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Three seats down from Jungkook, Jimin is laughing.
He laughs with his head flung back in abandon, showing off the long, smooth line of his neck. His hair falls back from his forehead, his full red lips parted. And his laugh - it sounds like music. Jungkook could listen to him laugh forever.
By Jimin’s side, Jungkook’s brother gazes at him adoringly.
Jungkook’s knife digs into the table instead of his plate, leaving an ugly gash in the wood. Next to him, his cousin flinches.
“Stop that,” Seokjin snaps, tugging the knife from Jungkook’s grasp. “This wood is priceless, you know.”
Jungkook scoffs. “As if it matters.” As if his mother, the queen, couldn’t order another at a moment’s notice.
Something else draws laughter from Jimin again, and this time Jungkook’s brother places a hand on Jimin’s back. Jungkook stares at the point where their bodies touch and feels a burning spreading through his chest, filling his lungs until it hurts to breathe. Abruptly, he stands, his floor cushion shifting a foot away with the force of his movement. He stalks from the hall without pausing, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Jungkook lets his feet take him where he please, hardly paying attention to his surroundings. Nervous servants leap out of his way; they all know what it’s like when the prince is in a rage. He finds himself halting in one of the palace’s many courtyards, fresh air lifting his hair. He sits on the edge of the steps and stares with painful force at a bush of pinkish mugunghwa, begrudges them their beauty.
He’s unsure of how much time passes before someone joins him, footsteps soft on the wooden floor. “Second prince,” comes Jimin’s pretty, lilting voice. Jungkook doesn’t turn to look at him. He knows it’ll only make him angrier. “Are you alright? You left in such a rush.”
“What does it matter to you?” Jungkook bites, tearing a stalk of weeds up from the dirt. He crushes them in his fist and lets the shreds fall to the ground again.
“Are you ill?” Jimin presses. “Shall I call for a doctor?”
“Leave me be,” he snaps. “You have better matters to attend to.”
He feels a light hand on his shoulder. “Is something plaguing you, my prince?”
It’s the way he says it - sweet, deferential. My prince . As if Jungkook will ever be anything of his. Jungkook stands, turning to face him, shaking Jimin’s hand off in the process. He looks beautiful in the light of the moon and the glowing lanterns hanging just inside the door. His cheeks are rosy, his gaze heavy where it’s settled on Jungkook. The thin cloth of his robes clings to his body in a way that has Jungkook licking his lips.
Jimin’s waiting for an answer, and Jungkook has only one.
“You,” he says, then brushes past him into the palace.
The sight of Jimin watching him go, his lovely eyes widened, doesn’t leave him easily.
❧
Jungkook dreams of Jimin.
He dreams of him often, but tonight it’s unbearable. The dream is so realistic Jungkook feels like he can reach out to touch and feel Jimin’s soft, beautiful skin beneath his fingers. He’s dancing ahead of him in the dream, glancing coyly over his shoulder as he waits for Jungkook to catch up. Every time Jungkook gets close, he dances just out of his reach. The frustration builds and builds until Jungkook’s tearing through stalks of grass, longing for Jimin with a desperation that almost makes him sick.
He wakes with the frustration still simmering under his skin. It’s impossible to sit with. He tears the covers off his body and rolls out of bed, running a trembling hand through his hair. Jimin and his brother haven’t even married yet, and already Jungkook’s every second is intolerable. Every second he feels like he’s burning alive.
His anger swells until he loses rationality. Tossing a robe over his bare torso, he stalks from his rooms, bare feet soundless against the ground. He crosses the paths between buildings of the palace until he reaches the wing where Jimin resides. A guard eyes him nervously as he approaches.
“Your Highness,” he says, bowing. “Shall I announce your arrival? His Highness does not like to be disturbed in his sleep - ”
Jungkook shoves him out of the way and marches up the path to Jimin’s building. Another guard at the door stares at him in alarm, quickly turning to open the door and call something inside.
“Out of my way,” Jungkook hisses. “I have an urgent matter with His Highness.”
“If you would wait one moment - ”
Jungkook’s about to toss him out of the way, too, when the door opens. Jimin stands there in a sheer robe that covers very little, his hair mussed and his lips swollen from sleep. Jungkook eyes him hungrily, nails digging into his palms.
“Second prince, what is going on - ”
“Inside,” Jungkook snaps, stalking toward him. Jimin backs away, eyes wide. “I must speak with you.”
The guard moves to stop Jungkook, but before he can respond, Jimin raises a hand. “It’s alright,” he says quietly. “I will speak with the prince.”
Jimin turns away and leads Jungkook into his rooms, and the guard shuts the door behind him. Jungkook has never been in his rooms; they’re pretty like him, smell like him, too. His bed is hidden behind a painted screen. Jungkook finds his gaze drawn to it before he brings it back to Jimin, who’s waiting for him to speak, clutching his robe shut with a small hand.
“What are you?” Jungkook finally breathes, and his voice trembles. “What have you done to me?”
Jimin blinks at him. “I do not understand.”
“You do,” he snaps, taking a step to close the distance between them. Jimin doesn’t flinch away. “You’ve cast a spell on me, you must have. How is it that every moment without you feels like death?”
With little distance between them, Jimin has to tilt his head back to look at Jungkook. He peers at him, says nothing.
“You must know,” Jungkook raves. “You must know that since we were children I’ve seen nothing but you, that every breath I take comes with longing for you. And still you chose him.”
“I did not choose him,” Jimin says. “They gave me to him.”
“And if they had let you choose, you would have chosen him,” Jungkook hisses. “Do not lie to me.”
He takes another step, gaze raking down Jimin’s skin, down his chest visible through the sheer of his robes. They aren’t permitted to lie with each other before marriage, but still Jungkook wonders if his brother has fucked him yet. He must have, with the way he looks at Jimin, like keeping his hands off him is such an effort. If Jimin were Jungkook’s, he’d never keep his hands off him. He’d have him on his knees all day and night.
The thought of his brother’s hands on Jimin, of him taking what should be Jungkook’s, has the fury turning him hot again. He wraps his hand around Jimin’s neck and leans in, nosing at his skin, breathing in his scent. A shuddering breath leaves him, and he presses his mouth against Jimin’s throat.
Jimin doesn’t push him away. He gasps softly, tilting his head back, allowing Jungkook access. It would be so easy to push Jimin onto his bed and take him right now, fuck him until he was screaming Jungkook’s name, until he’d forgotten anyone else’s. He’d look beautiful underneath Jungkook, arched in his passion, tears in his eyes.
Jimin should be pushing him away, but he isn’t. Jungkook stills, then drags his mouth up to Jimin’s jaw. He fists a hand in Jimin’s hair, tugging tight. “What game are you playing?” he hisses.
“I play no games,” Jimin returns, peering at him under his lashes. He holds the same coy look he’d held in Jungkook’s dream.
Jungkook lets him go. He thinks of the way Jimin is always there, hovering at the edges of his vision. Always there to inquire after his health and brush a hand along his shoulder. “You’re a demon,” he says, and sweeps from the room.
❧
Jungkook’s brother dies at sea.
It’s a sudden, unexpected death. Word arrives, and the palace mourns. A storm had taken his ship unprepared; all crew members save for two perished. Jungkook has no love lost for his older brother. Growing up, they had been rivals and nothing else, and a part of Jungkook thinks he hated him even before he was betrothed to Jimin.
Two days after the funeral, for which they have no body, Jungkook is named crown prince. And with the ceremony comes another, implicit binding: Jimin is meant for the crown prince, whoever he may be. With his brother dead, Jimin passes to Jungkook.
Jungkook wonders if Jimin’s sad, if he’d loved his brother. He’d certainly seemed to enjoy spending time with him. At the funeral, he cries, a delicate affair: small hand over his mouth, shoulders gently shaking, a servant failing to shield him from view.
He sees him in the hall after the crowning ceremony. Jimin stops before him, tilting his head.
Jimin smiles, and the fire inside Jungkook’s body burns only brighter.
Jimin belongs to him now.