Yoongi swipes a glance at him. What is he playing at? Should Yoongi start being wary? “So you don’t believe in soulmates.” “No.” “But you like mysteries.” “Yes..?” “And you love your job.” “Yes.” “Can I call you hyung?” “Yes. Oh, wait—“ “Ha!” Jimin teases. “Caught you.”

open.spotify.com/track/3p6hnejE…

AU where Yoongi is a museum curator at a gallery in Seoul. One day a huge delivery comes in—a recently found set of paintings circa 1500s, tracing back to the Joseon period. Artist unknown. The paintings all seem to portray one subject: a slender, long-haired male dancer

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To those subscribed to my Patreon, surprise! You can now access a snippet of Jimin’s POV below. This is a deleted scene that will not be included in the main thread

Once again, thank you for the overwhelming love & support!! patreon.com/posts/52909250

The silence that descends following Jimin’s reading feels so thick it seems to permeate inch of the car. Yoongi finds that his throat feels scratchy. When he clears his throat, tears sting at back of his eyes. “Sheesh,” Jimin musters shakily, putting the tablet down in his lap.

“I know it was centuries ago, but”—Jimin looks out the window—“finding out how your ancestor died... feels kinda shitty man.” Eyeing the still-open memoir on his tablet, Yoongi tamps down the urge to ask Jimin to read back a few pages. Not when the guy seems so visibly affected.

Yoongi’s fingers tremble on the steering wheel. He is not in the business of faking sympathy for others—he’s a museum curator, not a therapist—but he finds himself brimming with full sincerity as he mumbles, “Wh-what a jerk.” “Huh?” Jimin cuts him a wary look. “That prince.”

He turns the car out of the expressway and into the road that leads out into Gangneung city. He ignored the way Jimin’s lower lip wobbles. “Princess Songhwa said this happened after the new Crown Prince stepped in, right?” “Yeah.” “He must’ve ordered it, then. What a bastard.”

“You don’t know that,” Jimin counters softly. “Anyway, earlier when you said the letters were threats—what did you mean?” Yoongi swipes his tongue over his upper teeth, deep in thought. “They weren’t explicit. They were riddles, idioms.” “Then how’d you know they were threats?”

“I’m not saying for sure that they are. But the imagery used...” Yoongi shakes his head. “It’s gut instinct. They seemed to be layered in some kinda double-meaning. I mean, ‘Shoot down the bird blocking the sun in the sky, casting a shadow over the town’ sounds pretty taunting.”

“In what way?” “You know that a metaphor for the rulers of the Joseon dynasty was ‘Sun’ right?” “And the queens are called moons, yes. I know my sageuk, dude. I binge-watched The Moon Embracing The Sun with my aunts when I was in high school— ooh, hyung, hyung, look outside!”

Their roadtrip has brought them to Gangwon-do. By now they’ve crossed the expressway toll, emerging into an open skyway, and Yoongi spares a glance outside at the same time that Jimin rolls down the window and cries happily, “It’s the sea!” “Jimin, keep it down—“ “Hello, WOOO!”

Yoongi muffles a snort, reminding himself to keep his eyes peeled to the road. But every now & then, he catches his gaze slipping. Stark against the hue of the approaching dusk, Jimin’s sunset-dappled cheeks appear emblazoned in gold. He looks angelic— “TAEHYUNG-AAH! I’M HERE!”

A smile cracks over Yoongi’s face. He doesn’t even bother shushing the guy. “Isn’t Taehyung deep in the mountains or something? How’s he supposed to hear you?” “The wind will carry my affections,” Jimin explains gravely, turning to face Yoongi for a brief moment. “HELLO, WORLD!”

“Yes, hello to you too,” Yoongi mutters playfully, rolling down his own window to enjoy the breeze. His palms are sweaty, but not from anxiety. “World, is this the youth you told me about?” Jimin screams into the open seascape. “World, have we met before?” “Maybe,” Yoongi says.

With a gasp, Jimin’s head swivels around and he stares at Yoongi, eyes softening. Against the window, silhouetted by sunset, his gaze sends heat like embers prickling up Yoongi’s nape. “I think so, too.” Yoongi’s brows knit together as he studies the man thoughtfully. “Mmm.”

“I’ve known you 4 days, Min Yoongi, and we’ve never met before,” Jimin sighs, eyes closing as he leans back to rest his head. “And yet the world tells me we have, we have.” Yoongi feels his chest constrict. For a foolish second he wants to reach out and— “Can I hold your hand?”

“What—“ Yoongi splutters, heartbeat spiking. His hands tighten over the steering wheel, gripping for dear life. “Relax,” Jimin coaxes, lifting his right hand by the wrist & laying their palms flat together. “I just wanted to see.” “See what?” “If it’s still bigger than mine.”

A car horn from behind snaps him back to focus. Yoongi realizes the car’s been slowing down. He snatches his hand back and places it firmly on the wheel. “Of course it is.” Wait. How does he know that? He turns to Jimin, who wears a mirroring frown. Then Jimin’s stomach growls.

The tension in the car breaks with their chorused laughter. Yoongi’s cheeks hurt with the fierceness of his grin, and as he steers closer into the city center, he says, “It’s getting dark. Dinner?” Jimin’s answering smile is like clouds parting. “I was craving for samgyetang.”

(A/N: here’s a fav of mine to match the scene ^^) open.spotify.com/track/3p6hnejE…

Euphoria

BTS · Song · 2018

They stop at a local restaurant and order two steaming bowls of samgyetang to fight off the steadily growing autumn wind that comes with the night. While their food gets served in front of them, Yoongi can’t help but feel pinned by Jimin’s googly eyes on him. “What?” “What?”

“Is there something on my face?” “Yes,” Jimin says. “Beauty.” Yoongi narrows his eyes. “If you’re trying to buy my good graces, you’re doing a shitty job.” “Eyy, I don’t have to,” Jimin laughs. He leans forward, cupping his chin. “So. Since when did you fall in love with me?”

Broth spurts out of Yoongi’s nose mid-sip. “I- what?!” Jimin gestures to the space between them. “Look at you, now look at me. Look at you, now look at me. It’s a date.” “Are you quoting an Old Spice commercial?” “No, I was singing a BLACKPEACH single.” Jimin smiles primly.

None of that matters to Yoongi right now; there’s only one word that stands out from whatever gibberish Park Jimin has just spouted. “We are on a business trip.” “You trusted a stranger’s tip, brought him out with you in your expensive, and now you’re eating together. Romance!”

“This isn’t a /date/ until I say it is.” “And this isn’t a not-date until I say it isn’t!” Jimin holds up a peace sign. “It’s okay. No need to be nervous, you look like a cornered cat who’s never been in a romantic relationship.” Yoongi squirms in his seat and sips quietly.

“Wait, unless...” Jimin trails off, and Yoongi focuses very hard on the piece of tissue tucked under his bowl. Such intricate patterns pressed into the paper. What fine art. “Oh. Ohhh. Hyuuung,” Jimin singsongs. “Have you ever fallen in love before? Dated?”

Yoongi carefully takes his time dipping his spoon into the bowl, and carefully takes his time sipping the broth. Part of him fears getting made fun of. The other part wills him to stay honest. “No.” To his surprise, Jimin doesn’t point and laugh. “How come?” Yoongi hesitates.

What is there to be said about Min Yoongi’s approach to love and dating? He would perhaps compare it to finding good apples at the marketplace. Too bad he hasn’t even found a worthy marketplace at all. “Didn’t feel right.” “Hmm. Then maybe find someone who doesn’t feel wrong.”

Yoongi lowers his spoon against the edge of his bowl, jaw clenching. In a heartbeat of a second, he seems to grasp something—words stitched in the fabric of his memory. /If you are so lonely, & worry too greatly about making mistakes, find allies who don’t make you feel wrong./

The rest of what comes next gets drowned by a strong wave of tinnitus ringing painfully in his ears. Yoongi grimaces and clutches at his head. “Hey,” Jimin’s voice fills with concern. “Everything alright?” “You,” Yoongi rasps, swallowing thickly. Jimin points at himself. “Me?”

“You talk too much,” Yoongi explains. The pain knocking at his temples subsides. “I thought you were hungry? Eat up.” Jimin pouts but obliges. They eat dinner wordlessly, and Yoongi’s attention drifts to a live telecast on the TV propped against the far wall of the restaurant:

“/An annular solar eclipse, also known as the 'ring of fire', is set to light up the skies of South Korea tomorrow. It will be visible between 11.24am to noon, and is the first eclipse of this kind to occur in over 99 years.../“ “Oooh,” Jimin comments, staring at the TV.

“I hope we can see it better from the mountain temple!” Yoongi resists the urge to tap his knuckles against Jimin’s forehead. “You fool. One shouldn’t view a solar eclipse directly with the naked eye. You could go blind. And besides, we’re not here to go sightseeing.” “Blergh.”

The newscast switches to current affairs, and to Yoongi’s utter dismay, he sees a shot of himself at the Seoul Folk Museum, with a photo of the paintings juxtaposed next to his face. “No comment,” TV Yoongi says. “How profound!” Jimin cries out in glee. “What a celebrity.”

Yoongi glowers at him. “Don’t pay attention to that, yah, are you done eating? We should go.” Jimin’s lips curve. “Sure, but wait!” He fumbles around for his phone. “What now?” Yoongi groans. “Let’s take a selca to celebrate our first date!” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “It’s not—“

He barely gets to finish his sentence when Jimin crowd around him, grinning and resting a hand over his shoulder. “Say ‘kimchi’!” Yoongi inches away reluctantly. “Come on, be serious.” “I am.” “What’s this for, then?” Jimin’s face is solemn. “In case you forget me again.”

His eyes seem to twinkle with something other than mirth tonight, but Yoongi doesn’t let himself acknowledge that. He doesn’t even know what rubbish the guy spits half the time. Rubbing the back of ear, Yoongi sighs. “Fine, fine. Take a damn selca. Then we hit the road.” “Yay!”

[quick break, be back in 15min! uwu]

THANK YOU FOR THE ART!

@Ane they’re wonderful.

I love your art style sm ;;

By “hit the road”, Yoongi meant to keep moving, not to literally hit a road—in the form of a dead end. “Please don’t tell me we’re lost,” Jimin says, looking out over the window. “Do you perhaps have night blindness and can’t read directions?”

“My eyesight is perfectly fine,” Yoongi, reversing and sighing in relief when they reach the main road again. He flicks his wrist. 9pm. With the sun completely down now— “It’ll be impossible to reach Taehyung this late,” Jimin announces. Yoongi clucks his tongue impatiently.

“I know, I know—pressed for time,” Jimin says, seeming to read his mind. “But we can’t hike at this hour. Even I wouldn’t trust myself with navigating the mountain path to reach the family temple. Too dangerous.” Yoongi lets out a frustrated breath. “Let’s find a motel for now.”

“Ooooh,” Jimin cackles, beside himself with giddiness. “Is this the part where the receptionist tells us there’s only one room left, and there’s only one bed, and—“ “Don’t get your hopes up,” Yoongi says. “That kind of thing only happens in dramas.” “You’d be surprised.”

At that moment, lightining scissors across the sky, followed by a clap of thunder. Next to Yoongi, Jimin tenses. Then the sky parts and starts pouring. Yoongi says nothing, but he may or may not have stepped a little harder on the pedal so they could secure a place quicker.

“Two rooms, please,” Yoongi says over the counter at the nearest place they could find—a traditional, Korean style inn, similar to the Hanok stays in the tourist districts of Seoul. “Just a minute, please,” the receptionist says.

Another roll of thunder reverberates through the sky, and Yoongi bristles when cold fingers grab him by the crook of his elbow. “Hmm?” He glances over his shoulder to find Jimin sporting an uncharacteristic frown, lips pressed thinly together. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Ah, so you’re brazen enough to say shameless things and strut around all day, but a little rain and thunder bothers you?” Jimin looks away pointedly, not emitting a single noise. Yoongi frowns. He was expecting the guy to come up with a wily retort.

“I don’t vibe with storms,” Jimin says, gaze pinned to the wooden floor. “But, ah. I can understand if it it bothers you.” “What does?” “The idea of two men together sharing a room can be uncomfortable if you aren’t used to it. I take it as you haven’t served the military yet?”

“What the- I have,” Yoongi says, petulant. “Then why?” Jimin pouts and peers out the nearest window, into the sheets of rain pattering against the ground. “It’s a brotherly experience, is it not? Brotherhood. If I make you so uncomfortable, then—“ “Fine, fine,” Yoongi grumbles.

He’ll show Jimin he’s not bothered by proximity. Real men sleep side by side! Brotherhood! He stalks back to the counter and whispers to the receptionist, “Actually make it one room, please. But with 2 beds.” With his back turned, he doesn’t see Jimin pumping a fist in the air.

Their room is small and quaint, but boasts a charming view of the garden that looks like it should belong in some period drama. As soon as Yoongi pushes aside the sliding door, a phantom rush courses through him, overwhelming him enough to make him sway. “You okay?” asks Jimin.

Yoongi directs a polite smile at him. “Just. A case of vertigo.” He doesn’t mention how there’s a tingling in his ears or a niggling sense at the back of his mind that he’s been here before. That would be eerie, since he’s never personally had an overnight stay in Gangwon before.

Maybe he should get checked when he gets back to Seoul. For all he knows, he could be coming down with an illness or something. He tells Jimin to shower first, and while waiting Yoongi sits at the edge of the door, looking out over the rain-soaked garden.

He stretches out a hand and catches fat raindrops from the roof. There’s a loneliness to this place, Yoongi thinks. An aching emptiness, spreading and pulsing into the life force of each bonsai plot, each wooden beam supporting the ceiling. Or maybe Yoongi is just overthinking.

(A/N: This song. Means so much to this story.) open.spotify.com/track/6SOw5Yco…

open.spotify.com/track/6SOw5Yco…

Photo of My Mind

Song Ga In · Song · 2020

Just then, the other door slides open and Jimin steps in, towelling off his wet hair while humming to himself. It’s a melody that strikes something deep in Yoongi. He turns, frowing slightly. “What song is that?” “Huh? Oh.” Jimin shrugs. “I don’t know. I just hum whatever.”

The conversation ends there, and Yoongi takes his turn to shower. Later that night, while they tuck into their separate beds, Yoongi takes out his tablet, casting a bluish tint across the otherwise darkened room. “Still reading the Princess’ memoirs?” Jimin asks from his bed.

Yoongi hums noncommitally. “It’s better than falling asleep.” “Why?” “Nightmares,” Yoongi says without thinking. “Well, maybe if you didn’t read tragic things before bed, you’d dream better.” Yoongi looks up from his tablet. “What do you prescribe then, oh genius doctor?”

Jimin grins. “Sing!” Yoongi blanches. “No way. I’m more into hip hop and rap, if you catch my drift.” “I don’t mean that,” Jimin elaborates, eyes crinkling. “Hasn’t your mother ever sung you lullabies to sleep?” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “I’m not a child to be consoled.”

“Eyyy, don’t be like that,” Jimin says into the darkness of the room. “Everyone is just a child in an adult’s body. Sometimes, at the end of a tiring day, you need somebody to pat you on the back & say, ‘good job, good job’. It’s a huge comfort.” A long pause overtakes the room.

Yoongi pushes down the lump forming on his throat. “You sound oddly well-versed in this field. Are you secretly a therapist?” “No. I’ve just seen enough pain to last lifetimes.” Jimin yawns. “When we get the chance, we should comfort ourselves, too.” “Sing, then.” “Hmm?”

“If you’re that good, let me hear,” Yoongi forces himself to say, feeling teary-eyed all of a sudden. He doesn’t know why he wants to hear Jimin sing so badly. “You have a nice speaking voice. Don’t disappoint me with your singing.” “Ha. You wish. I won a trot competition once.”

Yoongi lets out a long exhale as Jimin picks up the same gentle melody from earlier: “I remember the melody of the song // that we sang together as we sat across each other // in my softly closed eyes // I’m placing images of you.” A tear escapes down the side of Yoongi’s face.

“Like a small photo in my mind // you still remain // Even if this dream-like fate disappears // You’re engraved deep in my heart Even if I’m alone on this road // I can still see you.” Yoongi closes his eyes and focuses on keeping his breathing steady and even. It hurts to.

Jimin’s voice cracks nearing the end of the song. “Do you know? Because of you, I live today. Don’t be lonely; don’t be hurt again // Live in my heart like this.” Yoongi could have sworn he heard soft sniffles coming from the other side of the room. His throat feels raw.

In the shadows of the room, Yoongi blinks away tears that feel like they don’t belong to him. He shifts his position and whispers, “Beautiful.” Jimin makes a soft noise of acknowledgment. “I could sing you more. Sing you to sleep.” “You’ll do that?” “Everyday if I could.”

Yoongi scoffs lightly, eyes gradually falling shut. “We barely know each other.” Jimin doesn’t answer, just starts another song again that sounds more like a lullaby this time. His voice is oddly soothing, like warm soup on a winter night. Yoongi fades to sleep in minutes.

This time, the dream that visits him is neither harsh nor morbid. Yoongi is on a raised platform, watching a traditional performance in the ceremonial square before him. Dancing pairs rush past his vision, spinning so fast their faces become blurred. Among them, one stands out.

Dressed in colors so bright they’re almost gaudy to look at, the dancer rises and dips, arms swaying in circular motions, before leaping into the air. When he stands, he brandishes a fan, which he swipes in dizzying motions. Yoongi follows each movement like a hawk.

Then dancer crosses the distance between the stage and the steps leading up to where Yoongi sits, and looks up. Yoongi rises to his feet as well, running down to look closer— “NO!” A screams rips Yoongi from his sleep. From the other end of the room comes Jimin’s cries. “No!”

His voice is shill but hoarse, legs kicking under the sheets as he appears to fight off an invisible enemy, and for a moment Yoongi thinks Jimin is awake. “Jimin?” He rubs his eyes and sits up. A series of muffled ‘no’s’ stream from Jimin’s lips as he continues to squirm.

Yoongi is on his feet in an instant. He never imagined Jimin’s nightmares would be as awful as this. He rushes to the man’s bedside & shakes him lightly by the shoulder. “Park Jimin. Wake up. Jimin?” The whimpering doesn’t stop. Upon closer look, beads of sweat coat Jimin’s skin.

“Make it stop...” Jimin moans lowly, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed eyelids. Yoongi can only imagine what monsters he’s seeing. “Hey.” He slaps Jimin’s cheek gently, then shakes him again. “Wake up, wake—“ Jimin’s eyes fly open. “No!” “Jimin! Get a grip!”

Hands claw at the front of Yoongi’s shirt as Jimin gasps, eyelids fluttering. “Hyung?” “Yes, it’s hyung.” Yoongi lets himself be pulled, lets Jimin hide his face into the crook of his neck. “Make them stop,” Jimin whimpers, body trembling. Yoongi rubs his back soothingly.

“Shhh, there’s nobody there,” Yoongi murmurs, scooting forward to cradle Jimin’s cheeks. “Only me. It’s just me.” Jimin shakes his head, blinking back tears. “I was drowning again...so many faces... I was drowning...” “No, you’re not.” Yoongi stands to fetch a water bottle.

Hands catch him by the wrist, accompanied by desperate whines. “No, no. Don’t go.” “I’m not going any—“ “Don’t leave me, I’m sorry,” Jimin begs, face streaked with snot and tears, glimmering in the moonlight like broken glass. Something in Yoongi cracks at the sight.

He scoots over and guides Jimin into his the warm fold of his arms, caging their chests together. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re going to be alright. You’re safe here with me. Understand?” He makes sure to breathe slow and even, and eventually Jimin’s rapid breaths subside.

“It’s just a nightmare. Nothing real.” Yoongi asks, ignoring the way one side of his sleepshirt is turning into a warm patch of tears. “What are you even sorry for, silly?” Jimin hides his face, but his tremulous answer is loud against the muted night. “Everything. Everything.”

/He’s in a delirious state/, Yoongi rationalizes, swaying their bodies back and forth gently. He sighs and pats Jimin’s shoulder until his terrified noises quieten down to calm breathing. He yawns, eyelids drooping. “You’re safe, love.” Once more, sleep claims them as a pair.

If Jimin has anything clever to nitpick about the way they wake up in each other’s embrace the next morning, he makes no mention of it. In fact, it’s his lilting voice that wakes Yoongi. “Min Yoongi-ssi. Hyung.” Yoongi’s eyes open groggily.

His left arm is slung over Jimin hip. “What time is it?” Yoongi asks, too lazy to move. Jimin glances the wall clock mounted somewhere behind Yoongi, before a wicked smile crosses his face and he snuggles closer. “Time for morning cuddles!” Yoongi groans and rolls off the bed.

“Nooo, it’s cold,” Jimin laments as Yoongi stands to stretch. “That’s a sign for you to wake up and get your blood pumping,” Yoongi says, craning his head side to side to ease out a crick in his neck. He turns around. “How do you feel?” Jimin looks up at him, gaze unreadable.

But mouth lifts in a small smile. “Never slept better. You should be my personal human pillow.” Yoongi rolls his eyes again, shaking his head. Definitely back to normal. Last night gave him a fright. Just then his ringtone echoes in the room. Yoongi fishes it under a pillow.

“Yoongi,” Seokjin says as soon as Yoongi accepts the call. “Big trouble.” Yoongi’s stomach drops. “What? What now?” “The Chancellor is holding a press conference later this afternoon. Can you make it here?” “I don’t think so. Why?” “The paintings, Yoongi. They’ve been sold.”

uh-oh, what do we do noooowww?

haha anyway, we’re reaching the halfway mark of the story already which makes me happy!

did you have any favorite scenes from today’s update? also: drop me a coffee if you like my work? OwO ko-fi.com/kyrifics

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First tweet here or on my pinned

adubu ☁︎
@the7print

Jun 19 21

open.spotify.com/track/5YyJ419Q…

Yoongi goes very still. Becomes hyper-aware of his heightened pulse, his stuttered intake of breath and the hissing exhale that comes after. He feels off-kilter, but forces his voice to be calm. “What the fuck.” “Yeah, but listen—“ “Who?” Yoongi growls, pacing the wooden floor.

“I don’t know,” Seokjin says, sounding equally discombobulated. “Some anonymous sponsor, the Chancellor’s secretary just called to tell us.” Yoongi ruffles his own hair in frustration. “But I thought the private meeting will only be later in the afternoon.” “Same. It’s fishy.”

“You don’t say.” As it usually goes with these capitalist bastards, there must be some foul play involved. Yoongi knows he shouldn’t step in, but he can’t stay out of it, either. “What time’s the meeting, again? Maybe I can reach Seoul and convince them otherwise.” “It’s at 5.”

“That’s plenty of time. I’ll see what I can do.” “Be careful. See you.” After the call disconnects, Yoongi heaves a long sigh and sinks to a crouch at the edge of the floor overlooking the garden, holding his head in his hands. Everything rattles in his brain, loud and messy.

He’s so caught up in the clusterfuck of his thoughts that he belatedly notices the blanket being draped over his shoulder. Jimin sits next to him quietly. “You’re still in your sleepwear.” Jimin adjusts the blanket so that it cocoons them both snugly. “You’ll catch a cold.”

Just like that, the bitterness bubbling in Yoongi fizzles to a dull throb. He doesn’t bother hiding his distress, hanging his head and hugging his knees. “The paintings got sold.” Jimin’s eyes widen. “So suddenly?” “Money-hungry men trying to he early birds,” Yoongi spits.

A heavy silence grows between them, taut and thick. Yoongi appreciates that Jimin doesn’t offer sugarcoated apologies, appreciates that Jimin seems to understand how much this whole thing meant to him. “And then?” Jimin says. “Then what?” “Do you still want to meet Tae?”

Yoongi closes his eyes. Part of him is tempted to just pack up and return to Seoul, but something in his gut tells him that’s would be tantamount to admitting defeat. “Since we’re already all the way here, we might as well see it through.” “Are you sure?” Jimin sounds dubious.

Yoongi frowns, eyes snapping open. “What’s gotten into you? Weren’t you the one excited to see him again?” Perhaps Yoongi had read the situation wrong. Maybe he’d gotten so swept away by his theories he forgot to consider if Jimin wants answers as desperately as he does.

Jimin shifts his gaze to an orchid plant in the garden, his mouth pursed into something plaintive. Worry sparks in Yoongi. “You still want to know, don’t you?” “I did. But what if”—Jimin swallows, eyebrows twitching—“what if we shouldn’t? You can still back out, you know.”

Yoongi scoffs in disbelief. “What do you mean?” “What if there’s a reason why the truth hasn’t been revealed until now? The world might want things to stay as there are. I don’t wanna lose”—Jimin curls his hands in his lap. “—I’m scared of poking my nose into dangerous things.”

Yoongi stares, so dumbstruck he almost laughs. Of all people he knows, he never expected the bold, flashy Park Jimin to suddenly exercise conservative caution. “I don’t think you need to worry too much.” “But what if the truth is something so unbearable you can’t handle it?”

“Honestly?” Yoongi shrugs off the blanket and stands. “Not knowing would be worse. It’ll gnaw at me ‘til I go crazy.” He watches, growing apprehensive, as a tick works in Jimin’s jaw. Why is the guy suddenly being so stubborn, anyway? Such a 180 change in demeanor. Jimin sighs.

“Hey,” Yoongi says, not unkindly. He lowers himself to a squat before Jimin and pats his cheek lightly. “You don’t have to accompany me all the way, alright? You can just send me directions to the temple—“ Jimin snorts and nips at his index finger. Yoongi bites back a scream.

“If you think this is your chance to get rid of me, you have another think coming.” Jimin’s eyes flicker with amusement as Yoongi glowers at him, clutching his finger. “Forget it. I’m coming along. World, wait for me! Taehyung, I’ll be with you soonest!” Yoongi sighs.

“We need to get off and go by foot from here on,” Jimin says as they reach a bend that leads to an uphill path. “There’s a parking lot for casual hikers not too far from the bus stop.” They leave the car behind and as Yoongi clicks the lock, he checks his watch. 10.30am.

They need to make haste if he’s got any hopes of getting back to Seoul in time to intercept the meeting at the musem. “How long’s the hike?” “Half an hour if you’re in good spirits, an hour if you want to stop & take pictures along the way.” “Good thing we’re not sightseeing.”

“I would prefer it if we could slow things down and go at a more leisurely pace at our next date,” Jimin declares. Gravel crunches beneath their shoes as they begin to climb the steep terrain. “What makes you think there’ll be a next—“ Yoongi stumbles over a protruding rock.

His cry is cut short when a strong hand catches him by the forearm. “Easy,” Jimin croons, helping him to stand upright. “I got you.” Just as he’s about to remove his grip, Yoongi’s hand shoots out to grab him by the fingers. “For- for safety,” Yoongi stammers, cheeks flushed.

Jimin’s brows arch in surprise, mouth lifting. With a musical giggle, he intertwines their fingers and tugs Yoongi along. “If you say so. Try not to lose your footing.” “Simple.” Yoongi steps over a rock and meets Jimin’s gaze proudly. “Try not to get lost in my eyes, either.”

Yoongi pretends he doesn’t hear that. For the first half of their hike they make little conversation, Yoongi being too fixated on keeping his balance to even realize how tightly he’s holding onto Jimin. He soon relaxes when he gets the hang of the terrain. “So, about Taehyung.”

“Yes?” “How long has he been staying out here?” Yoongi is keenly aware of the autumn leaves crunching with every step, the noises from insects and frogs nearby. He may be an introvert, but even he wonders if Jimin’s friend feels cold or lonely. “After high school graduation.”

“So early? You’d think they would’ve let him finish his education first.” “I know what you’re thinking,” Jimin says, “but his family didn’t force him into it. Taehyung chose to stay here.” “How come?” Jimin licks his lower lip. “He’s... different, our Taehyungie.” “That so?”

Jimin hums, nodding. “Apparently he’s something of a clairvoyant? Or an empath? I don’t remember exactly. The way he described it to me... it’s like he sees things when he looks into people’s eyes for the first time.” “Things,” Yoongi parrots. “Such as?” “Dunno. Death? Auras?”

Interesting. Yoongi makes no comments, waiting for more elaboration. “Anyway, I guess that’s one big reason why he didn’t want to be around too many people in the city. You know how crazy a college campus can get. That, and he’s not even fond of studying that much. Win-win.”

They reach a fork in the trail, and Jimin points to the well-tread one. “People often come here to pray and seek advice when it comes to spiritual matters, though, and I often visit, so our Taehyungie doesn’t feel all that lonely.” Jimin parts some branches aside. “We’re here.”

Yoongi takes a minute to just stand and admire the backdrop, and only starts walking again when Jimin pulls his hand gently to cross the mini wooden bridge leading up to the bridge. A man in plain brown, nondescript robes is sweeping by the temple entrance. “Taehyung-ah!”

The robed man looks up. As soon as recognition crosses his eyes, his face morphs into a boyish, box-shaped grin. “Chim!” Jimin takes off running, launching himself into his friend’s arms. Bright laughter fills the air. Yoongi ignores the sudden absence of Jimin’s hand in his.

Contrary to what he envisioned, Kim Taehyung has a youthful face and brown, curly locks falling into his forehead in a way that reminds Yoongi of his family’s dog, Min Holly. Right. Jimin said the guy’s a shaman, not a monk. Maybe they don’t follow the same hairstyle guide.

As Yoongi approaches, snippets of conversation float to his ears. “You came alone?” Taehyung’s baritone voice rings with honeyed timbre. Jimin’s eyes are bright as he shakes his head and points at Yoongi. “I brought him, the one I told you about.” Taehyung looks up. “Who— oh.”

(A/N: pls play this. it buoys the scene, i swear) open.spotify.com/track/5YyJ419Q…

Fox rain

Lee Sun Hee · Song · 2014

Yoongi feels his smile slip when the shaman’s warm eyes find his. 2 things happen at once—a wave of nausea sends Yoongi reeling back, & Tehyung gasps out loud, stricken, unable to break their gaze. “Oh.” Taehyung gathers Jimin’s hands, eyes pinned to Yoongi. “You poor things.”

“Hmm?” Jimin asks, looking alarmed when a Taehyung’s eyes start to water. “You’ve been through an arduous journey.” Struggling to regain his footing and steady his breath, Yoongi grunts, “Well, yeah.” Maybe that short uphill climb exhausted him more than he thought it would.

Taehyung blinks as though snapping out of a reverie. “Ah, yeah. It’s quite a hike, huh? Come in, I’ll get tea ready.” “I brought what you wanted,” Jimin says cheekily, reaching into his backpack and pulling out— “The latest volumes of Jujustu Kaisen?” Taehyung’s eyes glitter.

“AND the latest Troye Sivan album,” Jimin says, passing a plain wrapped parcel to him. “Coffee, too.” The shaman gasps in glee and toddles from one foot to another, practically vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass, and Yoongi thinks, /Spiritual matters, my ass./

(“The coffee’s not actually for him,” Jimin later whispers under his breath as they follow Taehyung into the temple. “It’s for his master, but he’s currently out on a business trip.” “Business trip?” “Yeah. The ghost is French, so.”)

Taehyung puts on the latest Troye Sivan album on an old CD player and Jimin bustles around the temple to help prepare tea. They move with fluid assurance and familiarity, as if they’ve done this a hundred times, and maybe they have. Yoongi looks out at the tranquil landscape.

Jimin joins him not long after, carrying a tray with tea, followed by Taehyung who lays out some traditional Korean delicacies. Yakgwa—the sight of the dessert fills Yoongi with an odd mix of longing and nostalgia out of nowhere. “Royalty used to snack on these,” Taehyung says.

His tone is measured and even, like he’s trying to be careful with his words, but Yoongi only hums noncommitally. “Thank you,” Yoongi says before taking a sip of tea. He completely missed the wavering, pained look Taehyung directs at him and Jimin.

“So I’m not going to waste any time,” Yoongi says, using his businesslike voice. “Park Jimin brought me here because I wanted to inquire about a certain painting that you have.” “The family gift,” Jimin supplies helpfully. “Oh.” Taehyung tilts his head. “What for?”

Yoongi gives a brief summary of what information he’s after. When he finishes talking, Taehyung stares at him, mouth parted as though horrified. “You’re...looking into the story behind the paintings?” “Yes. It’s important for my job.” Taehyung looks troubled. “Are you sure?”

“More than sure.” Yoongi rubs the back of his neck, sheepish about what he’ll say next. “I know it sounds obssessive, but... I get the feeling that I won’t ever feel at ease until I know for sure, and come to terms with what happened.” Taehyung studies him intently. “Very well.”

The shaman gestures to a connecting hallway behind them. “It’s at my master’s quarters. I’ll lead you there after we finish the tea.” Yoongi nods, satisfied. Then, unable to quell his curiosity, asks, “Just to make sure, ‘cause you’ve got hair and all—you’re not a monk, right?”

Jimin giggles into his teacup. Taehyung grins. “I’m a shaman. We’re vessels that promote the natural balance of the inner and outer worlds.” “Balance, huh.” Yoongi recalls his headache & dizzy spells. He jokes, “If I commission your services, can you advise me on my health?”

Taehyung hums. “So you do feel it, then.” “What?” The shaman leans forward, eyes burning. “I sense such an imbalance in your inner and outer worlds.” He glances at Jimin. “A gaping rip in your souls.” Yoongi absolutely has no idea how to respond to that. “That’s... morbid.”

“You want to fix it,” Taehyung adds, and Yoongi can’t quite pinpoint if that’s a question or a declaration. “Fix... my soul?” Yoongi shoots a strange look at Jimin, who looks just as confused. “Yes. Have some more tea.” Vaguely, Yoongi thinks he hears bells chiming in the air.

“Chim. Min Yoongi.” Taehyung leans his chin over his palm, a knowing glint playing in his eyes. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” “I do, but he doesn’t,” Jimin answers, pointing at Yoongi. “Uh. Does it matter?” “And do you know what the cost of having a soul reborn is?”

“A life?” Jimin tries. “A soul?” “The Infinity Stone?” Yoongi throws in. Safe to say he has no idea what Taehyung is trying to get at. Do all mystics beat about the bush like this? Damn. Taehyung chuckles to himself, adjusts the folds of his robes. His gaze burns. “Memory.”

The ringing of bells escalate in Yoongi’s ears, lulling him into some kind of trance. He sways forward, barely able to grasp the way his consciousness seems to be slipping away, robbed from his own mind in broad daylight, almost like he’d been drugged. “What’s... in the tea?”

“The cost of a rebirth is memory,” Taehyung says, or seems to says. His mouth is moving, but the words don’t seem to match in Yoongi’s eyesight. “To mend a ripped soul, one must recollect. And to recollect memories, the cost—“ Yoongi and Jimin slump forward. “—spans lifetimes.”

(A/N: PLAY THIS PLAY IT DO IT) open.spotify.com/track/0DpUae1R…

open.spotify.com/track/0DpUae1R…

Palace

Rocky Joe · Song · 2020

Yoongi is floating in deep space, nothing but an inky, all-encompassing blackness swallowing him. Time does not exist here; time muffles the senses. There was a voice just now, a deep baritone, but it’s fading fast, replaced by a thinner, higher one. A girl’s voice. “Orabeoni!”

He jerks awake. Wooden beams support a low ceiling, and he finds his neck stiff despite having slept in a futon. A girl sits by his bedding, dressed in a teal-and-yellow hanbok, hair plaited to reveal a sunny face. She’s grinning. He groans and sits up. “What is it, Songhwa?”

“Orabeoni, congratulations on becoming a Sungkyunkwan scholar.” She reaches into a cloth bag made of crushed velvet and produces a paper craft that she hands him. “I have fashioned a bookmark in your name to aid your studies.” He reads the name on the bookmark. /Min Yun./

Hello, and welcome to the Joseon period of the story! *dolphin noises* YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW EXCITED I HAVE BEEN TO FINALLY REACH THIS POINT, literally the entire story pivots on this segment huehue i’m shaking!! See you next update!! Lemme know your thoughtsss<3

This is one of the toughest genres to plot, but I’ll work hard to deliver a good story!!! *fingers crossed* meanwhile, here’s my kofi if you wanna treat me to a latte ehehehe

thankieee ko-fi.com/kyrifics

First tweet below

adubu ☁︎
@the7print

Jun 19 21

The palace courtyard is empty when he comes down to visit that night, having decided to take a stroll to clear his mind. Songhwa kept him company for most of the day, gossiping and complaining about the bland food by the cook. In the middle of the courtyard stands a lone figure.

Clad in inky black robes and wearing a band of cloth to keep his hair off his face, the figure shifts his stance & swings a thin, sword practice pole over his head. When the prince clears his throat, he turns and grins. “Grand Prince Min Yun—what an honor to be joined by you!”

He rolls his eyes and moves closer. No need to be reminded of his role as the First Consort’s son. “You know I hate that title, Seok. I would have you call me by my birth name.” The chief of the palace guard’s eyes dance as he grabs another pole. “Yes, Min Yoongi. Care to spar?”

Yoongi catches the pole with both hands, and barely has a moment’s grace to react before— “Ha!” —Hoseok comes barreling towards him with his pole. With a grunt, Yoongi shields himself. Their wooden poles clack as they collide. Hoseok grins, twists and rallies forward again.

Yoongi’s reflexes work overtime. He meets Hoseok’s pole with matched skill. Each man uses his own technique with assured finesse, elegant & refined enough to make each move look like choreography. By the time their practice duel ends with a draw, they’re both drenched in sweat.

Hoseok steps back first, breathing hard. “You’ve still got it.” “You speak as though there was something to be lost.” “How am I to discern so? When I’ve barely seen you ever since you’ve become a serious Sungkyunkwan scholar,” Hoseok teases, tossing a flask of water at Yoongi.

Yet Yoongi’s father still would not acknowledge him. He shrugs. “I throw myself into my books to keep myself occupied.” And sane, given the stuffy, extravagant nature of the palace. The Chief Guard studies him, then smiles. “No need to explain yourself.” “I’m stating a fact.”

“Well, if you should feel lonely again next time, you know where to find me,” says Hoseok, winking. “Right here, always.” Yoongi looks up sharply. He has mentioned nothing of loneliness. Was he being that obvious? “You miss him, don’t you?” Hoseok says. “Your older brother.”

Yoongi stiffens. Ever since Sohyeon has taken up regency, things have been different. No longer do they spend afternoons hunting or practicing archery, now when there are more pressing matters of court for his Sohyeon to attend to. “The Crown Prince is busy these days.”

“You may punish me for indiscretion, my friend, but I daresay you ought to go out more often. Breathe the clear air outside of the palace. Touch a flower or two,” Hoseok says. Yoongi wrinkles his nose. “Or find a gisaeng to bed?” Yoongi glares. Hoseok laughs, head thrown back.

“Do you wish for a beheading at the crack of dawn?” Yoongi says, grabbing the wooden pole again to feign jabbing Hoseok’s sides. “Jung Hoseok, prepare your last words!” “I jest, I jest!” Hoseok chortles, arms raised in surrender. “But do consider coming to town with me tonight.”

“Whatever for?” “I have a friend who’s been accepted into Sungkyunkwan as well, just like you. Kim Namjoon of the Gwangsan Kim clan. He’s invited me to celebrate the night away at Aseowon.” “Aseowon? The gisaeng brothel?” “You may choose to only drink, no?” Hoseok winks again.

Kim Namjoon, as it turns out, is the top scorer in the recent state civil examinations. He’s also the Minister of Finance’s eldest son. The feast that greets Yoongi’s arrival is almost comparable to the ones at the palace during his mother’s birthdays.

Hoseok, ever the moodmaker with his charismatic warmth, makes introductions as soon as he and Yoongi are showed inside the private wing of the brothel. Kim Namjoon welcomes him with equal cheer and gusto, and after an hour Yoongi’s surprised he’s beginning to enjoy their company.

His vision floats and he feels like he’s dangling, but compared to his red-faced friends he tells himself he’s faring better. “I ask you, Prince Yun,” Namjoon starts. “Just call me Yoongi.” “Yoongi,” Namjoon slurs, eyes bloodshot, “would you rather upset Confucius or Buddha?”

Hoseok sniffles loudly, having just finishing a loud weeping meltdown about the state of his platoon’s irresponsible cleaning habits. “Are they even capable of getting mad?” “I would be more wary of upsetting my mother,” Yoongi says, fanning himself. His face feels hot.

Hoseok bursts out cackling, & Yoongi prides himself for being a man of exquisite humor. “That is true, that is wise,” Namjoon concurs, pouring himself another glass of liquor. “Oh? There s’no more.” “I will get us another bottle.” Yoongi stands, swaying slightly. “Need to pee.”

He slides the door aside and and a thick, almost cloying mix of perfume and incense hits him. It does nothing to abate his tipsiness, but it sure does make him feel a lot more confident. Along the way down the hall, brushes shoulders with another young man who smells like pine.

In the dimly-lit brothel, Yoongi barely sees the man’s face, shadowed by the gat on his head. He’s in wool commoner clothes, so he must not be from the aristocracy. “Pardon,” the man says, and Yoongi waves him off. Any other day he might have taken offense at being shouldered.

The man walks on in the opposite direction, and a few moments later Yoongi hears a gisaeng’s gasp. “Oh, Jimin-ah! Again?” a silken voice calls out. “You know I’m just dropping by, Sunghee-ssi.” “Deliveries again? Why not stay with us longer,” she trills, voice turning sultry.

Yoongi thinks he hears a nervous chuckle, but he doesn’t catch the rest of the conversation as he makes a turn into the men’s lavatory. The walls in this place are thin, and as Yoongi relieves himself, drifts of moans & drunken conversation from other rooms float over his head.

One, in particular, tugs at his conscious attention. “Fuck Kim Namjoon! It’s because of him that I couldn’t get into Sungkyunkwan this year!” A man’s rough, inebriated shout echoes. “But no matter. I, Min Chanwoo, will get in next term—I’ve hired a man to take the exam for me.”

Min Chanwoo. What a familiar name. Yoongi groans and tilts his head back, trying to think clearly through the thoughts rattling around in his head. The man sounds almost obnoxiously like someone he knows, someone whose guts he hates— Yoongi freezes. His arrogant cousin.

With alcohol-induced adrenaline and courage pumping in his veins, Yoongi hurries out of the restroom and marches into the adjacent private wing unannounced. Gisaengs squeal and scatter away like disturbed birds. Sitting at the head of the is Yoongi’s cousin, eyes wide in terror.

“Min Chanwoo,” Yoongi clucks his tongue and saunters in. “H-hyung-nim?” he splutters, neck reddening. A vein bulges out from his temples. “What are you—“ “What a loud mouth you have,” Yoongi drawls, staggering in. He pulls the sleeves of his robes back and flexes his fingers.

“Y-you heard?” Chanwoo’s beady eyes blow wider, and he scrambles to his knees. “Hyung-nim!” “Got quite a lot of nerve for you to go around spitting on the Minister of Finance’s son’s name AND threatening to taint the Yeoheung Min clan’s reputation by cheating,” Yoongi growls.

He sneers down at his cousin, trembling and cowering before him, and wonders how in the world he could be of the Min clan’s blood. Chanwoo grasps his ankles. “Have mercy, hyung-nim, please do not reveal this to my father. I am most sorry.” “Dishonorable, that’s what you are.”

“It is not my fault!” Chanwoo cries, tears streaking down his cheeks. Yoongi tugs his ankle out of the man’s grip, eye twitching in irritation. “Not your fault?” “I have fallen into temptation, hyung-nim. T-there is a man at the market, offering to take exams in our place.”

While Min Yoongi prides himself on being a man of peace, he is unable to turn a blind eye to corruption & injustices in the system. “Is that so?” “I speak the truth, hyung-nim.” Chanwoo bows low, rubbing his palms together to beg for mercy. “How shall we deal with this, then?”

Chanwoo glances up, puzzled. “Beg your pardon?” Yoongi crouches down to his level and smirks. “How about we strike a deal, my dear cousin. If you tell me this man’s name and whereabouts, I might pretend I’ve witnessed nothing tonight.” Chanwoo’s pupils dilate. “Gladly.”

At Hanyang’s common market, invisibility is an advantage. The smell of meat & produce hangs in the air. In the midst of a bustling crowd full of merchants peddling their goods, a young man wearing a straw hat low over his face walks with a strip of paper in hand.

Today he is not Grand Prince Min Yun, or an aristocrat roaming the market for frivolous gifts. Today he assumes the role of a common man Min Yoongi, and in order to find the name he seeks he must blend into the crowd. “Do you know this place?” he stops to ask a butcher at work.

The butcher—a brawny man chewing on a stalk of wheat, glances at the paper and points down the market street. “Bookstore’s that way.” Yoongi nods and follows the directions. He politely refuses an offer from a fruit peddler, and swerves to avoid a gaggle of running children.

He comes to a stop before a quaint bookshop with thatched roofs and wooden doors. Its windows are open, displaying an array of textbooks & children’s fables. Yoongi steps inside and immediately the riot of the market street falls to a hush. The scent old paper almost calms him.

“Welcome,” a young man in plain robes greets him by the door. “Is there any title we can help you with?” Although Yoongi’s not certain how the fraud looks like, Chanwoo had described him in fair detail—a soft and youthful face and eyes that ‘bore into your soul’ or whatever.

As far as descriptions go, the young man standing in front of him fits exactly that. He’s fit and slender, about Yoongi’s height. When he smiles expectantly, his eyes turn into twin half-moons, and yes, Yoongi can somehow understand what Chanwoo had meant by the eyes thing.

He clears his throat and calmly schools his face into a blank expression. “Are you the man who goes by the name Master Kim?” The young man’s smile falters as his eyes widen and dart about. “Oh. I- well, I suppose I am. Are you here for... ‘that’?” Yoongi frowns. “‘That’?”

“Yes, ‘that’.” Chanwoo never mentioned any transaction, but since he’s already here... “Yes,” Yoongi says. “I would speak about ‘that’.” The young man who goes by the name of Master Kim shushes him, pressing an index finger against his own lips. “You’re a bit early, but come.”

He beckons for Yoongi to follow him, and despite the growing bewilderment, Yoongi obliges. They leave by the back door and emerge at a secluded alley behind the bookshop. Yoongi despises the niggling alarm in his mind, telling him he’s being put on a tailspin by some conman.

No time to waste. Unable to keep up the ruse any longer, Yoongi decides to drop it. He must confront this man about aiding Chanwoo now. He reaches into his hidden scabbard. “Well then—“ Master Kim says and turns, then gasps when he finds his neck at swordtip. Yoongi’s swordtip.

“Well then,” Yoongi growls low, holding the young man hostage. “Start talking. I know of your despicable business.” “W-what—“ Master Kim sputters. “I mean, one might call it defilement, but I run an honest business!” Just then, someone yells into the alley, “Yah, Park Jimin!”

‘Master Kim’ freezes at the name, face framed in horror. Yoongi risks a glance at where the voice rang from. At the other end of the alley stand three thugs, one carrying a wooden bat. “Park Jimin, get your ass here before we catch you!” Yoongi lowers his sword. “Park—“

The young man before him curses under his breath and glowers at the thugs. To Yoongi, he says, “My apologies, but we must continue this some other time.” Confused, Yoongi splutters, “Who’re those?” Master Kim’s face darkens. “Debt collectors. I must leave. Farewell!” He runs.

It takes Yoongi a moment’s shock before he recollects his wits. Oh, oh no. This conman must be trying to run away from him now that he believes he’s been busted. Yoongi will not allow that. He cannot let injustice roam the streets. He takes off running after Master Kim. “Wait!”

Master Kim looks back at him in horror. “What- why are you chasing me!” “I would speak with you!” Yoongi cries, gaining speed. He’s light-footed, and running has never been a problem for him. They sprint down the market, narrowly avoiding bumping into merchants and stalls.

Yoongi hears footfalls behind him, and when he looks back over his shoulder, he finds the same three scruffy-looking thugs bulldozing after them, too. It clicks in his brain, then—it’s a three-way chase. Master Kim must be running from /them/, not Yoongi himself.

If Yoongi wants to confront the young man alone, then they need to get those thugs off their trail first. Blood pumping in his veins, Yoongi quickens his sprint and grabs Master Kim’s wrist, tugging him to run faster. “What—“ “This way,” Yoongi commands, never slowing. “Come!”

The zip through the market street, and Yoongi accidentally upends a silk merchant’s table of fabric. But they don’t stop sprinting. They meander down different alleys, avoiding puddles and stray cats until they end up at an abandoned warehouse at the outskirts of the marketplace.

Yoongi lets go of Master Kim’s wrist, and the young man stumbles back against a wooden pillar, panting like a dog. “That was”—pant—“wild. Thank you for—“ He barely gets to finish speaking when Yoongi draws his sword again with a resounding /shing/. “Tell me your name.”

Yoongi is expecting the young man to throw his arms up in surrender, perhaps beg for forgiveness, but he gets none of that. “Eyyyy, don’t be a spoilsport,” Master Kim cajoles, pushing Yoongi blade away from his throat with one tip of his finger. “No need to shed my blood here.”

Utterly befuddled, Yoongi gulps, dropping his arm by his side. “What nonsense you speak.” Master Kim smirks up at him, and has the gall to pat Yoongi’s shoulder as if they’re friends. “It’s alright, there is no need to feel shy. I understand how desperate men can get.” “What?”

“Which is why I will only charge you 5 nyang instead of 7 for this,” Master Kim continues, digging a hand into the folds of his robes. “Speak clearly or—“ “Ah, here it is!” Master Kim exclaims as he pulls out a crisp, new book. “Here you go. The latest edition.” Yoongi stares.

There is a small voice at the back of his mind vaguely telling him that he has gotten something very, very mixed up. Stunned speechless, Yoongi takes the book and reads the title gracing cover. /‘The Salacious Adventures Of Love And Lust’ by Master Kim/ Yoongi flips to page 1.

It seems to be a typical novel. Yoongi scoffs, flipping through the rest of the pages until the illustrations appear. He nearly drops the book, chest seizing wildly. Master Kim smiles and opens his palm. “5 nyang.” Yoongi cannot forget the illustrations burned into his mind.

“This novel and guide book will open your mind to new heights and pleasures, literally,” Master Kim says smugly. “5 nyang, please.” “I—“ Yoongi feels dizzy. He gazes up at the ceiling, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not Master Kim?” “What? No! I run errands for him.”

This is far, far from what Yoongi had come here for. He reaches for the hilt of his sword. “Bring me to your master, then.” The young man’s smile dims as he realizes he’s been cornered. “I will not. The Young Master is ill and bedridden.” “I don’t care, I would speak with him.”

“And if I refuse?” “Then you leave me with no choice.” Yoongi lifts his sword in the air and dashes forward, eyes closed. It would be a shame to see this one die. It’s a clean cut. It should have been. /Thwack./ Instead, he finds pressure resisting his wrist, and when he +

cracks an eye open, he finds not blood, but the base of an open fan pushing against the hilt of his sword. His killing blow has been blocked. Behind the paper fan, with only the upper half of his face and his twinking eyes visible, the fake ‘Master Kim’ winks beguilingly at him.

Yoongi grunts and staggers back, arm aching with the weight of his steel blade. Before he can swing again, his enemy jumps swiftly over the stacked barrels in the warehouse and leaps onto the second floor. “I have 2 masters, stranger,” he says, balancing on the wooden railing.

Yoongi runs up the wooden stairs as his new enemy speaks. “The younger one taught me to dream,” he says, swaying his fan in the air. “And the older one”—He snaps his fan shut and lowers his stance into a braced position—“taught me to fight.” Yoongi lunges forward with a yell.

‘Master Kim’ avoids getting his ankles nicked by Yoongi’s sword by catapulting into the air, twirling and landing back on the wooden balustrate with perfect balance. “Nice one.” Yoongi yanks his sword back, feeling clunky and uncoordinated, but swings again. “Not anymore.”

It’s odd, Yoongi thinks to himself as they parry back and forth. He should be riled up and frustrated with this stranger’s air of bravado and slick confidence, but instead he finds himself almost enjoying this. Apart from Hoseok he has never met anyone so evenly matched in skill.

‘Master Kim’ doesn’t even wield a sword of his own, simply using the workings of his traditional, flimsy-looking fan to defend every last one of Yoongi’s attacks. Just when Yoongi thinks he has the man pinned to a wall, he gets thrown off balance by the quick pop of an elbow.

And just as Master Kim raises his fan to knock Yoongi unconscious by the nape of his neck, Yoongi spins and disarms him using the hilt of his sword. “You still haven’t told me your name.” The other man has quick reflexes, though, catching his fan mid-air as soon as he drops it.

“Neither have you.” “I asked you first.” Yoongi kicks a barrel loose & watches it roll towards his quarry. Master Kim deftly avoids it. “Maybe if you drop the sword.” “I will as soon as you drop the fan.” At this, Master Kim grins almost maniacally. “I wasn’t taught to lose.”

Well, neither was Yoongi. Not even Hoseok goes easy on him during the practice duels. He bites back a smile. “Noted with care.” Then he leans back on his heels & shoots forward, only to be blocked, but Yoongi understand the man’s style by now, so he feints left then turns right.

He unlatches his straw hat and uses it to finally slap the fan out of the man’s hand, catching Master Kim off-guard. But only momentarily. The next thing he knows, Master Kim diverts his attention and uses the same straw hat to disarm his sword. /Clang./ Both drop to the floor.

They face each other off, breathing raggedly, neither one moving first. “Was that,” the young man wheezes, sweat dripping to his chin, “was that really necessary?” Yoongi struggles to catch his breath and bends down to pick up his sword. “But I won.” “What? No you didn’t.”

“You dropped the fan first,” Yoongi points out. “So you owe me your name, at least.” He straightens up and cocks his head to one side, studying the man before him. Master Kim scampers back to the wall, resignation in his eyes. “Fine. I will whisper it to you. Come closer.”

Huh. Yoongi moves to the young man as asked, crossing his arms. “Closer,” he beckons, holding out both arms as though asking for an embrace. Growing wary, Yoongi leans towards him until his ear is next to the other man’s face. This close, he can feel their body heat mingling.

“My name is...” Against his better will, Yoongi steps closer, feeling strange electricity sparking in his veins. Then his vision blurs as Master Kim spins them around, pinning Yoongi to the wall—literally, by using a tiny, hidden dagger to dig into the hem of Yoongi’s tunic.

“...something you’ll never learn! Ha!” the young man shrieks cheekily, poking his tongue out. “What the- let me go, unhand me this instant!” Yoongi fumbles with the dagger, but it’s wedged too deep into his clothes. “Thank you for the fun duel.” Another wink. “You fight good.”

“Just you wait until I get my hands on you,” Yoongi threatens as Master Kim saunters back, picking up his fallen fan along the way. “I’ll have you beheaded!” “Coming from a commoner, that’s a fantasy,” says the young man. “Nice to meet you, I hope we never cross paths again.”

It’s only then that Yoongi remembers, as the young man walks off, that he’s dressed not in aristocrat’s silks, but in peasant’s disguise. “Do you know who I am?” “I need not,” singsongs the young man. “Oh, by the way, here.” He tosses the novel on the floor. “You can keep it.”

TBC TONIGHT <3 SOOOO that’s our first taste of Joseon yoonmin <3 any thoughts so far on their personalities? Dynamics? First meeting? hehehe See you all tonight! Once again, here’s my kofi, pls support me if you can!

it helps! ko-fi.com/kyrifics

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adubu ☁︎
@the7print

Jun 19 21

twitter.com/the7print/stat…

Painter Of Time poll <3

just for fun: who in Painter Of Time would you wanna go out for one day with, and why? this poll will only be active for 2 days!

adubu ☁︎
@the7print

Jun 29 21

open.spotify.com/track/5YyJ419Q…

Painter of Time

PATREON SPECIAL—hello! As a thanks for continuing to support the AU up ‘til where we are, here’s a little something for everyone subscribed to my Patreon

Once again, Patreon content will not be available on the main thread! patreon.com/posts/53076935

“A commoner blocked your sword with a /fan/?” Songhwa giggles, clapping her hands together. “Orabeoni, either you are pulling my leg, or you have seriously grown weak in your technique!” “It’s the truth,” Yoongi says plaintively, then grumbles, “as much as it pains me to admit.”

“Should you ever encounter him again, at least try to win,” Songhwa says, bending down to croon over a flowering lotus in the pond. In the late afternoon daylight, Gungnamji Pond’s surface glitters a soft peach. Earlier, Songhwa begged to take a stroll in the gardens together.

“Enough about my day,” Yoongi mutters, watching droplets trickle into the curve of a lotus leaf. He’s not exactly fond of being reminded of yesterday’s humiliation. “How has my little sister been doing in her studies, hmm?” “Poetry can take a dip in the pond and never return.”

“Charming,” Yoongi deadpans. “You shouldn’t speak in such a crass manner, Songhwa-yah. How will you find a suitable husband in the future—“ “Orabeoni, as much as I love you, how I behave is not something I am comfortable being lorded over. Especially not by you,” Songhwa says.

She turns to Yoongi with a smile that seems to hold more wisdom than Yoongi, in all his 21 years of age, possesses. “So do us both a favor, won’t you? I’ve had enough of men trying to manipulate me. I’d love it if you would just stay as my brother, always.” Yoongi can only nod.

It’s easy to forget sometimes, because Yoongi has only ever seen Min Songhwa as his little sister who used to grab him by the hem of his durumagi and trousers, snot-faced and whiny. In Yoongi’s eyes she will forever be a child, no matter how much of a woman she is blooming into.

“But if you must know, my art lessons are proceeding rather smoothly,” Songhwa says as they continue walking leisurely. Yoongi arches an eyebrow. “You’ve been taking art lessons? This is the first I’ve heard of it.” “I started only last week, from Tutor Jeon,” Songhwa explains.

“Would it be callous of me if I were to comment on how I think you ought to focus on your embroidery instead?” Yoongi asks. “Yes.” “Noted.” Songhwa’s nostrils flare. “Embroidery...” she mutters. “The bane of all housework! I shall gladly never become wife to any man. Ever.”

“Needlework is fun,” Yoongi mumbles sullenly, and Songhwa nudges him playfully. “Why don’t you learn with me? Tutor Jeon says we will begin painting next week.” It’s such a mindless, aimless form waste of time. Yoongi almost says it out loud. “Why do you paint, anyway?”

“For passion, orabeoni! Passion!” Songhwa lets out a shrill noise of frustration, throwing her hands up in the air. “Haven’t you ever felt it? The burning pull towards something.” Yoongi shrugs. “Heavens, sometimes when I speak to you I almost believe I’m talking to a rock.”

“In my defense, I have always wanted to be a rock in my next life,” Yoongi jests, grinning. Songhwa rolls her eyes. “You should find something to be passionate about, dearest brother. It gives life an extra spark.” “And painting gives you that spark?” “It is an avenue, yes.”

Yoongi squints. “How exactly so?” For a brief moment, he catches the way Songhwa’s eyes flicker behind them, to where her lady-in-waiting, Yeol, waits on standby a few yards away, keeping distance to give the siblings privacy. “It gives me an excuse to use Yeol as my model.”

“Why Yeol?” “We should paint beautiful images, should we not?” Yoongi nods slowly, getting the gist of it. “I believe I’m beginning to understand. You want to refine your artistic talent in order to impress a nobleman and hopefully, find a good suitor.” “Orabeoni, do shut up.”

The conversation with Songhwa weighs heavy on Yoongi’s mind all day, her words lingering like the aftertaste of the royal physician’s bitter herbal medicine. As Yoongi returns to his chambers he sits by the desk, and only then does he spot Master Kim’s book. That cursed book.

How did that ‘Master Kim’ describe it again? /This novel and guide book will open your mind to new heights and pleasures./ It seems there are still plenty of things Yoongi has yet to discover, despite being a qualified scholar at Sungkwunkwan. Appalling, how little he knows.

But if there is one thing he IS confident of, it’s his linguistic repertoire. And he knows for a fact that ‘passion’ is closely related to ‘love’ and ‘lust’, which are featured in the cursed book’s title. And what are books if not beacons of education? Yoongi makes up his mind.

With a trembling hand, he reaches out and gingerly flips the cover of the book. He keeps only one eye open, fearful of what cursed images might jump out of the pages. Last night Yoongi hardly slept soundly, what with those ill-conceived illustrations imprinted in his mind’s eye.

So far, so good. The opening pages contain only text. He reads the story of an innkeeper and his childhood friend who he lost contact with... and is utterly shell-shocked to find that the said chimdbood friend is also /male/. Yoongi’s heart pounds against his ribcage.

“Male,” Yoongi breathes in disbelief, scrambling away from the book as though his hand’s been stung. He stands and paces the length of his quarters, lower lip snagging on the roof of his upper teeth. Yoongi rationalizes with him—this must be a story about a deep friendship.

A story of two men and their respective love lives, that’s all. Nodding to himself, Yoongi sits back down and flips the book to where he left off. His neck feels warmer than it was moments ago, and so he opens a window to let the air circulate.

The plot of the novel is actually intriguing—it involves murder, birth secrets, a loyal dog and clearly outlines the separation and reunion of the two best friends. /“Jang Bong-man!” the innkeeper cries, kneeling on the sodden earth. “Is that really you, Bong-man?”/

Yoongi purses his lips, anticipation climbing up his gut. He feels a little feverish reading about such a strong, divine connection between such amazing characters. Both Bong-man and Jun-hyung deserve to reunite, as friends of course. He turns to the next page and freezes.

There, in the center of the page, lie illustrations of Bong-man and Jun-hyung, labelled “Reunion Night”. The two men are drawn with one on top of the other, while the man below lies on his belly. Their faces are inked with rouge to indicate a flush. Most of all, they’re naked.

Yoongi hurls the book to the other end of his quarters, a scream of terror ripping from his throat. The book collides hard against the wall and slides out of view, behind his bed. “Highness, is anything the matter?” a servant asks form outside. “Bong-man is...!” Yoongi cries.

It is indescribable, the way Yoongi’s heartbeat is accelerating beyond human speed. He bursts from his quarters and runs outside, willing the images away from his now-tainted mind. He keeps sprinting until he reaches the next palace hall, where the royal guards are trained.

“Hoseok-ah!” Yoongi all but hollers, not caring about propriety for once. He’s only barely aware of the guards at the courtyard pausing in their practice, too caught up by his need to locate his trusted friend. “Yoon- I mean, Highness?” Hoseok’s voice pops out from the front.

Yoongi skids to a sudden halt before the Chief Royal Guard, panting heavily. Hoseok is staring at him with concern. “What brings you here?” “Bong-man and Jun-hyung...” Yoongi rambles unthinkingly. “They’re... I’ve invaded their privacy and I could not—“ “Slow down, what?”

Yoongi’s vision spins, his throat tightening as a wave of nausea overtakes him. He’s already been feeling under the weather ever since yesterday’s market trip, but the sudden spike in his blood pressure must be doing a number on him. For sure, death awaits next. “I feel unwell.”

“Hold on, Min Yoongi, your face is pale, let me get—“ Yoongi doesn’t hear the rest of Hoseok’s panicked answer, because then he slumps against his friend, a sheet of darkness knocking him unconscious. His last thought is a curse—may ‘Master Kim’ never know peace tonight.

Shadows. They’re all that surround him as he walks a lonely trail in the middle of the woods. Yoongi does not know where he is, so he follows the moonlight from the crescent hanging in the sky like a tiger’s claw. He doesn’t remember how he came to be here.

A rustle of leaves catch his ear. He turns & finds himself facing a different path, but this time at the end of the trail there stands a crane, delicate wings spread open as though caught mid-flight, or mid dance. The crane is alone. When Yoongi steps forward, it looks at him.

Bathed in the inky blue of moonlight, it looks like a mirage that could fly off any time. Walking slowly so as not to scare the creature away, Yoongi implores, “Take me with you.” To his surprise, the crane answers with a familiar drawl, “I am always with youuuuu, my friend...”

Yoongi stops. He’s pretty sure he knows the owner of that voice. “What? I command you, speak.” “Bong-man...” Horror slices through Yoongi. “Who on earth is Bong-man?” asks the crane loudly, and Yoongi feels a sharp pulling sensation— —he wakes with a gasp. “Oh, finally.”

The ceiling that greets Yoongi’s eyes, which are still bleary as they grow accustomed to the light, is not the flat roof of his personal chambers, but the high wooden beams of the royal infirmary. He looks at his bedside, where Hoseok stands, grinning at him. “Welcome back!”

Yoongi scrunches up his nose. “You are so loud, I could hear you in my dreams.” Hoseok laughs and nods to the royal physician. “Yes, he’s definitely awake now, all right.” The royal physician’s brows knit in concern. “Chief tells me you were muttering names before you fainted.”

Yoongi’s stomach clenches. Meanwhile Hoseok nods vigorously. “Indeed, indeed. Bong-man and another man, I don’t quite remember. What is the matter, Yoongi? Have these men harmed you? I could bring them in for questioning.” Yoongi’s jaw falls open. “N—no. Do not disturb them.”

Hoseok’s face pinch in confusion. “You know them?” “I am fine.” Yoongi sits up with a groan. “No need to worry, nothing is wrong with my health.” “You looked very unwell, though...” “I swear, do not lay a finger on them. They’re my”—Yoongi swallows, fists clenched—“friends.”

Hoseok and the royal physician exchange dubious looks. Yoongi hates this, hates being put on the spot and cornered into answering questions he has no linguisitic reportoire for, so he scrambles out of bed. He shakes his limbs to wake them into functioning. “I am leaving. Hoseok?”

“Right behind ya.” Thr servants part the sliding doors for them. They step out into the bright yard. To Yoongi’s surprise, the area surrounding every corner of the palace is decorated in vibrant colors, each checkpoint festooned in ribbons and flowers that weren’t there earlier.

“How long was I out?” Yoongi asks. Surely such a grand scale of preparation can’t be done in mere hours. “What is all this?” Hoseok falls into step beside him. “It’s for Surit-nal.” “Isn’t that next week?” The palace guard chief gives him a funny look. “Actually, it’s today.”

Yoongi gapes at him. “I was out for a week?!” “More or less. Very feverish, too. At one point in time we worried you might not make it. Songhwa stayed by your bed all night, every night.” Yoongi thinks of the forest in his dream, and how long it felt like he’d been wandering.

“I’m glad you’re alive and kicking,” Hoseok says. “It’s all thanks to that crane,” he muses out loud. Hoseok shoots him another questioning look. “What?” “A little crane led me home, in a manner of speaking,” Yoongi says. “It was dancing in the moonlight. Hard to ignore.”

“Er,” Hoseok scratches his head, “are you really sure you’re fully recovered? We could turn back and visit the physician again, get a final say—“ “Seok-ah, worry less for me, would you?” Yoongi says, patting his friend’s shoulder. “I am fine. Let us see the festivities through.”

Surit-nal—a traditional holiday that falls on the 5th day of the fifth month of the lunar calendar. On this day one might turn left and right to find every nook and cranny of the streets teeming with merriment and play, people drifting about dressed in red & blue.

In the palace grounds, the festivities may be more extravagant in presentation, but they are no less different. Members of the Council, the Internal Court and the royal family spent the better half of the day partaking in archery showmanship contests, and wining and dining.

Now, as day looms closer into dusk, performing troupes and travelling stage plays begin to gather at the main courtyard in preparation for the dinner banquet. Yoongi sits uncomfortably in a chair on a platform, raised from the ground but not on the same level as the royal family.

He casts a glance at the trio gathered on the main dais—His Majesty, the Queen and Crown Prince Sohyeon, each one wearing mirroring smiles at the ongoing musical performance before them. Yoongi looks down and fiddles with his thumbs on his lap. He’ll never get to have that.

A milky-fair hand enters his field of vision, reaching for Yoongi to get them to stop fumbling nervously. Yoongi looks sideways at his own mother, the Noble First Consort Min, and flashes her a watery, grateful smile. At least they have each other. Songhwa, too.

The next performance is a martial arts demonstration, accompanied by heavy drumbeats that make Yoongi’s heartbeat jump with each thunder-like thump. Then a group of gisaengs sweep into the stage, waving ribbons around their wrists that twirl prettily with their dancing.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Songhwa whispers, leaning over from where she sits next to Yoongi. “I’ve always adored banquets.” “It’s getting rather draggy,” Yoongi remarks, fighting back a yawn. The percussive music swells to a grand climax, then a loud, booming voice announces:

“Next is the special solo performance: Dance Of The Fallen Crane.” Yoongi’s ears perk up as expectant applause rings out across the courtyard. Rather than percussion, the music that fills the air is that of a mellow woodwind instrument. A gayageum—one of Yoongi’s favorites.

A barefoot dancer steps out into the wooden stage, slow and graceful as though gliding, and the audience watches in riveted silence. The dancer’s hair has been let loose, silky black strands fluttering in the wind along with iridescent silk fabric draped around their arms.

(A/N: this is kind of the music to go with this scene ^^ GIVE IT A LISTEN) open.spotify.com/track/5YyJ419Q…

Fox rain

Lee Sun Hee · Song · 2014

The lower of the dancer’s face is covered by a veil, concealing his full features from view, but Min Yoongi would recognize those glittering eyes anywhere, face veiled or not. After all, he’s seen the same eyes behind a paper fan before, once upon a duel. Yoongi sits forward.

“Master Kim,” Yoongi huffs under his breath, a thrill of something electric and sadistic coursing through him. Alas, the prey has walked right into the trap. A soft rhythm of percussion begins accompanying the gayageum, and the dancer sways, raising his arms. Yoongi scoffs.

As the dancer lifts his arms & molds his body into complicated positions, spinning and leaping into the air at certain points in the choreography, questions burn at the back of Yoongi’s mind. Who IS this mysterious person, and what occupation does he hold? How is he a /dancer/?

He momentarily forgets all of it, because the next moment, as the dancer makes another leap with a flourish of his arms, he ends up facing the direction where Yoongi is sitting. Their gazes brush for a nanosecond, too quick to linger, but something in Yoongi jumps. And... oh.

It’s like drowning, only you’re surrounded by pure air and you’ve got a choice to keep breathing but forget how to. This is what watching the dancer’s performance feels like: a tide locks you in its current, stubborn to part, and you’ll be too powerless to resist. It’s a trance.

“Beautiful, right?” Yoongi sucks in a shaky breath, crashing back into the present, and his head swivels around to find the source of the voice. But he quickly realizes he’s /not/ the intended recipient of the question when he spots two court ladies gossipping nearby.

“What’s her name again?” one asks; hand behind her hand, eyes darting around to make sure others don’t hear. “Lady Aeshin, or so I’ve heard.” “She is so lovely. I heard she trained with a travelling troupe in her youth.” Yoongi almost chokes and wheezes out loud. Huh. /She?/

I AM SO SO SLEEPY GOOD NIGHT WILL CONTINUE THIS SPICY SPICY SCENE SOON LOV U <3 anyway, this is a yoongi-centric update HOHO any thoughts on his personality so far? Playlist below: open.spotify.com/playlist/4ywbV…

A man in a hanbok. A man in women’s costume is dancing before them, and no one around bats an eye, fully believing in this intricate deception. /Are performers apart from gisaeng even allowed to grace the stage in front of the King’d presence?/, Yoongi wonders to himself.

He digs his memories for any previous recollection of men performing in this fashion, but none surface. Of all of Min Yun’s 21 years, he has only ever seen men in men’s garb, and women in women’s skirts. Never the other way round. To do so would be— “Shameless,” Yoongi mutters.

Who is this unnamed man, and how many names does he go by? How many alter egos? If Yoongi were to stomp down right now, interrupt this performance and disrobe the young man— He catches himself. How could he think of /disrobing/ another man? Only men like Jang Bong-man would.

Yoongi feels a little faint, his pulse skyrocketing as he schools his thoughts in a different direction. He averts his gaze and focuses on the platter of fruits on the table, and only looks up when the music fades into the night, signalling the end of the banquet’s festivities.

When the King starts applauding, the rest of the court officials and the internal court members follow suit. As performers stream out of the courtyard, Yoongi peers out discreetly, trying to spot the crane dancer in drapes. But he has already vanished. Yoongi frowns. How quick.

“That final solo performance was breathtaking,” Songhwa gushes next to him, clutching her chest with a blissful expression. “I would like to dance like Lady Aeshin, too.” “Lady Aeshin, my foot,” Yoongi mumbles. “What?” “I said, ‘Ah, you frivolous youth’.” Yoongi stands to go.

“Hey, where are you going?” Songhwa calls out after him. “Orabeoni!” Yoongi doesn’t reply, brisk-walking out of the palace courtyard to follow the direction the performers went. Crossdressing is unfathomable. He must meet this conman and unveil the truth before it’s too late.

Just when he’s about to turn left, a flash of pearly white silks catches the corner of his eye. Yoongi turns to the opposite direction, away from the fading laughter of the court dancers and musicians, to a path half draped in shadows. Trusting his gut, he creeps along that way.

He’s so engrossed in his own chase that he barely clocks another voice calling for his name— “Prince Yun!” A hand clamps down his shoulder. Yoongi jumps with a startled gasp. Hoseok grins at him, relieved of his guard shift now that the banquet is over. “Where’s your head at?”

Yoongi blinks, mind racing. “Seok-ah, lend me your sword.” If Master Kim turns out to be a threat, he should be dealt with accordingly. Lying alone is enough cause for treason. “This?” Hoseok hesitates. “I’m not sure...” “Just for half an hour. I’ll return it shortly.”

Hoseok regards him carefully, but relents without further questions. “Alright.” He passes his scabbard to Yoongi, who takes off running into the night. He recalls his last encounter with Master-Kim-or-Lady-Aeshin-whatever-his-name is, and reminds himself this man can fight.

With only the moonlight as his guide, Yoongi rushes through different halls and pavilions, pillar after pillar whizzing past his vision. Good thing he has the palace layout memorized by heart or it would’ve been tough to navigate— /There./ Yoongi’s heart leaps. He slows down.

Like a phantom decked in white, ‘Lady Aeshin’ glides around the perimeter of the Secretariat Hall, where the Royal Archive of Records is headquartered. He looks up at the hall’s closed doors, back to Yoongi. Yoongi creeps up to him soundlessly, hand resting on his sword’s hilt.

Once he’s a meter away from the court dancer, Yoongi raises his arm to press the tip of his sword against the nape of the dancer’s neck— The dancer spins, lightning-quick, & uses the featherlight drapes of his costume to lock Yoongi’s arms to his sides. Yoongi’s breath catches.

The sword drops from his grip unceremoniously, but he’s not about to admit defeat so easily. Yoongi drops to a squat and swipes one leg outwards, knocking the dancer off balance, but the drapes around his arms yank them both forward. He tumbles into the dancer’s chest.

They fall & roll to the ground with a grunt. The dancer thrashes to throw Yoongi’s weight off his body. Yoongi predicts his next move early, and before the court dancer can pull out another dagger, Yoongi wrestles it out of his hand, then presses the blade to the dancer’s neck.

“I know your tricks by now,” Yoongi chuckles roughly under his breath, panting as he straddles his quarry. “Master Kim. Or should I say, Lady Aeshin?” He watches as the court dancer’s kohl-limned eyes flash with sudden recognition. “You.” “Mmm. Fancy meeting you again.”

The dancer throws him off by laughing, soft and startling. In this position, Yoongi can feel every reverberation of the young man’s chest. “I thought I said we should never cross paths again.” “Agreed,” Yoongi says, still pressing the dagger to his throat. “Yet here you are.”

“Here I am.” The dancer grins as though Yoongi isn’t holding a weapon against his pulse. “Hello.” “Start speaking, or face the consequences.” “You should know I hardly care about that. I must say, why is it that every time we meet, you are threatening to cut my life short?”

“Do not ignore me,” growls Yoongi, patience thinning. “Who are you? Speak.” “You must value life so loosely that it’s easy for you to to point your blade at a lowly court dancer’s neck,” the man drawls. Yoongi’s grip falters. “That’s not- you are making wrong assumptions.”

“Am I?” the dancer says, eyes glittering in the moonlight. “Because with all due respect, I’m not the one making threats left and right here. Also, it’s rather difficult to make introductions like this, no?” Yoongi looks down at their positions and blinks, shame engulfing him.

“Perhaps of you get off of me, we would speak.” “Perhaps if you tell me your name, I’d be more inclined to,” Yoongi fires back, dropping the dagger to the ground but not getting up. A teasing smile plays at the dancer’s mouth. “But you already know, do you not? Lady Aeshin.”

Yoongi presses his lips to a thin line. “Do not mock me. As it is, I already find it hard to trust anything you say.” He looks away, face hot for some reason. The dancer doesn’t reply, but Yoongi can feel a burning gaze boring holes into him. Then: “Park Jimin.” Yoongi pauses.

The air around them rises with a chorus of leaves and cicadas. Yoongi looks at the man beneath him, and in the silver moonlight he almost looks... soft. Like a doll. “Park Jimin.” Yoongi tests the name’s texture against his tongue. A first taste. The syllables roll off smoothly.

“Yes, now will you please”—Jimin squirms and kicks—“remove yourself from me? You’re crushing me.” Right. Yoongi scrambles to his feet, and almost makes the foolish move of offering his hand to help the other man stand. “So what brings you here? I thought you were a bookseller.”

“And I thought you were a commoner.” Jimin dusts his muddied hanbok off, a scowl twisting his lips. “But it seems I’m not the only one with a double identity here.” He surveys Yoongi’s cobalt-and-scarlet nobleman’s robes, a formal attire for Surit-nal. “Ha. I’ve figured you out.”

“Have you, now?” Yoongi quizzes, eyeing him back warily. “You’re a yangban, probably from a family closely tied to the royals. Judging from your attire...” Jimin tips his head to one side. “Aha! A palace official.” Yoongi arches a brow. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”

“I’m certain.” Jimin nods as thought assuring himself. “You can’t possibly be a prince, because I’ve heard the royal family members are sheltered, milquetoast people of the palace, and you fight good, so.” Yoongi coughs to hide his bemusement. “Is that so?”

Jimin nods again, exuding confidence. “So, which yangban clan is it? Andong Kim? Pyungyang Jo? Or the militia, Jinju Kang?” “Yeoheung Min,” Yoongi answers quietly, never taking his eyes off the dancer. “Ah. You must be one of the chief ministers’ sons,” Jimin muses out loud.

Yoongi considers correcting him, but a bigger part of him is compelled to let Jimin speculate theories out of thin air like a yarnspinner. “You know,” Jimin continues, “in the third edition, Master Kim penned a short story about the Chief State Councillor’s son and his tutor.”

Yoongi chokes on his own spit and falls into a coughing fit. He keels over, neary losing his balance. “You- that cursed book—“ “Aha! So you’ve read it!” Jimin exclaims as though he’s made a victorious feat. “How do you find it?” “I did /not/ read it.” Yoongi clears his throat.

Jimin’s hearty cackle fills the air as he leans against a nearby pillar, one leg hiked up & arms folded. “Did you not find it enjoyable, my lord?” Yoongi shakes his head vehemently, feeling flames fanning out across his cheeks. He marches over to his fallen sword to pick it up.

“Alright, then I can always bring you a copy of the third and fourth edition,” Jimin says, smiling wide and oh, Yoongi’s pulse must be spiking at the sight of that smile only because Jimin currently looks like an attractive gisaeng, right? “Fourth edition,” Yoongi echoes weakly.

“Yes. This one is about a shy palace historian and the Minister of Finance’s eldest son—“ “Stop, stop,” Yoongi stammers, raising his sword defensively. He need /not/ imagine Kim Namjoon’s face pressed close to a fictional historian’s right now. “Fine, do as you please!”

Laughter trills in the air once more, softening the shadows on the palace grounds. Although it is already summertime, Yoongi’s blood thrums as through spring’s just bloomed in his veins. He watches happiness relax the dancer’s painted face and grips his sword very, very tightly.

This is absurd. That Min Yun should feel so dizzy in the presence of this menace is completely ridiculous. He has never once felt this simmering sensation around other court ladies before, so why does a man dressed as a gisaeng rile him so? “W-Why have you dressed as a woman?”

The laughter in Jimin’s eyes dims into something more somber. “Is... is this a pastime for you? A gross habit?” Yoongi rambles, fighting the heat from creeping up his neck. “A man should not dress as a woman, a gisaeng no less—“ “The real Lady Aeshin has eloped with her lover.”

Yoongi’s words scuttle back into his throat, leaving him open-mouthed. Jimin drops his arms to his sides. “She is a good friend of mine from Aseowon, and we would often practice her dances for fun.” “Still, why would she run away...” “The man is a Sungkyunkwan aristocrat.”

Yoongi falls quiet. “Tell me—which yangban ever married a gisaeng without falling into disgrace?” Jimin’s eyes waver with defiance. “What gisaeng is allowed to be more than a mistress?” “Then they cannot be.” “Hence why they would elope. Love recognizes no class boundaries.”

Yoongi disagrees, but he does not voice this. To elope is to defect. To defect is to betray one’s clan. “You understand you are playing with fire here. If word gets out that she has disappeared—” Jimin waves a hand in the air. “It is alright. I’m only impersonating her tonight.”

Yoongi’s eyes dart left and right, checking for eavesdroppers. He doesn’t understand why he feels protective of this dancer already, but he does not quite want to see him get persecuted for helping a friend. “After tonight, ‘Lady Aeshin’ is gone for good,” Jimin says.

“Why would you do this?” Yoongi asks in a low voice. “Why put yourself at risk just to help another?” A soft expression crosses Jimin’s eyes. “Why do anything at all, if not for compassion? I help whoever needs me.” Compassion. Passion. Jimin would get along with Songhwa.

“So you like to feel like a saint,” Yoongi concludes. Jimin snorts. “Ah. Well. You’d say otherwise once you find out how much I was paid for this.” Yoongi frowns. “Paid?” “Park Jimin, best errand boy of Hanyang!” Jimin imitates an announcement. “Will do anything for a fee.”

Yoongi emits a breath he didn’t realize he’s been holding, rolling his eyes. On second thought—Songhwa would definitely not get along with someone whose morals is as skewed as this Park Jimin’s. “You get paid to run errands.” “It’s called a hustle, my lord. Survival tactics.”

But of course. There’s nothing money cannot buy in this land. “Most interesting. And I suppose you would flock to whoever pays you a lofty enough price and do their bidding?” Jimin smiles. “I do odd jobs. Menial tasks, really.” “Like a dog.” “What?” Jimin’s face shifts.

“You pledge loyalty to whoever feeds you the way a dog follows its master,” Yoongi analyzes, clasping his hands behind his back thoughtfully. “And you like to help the needy, who are like the dregs of tea at the bottom of a cup. Indeed, like does attract like—“ /Slap./

Yoongi reels back, clutching his face in surprise. The sound of being slapped takes him aback more than the sting of it. Jimin pulls his right hand back slowly, massaging his wrists. “Ah. Silly of me. How could I think a privileged aristocrat lile you could ever understand?”

“How dare you raise a hand—“ “I admit, it’s an eloquent way of ridiculing the majority of Hanyang’s population. But when you’re a bottom-feeder, you swim to catch even a dollop of sunlight. Though of course a man like you, who stands so close to the Sun, shall never understand.”

The night is so deep that darkness seems to swallow this side of the palace, but even so, Jimin’s eyes glisten fiercely. He glowers at Yoongi, who can hear his heart thundering against his chest for all the wrong reasons. He has upset the man. But he said nothing untruthful.

“You may feel free to think what you want. Call us small. Call us desperate,” Jimin sniffs, swallowing visibly. “And we, in turn, will call you silver spoon bastards.” Yoongi blink. “Now if you would excuse me, /my lord/, I will now remove myself from your great presence.”

Jimin feigns a bow, but maintains his curt, icy stare, leaving Yoongi stupefied beyond words. Only when he disappears from Yoongi’s sight does Yoongi realize he never asked why Jimin had strayed from the banquet courtyard in the first place. Not that it matters anymore.

“I’m not as close to His Majesty as he thinks,” Yoongi grumbles under his breath later, as he busies himself with some late-night calligraphy to soothe his mind. “What a scoundrel.” “Who? Me?” Songhwa asks across the table, busy with a blank canvas and an array of paintbrushes.

Yoongi sighs & looks out the window. “Just an insufferable person who confuses me.” “Nothing is confusing, Orabeoni,” Songhwa says nonchalantly. “People are just complicated creatures. Either you have a lack of understanding, or something does not want to be understood by you.”

“You just made it sound even more convoluted, Songhwa.” “You know, brother, for a Sungkyunkwan scholar you can be impossibly foolish,” Songhwa says matter-of-factly. “Why don’t you try painting to develop your intelligence?” “Why, you little minx—“ His sister giggles softly.

Yoongi glances at the canvas Songhwa is working on, where a small orchid flower is beginning to take form. “I thought you wanted to paint Yeol.” “This is practice. I will clear my head before diving into the object of my desire.” Yoongi cuts his sister a glance. “Desire?”

“Yes,” Songhwa answers primly, gazing at him with a deadpan face. “Desire.” She makes no further explanation, leaving Yoongi more baffled than before. He looks at the painting again. “You mean to say, your painting is a manifestation of your desires.” Songhwa nods casually.

“And you desire...” Yoongi licks his lower lip, heart rate speeding for some reason. “Yeol?” Songhwa’s eyes flicker up to him. “Is that wrong?” Yoongi’s eyes widen. “Is that not a”—he gulps and leans forward to lower his voice to a hush—“a crime?” “I ask again, is it wrong?”

“It’s a crime,” Yoongi repeats dumbly, feeling even more foolish in front of his much-younger sister. It astounds him so, how he has no further defense rather than the illegality of what Songhwa is alluding to. He gulps, forcing himself to he calm. “Are all crime true wrongs?”

“Watch your mouth. I fear for the words you speak, sister,” Yoongi cuts curtly, a similar kind of fear swelling in him, but not for his sister—for himself. “You could be branded a criminal if you daresay this to anyone aside from me.” Songhwa’s lower lip quivers. “You wound me.”

“I do not wish you see you hurt, is all.” Yoongi reaches out to pinch his sister’s cheek. “Not my baby sister, not our Songhwa.” Songhwa squirms from him. “If you love me, truly, then you must accept all that it is of me. Including my heart.” Again, Yoongi is left speechless.

Songhwa is glaring at him with a headstrong, defiant gaze that looks so similar to the way someone else had looked at him, hours earlier. It sends Yoongi’s thoughts spinning, the idea that he may not be as clever as he thinks he is. Yoongi points at her canvas. “Teach me.”

The sudden request breaks Songhwa’s heated glower. She blinks owlishly up at Yoongi, brows rising. “How to paint?” Not /only/ how to paint, but other ....beliefs... as well. Yoongi aches to understand. He cracks the barest of smiles. “Let me join your classes with Tutor Jeon.”

And so the slow burn begins

thanks for reading up to here for now!! any thoughts on the characters so far? will be dropping something spicy on Patreon again soon, so stay tuned! meanwhile, here is my kofi if you like my work: ko-fi.com/kyrifics

Look at this incredible art of dancer Jimin!!

thank you so much, he’s breathtaking.

Kaz⁷
@Persona_deer

Jul 01 21

Been wanted to create the mentioned painting since the moment i read it! I hope you imagined it somewhat similar @adubu ☁︎

#btsfanart #jimin

Unlike what Yoongi anticipated, Tutor Jeon is a young man—a boy really—who can’t possibly be beyond his teenage years. Despite towering over Yoongi, his twinkling round eyes & even rounder cheeks belie his youth. Rumor has it that the boy’s an art genius, hence his qualification.

“Ah, I’ve made a mistake,” Songhwa laments sullenly, shaking her head at the accidental stroke of ink smeared across her canvas. “Yeol, my sweet, would you fetch me a new canvas?” “You can still cover it up,” Tutor Jeon says, eyes trained on the princess’ canvas. “With paint.”

“Is that so? Show me.” “Like this.” Tutor Jeon dips his paintbrush into a palette and starts swirling until the paint matches the canvas’ original hue. “Best not waste materials.” Standing next to them, Yeol lets out an admiring noise of approval. Songhwa eyes the tutor warily.

“I am most curious about you,” she says, dipping her own paintbrush into a jar of clear water. “How old are you?” Tutor Jeon casts his eyes to the wooden floor of the open-air pavilion they’re sitting in. “I turned seventeen last autumn, Your Highness.” “And your full name is?”

“Jeon Jungkook, Your Highness.” Yoongi glances at him. “Do you perhaps have an older brother at Sungkwunkwan?” “Yes, his name is Jeon Kihyun. I hope to soon join him after I am eligible to take the next civil state examinations.” Yoongi nods. “Will you not pursue art?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “It does not behoove a scholar to pursue mindless passions that will not produce greatness, Your Highness. I’m grateful enough to be able to indulge in this practice in the presence of such important members of the palace. In a next life, perhaps.”

Such a well-mannered boy. Yoongi decides he likes Jungkook. “Then, feel free to tutor us to your heart’s content, while you are here. It is a royal order.” Jungkook looks up at him with big, wet eyes, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Hmmpf,” Songhwa snarks.

Yoongi glances at his sister. “What?” “Nothing, really. It merely astounds me how you men like to deprive yourselves so much to preserve some semblance of dignity,” Songhwa comments airily, busy with her paintbrush. Jungkook blinks owlishly. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Songhwa pauses, and her gaze flickers from one man to the other. “Art. Embroidery. Tailoring. Is it truly that shameful to like them, as men?” Yoongi and Jungkook exchange looks of surprise. “I’ve seen the embroidery our Orabeoni’s handkerchiefs, and they’re lovely. Why hide?”

Yoongi answers with stubborn silence. Jungkook studies Songhwa as though she were a preacher explaining the nuances of poetry. Finally, Yoongi remarks quietly, “We cannot simply do everything—“ “If you like something, do it. If you want something, go after it,” Songhwa says.

How naive she is. How young. Yoongi wishes he could see the world from Min Songhwa’s eyes, understand her simplistic perspective. Their session is cut short when Hoseok appears outside the pavilion’s steps. “Your presence is being summoned, Your Highness,” he says to them.

Yoongi’s hand pauses above his... well, non-existent artwork, seeing as he’s barely made 2 strokes of black ink over his canvas. “Where to? And by who?” Hoseok’s eyes flicker with a foreign look—uneasiness. “The Royal Council Hall, Your Highness. By the King and his ministers.”

Yoongi’s head jerks up, his pulse quickening. His father seldom calls for him. Or ever, at all. He drops the paintbrush and scrambles to his feet right away. “Very well. Let’s go.” Hoseok hesitates. “The Princess is being called as well.” Songhwa points at herself. “Me? Why?”

When Hoseok offers no explanation, Yoongi all but commands gently, “Let’s make haste, Songhwa.” This must be an important call. To Jungkook, he nods in acknowledgment. “We shall continue another day.” He does not miss the furtive glance Hoseok sends to Jungkook as they leave.

Yoongi’s father is a stout, bearded man with trembling, rough hands that complement his unstable temper. Even now, as the King’s gaze lands upon Yoongi, it’s hard to ignore his bloodshot eyes—remnants of a weak ruler who dethroned the previous king via a government coup d’état.

Yoongi does not know what it is like to love the man who bore him, or to be loved in return. To the King, they are hardly father and son, but master and servant. It’s Crown Prince Sohyeon, sitting at his right, who settles the dull unease in Yoongi with a weary, gentle smile.

“Brother,” Sohyeon’s voice rings out loud but warm in the Council Hall, more regal than his father has ever been. “It is so good to see you. Have you been well?” Yoongi bows his head. Next to him, kneeling on the floor, Songhwa stays quiet as a mouse. “Yes, Highness.”

“Your Majesty,” a raspy drawl rises from the rows and rows of court of officials standing before the king— Yoongi’s uncle, the Minister of War. “The Qing has received the invitation and has sent a reply.” “Is that so?” A rumbling laugh bubbles from the King’s belly. “Tell us.”

A royal messenger comes forward and unrolls a parchment to read: “The Qing Empire is pleased to attend the Royal Banquet to celebrate the Joseon King’s fortieth birthday.” Yoongi fights off a frown. Why are they being informed of this, and how is any of this relevant to him?

“/It is with great honor and hope that the Emperor of Qing sends his most trusted envoys to forge a stronger alliance with the nation of Joseon./“ “Do you hear that, Yoongi?” the King asks, a pleased smile gracing his face. “It is time; you are old enough to choose a wife.”

A gasp escapes Songhwa, and Yoongi stifles the urge to reach out and comfort her. Dread punctures its claws into his lungs, and he struggles to phrase his next words politely. “However, Your Majesty, I—“ He pauses, realizing he has no words to better articulate any refusal.

“You are what?” Crown Prince Sohyeon prods slowly, eyes kind. “Speak, brother, and you shall be heard.” Does it matter what he says, though? Yoongi swallows to force down the heaviness in his chest. “I...” “I have spoiled you too much, now look at you,” says the King. “Weak.”

Yoongi lets out a slow, quiet breath, schooling his features into a look of calm. “I have not yet graduated from my studies at Sungkyunkwan, Your Majesty. I am afraid to taint the nation’s name, should the Emperor of Qing be dissatisfied with my lack of scholarly knowledge.”

Inwardly, Yoongi fights back a shudder at the mere idea of having to pick a wife. A woman to regard as his other half, to love and to bed. He tries to fathom it, but all thoughts of women lead to one image in his mind: a court dancer mid-leap, drapes billowing around his arms.

Stroking his beard, the King shifts his gaze to Songhwa instead. “Then shall I propose the Princess’ hand in matrimony, instead?” Songhwa lets out a faint cry of dismay, unable to conceal herself. “Father, please, I—“ “It’s either you or your brother,” says the Minister of War.

It all clicks in Yoongi’s head, then, why he and Songhwa were summoned to court. With the Crown Prince already bethrothed to the Crown Princess, the throne is left with no other pawn pieces for political maneuvering... except for Yoongi and Songhwa, children of his First Consort.

It’s almost hilarious, how not even an hour earlier he’d been so inclined to believe Songhwa’s endless optimism. To believe that he’d be free to follow his heart’s wishes. Desire is a concept he will never understand. Yoongi clenches and unclenches his hands. “I accept.”

“Orabeoni!” Songhwa cries, but her voice falls to deaf ears in a courtroom full of powerful men only looking to serve themselves. Yoongi’s eyes close. /Do you see, now?/ He mentally asks. /Do you see how children of the throne will never be truly free?/ “Good,” says the King.

“That leaves our little Princess free to entertain our most treasured guests.” Yoongi looks up, stricken. “The Qing are avid lovers of culture and celebration,” says one of the court officials. “They’ve requested for a round of song and dance with the women of the palace.”

Songhwa inhales sharply. Yoongi’s jaw tightens. “This banquet will be a festival,” declares the Minister of Culture. “We open our doors to our valued neighbors,” adds the Minister of Foreign Affairs. “An exchange of cultures and practices!” “But I cannot dance,” says Songhwa.

At this, Crown Prince Sohyeon raises a hand. A hush dampens the courtroom’s excited chatter. “Which is why we have invited the best dancer of Joseon to personally come and teach you,” says Sohyeon. Songhwa’s brow furrows. “Who?” “The dancer from Surit-nal, Lady Aeshin.”

/Aeshin?/ Yoongi hears the rush of blood in his ears, and he rubs clammy hands against his robes. Didn’t Jimin say she has eloped with her lover? Songhwa’s face brightens. “The talented Lady Aeshin?” “She has accepted, and will be staying in the palace until the banquet.”

Yoongi’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. He ducks his face low to hide his expression. How? How can a vanished woman accept the palace’s summon? Unless it’s /not/ Lady Aeshin herself... His eyes narrow. He looks up and clears his throat. “How long until then?” “A month.”

So Yoongi has a month left until he marries, but until then he will devote himself to weeding out little liars who intend to deceive the throne, and more importantly, his own sister. Liars like ‘Lady Aeshin’. Yoongi arranges his expression into a neutral one. “Understood.”

“Penny for your thoughts?” Yoongi looks up from his scrolls of texts, most of which he’d glossed over with unreading eyes anyway. Kim Namjoon is peering at him like he’s a formula to solve, a riddle without an answer. He’d come by the palace to visit and study with Yoongi.

They’ve only started growing closer due to them both being scholars of the academy, but already Yoongi feels at ease with the man. Unlike his arrogant father, Kim Namjoon exudes a quiet confidence in his abilities, layered with an easygoing charm. “I am to marry in a month.”

Namjoon hums noncommittaly. “To a woman you love? My my, should I feel slighted that you’ve never shared this with me before?” Yoongi chortles. “You speak of love like it’s easy to find. No, I will serve as a vessel to strengthen alliances with the Qing. End of the story.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Yoongi grinds his teeth. /Outraged. Hopeless. Lower than a pig./ “I’m somewhat relieved to be useful to my king.” Namjoom muffles a snort, shooting him a look as if to say, /That’s just pretentious./ “I am also hurt.” Namjoon nods. “Go on.”

The thing is, Yoongi has never been a dreamer like Songhwa, nor an ambitious man like his older brother. He’s always leaned towards pragmatism. And to be fair, the court’s decision was born out of logic and necessity. So why does Yoongi feel like his wings have just been clipped?

He shrugs and opens another textbook. “I just do. But what I feel does not matter, anyway.” Namjoon sighs, giving him a plaintive stare. “I hope the person you will love would someday teach you otherwise.” Yoongi snorts. “I can teach myself everything I need to know.” “Right.”

And so, the investigation begins. A few days following the dramatic court announcement, Songhwa drags Yoongi out of his quarters and into the Lotus Pavilion so that he would ‘stop moping around like a widow’ or whatnot. Yoongi seizes the opportunity to ask—

“Have your lessons with Lady Aeshin begun yet?” “Just about.” Songhwa’s eyes crinkle with merriment as she sets down her teacup. “She is to enter the palace today, after a few days’ delay to make arrangement for an extended stay. I am no dancer, so I fear she will struggle.”

Oh, he is going to struggle all right. Yoongi would make sure of that. “Would you mind if I sat in for your first lesson today?” Songhwa gives him an odd look. “Why in the heavens’ name should you want to?” Yoongi racks his brain for a reason. “I am interested in, uh, dancing.”

“Oh, my.” Songhwa clutches her chest, gawking at Yoongi. “Orabeoni, you haven’t even married yet but here you are, already a changed man. Color me impressed. Would you like to learn to dance, too?” “No!” Yoongi denies. Songhwa frowns. “I mean, I would prefer to simply observe.”

She giggles and shakes her head. “No need to be so shy around me. But very well. You may join us this afternoon.” Yoongi cracks a smile. “Marvelous.” Afternoon could not come fast enough. By noon Yoongi’s nerves have turned into jitters, like a bucket of butterflies set free.

He’s already set a plan of action. When he sees Park Jimin—if the commissioned dancer happens to be him, that is—Yoongi will calmly walk to him and return the one thing he never should have deigned to touch in the first place: Master Kim’s unholy scriptures. Such an abomination.

And then... and then what? Yoongi tells himself he’ll improvise on the spot what to do next afterwards. The priority is to return the cursed book, and confront Jimin for crossdressing so shamelessly. The dance lessons are to be held at the Lotus Pavilion, bridged across a pond.

Yoongi follows a few steps behind Songhwa, unable to get a word between her animated conversation with her lady-in-waiting, Yeol. The two have always been like sisters—Yoongi never would’ve imagined Songhwa would regard her as anything more. The Lotus Pavilion comes into view.

A woman clad in a plain cream-and-brown hanbok rises as Songhwa climbs the wooden steps leading into the pavilion. With the dancer’s back to Yoongi, he can’t check for facial features. But then Songhwa mouths something and points to Yoongi, and the dancer turns to look.

And—sure enough, Yoongi gets a glimpse of Park Jimin’s unmistakably soft face, clear and unobscured with his hair up in a bun. Yoongi would recognize those eyes anywhere, no matter how far. To his surprise, his heart starts hammering wildly without his consent.

It beats so violently that Yoongi’s chest starts to burn, so he doubles over and spins, unwilling to attract attention or let anyone see him in such a state. Unacceptable. He has never felt this way before. Clutching his heart, Yoongi starts running in the opposite direction.

“Oh?” He hears Songhwa’s surprised voice. “Orabeoni! Where are you going?” Yoongi doesn’t have it in him to respond. His face is on flames, and so is his neck, his ears. He should be able to control such a sensation, but it feels so visceral, like a wildfire spread too wide.

He staggers back to his quarters, feeling dazed as though a haze has just enveloped his vision. From somewhere seemingly far away, he feels strong arms gripping him, followed by a familiar voice—Hoseok perhaps—asking if he is all right. Yoongi nods, citing a need for some water.

Hoseok’s eyebrows are furrowed in deep concern. “I’ll ask the servants to bring you a fresh pitcher from the wells. Is there anything else you need?” Still shaken, Yoongi drops to the floor and crawls to his low-lying wooden table. “That dancer.” “Eh? You’re into dancers now?”

Yoongi rests his forehead on the table. He needs some time to gather his wits, be more alert. Maybe a cup of tea to calm himself, too. Under his breath, he mutters, “After Songhwa’s lesson ends, bring that dancer to my quarters. I would speak to... her...in private.” “Will do.”

After Hoseok leaves, Yoongi takes out the cursed book from the inner pockets of his robes and places it on his table. Then he hugs his knees and rocks back and forth, gnawing on his nails. He can’t keep losing his cool like this. Whereas he thought he’d be unfazed at the sight+

of Park Jimin again, he’d actually experience every other emotion under the sun but calmness. The deep pools of Jimin’s sharp gaze never fails to mesmerize. Yoongi attributes his reaction to the fact that Jimin looks too beautiful, breaching the boundaries between man and woman.

On top of that came the wave relentless remorse and shame crashing out of nowhere, flooding Yoongi and reminding him of all the uncouth words he’d spoken to Jimin the night of Surit-nal. Looking back, Yoongi understands how spewing such nonsense made him come across as stuck-up.

This cannot be happening. He needs some fresh air to cleanse the negativity from his troubled mind. So Yoongi opens the windows in his quarters, closing his eyes as he lets a summer songbird soothe his inexplicable jitters. He takes out a parchment and dips a brush in ink.

He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, but for once Yoongi doesn’t follow his logical mind. Instead he lets his gut instinct take control as he gingerly, with slow brushstrokes, spells out the hanja characters comprising “Park Jimin”. It’s a lovely name befitting a lovely face.

“Your Highness,” Hoseok’s voice rings from outside Yoongi’s door. “Lady Aeshin is here, as requested.” Yoongi nearly jumps out of his skin. The calligraphy brush clatters to the table as he scrambles to hide away every remnant of his writings, tidying his table. “Let her in.”

The doors slide open, and Jimin is waved inside. His footfalls hardly make noise as he glides in, head bowed deeply to avoid eye contact with Yoongi. “Your Highness,” Jimin greets, eyes trained on the floor. Yoongi purses his lips, steadying his heartbeat. “Raise your head.”

Jimin’s shoulders rise, taut with tension. “Grand Prince Min Yun, I am humbled to be summoned by you. How may I be of use?” /He is trembling/, Yoongi notices. His eyes widen. Jimin doesn’t /know who he is./ But why? Does he perhaps not recognize the timbre of Yoongi’s voice?

“I said, raise your head and look at me, Park Jimin.” Jimin’s spine goes rigid. Yoongi almost smiles to himself. There—that should do the trick. Slowly, as though afraid the disturb the currents moving through the very air they breathe, Jimin lifts his head. Their eyes meet.

As soon as recognition crosses Jimin’s eyes, his face morphs into a rhapsody of shock, confusion and apprehension. “You’re familiar,” Yoongi drawls, smirking. “Have we met before?” “Aren’t you... a palace official?” Jimin manages. “I am.” Yoongi smiles. “As the Grand Prince.”

Let the shenanigans rooooll

Good night! Thanks for staying up with me! Here’s the playlist in case you missed it: open.spotify.com/playlist/4ywbV…

FIRST TWEET

adubu ☁︎
@the7print

Jun 19 21

Jimin’s dumbfounded stare is like an arrowhead piercing Yoongi’s forehead. Yoongi tells himself not to fidget under that gaze. He’s not really sure how he’s expecting Jimin to react—all he knows is he /wants/ to spur a reaction, to siphon some attention from the dancer.

“Yes, you must be thinking, ‘Oh no! I ought to beg for mercy!’ since I am of royal blood. But you need not feel too ashamed about your behavior towards me thus far,” Yoongi states. “You do not offend.” Jimin lowers his gaze to the floor and exhales deeply. “I cannot believe it.”

“I know,” Yoongi says, sipping on his tea. “I might take half of the responsibility for the misunderstanding, since I had not clarified—“ “5 nyang...” Yoongi’s nose wrinkles. “What?” “I cannot believe I charged you only 5 nyang,” Jimin whispers, “when it should have been 10!”

Oh. Oh no. This isn’t what Yoongi hoped the conversation would lead to. He clucks his tongue. “Insolence. This is not about your shoddy business.” Jimin bites his lower lip in worry. “Then, if I may, why have I been summoned, Your... Highness?” “Is it not obvious?” Yoongi asks.

Realization crosses Jimin’s eyes. “Ah. I see.” Yoongi nods and takes another sip of tea. At least the man is quick on the uptake. “I’m glad you understand.” “You would like to perform a dance as well,” Jimin states solemnly. “And require my guidance.” Yoongi spits out his tea.

“I do not-“ Yoongi reaches for a handkerchief and pats down his mouth, fuming. The sheer absurdity of what this brat is suggesting! “I will not. I shall never dance, not even so much as lift a pinky to a tune. I am here to question your very presence in the palace, you fraud.”

Jimin’s face flits from open and lighthearted to wariness. He doesn’t react. “So much for letting that gisaeng vanish.” Yoongi prides himself on being a straightforward man. “I can’t help but wonder what’s so important that you would return to reprise your role as Lady Aeshin.”

Jimin presses his lips to a thin line and looks away, a crease marring the space between his eyebrows. Yoongi leans forward and rests his chin over his hands. “You are aware I am the only one in this palace who knows you’re a man. I could have you tried in court as we speak.”

Speaking with Park Jimin gets easier the more Yoongi reminds himself of his true purpose, and to remember not to get swept up in the man’s charisma. It’s all so simple— “Then,” Jimin looks up at him then, eyelashes aflutter in a slow blink. “Why don’t you?” Yoongi swallows.

/No, Min Yoongi. Stay strong in the face of evil distractions,/ he thinks to himself. “I,” Yoongi says, crossing his arms. “Am exercising mercy, weighing my options. Which is why I would have you explain yourself before I make a decision.” Jimin’s pupils waver, gaze downcast.

Finally he sighs as though in defeat and says in a modulated tone, “It’s all for the children.” Yoongi blinks. “Have you a family to feed?” “No, but I help out sometimes at the orphanage, where there is never enough food to go around. Repairs are always ongoing. They need me.”

“You?” Yoongi struggles to take it all in. What can a common man do to save gaggles of hungry children? “You should send a petition to the magistrate, rally for subsidies—“ “I wrote 6 letters in 2 months and have not heard back even once,” Jimin rebuts, voice growing heavy.

“When I asked for an audience with the local magistrate, I was turned away at the gates because I had not secured an appointment.” Jimin’s hands fist at the chiffon of his hanbok. “And everyone in Hanyang knows the magistrate only entertains noblemen’s concerns. Or bribes.”

Yoongi feels knots twisting in his stomach. He didn’t know. Truth be told, he doesn’t even think the King does, since appeals are so heavily regulated by the ministers. “And you genuinely believe dressing up as a woman to teach the princess how to dance will solve your crisis?”

Jimin purses his lips. “I do.” “And what of your dignity?” “My dignity does not depend on my manhood or appearance. Pride will not put food on the table. Only the noble folk like you can afford to believe so.” Jimin closes his eyes, voice rough as though holding back tears.

Yoongi frowns, deeply perturbed. It’s one thing to learn about corruption in the textbooks and teachings; to witness it being so deeply-rooted in Joseon’s government system is quite another story. “Allow me to help.” Jimin looks up at him, disbelieving. “You... you would?”

“I would be inclined to.” At the sight of Yoongi’s determined expression, the tension in Jimin’s shoulders seem to melt away, his face relaxing. “I am at your mercy. I appreciate this. Please convince the magistrate to listen—“ “So, how much do you need?” Jimin stops. “What?”

“I can give you the money right now.” Yoongi opens a drawer that keeps his personal safe box. “How much would be enough? A hundred nyang? Two hundred? Or is it silver you need? I have more than enough to go around, take as much as you need.” Jimin’s face turns cold. “How cruel.”

Yoongi’s hand pauses on the lid of his safe box. “Why the long face? Is it not money that you need? I would be pleased if you smile—“ “I cannot accept this.” Jimin’s chest rises & falls as though he is struggling to cast off a huge load weighing him down. “This is not the way.”

Yoongi’s frowns deepens, and he lets go of his safe box completely. An indignant wave of heat crashes through him at being rejected. “If you are so smart, then why don’t you enlighten me.” “If I accept this money, it will feed them for a month. Maybe two.” “And that’s good!”

“And then after that?” asks Jimin, fists trembling. “And when winter hits, where do we find our resources? Do you expect me to come crawling back at your feet, begging for scraps?” Yoongi bristles. “That’s—“ “For now, your riches can help. But in the long-term, it would hurt.”

Yoongi stutters an exhale, feeling as though he’s just been guttered. “I do not intend to hurt.” “Perhaps. But by giving these children a month or two of safety and happiness, only for everything to fall apart once it runs out, you’d be crushing their souls. They deserve more.”

“Aren’t you being a hypocrite to say such demeaning things to me, when you are doing the exact same?” Yoongi points out. “You’ve come to work at the palace, so no doubt my family will compensate you generously. Wouldn’t that money do the same as the money I would give you now?”

Jimin lets out a disbelieving breath, one hand coming up to wipe at his cheeks, and it strikes Yoongi that the dancer is /crying/. The idea that Yoongi drove him to tears is enough to drive him mad. This whole situation is madness. “You don’t understand,” Jimin mumbles.

He gazes at Yoongi with the same glittering eyes, but rather than cheekiness there is only a deep hurt. “I came here hoping to not only earn my keep, but also earn a powerful official’s trust enough to convince them to change things.” He sighs. “And here I hoped it would be you.”

Yoongi pulls back as though he’s been smacked in the face with a book, and he realizes he’s breathing hard. His chest feels so heavy, but he doesn’t know how to articulate a proper response that would save him and Jimin any further rift other than— “All right. You may leave.”

In the dwindling dusk, as outdoor insects creep out to play and the midsummer breeze conducts a harmony of rustling leaves, Yoongi hurries out of his personal quarters and heads towards the Crown Prince’s residence hall.

“I request an audience with the Crown Prince,” he brusquely tells the eunuch standing alert outside his elder brother’s quarters. “My lord, it is getting late—“ “I request an audience,” Yoongi’s voice lowers in pitch, “with my brother. Urgently.” The eunuch shrinks back.

Yoongi’s presence is announced outside the Crown Prince’s quarters, and as soon as the affirmative reply is given, he doesn’t wait for the servants to open the wooden doors to welcome his entrance. Yoongi bounds right in. His brother looks up wearily from his work table.

When his gaze falls on Yoongi, however, the creases lining his eyes seem to fall away, replaced by crinkles of a warm smile. “Yoongi-yah. How rare it is to be visited by you these days.” Yoongi sinks to his knees on the floor. “Brother. Please allow me a favour.” “What is it?”

“I would like to send a team headed by Chief Commander Jung Hoseok to investigate the Magistrate of Hanyang’s past archives. And I would personally monitor the record of transactions at the town hall.” Prince Sohyeon eyes him, intrigued. “This is so sudden. Whatever for?”

Yoongi bites his lower lip. “I... received word of foul play going on among the local magistrates. Please grant us a permit to launch an investigation.” “You have never been interested in politics, dear brother,” Crown Prince Sohyeon states. “Why now?” “Because it is wrong.”

Prince Sohyeon’s eyes flash with something thoughtful. “You surprise me, brother, but I must say I do feel proud. However, we should take care to remember that the local Magistrate is brother to the Minister of Agriculture. To launch a sudden interrogation is rather dangerous.”

Yoongi came here fully aware of this, but he’s not one to budge easily. “Please allow us a permit for a general investigation of all local town halls then, to be fair.” Crown Prince Sohyeon’s mouth curves up. He stands and walks over to where Yoongi is kneeling. “Rise, brother.”

Yoongi obliges, and Prince Sohyeon pats his shoulder. For a moment they’re teenagers again, racing to get the better bow-and-arrow to practice archery on a summer’s day, not a cloud of worry in sight. “How about this—beat me in a round of duel, and I’ll consider your request.”

It’s a layered message—between the two, Yoongi has always been the better fighter, being more grounded and light-footed. Crown Prince Sohyeon’s eyes twinkle knowingly, and Yoongi grins. “Ah, finally a glimpse of that gummy smile.” Yoongi snorts. “You better not go easy on me.”

They stand face-to-face at one of the palace’s small, private courtyards, swords unsheathed. The only person invited to oversee their match is Hoseok and a royal nurse in case any of the brother accidentally get nicked. Not that any of their duels have ever been life-threatening.

At Hoseok’s signal, Prince Sohyeon parries, dashing forward with a small grunt. Yoongi swerves left to avoid it, then spins around while raising his sword. Just as he’s about to yank the steel downwards, his brother turns to block the attack. Their blades clash with a /zing/.

“You’ve improved leaps and bounds,” Yoongi comments with a huft, and his older brother winks at him. The audacity. “I’ve been practicing.” Prince Sohyeon pulls back and swipes at Yoongi’s ankles. He avoids the blow with a timely hop. “Seriously, hyung-nim? Old trick.”

Prince Sohyeon chuckles. “Have mercy on your old-fashioned elders.” He staggers back to regain balance, but Yoongi is faster and manages to catch the sleeve of his older brother’s robes. “Please,” he teases. “You are barely three years older than me.” “Ah, to be young again!”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, but keeps pace with his brother, whose cheeks are flushed with effort. Every time their swords meet, a clang of collision fills the night air. “Honestly, I feared you’d come to ask me to call off your betrothal,” Prince Sohyeon quips, ducking quickly.

The mention of the Qing envoys’ looming visit dampens Yoongi’s adrenaline, and he makes a face while parrying. “It is my duty.” “I will make sure to help you choose a suitable wife,” says the Crown Prince. /Wife./ The word sends Yoongi’s stomach churning for some reason.

It’s odd, really, that he should feel averse to finding a wife, as though there are other options for a partner to a prince such as he. A wife would be good and obedient, unlike a stubborn, loudmouthed brat— Yoongi gets so lost in his thoughts he loses grips of his surroundings.

So it’s with a belated cry that he crumples to the ground, after the Crown Prince’s sword swings too near his right eye, creating a gash that sends blood spurting down half of his face. “Yoongi-yah!” Prince Sohyeon screams. “Highness!” comes Hoseok’s panicked cry.

Pain explodes from his forehead to just beneath his eyeline, and Yoongi moans on the ground as he clutches his eyes. He can’t feel his eyelids. Only the courtyard gravel against his face. Footsteps rush to him. “Hurry, take him to the infirmary,” the Crown Prince barks. “Now!”

Yoongi moans as the excruciating pain magnifies twofold as he is deposited onto a makeshift stretcher. The standby royal nurse presses some kind of fabric against his face and he bites back a yell. From a seemingly far distance, he hears his older brother’s frantic apologies.

Yoongi cracks an eye open and is gratified to find the Crown Prince’s blurred face hovering above his. He grasps around to grip his brother’s hand. “Quit apologizing. You’re noisy.” “Yoongi...” “Just make sure to act upon your words. I won, by the way. Nicked your robes first.”

The Crown Prince lets out a muffled sob. “You’re still as stubborn as ever.” Yoongi waves him off without another word, too overwhelmed by the wave after wave of pain rolling through one side of his face. As he is carried to the infirmary, he thinks— Jimin better be proud him.

—tbc! Thank you for staying with me for another night of fun!! The next update is gonna be

ehehehe anyway, good night! Here’s my ko-fi: it’s my birthday this week so I’m saving up to buy party + food stuff. Help me out? ko-fi.com/kyrifics

The painful ordeal of being wounded is amplified in the waking hours, so as soon as Yoongi is placed on the infirmary bed, the royal physician feeds him a dark, bitter liquid that makes him drowsy within minutes. Soon numbness overtakes his body, and then deep sleep.

Over the next 2 days he slips in and out of consciousness, waking for hardly an hour’s worth of a meal before he is fed the same medicine to ensure that he would not have to endure the worst of the pain. The next time Yoongi crashes into wakefulness, his eye has been bandaged.

He reaches up to skim light fingers over the bandages protecting his slightly sore wound. “Your Highness.” Yoongi groans and pushes himself up to a sitting position, disoriented. “Who’s there?” The voice outside his quarters answers, “It’s me, Chief Commander Jung Hoseok.”

Yoongi throws back the blanket from his body and groggily staggers to his sitting table, where he usually stays when receiving guests. “You may enter.” The chief guard enters soundlessly, face a mask of concern. “Yoongi hyung.” Hoseok lowers himself on the floor. “How are you?”

Yoongi scrunches his right cheek & winces at the dull throb that that one move sends through his healing gash. “I’ve been better. Have you come to only inquire after my health?” A small, reassuring smile paints the chief guard’s face. “I’ve come to bring you the archives, too.”

“Archives?” Hoseok gestures to one corner of Yoongi’s quarters, at a low-lying table stacked with books and scrolls. “The Crown Prince pushed for an official investigation of the local magistrate’s office yesterday. We confiscated most of the tampered records for your perusal.”

A jolt rolls through Yoongi, and he motions for Hoseok to bring the records closer to him. Though he has no lack of faith in his brother’s judgment, it’s still a wonder that the Crown Prince managed to issue an order against the magistrate, who is closely linked to the court.

“I trust this is everything your squad has sequestered in the past two days?” he says, surveying the thick ledgers coolly. Some of these are thicker than his own scholarly texts. How much corruption runs amok below the court’s nose? Hoseok nods. “We managed the best we could.”

Yoongi hums in approval. “Well done. I will see to these records now. You may leave.” Hoseok makes a move to leave, but hesitates by the door. “Your Highness, pardon if I ask but...” “But?” Yoong glances up from the texts. “Is there any reason behind this move?” Hoseok turns.

Yoongi purses his lips. “Why do you ask?” “I worry. You’ve been safe all these years because you’ve never expressed interest in affairs of the state, but now I fear you might make yourself some enemies in—“ “And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Yoongi’s nostrils flare. “Apathy.”

Hoseok makes no comment, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “My entire life I’ve done nothing but cruise by, ignorant of the people’s pain.” A memory of Jimin’s tear-streaked, indignant face reconstructs itself in Yoongi’s mind. “But perhaps now I’m done being passive.”

Hoseok bites his lower lip, contemplating, until he finally nods. “I will always support you. But please, be careful. The palace is writhing with venomous snakes.” Yoongi smiles, warmed. “You have nothing to be afraid of, or for. To most, I’m nothing but a spoiled grand prince.”

After Hosoek takes his leave, Yoongi wastes no time in going through every last one of thr confiscated archives. What he finds is atrocious: the local Magistrate Choi has been accepting bribes that favor only the yangban class, often at the expense of poor farmers and merchants.

Promises of spared land are not kept; to the detriment of these poor farmers, their lands get stolen to build bigger inns and taverns owned by members of the Joseon aristocracy. Local requests for funding are also consistently ignored or declined. It makes Yoongi’s blood boil.

Late last year, a differnet orphanage south of Hanyang was shut down due to insufficient resources. The children who had been sheltered there were consequently sold into slavery. Yoongi’s breath catches. Jimin must have known about this and was trying to avoid the same fate.

This is the cry of the common folk. Each page of the confiscated records illustrate the depth of a nation’s grief, marked by gaping wounds, every last one covered by the vibrant colors and flourishing lifestyles of the upper class. It sickens Yoongi.

For the next 3 days, armed with parchment and brush, he busies himself writing appeals to the King for a re-inspection of the Royal Treasury. Since the title of Grand Prince grants him little to no power, he writes another request to the Crown Prince to remove the magistrate.

On the third day, when Yoongi is deemed recovered enough to take short outdoor strolls, Namjoon visits him at the Lotus Pavilion. “Quite the uproar you’re causing these says,” he comments, smiling at the decorative flower floating on his tea. Yoongi shrugs. “It’s long overdue.”

“Did you perhaps experience some grand epiphany to do as such?” Yoongi bites off a bit of yakgwa and munches thoughtfully. “Rather than some wondrous epiphany, one might say I’ve been brutally slapped into acknowledging reality.” The midsummer breeze is warm and pleasant.

Yoongi thinks about how only aristocrats and royalty like himself are able to enjoy taking leisurely walks during pleasant weather like this without a worry in tow. “Truth be told, it was a court dancer who talked some sense into me.” Namjoon’s eyebrows jump. “A court dancer?”

Yoongi nods. “Songhwa’s new teacher for the upcoming banquet is quite a fiesty one.” And can hold himself in a swift swordfight, too. “He— she made me realize how unfair it is that I should get to sleep in warm covers at night, while others who suffer have no homes to return to.”

Namjoon nods, and takes a sip of tea. “My father has grown wary of you.” Yoongi cuts him a glance. “The Minister of Finance?” “You do know that a re-inspection of the Royal Treasury means several weeks’ worth of work for him? Your actions put his reputation on the line.”

Yoongi traces the ring of his teacup. “And you? Will you someday grow to abhor me?” “I have nothing against you, my friend.” Namjoon smiles, cheeks dimpling. “In fact—and dare I say it—I believe we’re headed the right way. You ought to thank that court dancer, on my behalf.”

Yoongi grunts. He already has a thank-you gift in order, even with or without Namjoon’s behalf. He’s not so callous as to be ungrateful. “Does it hurt?” Namjoon points at his own right eye, and Yoongi feels himself grow self-conscious. “Not anymore. It’s healed fairy well.”

Only a scar remains. Yoongi lifts a hand and traces its ridges. He’s not blind—reflections in mirrors tell him he’s unsightly, and the evasive reactions of court servants he crosses paths with reaffirm so. Yoongi has never been drop-dead handsome, but now he feels... beastly.

/It was worth it,/ he tries to convince himself now, looking into a mirror in the comforts of his own quarters. No point crying over spilled milk or wallowing in self-pity, not when there is still so much work to do. He turns to his worktable just as a voice outside announces:

“My lord, Her Highness, Princess Songhwa, is here to visit you.” Yoongi feels himself smiling. He has not seen his sister since getting injured. “Let her in.” The wooden doors part, and Songhwa bumbles in, skirts lifted to make running easier. Sprightly as usual. “Orabeoniii!”

A low chuckle ripples from Yoongi’s throat as his sister crashes to the floor before him, grinning like a loon. “Awake for so many days and nobody bothered to inform me!” she laments out loud, pouting. “Though I’m relieved you look healthy.” She makes no comment on the scar.

Yoongi smiles. “Some of us have things to do apart from paint and pine away for a lover.” Songhwa shushes him. “If you keep teasing me so, I would not tell you what I came here for.” Yoongi arches one eyebrow. “Oh?” Beaming, Songhwa motions to the court ladies. “Send her in.”

(A/N: heeeere’s a music recc for this scene <3 ) open.spotify.com/track/149Urmz3…

For the second time, the wooden doors open once more, and in a sweep of soft satins and chiffon, Jimin walks into Yoongi’s quarters, head bowed. “Lady Aeshin has expressed her request to meet you,” Songhwa says. “And since I adore her dearly, I’ve decided to bring her along.”

Yoongi’s heartbeat accelerates as he studies the figure in pure white, folding into a graceful bow before him. Jimin keeps his eyes steadfastly pinned to the floor as though Yoongi might bite should their eyes meet. “It’s your first time meeting, is it not?” Songhwa asks, giddy.

Yoongi clears his throat and has to physically rip his gaze away from the court dancer. Through the rapid hammering in his chest he faintly hears himself reply, “Perhaps?” Songhwa rests a hand on Jimin’s shoulder. “Go ahead. Tell him. Our orabeoni is kind and patient.”

“My deepest gratitude,” Jimin whispers, drastically different compared to the last time they met. “For the Grand Prince’s... consideration.” Yoongi chews on his lower lip. He turns his attention to his sister. “Songhwa, would you paint with me today?” “I have no materials now.”

“Then go fetch them. It is a royal order.” Songhwa sends him an odd look, but complies anyway. “Orabeoni, you’re weird. If you wanted to be alone with Lady Aeshin, you could’ve just said so.” Yoongi fights back a wheeze as he watches her go. That went well.

As soon as the doors close, a thick veil of silence falls between him and the court dancer kneeling before him. Yoongi licks his lips and says, “If you have something to say, raise your head and speak it with dignity. I would be loathe to have a conversation with you like this.”

Gingerly, Jimin unfolds himself into a proper sitting position, both legs tucked beneath him. Yoongi frowns at the way he still keeps his head ducked low. “Lift your head and look me in the eye.” “I am ashamed, Your Highness,” Jimin speaks lowly. “I have been harsh in my words.”

Yoongi sighs softly. “Look at me, Jimin. Do not be ashamed.” At the mention of his name, Jimin looks up on reflex. When his eyes fall on the scar marring Yoongi’s face, a grave look passes his expression. Yoongi smiles bitterly. “Ugly, I know. You must find me abhorrent.”

“What- h-how..?” Jimin splutters, eyes wide. His fingers twitch, as though he’s repressing himself from trying to reach for something. “My brother said he’d agree to launch an investigation only if I could win against him in a sword duel.” Jimin falls silent, dark gaze heavy.

Yoongi can’t bear it, the thick tension weighing down on this wretched conversation. He looks away. “Yes, I am abhorrent indeed—“ “No.” Yoongi’s gaze slides back to Jimin, now looking back at him with renewed ferocity. “I do not find it ugly at all, Your Highness. Far from it.”

Hope. It blooms in Yoongi like a sprout, hoping to grasp for whatever sliver of light it might find. He looks at Jimin and almost prays he’d be one. “It is this scar that gave hope to small people like me.” Jimin looks down, eyes red. “The orphanage has been granted funding.”

Jimin wrings the hem of his skirt. “I know I have treated you with disrespect, but I could never find anyone who helps others ugly.” His eyes flicker up to Yoongi’s, full of an earnest sincerity that sends a shudder down Yoongi’s spine. “That scar is honorable. Wear it proudly.”

Yoongi blinks and only then realizes there’s a teardrop falling on his robes. “You are the first to say so.” Everyone else in the palace had either looked at him in disgust or refused to mention the existence of the scar at all. For it to be called /honorable/ is something else.

He looks at Jimin, whose eyes are alight with a soft twinkle. “I should thank you, really.” Jimin shakes his head vehemently, handings flying in the air in denial. “I’ve done nothing but complain to you. If anything, I am grateful. And sorry. Please accept my deepest apologies.”

“And I’ve done nothing but continuously belittle you,” Yoongi says, then halts. Hesitation creeps up to him, and he scratches the back of his head. “I, uh... I’m also...” Another pregnant pause follows, with his hands floundering in the air. “You should know that I also feel...”

Oh, no. This is terrible. Yoongi has never before had to apologize for anything before, nor has he wished to. The words are stuck in his throat like fish bones, scratchy and brittle. “I want you to know that I—“ “Are you.. trying to apologize?” Jimin says, breaking into a laugh.

Yoongi dips his head, face hot as Jimin’s quiet chuckles fill his room. “How about I guide you, my lord? Dancing is not the only thing I teach,” Jimin offers. “Say it with me: I.” “I,” Yoongi mumbles. “Am.” “Am...?” “Sorry. It’s simple.” “I am...” Yoongi gulps. “I am...”

Jimin nods expectantly. “Yes?” “I am going to focusonworknow, so youarefreetogo,” Yoongi grits out in a slurred rush, wishing to jump into a well and never crawl out again. Jimin bursts into another round of tinkling laughter, and Yoongi wants to fling himself off a mountain.

Despite the deep embarrassment, however, Yoongi cannot help but desperately watch Jimin’s small face, relaxed and carefree. Something about his laugh makes Yoongi feel as though he’s been made new—a slow, gentle rebirth. “A fair first try,” Jimin remarks, wiping tears of joy.

And Yoongi— well, Yoongi can only force himself to smile through the mortification. “What a lot of nerve you have, goading me.” “You are fun to tease, my lord.” “Yoongi.” Still laughing, Jimin barely hears it. “I’m sorry— what?” “Min Yoongi. That is my birth name.”

At once, all traces of laughter melt away from Jimin’s face, and he stares at Yoongi with a look of soft surprise. Yoongi balls his hands into small, trembling fists. “You may call me by my birth name, when we are alone.” He feels like a feather, held aloft by fickle winds.

Jimin breathes, “Oh.” Yoongi nods once, and opens his mouth to elaborate more when the muted thumping of approaching footsteps echo through the outer halls. The doors slam open. “Orabeoni, here I am!” Songhwa bursts in, carrying a vast array of art materials.

“I’ve brought an extra canvas for you and— oh?” Songhwa looks from Yoongi to Jimin, who has returned to bowing low on the floor. “Why is your face so red, brother?” Yoongi clears his throat and rubs a palm over his face. “The heat has been unbearable.” Songhwa laughs. “Right.”

TBC!!

any thoughts on this update?

FIRST TWEET HERE

adubu ☁︎
@the7print

Jun 19 21

The arrow fizzes through the air and lands an inch away from the red ring, center of the target. Yoongi nods proudly and applauds. “Good shot. You have improved.” Crown Prince Sohyeon surveys his handiwork with a strict eye, unsmiling. “Your turn.” “Brother, I came to watch—“

“No. Your turn.” Without a word, the Crown Prince gestures for Yoongi to pick up a spare bow and arrow. “I want you to prove your vision is in full health, as you have been stubbornly telling me.” Yoongi softens—his brother must be worried that the scar affected his eyesight.

“You worry for nothing,” Yoongi mutters, grabbing a bow and taking his place beside his brother on the archery range. Sinking into a stable stance, he nocks the arrow snug against the bowstring, pulls tight, and releases. The arrow wedges itself into the center of the target.

When Yoongi turns, he’s met with a smiling older brother, hands clasped at his back. “Very well. Though you didn’t have to show off,” Crown Prince Sohyeon says, eyes brighter than a moment before. “You wound my pride as an archer.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “You asked.”

“I would have you join me,” the Crown Prince states, “seeing as you are already carrying the bow.” “Is that a royal command?” “No.” Prince Sohyeon’s eyes flicker to Yoongi, carrying a quiet plea. “It is a request from one brother to another.” And how to refuse? Yoongi nods.

He remains by his brother’s side as they train together, like they often used to during their adolescent years. Earlier that morning a palace messenger relayed an invitation for Yoongi to join the Crown Prince at the archery range—their first meeting since the incident.

Like everyone in the court, Crown Prince Sohyeon did not acknowledge the scar marking down Yoongi’s face, though the evident dismay in his eyes betrayed his thoughts. Yoongi had to force himself not to look away in shame. /Wear it proudly/, Jimin had said. And so Yoongi tries.

Jimin. The dancer’s name sparks off a myriad of restless thoughts in Yoongi, making him feel like little worms are wriggling inside his skull. Jimin the conman. Jimin the dancer. Jimin the kind-hearted helper of orphanages. Jimin whom Yoongi has revealed his birth name to.

The last fact makes Yoongi’s neck burn with a mixture of shame and... and something else, an almost excitable sensation Yoongi is unable to name, and in his lack of focus he accidentally sends an arrow off-course. An range servant screams in fright as it lands next to his feet.

Crown Prince Sohyeon turns to him, eyebrows raised. “Should I start worrying about you trying to off one of my men?” Yoongi shakes his head vehemently. “It was a mistake. I apologize.” His brother snorts. “A distracted one, it seems. What troubles your sharp mind?”

Yoongi takes a deep breath, nocking another arrow in an attempt to compensate. This time, it lands true. “Hyung-nim. Have you ever”—he clears his throat, choking back on the words—“considered giving your birth name to palace outsiders?” “Such as?” “G-gisaengs.”

The Crown Prince’s gaze darts to him, accidentally setting his arrow loose, too. Another range servant cries out in fear as the arrow whizzes inches away from his thigh. “What a dangerous thought to entertain, Yun. Of course not. Not even palace officials know. Only royals do.”

Yoongi makes a face. “Why?” prods the Crown Prince, suspicion sharpening his eyes. “Is there any gisaengs who have found out? Tell me now, and I assure you she will be dealt with swiftly.” Yoongi’s heart jolts. “Nobody at all. I might have whispered it to a lonely flower.”

“A lonely flower.” “I was taking a stroll in the gardens with Songhwa when we came upon a single lotus bloom,” said Yoongi. “It looked so lovely that she and I had taken a liking to it right away. I whispered my name in secret.” The Crown Prince stares at him for a long moment.

Yoongi licks his bottom lip and nocks one more arrow, taking aim at the target with clammy hands. But then his elder brother bursts into a laugh, startling Yoongi. The servants scatter as the arrow sails through the air and disturbs a flock of birds flying near the palace roofs.

“How funny your imagination is, Yun.” Shaking his head, Prince Sohyeon readies his stance as he prepares to shoot another arrow. “I hope that lotus cups your name tight in its soft petals.” Yoongi’s shoulders slump in relief. Crisis avoided. Perhaps he should never speak again.

“The ministers are fuming, you know,” the Crown Prince says in a quieter voice after an extended moment of silence. “They are upset with how the court proceedings are currently being handled.” Yoongi’s eyes dart to his brother. “Will they exile me?” he asks half-jokingly.

His elder brother scrunches his nose. “They do not know the appeals came from you. After all, the signs and stamps are sourced from the Crown Prince’s hall, not yours.” But of course. In reality, Min Yoongi’s title holds as much weight as a water droplet in a rushing river.

But that means... “They believe it was all your doing,” Yoongi deduces. The Crown Prince’s lips form a grim line. “The Minister of War is not taking too kindly to it.” “My uncle?” Yoongi says. “He believes your suggestions ‘make things difficult’,” elaborates Prince Sohyeon.

“Well, I would suppose a fair and transparent system certainly makes accepting bribes harder to conceal,” Yoongi grumbles. Prince Sohyeon cuts him a pained look. “I agree. However, your uncle is an influential figure. I would be wary of incurring the Yeoheung Min clan’s wrath.”

“My uncle may be the Minister of War, but he serves the King, and by extension he serves you,” Yoongi articulates. “It would do him no favor to go against the wishes of the throne.” Crown Prince Sohyeon forces a smile and pats Yoongi’s shoulder. “I do hope you are right.”

By the time they retire from training, it is late afternoon, when the worst of the sun’s heat has dwindled into a pleasant glow. Songhwa’s lessons at the Lotus Pavilion should have concluded at this time. Yoongi wonders if Jimin stays in the palace.

There have been instances of previous teachers being granted a period of stay in the palace, if they come from distant provinces. Yoongi realizes he doesn’t even know where Jimin lives, or what he does apart from lending a helping hand to the orphanage, or anything about him.

Only when the familiar stone steps leading towards the royal gardens loom up to Yoongi’s line of vision does he realize how his feet have been carrying him in this direction without his conscious decision. “Get a hold of yourself,” he mutters, then pauses at the sound of voices.

“Come on,” a croaky male voice says in a taunting tone, “you’re a gisaeng, aren’t you?” “Come play with us tonight,” another gruff one says. “Are you not already finished with your duties today?” “Leave me be, I ask,” a familiar, determined voice drawls. Yoongi tenses. Jimin.

He turns a corner, barely hidden from view by a tall bush. The sweet thrill the courses through Yoongi upon recognizing the court dancer’s voice is quickly replaced by a tightness in his belly when he realizes Jimin is surrounded by three palace guards with leering, feral grins.

One of the palace guards turns to his comrade. “This bitch is a stubborn one.” “Indeed.” The once with a gruff voice spits at the ground by his feet. “We ought to teach this low-born a lesson to put her back in her place.” Yoongi grits his teeth, watching Jimin’s eyes narrow.

As the guards bicker, he spots the exactly moment Jimin reaches for a thin, paper fan in his hanbok sleeve. Yoongi’s mind arrives to one conclusion—if Jimin fights back, a ruckus would undoubtedly ensue, leading to an investigation that could possibly reveal his true identity.

Confucius once cited, “When it is obvious that the goals cannot be reached, don’t adjust the goals, adjust the action steps.” The odds are not in Jimin’s favor. To meet the goal of preserving his lie, violence should be avoided. And so Yoongi marches right into the conversation.

Just as Jimin is about to wave his deadly-as-a-dagger fan out in the open, Yoongi steps into the space between him and the palace guards. He grabs Jimin’s right wrist and shakes his head almost imperceptibly. At once, the 3 men resume stiff stances and bow low. “Your Highness.”

“A little bird was singing about three cats toying with a mouse in the gardens,” Yoongi drawls lightly, “so I have come to break their little game.” The guards’ eyes widen, kept pinned steadfastly to the earth. “My lord, this gisaeng is—“ “Mine,” Yoongi cuts, voice roughening.

A terse silence, punctured only by the occasional rustle of bushes, ensues. Yoongi allows himself a short moment of satisfaction to bask in the three young men’s shock and shame. Behind him, Jimin lets out a huff of disbelief and tugs his wrist away, but Yoongi holds on.

“This court dancer is now property of the Grand Prince Min Yun, and anybody who dares lay a finger on her head will have to answer to me or risk punishment,” Yoongi declares, dropping his voice an octave as he stares the guards down. “Understood?” “Yes, Your Highness.”

Yoongi nods once. “Very well. You may leave. Now you,” he glances back at Jimin, “follow.” Without another word, he gently pulls the dancer along in the direction of his quarters, feeling shaken himself. He has never done this—out in the open, with several bearing witness.

Min Yoongi doesn’t think he’s cut out for heroic acts at all, but he can’t just ignore a man in trouble, either. As soon as the doors close behind them, Jimin yanks his hand out of Yoongi’s grasp, rubbing his wrist with a hiss. “Does it hurt?” asks Yoongi. “It’s fine.”

“Then why do you look so upset?” Yoongi asks. “Is it the guards? Have they been harrassing you all day? I should have a word with Hoseok—“ “No. It is not them who tried to claim me as property,” Jimin says, cradling his elbows close to his body. “I am not yours to own.”

Yoongi stands still. “Is that what bothers you so? Such a simple turn of phrase—“ “Perhaps you believe gisaengs are playthings to be owned,” Jimin explains calmly, “but I hope you would remember I am not one, and that even so, women are not objects to be treated like property.”

When he speaks like that, he almost sounds like a certain someone very dear to Yoongi. He thinks back to the little things Songhwa says and sighs slowly. “That is fair. However, had I not stepped in, they could have found out your identity. I’m only trying to help.”

“And I suppose you expect a thank-you in return for saving me?” Jimin challenges, one eyebrow arched. “I was not saving you.” Jimin blinks. “I was saving /them/,” Yoongi says nonchalantly, “from your wrath. Do you think people would believe a gisaeng could disarm 3 guards?”

Following his mild surprise, Jimin’s mouth lifts in an almost-smile. “That is a very backhanded way of wording a compliment on my fighting skills, but I shall take it.” “And I, uh,” Yoongi crosses his arms and tries not to stomp his feet, “I will try to keep your words in mind.”

(A/N: play this ^^) open.spotify.com/track/2fKyhF3F…

All of a sudden, the air in Yoongi’s personal quarters seems too thin, making it hard to breathe. He looks down at his socked feet, pointedly ignoring Jimin’s weighted gaze. “Why do you help me?” Jimin asks, voice barely louder than a mewl. “There is nothing I’ve done for you.”

“That is what you think,” Yoongi says. “But Confucius teaches that when one sees a good person, one should aspire to become like them. And I... despite us getting off on the wrong foot, I would believe you are a good person, Park Jimin. I see you.” Jimin inhales audibly.

Yoongi purses his lips and steps forward to close the meter’s gap between them. Then Jimin says, “You are not just saying empty flattery in order to get a discount on Master Kim’s next novel, are you?” “What? No!” A slow smile spreads across the court dancer’s face.

“Good, because I am still planning to keep the price at 10 nyang.” Yoongi rolls his eyes, parting his lips to make another pointed remark, then freezes when he feels the soft, warm pads of Jimin’s fingertips brushing lightly against his claw-shaped scar. Breath flees him.

Any other person, Yoongi would have shoved off and reprimanded harshly for daring to touch the body of a royal family member. But as Jimin’s index fingertip slowly traces down his eyebrow to his eyelid, Yoongi feels his stomach pull at his strength, and his eyes fall closed.

Jimin’s soft tenor washes into his ears, a soft lyric rather than a question. “Does it hurt?” Something reverberates in the depths of Yoongi’s chest, a burning ache that sends his blood roaring. This is wrong. Jimin is a man. And mistakes always hurt. “Yes,” Yoongi murmurs.

“Ah.” Immediately the warm fingers resting against Yoongi’s cheek withdraws, leaving only cool air where Jimin’s hand had been. “My apologies. I should watch my behavior.” Yoongi’s eyes snap open. He stalks back to his table and sits, partly for stability. “Yes. You should.”

“And I should turn in for the day,” Jimin says faintly, as though waking from a shaman’s incantation. The idea of resting reminds Yoongi— “Jimin?” “Yes, my lord?” “Do you stay in the palace?” Jimin pauses by the door. “Yes. I am not to leave until I’ve done all lessons.”

“Where do you stay? With the court maids?” Worry fills Yoongi—how is Jimin supposed to keep a secret surrounded by so many others who could discover him at any time? “I’ve been provided a spare room at the end of the servants’ wing, my lord.” “Alone?” “Yes.” “I see.”

Yoongi nods, a new proposition forming in his mind. Sure, Jimin might be safe at night, but what about daytime? To avoid further situations like the one with the guards today, it seems like there will be absolutely no other choice but to keep Jimin near him. Unfortunately.

“And what do you do after Songhwa’s classes?” “I...” Jimin hesitates. “I try to make myself as invisible as possible. “Then come be invisible with me.” Jimin pauses, blinking as though struggling to believe what he just heard. “After your lessons, come here,” drawls Yoongi.

“You may spend your afternoons here in my quarters, where I can guarantee you will not be disturbed without my permission. Including myself. I will not bother you, so do as you please.” Jimin stares at him, dumbstruck. Yoongi smiles. “Let me be your safe space, little crane.”

“But... but why?” gapes the dancer, eyes rounder than coins. “Think about it. I am the only person in this palace who knows who you truly are.” Yoongi sits back and regards Jimin like a merchant he’s bargaining with. “When you are with me, you need not pretend to be a gisaeng.”

He can see it—the temptation in Jimin’s eyes. “How about it? Do we have a deal?” Jimin seems to think about it, lips pursed. “A deal. What would you expect from me then?” “Why, of course you, uh”—Yoongi racks his brain for the next best reason—“you would be my painting model.”

Jimin blanches, face wrinkling. “That is the first I’ve heard of it.” “I happen to be a dedicated painter,” Yoongi fibs through his teeth, thankful for his ability to make lies sound like facts. “And I have been searching far and wide for an appropriate anatomy model.”

(Min Yoongi has never painted a leaf in his life.)

“I see...” At this point, desperation starts to grow inside of Yoongi like a slow-spreading plague. “It’s a mutually beneficial deal, I tell you. I might throw in that if you come every afternoon, you can taste royal cooking.” Jimin’s eyes glint. “With dessert?” “And /tea/.”

“That sounds a lot like bribery.” Jimin turns his nose up in the air, crossing his arms. “Do I strike you as a pushover? Do I seem that easy to you?” “I believe the royal chef has been preparing meat for meals everyday...” “Never mind. Perhaps I /do/ have time,” Jimin barks.

“Although you could have just said ‘I am lonely and in need of a good friend so I don’t talk to walls’ and it would be fine, but I respect your choices.” This uncouth, insolent man. Yoongi bites back a fool’s grin. “Then I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. You may leave.”

to be continued! also hehe it’s my birthday now! *noot nooot noises*

the fact that support for PoT is at an all-time high is such a lovey gift, so thanks for reading!! if you’d like to buy me a kofi and support my work, link below~ ko-fi.com/kyrifics

) open.spotify.com/track/0ZDNkTYw…

Weeping fondly at this incredibly lovely art of court dancer Jimin

Thank you so much, @cat⁷ 🍋

Yoongi can’t stop pacing. It’s already an hour past the usual time Songhwa’s dance lessons should have ended, and still there is no sight of the enigmatic Lady Aeshin anywhere around his personal grounds. To think that he’d delayed eating his lunch in order to share with Jimin.

Perhaps food hadn’t been enough of a collateral to win over the court dancer’s companionship. Truth be told, Yoongi himself doesn’t understand why he craves Jimin’s presence the way dry earth craves rain, yet here he is. He pauses. What if Jimin was just giving false promises?

Yoongi shakes his head. Impossible. A mere court dancer would never blatantly deceive a prince like him... ...except, Jimin already has before, on more than one occasion. How could Yoongi have given his trust so freely, so willingly? He looks out his window and sighs, wistful.

Another horrific throught strikes him. What if Jimin is in trouble right now? What if, by accident, his secret has been revealed, causing him to be apprehended? Yoongi worries his lower lip. The thought of more palace guards leering at Jimin sends him scrambling for the door.

Yoongi yanks back the wooden doors, hastily slipping socked feet into his shoes without even adjusting the ribbon securing the gat over his head. He hurries out to the small yard outside his quarters, but just as he turns, a flash of white and scarlet chiffon enters his vision.

Jimin’s unmistakable clothes. Yoongi halts in his tracks, heart hammering with two and five and nine different emotions at once. Then he scampers back to his personal quarters, leaving his shoes out haphazardly by the door. He ignores the bewildered looks his servants exchange.

Hoping Jimin hadn’t caught him bumbling about outside, Yoongi rushes to sit at his designated cushion, behind his meal tables. He takes deep breaths to gather his wits about him, adjusting the folds of his robes, already expecting— “Your Highness, Lady Aeshin has come to visit.”

(A/N: play thissss

open.spotify.com/track/0ZDNkTYw…

The White Stairs

Yoo Seung Chan · Song · 2012

“Let him—“ Yoongi muffles the wicked thin squeak that leaves his throat. What in the ten hells’ name? Licking over his suddenly too-dry mouth, Yoongi tries again, this time in a more modulated manner. “Allow him inside.” The doors part, and Jimin sweeps inside, hanbok rustling.

Yoongi raises his chin, gaze averted. “You are late.” “And you must remember to word yourself more carefully.” Jimin’s quiet voice is laced thick with concern. Yoongi’s eyes dart to the dancer. “Is that a threat I hear, young fellow—“ “/Lady/,” Jimin hisses under his breath.

Yoongi’s mouth parts slowly as realization sinks in. Lowering his voice, he asks, “Did I speak too loud?” Jimin chews on his lower lip. “Do you want the truth?” “Of course.” “You have a habit of mumbling.” Yoongi lets out a long breath. Perhaps he might rely on ambiguity.

But just in case. Walls have ears and eyes, and in the palace, no senses are sharper than those of servants’. Yoongi hurries across the room & opens the doors, head popping out. “Leave us,” he orders the servants. “The... lady, would have privacy. Station yourselves elsewhere.”

“But Your Highness,” counters one of the two standing outside his chambers. “It is our duty to attend to you.” “And you shall, once I call for you.” Scanning the yard ahead, Yoongi points to a shade under an elm tree. “You may sit over there.” “However—“ “It is a royal order.”

The servants glance at each other and then bow to Yoongi. Right before they scurry away, though, Yoongi says, “One more thing. I am feeling rather famished today, so I would have an extra helping of all my meals from now on. Now go.” His servants nod and scurry off obediently.

When Yoongi turns back into his chambers, he finds Jimin already sitting on one of the guests’ cushions, lips fashioned in a lopsided smirk. “You,” Yoongi says coolly as he sits back down. “Is Songhwa so terrible a dancer that she cannot learn within the pre-determined hours?”

“Quite the contrary. Her Highness is a wonderful student and dance partner,” Jimin replies, eyes bright. “Then, what took you so long?” Yoongi blurts, immediately regretting the words as they leave his mouth. Jimin pauses with a cautious look. “Have I kept you waiting?”

Yoongi’s breath hitches, words catching in his throat. Yes, he yearns to answer. I have been waiting all day. Oh, great Jade Emperor. Yoongi must be lonelier than he thought. “Not at all. I do not wait for anybody. My textbooks keep me occupied all day. Studies, you know.”

Nodding, Jimin looks down at his lap, playing with his own fingers there, and an uncomfortable silence settles over them both until the servants arrive to bring in heaps of food. Then Yoongi is relieved to listen to the clink of utensials and platters instead of the stiff quiet.

Nothing is placed in front of Jimin until Yoongi instructs the servants to do so. He basks in watching the way Jimin’s eyes widen when not one, not two, but three bowls of different rice dishes, meat and broth are laid out. A steaming cup of floral tea is poured in front of him.

A plate of dried apricots and another assorted bowl of honeyed plums and ripe tangerines marks the last of the meal. After the servants leave, Yoongi picks up his chopsticks and gestures to Jimin. “Eat.” The dancer stays still, eyes on the meal. “This is...this is rice.” “Yes.”

Jimin’s lower lip snag over his upper teeth, eyes glistening. Stopping mid-chew, Yoongi asks, “What is it? Is rice not to your liking?” “No,” Jimin snaps, then seems to recollect himself. “I mean, it’s so rare. I’ve only ever had it at festivals. Our Hyunji only it ate once.”

“Hyunji?” Yoongi repeats, shoulders relaxing when Jimin picks up his chopsticks. He eats slow and delicately, as though savoring every mouthful. “My younger brother.” It occurs once again to Yoongi, how little he knows about the dancer. “I was not aware of a brother.”

“You are not aware of many things,” Jimin states. “Is that a jest?” “No, it’s the truth.” A small upward twitch of Jimin’s mouth morphs his expression into something less morose. “How brazen,” Yoongi mocks, feigning nonchalance. Jimin isn’t entirely wrong about his ignorance.

One thing he’s certain about, however, is the harvest of this nation. Though his father may not be perfect, he would never let his people starve. The King has set aside grants to benefit farmers, to grow the agricultural sector. “What do you mean, rice is rare? It should not be.”

Jimin sends him an odd look. “For you, perhaps, but not for the rest of us. It’s too expensive.” “No, I’m certain there was an agreement guaranteeing farmers’ rights to aid with irrigation and price inflation. The Minister of Agriculture would have...” Yoongi trails off.

Jimin glances askance at him through the rim of the bowl he’s currently sipping from. Yoongi shakes the thought away before it forms. No need to taint a good meal with morbid thoughts. “It’s nothing. Help yourself to more of the meat—“ “How ridiculous.” “What?”

Jimin sets his bowl down. “Your Highness. Do you not find it absurd that only you should feed me & listen to me unload my troubles, whilst I should endure watching such a troubled expression mask your face? Please know that I would listen, too.” Yoongi blinks, pulse skipping.

Jimin sniffs petulantly and looks down. “You are being too kind. Although I am nobody important, please allow me to repay some of that, even if only by listening. If I am to come to your quarters every day, then you might as well make use of my company, no?”

“Most of what my worries are called worries for a reason,” Yoongi says faintly. “I would be loath to burden you.” “You said you see me,” Jimin counters, and it’s amazing how he makes being reprimanded sound sweet. “Look at me now, and see how I would listen. How I hear you.”

All his life, Yoongi has always believed his heart is a boulder, something jagged and heavy to carry. Today, for the first time, he thinks he might finally have an idea what it’s like for the rock to chip away to ash, to something light as air. He huffs. “You are insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.” Jimin’s answering smile is nothing short of teasing, but it mesmerizes Yoongi every time he catches a glipmse of it. A rare eclipse since he’s stepped into the palace as Lady Aeshin. “Do you ever get tired pretending to be someone you’re not?” Yoongi asks.

Jimin snorts. “Nonsense. I’m always pretending.” “Ah, yes. You and your multiple identities. First Master Kim, then Lady Aeshin, what’s next?” His words are met with wheezing. “Wait a moment.” Jimin nearly chokes on his food & chugs down his tea. “You think /I’m/ Master Kim?”

Yoongi arches an eyebrow. “Then who else would be shameless enough to write about...” He hesitates, “...a-and illustrate such lewd things—“ Peals of laughter erupt from Jimin. “So you HAVE read it!” He rolls over, clutching his stomach. “I can’t believe you thought I was him!”

“Silence yourself. T-that’s a royal order!” The laughter does not stop, instead escalating until they become full-blown guffaws. Yoongi groans and tips his head back. “While I must say I’m flattered you think I could, I am no expert storyteller like the master himself.”

Yoongi doesn’t know why he feels relieved by this fact. Perhaps there is some solace in knowing Park Jimin is not the one to blame for illustrating several cursed images that have stuck themselves into Yoongi’s mind like poison. “To answer your question simply, no,” says Jimin.

Yoongi cocks his head thoughtfully, chewing quietly, and Jimin elaborates, “No, I do not tire. I rather enjoy becoming different people. However... there is one thing.” “What?” “These skirts can be a little restricting.” Jimin smiles ruefully. “I miss the comfortable clothes.”

Yoongi appraises Jimin’s hanbok and almost calls him beautiful. Thankfully he catches himself at the final second. “I suppose you miss fighting, too.” Jimin nods slowly. “A duel... you never know what you take for granted until it’s gone.” “Then, how about a quick one with me?”

Jimin squints at him, eyes swimming in amusement. “Are you not the one who said my cover would be blown once anybody catches me in a fight?” “‘Anyone can find the switch after the lights are on’,” Yoongi cites Confucius, smiling. “Good thing you and I can fight in the dark.”

At the east wing of the palace is an old courtyard that used to be training grounds for the military before they became the Royal Guard Division. After they were dispersed into several smaller factions, the yard became a deadlands where old weapons and kitchenware are discarded.

Night has long since fallen, and in the stillness of the moonlit ground, a prince steals into the yard like a shadow, footfalls muted. Earlier that afternoon he’d told Jimin to meet him here at half past midnight. “Jimin?” he calls out. Hopefully the dancer didn’t fall asleep.

A figure steps out from the shadows, decked in the trademark crimson and ink-black robes of the palace guard. His head is bowed, and Yoongi’s heart almost seizes, until the figure speaks in a lilting voice: “Is this truly allowed, Your Highness?” Yoongi relaxes. “Little crane.”

The ‘guard’ tips his head to one side, revealing Jimin’s toothy grin. “Do I want to know how a lowly palace guard’s uniform came into the possession of the grand prince?” Yoongi scrunches his nose. “It’s a spare, I told you.” “So you disguise yourself each time you sneak out.”

Yoongi neither confirms nor denies that, choosing instead to step out across the moonlit yard. Rolling his shoulders back, he rests one hand on the hilt of his sword. “So far you and I have only ever fought unevenly.” “I hardly remember your blade winning over my fan.”

“My words exactly; it’s an uneven match.” Yoongi turns to face Jimin, who looks like he’s suppressing a smile. “Perhaps the fan is your forte. It is unfair for me. Therefore I would have you hold a sword tonight.” “Whose sword?” “Mine.” Jimin’s eyes stray south as he laughs.

Yoongi does not understand what the outburst is for, and he finds it a little rude, truly, since he was not even speaking in jest. “You laugh? My sword is not one to be underestimated.” Jimin’s shoulders shake as he clutches his stomach. “Oh, princeling. You have much to learn.”

Irritation prickles under Yoongi’s skin. Clucking his tongue, he grabs up the other hidden, sheathed sword at his belt and tosses it in Jimin’s direction. The dancer catches it with ease, still snickering. “Oh, what a heavy sword indeed—“ Yoongi spins on his heel and swings.

Without missing a beat, Jimin ducks to veer out of the weapon’s range, still laughing. Yoongi clenches his teeth. “Be serious for once.” “Not if I can help it.” Jimin, as usual, is a master at deflecting, never attacking. Yoongi marvels at the thousand maneuvers up his sleeve.

“Why do you never strike?” Yoongi huffs in between parries. Jimin’s petite head swerves left and jerks his elbow up faster than the prince can recover his hand, throwing the angle of Yoongi’s arm off. Jimin actually manages to shrug. “Don’t have to. I just observe.”

“Observe what?” Yoongi brings his sword down, only to be met with resistance as Jimin kicks up a discarded piece of a broken jar and uses it as a shield. The clay shatters, but it buys Jimin enough time to scuttle away. “What else would I look at?” says the dancer. “You.”

Yoongi’s chest stutters, causing his hand to falter. As a result, his next swing is unstable and off-kilter, and Jimin lets out a soft “Ha!” before taking the chance to sweep Yoongi’s legs out from beneath him. Yoongi crashes to the ground rear-first, cursing under his breath.

A rush of wind gushes past his ear, followed by the sound of a blade driving into the soil beside his head. Jimin stands over him, hands resting on his waist triumphantly. “If there’s 1 thing I learned when it comes to fighting,” says the dancer, “it’s to look for blind spots.”

Yoongi forces himself not to tremble. “And you think you’ve figured mine out?” Jimin shrugs. “You’re constantly thinking when you fight, I can see it in your eyes. Sometimes I like to dance with my enemy. It shows me their true reflexes, their blind spots. We all have one.”

Yoongi holds himself back from asking, /And yours is?/ Still smiling, Jimin offers him a hand, a silent gesture to help him stand up. “If you want to beat me, then think less. Feel more. Swordfighting is a dance.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Ridiculous.”

He grabs Jimin’s hand, warm and dry in his, and the court dancer yanks him up to stand. But as soon as Yoongi regains some balance on his feet, he uses the remaining momentum to pull up the sword wedged into the ground, slashing it at the air towards Jimin. The dancer cries out.

But once again, Yoongi’s attack is deflected with a loud /thwack/ that echoes into the night. In front of him, Jimin has both arms held out—one holding his paper fan open, the other offering support for his dominant hand. “Fighting dirty, my lord?” Jimin chortles, eyes gleaming.

“You really never miss, do you?” Yoongi mutters, drawing his sword back to prepare another parry. “Because my guard is never down,” Jimin huffs, darting left and right to avoid Yoongi’s blows. But Yoongi is light-footed, and leaps into the air easily, bringing the blade down.

He’s expecting Jimin to twirl out of the way, but the dancer lifts his fan up, directly within the blade’s line of target. Yoongi nearly hesitates—if his blade goes through, it would rip Jimin’s fan.... ...as it does. The steel tears the paper lining of the fan to shreds.

“Aha!” Yoongi cries. Finally a landing strike! Jimin smiles sweetly, then proceeds to shut his fan while Yoongi’s sword is still lodged through it, twisting the steel and disarming the hilt out of Yoongi’s grip. The prince gasps when Jimin grabs and points the swordtip at him.

“Never understimate a commoner’s rage,” Jimin says, cocking his head at his now-destroyed fan, lying limp and useless on the ground. “Or in this case, a common household item.” Yoongi’s breath stutters at the cold sensation of steel against his throat— “Halt where you are!”

Yoongi and Jimin blink at the sound of a new, raspy yell coming from yards away. Turning, Yoongi spots another figure dressed in red and black—a real palace guard uniform this time. “Seok-ah,” he stammers, brain scrabbling for logic and action. Jimin lowers the sword, confused.

No, Yoongi thinks, panic swelling. The Chief Commander must have been carrying out his night patrol rounds when he came across Yoongi being ‘threatened’ by another guard’s sword. The sound of furious running grows closer as Hoseok screams, “How dare you attack His Highness!”

“Seok, stop, he meant no—“ With another yell, Hoseok launches himself onto Jimin, tackling the court dancer to the ground. The sword in Jimin’s hand drops as they roll together, grunting. “How dare a lowly guard like you threaten the prince’s life?” “Let me go!” Jimin shrieks.

With only adrenaline crashing through him, Yoongi snatches the broken paper fan from the ground and hurls it at the chief of the palace guard. It hits Hoseok square in the temple. He hisses, one knee buckling forward out of reflex, accidentally colliding against Jimin’s crotch.

Jimin yowls in agony, folding into himself and writhing on the ground. Hoseok rolls off of him, glaring at the paper fan, the points his own sword at Jimin. “Unhand him, Jung Hoseok. It is a royal command.” “But Your Highness, he—“ “He,” Yoongi growls, “is my Lady Aeshin.”

Silence crashes on the three of them, punctuated only by Hoseok’s heavy breathing and Jimin’s muffled groans. “You mean...” Hoseok blinks, looking from him to the boy on the ground. “The gisaeng— what?” Grimacing, Yoongi looks up to the sky and sighs out loud. What a headache.

to be continued tonight, hopefully!!

yeehaw thanks for tuning in!

(A/N: here’s a track that I think fits this scene well...) open.spotify.com/track/1quXD9mF…

open.spotify.com/track/1quXD9mF…

Cat Walking

Oh Jun Sung · Song · 2017

In all of Grand Prince Min Yun’s 21 years, he has never felt silence as thick & strained as this one, almost cloying to the senses. Across the tea table, Hoseok sits with his arms crossed, glowering at Jimin, who regards him with an equally cautious stare. Yoongi bites his lip.

“So let me get this straight,” Hoseok musters in a deliberate tone that must belie his utter shock, “Lady Aeshin is not Lady Aeshin at all, but happens to be Park Jimin who’s a man in disguise, and Your Highness has known all along?” “An abridged version, but yes,” Yoongi says.

Hoseok’s eyes narrow. He picks up the jar of liquor from Yoongi’s personal cabinet (the prince had to resort to alcohol to transmit the truth without inciting havoc) and pours it into a ceramic cup. “I am guessing only the royalty are aware of this fact.” “Actually— only I do.”

“And the princeling here never would have figured out had he not recognized me as a man from before,” Jimin chimes, lips pursed. Hoseok’s hand hovers over his sword on the floor as he sends the dancer a curt look. “You will address him with due respect.” Yoongi holds him back.

“He can— he may call me however he pleases,” Yoongi mutters, hating the way he feels heat rushing to his ears. “I have granted my full permission. He is a friend.” Hoseok gapes at him, mouth opening and closing like one of the fish out on the Lotus Pond. “This is dangerous.”

“I am aware. Which is why I request you to forget what you’ve discovered tonight,” Yoongi elaborates. “Either that, or you may keep treating Jimin as though he is who he claims to be.” “Does your mother not know, either?” Hoseok asks. Yoongi feels Jimin’s eyes on him. “No.”

“If anybody else finds out, there is no way to control the information from spreading,” Hoseok says. “Even if I am to keep quiet about the matter, I cannot guarantee others would.” “The rest of the palace thinks I am entertaining myself with a courtesan,” Yoongi says, frowning.

“You of all people know how little regard they have for the silly grand prince, Seok. They hardly glance at me when I walk these halls. Me spending time with a supposed gisaeng makes me easy to dismiss, and therefore overlook.” Jimin says, “Actually, it makes you noticeable.”

Yoongi casts him a wary glance. “And what makes you say so?” Jimin beams at him and shrugs. “Because then you are with somebody as striking as I?” The prince rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny his statement. Truth be told, Jimin’s face captures attention from both men and women.

“You flatter yourself,” Yoongi manages at best. “And you lie to yourself,” Jimin teases. “Accept the truth.” “Not when there is no truth to be heard.” Between them, Hoseok gives a soft noise from the back his throat, similar to a cough, before he pours himself another drink.

Yoongi’s attention is still drawn to tbe smiling dancer, though, admiring the way his spare palace guard uniform seems to fit Jimin’s stature perfectly, despite being slightly loose around the dancer’s petite shoulders. Hoseok asks, “So where from have you learned how to fight?”

Jimin tears his eyes from Yoongi and smiles—a glinting, secretive thing. “I grew up in the streets of Hanyang. You learn a thing or two, there. And I had a mentor of sorts, if that answers your question.” “And how am I to believe that you would not put the prince in harm’s way?”

Reaching into his robes, Jimin pulls out a splintered item and answers, “Because I let him break my fan.” It hits Yoongi then that not only has Jimin allowed him to rip his beloved weapon to pieces, he has also never once attempted to inflict injury on Yoongi. Always deflecting.

“He’s right,” Yoongi affirms as Jimin takes the liquor bottle from Hoseok and pours into his own cup. “This court dancer has never hurt me, Hoseok. Our duels are like...” He scrabbles for something worthwhile for comparison, “...like Songhwa’s dance lessons. I learn from him.”

Given Jimin’s skill on the field, if he wanted to end Yoongi’s life, he very well could. What does it mean that Yoongi is still healthy and walking to this day? His gaze lands on Jimin for the nth time that night, gut twisting with an unexpected ache when Jimin meets his eye.

Hoseok grunts, seemingly mollified. “While this is wrong, and I cannot agree that the ends justifies the means, I will keep my nose out of this matter, if only because of my friendship with you, Your Highness.” His voice is stern, but the gleam in his eyes is soft. Yoongi grins.

Seated across Hoseok, Jimin gives a thrilled keen and raises his cup. “Here’s to Jung Hoseok, Keeper Of Secrets and Chief Upholder Of Friendship. May your loyalty span lifetimes.” The palace guard chief looks at Yoongi, then at him. “Let’s pray this will not cost anyone’s neck.”

They raise their glasses for a clinking toast—a promise to guard each other’s trust and confidence. Yoongi nods at Hoseok in gratitude, sinking into a more comfortable position and hoping the night continues smoothly. That is, until— “Your Highness, Princess Songhwa has come.”

Yoongi stiffens. At the same time, his friends’ smiles fall. “Songhwa?” Yoongi mouths under his breath at Hoseok, who shakes his head in mirrored perplexion and confusion. That can’t be right. Min Songhwa hates sleeping late at night, and as things are, it is way past midnight.

“Orabeoni,” Songhwa’s usually bubbly voice sounds roughened with sleep. “I see that the lanterns in your quarters are still lit.” Yoongi’s pulse jumps. Jimin scrambles to his feet, and Hoseok pales. “I am coming in!” Yoongi yanks Jimin’s wrist. “Behind the folding screen.”

Songhwa bursts through the doors just as the last of Jimin’s robes vanish behind the screen. The princess splays herself out over Yoongi’s guest cushion, warm where Jimin had been. But she doesn’t seem to notice; face gaunt, Songhwa looks exhausted. “Brother, I had a nightmare.”

“Is... is that so?” Yoongi gulps, forcing himself not to let his gaze stray to his bamboo folding screen, decorated with white cranes. On the other hand, Hoseok is now standing at guard, unmoving beside the door. “What troubling visions have, uh, haunted you?” Songhwa sighs.

“I do not remember too much, but I saw a raven. And it was”—Songhwa makes a sour face—“it was eating away at our older brother’s face.” She shudders & swallows. “I woke up crying in Yeol’s arms. If she hadn’t woken me I don’t know what might have happened to the Crown Prince.”

Songhwa folds inward, hugging ber chest to her knees as rims of her eyes begin to redden. “And I was there, watching it happen, but was too powerless to chase the bird away. Orabeoni, could this be a prophetic dream? What if there is some bad energy tainting the air around us?”

Yoongi exchanges a wary look with Hoseok, ignoring the goosebumps prickling his skin. “Songhwa, lift your head and look at me.” The princess stares at her toes. “Min Songhwa.” Her eyes flicker to Yoongi’s. “If you tell me to ignore it, I shall put a lizard in your shoes.”

A snort bubbles through Yoongi’s nose. “It is a disturbing dream indeed,” he says. “And I am relieved you trust me enough to share it. How about I look into hiring a shaman from the Hall Of Stars to write a bedtime talisman for you?” Songhwa’s face relaxes by a fraction.

“I suppose that should lighten my spirits,” she muses, lower lip jutting out. “However, do remember that the shamans from the Hall Of Stars are heavily influenced by the Dowager Queen.” Yoongi presses his mouth into a thin line; neither of them are fond of their grandmother.

“Very well. I would do my best to find you a different one outside of the palace,” Yoongi says as calmly as he can, hyperaware of the presence behind his folding screen. “For now, try to set your mind at ease—“ “Can’t I sleep here, orabeoni?” Songhwa whines, eyes growing bigger.

Standing by the door, Hoseok bristles—an almost imperceptible movement, spotted only by Yoongi’s keen eye. “No,” Yoongi says firmly. “But why? I used to sneak in to play with you until we fell asleep when we were younger!” “I cannot allow that, tonight.” Yoongi asserts.

“Look around you, Songhwa. Realize that you have barged in the middle of a serious conversation between the Chief of the palace guard and myself.” Pouting, Songhwa’s gaze shifts to the tea table, before lingering on the third tea cup. Her eyes narrow and she tips her head aside.

And then—it could be a figment of Yoongi’s imagination or the anxiety talking—a ghost of a smile twitches her mouth. “And should I guess that you’ve predicted I would have visited your quarters tonight, dear brother? How kind of you to prepare a steaming cup of tea in advance.”

Yoongi nearly chokes on his own saliva. He shares a brief glance with Hoseok and clears his throat. “We were... awaiting another friend’s presence. Kim Namjoon. Yes, I invited him to visit—“ “In the wee hours of the morning?” Songhwa presses sweetly, eyes brimming with mirth.

“Yes. Us men are built to host serious talks while the rest of the world slumbers. You’re invading on a sacred brotherly ritual.” Songhwa rolls her eyes and gathers her skirts. “I’ve changed my mind. I would visit Yeol’s quarters now that I’ve had enough of your brotherly face.”

As she sashays past the doors, she singsongs over her shoulder, “Next time, if you want to sneak outsiders into your chambers at ungodly hours of the night, you ought to be a hospitable host and prepare hangover soup, too. Good night.” The doors close. “Brat,” Yoongi grumbles.

Hoseok bites down on his lower lip, face twisting in an effort to keep a neutral expression. “I’ve spoiled her too much,” Yoongi tuts, shaking his head. “Now look at her! Thinks she is smarter than me.” Hoseok makes no comment. “Has she left?” Jimin’s voice floats from behind.

“Yes, come out now,” Yoongi replies, and Jimin emerges from behind the folding screen, hair rumpled. He and Hoseok join him by around the table again. “I suppose I should change back into my costume,” Jimin sighs. Yoongi reaches under a drawer where Jimin’s hanbok is stashed.

As he passes the folded clothes to Jimin, he says, “Today’s duel was good. I had a pleasant time. Allow me to say... I—“ “Expressing gratitude is not that difficult,” Jimin says as he grabs the clothes and disappears behind the folding sceeen again. “Say it with me: thank you.”

But a bag of soil seems to have lodged itself deep in Yoongi’s throat, blocking the words. It’s not that he has never learned to thank others—it’s that he’s never considered explicitly thanking a person of lower status than him before. His face warms, and he glares at Hoseok.

“Wh-what are you staring at!” he splutters. Hoseok fights to keep a blank face. Without missing a beat, he deadpans at the space next to Yoongi, “Fly on the wall.” From behind the folding screen, Jimin’s bell-like laughter erupts, and all is right and good in the world tonight.

Later, once both Hoseok and Jimin have left his quarters to retire for the night, Yoongi settles under his blanket and closes his eyes, whispering into the shadowy air— “Thank you.”

“Your Highness,” a servant’s nervous call wakes him early the next messenger. With a groan, Yoongi rolls over and rubs at his bleary eyes. His voice comes out as a croak. “What is it?” “The Noble First Concubine has requested to have breakfast with you today.” Yoongi perks up.

His mother? Yoongi racks his head if there’s any particular holiday or tradition he might have missed, but this early in the morning, he draws up a blank. What if... No. She can’t have known. “Very well.” Yoongi calls in his personal attendants to dress him for the day.

Min Eunseo is already sitting at her dining quarters when Yoongi arrives to give his greetings. Songhwa is nowhere to be seen, so this is definitely not a casual meal between parent and childen. He bows low. “Mother.” The First Concubine smiles warmly. “Have a seat, Yoongi.”

Yoongi obliges, sitting calm and quiet as the servants arrive to pour in a warm ginger drink that his mother has taken a liking to of late, as well as a bowl of thick soup. “I’ve been awfully lonely lately,” says the Consort, stirring her drink. “And you have not been visiting.”

Yoongi ducks his head in shame. “Forgive me, mother. I have been preoccupied lately and failed to fulfill my duties as a son.” “Preoccupied... with that courtesan?” the First Consort says, and Yoongi’s shoulders tense. “So I’ve heard. You know how fast rumors fly in the palace.”

Yoongi keeps his lips pressed together. “I was surprised to hear you fancying that court dancer. After years of being introduced to the most beautiful noblewomen of Joseon, this is the first time you’ve shown interest in one.” Except—she’s not even a real lady. Yoongi winces.

“But better late than never, no? Truly, I would rather have you frolick around the palace grounds with gisaengs than embroil yourself in the turmoil of current affairs.” A troubled look passes over the First Consort’s face. “We both know you possess no real skill for politics.”

Again, Yoongi blanches, gaze fixed firmly on his soup bowl. “Yes... about that.” “What is it? Speak freely, my son.” “It’s come to my attention, recently, that maybe the way some things are... run by the council are, well. Not effective. Or not logical at all,” Yoongi mumbles.

His mother’s eyes turn hard. “Are you implying that the King is mistaken in the manner by which he leads his ministry? Such disloyal words.” “I only mean to say that perhaps it would be wise to exercise more caution especially when it comes to decisions that affect the people—“

“You are no king, Min Yoongi. Not even the Crown Prince,” his mother rebukes. “It would do you good to remember that in the long run.” “I’m aware.” “Please, my son,” she says softly. “For your safety—do not rule. Do not be ambitious. Simply do nothing if you want an easy life.”

But Yoongi doesn’t want an easy life. Maybe the him from as recent as a few weeks ago would have succumbed to his mother’s pleas wholeheartedly. But that was before Jimin brought in a glaring light that revealed the harsh truths of his comfortable aristocrat life.

“Will I really be safe if we turn a blind eye to the suffering of people?” Yoongi asks. “Perhaps one drop of water seems weak, but a tide is a force to be reckoned with. Would you or I be safe to sleep at night knowing commoners could be planning a public revolt as we speak?”

“And you think /you/ can rally enough power and support to eradicate a bleeding system?” challenges the First Consort. “It’s not impossible. I could help end corruption and squash dissent. There is a way to make sure Joseon never starves. If we conquer the surrounding lands—“

“Are you suggesting war?” the First Consort gasps, hands flying to her face. “Min Yoongi, do you even hear yourself? Stop right now before anyone else hears you!” Yoongi clamps his mouth shut, veins molten hot with indignance and humiliation. Nobody ever /listens./

“Your words are truly horrifying to listen to. You have upset my appetite,” states the First Concubine, turning her head away. “I would rather have you burying your head in your books again, or even tumbling about with gisaengs, than have you babble treacherous things before me.”

Fisting his robes, Yoongi heaves a shuddering exhale before excusing himself. So much for a simple breakfast. He stomps out of his mother’s hall, mind reeling like a wheel. It’s disgusting to think that nobody cares about the common people. There is so much he could contribute!

Just as he’s about to exit the outermost door to the First Concubine’s residence, his mother’s voice halts him. “Yoongi.” He turns to find the First Concubine standing outside the dining hall, facing him. “Ensure you stay healthy. You are to be engaged in a few weeks’ time.”

5min break! I’m making sum hot choco

)

“What are you writing, my lord?” Jimin asks later that day after he comes into Yoongi’s quarters for his daily visit. For the first time since their arrangement began, Yoongi does’t quite feel jolly enough to greet the court dancer warmly. He sits at his desk, scrolls laid out.

Try as he might, Yoongi finds it inexorably difficult to concentrate on the simple motion of swirling ink with his brush and scribbling characters into parchment. “These are formal appeals to investigate farmers’ grants and address the price inflation problem in the provinces.”

Without warning, Jimin walks over to stand at a spot behind Yoongi and leans over his shoulder to read. Close. Too close. Yoongi’s breathing catches. Jimin’s cheek is right next to his, and if he would just turn his face— “With all due respect, you’ve misspelled ‘rice’ thrice.”

Yoongi scowls and scraps the current parchment aside. Nothing seems to be working in his favor today, not even his own writing ability. “I am quite aware of my own mistakes, so get lost.” Jimin lets out a low whistle. “My, don’t you sound especially friendly today.”

Yoongi cuts him a withering glance, but makes no further comment. He dips his brush into the ink again. “I need to get this right first, be quiet. And besides, since when were you able to read, anyway?” Jimin shrugs. “Since my masters wanted to protect me from street scammers.”

“What thoughtful and gentle people you serve.” “Yes, unlike the man I’m talking to right now,” Jimin snaps. Yoongi looks up in offense, then softens at the lines of worry crinkling Jimin’s forehead. “I thought we agreed we could talk to each other, share burdens,” Jimin says.

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably. Jimin’s so-called concept of ‘sharing burdens’ sounds all too foreign. He’s not in the habit of exposing his innermost thoughts, let alone his troubles. Not even Songhwa knows. Opinions, yes, but never his personal qualms. “I am to marry soon.”

Saying this aloud to Jimin feels like a wrongdoing for some reason. He keeps his eyes peeled to his parchment, tracing each curve of the fine characters, and almost misses Jimin’s sharp intake of breath. “And is that not very exciting, my lord?” Jimin titters. “Marriage!”

Yoongi blanches. “Not when you do not know who you will be tied down to for the rest of your life, no. The prospect becomes bleak, the less I know.” Jimin rounds the table and settles into the cushion before Yoongi again. “I think not knowing is part of the fun.”

“And what convinces you to say such thoughtless words?” “Well, then you get to fall in love from scratch.” Yoongi regards him with disdain. The idea of love never even came into the picture. “You are mistaken. Perhaps commoners may hope to find love in matrimony. Not for us.”

Jimin waves him away with a scoff. “Wealthy or not, we are all humans who are capable of feeling. And the heart will want what it wants. If you despise the thought of a political wedding so much, why not comfort yourself with the possibility of finding love in your future bride?”

Yoongi squirms in his seat, fiddling with his brush, lips pursed. “Unless...” Jimin’s gasp is an airy, delightful thing. “You’ve never fallen in love before?” The ceiling looks particularly neat today, Yoongi marvels, stroking his chin in contemplation. “Am I right, my lord?”

Jimin is smiling his usual brilliant smile, but when Yoongi looks up he’s surprised to find no trace of mocking laughter in them, only an enthralling warmth that makes him avert his gaze just as quickly. “How does... how does one do it?” “Do what?” “This whole falling in love.”

Jimin’s brows knit together. “Well, let’s say it is not something one would actively /do/ like a chore. It comes unprecendented, though not without signs. Like the seasons!” “Seasons,” Yoongi parrots. “Indeed. Like how leaves fall in autumn, or rain falls to signal spring.”

If the heartbeat follows a seasonal shift, then perhaps, Yoongi would like to consider Park Jimin as someone who belongs in the light of a late summer afternoon, or perhaps a sparkling spring. Little showers of rain in the morning blue. /And you are all the seasons/, he thinks.

“My lord?” Yoongi snaps out of his reverie to find Jimin staring at him oddly. “Is everything all right?” Clearing his throat, Yoongi casts his ink and brush aside. “These ‘signs’ of falling in love that you speak of. What would be some of them to beware of? Speak clearly.”

“Fair enough. I suppose you would be keen to find these signs with your betrothed.” The court dancer hums and stands to pace the room, not unlike the way a tutor does. “Well, to begin with, you should understand that you would not realize you are in love until it’s too late.”

Yoongi whips out another blank sheet of parchment, intent on taking down notes. Perhaps matters of love can be studied and perfected, the way he so easily does with his exams at Sungkyunkwan. “They occupy your thoughts all the time,” Jimin rambles. “They make you laugh and cry.”

“Cry?” Yoongi repeats with a wrinkle of his nose. “I’ll never shed a tear over another person.” Jimin ignores him. “The very thought of them is enough to lift your spirits. You feel sad when”—he turns to Yoongi, pausing without warning, then seems shake himself—“when they are.”

Yoongi nods, busy writing. “You want to make them happy, because their happiness equates to yours. You want them to be safe, always. You fear for them when they are apart from you. And,” Jimin pauses again, “they make you want to be a better person.” “I see,” Yoongi hums.

“Are there no physical symptoms to speak of?” “You make it sound like an ailment,” Jimin points out. “An ailment of the mind and of the heart, truly. One would be unwell to change for another person. What a loss of dignity.” Jimin rolls his eyes. “What a sourpuss.”

He crosses the distance between his floor cushion and Yoongi’s table. “What are you doing...?” Jimin kneels in front of Yoongi and braces his arms on the low writing table, hunkering close over the prince, smiling sweetly. Yoongi inches his neck back, feeling his gut clench.

Smirking, Jimin tilts his head to one side in a birdlike manner. “Your heart races. Sweat breaks out over your forehead. Your hands turn clammy and you might feel feverish, even when you are perfectly healthy.” Yoongi blinks, craning his face away from Jimin’s burnished gaze.

“Th-that’s sounds like the common flu.” “It’s worse than a flu,” Jimin warns in a lilting tone, his voice like an inescapable witch’s incantation. “Once you fall in love with someone, you may even go... blind.” Yoongi gawks at him, gulping. “Blind?” Jimin nods solemnly.

Yoongi slams his brush down, splattering ink on both his robes and Jimin’s skirt. “You are lying.” The dancer backs away with a round of wheezing, squeaky laughs. “Your face! You look as red as a cherry!” Fuming, Yoongi rises and marches around his table none-too-gently.

He keeps bounding forward, jaw set tight, until he crowds close to Jimin. “Wh-what—“ Jimin scoots backwards until his back hits the wall. This time, Yoongi braces both of his arms on either side of Jimin’s head, chest heaving wildly. Jimin’s laughter dies, his pupils dilating.

Wordlessly, Yoongi leans close until their noses are inches apart, eyes roving over the dancer’s eyelashes, his plush lips. He watches Jimin’s Adam’s apple bob up & down. “Tell me, little crane,” drawls Yoongi. “Why are your little hands curled so tightly? Is your heart racing?”

Jimin stares back, working a tongue in his cheek, and murmurs, “Keep staring at me like that, and you might as well kiss me.” Yoongi feels his heart swoop. /Kiss?/ He hasn’t done that since he was a child! He reels back. “You—“ “My lord,” a servant calls from outside.

Yoongi steps back, heat fanning over his cheeks. “What?” “The Minister of War has summoned your presence for the evening meal.” Sighing, Yoongi drops his arms. First his mother for breakfast, now his uncle for dinner. For someone not meant for politics, he sure is in demand.

Jimin clears his throat and breaks away from the wall, crossing his arms. “Well? Your company is wanted. Go.” Yoongi studies him, wondering if it’s just the waning afternoon light or if he spots a hint of pink in the swell of the dancer’s cheeks. He calls out, “I’ll be there.”

no thoughts head just yoonmin

thanks for tuning in today!!!

HERE’s a question: do you have any favorite side character(s), and why?

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) open.spotify.com/track/62e6mqi5…

The combined aroma of stew and herbal tea mixed with the fragrance of incense in the sitting room is not enough to appease Yoongi’s discomfort. Across the table, his uncle and Minister of War, Min Donghwan, swirls his teacup before taking a long sip. Yoongi tries not to fidget.

Min Donghwan sets down his teacup, eyes lingering a heartbeat too long on Yoongi’s scar. “I’ve heard word of your rash behavior of late.” Yoongi arches a quizzical eyebrow. “Truly? Would you not be so kind as to even pretend to ask how I’m doing these days? How about a hello?”

“Pleasantries are unnecessary when rumors fill in the gaps. Really, Yoongi? First you sully your own face out of childish play with the Crown Prince, and now you get caught fooling around with a no-name gisaeng?” The War Minister sighs. “You are lucky I secured a bride for you.”

Yoongi tenses. “Already?” “What do you mean, ‘already’?” Donghwan rebukes, eyes narrowing into slits. “The Royal Banquet is only two weeks away. I’m taking it as you are preparing to learn how to woo a woman by playing around with that gisaeng, but do not forget your duty.”

Yoongi casts his gaze downwards, at a loss for how to respond. What’s he to say? That he is in no mind to be wedded, or that the ‘gisaeng’ he’s being accused of fooling around with is not even close to a woman? He and Jimin are merely friends, end of the story. “...Fan Xinyi.”

“Beg your pardon?” “The girl is Fan Xinyi, daughter to the Emperor’s distant cousin,” Donghwan explains. “She was widowed by her husband who died from an illness, and the family is willing to let us have her to relieve their burdens. Only twenty and five years, still ripe.”

Yoongi’s grip on his spoon tightens every so slightly. /Ripe/. As though women were fruit that come and go at seasons, bound to be cast out once no longer deemed fresh and therefore past the time of worthiness. He thinks of Songhwa, who would spit in their dearest uncle’s feet.

“And I suppose you personally oversaw the selection of potential brides,” Yoongi says in an even tone that gives no emotion away. “There was no choice,” Min Donghwan says brusquely, as though Yoongi had accused him of illegal activity. “The King has been too busy these days.”

“Is he, now?” That his father would not bat an eye regardless of who Yoongi ended up marrying does not surprise him one bit, but the sting burns all the same. The Minister of War sighs, taking a sip of water. “He has his hands full with the Crown Prince’s abrupt actions.”

Yoongi’s silence prods the man to go on. “The Crown Prince has been asking for decrees to install a new legislation to oversee commoners’ taxes,” the Minister of War explains, a tick working in his jaw. “Which—and I say this to you in confidence—is utterly pointless.”

“But would that not relieve the burdens of palace officials presiding over their respective sectors?” Yoongi says, forming patterns and conclusions in his mind. With the existence of a central legislation system, it would be tougher for ministers to dip in their corrupt hands.

“Nobody possesses the same acuity for taxes as the current ministers already do,” Min Donghwan argues, shooting Yoongi a hard look. “The artillery & weapons, the crop supplies—how would some rookies understand the funding that happens behind them?” Yoongi suppresses an eyeroll.

He recalls yet another secret trip he’d made a few nights ago, after his elder brother had summoned him for help. After putting their heads together and burning the midnight oil, Yoongi and Sohyeon had decided to try risking a proposal for a central tax system. “How maddening.”

“Very much so. The ministers have taken offense with the Crown Prince. Which is why I called you in here today,” the Minister of War flicks off a piece of lint from his blood-red robes. “From tomorrow onwards, you will join the morning royal conferences with the King.” “What?”

“The Crown Prince is being too reckless. This is an open window for the Yeoheung Min clan to prove our aptitude for... leadership,” Min Donghwan says, and Yoongi does not like the inflection of his words at all. “What are you implying, uncle?” he tests, heartbeat erratic.

“Why, nothing at all, of course. All I suggest is to have you come in and listen in on our daily meetings, acquaint yourself with some of the nation’s affairs,” Min Donghwan says skittishly, a glint catching in his eye. “You would do good to impress the Qing envoys with wisdom.”

But is that truly all where his intentions lie? Yoongi doesn’t understand. Rather—he does not want to admit he understands. To do so would be to acknowledge potential heresy against his own blood and flesh. Unimaginable. And yet. Here is a chance to pitch in, to make a change.

All this time he’s been acting in the dark, like a rat making do with underground scraps. To achieve access to the royal conferences is to gain capacity for political maneuvering. Jimin wouldn’t discourage him from such a move, would he? No, it’s not that Yoongi is ambitious.

Min Yoongi has always craved the simple life: his brush, his books, his little crane— He shakes his head. Min Yoongi has never been one to seek glory nor ambition. He has no need for such grandeur. The only reason he would agree is to be of some help and use to Joseon’s people.

But he must make sure he does not cross boundaries before making any decision. “My betrothal with the lady Fan Xinyi is set in stone, am I correct?” Yoongi asks. His uncle nods. “As certain as the sun rises at dawn.” Good. That means the Yeoheung Min cannot use him as a pawn.

If a prince like him marries ‘down’ to a politically weak candidate, then there is no way Yoongi can eventually become a King. As much as he may dislike the idea, his marriage would actually be a saving grace ensuring he cannot rise to power. He nods, jaw set. “Then I will go.”

He carries the weight of his conversation with the War Minister all through the night until the next day, festering like a vicious blood clot. When he asks servants to delay his lunch, it’s not just because he would wait to share it with Jimin, but also due to loss of appetite.

“You’ve not touched your food at all,” Jimin mumbles over their meal. “Did you learn no proverbs about wastefulness?” Yoongi blinks down at his lotus root soup and forces a spoonful down his throat. “I don’t know.” “Of course a noble wouldn’t. Your pallow is unseemly, too.”

“What are you, my mother?” Yoongi snaps. “In that case, I would be most disappointed if you were my son,” Jimin fires back, mouth twisted into a frown. “Again with your disrespect!” “And again with your inexplicably sour attitude,” Jimin says. “Do not take it out on me!”

Yoongi pushes his tray away, shutting his eyes and rubbing his temples. “I am in a foul state of mind. I would not entertain you with mindless bickering today.” An awful quiet stills the air between them, before he hears Jimin putting down his utensils with a clatter. “Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes snap open. Impossible. Surely his ears are mistaken. Jimin has never called him by name, and he must be in such a funk that he is hallucinating voices. “My lord,” Jimin says, and Yoongi deflates—with relief or dismay, he can’t discern. “Shall we go for a stroll?”

His gaze locks with Jimin, earnest and a little exasperated, but the dancer’s smile is nothing but inviting, and Yoongi cannot bring himself to say no. “I guess I might as well follow Hoseok’s advice,” he says, rising from his strenuous sitting position. “Touch a flower or two.”

Every prince has his favorite spot, and one of Yoongi’s most well-guarded secrets is Jondeokjong Pond, where he often goes for walks to clear his mind. The pavilion offers a view that does wonders in chasing away his qualms. “It is more enchanting during autumn,” he points out.

Jimin doesn’t reply, too preoccupied with gawking at their surroundings as they step into the quaint pavilion. They stand together and look out over the pond, where a mother duck is leading her ducklings to curve around a cluster of waterlilies. Yoongi inhales the soft breeze.

“Is it the princess you worry about?” Jimin pipes up, voice carrying a sweetness that Yoongi wishes he could soak up. “My apologies, but I could not help overhearing her complaints the other night. If you’d like, I... I might know someone who can help.” “A shaman?” “Of sorts.”

Yoongi blanches. He’d nearly forgotten about that. Perhaps he needs a talisman to clear away his misgivings, too. “That would be optimal, yes, if I could meet her.” “/Him/.” Yoongi tilts his head. “It’s a he, my lord.” “Then I suppose he is a monk?” Jimin shakes his head.

“He is more powerful than shamans or monks, but that makes his body weak. Though the mind is strong, the vessel is vulnerable to spirits waiting for a chance to possess him.” Jimin chews on his lower lip. “He does not step outside too often.” Yoongi gives a hum. “How relatable.”

Jimin’s head turns, fixing him with a long stare. “You know, I have only set foot in the palace for a few weeks, but I can already feel a deep loneliness encroach me. Makes me feel stuffy and restless. How much more for a resident such as you?” Yoongi glances at him pensively.

“Is this you trying to befriend me?” “We are already friends, are we not?” Jimin winks at him. “This is me attempting to provide some comfort. Is it working?” “Try a little harder.” “Well, I could describe Master Kim’s next novel—“ “Come closer so I can push you in the pond.”

“Now now, that’s not any way to treat a friend!” Jimin gasps theatrically, and Yoongi feels himself cracking at the seams, willingly absorbing every bit of warmth from his smile. With a sigh, he sinks cross-legged and leans against one of the pavilion’s pillars facing the water.

Without being told, Jimin settles down next to him, mirroring his position. “I do not know what worries you so, but I’ve found that talking about it helps.” “I do not wish to talk.” “Then I will,” Jimin cuts in without a moment’s hesitation. “I am painfully good at gossip.”

Gossip. Rumors. Hearsay. Misinformation and wrong speculations already plague Yoongi in the palace; he has no urgent need to hear any from Jimin. With a huff, he shifts sideways and slowly lets his head fall into the court dancer’s lap. “Only tell me good things, little crane.”

He feels the sharp rise of Jimin’s stomach as he inhales, then sighs. “You mean, like stories?” the court dancer emits a nervous titter. “I am not— unlike Master Kim, I possess no gift for yarnspinning.” “Then sing.” “Absolutely not.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “I’m leaving.”

(A/N: please, please if you have the capacity to do so, play this lovely song

open.spotify.com/track/62e6mqi5…

The Season of Us

Nam Hye Seung · Song · 2020

As he makes a move to get up, Jimin smacks a palm square against Yoongi’s forehead to push him back down on his lap. Yoongj muffles a laugh. “Insufferable little—“ “There is a clementine tree,” Jimin says in a rush. “That grows outside our house on the street.” Yoongi pauses.

“I suppose there’s nothing particularly incredible about this tree, but you know the good thing about clementines?” Jimin says. “They’re the sweet sisters of tangerines?” “They’re winter flowers. They begin to grow flower buds when everything else is dying. True fighters.”

Yoongi prides himself in carrying a vast library of knowledge in his brain, but he is loath to admit that he’s never held interest in crops, or horticulture for that matter. “Is this a metaphor or some deep idiom?” Jimin hums, lifting a hand to undo the ribbons of Yoongi’s gat.

“Nothing too clever, but perhaps life-changing,” he says as he casts Yoongi’s gat aside, and Yoongi is grateful to be able to nestle his head more comfortably in Jimin’s lap. “During a time when my family was starving and Hyunji was all but bones, the tree bloomed mid-spring.”

Yoongi stills, mouth agape as he watches the shadow of leaves from surrounding trees ripple against Jimin’s face. “This is the first you’ve mentioned your family to me.” “I’ve spoken of Hyunji, no?” Yoongi reaches up to cradle Jimin’s cheeks in both hands. “Not all of them.”

Jimin smiles bitterly. “I try not to think of my drunkard father or the mother who sold her children off to a richer household too much.” “Tell me,” Yoongi whispers, stroking one thumb back and forth. “I thought you asked me to say only good things.” Jimin leans into his touch.

Yoongi withdraws his hands and folds them over his chest, if only to mollify the unreasonable ache spreading in him. “I suppose you could say I am... I am studying the ways of the commoner. I wish to see your world from your eyes.” “I fear there’s not much to like,” says Jimin.

“But that’s your world,” counters Yoongi, for the first time wishing he could have been a different person leading a different life. “A world with you in it makes it worth seeing.” Jimin emits a choked noise, barely repressed, and Yoongi wants to slap himself for the crassness.

/Wrong/, a voice chastises at the back of his head. Jimin is a man, and so is he—Yoongi should not be here at all, saying such vile things. Not only is it improper, it is a crime. But then Jimin slips his hand into his, and Yoongi wonders how something so soft could be criminal.

Who knew what miracles a hand could bring? While Jimin rakes his right hand over the dark hair falling loose over his lap, Yoongi takes his left, studying each knuckle in the warm afternoon light. “You have a birthmark here,” he points out, tracing across Jimin’s wrist.

It looks a little out of ordinary, a crossbow shaped like a crescent moon. Under Yoongi’s fingertips, he feels Jimin’s pulse quicken as he yanks his left hand away, but Yoongi snatches it right back. “Have no shame. I bear a scar, too. You said we ought to wear it proudly, no?”

Jimin’s hand trembles under his grasp, so Yoongi guides it to the left side of his chest, right over his stuttering heartbeat. “I could take a nap like this.” Jimin is quiet for a few more moments, before he says, “I suppose I... I would not mind trying a folk song. Maybe two.”

“Heol. I always knew you would come around.” Jimin flicks his forehead, and Yoongi lets out a hiss. “Consider this a special performance.” “Color me honored.” “When I was a child, my mother would sing me to sleep. Her lullaby.” Jimin begins to hum. Yoongi’s eyes flutter shut.

“Even if this dream-like fate disappears, You’re engraved deep in my heart Even if I’m alone on this road I can still see you.” As the late summer heat softens against Yoongi’s eyelids, he musters a comment: “That sounds awfully somber.” “I would believe it is a hopeful song.”

Jimin’s silky voice is like a good jar of rice wine—rich and intoxicating, lilting in a way that calms Yoongi. it seems as though nothing too terrible can happen, not whilst they sit under the roof of this pavilion. Even the trees sing for them—a gentle crooning of leaves.

/Today, you are summer,/ he thinks to himself, grip on Jimin’s hand loosening as his mind succumbs to his subconscious. All the while, Jimin holds him close, his sweet voice keeping him company.

By the time he crashes back to waking, Yoongi already knows he feels more refreshed even before he opens his eyes— —to find that Jimin gazing at him still, a look of bright wonder and apprehension in his eyes. As if Yoongi is an apparition he does not know how to handle.

If there is anything to be displeased about, it’s that he’s no longer resting in Jimin’s lap, just the floor. Yawning, Yoongi stretches and asks, “Was I out too long?” Jimin shakes his head and glances up beyond the roof. “The sun has barely moved. I’d say it has been an hour.”

Sitting upright, Yoongi cranes his neck and rolls back his shoulders. “Did you not sleep as well?” “I tried, but I preferred to watch the view,” Jimin answers casually, and Yoongi feels his cheeks warm. Could Jimin be referring to... him? “The ducks were adorable,” says Jimin.

Right. Yoongi masks a scowl & stands. “We should leave. I have neglected my studies enough for today.” “There is one more thing you are neglecting,” Jimin states as he catches up to Yoongi’s quick strides. “What?” “Your art. I do wonder why you have not painted me even once.”

Yoongi stops in his tracks, every vein in bis body seeming to freeze over. In the midst of all the chaos, it occurs to him only now that hasn’t been putting in any effort to keep up his grand lie. Which is why, early the next morning, he summons— “Tutor Jeon is here to see you.”

“Let him in.” As soon as the doors to his quarters slide open and Jeon Jungkook appears with his head bowed, Yoongi ushers him inside and leans forward. “Let us begin. Is there no quick course to learn all the techniques in painting? I must be an expert by the end of the week.”

Jungkook tips his head sideways, brows burrowed. “My lord, pardon the discretion, but I would say every form of art requires practice.” “Then practice I shall. You will come here every morning before Songhwa’s lessons. If you are unable to teach me, you will be beheaded.”

Jungkook throws him a shattered look. “I jest,” Yoongi deadpans drily. He wishes he were as good at Jimin when it comes to pulling one’s leg. The art tutor gulps. “I give you my life oath to be a master artist by the end the w-week.” “Do not tremble, I jest.” “A week it is!”

Jungkook kneels & bows so low that his forehead bumps against the floor, and Yoongi has to muffle his laugh. “I will not disappoint you! We can start any time!” “Fine, then we begin now,” Yoongi asserts. “Teach me how to draw lips.” “Lips are easy to capture.” “...I hope so.”

thanks for tuning in today!!

I promise the next update is one of the parts I’ve been waiting to write since I first started this story HUEHUEHUE... see you again! Link to the playlist: open.spotify.com/playlist/4ywbV…

kyrifics · Playlist · 116 songs · 643 likes

open.spotify.com/playlist/4ywbV…

Painter of Time

kyrifics · Playlist · 116 songs · 643 likes

[sobbin] thank you look at MIMI

in case anyone was curious about how I envisioned the Crown Prince:

adubu ☁︎
@the7print

Jul 15 21