Archive of Our Own

“You’ve come to the right man, my friend,” Jimin says, delicately sliding his hand down the old man’s back, and the frown on his face turns into the friendliest, most reliable smile he can convey as he guides them through the busy streets of Busan. 

The city is restless today, with crowds of people roaming freely under the gelid December sun. A light breeze brings with it the cool caress of the sea, but there’s a murmur that lies beneath it, filling the air with an electricity that excites movement. It’s disturbing, Jimin finds, like the bothersome flutter of a bug interrupting the quietness of the night when you’re trying to conceal your dreams. 

Of course, the lines of officers standing tall in every corner, almost like statues, play an important part in disturbing Jimin’s peace. 

He quickens the pace as they turn around the first corner, nervously mingling with the people flowing with the nature of a stream; cautiously keeping his gaze on the uniformed men as he guides his client as smoothly as he can. 

Once they reach the neglected alley, he feels like he can breathe again. 

God, Jimin really hates days like this. 

It’s not often that the king comes to Busan, but every single time he decides to pay a visit, it’s as though chaos arrived with him. Chaos, that is, to Jimin’s world. 

Out here, in the busy streets and the nameless alleys, peace responds to a power that doesn’t breed out of golden crowns and fancy titles. Law and order are settled by the nature of men—by the law of survival. And that power, the one that reigns under—and, at the same time, somehow, above—the higher-ups… that is the most dangerous one of all. Because it’s real.  

It’s simple, really. Power comes from two sources: need, and, more importantly, fear. Jimin is both needed and feared (and sometimes, even loved) enough to use it to his advance. 

Here, where kings and noblemen don’t even dare wander, it’s the people that create their own reign. And Jimin… he has created his own little, peaceful kingdom. Under his will. And under his order. 

However, days like this remind him of how fragile his world is; his castle, his home, built with the uncertainty of a house of cards. 

Wrapping an arm over his shoulders, Jimin finally guides the old man until they’re almost squeezed against the corner of an alley, their heads almost touching side to side. 

“Got a problem? I got the solution. It’s what I do,” he speaks as the man places a cigarette in between his lips, hands palming his hips over the thick cloth of his coat. “Light?” Jimin offers with a smile as he opens the tap of the lighter at the sound of a click with his thumb, and the surprise printed on the man’s face tells him he has no idea how he managed to get that out at the speed of light. The hands of a thief, Jimin thinks as he smiles to himself, still keeping the flame right in front of the cigarette, and it’s only now that his client inhales at it. 

“T-thanks.”

“My pleasure. Now, let’s get to business. You wanna get outta here, you said?”

The answer comes in the form of a nod. 

“Don’t we all, huh?” Jimin smiles once again before diving his hand into a pocket inside his coat. “Well, my dear Jung Sihyung-ssi, I’m delighted to tell you you now have an immaculate passport and a one way ticket to—”

“My name is not—”

“Oh, no, you must be mistaken, my friend,” Jimin argues as he unwinds the passport in his hands. “See? Jung Sihyung. Born in Gwangju, 1898. You’ll have to tell me the moving story of how you ended up here one day, Sihyung-ssi.”

“I don’t—I’m not—” the man stutters, and Jimin can see doubt clouding his eyes, keeping him from taking the papers. 

Jimin sighs, slowly closing the passport once again, the paper ticket plastered in between its pages as he takes it away in a swing that makes the man panic and almost drop the cigarette to the floor. 

“There’s a price for freedom, my friend,” Jimin speaks in a low voice, almost genuinely enough to give the man an apologetic, sincere smile. “And if you dare to pay it, you can walk out this alley with this in your hands.”

A moment of silence follows his words, interrupted by a distant yell that echoes against musty stones and bricks. “Officers! Forms!” a high-pitched voice orders, and both Jimin and his client turn around, looking over their shoulders to make sure no one is coming here. Although, finding the alley still inhabited doesn’t quite ease the fear that the officer awakened inside them. 

Jimin notices the man is shivering, cigarette turning to ashes in front of his mouth, and he wonders what things he might’ve seen, what ghosts might haunt him to this day; what might’ve brought him to this alley, at this exact moment. And what might await him out there, if he dares take what Jimin has to offer him. 

The client nods before diverting his eyes back to Jimin. “How much do you ask for?”

A grin takes place on Jimin’s lips. “Nothing that isn’t worth your freedom.”

—

A sigh leaves Jimin’s lips as he pushes forward the squeaky door, finally finding a hostage inside the empty building. He takes off his coat, keeping only his sweater on. It’s still autumn, but winter arrives almost a month earlier here. 

The Atheneum welcomes Jimin with its usual embrace: the smell of packed moisture and the silence of twenty years of solitude. The sound of the steps he leaves behind him as he makes his way through the hallways around what used to be the dressing rooms section is light, but the echo that travels through the empty theatre turns the slightest whisper into a prideful wind.

He realizes Namjoon hasn’t arrived yet when he climbs up the steps that lead to the main stage, finding himself embraced by the darkness of a sea of seats at his feet, now turned into a desert; a halo of scarlet curtains hanging above him and parted in two halves. 

He lifts up his gaze to the gallery, the upper floors and the balcony ahead of him, beyond the auditorium, and suddenly his body feels the itch to move. 

Standing on this stage was something he only could have dreamed of when he was younger—but of course, dreams like those didn’t survive the war. 

Namjoon always encouraged him to bring his gramophone here; told him he’d get him all the vinyls he’d need. Everything he’d want. ‘Come on, Jimin-ah! This is The Atheneum, you always wanted to dance here!’ he said more times than Jimin can count. 

Yet he never dared to bring music here, as if the silence was something sacred, cursed—something that shouldn’t be disturbed. And, truth be told, Jimin was never one to mind a bit of corruption; but using this stage as his own… it feels like a boundary not even he wants to cross. 

Settled at his desk, sitting down at the side of the stage, right behind the left curtain, Jimin takes out his daily earnings, placing it on the wooden surface before he takes out the book and pen he has guarded inside a locked drawer. 

Time to count. 

It’s probably too risky, for a man like him, to keep record of his transactions, but it’s only a self-indulgent act that Jimin allows himself. He’s never been stupid enough to get caught—never—and he is not stupid enough to be too obvious. He’s been keeping track of everything he earns, as small as the amounts may be some days, as if it were the numbers he’s played at the lottery. Besides, it’s not that he needs to do it, but he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t enjoy it. It makes him feel like an actual businessman, doing a bit of finances—which isn’t too far from the truth, when you look at it from that perspective. 

The distant slam of a door waves through the silence, making Jimin’s entire body stiffen instinctively. 

Paddling steps tap against the wooden floors, looming closer as they announce the proximity of a visitor coming from the opposite side of the theatre. The poor lighting barely reveals a figure, although one that’s too familiar for Jimin not to recognize. 

“Jesus,” he curses, letting out a sigh of relief. “Could you be any louder?”

“Hello to you, too, Jimin-ah,” the man says as he walks over to him. 

Jimin can only roll his eyes, running his hands through his hair before he leans back down, hands resting on the desk beneath him and supporting the weight of his body. “Hello, Namjoon-ah.”

“Nervous that much, huh?” Namjoon says as he pulls the chair across the desk back to take a seat, although it’s moreso a statement rather than a question. 

“It’s the fucking officers,” Jimin admits. “They’re a plague on these days. I barely made any this morning before I had to head back.”

Namjoon scoffs as he eyes the pile of bills right next to Jimin’s hand, pen held in a fist. “This doesn’t look like barely any,” he quirks his brow. “You could even pay this month’s rent to Sunghoon-ssi this time.”

“Well, you know passports make good money. But not enough to allow me the luxury of actually paying rent, unfortunately for Sunghoon,” Jimin scoffs. “Just tell him to come over here tonight. The drinks are on the house for him. You know the deal.”

“You’ll put that man in a coffin if you keep getting him drunk to avoid paying.”

“Listen, the old man enjoys the place. And besides, it’s not like he’d spend the money on anything other than booze if I paid him, anyway,” he argues, and it’s not really far from the truth. 

“You’re just taking advantage of him.” Namjoon crosses his arms with a reprimanding look.

“Hey, call it for what it is. I’m being an opportunist. What can I say? I’m a serious businessman.”

The older shakes his head, laughing defeatedly. Jimin always says the same. “Ah, Jimin-ah, keep telling yourself that. There’s not a single transaction—a single business,” he corrects himself with a roll of his eyes when Jimin gives him a knowing look, “that you do that’s actually legal.”

“I know. I’m the whole package, don’t you think?” he agrees, which only makes Namjoon laugh again. “Everything is fair in war.”

“War is over, in case you haven’t heard yet, Jiminnie.”

“That’s not what they say in the streets.”

The words bring a heaviness strong enough to pull Namjoon’s gaze down to the floor. Jimin bites down his lip, a part of him wanting to take it back. He knows it’s hard, even now. 

There may be an ink-stained promise of peace signed on intangible papers the world has only heard of, but for people like them, it’s nothing other than a ghost that hasn’t bothered to find them yet. And it’s not strong enough, not after everything they’ve lived—it’s not nearly strong enough to overcome the ghosts that have bred inside their own minds, the withered but persistent memories that are still real, alive, even after all these years. 

“There's cargo we need to pick up,” Namjoon speaks, not even bothering to prolong the subject. “Should be arriving this afternoon.”

Jimin’s eyes widen at that, almost laughing because—it has to be a joke. “Today?”

He walked by the train station this morning.  It’s never a quiet place—let alone an easy barrier to sneak through, not anymore—but today, with all the officers and the inspectors, he’s pretty sure it must be impenetrable. And now, they’ll have to smuggle boxes and boxes of alcohol right under the government’s nose.

“Yeah, not the best timing,” Namjoon agrees, knowing his thoughts. “I heard even the prince is here this time.”

“Who—Jeon Jihoon?” Jimin asks, startled at the information. If the king has come with the heir, then this must be the visit of a lifetime. 

“No, even worse,” his friend sighs, running his hands through his hair. “The Grand Prince.”

Jeon Jeongguk. 

“The troublemaker?” Jimin’s eyebrows shoot up. Hell, the younger prince is even worse news than the Crown Prince. At least, the king heads straight to his accommodations as soon as he arrives in town, and remains caged there until it’s time for him to leave, not a single ray of sunshine reaching his skin. 

In a certain way, the king, at least, is order. The Grand Prince, on the other hand…

“He’s a problem,” he says, to which Namjoon agrees with a nod.  

“Yeah. But at least they’re leaving our stuff in a cellar near here. We’re not setting foot anywhere near the station. Oh—and also,” the older snaps his fingers. “They wanted more money. Y’know, for the inconveniences.”

This time, Jimin can’t hold back his laughter. “They must be fucking kidding me.”

“Same thing I told their guy.”

“If anything, I was the one saving their asses giving them the papers to make it past the controls, just in case anything happened. I saved their whole fucking cargo. And now they’re putting us in this situation? Nah, they’re not seeing a single won from me.”

Of course, it’s not like Jimin was planning to pay them from the very beginning, but he has to admit that their situation gives him the perfect excuse not to. 

Namjoon lays back on his chair, pulling it back as he crosses his legs above the table, hands mingled behind his nape and supporting his head as he smiles wickedly. Jimin knows that grin a little too well. “Well, then I guess we have some business to do, don’t we?”

—

“‘Round this corner!” 

Jeongguk’s back collapses against the wet bricks, chest heaving with adrenaline. He hears steps paddling further, the echoing race becoming weaker second by second. His mouth, open by the force of his pants, is now lifted upwards at the curves, almost as though strings were pulling it like a puppet, until every breath that comes out of Jeongguk is shaped through a smirk. 

They never learn, he thinks to himself as he comes down from the high, adrenaline still pulsating through his blood. 

For a prince, he’s quite experienced in running away from royal guards. 

One deep sigh makes his chest drop in one go, and when he can no longer hear the voices that were haunting him down, Jeongguk decides it’s safe enough to keep moving. 

The street where he landed is not precisely an alleyway, but it’s just as deserted as one. He checks his reflection on a window, concealed behind the glass with wooden planks. Jeongguk doesn’t pay his mind to the gaunt appearance of the abandoned house. Way too many faced the same fate after the war. You either learn to become numb to it, or you fall down with them. 

Jeongguk may be a prince now, but it’s in moments like this when he is reminded of where he comes from—where he belonged, not too long ago. 

The Jeon family, important as it may have been throughout the latest generations, wasn’t—no matter how hard his father tries to deny that fact—born into royalty. Sure enough, Jeongguk was raised in a household that could have been a palace, and even though there was no crown to be seen around then, there sure as hell was enough gold to make up for it. 

However, despite all the glittering jewels and silky clothes, Jeongguk’s biggest luxury—and biggest curse—had been being born the second child. 

Even though his childhood was cut short by the blade of war, Jeongguk can’t help but look back at it with fondness. He remembers how he’d skip his turorings and the gatherings his father hosted, only to travel around the city, mingle with the people, and explore the world he had always been preached against. 

‘You never change’, his father would always say to him. And, indeed, he never did. It’s been years—a lifetime, considering everything that happened in between—since the days when Jeongguk would sneak out of his home, leaving his older brother alone to commit to each and every single one of his father’s orders, of his father’s desires. 

And now, even after all these years, here he is. 

One thing is sure, though. No matter how many times Jeongguk escaped, no matter how long he spent out there, he always, always came back. And that, too, remains just the same. 

It’s not that the thought of running away has never crossed his mind. He very easily could—damn, it would be so easy. All he’d have to do is let his feet wander a little further, his heart, beat a little louder, and his eyes set forward, instead of backwards. But… truth be told, that’s not a thought Jeongguk ever bothers to entertain for too long. 

All the freedom he needs, he can find in these moments. As long as he can still have this, as ephemeral as it may be, Jeongguk doesn’t need anything else. 

Out here, in the streets, with his hair undone and messy, his shirt slipping out of his waistband, chest exposed where his three undone buttons let it breathe, and the beret he got during one of their journeys to Europe (and that his father absolutely despises, for ‘it’s not proper of a daegun’, as he so many times has told him), Jeongguk can allow himself to give in to the illusion that is freedom. 

Adrenaline lingers under his skin, and even under December’s cold embrace, Jeongguk feels the urge to take off his coat. One hand in his pocket, the other one carrying the coat that hangs behind his shoulder, Jeongguk steps forward, satisfied, as he whistles a melody that spiralates in circles into the cold bricks, and walks his way into the city. 

A rush of thrill runs down his body when he takes the first turn to the right, adventuring into a concurrented street. The panting wind caresses his skin when a truck passes by right to his side, and Jeongguk can’t help but smile as he fixes the beret on his head, finding comfort in the street noise. 

He keeps his eyes wide open, alert in case he spots a uniformed man, but the uncertainty doesn’t make the excitement of being out here any weaker. If anything, it fuels it. That’s the fun part of it all.

Weaving streets lead Jeongguk’s feet at their own will—some buisier, some lonelier. But, every time the prince earns a greeting bow from strangers, all of them completely oblivious of who it is they’re bowing to, something grows bigger inside him. 

He really lives for moments like this. 

Even though Jeongguk has been to Busan quite a handful of times, it seems as though the city keeps reinventing itself every time he gets the chance to visit. Although, of course, that’s something more than expectable, considering the last time he came around was only months after peace had been restored. 

The world has had to reinvent itself. War doesn’t discriminate in that matter. No matter how big or small a town may be, all have had to resurge from the ashes—or let the wind take them with it. 

Just the way the throne has seen a new dynasty, arising anew, to turn the grey into flames. 

When Jeongguk turns around a corner, an old building, standing tall from across a square that separates them diagonally, catches his attention. Even in the distance, the front stands out gloriously. Its walls are covered under the black breath of death, but there’s something... beautiful about it. Ghostly. Alluring. 

The prince’s feet stick to the floor, eyes following down the lines of its facade, heart drumming slower than usual. It looks haunted, the place—taken. He remembers how it used to look like back when he first visited Busan. In life, the structure used to crave—no, demand attention. 

Now, either if it is because of the stabbing realization of change or something else, something Jeongguk can’t quite pinpoint from here, there’s still a pulling force underneath it. It’s like the daunting chant of a siren, blurred by the sea fog, whispering, calling, inviting. 

Jeongguk squints, his right foot moving forward, easily giving in to the poisonous temptation. 

The spell crashes down when he feels a pair of hands gripping at his shoulders.

“Found him, general!”

Jeongguk’s elbow hitches back, finding the guard’s stomach, before he throws a low kick back as well, a guttural bubbling eructs behind him. 

Taking one hand to his head so that his beret doesn’t fall, Jeongguk’s legs itch to move. It’s pure instinct, when the prince starts running wherever his feet may take him—and so, he doesn’t spot the car that is coming towards his direction when he crosses the street, heading to the square, not even having the time to double check. 

He earns himself a few yells and some curses when the driver abruptly comes to a halt, barely hitting Jeongguk’s legs while doing so. A few inches further, and Jeongguk would probably be under the car.

He’s not, though, he’s past it now, making his way through the crowds, people switching their attention to the persecution, but the guards have been left behind the spot where the car is still standing still now. 

The prince grins over his shoulder, eyeing the same man who almost caught him, before he heads over to the side of the street. A newbie, he grins in victory. He shouldn’t worry, though. Knowing Jeongguk, he will surely give him a few other opportunities to make him get used to the slippery prince. 

He eyes the place around, albeit never interrupting his escape, looking for a new course. He needs to get out of the square—this place is too open, too vulnerable. 

The commotion gives Jeongguk enough time to take the first street he finds to the right, following the same building he had spotted before. Now, however, he’s passing by one of the laterals of the construction, located on a much quieter street, in front of a few abandoned buildings. 

His heart is racing, beating so loud Jeongguk isn’t sure if he could even hear the guards behind them—if they were, in fact, to keep up with him. He doesn’t have time to look back, doesn’t have time to stop, and once again, he turns to a street, circling the same abandoned building. 

Breath gulping at the back of his throat, Jeongguk spots something shiny, growing bigger with every step he takes. 

A staircase. 

The metallic steps emerge from the stoned wall, stitched in zigzag as the climb up to a small rail that precedes a door. 

Jeongguk doesn’t have to think twice when he’s running towards the silver structure, hand gripping at the handrail to motion his body in a semi circle. There are voices, yells, screams, danger looming closer, somewhere he can’t pinpoint, and yet somehow, gracing fingers at his nape. 

He has to hide. He can’t keep running—they’re too many. 

Climbing up the stairs, heart racing against his chest, cursing under his breath with every thumping step on the metallic surface. Once at the top, Jeongguk tries his luck with the door handle. Locked. 

Fuck. 

Feeling trapped, like a mouse against a corner, Jeongguk’s eyes scan his surroundings—and that’s when he spots it. Right next to the staircase: a window. 

A part of him kind of wishes his gut is wrong, because there’s no way he’s un-fortunate enough for this to work. But, much like he expected, when he stirs his arm, barely reaching the edge of the window to try to swing it open, it effortlessly yields. 

His eyes travel down to the street beneath them, and although it’s hard to tell the height from here with accuracy, he figures it’s about the distance from a third floor from here. 

Now’s the time to put his training to test.

The window is not too far to the right. He’d have to cross the handrail and reach for the brink, and then push his body up inside. 

In the adrenaline of the moment, he doesn’t have the time—or the will—to think it through. Familiar voices echo along with thumping steps, looming closer. 

“This way!” he hears, and it’s enough to give him the courage—the fear—he needs to take his beret off, throwing it inside the window, and then slip his right leg above the handrail. 

The thin, metallic bars are separated from one another by enough inches to give him space to fit his feet there; his hands wrapped impossibly tighter around the rail behind him, knuckles turning white. 

“Oh, shit.” He almost stumbles when he looks back down once again, forcing himself to breathe. 

He’s standing at the edge of the abyss, and it’s now or never. 

Jeongguk exhales deeply, taking the time he doesn’t even have—but needs—before he extends his right arm, hand gripping at the wooden brink. 

Only one second after, the left one is placed next to it, his entire body hanging loosely the same way wet clothes are set to dry off at the mercy of the wind. 

And then, Jeongguk forces himself to push up.

—

As if it was a battering ram, Jimin and Namjoon push the wooden box to crack open the door, and the bottles of soju inside clash and twinkle among each other. 

“I’m not as young as I used to be,” Jimin says when they finally lay the box on the floor at their feet. 

Even Namjoon, way more buff than him, is panting and wiping the sweat off his forehead before he uses the box to take a seat. 

“Not so soon,” the younger threatens. “We have three more waiting outside.”

“Let a man breathe, Jimin-ah,” Namjoon laughs airly, exposing just how tired he is. 

They’ve been transporting the boxes in trames for almost six blocks. Six never-ending blocks. And, as if this day couldn’t turn more against his favor, the royal guards were everywhere around the city. Jimin jolted when he realized, a bit too late, that a line of uniformed men were heading right to them, jogging at a steady pace. It’s a situation he would always rather avoid, and, although the few times he was intercepted he managed to smuggle through them smoothly, it’s not something he looks forward to, in all honesty. Certainly not when he had four boxes of booze in his hands. 

However, his heart breathed again when the guards passed him and Namjoon by without offering them a glance, too immersed in their own race to pay mind to them. 

It didn’t quite ease Jimin’s mind, though. Not when he heard one of them yelling ‘he headed this way, commander!’ before they sunk into the first corner they approached. It’s never good news when officers—royal officers, not less—are lurking around the city like hungry hounds. Whoever was stupid enough to get themselves into a race with them better be caught soon. 

Today has been enough torture for the entire month. Having to deal with his provider—who was far from pleased when Jimin offered him an exchange so as to not pay him with money—was simply the cherry on top.  

Jimin thinks he could’ve been a good politician in another life. He’s a sweet talker—with a sweeter smile. It wasn’t easy to make the man give in when he started accusing him and Namjoon of being scammers, of being frauds—how dare he—, but in the end, Jimin made him sit down, indicated that he had a better offer, and then, when he said: ‘You look exhausted, my friend. It must’ve been a tough day, huh? With all those officers policing around. You look like you could use a hand. And a drink. Luckily for you, you’ve come to the right man’, he opened a box, took out a bottle of soju and offered it to him. 

In the end, Jimin gave him enough traveling papers to falsificate and travel freely for the rest of the month, and the man left him with a bow and a polite ‘thank you’ on his lips. And, of course, a half empty bottle of soju for him to enjoy. Courtesy of Park Jimin, may he not forget that name. 

Jimin rests his hands on his hips, evening his breath as he comes back from the haziness of exhaustion as his eyes adjust to the dim light of the theatre. 

It gives it a phantom-like aura, seeing the place like this. The spectre of the once grand Hangdan theatre, reduced to its chipping bones, rotting in an uncalm silence. 

There was once a time when this place used to live under the unrelenting cacophony of music and chatter and laughter. The chandeliers that are now stored and piled against a musty corner would pour their golden strings beneath them in such a way that it made it look as though it was raining sunlight. 

Now, gold has faded into fawn, and the once dashing music has faded into a farewell lullaby that can’t be heard by the living. 

War has taken many lives with it; lives that cannot—will not—ever be recovered. The Atheneum is nothing but another skeleton on the list. 

What used to be a splendid theatre—one that Jimin would pass by as a kid, hoping that someday, he’d be able to join the meandering lines of people, waiting to get inside—is now nothing but a rat hole. 

A rat hole Jimin has managed to make his home. 

He knows this place like the back of his hand. Which is why, when Namjoon leaves him to head back outside and drag another box of booze along, he immediately notices something is off. 

Up from above, from the front of the building facing the west, falls a square-shaped bronze light that, amidst the dark atmosphere, hangs loosely like a clear thread, falling obliquely on the stage. 

Again: Jimin knows this place as well as the back of his hand. He knows exactly the way he left it earlier today. And the windows were all closed, shut behind thick curtains through which light cannot filter; the same way they’ve remained for what’s probably months. 

“I could use a hand here!” Namjoon’s voice calls from behind, in between loud pants and the rough slide of wood on wood. 

Jimin licks his lips, eyes taunting around the place. 

“Sorry,” he says, peeking at the geometric portion of the sky that’s beyond the wide open window of the mezzanine floor, the warm tint of the sunset caressing the clouds and making it look like a painting from down here. “Let’s get the other two in.”

Namjoon is already reaching for the door when Jimin palms his torso, fingers smoothing down the cloth of his shirt under their touch. With one last glance around, he follows his friend outside. 

—

Jimin doesn’t consider himself a stupid person—far from it. Which is why he knows he’s doing something quite stupid right now. 

For the next half an hour in which he and Namjoon settle the boxes of alcohol in, it is the older, the one to fill in the silence for them, talking freely—carelessly. Jimin lets him be. 

It’s clear he isn’t aware of a not so little fact that Jimin can’t possibly imagine missing: they are not alone. 

They are being watched. 

Still, Jimin lets him be. 

It’s only after his friend leaves, excusing himself saying he has some errands to run before he comes back tonight, that the theatre falls silent again. 

Now, Jimin is doing something quite, very stupid. 

Following the thread of light, he heads to the stairs leading to the upper floors. 

Perhaps Jimin should be afraid; strangely enough, he isn’t. Fear—that is something he lost long ago. It’s rather something he has... appropriated. Something he has kept, a war treasure, to make use of at his own extent. Something precious. 

A question he has heard all too many times flashes inside his head. 

‘Do you fear death?’ 

This time, however, it doesn’t sound like a memory; he can’t hear the voice of his general behind it. This time, loud and clear, it’s Jimin’s voice, the one echoing inside his mind. 

Although the answer, on the other hand, remains the same. 

‘I don’t.’

Jimin’s eyes sharpen as he makes his way past the arc that leads to the third floor, turning to his side to find exactly what he was looking for: an open window, a falling sun, and a wooden box under it, with a beret and a coat, placed on top. 

Cocking an eyebrow, Jimin takes the beret in his hands, examining it as he turns it around. 

“That’s mine,” a low, prominent voice echoes behind him.

Jimin smiles to himself before he turns around. 

He’s faced, then, with a young man, brows knitted and jaw clenched. He’s handsome, that’s the first thing Jimin notices when he looks at him; with his curly hair falling loosely like laces on his forehead, charming, dark eyes, and skin so smooth and pale it looks like porcelain. 

He’s a fine man. Jimin can tell as soon as he eyes him. The loose, neat beige pants that endorse his legs just perfectly, a bit tight around his thighs—only in the perfect amount, making them look sculpted. It’s not hard for Jimin to tell they’re tailored; a detail that catches his attention. His shirt, also, albeit undone over his chest and messily tugged around his waist, is just as equally neat on him. There isn’t a single stain on it, white and immaculate, caged under his dark brown suspenders, clips golden and shiny where they bite down his waistband. 

One could say Jimin has mastered the art of judging a book by its cover; it’s a skill that comes naturally when your life depends on it. Just like animals are able to smell danger, Jimin has learnt to spot it with a glimpse of his eyes. 

This man, for example, Jimin can easily see isn’t just a nobody. It’s a bit funny, though, to see how hard he is trying to pass as one. He’s done a pretty good job, though, that much Jimin has to admit. In the streets, he wouldn’t even stand out. 

Unfortunately, it’s still not good enough for Jimin’s eagle eyes. 

The key lies in the small details. Jimin doesn’t miss the way his hair shines, and although the curly strands are scattered like untamed waves all over his head, he can tell it was probably swept impeccably to the side before his own hands made sure to run their way through it, as though trying to sweep footprints off mudded land. 

With only one look, Jimin thinks it’s safe to say one thing is sure: this man is important—or, at least, he is loaded enough to be so. 

If he is a danger in any way… well, that’s what he shall find out now. 

“Debatable,” Jimin shrugs, playing with the beret in his hands, “since I found it right here in my place.”

The man doesn’t seem content with his response. 

“U-uh,” Jimin points his index at him when he attempts to step closer, and has to hold back a grin when the stranger stops his motions. An easy one to tame, it seems. “So well dressed, yet you’ve never heard about manners?” he tilts his head. “Come on, I’m sure you can do better than this.”

“I’m leaving,” the man announces, not minding Jimin’s words. “I just want my stuff back.”

“Oh, so soon? But we’ve barely talked!” Jimin offers him his friendliest, most innocent-looking smile. It feels almost like venom on his lips. Sweet, sweet venom. “You won’t even tell me what a fine man like you is doing here?”

The stranger frowns before he answers. “I thought this was abandoned,” he finally explains. “Clearly, it isn’t. Sorry, I—well, I was just leaving, anyway.”

“Doesn’t look like you were just leaving to me, though,” Jimin argues. “I’ve been here for quite a while. And I know you’ve been hiding since before I arrived. So,” he sighs, “the least you could do is tell me who you are and what you’ve really been doing here, don’t you think?”

“I just—” the man’s eyes wander to his side. “I was about to go, but I…” he finally admits, “I was looking at this.”

Now, this takes Jimin by surprise. 

He remembers the first time he came here, not too many years ago. He almost has the urge to smile to himself when he spots the familiar hint of amusement in the stranger’s face, now fixed to the wall, covered behind paintings, half-hidden behind white sheets that fall like curtains above them. 

“Such a waste, isn’t it?” Jimin speaks as he walks closer to him. “So ghostly beautiful. Like a ship sunk in the bottom of the sea.”

“What is this place?” the man asks, not minding Jimin’s comment. 

“A rat hole,” he answers nonchalantly, which makes the stranger laugh. “And you don’t look like a rat, my friend.”

With a scoff, the man catches a quick sight of Jimin through the corner of his eyes, already fixated back on the painting when he says, “With all due respect, neither do you, my friend,” he mirrors Jimin’s words with a smirk that waves through his voice. “And yet, here you are.”

“Well, someone has to look after it. You know, make sure everything’s in place,” Jimin answers. “Make sure no rats leave their traps alive.”

When the man turns to him, Jimin’s eyes are already welcoming his. 

“You said I don’t look like a rat.”

“And yet, here you are.” The words are poisonous, intoxicating, but the stranger doesn’t seem intimidated by them. He doesn’t turn his gaze away, and although his lips don’t even twitch, his eyes seem to smirk for him, the iris dark-cold, yet clear enough to send the message: he is not afraid.

A fearless man. Those are always a bit dangerous. 

But they’re equals; at least, on that matter: Jimin is not afraid, either. 

“It’s clear you don’t know who I am, do you?” Jimin taunts, even though this man should probably be the one asking that. 

“I haven’t had the pleasure of knowing your name yet, no,” he concedes, tilting his head to the side before the rest of his body follows him, invading Jimin’s space.

Jimin almost laughs at that. He doesn’t miss the way the stranger’s eyes travel down his body, not even having the decency to try and hide it. Way too fearless, he thinks to himself. Or maybe, just too dumb for his own good.

He doesn’t even flinch, nonetheless. “I’m Park Jimin,” he finally gives. “And you’re in my place.”

“You sure? This looks like it’s no one’s land.”

“Don’t let yourself be fooled by the looks, my friend.”

Jimin wonders what is so funny to make the man laugh. It’s a sweet chuckle, one that almost doesn’t fit him. At the thought, his own words wind back to him. ‘Don’t let yourself be fooled by the looks’; maybe he should listen to his own advice. 

“Do you usually befriend rats, Jimin-ssi?” he says as he cocks an eyebrow. 

“More often than you’d think, actually.”

“Yeah? And what does that make you?”

Jimin’s expression is pulled down with a frown. “The owner of this hole,” his voice is low, prominent, “that’s what it makes me.”

The man nods—again: unamused, and there’s something about his fearlessness that makes Jimin feel blood running hot through his veins. “It’s a nice reward, then,” he concludes before he’s drawn away, adventuring further into the floor, finding his way through the stairs that lead to the lines of seats, spread throughout the entire surface like a sea of blood. He stops at the highest row, leaning down until his fingers trace the velvet sheathed cushions, the movements coming to a halt when he hears a low voice breathing behind his ear, a hand gripping tightly at his waist. 

“Who are you and what are you doing in my place?”  

Jimin can see from up close the way his jaw clenches, swallowing down before he answers. “I needed a place to hide,” he confesses at last. 

“You’re running away?” Jimin taunts, and a slight nod comes in response. Jimin takes advantage of the hold on his waist to step even closer, his chest finding the stranger’s back. His body stiffens under his embrace. “From who?”

Jimin can see the way a smile makes his cheeks sprout. “My father.”

“Running away from home, huh?” Fingers trail up the man’s figure, running smoothly until they curl onto one of his shoulders. He remains still. “Aren’t you a bit old for that? No offense.”

It’s only now that the stranger turns around, escaping Jimin’s touch—albeit not his gaze. They’re standing face to face now, and if he had hoped Jimin would step backwards to finally free him, Jimin doesn’t find a hint of disappointment when he stays rooted on his spot, caging him with his body against the seat behind his lower body. 

“None taken,” the stranger scoffs. “I’m not running away. Just having a little fun for the day. Helping the old man grow some extra white hairs,” he hesitates before he goes on. “Somehow, I ended up here. Bit funny, isn’t it?”

Jimin laughs again. Yes, this man is a bit funny, Jimin thinks. 

“You’re—” the words get stuck in the back of his throat before he can get them out. Suddenly, it’s as though something clicked inside his mind. 

He almost feels embarrassed for having caught up on it so late. God, this guy hasn’t even told him his name yet, avoided the question so smoothly, as though he was sliding on ice. It was Jimin, much to his surprise, the one who slipped; and Jimin sure as hell doesn’t like slipping. 

But it’s there. The answer is right there. 

“It’s you. The one they’re looking for,” Jimin frowns. He’s not asking. “The guards. The royal guards, I saw their uniforms.”

The silence that comes after his words is the only confirmation he needed. 

But why would the Royal Guard be after—?

Jimin’s brows shoot up at the realization. 

He’s the prince. 

Once again, Jimin feels the urge to laugh. Of course he is. Of course he—how could Jimin be so goddamn stupid. Of course this man isn’t a no one. Of course this man is important. It’s the fucking prince he’s talking to. 

Or at least, he is out there. Because this is Jimin’s home—this is Jimin’s reign. And no titles, nor honors, are strong enough to reach these shadows. 

“You’re Jeon Jeongguk,” he breathes. 

The smirk carved on his lips tells Jimin he’s not even slightly annoyed by the lack of honorifics. And, although Jimin isn’t looking for an answer, he still offers one, his voice coated by a weak smile. “And if I am?”

Jimin’s tongue runs over his teeth, barely peeking at the corner of his mouth. “Then, I’d say, Jeon Jeongguk,” the name tastes like liquor, he finds. And he likes it. He likes it a little bit too much. “You’ve come to the right man.”

He smiles to himself, letting Jeongguk’s dark, sharp gaze linger on him as he takes the beret held in his hands to place it on his head. The snort he earns out of Jeongguk, however, once again doesn’t show a hint of annoyance—not with the mischievous smirk that spreads on his lips after it. 

The air is thick between them. Even here, under the dim shadows, Jeongguk’s eyes are blinding with the darkness of a black hole; bottomless, yet filled with something strong enough to make Jimin twist inside. 

It might be that, or the way Jeongguk has the audacity to incline his torso backwards, while his lower body leans a bit forward for balance, meeting Jimin’s. 

“I thought you were just leaving,” Jimin breathes, slightly tilting his head to the side. But he doesn’t move; interestingly enough, he likes the feeling of Jeongguk’s crotch pressed against his. 

“Not until I get my stuff back,” Jeongguk bites, cocking an eyebrow with a sarcastic smile. He extends one hand, and his fingers brush the beret on Jimin’s head until they slide down, meeting his skin for the first time. The touch is gentle—too gentle, probably—as he tugs a strand of hair behind Jimin’s ear. 

“Too bad, then. I like this a bit too much. Was thinking of keeping it for myself.”

“There’s a name for that. It’s stealing.”

“I’m no thief,” Jimin argues. “I’m an opportunist. I do business.”

At that, Jeongguk laughs. “Yeah? And what’s in there for me, then?”

“What do you want? I have a lot to offer.”

Jimin doesn’t miss the way Jeongguk’s eyes fall to his lips at the sound of his voice. He nods, thoughtful. “Give me all you got,” he answers, and Jimin is the one to laugh this time. Jeongguk pays him no mind. “That’s a very fucking precious beret you’re wearing.”

“Alright, what’s fair is fair. But you’ll have to stay the night.”

“Aren’t you smooth, Jimin-ssi?”

“I have visitors, you moron,” Jimin explains, rolling his eyes. “And I promise, I wouldn’t have to trick you for that, Jeongguk-ah.”

“So you are tricking me now? Got me falling right into your trap, huh?”

“Ah, Jeonggukie. Thought we were over that already,” Jimin smiles. “You’ve been in it since the moment you entered this theatre.”

“What a nice fucking place to be trapped in, then,” the prince agrees, eyeing down their bodies, pressed together against the seats. “There’s nice company, at least.”

“Ha. If you’ve liked it so far, then I can assure you you’re gonna love it tonight,” Jimin speaks.

“Which one?” Jeongguk tries. “The place? Or the company?”

Jimin’s fingers play with Jeongguk’s suspenders before he answers, allowing himself to stare at his chest, almost giggling to himself. Jeongguk really is quite a wonder. A bit too bratty. A bit too bold. Jimin would be lying if he said he didn’t like it. 

“Guess we’ll have to find out just how lucky you are.”

Jeongguk’s body tenses before he attempts to lean onto Jimin’s space.

Although he barely moves an inch before the other stops him, his index finger placed against his chest now. “M-hm,” he shakes his head, and although Jeongguk’s motions stop, he doesn’t back down a single bit. “So impatient, aren’t you?” he says, their mouths so close Jeongguk’s lips part at Jimin’s voice, as though trying to breathe him in. “A prince with no manners,” he scolds, but it only makes the other’s grin grow wider, even if he’s trying to hold back, judging by the lip he has caught in between his teeth now. “We have stuff to do.”

And, just like that, Jimin turns away, heading towards the door that leads to the stairs. “Come,” he says, not even turning back as he takes Jeongguk’s coat up from the box where he first found it, right next to the door. “You’re my special guest tonight. And you’ll have to dress accordingly.”

“May I ask what’s the occasion?”

Jimin looks at him over his shoulder before he disappears into the hallway that circles the theater’s insides. “You’ll see soon enough.”

—

With a knock on the door, Jimin announces his presence before he enters his room. 

He’s halfway in when Jeongguk’s voice answers to his call. “Come in.”

Now, Jimin is not an easy man to impress. He’s become numb to his senses. It’s one of the things war does to you—it’s like a monster, ruthless and evil, and it spares no lives. No one goes through it untouched. Jimin… Jimin is one of the few who made it through it, but its blade has reached him, cut through him and left a scar that he doubts time will ever manage to heal. He was one person, before it all began; a kid with eyes full of joy and hope, which easily brightened with astonishment at the smallest things in life. But the child is grown now, and he’s become numb. Comfortably, painfully numb. 

What he finds when he goes into the room, however, is enough to make him gasp. 

Jeongguk reveals himself from behind the dressing panel, and the sight is enough to remind Jimin what he is—who he is. 

He’s dressed in a hanbok now, black, with delicate figures sewed in golden and white threads, his presence so graceful, bathed under the equally golden lights of the room. His curly hair is parted in two halves, and Jimin can easily picture a crown sitting on his head. 

“What?” Jeongguk asks at Jimin’s silence. 

“Nothing, you—” he clears his throat. “You really are a prince, aren’t you?”

Jeongguk laughs at that; though the music coming out of his mouth is bitter. “I think my father would like to disagree with that. Especially if he saw me right now.”

He doesn’t add anything else, and Jimin doesn’t push it. 

“Is this your room?” Jeongguk is the one to fill in the silence. 

“Yeah,” Jimin nods. The place is quite fancy, since it used to be the main dressing room, back in the days—the one that was reserved for the main actors and actresses. And Jimin may not have too many luxuries, but the things he has earned through the years, whether it was due to the magic of his tricks or the smoothness of his hands, are all now cluttered here. 

There is, as expected, a crescent-shaped vanity that is spread almost entirely against the wall, boxes flooding with jewels on it—all of them, little gifts he’s collected when gambling was a habit of his, a couple of years ago. 

It’s the only inhabited room, since the owner of this place sold pretty much everything there was to sell through the years, but they’ve come to the agreement that Jimin’s room is off limits. Thankfully so, because that way, he’s been able to keep the flowery divan that Jimin has come to love so much, along with the velvety settee right across the room, placed under the window that faces the east, now hidden behind ghost-like curtains that trickle down from the ceiling. 

His bed, he did actually buy it. Namjoon still teases him about it, telling him he can’t believe there is something here that he’s earned rightfully. Sure, the money with which he bought it wasn’t, on the other hand, earned very rightfully—but the sentiment is there. 

It’s a king-sized bed, covered under flowery blankets, and now that Jimin looks at it, he thinks Jeongguk would look gorgeous on it. He pushes the thought away before entertaining it for too long, though, but the mental image is enough to make tickles flash under his skin. 

“This place is really nice,” Jeongguk comments as his eyes travel around the room. 

“Well, if I’m going to live in a rat hole, at least I gotta make it look a bit nice,” Jimin concedes. “I’m glad to see the clothes fit you,” he adds, changing the topic. 

“Yeah. We’re matching,” Jeongguk remarks, and it takes Jimin a few seconds to realize what he’s referring to. 

He eyes down his clothes, noticing they’re golden, with black flowers scripted on it. “Well, I told you you are my special guest tonight,” he says, even though he hadn’t meant for them to match when he handled Jeongguk his clothes. 

“And what’s exactly happening tonight?”

Jimin offers him a smile. “Why don’t you come and see for yourself, hm?”

With a silent nod, Jeongguk follows Jimin out of the room as he guides him through the theatre’s halls and stairways, their steps echoing in the silence. 

“This used to be Busan’s greatest theatre,” Jimin explains as they walk. 

“I know,” Jeongguk answers from behind him. “I came here once, when I was a kid. Before,” there’s a pause, no words coming out of him. “Before everything happened.”

Before the war, Jimin understands. Before the Jeon family first sat on the throne. 

They were an important family, even back then. It was to no one’s surprise when they assumed power. Jeongguk’s father—the king, no less—was a powerful politician, a minister who only gained influence as war brewed back in the times when peace started to waver. But there’s a huge difference between being a minister and being the king—just like there must be a huge difference between being the son of a politician and being the grand prince, Jimin thinks. 

It reminds Jimin of the abysmal distance between them. As a kid, Jimin would only dream of the day he’d ever get the chance to see this place for himself. There was an innocent sort of envy within him, one filled with the amusement of a child, every time he watched the lines of people fancily dressed, entering the theatre one by one. It was something he’d watch from afar, the street that separated him from them, wide enough to make it feel a whole world away. While Jimin was the one outside, Jeongguk was one of the people forming in those lines. 

It’s almost funny, now that Jimin thinks about it. Because, even so, here they are tonight. 

“You must know, then,” he speaks as he pushes forward wooden doors, heavy as they squeak and swing open, “that this place was always more than just a theatre.”

A vast room welcomes them, although this is different from any other place of this building where they’ve been. The lights flicker for a moment as Jimin turns them on, and they find themselves in a saloon, with tables spread all around, a counter bar which is surprisingly filled with bottles of alcohol and glasses behind, and a small stage—well, smaller than the main one, in the first floor—extended like a semi-circle from one corner of the room to the opposite. 

“I’ve been here before,” Jeongguk exclaims, his voice filled with enthusiasm. “We—we had dinner here, that time I came with my family, during the intervale. This place looks exactly the same.” A whistle comes out of his mouth as he walks in circles, eyes wandering all around. 

“It probably won’t be the same when people start arriving here,” Jimin argues.

“How—”

“Why so surprised? I told you, I’m a businessman. This is… just one of my many businesses.”

“But why—a bar? Here, out of all places?” Jeongguk quirks an eyebrow in confusion.

“It’s not exactly a bar,” Jimin explains, but his answer still doesn’t dissipate the confusion compacted in the other’s face. “You’ll see.”

Before Jeongguk can even answer, a third voice joins them, distant, but loud enough to reach them. 

“It’s been six months since I’ve last seen a single won!” a squeaky, high-pitched voice exclaims. “That’s half a year, do you know how much money that is?”

“Ah, Sunghoon-ssi, come on! It’s too late to be discussing money issues,” another man argues, this time even closer. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. For now, enjoy yourself. Have a few drinks. It’s on the house, for every month we’ve been here. Tomorrow, we can talk business, what do you think?”

“I think you and your partner have been taking me for a fool. Do I look like a fool to you, Namjoon-ssi? No, wait. Don’t answer that.”

It’s not two but three men who walk through that door after that, and both Jimin and Jeongguk turn to the visitors. 

“Sunghoon-ssi!” Jimin greets him, his arms extended to his sides. “Such a pleasing surprise! Coming ‘round for tonight?”

The oldest—and shortest—one of all sighs with a roll of his eyes at the welcoming. “You two have your days counted here, Park Jimin-ssi,” he snorts, his index finger pointed at him in a threatening way, but his appearance is so comic it makes him look as though he was trying to point at him with a spoon. 

Jimin laughs warmly, as though he was laughing with a friend. “Yes, Sunghoon-ssi. We know we do,” he gives. The old man says that every time; and yet every time, he ends up crying tears of joy by the end of the night, coming over to Jimin to thank him for making him—and this place—feel young and alive once again. 

He’s a poor old man who once drowned in gold and properties and clothes so expensive they still manage to look nice these days; but, just like many others, lost it all in the past few years. Well, all—except for this. 

The third figure, the one that came in after Namjoon and Sunghoon, is also the first to acknowledge Jeongguk’s presence. 

“People already arriving, huh? Kind of early, don’t you think, Jimin-ah?”

Jimin takes a few steps to his side, placing one hand behind the small of Jeongguk’s back as he guides him closer, and he feels the other’s body straightening at the touch. His hand remains firm there, and Jimin feels Namjoon’s knowing look on him. 

“Oh, Hoseok-hyung, be nice to my special guest, please. This is—” his voice fades before he can finish the sentence, and he clears his throat as he looks for the best choice of words. “This is Guk,” he says, not sparing Jeongguk a glance, even if he feels the way he’s turned to him now. A weak scoff leaves his lips; which makes Jimin want to return the action because—this man is unbelievable. If he was expecting Jimin to give his friends his real identity, then he is even more stupid than he’d thought. 

Hoseok cocks an eyebrow at that, scanning Jeongguk from head to toes, not bothering to be subtle about it. “Does Guk have a full name?”

“No,” Jimin answers when he sees Jeongguk opening his mouth to answer. “Not here.”

Both Namjoon and Hoseok nod at that. It’s a common answer in this place, and they don’t ask any more questions about it, even if Jimin knows Namjoon will probably try to make him talk once they’re alone. 

“No tongue, either?” Hoseok pushes, nonetheless. 

“A pleasure,” Jeongguk finally speaks, with a small bow. 

“Guk, these are Namjoon-hyung, Hoseok-hyung, and Sunghoon-ssi,” Jimin introduces him, and the three man bow in return, greeting him properly this time. 

“Now, I would love to chat,” Namjoon is the one to speak now, “but we have a whole night ahead of us for that. Guk,” he turns to him, “welcome to The Atheneum. We need to get this place ready soon enough, and two extra hands would be of great help. Especially with Sunghoon-ssi here. His count as minus four.”

“Ungrateful little thieves!” the old man curses, waving his hands as though punching the air and turning around to exit the room. “I let you run this place for free, help you with it, and this is how you pay me! No respect for the elders! No respect for this old man! You little—” his voice shrinks as he gets lost somewhere past the corridor that lies beneath the door, and even Jeongguk joins the three men, way too used to Sunghoo’s rants, laughing at his dramatic exit. 

“Now,” Hoseok claps loudly, “hands to work, gentlemen. This place won’t run by itself.”

Although Jeongguk seems a bit disoriented at first, Jimin notices he’s a fast learner, helping him and his friends get the place ready for the night. He’s surprised to see he’s quiet, he can tell so now that it isn’t only the two of them, with the way he mingles around with his head a bit too low for a prince, and his gentle voice even lower whenever he approaches one of them. 

Jimin simply observes him, as though trying to pick a few pieces to the puzzle he seems to be. But, no matter how much he looks, can’t quite figure him out yet. Which is quite new to Jimin, he has to admit. He’s learned to read people the same way one is supposed to read a book. Maybe it’s because most people are just too easy to read—too plain. Too dull to even bother. 

Jeongguk, on the other hand, is fascinating—yes, Jimin thinks that would be an appropriate word. His presence is prominent, without him even trying. Perhaps it’s because of the fancy clothes Jimin lent him, the way he glows like ember under the crystal lights, the way his features are so sharp, even if there’s a certain softness in them. 

He follows easily, and Jimin only spots him looking at him from a distance a handful of times; not because he could be looking to be guided, no, but because his eyes seem to have this pull toward him—just like Jimin’s are magneted to him, too. 

It’s not too long after that the place is ready, and all of them are heading to take their seats and get started with their night. Both Hoseok and Namjoon go straight behind the bar, and Sunghoon, who came back around only a few minutes ago, is quick to take a seat at the counter. 

Jeongguk is standing right in front of the stage, staring at the empty theatre, when Jimin walks up to him. He hands him a drink from behind, and only now Jeongguk acknowledges his presence, barely turning to the side to face him as he takes the wine in his hand. He quirks an eyebrow, nonetheless, before he licks a single drop tearing down the rim.

“How much?” he asks, and it makes Jimin laugh. 

“It’s on me,” he assures. “I told you, you’re my guest tonight.” 

Only after Jimin takes a sip of his own drink, Jeongguk dares to imitate him. “I still don’t know what I’m doing here,” he insists. “And you lied.” The older’s brows shoot at the accusation. “You said this wasn’t a bar.”

“I said it wasn’t just a bar,” Jimin points out. “The night hasn’t even started, Guk,” he teases him, and now that Jimin is looking at him, he can see how much a single name is able to push his buttons, judging by the way it’s enough to have him biting down his bottom lip. “You’ll see what I mean soon enough.” Jeongguk’s answer is silent; it comes in the form of a frown, instead. “Come,” the older tilts his head, his free hand finding Jeongguk’s waist this time. “Have a seat with me,” he adds as he leads them both to head to Jimin’s usual spot. Jeongguk follows easily. 

He still seems a bit tense, his eyes wide and examining the place as if he still had something to figure out about it. Oddly enough, he doesn’t look alert, though—more so… intrigued. Amazed, even. Jimin knows he must have tons of questions lingering in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t mind to voice them out. 

They find themselves sitting at a table placed in the furthest corner from the stage, big enough for a group of friends, although the two of them manage to fit it just right. Jeongguk’s company makes up for the four empty seats surrounding them. 

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Jimin tries to reassure him as his hand briefly finds Jeongguk’s thigh. 

The prince’s body stiffens at the mere touch, the same doe eyes that were once scattered around everywhere in the room, now only directed at Jimin’s. 

“I’m not nervous,” is the only thing he says in return, sounding certain enough to make Jimin believe him.

That is, until the first groups of people start joining the cacophony of the room. 

They all walk past their table, offering Jimin polite bows and welcoming smiles, a few ‘Good evening, Jimin-ssi. It’s nice to be around here again’ that seem a bit too scripted, at this point, to sound genuine—but Jimin knows they are. 

He doesn’t think the word customers would fit the people that gather here every night. Just like he doesn’t think the word club would fit what this place really is, even though it kind of feels like it. A sense of pride washes over Jimin at the idea, thinking that what he’s created is something brand new. A harbor, for those who need it the most—that’s what The Atheneum has evolved into. 

There’s something powerful about it, even. A place that was once reserved for the higher-ups, for the ones at the pinnacle of the country, rioted, corrupted, by the ones who were not meant to set a foot here, not so long ago. 

One thing hasn’t changed, though. The Atheneum has always been a shelter for stories—that’s what theatres are all about, isn’t it? But, while, before, stories were usually tied to the boundary of the stage, now they have set free from those wooden-built limitations. Now, stories are everywhere; each one of them, sitting comfortably and spread at the tables as they mingle together in a blissful cacophony. Each and every single one of them, flickering in the open chitter-chatter, yet finding refuge in it. They’re hiding—though not quite; wandering freely for any curious ear to catch.

All roads lead to Rome, some say. But Rome is centuries away from here. In Busan, Jimin likes to think, all roads lead to The Atheneum. All roads lead to him. 

‘Somehow, I ended up here’, he reminisces Jeongguk’s words. The ghost of his words brings the curves of Jimin’s lips upwards. 

He spots him staring at a table across the room as he takes a sip of his drink, seeming too immersed in it. 

“Deserters,” Jimin says plainly, catching the prince’s attention. “They’d fled to India, and came back here about a year ago,” he explains further. “They came to me to give them new identities. So, now, they’re honored veterans, and proud patriots. Your father has been trying to track them down for years,” he adds, for the sake of it. 

Jeongguk’s gaze diverts back to the loud men, bursting into laughter after the eldest-looking one of all says something seemingly hilarious. Jimin leans closer to him, bumping his elbow against the other’s, whispering next to his ear as he extends the hand holding his drink, directing it to another table where two young women are sitting with their backs turned to them. 

“See that lady? The one with her hair tied? She was married to one of the richest men in town. He was found dead the morning after his fiftieth birthday. Had thrown this huge, scandalous party. Intoxication, the report said,” Jimin laughs, which only seems to add to Jeongguk’s confusion. “Yeah, I think that’d be a way to put it. Fucking arsenic, a bit intoxicating, don’t you think?”

The prince scoffs. “How’d she get away with it?”

“Well, she then became one of the richest women in town. Money can work a magic of its own, don’t you think?”

Jeongguk smiles as he takes the rim of his glass to his mouth, eyes not leaving the table where the two women are clattering their glasses as they cheer. “Why are you telling me this, Jimin-ssi?”

The older shrugs, leaning back against his chair. “Dunno. Thought you’d like hearing a few stories.”

Jeongguk can’t help but laugh at that. “You know who I am. You know I can go back to my father and sing-song everything I’ve seen here. Have any idea where you’d end up then, hm?” he knits his brows. “You think you’re smart, Park Jimin, but this might be the most idiotic mistake you’ve made in a long time.”

Jimin remains unbothered, smiling at the corner of his lips. “You won’t say shit, and we both know that,” he argues, not letting doubt crawl under his skin. It is partially true, he has to admit—this is probably the most idiotic idea Jimin has ever had. “All these people?” he adds, eyebrows shooting up, “they’re no different from you, Jeongguk-ah. They’ve all ended up here by chance. They’ve all found me by chance. But why did they stay?”

When Jeongguk doesn’t answer, Jimin takes the lead to go on. “Because—look around,” he orders, and it takes the prince a few seconds before he does so. “They all want to stay here. Because they know this is a place where everyone’s welcome, because no one gives a shit. And you, daegun,” Jimin whispers slowly, his voice so low and rough it sounds snake-like, “are no different from them.”

“Keep it quiet,” Jeongguk orders, jaw clenched. “If anyone here hears you—if anyone here recognizes me—”

“Don’t be so tense, Jeongguk-ah,” Jimin’s smile grows wider. “Don’t you see? Nobody's listening. Nobody fucking cares.”

With a sigh, Jimin sees the way Jeongguk’s shoulders relax. 

“I’m not keeping you here, Jeongguk. You wanna go, give a full report on what you’ve seen to your precious father? Go ahead, the door’s right there,” he motions his hand to the entrance. “I know who you are, just like you know damn too well what happens when you set a single foot out of that door. But that’s exactly why you stayed, isn’t it?” Jimin taunts. Jeongguk remains silent. “That’s exactly why you’re here right now. Because, the second you’re back there, you’re the prince again. But here?” he shoots his brows up, sighing before he speaks again. “You’re none of that. You’re no fucking prince here. And I think you absolutely love that.”

It’s only now that Jeongguk reacts, shaking his head as he looks away, mouth breaking into a smirk as he rests his elbows on the table. He gives Jimin a glance, head turned over his shoulder. “That’s quite a mouth you carry, Jimin-ssi. How hasn’t it gotten you dead by now?”

“Believe it or not, this mouth is the reason why I’m still alive, actually.”

“Doubt it,” Jeongguk turns again, facing the stage before he takes a quick sip of his drink. “You wouldn’t be able to keep it shut for the life of yours.”

“It can do wonders. You’d be surprised, Jeongguk-ah” Jimin bites, enjoying himself a little too much. 

Now, that seems to catch Jeongguk’s attention. “Yeah,” he says, taking a moment before he lets the words out. “I bet it can. Just like it could get me dead if you keep saying my name that loud.” Jimin rolls his eyes at that, but the action contradicts the smile that grows on his face. “I’m starting to think you actually want to have me killed.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Jimin laughs. “I wouldn’t be able to let such a pretty face go to waste like that.”

“Interesting.” Jeongguk’s tongue peeks over his bottom lip before he catches it under his teeth. 

Jimin throws his head back, letting his body relax as his body weighs deadly against the back of his chair. “I think I should be the one saying that about you.”

“How so?” the prince turns, one leg crossed over the other, as he joins Jimin’s side once again. 

“Nothing, I mean—it’s quite interesting. Almost funny.” Jimin is rather thinking out loud, but he hasn’t shown any signs of inhibition when it comes to Jeongguk so far, so why would he hold back now? “The fact that you’re here. I mean, this place is for the outcasts. We don’t discriminate. But I wouldn’t have thought we’d welcome a prince here, if I can be quite honest.”

“Well, you can be sort of an outcast when you’re the second son and nothing but a disgrace in your father’s eyes,” Jeongguk smiles sarcastically, but Jimin is taken aback by the sudden honesty. 

The other doesn’t seem to want to dwell on it any longer, and Jimin doesn’t mean to intrude. 

“I guess so,” he agrees simply, taking a sip of his wine. “But you’re none of that here, at least.”

When Jeongguk opens his mouth to answer, Namjoon interrupts them, leaning down to whisper into Jimin’s ear. 

“Yeah, we should start,” is the only thing he says before Namjoon replies with a nod, leaving the two of them alone again. Jimin turns to Jeongguk with a smirk on his mouth. “Now, Jeon Jeongguk, is when the show starts.”

The room falls into a deadly silence when the man asks for the crowd’s attention, and surprisingly, it obediently complies. It’s only now that they both realize the room is entirely crowded now, all tables taken and corrupted with empty bottles and half-full glasses. 

It’s a short-lived silence, though, soon enough filled with a joyful melody that brings the place back to life. 

Jimin watches the way Jeongguk’s face lights up with it from the corner of his eye. 

The streaming gasp of a zither is followed by a cheerful voice. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, how about we start the night with a prayer, huh?” he says with a playful smile on his lips, fingers dancing freely on the strings. 

The crowd boos at the suggestion, but the grin on the man’s face only stretches wider. “Ah, don’t worry, my people,” he laughs, voice half-singing. “This prayer is meant for us only, no gods are welcome here! It’s a simple one, you’ll see. This song is a prayer named ‘geonbae’,” he snickers, now earning a reciprocated laughter from the crowd. 

Jimin spots Jeongguk, shyly smiling next to him, immersed in the show already. 

“So, every time I sing ‘geonbae’,” the musician goes on, “you all better repeat it as if you were in a goddamn mise praying ‘amen’. And well, you know what you have to do, then, right?” 

Laughter mingles with whistles now, and Jimin’s hand silently finds his drink, laying back on his chair and closing his eyes as he allows himself to enjoy the moment. 

Much to his surprise, it’s Jeongguk’s voice—not the musician’s—the first to bring his eyes to open again. “Seems we’re in for a little bit of blasphemy,” he says, although he’s smiling as he leans back on his spot as well, bringing his body right next to Jimin. 

“It wouldn’t be the full outcast experience if there wasn’t at least an ounce of blasphemy in it, don’t ya think?”

Jeongguk laughs, drawing small circles with his wrists and making the drink in his hand follow its motions, almost tide-driven. “Geonbae for that, my friend,” he agrees, bringing his cup closer for Jimin to clatter his against it. 

“Geonbae, indeed.”

Jimin’s response is interrupted halfway by the striking voice of the singer, finally opening the song to which the crowd finds an easy way to follow. 

There’s no such thing as the god of wine, 

‘Geonbae’ is a prayer that’s sung on every land

For tears always find the ocean’s tide

And all small things are worth an empty glass

‘Geonbae!’ sings the crowd in response, and glasses are lifted before they wet everyone’s lips. Jeongguk stares at Jimin for a mere second, with such a brightful smile that it breeds innocence. Precious, the word slips somewhere in the back of his mind, and although Jimin can’t pinpoint exactly where it came from, there’s no use in denying it. It fits Jeongguk. Precious is a word he’d use to describe him. They clatter their glasses silently, bodies instinctively half-dancing as they move along to the melody, and they cheer at the sound of ‘geonbae’.

It’s then that the song unwinds, and it’s almost impressive, how, in every verse, the singer manages to let a prayer slip through his lips, making the whole room have a blast as they eagerly try to follow him. He sings a geonbae for the fallen, and for all those who survived; for the mothers, for the children; for the sinners and the street-rats. 

The list goes on and on, the melody quickening its pace in challenge, but as the cups empty and the drinks flow—which makes Namjoon and Hoseok leave the bar to run among the tables and fill every lingering void—the crowd accepts the challenge enthusiastically, prayers and sips slopping along all the way through. 

Jimin and Jeongguk, though, are having such a blast in their remote corner that they don’t even bother keeping up with the pace—only laughing and singing as they enjoy the reactions of the crowd, swayed by the spirited atmosphere that has taken over the place and drinking casually, not quite needing the push of alcohol running through his veins to find their way to have a good time. 

Jimin takes the cup to his lips, craning his neck so that the very last few drops remaining tear down to his tongue, only to enjoy the bitter taste of it, to keep himself entertained. He doesn't need another glass—doesn't want it. 

The thundering bustle is loud enough to cover the noise, and Jimin only realizes the music has come to an end when he looks at the stage once again; the musician, bowing to the crowd and welcoming the cheering ovation with wide arms, embracing the claps and whistles as if they were the most beautiful song he has ever heard of. 

Jimin is barely clapping, contributing to the cause, as he rests his body on the back of his chair. 

It's only now that he turns to Jeongguk, a smile still present in the older's lips when he finds him staring at him. 

Jeongguk looks like he wants to say something—like he wants to do something. 

He doesn't. 

"Are you having fun?" Jimin asks, clearing his throat. 

He doesn't need to hear his answer, though. He can see it in his face. 

“Yeah,” replies Jeongguk nonetheless, and Jimin feels something warm gripping at his thigh as he speaks. 

The touch is light, though. Almost tender. Attentive. Jimin allows himself to look down, appreciating the view of Jeongguk’s slim fingers and bony knuckles wrapping the spot right above his knee entirely. 

The prince’s index finger draws a line on the spot, but he doesn’t tighten his hold, barely teasing him, albeit intently so. It’s gentle—yet, somehow, eager. It feels oddly good, like Jeongguk knows how to touch him just at the right moment. Slow and patient, yet giving in to the urges that have been building underneath them since the moment they met. It makes Jimin feel wanted—chased. It’s a feeling he’s familiar with, in many ways; Jeongguk might as well show him a new face to it. 

“You were right,” Jeongguk speaks again. “About this place.” When Jimin tilts his head, the prince explains further. “I like it.”

Jimin notices now that their bodies are moving—moving closer, the two of them turned on their seats so that they're facing each other. 

“And what about the company?” Jimin tries, noticing the way Jeongguk’s lips twitch at the question. 

When the prince attempts to answer, lips forming a small ‘o’, music resurges once again—although it's a calmer tune now—, making them both turn to the stage for a mere second, only to confirm it is, indeed, the same man from before, giving in to the insistent pleas of the crowd asking for ‘another one’.

Jeongguk chuckles, and something about his smile is so... captivating, as if it didn’t fit with his entire aura, with the way he carries himself. The contrast is abrupt, and there’s something endearing about the way he’s so expressive, so unable to conceal every single feeling from being printed on his features. 

“I think I should be the one asking that,” Jeongguk says, and something tells Jimin this is not the same answer he had planned before they were interrupted. “I'm your guest, after all.”

“Hm, these are all my guests, though,” Jimin tilts his head, looking around the place. “But you’re my special one tonight.”

“Aren’t you a gentleman, Jimin-ssi?” Jeongguk laughs. 

“I can be, little prince,” the elder says, huffing a smile as he takes his fingers to brush against Jeongguk's chin, playfully. When he meets his eyes again, the other’s gaze is set on his lips. 

This time, Jimin doesn’t turn away. 

Instead, he leans closer. 

Jeongguk's hand is resting like a deadweight on his knee still, and Jimin lifts his chin, motining the prince to look at him—to really look at him. 

When the younger opens his mouth to speak, Jimin presses his lips against his, stealing the words through the kiss the way death takes all her wished souls with her. 

Jeongguk's eyelids shutter, humming into Jimin’s mouth—Jimin can't hear him, not in this tumultuous room, but he can feel him; the vibrations inside his mouth being the only movement to the kiss. 

When Jimin pulls back, he's not sure they've kissed at all. 

He sees the way Jeongguk's expression shifts from blissness into surprise and then into... eagerness. Eyes sharp, the touch that caresses Jimin's neck, determined and firm. 

That's when a hand falls flat on his right shoulder, making him jolt at the feeling. 

“Hey,” Namjoon calls from behind, and when Jeongguk's fingers fall off Jimin, he turns around to eye his friend above him, looking at him with an apologetic grimace. “Jimin-ah, you're—”

“Jeongguk-ah,” Jimin calls before he gives Namjoon the chance to finish his sentence. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me for a second,” he says as he gets up, palming his thighs. 

The prince seems a little startled by the suddenness, but he only nods with the mumble of an “Of course, Jimin-ssi” on his lips.

“Jimin,” Namjoon grabs his arm as they make their way through the tables. Jimin stops on the spot, motioning his head to the side. “You can skip tonight, if you want to—”

“No, it’s okay” Jimin argues simply. He bites down his bottom lip before he adds, “He’ll sit there and watch.”

Namjoon is laughing, head shaking when he answers. “Alright, then. Your wand,” he teases, offering Jimin a closed fan, vibrant orange caught like fire in his fingers. 

Jimin looks over for Jeongguk, who's facing him backwards, but he can tell he's bouncing his leg in nervousness, judging by the way the rest of his body echoes the bleeping movement—an inappropriate habit for a prince. Jimin finds it endearing. 

It’s when the previous singer finally makes his way down the stage that Jimin takes the lead, stepping toward the stairs to the side. 

Showtime. 

The stage is quite small, and when Jimin is standing on it, the expectant gazes, the lowering voices, make him feel cornered. 

It's always a moment, a mere instant, all it takes for Jimin to shake the shivers off his body. He has never been one to fear attention, never one to mind the pairs of eyes, all falling flat upon him. Especially not on this chipped, island stage. Not in front of this crowd. Not when he knows where it is he's dancing. 

A rat hole—nothing but a rat hole.  

music: bts — IDOL (korean traditional ver.)

No spotlight follows his movements when Jimin positions himself in the middle of the wooden surface, taking in a deep breath before he unwinds his fan, the orange flickering like a flame as he takes it to his side, his free hand stretched upwards, above his head. There is no spotlight here, never has been. It reminds Jimin of where he belongs—reminds him that people like him are meant to stay in the shadows. 

This cluttered room, in this abandoned theatre, is nothing but darkness; a sanctuary for those who cannot exist under the sunlight. 

Jimin doesn't mind, though. When he dances, he dances for himself. It's instinctive, the way his body, his soul, shifts whenever the first beat plays. It's only his body and the music, then—his soul and heart, bursting out of every single one of his muscles, aching to break free. Whatever stands beyond him, is nothing but blurred waves of darkness. 

Tonight, however, when Jimin hears the first clank of strings, he opens his eyes. 

And clear, right across the room, he meets him. 

There is no spotlight tonight. There is never a spotlight, for people like him. 

Jeongguk's eyes, however, seem to be just as blinding. 

It's mostly muscle memory, what brings Jimin to move at the sound of music, unwrapping slowly; a familiar melody he's vibrated through too many times already, but that still manages to feel new every single time. There's always something to rediscover, something new to feel. Every night, Jimin is reborn on this stage—not like a phoenix, no; more like... a flower, blessed to bloom and doomed to wither again and again and again. It's not something majestic, like a phoenix bird—although it is just as beautiful, still. But it's something rather small—tiny, so tiny only marauding eyes could find. 

Like a single flower, blossoming in the loneliness of an empty field. 

Like a single flower, dancing, living, blooming, blooming under the sunlight. 

That's how they feel—Jeongguk's eyes, staring at him, across the room. Like fire. Like sunlight. Warm, a bit dangerous, a bit distant, a bit too close. 

There is no spotlight tonight. 

His eyes. His eyes. His eyes. 

Jimin turns around with a swing of his body, an orange sunset fluttering in his fingers, sweat running underneath his clothes. Jimin doesn't feel it. 

He jumps at the sound of a drum, landing on one knee before he turns once again, this time on the floor, and then he's rising. 

He's blooming, his fan right above his arm, extended perpendicularly to the floor, his head falling to his shoulder, his heart hammering, stronger than the music. His eyes, weakening. His eyes, penetrating him. He's blooming. 

His feet take him somewhere far away, moving at their own will, and Jimin makes his way down the stairs, through the tables. 

To him. 

Jimin burns—but he doesn't fall. Not like Icarus, he doesn't... Jimin—he soars. He soars, and fire feels like wind now. Freeing. Enchanting. 

Jimin is dancing right in front of him, right in front of Jeongguk, and if there are people around him—if there's a world, beyond that blur—there's a wall, thick fog, in between them now. Jimin is still dancing, his fan moving like it's an extension of his arm. 

Like a petal. 

The song is coming to an end—Jimin knows it. He can feel it in his body, the way it's pulsating, yet still unable to stop, unable to cease moving. 

He swings around Jeongguk's chair now, the younger sitting there, but still turning to follow his every move. Jimin leans down, wrapping one arm around the prince's chest, although not touching him, keeping a layer of air, a layer of heat in between them. But then he turns in circles to stand in front of him once again, and Jimin doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't know where his body is taking him, but he follows—not like a fallen leaf follows the current of a stream; more like an arrow, fierce, decisive, piercing, follows the wind. 

Jimin's heart pulsates, so harsh it might as well drop off his chest at any time, and, for a moment, he thinks it does. For a moment, he's leaning down, and he stares into Jeongguk's eyes, and he breathes, and he stills, and the music stops, and he burns... and he burns... and he burns—

Chest heaving, he stays close. His face is only inches—a breath—away from the prince. All he'd have to do to taste those lips again is lean further. 

But he doesn't. 

He just stays there, numb, exhausted, quiet, so quiet. 

And then it's Jeongguk who's moving. 

The prince motions to reach upwards, neck craned, back straightened. 

Before he finds Jimin's lips, wind flows through them. 

Jimin is holding the fan, wide open, spread like a wall in between their mouths. This way, only their eyes meet, but Jeongguk must see Jimin is smiling, must notice the way his eyes have stretched into crescents. 

The room is still silent, the music long dead, and, as Jimin slowly comes back from the haziness—the numbness—he was immersed into, he can feel a sea of eyes, staring at them like owls in the night. 

They don't feel like Jeongguk's did, though. They don't feel like Jeongguk's do, right now, still boring into Jimin over the curved fan. 

It is slowly that Jimin begins to bring his arm down, and with it, his wand. The suddenness of Jeongguk's hot breath caressing his lips like summer breeze brings goosebumps to his skin. 

Jimin blinks, barely shaking his head, running clear once again. 

The more sober he feels, the heavier—the deeper, the better—Jeongguk's gaze feels on him.

This time, Jimin moves forward, his mouth aimed at Jeongguk's temple, where he brushes his lips dryly. 

“Follow me,” he breathes next to his ear. 

And then he's gone—gone like a breeze, gone like he's still dancing as he makes his way to the door. 

—

Jimin feels his heart racing against his chest as he stares at himself into the mirror, his body pulsating with exhaustion, pants breaking his mouth open. His eyelids threaten to shut off, but he fights his instincts back, only letting his head rest against nothing as he cracks his neck.

He breathes in. And out. And in. And out. 

Music and clattered voices start rumbling slowly from the distance, reaching Jimin’s room through his open door. It sounds like silence. Solitude, cut off by low, echoing pants. 

His skin is burning hot as Jimin unties his hanbok, letting it slide off his shoulders as he arches his back, the cloth falling down to his elbows and reaching the floor like curtains. 

That’s when he finds Jeongguk’s eyes, staring at his reflection on the mirror, his presence preceded by the sound of the swinging door. Even if it was open already, waiting for him only, Jeongguk doesn’t come in just yet, as though waiting for Jimin’s invitation. 

His eyes. What is it about his eyes?

Jimin turns around to face him. “Come, close the door,” he says before Jeongguk has the chance to speak, and the prince does as he is commanded. 

He barely steps in, a hand still on the lock as he eyes Jimin down across the room. The elder pays him no mind, heading to the vanity as he takes off his earrings, placing them on the wooden surface right next to his fan. The pads of his fingers lay to the side, and he doesn’t bother to look back as he speaks again. Even when he hears Jeongguk’s steps looming closer, he keeps his gaze down. 

A hand reaches for his shoulder then, sensing the body heat of the younger behind his back. 

“Can I—?” Jeongguk mutters, and when Jimin looks at the mirror, he finds him looking down at his hand, attempting to reach for Jimin’s, as his fingers are drawn from the older’s shoulder to graze the hair falling on his nape. His voice is low, a little raspy, vibrating hot behind his neck. 

Jimin nods before he forces himself to voice out an answer, still breathless, even if he’s not sure it’s from dancing anymore. “Yeah.”

The pads of Jeongguk’s fingers grace the older’s, climbing up his hand, tingling on his skin. A sigh escapes Jimin’s lips, but Jeongguk only goes higher, tracing his arms until he reaches Jimin’s elbow, gripping at the satin hanbok. The older feels the urge to close his eyes now stronger, but watching himself under Jeongguk’s attention is a sight he doesn’t want to miss. 

Lips press dryly on the base of his neck, making Jimin’s head fall to the side. “Beautiful,” he whispers before closing his lips around the skin again, almost breathing into it. It’s barely audible, but the word alone sends shivers down Jimin’s spine. 

It’s either that, or the feather-like feeling of the hanbok slipping off him, falling to the floor under Jeongguk’s hands. 

His touch is intoxicating, even if Jimin doubts he’s being touched at all. That’s something interesting about Jeongguk—the way he seems so eager, so impatient and straightforward at times, and now here he is, dedicating his entire attention to Jimin, barely moving, barely touching, barely doing anything. 

“I can’t hear you, little prince,” Jimin taunts, only because he wants to hear it again. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from—the strength to even talk at all right now, mind still a bit foggy under the effect of what just happened a few minutes ago. 

Jeongguk steps closer, gracing Jimin’s earlobe before he presses a kiss on the spot. 

“Beautiful,” he repeats next to his ear, lower than the first time. “Can you hear me now?”

Jimin's stomach pools with arousal at the sound of his words. Boy, can he hear him—he can feel him, the vibrations of Jeongguk’s voice running down his skin. It reminds him of the kiss they shared, the way Jeongguk felt against him. 

“Maybe I’ll need to hear it again.”

If Jeongguk’s voice wasn’t too much already, now his laugh strikes against him. He kisses the same spot before he lets his teeth play teasingly with his earlobe. 

“Is that so?” he hums. Jimin can hear him smiling. “Need to hear how beautiful you looked there? I think you’ve been told many times already, Jimin-ssi,” he speaks, his voice followed by fingers tracing up Jimin’s ribs. “I think you know just how beautiful you are.”

“I have—I do,” Jimin concedes with a smirk. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it from you, too.”

“I see,” Jeongguk mutters. “Then, I could show you,” Jeongguk leans closer, finally closing the space in between their bodies, and Jimin’s breath closes at his throat when he feels a hard bulge pressed against his ass, “just how fucking beautiful I thought you are.”

The older turns around now, but his eyes immediately fall down to Jeongguk’s crotch, enjoying the sight of his tented pants. 

“Oh, Jeonggukie,” he giggles, covering his mouth in a way that makes him look almost evil. “The mouth you carry.” Jimin traces his fingers down Jeongguk’s torso, feeling the defined muscles of his chest under his clothes. He grips at the rope around his waist, bringing the prince to him. Lips part when their crotches meet, finding pleasure when Jimin finally feels Jeongguk’s bulge against his half-hardened length, bodies pressed so tight he feels himself twitching inside his pants. “At least, I’m glad to see the prince is a man of his word.”

Jeongguk mirrors Jimin’s movements, jaw dropping and tilting his head, both of them angled just in the right amount, barely touching. Jimin sucks in the soju in the younger’s pants, their mouths so close, only a breath away from touching. 

His grip tightens around the rope, so snug Jimin knows it must burn underneath his clothes, and the idea of Jeongguk’s skin dove under the golden threads makes his lower stomach heat. It would look so pretty on his bare body. 

Letting his tongue peek out, he licks on Jeongguk’s upper lip, the velvety touch spreading a smirk underneath. 

“Now, little prince,” Jimin grins, “how do you like it?” he taunts as he grinds his body forward. “What do you want?”

Jeongguk hasn’t stopped smiling, but there’s something devilish on his smirk, in his gaze. He doesn’t reply after a few seconds, taking his time to think it through, and Jimin can see in his eyes the way possibilities flash inside him. He can see his answer before his voice comes out. “Fuck me,” he says—not as a plea, but as a command. Jimin twists his hand around the rope, knuckles white as it carves tighter onto Jeongguk’s waist. “I want you to fuck me.”

“I shouldn’t make the prince ask twice, then,” Jimin says before leaning forward, finally letting himself crash against Jeongguk’s lips. 

Pants and whines fill their mouths before their tongues find their ways inside each other, and if there was an unbearable sense of patience—as though testing themselves to see how much they’d be able to hold it in before they could let it out—, now, they show no shyness as their mouths tangle together, the wetness that threads them together breaking out as sloppy sounds, hot and messy. 

There’s no resistance in Jeongguk’s legs when Jimin dives his knee in between them, and neither is it in his mouth as he lets out a husked moan, breaking the kiss as a wave of pleasure runs through him. 

He takes the lead to nose the prince’s jawline, tongue and teeth teasing the skin. Jeongguk cranes to give him access, and Jimin feels tempted to suck a mark there and leave the print of his mouth wherever he can reach. 

“No—” Jeongguk hisses, catching Jimin’s thoughts, “no marks. Can’t.”

It’s barely a mumble, but Jimin doesn’t need an explanation for that. Although he’d be lying if he said the thought of the Grand Prince finding the king, with his skin tainted and abused and giving him in doesn’t excite him at the slightest. 

“Such a shame,” Jimin breathes, leaving a dry kiss under his ear, under his cheekbone. “You’d look so pretty, all marked up.” He leans back to draw his fingers down Jeongguk’s neck, following all the spots he’d place his lips on and let his tongue run freely. “Everyone would know what the little prince was up to while all those guards were looking for him.”

A whimper leaves Jeongguk’s mouth, turning to face Jimin now before he leans in for a short kiss before he speaks. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” He pecks the corner of Jimin’s mouth, hand on the side of his neck. “Knowing you’re still causing me trouble after I leave.”

“Hm,” Jimin grants with a smirk, tugging a curly strand of hair behind Jeongguk’s ear before he presses a kiss next to it. “But I think you’d love it just as much. I think you love a little trouble, Jeongguk-ah. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk scoffs. “Maybe I do.” 

When the younger’s mouth is on him once again, it’s even messier than before, but they don’t bother to break apart as they make their way to Jimin’s bed. However, it’s only Jeongguk who stumbles upon it, feet still on the floor while the rest of his body lays on the sheets, arms spread to his sides. 

Jimin towers above him, eyeing him down, taking in the way his chest heaves erratically, noticing the way his figure wanes from his shoulders to his waist. 

He’s eyeing Jimin through his lashes, glowing under the dim light, hair messy and lips swollen and tinted in the same crimson flush as his cheeks and—fuck, he’s prettier than Jimin could have imagined. Beautiful. So beautiful, laying like this. 

The older doesn’t bother to unbutton down his shirt, only undoing it enough so he can lift it up freely, and he feels his body grow hotter under Jeongguk’s dusky gaze. It makes his heart beat faster, something burning through his veins. 

Neck craning, tongue peeking at the corner of his mouth, Jimin finds the button of his pants, undoing it as well—yet not taking it down, only letting it slide slightly so that his lower stomach is exposed, letting Jeongguk’s imagination complete the trail of hair streaming down his belly button until it hides somewhere under his clothes.

If Jeongguk wants to move, he’s doing quite well in holding back, refraining to wait patiently for Jimin to do as he pleases. 

“You look good in my clothes,” Jimin says before crawling on top of him, Jeongguk’s welcoming hands finding his hips, tugging under his loose waistband as nails claw at the skin. “Though I bet you’d look much better without them.”

“Then, what are you waiting for?” he bites. “Fucking take them off. You and that mouth of yours,” Jeongguk chews on his bottom lip. “Big on talking, but that’s all you do. You’re all for the show.” 

Jimin wants to laugh. This guy—fucking unbelievable. If he doesn’t keep his mouth shut, he’s going to drive him insane. 

He takes Jeongguk’s hands off his hips, pining his arms above his head—to which Jeongguk has the audacity to fucking smirk. 

Insane, he’s driving Jimin insane. 

“You might be a prince out there, Jeongguk-ah,” he husks. “But in my bed, you say please.” 

Jeongguk doesn’t take the challenge, only laughs again, lazily letting his head fall to the side so that his cheek is resting on the mattress.

Jimin has to fight back the urge to reach for his neglected cock at the response. 

One hand unwraps from the prince’s wrists to grab him by his jaw, but although the touch is firm, it’s not harsh—yet it’s enough for Jeongguk to compel into it. 

“The rumors are true, I see,” Jimin lets out an airy chuckle. “You are a fucking brat.” 

Jeongguk’s lips spread into a smirk. “Yeah,” he concedes. “And the best you’ll ever have.”

Even though they haven’t done anything yet, Jimin can say he’s right. 

It’s nothing like this, whenever he ends up in bed with someone underneath his body. As much as he likes the chasing, the coming and going, it never feels this good. Jimin is a player—and a tough one. But, usually, things never fail to rush until clothes are off, letting his body simply give in to his urges, nights always too short until he craves no more for company, but for the comfort of an empty bed instead. 

With Jeongguk, it’s different. No matter how much his cock aches in his pants in need of attention, in need of heat, this—the chasing—gives him just as much pleasure as he knows he’ll find in between Jeongguk’s legs. There’s a bit of yearning, even—something Jimin had never felt, not with a stranger, not with anyone. 

And he likes it. He likes it the same way he liked how Jeongguk’s name tasted on his lips the very first time he voiced it out. 

It’s the motion of want, unwinding through their bodies, slowly, patiently, bursting out from the tips of his fingers all the way to his toes. Like a lightning, captured in their bodies, albeit spreading with the unraveling pace of thunder. 

Jeongguk’s eyes glint when he dives into him. And Jimin counts, the same way he always counts the seconds when there’s a storm, to know how far the tempest is, how long it takes thunder to follow light. 

One heartbeat.

Two heartbeats. 

Three.

Jeongguk reaches upwards for his lips, but instead of thunder, there’s a moan—a high-pitched one—erupting into the prince’s mouth. 

And, just like the storm unveils, Jimin finally lets go of Jeongguk, hands finding his clothes instead. 

The younger follows his lead, arching his back and lifting his torso to let Jimin take it all off, skin still on fire as it breathes freely into the cold air, and December never felt warmer. Their chests meet through a layer of heat and sweat as Jeongguk sits up, bringing Jimin to straddle his lap as they breathe into each other. Kissing Jeongguk like this feels raw, even if they’re still not fully naked, and he’s sure the anticipation could just as well kill him. 

His hands cup the younger’s nape for a second, feeling the wet curls sticking to the skin before he reaches down, finding hardened nipples this time. A hiss pulls Jeongguk’s teeth to bite down Jimin’s lips, body squirming at the touch. 

“Bit sensitive?” Jimin whispers, face hiding in the conjecture between Jeongguk’s neck and shoulder. He’s still breathless, and at this point, he feels as though his lungs will run entirely out of air at any point. 

Jimin feels the room spin, chest drumming harshly as their pants and underwear go off before they both messily stumble back on the bed, Jeongguk still under him, and their moans flow in unison when Jimin grinds on his body, their lengths dryly humping together. 

Relief spreads through his body now that he’s finally giving a glimpse of attention to his cock, desperately needing it and giving in to whatever friction he can create. His nails dig into Jeongguk’s shoulders when he feels hands grabbing at his hips, low enough so that fingers crave in the smooth skin of his butt. 

The sounds the prince makes are sweet and poisonous, and Jimin can’t help but search for his lips, wanting to swallow it all—to swallow him whole.

“So pretty, Jeongguk-ah,” Jimin breathes as he goes down, tracing his mouth along the column of Jeongguk’s throat, his shoulders, his clavicles. He lets his tongue slip easily, loving the feeling of his body squirming under his lips. “So pretty, laying like this on my bed.”

He presses a long, eager kiss on the skin, earning a whimper from Jeongguk. Jimin looks up, eyes meeting. “Can I...?” he draws circles with his index finger, coated with saliva after he just took it inside his mouth, pecking the spot next to it. 

Jeongguk nods frantically before he answers. “Yeah, there—just be careful,” he mumbles, and Jimin is already closing his lips on the skin, tongue swirling before he sucks in. 

Kisses turn into bites as he explores Jeongguk’s chest with his mouth, eager to mark him all up. He is careful, just as he’s told, and, as much as he wishes he could leave another hickey on his neck, somewhere visible, something about having to keep this a secret is just as exciting. And, maybe, the idea of Jeongguk seeing the print of Jimin’s lips on his body when he’s alone, knowing it was only meant for him, excites him even more. 

Jimin works his way down the prince’s torso, encouraged by his gentle hands, tangled in his hair and following his movements. When he reaches his lower stomach, Jimin wraps his fingers around Jeongguk’s length, the embrace welcomed with a low moan. Lips on his hips, head turned to the side so that he can admire Jeongguk’s cock, only inches away, Jimin swirls his thumb on the head, spreading precum on the sensitive skin. 

“Shit,” the younger hisses as he cranes his neck, and Jimin can see his Adam’s apple, surfacing under the defined jawline. 

After spitting into his hand, Jimin takes Jeongguk’s cock once again, this time gripping at the length and slowly moving, barely enough to have him squirming, trying to chase for more friction.

“Aren’t you desperate, little prince?” he smirks, fist moving slower than before, tightening his hold. “Feel good?”

“No,” Jeongguk bites, a bit breathless. “You’re too fucking slow. I asked you to fuck me, and you’re going shy on me. I should’ve just fucked my hand. Would’ve made myself come already.” God, Jimin wants to wreck him—wants to have him completely broken until all that comes out of his mouth are moans and whimpers and his name. 

“Hm,” Jimin mutters, seeming completely immune to Jeongguk’s words. “Want me to stop, then?” he asks, but he unwraps his fingers before he can get an answer, cock falling flat to his stomach. 

“Fuck—no,” he complains, but he doesn’t even reach for himself, simply letting his cock ache there, abandoned. 

Jimin smirks, getting off the bed and on his feet, to which Jeongguk whimpers desperately. 

He feels his body pulsating as he walks toward a drawer, spotting the lubricant but still not taking it—only to keep Jeongguk a bit on edge, for the sake of it.

“You want me to fuck you, Jeongguk-ah?” he asks over his shoulder. 

The prince lifts up his torso, resting his weight on his elbows. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Been thinking about it since the moment I saw you.”

Something knots inside Jimin’s abdomen, sending tickles right to his cock. He knows Jeongguk is not lying—damn, he got hard only watching him dance. Jimin would laugh at him for it, if only he hadn’t been thinking about that ever since they met, too.

“Good,” he says plainly. It’s now that he takes the lubricant in his hand, closing the drawer behind him as he hops on the bed. Jeongguk falls back on the mattress, eyes wide. “Then, I’m gonna fuck you,” Jimin says, drawing his fingers down Jeongguk’s cheek before he pecks his lips, dry and short, tender, like the kiss of death. “But, first, I’ll make you say please.” 

And just like that, Jimin lowers himself, reaching for Jeongguk’s cock with his mouth this time while he coats his fingers in the small bottle. 

He swallows his length in a go, steadying himself as Jeongguk vibrates under him, working his tongue before he bobs his head. 

He hums, drool already slipping off the corners of his lips, and he takes his time before his hand falls on Jeongguk’s balls. If his shy moans were heavenly before, now the sounds he’s making are nothing but sinful. He slides his fingers through the skin until he reaches his cheeks, index finger rubbing on the rim. 

If Jeongguk wants to ask him—tell him—to hurry, he can’t, mouth too full of moans as Jimin motions his head up and down, not too fast since he’s also giving attention to his hole, pushing a knuckle in, but along with the licks of his tongue, it’s enough to wreck Jeongguk just the same. 

He finds little resistance when he pushes the finger in, but he gives the prince the time to get used to the feeling before he starts moving, fucking in and out at a quickening pace with every second. He uses his other hand to hold the base of Jeongguk’s cock, and at some point, he lets his mouth go to take a breath, upper lip spread on the tip before he licks shyly, savoring the bittersweet taste.

“Another one,” Jeongguk says, and, although Jimin does as he is told and slips in a second digit, he doesn’t miss the way Jeongguk still fights back that please. Still, for now, Jimin will let him have it his way. 

Two makes three before the prince even has to ask for it, and Jimin shows no shyness when he fucks his fingers in and out, feeling the way Jeongguk’s walls stretch around him. He feels only slightly ashamed when a moan leaves his lips at the thought of how good his cock will feel inside anytime soon. It’s like he’s been hard for hours at this point, but his cock only pulsates more with every reaction he earns from Jeongguk. He wants to reach out for himself, but instead he only closes his lips around Jeongguk’s length again, muffling his own whimpers this time. 

The vibrations inside his mouth seem to get Jeongguk just as worked up. 

“Your cock,” he breathes. “Your—fuck, Jimin. Fuck me. You’ve made me wait enough. Fuck me.”

Hell, Jeongguk’s voice sounds so broken, so sweet, Jimin almost feels tempted to just give in and finally please him in the way he wants. 

Almost. 

“That’s not a nice way to ask, little prince,” he says, sloping off his mouth to rest his head on Jeongguk’s thigh, close enough to lick at his balls. The younger eyes him through his lashes and Jimin swears he has never seen anyone this beautiful. He wants Jeongguk to give in already, he wants to be able to be inside him right now. 

“Holy shit,” he hisses brokenly when Jimin hits just the right spot. He angles his fingers to reach for it once, twice again. And again. And— “Fuck—fuck me. Fuck me already, Jimin. Need your cock now. Please—please.”

Jimin lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he hears the word, relief running through his body as he motions to coat his own cock, allowing himself to give it a few messy strokes in the process. “I thought you’d never ask,” he pants through a smirk, leaning down to place himself in between Jeongguk’s legs, spreading instinctively and wrapping around his sides. When he lines up his tip in between Jeongguk’s asscheeks, Jimin closes his eyes, shutting all the way until he’s fully in, his cock completely swollen inside Jeongguk. 

When he opens his eyes again, he finds the younger, mouth open and eyes glowing with pleasure and want, and he has to lean in to kiss him shortly before he rests his head on the column of his throat. 

“Gonna start moving, baby,” he whispers, to which Jeongguk nods. 

And so he does, slipping his cock out only to slam it back in, body collapsing against the prince’s, the clashing sound of skin against skin hidden under the strong moans that leave their mouths.

He feels the exhaustion weighing on his body when he starts slamming in and out at a steady pace. His sore muscles, flooded now with a heavy pleasure, make the high feel even higher every time he buries his cock deep inside Jeongguk’s ass. He doesn’t go too fast, rather deep, making every single motion heavier, longer. He likes it, the way Jeongguk’s face twists with every sensation, the way he doesn’t hold back his moans to let Jimin feel every wave of pleasure striking through him, the way he grabs his head, his hair, so gently and so roughly at the same time, the way he keeps mumbling “So good, Jimin, make me feel so good, fill me up so well,” almost incoherently every time Jimin aims for the right spot. 

He loves the way he’s so open to show him everything that goes on in his mind. Contrary to how he was at the beginning, he doesn’t ask Jimin to go faster, harder, simply taking it all eagerly, and Jimin wants to just… give him the best he’s ever had. Same way Jeongguk is giving it to him right now. 

He lifts his legs higher, positioning himself for a better angle, going deeper than before. 

He feels close, his building orgasm being the only thing keeping his body from going completely numb.

“You tired?” Jeongguk breathes, hand cupping the side of Jimin’s neck. The elder doesn’t have to answer for him to know that he is, the weight of a too long day breaking down onto him. “Let me help you,” Jeongguk adds, reaching for his lips. “Let me ride you.” 

It’s Jimin now who is breathless, only nodding at the offer. 

The switch until it’s Jimin now, laying underneath him, and the sight of Jeongguk towering above him makes him gasp. 

His defined muscles glow with sweat under the dim light, his thighs looking even thicker now enveloping Jimin’s sides. There’s something powerful about his presence, about the way he sinks down onto Jimin’s cock, about his gaze when he stares down at Jimin, full of lust and something... deeper. Brighter. 

For a moment, Jimin thinks this is what he’d look like, sitting on a throne—a funny thing to picture, knowing that was never Jeongguk’s fate to begin with. 

His hips start rocking, cock bouncing with the movement, and Jimin simply lays down, watching the way his muscles flex in the motion, hair waving, chest bumping and blossoming with the prettiest marks Jimin has painted on him. 

“Won’t take long,” Jimin hisses before a moan leaves his mouth. Jeongguk keeps moving his hips in circles, arching his body and resting his hand back on Jimin’s legs to find balance. “I’m—fuck, keep going. I’m close.”

“Me too,” Jeongguk whispers, eyes shutting off, head lolling back. 

Without notice, Jimin fists at the younger’s cock, gripping and making him sing with pleasure. He slides his hand messily, trying to keep up with Jeongguk’s pace.

When white strings fall down Jeongguk’s abdomen, music erupting out of his mouth, lighting strikes inside of Jimin, shooting a stinking pleasure as he comes deep inside Jeongguk, feeling him clench as he keeps riding him erratically, and Jimin swears his soul leaves his body for a mere second. 

He closes his eyes, body trembling, hands fisting at the sheets, lips shivering and toes curling. And, in the blackness, the printed image of Jeongguk, coming above him, spilling all over himself as he kept rocking on Jimin like his fucking life depended on it resurges again; so clear, so vivid. Jimin just reached his orgasm at the sight of it—at the sight of him. 

For a moment, he feels like he’ll fall asleep right on the spot, the numbness of pleasure so strong it could send him floating away. But, when Jeongguk’s body collapses on his side, swollen lips parted and panting against his shoulder, it’s enough to make him crack his eyes open again, vision still a bit blurred. 

And, for the very first time in what feels like ages, the room is silent again, so quiet that the distant chatter intrudes again, barely a whisper, barely a sigh.

Neither of them speak, but Jimin appreciates the moment. It’s slow, when he hears Jeongguk’s breath grow steadier, lighter. Jimin lifts up his body so that his back is resting against the pillows, bringing Jeongguk to his side. 

“Are you okay, little prince?” he asks as he takes one hand to Jeongguk’s cheek, the other finding his inner thigh and drawing circles on the skin. 

The younger looks up at him through his lashes, and there’s the glint of a smile—not on his lips, but in his eyes. “I think you know the answer for that,” he gruffs, still more air than voice to be heard. He sounds so wrecked it makes Jimin twist inside. 

“I’ll clean us up,” Jimin announces before leaving the bed to search for some rags, taking the coats for their hanboks from the floor before he joins Jeongguk in bed again. 

As he wipes the piece of cloth through his body, he bores into the details he had failed to admire before. Everything about Jeongguk is so delicate, so beautiful—strangely enough, even more now that the pleasure-induced bliss has lifted. 

“They’re pretty. All these marks,” says Jimin, fingers running through Jeongguk’s hair. A giggle that holds nothing sort of innocent escapes his lips. “They’ll look even prettier in the morning.”

“Someone’s proud,” Jeongguk scoffs, to which Jimin only laughs because—hell, he is. 

He leans down, aiming for the younger’s lips as they sigh into each other’s mouths. 

He leans down, aiming for the younger’s lips as they sigh into each other’s mouths. “Do you have to go just yet? Or were you planning to stay for a while?” asks Jimin, standing up and reaching for the hanbok, letting the loose satin clothes cover him. He realizes now how cold it is, the cool air making his skin break into goosebumps. He offers the same piece he had given Jeongguk before, knowing he must be a little chilly as well, before he walks up to his vanity, feeling the younger's gaze on his back. 

“Hm, not just yet.”

Jimin reaches for a compartiment right next to the mirror. “Then,” he turns around, letting Jeongguk see the bottle of wine held in his hand, "we can unwind and have some fun."

The prince laughs, letting his head fall on his shoulder, before he gets up to join him. Jimin admires the view, looking like royalty in his clothes, even if he didn't even bother to properly tie the lace around his waist—but Jimin likes it just like this. 

“Cup?” Jimin offers. “Or straight from the bottle?”

Jeongguk smiles at that, but he's not facing Jimin now, only wandering around the room as he lets his eyes explore the place as they please. “No need to be so formal, Jimin-ah.”

“Straight from the bottle, it is.”

A giggle captures Jimin's attention, making him turn to try and spot what it is that Jeongguk found so funny. 

That's when he spots the beret, held in his hands. 

“I hope you know that's mine now,” Jimin taunts, a smirk on his face devilish enough to let Jeongguk know he means it. 

It's a really fucking precious beret, after all. 

“Yeah,” the younger scoffs. “Don't worry, I know.”

He walks up to Jimin, the older steady on his spot, only his torso turned to the side as he admires Jeongguk, who's too focused playing with the beret in his fingers to mind him. 

And, just like he did earlier, Jimin finds Jeongguk's eyes in the mirror once he's standing behind him. 

Hands curve on his shoulders, fingers so smooth and delicate, traveling to his clavicles, his neck. 

And then, Jeongguk places the beret on Jimin's head, even fixing his hair to fit it just perfectly. 

A mellow voice caresses his ear, “Looks good on you,” Jeongguk breathes before he places a kiss on his temple. Jimin watches him on the mirror—watches himself on the mirror, under Jeongguk's touch. The beret, so dissonant with the hanbok that hangs loosely from his shoulders, still manages to look so well, the lighting of the room making it look like gold on his head. Jeongguk catches his eyes once again, whispering right into him as their gazes lock together. "Suits you like a crown," he hisses so low, so deep, he sounds like a snake—feels like a snake, gracing Jimin’s ear with velvet-coated words. 

Jimin turns around in his hands, resting back on the vanity as he eyes Jeongguk through squinted eyes, smirking lips. 

He takes the wine from behind him, taking it to his mouth. 

“Geonbae for the crownless,” he smiles, taking a sip, still not letting go of Jeongguk's gaze. 

The prince smiles, one hand on Jimin's hip, the other wrapped around the neck of the bottle. 

“And geonbae for the crows.”

When Jimin drinks in a kiss, he feels the taste of the words once again. 

Wine, he thinks, one more time. They taste like wine. 

—

Jimin is not surprised to find an empty bed when he wakes up. As his eyes open, slowly taking in his surroundings, he realizes it's day already. 

The sobriety hits him gradually as he wakes up from his daze, images of last night—images of Jeongguk—flashing through his mind like shadows. It's all blurry—not because he doesn't remember, but rather because so much happened in less than a day, looking back, he only catches glimpses of moments as he tries to organize his thoughts. 

Although, if it weren't for the lingering soreness of his muscles, he'd probably doubt it even happened. 

Well, that—and the beret, placed to his side on the bed, along with a note. 

Jimin takes the paper, finding himself chuckling as he reads. 

     I’d tell you to consider this a gift, but it’d be unfair, I think, considering…

     Oh, and that pretty fan of yours? Well, I’d tell you to consider that a gift to remember you by. But I think you’d rather call it business, am I right?

     Don’t worry, though. I’ll make sure to give it back to you the next time I come around. But until then, have a drink on me, will you? 

He huffs a scoff, shaking his head as he peeks over the vanity, trying to spot the fan where he had left it last night. 

Just as he expected—nothing to be seen. 

“The fucking jerk,” Jimin curses through a smile, jumping out of bed to get ready for the day. 

When he meets his first client, later that morning, Jimin turns to him with wide arms and a wider smile, a golden-looking beret resting on his head, and a well-known phrase slipping through his lips. 

‘You’ve come to the right man.’