Chapter Text
They cower behind Yoongi’s glare.
Jimin feels comforted, relieved almost. But he’s still confused because Yoongi hadn’t spared him so much as half a glance in the past two months. His servants—the ones he found out Yoongi had specifically handpicked from his land—twitch and squirm and Jimin too falls victim to Yoongi’s incensed pheromones permeating the hallways.
He doesn’t even know how it came to be, how it escalated so quickly.
One second he was heading towards the gardens, the next, the ministers were herding him against the wall, puffing their chests and throwing insults at him. He’d said something back though his bravado was faked, his confidence splintered. They’d sensed it and decided they liked him unprotected, faltering, like a lost little lamb, “Like a malfunctioning whore who can’t even produce an heir.”
“What did you just say?”
Then Yoongi had appeared out of nowhere, and Jimin had been snatched from between two foul bodies and swept behind his husband, his husband the king.
“I asked you a question.”
“Your Majesty. The boy was—”
“The boy is my husband. You will address him appropriately.”
Jimin can hardly breathe. He wants to be appreciative, he wants to be glad that Yoongi is coming to his defence, but as he watches the shock register on the faces of the ministers, he realises all he truly feels is confusion.
Part of him knows that the reason he’s been trampled on since the moment he got here, after that first night when he and Yoongi stayed in their own separate chambers and everyone in the palace was made aware of that fact—he knows that the reason his position means nothing is because Yoongi had treated him like nothing.
“His Highness,” the minister spits out, and Jimin flinches involuntarily. Yoongi’s arm twists behind his back to curl around Jimin’s waist, sturdy and protective. Jimin tries to sneak a glance at Yoongi, curious to see his face. He doesn’t even care about the ministers anymore.
“—is complacent in his duties as royal consort and seems unfit—”
“And I suppose you consider yourself an expert on whatever it is my husband does or should do.”
Yoongi says it so airily, so haughtily, like he’s reprimanding the seamstress about his too tight tunic. But his eyes are murderous, and his muscles are tense, alert, and Jimin unknowingly presses closer against Yoongi, some buried instinct to calm him down, to ease the tension. The bite in his neck is throbbing, crackling with boundless energy, suddenly awoken from its two month slumber.
The ministers stare at their king with wide eyes.
“Let me remind you, that an assault much less a slight against the royal consort is in equal measure an insult against the crown and is punishable,” he mutters stiffly, “by death. Do I make myself clear?”
They stutter, their faces red with petulance. Jimin understands. It’s because they’ve been humiliated in front of him, he who they consider the lowest of the low for not being in favour of their beloved king.
And because since the day of the ceremony, Jimin has not touched even a wisp of Yoongi’s hair. And because he hails from a miniscule village, their marriage but a sham, support for Yoongi and protection for Jimin’s father.
“I will not repeat myself,” Yoongi warns.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” They say with their heads bowed, and Jimin pretends they bow to him as well. Yoongi shifts and for a second Jimin fears Yoongi will leave him here. Alone. Again. But Yoongi shifts and the arm wrapped around Jimin’s back retracts to Jimin’s hand.
He swivels his head back to look at the ministers, but their eyes remain on the ground and they stand much further down in the hallway. He realises he’s walking with Yoongi, that Yoongi is holding his hand and walking with him in the same direction.
Several servants scattered along the corridor glance in their direction but Yoongi is still emitting his pheromones and they turn away just as quickly. But Jimin doesn’t miss their curious eyes, their quizzical brows, their interest in his hand clasped in the king’s.
Yoongi makes his way to his chambers and Jimin has never been here. He lives on the opposite end, where he’s out of everyone’s way, and most importantly, out of Yoongi’s sight. It’s something that he’s come to realise after a few weeks, something he’s come to accept within the first month.
There are two guards milling at his doors and they straighten to attention once they catch sight of Yoongi and bow to him as he enters, pulling Jimin along with him.
And then he brings Jimin towards his bed.
“Sit.”
Jimin sits.
He watches as Yoongi walks to his wardrobe and removes his coat, and then his belt. And then he goes to his study and pulls out the only chair, angling it towards the bed, towards Jimin, dropping down lightly.
Jimin is a little nervous, a little afraid maybe, somewhat cautious, mostly confused and very curious. Yoongi stares long and hard and Jimin’s bite mark still throbs and he realises he’s holding his breath.
“Park Jimin,” Yoongi says, softly, like a whisper though it echoes loudly in Jimin’s head. His back straightens and he bounces lightly on Yoongi’s very large mattress.
“Yes.” His voice is hoarse. He doesn’t know why, really.
“Park Jimin.”
He feels strangely hypnotized. He breaks eye contact for a swift glance around the room. It’s quite bare. He thinks he has more possessions and he’s only been here for two months. Yoongi’s room is warmer though, his walls brighter, his presence stronger. Jimin had once entertained the thought of running away from the palace because he couldn’t sleep on his bed the first few weeks. He thinks he might have liked sharing Yoongi’s chambers.
“Who are you, Park Jimin?”
“I’m sorry,” he says instead because he doesn’t know what else to say. And finally, he gets a reaction. But the momentary surprise is gone as fast as it appeared.
“Is that how everyone treats you?”
Jimin shrugs.
“How long?”
He shrugs again. Their disapproval is demeaning, the derogatory remarks a slap to his face but he’s not a cry baby. Neither is he a telltale. And somehow he feels that anything related to him will always be his fault.
He can’t help but ask, “Do you hate me?”
Yoongi stares at him again, seconds, minutes pass. Jimin refuses to back down and holds his ground. And when Yoongi speaks, his question is reflected. “Do you hate me?”
Jimin frowns. It’s the feeling he gets—he used to get when he argued with his older brother, like he’s about to be cheated of something. “I asked first.”
Yoongi gives him his first genuine smile.
“You did,” he relents. He glances out the window, the morbid looking grey clouds hanging on his words as much as Jimin is.
When he turns back, the smile is gone, and Jimin wonders if he’d imagined it. In fact, he wonders if he’s dreaming this all but he doesn’t think he’s capable of creating a world in which Yoongi would talk to him, stand up for him. But Yoongi had and perhaps Yoongi does hate him now.
He feels like he owes Yoongi an explanation, flimsy as it is. “I’m sorry my father—”
“No, I don’t hate you.”
Jimin’s heartbeat quickens and he knows Yoongi can tell with the way his head tilts curiously.
“Thank you,” he says. For not hating him, for coming to his aid, for agreeing to the marriage at all.
It’s almost imperceptible, but Yoongi nods like he understood every unspoken word and Jimin feels so much lighter, like a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Filling that space is sudden shyness and overbearing heat. He is after all wearing Yoongi’s mark, not to mention the bed he’s sitting on is drenched in Yoongi’s scent. He doesn’t know the protocol. What does one do when they’re alone with their husband in their husband’s chambers? He’s jittery and his lunch is sloshing in his stomach.
He gets to his feet. “I think I should go now.”
Yoongi takes his time observing him and Jimin tries not to run out immediately.
“Very well.”
Jimin spurs into action. He turns his back on the king as he walks to the door, his nerves slightly on edge.
Just as he grasps the knob, “Would you join me for supper, Park Jimin?”
“Yes, my king.”
“Here, in my chambers.”
Jimin holds his breath, honing in on the silence that encompasses the room, waiting for more. And then he realises Yoongi too is waiting. He gathers himself. “Yes, of course.”
And he waits a moment longer in case of further instructions but Yoongi is done and Jimin slips out quietly. With his back against the door, he can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine at the first conversation he’s shared with his husband.