in bottles thrown out at sea, kites with scraps of paper tied to their strings, low-burning lanterns in the sky, uttered yearnings, you name it, Seokjin got it. And it was his job to sift through each one, decide which homo sapiens were worthy of having their wants granted, and—for a lack of a better word—exercise celestial mercy.

It wasn’t that he disliked being a deity. Quite the contrary. Call him a sadist, but Seokjin rather enjoyed the power he held over commoners’ heads; basked in the comforts of the Second Heavens. 

Only the workload weighed heavy on his shoulders. Mankind, from his observations, had this peculiar, insatiable tendency to want some, and then more. Seokjin knew all too well what to call this—greed, and greedier and greediest. His former classmates from First Hell had had to memorize the Seven Sins before they were posted to their designations, and Seokjin had been there listening to them recite each one a thousand times over. He knew each sin by heart.

A shrill noise yanked Seokjin out of his reverie, and he blinked, looking around blindly until he realized that the sound came from the hotline. He waved a hand in the air.

“Line one, Second Heaven. Seokjin speaking.”

His apprentice’s voice filtered into his office. “Sir. We have a prayer incoming.”

Don’t we always. “What is it about this time, Jungkook?”

“It’s from the Southern Empire’s duke. His name is Park Jimin.”

“And what does this Park Jimin fuddy-buddy want?” Noble blood. Seokjin braced himself for the usual onslaught of requests—a bigger mansion, the death of a family rival, to win the hand of a young maiden. Once you grew accustomed enough to the job, it was easy to predict what humans desired the most.

Jungkook paused, as though double checking, then said, “He would like to marry, sir.”

Seokjin sighed out loud. “Don’t we all?”

With another flick of his fingers, he summoned Park Jimin’s life profile. The young man was only twenty-one in Earth years, with a stellar behavioral track record. Lost his parents at a young age. Most crimes came in the form of harmless pranks and youthful blunders.

He seemed worthy of a wish grant. Seokjin hummed thoughtfully. “And what of the damsel?”

“Damsel?” Jungkook repeated, his voce crystal clear over the hotline.

“The name of the fair maiden he would like to marry.”

“He- well. He’d like to marry a prince, actually.” Jungkook sounded unsure, like he was reading off the words. “To save his best friend from an arranged marriage.”

At this, Seokjin’s brows lifted, interest piqued, and he brushed his long, silver hair over his shoulders. “To whom?”

“The crown prince of Strein, the northern kingdom. The royal family’s eldest son Min Yoongi has been of age for a while, and now with Crown Prince Taehyung also eligible for marriage....”

Seokjin grew quiet, though a new wave of loud ideas swept through his mind. The boring thing about being the Jade Emperor of The Second Heavens, he figured, was that the human wishes were almost always straightforward, simple. This was new. This was noble idiocy.

This was fun.

“I see,” he drawled, leaning forward. “Jungkook, how would you like to make a trip down to earth?”

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[Sometime Earlier, Kind Of]

“Don’t you think I’ve gotten sunburnt?”

Jimin kept his arms raised as his servants dressed him in his day-to-day attire, but he could not keep his eyes from straying to the tan line between his forearms and his upper arms, like a divider between cocoa and milk. He’d gone out hunting with Taehyung for too long in the Deep Wood yesterday, and now he feared his skin was paying the price for his neglect. “Tell me, Brissa. Have I turned into roast meat?”

“Please keep still, Your Grace,” mumbled his servant, busy with the deep blue belt around his waist. Jimin sighed and turned to the other servant tending to his collar.

“Tusco, be honest with me and tell me if I look a little wan in pallor this morning.”

Tusco chuckled and shook his head, securing the buttons on Jimin’s high collar. Jimin swatted his servant’s hands away to deliberately undo them, letting out a sigh of relief as the buttons came loose. He hated the constraints of a high collar. It made him feel like an infant in a bib. He wrinkled his nose at the last piece of clothing still waiting on the dressing table. “Don’t even think twice about smothering me with that dreadful doublet.”

Tusco and Brissa exchanged a look, before backing away from Jimin with a slight nod, both smiling. “Are you perhaps trying to keep a bright complexion for next week’s masquerade?”

Jimin’s mouth curved south. “Where and by whom?” Park Jimin was nothing if not at the top of the grapevine. In fact, most would say he wasn’t on the rumor mill—he was the rumor mill. If somebody in the kingdom of Favia was holding a grand ball—a masquerade, no less—then surely he would have heard of it.

Brissa tilted her head curiously, and asked, “Have you not heard, Your Grace?”

Now Jimin was getting anxious, and he dug his heel into his bedchamber’s carpet. “Heard of what?”

He watched his servants’ faces closely, and followed their gazes to his personal desk at the far end of his chamber. There, on top of the polished oak wood was a sealed, golden envelope with the stamp of a goblet draped in laurels, entwined with the cursive letter “F”—the mark of Favian royalty. Jimin hadn’t noticed the letter when he woke up earlier this morning (then again, he barely looked at his desk, because that meant paperwork, which meant mundane).

He strode to his desk and picked up the envelope, and hummed in curiosity. “Interesting. Is His Royal Highness, Prince Taehyung practicing formality by sending out invitations through the mail rather than visiting me?”

Tusco and Brissa shared another look, and this time Jimin sensed that there was something uncomfortable in the way they clasped their hands together. “You are right, Your Grace,” said Tusco. “It’s an invitation, and it is for a masquerade, but… it was not sent from the Favian palace alone.”

Jimin’s grin went askew, and he eyed the golden envelope more closely. Beside the teal Favian crest was another one, a darker seal in blood red. This one featured a raven carrying a thorned rose in its beak. Jimin blinked in surprise.

This was not your average ball announcement. It was a joint invitation from both Favia and Strein. Strein, the formidable Northern Fortress, oldest kingdom in all of Astra. What kind of collaboration warranted a grand event spearheaded by two of the continent’s most powerful kingdoms?

Anxious, Jimin ripped the envelope open and pulled out a sheet of gilded white paper. Right away, the faint scent of frangipanis and lilac wafted up his nose. His eyes roved over the embossed letters haphazardly.

There would be a masquerade-themed engagement ball next week at Strein’s palace hall to celebrate an alliance of two kingdoms, and Jimin was cordially invited to be part of Taehyung’s—of the Crown Prince of Favia’s—official entourage.

To be part of the groom’s entourage.

Tusco and Brissa flinched away when Jimin’s limp hand dropped by his side. 

“Taehyung is getting married?!”

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Slam, went the double doors to the eastern wing, parting to make way for him. Jimin let them shut on their own and stomped into the library-turned art gallery, not caring for the ruckus he made. One of the greatest perks of being the Duke of Favia was that he could come and go into the Quartz Palace as and when he pleased. Coupled with the fact that he was the prince’s ally and closest confidant, he pretty much had the royal family’s extended rights granted to him.

He also happened to be the only person who was allowed inside Taehyung’s private sanctuary. Back when they were twelve, Taehyung had developed an obsession for all things art, and announced that he would transform a dust-caked, unused hall at the palace’s eastern wing to become his own personal exhibition area. Over the years, he and Jimin travelled many lands collecting a multitude of rare art pieces—abstract paintings, ancient tapestries, bizarre artefacts from a time before Bronze War had torn them apart from the northern territories, and even handmade carpets—you name it, Taehyung had to have it.

Jimin spotted him right away. There in the middle of his little treasure trove lay Taehyung, back flat against a lush tufla rug he’d been gifted for his recent twenty-first birthday. The crown prince’s curly silver hair was splayed out against the rug in the shape of a dim halo, and he was staring listlessly at the vaulted, frescoed ceiling above like a man robbed of his spirit.

“You look like a wet dog,” Jimin remarked, breaking the silence with a chipper smile. He stood over his friend while resting two hands on his waist like a nagging parent. “My, oh my. What would His Excellency say if he saw you like this?”

Taehyung blinked once, and the glaze clouding his eyes vanished. He wrinkled his nose and sent Jimin a stink-eye.

“Correction: you look like a wet dog who’d lost his master.” Jimin reached down to pull Taehyung by the forearms. “Get up, you look like you need a drink.”

“You know I don’t drink.” Taehyung’s voice was raspy from hours of silent contemplation. He must have spent the whole afternoon here.

It was dusk now, with the sun steadily dipping from view, and faint rose-gold streaks streaming in through the windows in the high ceiling cast the gallery in a warm, incandescent glow. It would have been picturesque, if only Taehyung didn’t look like he’d razed three cemeteries and returned crawling on all fours. His eyes were bloodshot like he hadn’t caught a wink of sleep in centuries, and his face was a picture of what the empress would describe as a “sickly pallor, like green peas gone bad”.

“And that’s why I brought your favorites.” Jimin pointed to a small table where a tray of fruits and a glass of sparkling goldlime awaited. He saw the puppy-eyed droop softening the corners of Taehyung’s eyes, and knew he had gotten through to the prince.

“How did you know to find me here?” Taehyung’s body was limp as Jimin pulled him up to sit on a velvet armchair.

“Please, where else would you be?” Jimin grabbed a branch of ripe dates and plucked one out, before popping it into Taehyung’s mouth. “And besides, I had a feeling you would have spent the rest of your days here sulking if I didn’t rush over as soon as I saw that golden envelope.”

Taehyung’s eyes were downcast. “So you’ve heard.”

Silence hung in the air between them like one of the many gilded tapestries decorating the walls. Jimin sighed and nodded. “I just don’t understand why it’s next week. Already. What’s the big rush?”

A disgruntled snort, followed by a sardonic grin. “I’d say they want to get rid of me so I can stop making trouble and tainting our dear Emperor’s name.” Taehyung grabbed the glass of sparkling goldlime and gulped it down in one go. “My parents wish to keep us apart. But where’s the fun in that?”

Jimin cringed inwardly. As much as he wanted to deny it, he and Taehyung had made themselves quite a name as Favia’s infamous ‘devil’s duo’. He vaguely remembered how, three summers ago when they first reached legal drinking age, they’d gone out on a whim to test their tolerance for all forms of liquor. That night concluded with him and Taehyung dangling from the palace’s flagpole, belting out the kingdom’s national anthem like pirates without their sails.

Jimin’s eyes widened as a new memory took hold in him. He gasped and leaned forward. “Is it because we got caught trying to smuggle a male harem into your father’s birthday bash last month—“

Taehyung shot him a pointed look, and Jimin dunked his head to hide his knowing smile.

He had to admit that stint had been one of their lesser-wise decisions, but there had to be a heavier, deeper reason than their own clownery and antics for Taehyung’s parents to suddenly decide to marry him off.

Jimin had a fairly good guess as to what. And he knew that Taehyung knew so, too. “It’s because of the Union Treaty, right? One of the terms was an alliance in matrimony.”

Taehyung nodded, misery etched in the dark shadows circling his eyes.

Late in the autumn of ten years ago, the southern and northern territories had gathered together for the first time in three decades in an attempt to negotiate a peace pact. At that time, it had been Jimin’s father present aiding Taehyung’s father, the Emperor of Favia, along with all their ministers and officials. Jimin had been but a child, blind to the webwork of politics that spun their lives like needles to a thread, and so he was not privy to the details of the conference’s outcome.

One thing was clear, though: it had been a colossal success. That was the day the Union Treaty was formed, and it heralded the end of the cold war between Strein and Favia. No longer would the kingdoms isolate each other. Demilitarized zones would cease to exist, and cross-border gates would be open once more, mobilizing trade and migration. The festivities that followed that historical moment lasted for over a week, and it was nothing short of glorious. The people rejoiced. The world had been rebirthed anew. Jimin and Taehyung had gorged on every dish, and every pastry from every banquet they could sneak into. But on the last night of the celebration, Jimin remembered his father telling him that Taehyung might have to go away from him someday.

“How far away?” Jimin had asked, none the wiser. “We won’t be neighbors anymore?”

“I’m afraid not, Jiminie.”

“Why is that?”

“There are some sacrifices,” said the then-Duke of Favia, eyes tired but kind, “that we make to protect our loved ones. The greatest irony we must learn to live with is this: peace is not free; it is earned. And I’m sure Taehyung will understand this when the time comes that he is of marrying age.”

Now Taehyung and Jimin were both twenty-one, and time was knocking on their doors to collect their due debts. Jimin had always known, but knowing things was different from acknowledging reality. One was infinitely tougher than the other.

“Do you know who you’ll be…” Jimin found it difficult to spit the word marrying out, “…who the lucky man is?”

Taehyung shook his head, forehead creasing. “I’ve never met him, let alone talk to him. All I know is that he ascended from the Min ancestral lineage, and that he’s one of two brothers in the Northern royal family.”

The Mins were a formidable bloodline. Best known for their crafted blades and swordsmanship, they were warriors of the north, fierce protectors of their fortress. It was they who rebuilt Strein from the ashes it had burned down to all those decades ago, who pulled out all stops in an effort to return the oldest kingdom to its former glory. Streinfolk had recognized them as true leaders, and over time, placed bejeweled headpieces and feathered cloaks on them, and called them kings and queens.

And now Taehyung would be wed to one of their sons.

“I just… I just wish it wasn’t me. I know it sounds selfish, and I’m going to do it anyway because I can’t change anything, but”—Taehyung sighed, a scowl twisting his lips—“but if I ruled the world, I’d make sure everyone could love freely, without restraint. Whoever and wherever they wanted.”

A pang of sadness rose in Jimin’s chest, and he laid his hand atop Taehyung’s to give it a gentle squeeze. Taehyung, he mused, was a true free spirit. A man who lived not by the world’s rigid laws, but according to his heart’s desires. Such a soul seemed so wasted, burdened with the responsibilities of a prince, like a wild fox kept on a leash when it was destined to roam free. What would happen to him? And what of Jimin? Jades and saints, what would happen to them—the nation’s very own devil’s duo, sworn brothers to a fault?

A new kind of wistfulness spread through Jimin like wildfire; a strong inclination to protect his only true friend. “You know I’d take your place in a heartbeat and marry on your behalf, so you would never have to.”

And Taehyung looked him in the eyes and laughed, the sound ringing like a lotus blooming and creating ripples in the water. He didn’t know how dead serious Jimin was. “Jiminie, Jiminie. If only that were so. That sort of impossibility would require the miracles of magic. Do you even believe in sorcery? Know any witches?”

“No,” said Jimin, “but I do believe in prayer.”

Taehyung’s lips curved in a sad, answering smile, one that seemed to say, but this is not within the affairs of your gods.

Jimin thought silently, try me.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━⊰

In the wake following his parents’ demise, Jimin learned to pray. Desperate people find faith, and grief plants a lofty seed for loneliness. During those first few months, Jimin needed somebody to trust, some greater force to believe in.

People found it hard to believe that he discovered deep devotion and silent sanctum in the High Jade Emperor’s name. The god of orphans and heavenly wishes—no other deity suited Jimin’s life any better. And sure, while Jimin might be a walking disaster with a penchant for stumbling into chaos (sometimes even soliciting it), in his quiet moments of reprieve, when shadows swallowed his bedchamber like a moonless night, he whispered in his heart and hoped his deities would hear him.

Back then, he would murmur, Let my parents’ spirits reach you safely.

Now, he implored: “Please. If there is a way, any way to help him… let me be that vessel so that my closest friend may live as he pleases.”

Prayers are a hit or miss. Jimin thought his would be nothing but a valiant shout into the void, an honest effort that fell on deaf ears. After all, when it came to kingdom-ly affairs, what could possibly be more powerful than the monarch’s final decision?

A lot, apparently, as he would soon find out.

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The trip to the Northern Fortress involved crossing a tundra that was more sandy desert than fields, and trekking through the dusty trail winding around the Great Astral River. It took three days of travelling by carriage, and by the time they set foot in Redeemer’s Fort, the capital city of Strein, the brisk pace of daytime hustle had settled deep into the city. Jimin was more than certain his legs had gone numb from hours of staying stationary. The only saving grace that kept him distracted was… everything else.

It was his first time entering northern territory, and Strein was undeniably different from Favia, albeit in a mystical sort of way. Whereas Favia was an inland kingdom rich in woodlands and undulating canyons and underground goldmines, Strein more closely resembled a mermaid’s lagoon. Jimin had heard that Astra’s famed Northern Fortress was a trading and fishing port, where countless cultures kissed and danced in an endless entwine. He saw it now, everywhere he looked. Flags of various hues from different countries in the continent of Astra soared high and proud from several beams, fluttering in the northern wind. Although voices were muffled from where he sat in his carriage, Jimin could’ve sworn he caught more than a handful of people speaking in tongues new to his ears. He felt every bit like a country bumpkin here, despite his esteemed status at home.

As they cruised through the marketplace, Jimin spotted a gushing stream here, a fountain there—right in the middle of the central piazza! Bronze statues spouted freshwater into rippling ponds as if they were fishbowls, and Jimin watched schools of glowing fish zipping across the clear water. He was not used to seeing open water so freely. In Favia, whenever he and Taehyung were out on one of their bold quests, Jimin had always only seen dank marketplaces and muddied dirt paths.

Here, the air smelled of the ocean; lingering with the scent of saffron and bergamot flowers. Women in feathered boas wandered down the streets, and men in sleek tweed coats strode with calm dignity. Strein lived up to its name—it was rich, and Jimin would be damned if he denied feeling just the slightest twinge of envy at the thought of living here for good. Ah, well. At least he knew Taehyung would be well cared-for.

Jimin continued sightseeing through the window in his carriage, but when his gaze fell upon a face in the crowd, he paused.

A young man who couldn’t be any older than Jimin stared straight at him, lips set in a curious frown. He stood in the crowd, a passing face as Jimin’s carriage rolled by, and yet something about him stood out and apart from everyone else. Like he was something different, something otherly. His dark hair fell over his forehead and into his eyes, but Jimin could have sworn the boy was looking at him as though… as though with recognition.

Then the young man nodded at him, barely imperceptible. Jimin blinked and searched the crowd, but the mysterious stranger had vanished, blending into the inky shadows of the town’s square.

Strange.

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For all the intricately woven tales about its regal elegance, no amount of hearsay could have prepared Jimin for his first real glimpse of Strein’s main palace. Passing through the heavy gates, he craned his neck and beheld its architecture in its entirety.

Emerald Spire was a sprawling multiplex of domes with golden roofs that shimmered like a mermaid’s scales, and spiked towers reflecting sunlight like steel against a sapphire sky. It was a miniature city in its own right, complete with gardens, ponds, and smaller establishments standing as the servants’ quarters. 

Jimin disembarked from his carriage and stretched his arms into the air, smiling to himself when he heard his bones and joints give a satisfying pop. Crown Prince Taehyung and the rest of their servants—all twenty-five of them, for the Emperor was loath to let his son travel alone—came to join him at the bottom of the palace’s steps.

The arrangement was for Jimin to assist Taehyung through this engagement up until his wedding ceremony a month from now, after which he would… return to Favia, alone, and resume his responsibilities as the Duke, whilst his best friend would tread on a new path, also alone. Jimin tried not to think about the “after” part too much.

Flanked by their entourage and with Jimin on his right side, the Crown Prince of Favia ascended the steps leading up into the reception hall. At the top of the stairs was a man in glittering scarlet-and-bronze robes, who introduced himself as a Minister of Foreign Affairs.

“Follow me.” He turned, leading them past the main hall and into what Jimin presumed was a private throne room of the Royal Court. It seemed like they would be welcomed in private, to avoid disrupting the preparations for tonight’s ball. A set of arched double doors loomed before them, bracketed by two stone-faced guards. The minister announced their presence, and the double doors swung open for their entrance.

With calm, careful strides, Taehyung swept into the throne room, followed by Jimin and their posse.

The King of Strein looked every bit the veteran warrior he was. Stout and severe, jaded and just. Jimin took in the hard lines of his face, the steel in his gaze, and thought of his own father back when he had been alive. Their faces carried the same disenchanted veneer, mouths set in an ever-weary frown. Beside him sat the Queen, dainty as a primrose, her ebony hair adorned with a crown encrusted with rare garnets. At their entrance, she smiled, and the room seemed to warm at the kindness that lit her eyes. Side by side, Jimin likened them to a bulltaur with a Monarch butterfly at rest upon its horns.

“Your Majesty.”  Taehyung’s voice was the crunch of boots against freshly fallen snow, deep and clear. He lowered his chin ever so slightly, and the rest of his entourage followed, including Jimin. “My friends and I from the southern empire of Favia would like to formally greet you on this joyous occasion.”

Jimin could only guess how daunting it must be, to greet your future husband and his family alone. Yet, when Taehyung approached the head hall towards  where the King and Queen of Strein’s perched on their thrones, he did so with an artfully crafted smile and shrewd eyes. Jimin thought that for all the mischief he and Taehyung got into in their own spare time, his soulmate never failed to surprise him when it came to pulling off diplomatic encounters such as these. A prince through and through.

He introduced Jimin, who gave his polite greetings, and the rest of their entourage. The King and Queen of Strein nodded at Taehyung with placid smiles, and their conversation drew out for a longer time than Jimin would have fancied, and so you couldn’t really blame him for letting his thoughts run amok. His gaze wandered, and he noticed that one seat next to the royal couple before them was occupied by an impeccably dressed young man with striking raven hair and a smile that cratered at one side of his cheek. Was this the man his Taehyungie would marry? Jimin figured he must be—

"Our younger son, Grand Prince Namjoon,” said the Queen, and her green eyes twinkled with a pride that spoke more than her brief words could. Then her smile faltered at the same time that Jimin noticed an empty seat beside Prince Namjoon. “And… well,” the Queen’s hand waved in the air as she fumbled for an explanation, her expression fraught.

“The Crown Prince is busy tending to his duties,” spoke the King, though Jimin heard an evident strain in his voice. “You will be introduced tonight, at the ball.”

“In the meantime, please rest,” the Queen said, voice soft and imploring. “We are aware of how long the trip has been for you.”

As if on cue, a group of servants in red robes rushed forth, bowing to Taehyung and Jimin’s posse. The minister motioned for them to make their way out the throne room, and turned to Taehyung. “They will guide you to the guest wing. Please make yourselves at home.”

With a final bow, Taehyung and Jimin excused themselves, and off they went, ferried through the winding hallways of the Emerald Spire. Maids and butlers whizzed past them like bees, busy in the heat of preparing for tonight’s masquerade ball. Each of them were led into their respective guest rooms, and the moment the door to his bedroom closed, Jimin leaned against it and heaved a sigh of relief.

Much like the rest of the palace, his bedchamber was spacious, with thick pillars supporting a vaulted ceiling. One side of the wall was pure glass, and it offered him a view of Redeemer’s Fort in its full glory. The capital city’s alleys and streets twisted like tangled veins leading to and from a beating heart, common folk rushing in and out of each bloodstream. Farther out lay the sea, speckled with sunlight, peppered with trading ships and fishing boats too tiny to make out. Jimin shrugged his autumn coat off and sat on a white velvet armchair with his head tipped back, deep in thought.

He wondered what Taehyung might be thinking right then. What kind of life awaited him here? Would he skip down these corridors whistling a happy tune, the way he always did in Favia?

“Would you miss me?” he asked nobody in particular, staring up at the arched ceiling.

Jimin could not fathom it. Already, his friend’s happy-go-lucky face had chipped away into something soft and severe during their trip here. He could imagine how lonely the prince might feel, a fish jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. How he wished there was some other way. But this marriage represented an alliance too noble and important to thwart, and once again Jimin wished he could share the burden with his prince. 

It dawned on Jimin that this was really it, that they were no longer kids, could no longer act like wayward teenagers. Gone were the days when he used to sneak out of the palace grounds with Taehyung to catch frogs in the forest. Try as he might, he found it hard to wrap his mind around this fact. He wanted to play a little longer, to keep his only friend by his side for a few more years.

Adulthood is a terribly frightening journey, and during this time, Jimin wanted to be there for his soulmate as much as possible. 

Such were the thoughts running through his mind as he stood to leave his guest room. He would find Taehyung right then and there, and help soothe his nerves in preparation for tonight’s masquerade. Maybe they could even get ready together, and be right beside Taehyung when he was formally introduced to his fiancé tonight.

And besides, Jimin supposed with a secret smile, here was a good opportunity to explore his new environment.

The door shut with a soft click behind him. Slinking down the lush vermillion carpets covering the palace corridors, Jimin kept his footfalls light, popping his head in and out of every door he crossed paths with. As it turned out, here in the guest wing amidst the mounting fervor over the palace’s upcoming festivities, the halls were hardly ever empty. People had their own frisky businesses to mind, servants and aristocrats alike hurrying about haphazardly, and so Jimin found it easier to duck in and out of rooms like the expert sneak he was. But finding Taehyung proved to be a tougher quest than he’d initially thought, especially in this maze of a castle. Eventually, Jimin realized he’d… lost his way.

By the time he stumbled into what seemed to be a quiet reading room, Jimin himself was half grateful to have found a pocket of space in this mad rush, if only for a brief respite. There was nobody in here. Jimin cast his gaze about. A quaint fireplace burned at the far wall, flames dissipating into specks of embers, keeping the room warm and cozy.

Glancing around, Jimin walked into the room to sit on the nearest arabesque armchair, but startled when, just as he lowered himself into the seat’s cushion, he heard a rustle and a low grunt coming from somewhere behind him. Jimin frowned and turned around. Kneeling on the armchair, he hazarded a glimpse behind the backrest, and found that he was not so alone after all.

A young man was snoozing on the floor, tucked into the space between the wall and Jimin’s armchair. Covering his face was an open book, revealing only a tousled mess of dark brown curls, and at Jimin’s surprised gasp, the sleeping person stirred and yawned. Gingerly, he peeled the book off his face and sat up slowly, as though his bones protested at every last move. In the glow of the faint firelight, Jimin rather thought his skin shone like polished ivory. He had peerless lynx eyes, and a face as blank as calm snow. But when he turned to face Jimin, his expression changed with just an arch of one eyebrow.

“Can’t a person sleep in peace?”

Indigo eyes found his, and Jimin cleared his throat. He was definitely not used to this level of disrespect. His first knee-jerk urge was to scowl, but he sighed and said, “Uhhh. I’ll just go, if you’d like. Sorry for disturbing your… nap.”

The young man wrinkled his nose and stood up. “No point. M’already awake, anyway.” His voice was gravelly from sleep, a deep bass that sparked a tremor in Jimin’s chest. A well-fitted tunic framed his wide shoulders, tailored according to his precise measurements, and Jimin supposed this person was likely one of the palace’s delegates, invited to attend tonight’s masquerade. A noble, judging from his attire. 

“I seem to have gotten lost. I was looking for my friend’s quarters and ended up here, somehow.”

“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place,” said the young man, craning his head left and right to loosen stiff muscles in his neck. “This isn’t the guest wing.”

Jimin’s eyebrows rose. “Then, where are we?”

His question drew a sharp look from the young man, who only now seemed to clock in Jimin’s presence right then and there. Jimin resisted the urge to squirm under the heat of the stranger’s indigo gaze eyeing the crest over his breast pocket, the brooch on his chest, the light hair so characteristic of southern folk.

“You are from Favia.” A statement, not a question.

Jimin’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second, but made careful sure to keep his face guileless. “I am. And you?” Who was this unnamed fellow in unmarked clothing and how was he so observant? For all Jimin knew, this could be a trespasser, or an uninvited aristocrat trying to sneak into tonight’s celebration. He couldn’t let Taehyung be around potentially dangerous people. “Who are you and what are you doing, loitering around the Emerald Spire like this?”

His words prompted a snort from the young man, who brushed a stray curl from his eyes as he sat on a couch opposite Jimin. “Me? I’m…” His voice died out as he contemplated his next words. When he spoke again, there was a playful smile teasing the corners of his lips. “Huh. I am nobody too important, I guess. Just another young master, here to attend tonight’s ball in a quest to meet my one true love.”

Jimin scoffed and shot him a funny look. “You must think you’re some kind of prince, ready to sweep a damsel off her feet at any given moment.”

The fair-skinned stranger’s lips turned up in amusement. “Maybe I am.”

With a good-natured eyeroll, Jimin said, “Please. My best friend is here to meet his fiancé, the true Crown Prince of Strein, although”—he lowered his voice like a dame offering spiking the rumor mill behind her fan—“between you and me, I’d say it’s not exactly his will to do so. He hardly even knows the prince.” He heaved a deep sigh. “And neither do I. We’ve never met Crown Prince Min, and I can only hope he’s not some obnoxious dülwag.”

“Dülwag,” echoed the stranger before him, bemused.

Jimin nodded, and continued, “In my native tongue, it stands for ‘dysfunctional genitalia’, and it’s...” He trailed off mid-sentence, remembering that he shouldn’t be cursing in Favlan around random strangers, and backtracked to save face. He cleared his throat. “However, I wouldn’t dare slander His Highness, and you shouldn’t either. You mustn’t lie, sir. I’d offer a word of advice and suggest you stop trying to pretend to be royalty just to impress me.” He winked at the stranger, whose mouth hung open, astounded.

Jimin couldn’t blame him. He had that effect on men most of the time, and could practically feel a new buzz in the air between them crackle against his skin. Much as he wanted to stay and banter the night away, he had a banquet to attend, and a friend to locate. 

He turned and headed for the door. “Anyway, I’ll see myself out. You go ahead and finish your interrupted nap time.” Without glancing over his shoulder, Jimin waved a hand in the air and stepped out the door, leaving the stranger with gemstone eyes inside.

He rolled his shoulders back, chewing on his lower lip coyly. Taehyung might be here to get married, but Jimin was still unattached, and being the prince’s aide didn’t mean he couldn’t have his fair share of fun. Hopefully the mysterious stranger would turn up tonight. Even if he were to come masked and fully costumed, Jimin had a feeling he’d still spot him in a crowd of thousands.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━⊰

“His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Favia, and His Grace, the Duke of Favia,” the doorman announced their arrival (Jimin feared for the poor fellow’s hoarse voice), and when the double doors opened, music floated into Jimin’s ears.

Then came the blinding light.

Strein was known for its extravagance, and to welcome their own Crown Prince’s future husband, they had wasted no effort in putting up a lavish display for all to see. Jimin shouldn’t have been so taken aback, but one foot into the reception hall’s marble floors and he already felt the crushing urge to shrink beneath the harsh glare of a thousand chandelier lights piercing him. The music faded to a hush, and he could feel the heat of stranger’s eyes on him, every last one of them saying, Foreigners. Other-dwellers.

This was the first time in a long time that Strein was hosting guests from the southern territories of Astra—and royalty, no less. Jimin felt the weight of their unfamiliar stares like strings tethered to his limbs, goading him to bow his head as if he should be grateful to be here at all. He fought the urge to fiddle with the feathered gold mask covering the upper half of his face, refused to acknowledge his own nerves.

This was not Jimin. It was unlike the Duke of Favia to feel so intimidated, and so he kept his chin raised and closely followed in Taehyung, who walked with an air of grace that belied the tremble in both of their bones.

A ball, that’s what this is, Jimin told himself. Relax, breathe. He shared a look with Taehyung, grateful for the masks veiled their true emotions, and they stood together like a pair of ducklings in an enclave of wolves. Even in costumes, they stuck out like sore thumbs. If this were back home, they would be all over the banquet table, picking out their favorite cakes and sweets without regard.

But this was not home, and Jimin longed for a friendly hello, and so he scanned the crowd for the young master he’d met earlier. Perhaps they could be friends, and he would introduce the young man to Taehyung (and in turn, learn his name at last). But his shoulders drooped when he found it nearly impossible to make out who was who underneath their masks.

“I’m going to pee in my trousers,” Taehyung muttered under his breath, and Jimin elbowed him.

Someone cleared his throat from behind, and they spun in surprise. Lo and behold, a man stood before them, his presence as sturdy as a tree, a glittering mask covering half his face like shadows to a half moon.

“Prince Namjoon,” Taehyung breathed, eyes wide, before he collected himself and gave proper greetings. “Good evening to you.”

The Grand Prince grinned, cheeks dimpling again as he lowered his mask by his side. His hair was slicked back, and Jimin thought he caught a whiff of musk and pine coming from him. With a teasing twinkle in his eye, he asked Taehyung, “You recognized me?”

“Right away.”

Jimin experienced a very, very vague sensation that he was playing third party to a conversation he did not belong in. His head swiveled left and right. “There is someone we haven’t met yet,” he mentioned offhandedly, a question hiding in his words.

Prince Namjoon cleared his throat. “My older brother is still preoccupied at the moment, so my father put me in charge of the ball tonight. My deepest apologies that he is unable to welcome you properly.” Namjoon adjusted his doublet, a nervous tick. “But not to worry; Yoongi will be joining us here soon.”

Jimin and Taehyung exchanged glances.

The Grand Prince clucked his tongue and raised his arms with a welcoming flourish. “But now that you are here, let the banquet begin!”

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━⊰

“Are you really not planning to make an appearance down there, Your Highness?” Hoseok asked.

From the balcony of the ballroom hall’s upper level, Yoongi lurked, one hand  resting on the marble balustrade. He felt like a squirrel facing a trap in his own home, and was thankful for the shadows and heavy curtains that concealed him from view. 

His royal advisor’s question hung between them like a dagger, and Yoongi wasn’t sure if he was poised to get a good grip of the handle. The plan to… disenchant… the Crown Prince of Favia using every possible method until the man ran home crying was already set in motion. It was up to Yoongi to deal his cards right. If he won, he’d walk a free man. If not… well.

He’d be tied down in a loveless marriage.

“Depends.” He turned away from the ballroom and strode towards Hoseok, who was holding out a wineglass for him. “But it’s pointless, don’t you think?” He gestured to where men and women twirled across the ballroom floor below like lovebirds blurring in a frenzied flurry. “All this frivolity, this excessive display of power, this madness—and for what?” 

“Do you want me to give you an honest answer, or an advisor’s answer?”

“I want you to talk to me as my childhood friend, Seok.”

“I think,” Hoseok carried on without pausing, “you are acting out like a child with a temper tantrum, Yoongi. Your parents are doing this out of courtesy for you.”

“It’s hardly a form of courtesy to sacrifice your son to a foreigner.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

“I’m being pragmatic.”

“And stubborn.” Hoseok folded his arms and shook his head, staring at Yoongi like he was a stranger rather than a friend. “It’s your responsibility as the future king of this nation, Your Highness.”

Yoongi hated it when his friend used his title against him like that—as a reminder of what he was born as, who he was meant to be, and everything that his name stood for.

“They could have at least let me choose,” he said now, with quiet petulance. He thought of the silver-haired stranger with the sparkling chestnut eyes from earlier, and willed the image of his smile away, ushering it into the deepest recesses of his mind. Not good. For all he knew, that man could have been a servant, or a lower-rank noble accompanying Crown Prince Taehyung for the wedding procession.

“If that were the case, you would have gone without marrying anybody,” Hoseok quipped, and Yoongi could not deny that. His royal advisor handed him a bright red feathered mask, complete with sequins that shimmered when the light hit it just right. When Yoongi refused to accept it, Hoseok tentatively placed it on the balustrade beside him. The Royal Planning Council had committed a heinous crime of utter sentimentality: they had given matching couple masks to Yoongi and Prince Taehyung, so that they would, as Hoseok quoted, ‘find each other through the crowd’.

Like a secret fantasy out of a widower’s diary. It was sweet, they declared, not to mention symbolic. 

Yoongi thought it was nothing but horseshit.

“At the very least, you could show up down there and greet your guests,” Hoseok said. “Or else your parents will have my head for not dragging you out, you know how they are.”

Shaking his head, Yoongi parted his lips to reply, but paused when the lights around the reception hall dimmed from warm sunset to blue twilight as each candlestick on the chandelier was blown out. Yoongi frowned, and nagging curiosity pulled him to peer out over the parapet and down at the ballroom dancefloor.

The swaying couples had cleared to make space in the middle, where all remaining light from the high windows and the low-lying candelabras zeroed in on a single spot, as though to create the illusion of a stage. In the center of it stood the lone, lithe figure of a man. Though his face was covered with a gold-sequined mask, his hair—pearlescent like it was made of moonlight—was a telltale sign of his origin. Favian, Yoongi thought. For some reason, that gait looked familiar. The man stood with his arms raised in a dancer’s poise, like a ballerina encased in a crystal snowglobe, and at the first sweet cry of a violin, he began to sway.

“What’s this, a performance?” Hoseok wondered, coming to stand on the balcony beside Yoongi. “Ah, I heard about this. A special number from the Duke of Favia himself. Our Royal Council was gushing over him yesterday. Rumor has it that he’s the best dancer of the south. Perhaps you could learn a move or two from him.”

Yoongi wrinkled his nose. Dance with someone he’d never met? “What a joke.”

Still, he could not peel his gaze from the dancer on the floor, moving with the grace of a snowflake adrift a midwinter night’s dream. Fast and flexible, the Duke of Favia produced a silken sheet seemingly from an extended piece of fabric of his own clothes. As the music swelled, he kicked one leg up then twirled, the lapels of his flowing collar ferreting out around him. When the violin dwindled to a hushed murmur, he melted towards the floor, arms reaching up in the air as though to beckon towards the stars.

And the next fleeting moment could have been a small miracle, or perhaps some kind of untold magic, because from his hiding spot in the upper balcony, Yoongi’s gaze locked with dancer’s.

Something plucked at Yoongi’s spine, prompting him to stand straighter. He’d been spotted.

Or maybe not. The moment vanished like a bubble, too quick to commit to memory, and the dancer carried on with his finale with ease. When he cast his silk sheet into the air, panting, the ballroom erupted with the deafening roar of cheers and applause.

The performance seemed too short. Yoongi turned to Hoseok. “And his name is?”

“Park Jimin, Duke of Favia,” answered his royal advisor with practiced confidence. “Best friend and future best man to His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Taehyung.”

Best friend. The words hurtled Yoongi back to earlier this afternoon, to the young Favian who told him he’d gotten lost in search of his friend, who happened to be engaged to marry into the Strein crown. The pieces clicked together in Yoongi’s mind. His pulse spiked, and he turned his eyes towards the ballroom, where—

The dancer was catching his breath, reeling from leftover adrenaline, and gathered his composure before bowing. Then, reaching up behind his head, he carefully untied the ribbons of his mask to wipe away the sweat beading on his forehead.

Fractals of light illuminated the planes of his face, and it was unmistakable. Those chiseled cheekbones, those pillowy lips; jawline that could cut glass.

He was the same person from the reading room. Yoongi felt his heart sink for absolutely no reason he could name.

When he was nine years old, he and his younger brother Namjoon used to fight over who got which presents during the eve of the Twelfthmoon Festival. They would squabble over one handicraft toy despite the hundreds of others sprawled around them, and it was always big brother Yoongi who had to give way, who had to watch what he wanted slip away from him.

This felt a lot like one of those moments, and it pinched his gut, because he was fully aware that this duke, this Jimin person was no toy, and yet Yoongi wished he could… could what?

The thought was too terrible to admit out loud. Instead, he recalled what Jimin had blabbered on about—what was it he said again? That Crown Prince Taehyung did not want to marry at all? Well, neither did Yoongi, especially not now. Yoongi turned away from the dance floor and snatched the mask off Hoseok’s hands, knotting its ribbons securely behind his head.

Hoseok gave a low whistle. “Ohhh, so now you want to make your grand entrance?”

“Listen,” Yoongi said, gripping his advisor by the shoulders. “Meet me outside the east wing. There’s someone I must talk to.”

There was no point pushing for a marriage nobody wanted.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━⊰

Trapped amongst throngs of tipsy dancers in crooked masks, Jungkook of the Second Heavens stood with his spine as taut as a harp’s strings, one arm supporting a round tray of tulip-shaped glasses. Two liquor glasses, to be precise, though they carried not pure alcohol, but a special concoction made for the Duke and Crown Prince of Fava. He kept his eyes alert, darting this way and that in search of his targets. As an apprentice in training, he needed to succeed.

High Jade Emperor Seokjin had tasked him with one simple errand: deliver the soul-swap potion to the persons named Jimin and Taehyung, and make sure they woke up in each other’s bodies the next day. Rarely did the Jade Emperor accede to such requests from lowly human beings, and so Jungkook was more than gratified to accept the job. There was no room for failure. He would make his mark, and hopefully ascend to a permanent position in the Second Heavens. Thus here he was, on standby after tracking the Favians’ movements the whole day—sort of.

(Never mind that he may or may not have gotten ever so slightly carried away, dabbling in a peculiar human convention, a rite of passage he came to know as “gossiping”. It seemed that the servants’ quarters ran rampant with juicy gossip about everyone in the palace.

“The viscount’s daughter did what?” Jungkook exclaimed, covering his mouth with one hand in a scandalized motion.

“Bedded her own suitor’s housemaid, she did! Now she’s been sent away in a convent to become a nun,” cackled one of the palace maids—Fliss, if he remembered her name correctly.

Jungkook felt sorry for the girl. People should be free to love who they want, but of course he did not voice that out. “Tragic.”)

Nonetheless. He never forgot his main priority, and had been, for the most part, successful in flying under the radar. Jungkook tugged at the too-tight uniform collar scratching the column of his neck. He’d deemed it most appropriate to administer the potion disguised as a wine server during the night’s ongoing celebrations. A wise decision, if he might say so himself.

The only problem was identifying his assigned humans.

Because he was an uninvited entity, Jungkook hadn’t caught drift of the ball’s masquerade theme. Now he struggled to discern one get-up from the next, and faces blurred under a kaleidoscope of bejeweled masks and feathered suits. The intermingling combinations of sharp musk and floral fragrances rendered his senses numb, and sent his mind in a tizzy.

The humans in this kingdom were extravagant to a fault, he concluded. What need was there for such outlandish affairs?

His saving grace came in the form of gossip. Earlier while picking up polishing glasses from the kitchens (Jungkook had unwittingly gotten roped into assisting the kitchen taskmaster, too), he heard from two other servers that the Crown Princes of Strein and Favia had been given matching feathered masks for the masquerade.

“Red as rubies,” sighed one of them as she rested a hand against her forehead as though to wipe off non-existent sweat.

“Red for devotion. The symbol of love,” swooned her friend, fanning herself with a dazed grin.

(Jungkook had wondered why he didn’t feel as warm indoors as they seemed, fanning themselves the whole time. And so in an act of thoughtfulness, he’d blown out a whoosh of breath to send a gust of icy wind in their direction, but the two ladies jumped out of their skin, screaming. He scuttled out of sight, feeling scolded.)

Anyway.

This piece of knowledge was vital, because as Jungkook swept his gaze over the masses, his eyes finally landed on a red mask moving like a dot through the crowd. There. That must be Taehyung, the Crown Prince of Favia.

Jungkook squirmed through the mob blocking his way—why, oh why, did humans love to clump together so tightly?—to shuffle towards Taehyung, all the while keeping a steady hand on the glasses sitting on his tray. He hesitated momentarily, wondering just how he should convince the prince to drink the concoction. What should one say to entice a man into drinking?

Three steps, two, and at last, he was standing before the prince.

“Your Royal Highness,” Jungkook said in his best deferent tone. He dipped his head to mimic a stiff bow. “A drink, perhaps?”

He glanced up. Prince Taehyung had paused to regard him for a fraction of a second, eyes frantic beneath his mask, before shaking his head and turning away. A crude move for someone supposedly known for his friendly disposition, mused Jungkook, and he tried to engage the prince’s attention once more. He really, really needed to get this fellow to drink the potion.

“Please indulge in some of your home country’s fine wine, Your Highness. Sent directly from Favia.” At least take the drinks, he silently willed.

The prince turned to him with a frown, and said, “I have never drunk Favian wine.” His gaze shifted about. “Now if you would please… I am looking to talk to someone—“

“Is it the Duke?” asked Jungkook, guessing that Taehyung must be in search of his dear old friend.

Prince Taehyung looked at him, really looked at him, and nodded slowly. His voice was gravel against stone when he asked skeptically, “How… did you know?”

“I heard him looking for you earlier,” Jungkook lied outright. He offered his tray once more. Take it. Take it! “And he was also asking for a drink to quench his thirst. Please, if you find him, perhaps he’d appreciate sharing a glass of Favia’s finest wine from you.”

The Crown Prince hummed, likely perplexed by Jungkook’s brazenness, and stared into Jungkook’s eyes once more as if searching for a universe of truths in them. Sweat trickled down the apprentice’s back. With a frozen smile, Jungkook stood unmoving for so long that he feared his arm would begin to shake, and tip over the glasses on his tray.

But when Taehyung gingerly lifted the two wine glasses off his tray, Jungkook practically heard choir angels sing in a harmonious symphony. Promotion, they crooned in his mind. How proud the Jade Emperor would be!

With a self-satisfied smirk, he bowed out of the way and watched the Crown Prince’s crimson mask blend into the ballroom’s watercolor swirl once more. By dawn tomorrow morning, Taehyung and Jimin would occupy each other’s bodies, as per Jimin’s prayer, and live out an amended version of their happily-ever-afters.

Mission accomplished. Now all that was left was to wait for the fruit of his labor.

(Never mind the fact that this ‘Prince Taehyung’ had brown hair rather than Favian silver.)

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━⊰

Jimin was exiting the bathroom when pale fingers clamped over his mouth and yanked him into an empty, shadow-riddled hallway.

His fight or flight instincts kicked in. Heart thrashing like a caged beast, Jimin struggled against his captor’s armor grip, muffled screams held repressed by that hand on his face. The scent of cinnamon and cocoa swarmed his senses. Without a second thought, he bit down on the flesh and yanked one elbow into the enemy’s ribs. He twisted around, aiming a kick at the nearest shin he could reach. “Unhand me, fiend!”

The perpetrator let out a guttural groan and sank to the floor, sagging back against the narrow corridor’s wall. “Fuck, calm down.”

Jimin’s nostrils flared as he faced the bastard. “You should know that I will hold you accountable for—“

“Hey, hey.” The man stood up, wincing. Jimin felt two large palms clamp over his shoulders to keep him at arm’s length, as if he were a rabid cat gone mad. He let out a noise of protest, but was cut off when the man spoke again.

“Listen. Look. Take a good look at my face. Remember?”

Jimin frowned, hyper-aware of the warm hands holding him still, and set about focusing on his apprehender’s features. Brown curls streaking across a smooth forehead. Thin lips as pink as a maiden’s blush. Familiar indigo eyes stared back into his, almost pleading, and Jimin flinched when recognition sparked in him, sharp as a needle. He stepped backwards, sheepishness rippling over his skin.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Damn straight.” The stranger from the reading room straightened his collar and shot him a dirty look. “And here I was just about to offer help, you had to go and injure me…”

Jimin’s frown deepened, and he eyed the young man from head to toe. What did he want from him? With a disdainful sniff, he said, “I apologize for the physical… uh, harm done. But I don’t recall needing any help. Besides, who are you to offer?”

The mystery man looked at him with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, and Jimin had half a mind to smear that expression off his face with one hand. “Don’t blame me for being on guard. I don’t even know your name.”

It was then that the stranger looked conflicted, the space between his eyebrows creasing, and he massaged the bridge of his nose. The distant sound of laughter and music rang in the bloated silence between them. He parted his lips, paused for a heartbeat’s hesitation, and Jimin rolled his eyes.

“Well?”

Seconds ticked by, whittling away at Jimin’s paper-thin patience. He tapped his feet, crossed his arms. “Yeah, you know, I’m wasting my time here. You don’t seem keen to tell me who you are, so I’ll get going—“

“Yoongi.”

Jimin stiffened, arms falling limp by his sides. The name was as easy to remember as the seasons of the year. It couldn’t be. “That sounds an awful lot like…” He gulped, and when the stranger reached into his suit to brandish a scarlet, feathered mask that looked frightfully identical to the one Taehyung had been requested to wear for tonight, the answer came to Jimin loud and clear. He was no other than—

“Min Yoongi, that’s my name.” The not-so-stranger pursed his lips and flicked a thumb over his nose, the action almost bashful, and Jimin’s stomach dropped to his knees. 

Holy jades. He remembered to close his mouth, mind scrambling for a word of matching propriety to this moment.

The prince glanced up at him with a wry smirk. “Yep. Not quite a dülwag now, am I?”

A deep horror filled Jimin. At once, he lowered his gaze to the floor, cheeks aflame. He’d been a fool, running his mouth off like that, and shame coursed through his veins. He grew desperate to dispel the stunned silence growing between them. If only he could wish himself out of existence this very moment.

Chewing his lower lip, he stuttered out a frantic apology: “Your… Your Highness. Please pardon my impudence, I—“

“Save it. There’s no time for formality.” Prince Yoongi brushed past him with a frenetic stride, hardly looking back to see if Jimin obliged. “Follow me.”

Huh? 

Startled, Jimin stumbled back a step. “What? Wait, wait.” Perhaps he had been consuming too much liquor tonight. What business could Taehyung’s future husband possibly want with him? A thought crossed his mind, and panic clamped around Jimin’s chest. Oh no. Had he unknowingly crossed over into restricted territory in the Emerald Spire earlier this afternoon? Was the Crown Prince of Strein punishing him for sneaking about? “W-why should I? Where are you taking me?”

The Crown Prince turned around, and the grim set of his lips did nothing to soothe Jimin’s fears. “You’ll see when you get there.”

“This is a kidnapping.”

“Not when you’re following so freely.”

“… Fair point.”

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━⊰

Jimin shuddered the moment the early spring breeze hit the curve of his cheeks.

The Crown Prince had led him past a labyrinth of twisting and turning hallways until they emerged outdoors, somewhere in the eastern wing of Emerald Spire. Why Jimin felt inclined to follow after the silent man, he didn’t know, save for the curiosity tugging him forward. He looked up, where nighttime shrouded the sky; stars gleaming like a smattering of diamonds on an inky canvas.

For a wild moment, he toyed with the idea that the prince might fancy him, had prepared a ride outside of the palace, and wanted to whisk him away to some secret rendezvous site. But of course that was impossible, not to mention plain wrong. This was the man betrothed to his best friend, for jades’ sake, even though the couple had yet to formally meet.

A scuffle of shoes caught his ears. Not too far ahead, another man decked in Strein’s trademark white and red robes stood within earshot. Jimin recognized him as the royal advisor in the throne room with them this afternoon, and when he saw the two of them come out from the back doors of the palace, he startled.

“Your Highness—Yoongi, what are you planning—“

“Now now, Seok.” Prince Yoongi shook his head, and the royal advisor backtracked. He pointed at the gates and faced Jimin. “Over there.”

Jimin could only stare, baffled. Aside from the fact that the gates of Emerald Spire were wide open, he found nothing out of ordinary. “Let me guess. Are you… kicking me out? Look, I know I might have sounded a little rude earlier, but I take it back, you’re not exactly a dülwag—”

The prince looked offended. “What? No, I’m not kicking you out.”

“Then what in the Jade Emperor’s name is going on?” Jimin asked, growing frustrated. Jimin had been expecting many things, even briefly considering dungeon time, but never this, whatever in the world this was. “I don’t see what you’re trying to show me.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe the Crown Prince really did intend for him to get kidnapped.

“I present to you,” said Prince Yoongi, looking mighty pleased with his next statement, “…your exit pass.”

Question marks pinged off in Jimin’s brain, and he blinked owlishly at the prince. He wondered if they were having two very different conversations, or if the Crown Prince was drunkenly messing with his wits. “I must admit, you’ve lost me there. That aside, aren’t you needed back in the ballroom? My best friend is in there waiting to meet you—”

“That’s the thing.” Prince Yoongi held up a hand, silencing him. “He won’t have to, if you stick to my plan.”

Jimin made a face. “I have no clue what you’re trying to say.”

“Listen to me, Jimin.”

“Actually, it’s ‘Lord Jimin’, if you don’t mind.”

“Lord Jimin.” The Crown Prince rolled his eyes but continued, “I’ve a plan in mind. Remember what you told me earlier?”

“What?”

“That your friend, the Crown Prince of Favia wanted nothing to do with this wedding?” Prince Yoongi rubbed his palms together as though hatching a villainous scheme, and Jimin would have snickered if not for the desperation staining his tone. “Well, here’s the thing: neither do I. I’d hate to force anyone into marrying me, so I was thinking of arranging for a private transport later tonight to take your entourage back to Favia. You may leave through the eastern gates, and if you fetch Prince Taehyung now, you could simply sneak away, without ever having to deal with me again. Win-win.”

The silence that followed was as painful as a fractured bone. Nightingales crooned from nearby branches. The air whispered a solemn spring sonata, and somewhere deep down, Jimin wondered if the author of this story was high.

He failed to wrap his mind around whatever concept the prince was trying to present to him, and so he stared, and stared some more. When it dawned on him that Prince Yoongi was being completely, utterly serious, he threw his head back and let out a humorless ‘ha!’. “Are you serious?”

Prince Yoongi hesitated before nodding, eyes narrowed. When Jimin let out another howl of laughter, the prince cocked his head back and said flatly, “Funny.”

Jimin froze, and the chortle died in his throat. Unbelievable. This had to be a joke. And here Jimin thought he was a troublemaker. It seemed like Strein had its fair share of problematic royalty. “What you’re suggesting… isn’t that illegal? What if we get caught?”

Something akin to dubious hope crept into Prince Yoongi’s eyes. “So you’re considering it.”

“No, wait, don’t twist words into my mouth—“ Jimin gawped at him, a heated combination of complex emotions stirring in him. He groaned, torn between hysterics and crying.

Because on one hand, he felt inclined to sympathize with the Crown Prince’s plight, being a firsthand witness of Taehyung’s distress himself. How miserable must Yoongi be, to be driven to such drastic lengths if only to avoid an arranged marriage?

Then again on the other hand, this whole plan sounded ridiculous. How could one person be so immature? “Your Highness. Are you… are you even hearing yourself? Have you considered what consequences this plan of yours could bring?”

“I mean,” Prince Yoongi’s words were a rushed plea, like he was secretly willing Jimin to understand something vital, “it need not be tonight. I’m just making a suggestion. If you could extend a hand and talk it over with Prince Taehyung, he can join—“

“Nonsense,” Jimin snapped. “You’d incite war between our countries.”  

Prince Yoongi scowled at him. “So you’re just going to let your best friend be miserable? I’m trying to help you two.”

Anger curled in the pit of Jimin’s stomach, and he paced back and forth to vent. What kind of diplomat did this prince take him for? He fought to keep his voice steady. “My best friend came here to carry out his duties to the crown, and I urge you to do the same. And I may be a duke, but I’m afraid this is not my sole decision to make.” Jimin thought of his Taehyungie, alone in a pulsing ballroom and probably searching for him at this very instance, and his heart clenched. He had to get back.

With a tone of finality, he averted his gaze and declared, “So no thank you, I must respectfully decline your little escape plan. Never asked for it in the first place.”

The utter nerve of this prince to make such a proposition. Never had Jimin seen a royal stoop so low. He shouldn’t have taken his words back—Prince Yoongi really was one big dülwag. He decided that his Taehyungie was a better man than him in every aspect, and felt a swell of pride at the thought that at least his best friend wasn’t trying to run away from his responsibilities.

He was expecting for the prince to object, but it was as if his rejection robbed the last slivers of light from Prince Yoongi’s eyes. “Oh.”

Arms folded, Jimin watched the man’s posture stoop like a sunflower deprived of light, mouth curling into a frown of hopeless defeat. When he spoke, his voice wavered.

“As you wish.”

Jimin’s disapproving glare softened.

“And… pardon me for dragging you out here. I just really wish…” Prince Yoongi shut his eyes, scratched the back of his ear. “Never mind.”

“Don’t look so beaten down,” Jimin said in half-hearted consolation. Great, now he felt bad. The sharp irritation that flared in him mere moments ago fanned out into embers, and now he almost felt sorry for the prince, despite knowing he’d done right. “My best friend is a good man with a kind heart, you know. You’d be lucky to marry him, really. Out of all the men in Favia, Taehyung is your best choice.”

“I do not wish to marry.” 

“And I do not wish to see my friend wed a man as short-sighted as yourself, but we can’t always have what we want,” rebutted Jimin, though he kept his tone gentle.

Prince Yoongi shot him a long, unreadable look, like he was trying to convey a coded message with his eyes. But Jimin was no expert telepath, so he shrugged it off.

“I know what you’re thinking, and I understand.” How in the world did Jimin go from reprimanding a naughty prince to consoling him the moment after? “Taehyung told me a similar thing a couple of nights ago,” said Jimin, aware that he was rambling to fill the awkward gap between them. “But he is so very easy to love. You need not worry. He’ll keep your lonely heart company, even if you seem like a handful.”

“I’m not lonely.”

“Right, right. Let’s pretend I believe that.”

Prince Yoongi let out a dry snort. He looked small, shoulders hunched like that. Jimin thought he seemed more like a boy than a man, in that moment. “You hardly know me.”

“And neither do you,” said Jimin, growing defiant. “And yet you’re dishing out emergency schemes to me like a child. You should know better. Why me, of all people?”

The prince flinched, and ignored Jimin’s question. With a haughty sniff he said, “Now that we’ve established that’s never happening, could you do me a favor?”

Jimin glanced at him sideways, wary.

“Let’s pretend this never happened.” There it was—the commanding tone had returned. Prince Yoongi’s spine straightened, hands clasped behind his back in a show of regained composure. “This was just... a momentary lapse in decision. Don’t mention this to anyone else.”

Jimin parted his mouth to retort, but at that moment, a rough, third voice cut in. “Your Highness, Your Grace.” Jimin’s attention snapped to the left and he saw Strein’s official royal advisor walking towards them. “Pardon me, but the Grand Prince Namjoon is looking for you.”

Hoseok was carrying a round tray with two drinks, droplets of condensation lining the tulip-shaped glasses. Jimin knew that swirling dark liquid. Even without having to sniff the air, he immediately recognized Favia’s signature spirit, not unlike the sweet tang of ambrosia. “Holy jades. Is that Priest’s Gimlet?”

Prince Yoongi turned around, eyes landing on the wine glasses. “I suppose so. A server just now insisted that I try them. Didn’t leave until I accepted.”

For the first time that night, Jimin’s face broke out into a half-grin. “But of course, it’s Favia’s best. Hey, I’m parched. May I?”

“Help yourself.” Prince Yoongi conceded, and as an afterthought, added with a haughty sniff: “So uh, you’ll keep this whole thing between us, right?”

“You know,” Jimin lifted both glasses off the tray and held the other towards the Strein Prince’s direction like a peace offering, “they say that Priest’s Gimlet is best enjoyed with company. Here, try it, and I’ll swear an oath to never reveal what nonsense you spouted in our little tête-à-tête tonight.”

Prince Yoongi threw him a skeptical look.

“Hey now, don’t look at me that way,” Jimin chided. “You’re one strange fellow, Prince Min, but I keep my promises! Here’s to you and my Taehyungie. To a successful marriage!” Jimin raised his glass mid-air, and Yoongi accepted the other one, lip curling like he’d sucked on a lemon, looking at Jimin as if he was the weird one.

The clinking of glasses; the fleeting exchange of glances. With peerless trees and powdered moonlight as their witnesses, two young men who were not-quite-friends shared a toast in an oath to secrecy.

Now in better spirits, they rushed to the main ballroom, where Jimin found Taehyung and Namjoon engaged in the shadows of a secluded wing, heads bent together in deep conversation. At last, the two fiancés-to-be met, and both the crown princes of Strein and Favia were formally introduced. Taehyung kept his veneer polite, Prince Yoongi gave clipped compliments, and his poor royal advisor could finally rest easy knowing he wouldn’t buckle from the stress of handling his prince anymore.

All was as it should be.

It wasn’t until much later, post-party whilst Jimin lay cocooned in the soft sheets of his bed, that he marveled at how… different the aftertaste of tonight’s Priest’s Gimlet rested on his tongue. Less sweet, more spicy. Like the flavor of white lies.

Like the taste of divine intervention.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━⊰

His eyes fluttered open.

The first thing Jimin noticed was the unbearable itch simmering under his skin. It burned with a dull throb that spread everywhere in his body rather than in one particular spot, and he felt like he was eight years old again, trapped in the clutches of chicken pox. 

The next sensation was how dreadfully dry his throat had become overnight, like he’d run a marathon in his sleep. He groaned, and it came out as a harsh croak. Something felt off. 

It was still dark in his quarters. Groping blindly to his bedside table, Jimin tried to reach for the glass of water he’d asked for before turning in last night, but came up empty-handed. Huh. Perhaps a servant had crept in to collect it while he was asleep.

Jimin scratched a hand across his chest, head beginning to pound as though a hundred arrows were piercing his skull all at once. It was strange, given how much tolerance he knew himself to possess against the effects of liquor. How could one measly glass of Priest’s Gimlet affect him so?

He really needed a sip of warm water. 

Rolling out of bed, Jimin stumbled towards the adjacent bathroom, only half-noting the odd way his chambers’ furniture was arranged. Surely there hadn’t been a foot stool in here last night? Weirder still, was that instead of winding up in the bathroom, —he grasped around and his fingers met soft fabric—towards the window?

He was holding onto a heavy velvet curtain, and looking down, Jimin found streaks of sunlight seeping through the curtain’s hemline and the floor. Understanding struck him then. It wasn’t dark because it was still nighttime. The bloody curtains had simply been pulled shut.

(Strange, given that Jimin was not in the habit of drawing his curtains.)

He yanked them wide open, and Jimin winced at the sudden glare of sunlight blazing down on him from the window. He shrank back, shielding his eyes, and looked around.

His breath caught.

This was not his assigned bedchambers. 

Jimin’s mind reeled in every direction. Was his memory failing him? Had he gotten drunk last night, after all, and wandered into somebody else’s room? Unlike the guest room’s pristine, heavily primed neatness, this one felt lived-in. There was a bookcase lining an entire wall, a desk littered with parchments and a half-waxed, twisted candle. Even the bed looked different. Jimin clearly remembered his sheets being a pale ivory lined with deep blue emblems adorning every surface, but this one was deep scarlet.

Definitely not his, then. But if it was not his, then whose..?

Jimin shook his head as though that could stave off the headache that had begun to hammer against his temples. He must leave and apologize to whoever he had disturbed last night. But first, he must wash his face. Vanity still held precedence in times of terror.

Jimin searched for the bathroom door, which turned out to be at the other side of the room, and made a beeline for it. Bending down, he turned on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water.

And.

While rubbing his jaw, Jimin felt yet another anomaly, this time marring his face. He ran the pads of his fingers across the rough patch once more just to make sure. Jimin gasped. He had a stubble.

???????

Park Jimin never, never let himself grow facial hair.

Mirror. He had to find a mirror, quick. Head whipping around like a madman, Jimin’s gaze landed on a hand mirror on the bathroom’s marble vanity table. He snatched it and peered into his reflection, his chest feeling tight with dread.

What he saw was irrevocably worse than every terrible thought he’d ever imagined. What he saw defied every manner of logic in all of Astra. He was, and yet he wasn’t. 

Indigo eyes greeted him in the mirror. Jimin’s face was gone, replaced by…

Holy jades. The world teetered to a halt like a nightmare hanging by a storyteller’s bated breath. Jimin choked on air with a silent scream, shaky fingers losing their grip on the mirror’s handle. It dropped to the floor. The glass shattered. Smithereens scattered by ‘his’ non-ankles, but Jimin hardly noticed. He swallowed once, knees trembling like severed leaves, and opened his mouth...

To let out an ear-splitting yell.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━⊰

The corridors along Emerald Spire’s guest wing were swathed in a still hush, empty save for a lone maidservant hurrying through them. At this time of the morning, with the sun barely creeping over the horizon, most people still slept, and the silver tray in the maid’s hands clinked obnoxiously loud with every footfall. 

Fliss was barely on cusps of womanhood when she first entered the Emerald Spire. Years back, the King had shown great kindness to her village of farmers, and it was her family’s great honor, her mother had said, to repay their debt in the form of manual labor. Thus they sent their daughters to the palace, not because they believed their children would grow up proper under its golden roofs, but to offer a lifetime of servitude.

She’d learned well, over the years. Chores were to her as gears were to clockwork, each knob designated to its own routine. She’d done so well, in fact, that Gwynn, the head taskmaster, had assigned her to the guest wing to attend to the royal Favian guests’ every whim during this important period in time.

That morning, she was tasked to replace the pitcher of water that the Duke of Favia, Lord Jimin, requested to be kept on his bedside table. There she was, balancing one jug and an empty glass on a silver tray as she neared the duke’s bedroom doors, when she felt something amiss.

The door to the duke’s chambers was ajar. A few steps away, a thin beam of sunlight was spilling out into the carpeted hallway, coming from inside the duke’s room, and Fliss frowned.

Had Lord Jimin already awaked and left his quarters?

She crept forward, feeling ridiculously out of place in doing so, like she was a common spy with no virtue (even though she was simply carrying out her chores). Pressing her back against the door, she craned her neck and slowly, very slowly peeked into the duke’s chambers.

That was how, on a cloudless spring morning, hidden in the shadows of an empty hallway, Fliss of the Oldmead Plains bore witness to a scene not even the best storymakers of Astra could dream of weaving.

“…it back to me!” a low, familiar voice floated into her ears.

What? Fliss craned her neck further, and her lips parted in surprise. The sight before her was unlike anything she had ever witnessed, and she blinked twice to make sure she was not dreaming.

The Duke of Favia was awake indeed, but he not alone. Somebody else had barged into the room. Fliss squinted against the sunlight flaring into her pupils and looked harder. 

And she thought, Impossible.

Standing over Lord Jimin’s bed was Strein’s very own Crown Prince Yoongi, the line of his shoulders taut with tension. His back was facing Fliss, so she could not make out his face, but she knew that sleeping suit’s shade of burgundy, could recognize the trademark cut of the prince’s clothes from miles away. She had spent long enough hours washing royal laundry to discern which was whose. He could be no other than the Crown Prince.

Fliss muffled a gasp, and her thoughts ran wild. What was His Highness doing with the duke? It was so unlike him to be up at this hour—he usually slept well into midday. And now he was clutching Lord Jimin by the collar, shaking him violently, as though he wanted to jolt the duke’s very soul out of his body.

“My body,” growled His Highness, and Fliss heard a wolf’s warning in his words. A very unusual show of emotion for such a laid-back royal. “Give it back, dülwag.”

“Hey!” the duke cried out, his head lolling back at the abrupt motion. Unlike His Highness, Fliss saw Lord Jimin’s face clearly. He sat on his bed blinking up at Prince Yoongi, eyes filled with bleary confusion and mounting horror.

“I—you- let me go!” Leaning away from His Highness, Lord Jimin grabbed a pillow from behind to push Prince Yoongi away. He swatted at the rough fingers manhandling his collar and glowered at the prince. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I should be asking you that,” spat the Crown Prince, his voice uncharacteristically high-pitched, tinged with something that sounded like sheer panic. Fliss saw him gesture down his own body, then point an accusing finger at Lord Jimin. “Look at me and tell me this is just a nightmare! You’ve stolen the most precious thing to me.”

Fliss watched the scene unfold with mounting confusion. The Duke of Favia had lapsed into stupefied speechlessness, gawking at the prince, but now he groaned, eyes falling closed like he was on the verge of an aneurysm. “Saints, it’s too fucking early in the morning for this—“

“No, it’s not. Listen. Don’t you remember if anything else happened between us last night?”

And Fliss had had enough. Last night? She knew a private confrontation when she saw it, but she knew a scandal even better. Pulse thrumming, she scurried away from the duke’s bedroom and raced back to her quarters, not caring for how the silver tray in her hands rattled noisily now.

The scene continued to burn in her mind like molten metal all the way until the servants’ first morning call. Although Fliss stood in line with the rest, the taskmaster’s voice droned on as white noise, a mere echo ringing in her ears. Her thoughts ran elsewhere, and so she didn’t look up the first time when somebody called out to her—

“Earth to Fliss. Are you still asleep?”

She looked up and found herself staring into inky pools of irises, glimmering under the morning sun. It was one of the new servant-boys who had magically appeared to help out with yesterday’s feast—probably hired along with the groups of servers who had come into the palace yesterdays as extra sets of helping hands. Jungkook was but a stranger to Fliss, but something about his easy disposition had made her feel comfortable enough to dabble in light conversation with him while working side by side yesterday. 

“Ah, hello.”

“Is something the matter?” asked Jungkook now, waving a hand in front of her face while they waited for the roll call to finish. “You look out of sorts.”

Fliss shook her head. “I’m fine.”

She was not. Deep inside she wondered if it would cost her her head if she were to report the… affair… going on between His Highness and the Duke of Favia. But who was she to do so? She was but a small, worthless palace maid. Surely nobody would listen to her. And so she shut her mouth, let the thoughts fester like rat poison in her mind, and it was not until later while polishing silverware in the kitchen that she blurted out with a wanton whimper—

“It’s not right!”

And Jungkook, who had been assigned polishing duty alongside her, let out a startled cry. “You surprised me. What isn’t?”

Fliss grew hesitant. She chewed on her lower lip, mulling over what to say. She liked to think she was unlike the rest of Emerald Spire’s servants, who made careers out of gossiping, but this Jungkook fellow made it so easy to talk, and besides, he seemed like a trustworthy person. So she lowered her voice and spoke behind a silver ladle, “I think something forbidden is going on between the Duke of Favia and... and—“

“And?” Jungkook’s eyes turned bright, as though expecting good news..

“—And His Royal Highness.”

All at once, Jungkook’s expectant grin froze. He blanched, as if he’d been ordered to drink sour milk, and repeated, “His Royal Highness? You mean, the Crown Prince Yoongi?”

Fliss nodded, solemn and somber. “Yes. I saw it with my own two eyes...” And she shared a detailed recount of what she had seen this morning: how she’d almost embarrassed herself by walking into the prince shaking Lord Jimin awake, demanding he ‘return his body’ after taking his ‘most precious thing’. It was such a vulnerable sight that seemed an awful lot like—

“A confrontation between secret lovers, that’s what,” Fliss concluded, watching curiously at the way horror gathered across Jungkook’s face like dark clouds before a storm. The bread knife he was polishing clattered to the table, and Jungkook spluttered upon hearing her story, seeming to choke on his own spit, before inhaling long and loud as if to steady his blood pressure.

“Are you… are you certain it was the Crown Prince of Strein you saw with Jimin?” he eked out, color draining from his face. “Not Taehyung, the Crown Prince of Favia?”

“Of course. He was in sleeping garments that bore the royal crest of Strein.”

Jungkook’s face fell. He looked on the verge of coronary.

“Wrong person,” he muttered under his breath, and staggered back, swaying like a drunken man. He slumped against a nearby window ledge for support, and looked up at the sky.

Fliss was very, very confused. “Is... everything all right?”

“High Jade Emperor!” cried out Jungkook, clasping his hands together as though in heavenly submission, and Fliss looked around in alarm. They’d both be doomed if somebody caught them shirking their chores.

Fliss cringed and tugged him back by the elbow. “Calm down, now—“

Jungkook didn’t seem to be listening, squirming against her grip. Red-faced and forlorn, he kept his eyes trained on the clear sky above, and Fliss started to fear that the young man was buckling loose under the stress of palace work. 

He yodeled, “Forgive me, for I have sinned!”

With a frustrated huff, Fliss trudged back to her place and resumed polishing cutlery. “Fine. Be that way.”

What a happening day. Inexplicable occurrences seemed rife around her. First there was that royal fiasco from this morning, and now she had to deal with a man without his marbles, babbling to unseen forces like an exile accused of treason. 

The world, thought Fliss, was filled with very strange men indeed.

⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━⊰

One, two, three, four.

Turn around, tread back. Repeat until feet start protesting.

“This can’t be real, this can’t be real. This is just a bad dream and I’m going to wake up soon—”

“Oh, shut it, will you?” Yoongi snapped, patience wearing thin. He paced the length of his bedchambers—well, the duke’s, really—with his arms crossed, fingers fisted under his elbow. His jaw was tight from all the teeth-clenching he’d been doing, and his neck felt stiff with tension.

It had been roughly an hour since Park Jimin had barged in and shaken him awake from slumber, one hour since everything Yoongi understood to be true contorted into a twisted nightmare. The Sun was rising west. The sky was raining pebbles. And he was not in his own body.

Yoongi could not bear to look at the other person sitting on the bed, knees drawn under his chin. It felt surreal to look at somebody else and see a spitting image of himself. Or rather, his actual self staring back at him.

“You know, asking me to shut up is technically like asking yourself to shut up,” rebutted Jimin, gesturing to his—Yoongi’s—body. He had a gaunt look in his eyes that mirrored the heavy knot in Yoongi’s gut. “How are you being so calm about this?”

Yoongi was far from calm. It felt like his world was crumbling, especially in the height of such an important event, and he wanted to scream into a pillow the way Jimin had been doing for the past hour. But that would be pointless, so here he stood, silent as a shadow.

He quelled the urge to succumb to a panic meltdown. What he needed was a solution.

“You don’t seem surprised at all. You planned this, didn’t you?” Jimin muttered in an accusatory tone. “Why did you violate me? What wicked trick did you use?”

Groaning, Yoongi buried his head in his hands, feeling like a foreigner in this body in the way his fingers threaded through silver streaks instead of brown curls. “We’ve already gone over this. Like I said, I don’t know.” He wished he could undress and simply step out of the duke’s skin like he could with regular clothes. He already felt lousy after one measly hour in it. “What would I even want with a body like this?”

“Excuse you?” Jimin scoffed, petulant. “For your information, I have abs.”

Yoongi quirked one eyebrow. He had never been one for maintaining a toned physique, and against his better will, curiosity pushed his hand to brush lightly over his—Jimin’s—stomach, which prompted Jimin to surge forward, screeching.

“Don’t touch that, you creep!”

Rolling his eyes, Yoongi let his hand drop. “Whatever.”

“This is a crisis. You need to focus on the issue at hand here, Yoongi—”

“Yoongi?” he repeated, flabbergasted. “That’s ‘Your Highness’ for you, Park Jimin.”

“I’m wouldn’t go around ‘Your Highness-ing’ myself,” said Jimin, mouth set in a tight line. “And I don’t see it fit to call you anything other than your proper name when you’re going around looking like… like…”

Me, Yoongi knew he wanted to say. A heavy resignation sank in his stomach at this bleak new reality, and he picked up his worried pacing once more, brain kicking into full gear.

Nothing made sense. Yoongi had half a mind to call for Hoseok to request for a qualified shaman to come into the palace, but that meant revealing the nature of his situation to his royal advisor, whose loyalty was to the King, first and foremost. Yoongi could not afford to risk anybody finding out. This was going to have to stay strictly between him and Park Jimin.

But what could they do? Just like when he’d first heard news of  his betrothal, Yoongi found himself overcome with a gnawing sense of helplessness again, looming over him like a dragon’s wings. He was trapped—literally, in a foreign body, with no way out in sight. But there was no time to wallow in self-pity. He would not yield to this setback. Min Yoongi was nothing if not a fixer. 

But first, he needed to find the culprit responsible for this mess. “I need to check what happened last night—”

A knock at the door silenced him.

“Your Grace?” a muffled voice squeaked from outside. 

Saints. Yoongi and Jimin exchanged wide-eyed, stricken glances. A brick formed in Yoongi’s throat, and he lapsed into a muted stupor.

“The breakfast hall is ready,” continued the maidservant. “Your presence is duly requested at the table.”

Yoongi felt a jab at his ribs. He turned around to glare at Jimin, but before he could even muster an admonishing word, Jimin hissed into the shell of his ear, “Well? Say something.”

‘Say something’? Yoongi mouthed, raising his brows so high he thought they’d dive into his hairline, and Jimin grimaced, looking like he was ready to gauge his eyeballs out. Yoongi could almost feel the exasperation leaking from his pores. With a quiet huff, he gestured frantically to Yoongi’s whole person. 

With my voice! Jimin mouthed back, eyes swimming with frustration. Reply!

It clicked in Yoongi’s mind, then, that the maidservant was talking to him. Parting his mouth like a goldfish, he haphazardly grappled for a word, any word to say, and came up with, “I am. Will be there. Morning.”

Eloquent.

A mystified silence followed, dragging out into something almost painful, and Yoongi thought she had left, until the maidservant answered, “Your Grace, there is also someone here to see you.”

Another round of thumping resounded against the door, driven by a heavier knuckle this time, and then a deep baritone: “Chim? Everything okay?”

Yoongi’s heart jolted in his chest. Beside him, Jimin gasped, and started gesticulating wildly. 

It’s Taehyung! Jimin mouthed, feet picking up an anxious bounce that made him seem like he was jogging on the spot. “You need to hide— no, wait, I need to hide—”

“Jiminie? I’m coming in, okay?”

They exchanged another panicked look. Jimin looked ready to ascend into the next life.

“Uhh…” Yoongi let out a low, warbled noise that sounded like a dying demon. “Just a moment!” 

Without missing a beat, he pointed to the massive wardrobe dresser stacked against the wall, grabbed Jimin by the shoulders, and steered him in its direction. To their relief, Yoongi’s body—his real body—was petite and light enough to fit inside, and he had only just shut the wadrobe’s doors when Taehyung swept into the room like a hurricane.

“Jiminie!” cried the Favian Crown Prince, grinning with his arms spread wide as he trotted over. 

Yoongi’s mouth ran dry. He raised one hand in an awkward wave. “H-hi.”

“I was getting worried! You weren’t at breakfast when I came down just now, and usually you wake up earlier than me,” Taehyung launched himself into Yoongi’s arms, enveloping him in a warm vanilla and maple scent that made Yoongi stumble back lest he get overwhelmed. “So I thought I should check up on you.”

Yoongi forced his lips to pull back in what he hoped was a convincing smile, feeling every bit like the impostor he was. “H-hah. Yeah? You did?”

A nod, and Yoongi averted locking gazes with those deep-set, searching eyes. Taehyung said, “Mmmn. Are you okay? Hungover from last night’s ball? We both know how much you can drink.”

“No, I— I’m fine,” Yoongi managed, pursing his lips. He kept a smile—or some variant of it, he hoped—plastered on his face, lest Taehyung get any more worried. “I was just getting ready.”

Taehyung’s gaze slid to the closet. “Hmmm. Want me to help you pick out what to wear?” he suggested, a gleam dancing in his eyes while he sashayed over to open the wardrobe—

“No!” Yoongi shouted, a maelstrom of terror rampaging up and down his bones.

Taehyung’s hand went still around the closet’s handle. “No?” He turned around, casting his gaze about until it landed on an armchair by the bed, and the corners of his deepening frown twitched upwards. “Oh. It looks like you’ve already laid out your clothes for today. As expected of my Jiminie, you do love to plan your look the night before.”  

Yoongi followed his gaze, where indeed, a set of blue-and-cream colored clothes were already draped over an armchair. Relief crashed over him like a tidal wave, and his knees wobbled so much he thought his legs might buckle. Wiping his clammy palms against his pants, he croaked, “Right. Yes. Allow me to change before I meet you at breakfast.”

Taehyung hummed noncommittally and saluted him, beaming. “Alright. I shall wait for you downstairs!”

And with that, the Crown Prince of Favia sauntered away like a desert storm, leaving nothing but a dusty, sun-soaked bedroom with a quaking Yoongi in his wake. Never had he felt like he might faint at any time like this before. He wouldn’t be surprised if his heart gave out any second now.

Close call.

The closet door creaked open behind him. “Is he gone?” Jimin half-whispered, peeking out through a narrow crack in his hiding spot.

Yoongi turned around as though he were standing on brittle glass, willing his skittering pulse to slow down. He nodded, and Jimin all but sagged against the wardrobe door, only to tumble out in a graceless heap when it swung wide open.

“Ooof,” Jimin grunted. “You’ve no sense of balance at all, Your Royal Clumsiness.”

It pained Yoongi to see his normally regal, composed self looking so frazzled. Although Park Jimin had initially left him with a striking first impression, now he only shook his head, and muttered, “Brat.”

This was a recipe for disaster, he could already tell. Either he and Jimin found a solution before things got too out of hand, or they had to learn to wear each other’s skin. To do that, though, he needed to talk to the Duke of Favia in complete privacy, away from the prying eyes of the royal court and his fiancé. 

A decision was made. Morphing his face into a stoic mask, Yoongi said, “We need to talk. Three Imps Tavern at Redeemer’s Fort. Tonight, two hours after sundown.”