Work Text:
Taehyung, flushed with unbridled exuberance and yearning as bright as swords flashing underneath the gilded sun, decides that he can no longer maintain the languid dignified trot of their delegation.
As soon as the palace’s glorious spires, its dome’s intricate glasswork interwoven with burnished metal, and its beautiful polished marble pillars rise over the golden horizon to meet them, Taehyung gently spurs his black quarter gelding into a breathless gallop and his horse responds to the prompting touch as though he’s been eagerly anticipating it, as though he’s felt Taehyung’s restless energy fizzle and snap.
Taehyung laughs, joy rippling inside his chest like whimsical silky ribbons, his tummy swooping in frazzled exhilaration as his gelding swiftly rides, Taehyung melting into his saddle, the sweet sunset filling up his lungs like a dream, the sound of Yoongi’s voice calling his name swallowed by the whipping wind and the growing distance.
With the capital’s sprawling bustle behind him, the green lush fields roll by in blurred out dizzying brushstrokes, the paved bone-white cobblestone pathway leading towards the palace stretching out like a pellucid river.
Up ahead, one of the on-duty guards shouts, his voice ringing as clear as a bell, “it’s prince Kim Taehyung. Open the gates!” And, with a strident clang, the iron-wrought gates part open for Taehyung, an old friend welcoming him back with arms wide open, familiar and beloved and coveted. “Your Highness,” someone calls out. “The Crown Prince is at the stables!”
Taehyung’s heart skitters, leaping to his throat. He can’t afford to slow down, to perform decorum and courtesy like the well-bred and impeccably mannered member of the Kim royal family.
It’s just that Taehyung hasn’t seen him in close to eight months, eight! The two of them caught up in the interminable whirlwind of incessant diplomatic meetings, terse or otherwise cordial political negotiations, and elegant ceremonial revels held in the honor of countless ambassadorial parties and their noble courtiers.
In between, they’ve exchanged letters attached with playful memos and small gifts that reminded one of the other: Jimin sent him a precious iridescent stone set in a thick golden ring that he knew Taehyung had taken to collecting after Jimin showed him his own jewelry boxes that were filled to overflowing with Jimin’s rings: chunky and delicate, bespoke and embossed, either gifted to him by aristocratic admirers or heirlooms that belong to the park lineage.
All gorgeous, made all the more so when adorning Jimin’s pretty dainty fingers—in return, Taehyung sent him a dangly mother-of-pearl pair of earrings that belonged to him and which he remembered Jimin admiring at the traditional ball commemorating the King’s name day.
But throughout it all, Taehyung felt Jimin’s absence like an open wound and his heart bled, yearned, cried out.
Now, he steers his horse towards the stables, still racing at nearly breakneck speed, mindful of the servants and careful that he doesn’t impede them or come close to hurting anyone else in the impetus of his aching fervency.
There are a few industrious attendants and stablehands tending to the barn, stacking up hay and sweeping the grounds clean of straw and lugging buckets of water to fill up the troughs. The stables are an elaborate gorgeous affair, all vaulted ceilings shored up with crisscrossing beams that are positioned just so to allow air circulation and faint sunlight to pour into the barn in soft buttery spears.
Taehyung pulls at the reins and the gelding huffs, coming to a graceful halt, his flank rising and falling from the exertion.
“Good boy,” Taehyung praises, stroking over the horse’s neck, soothing him and rewarding him all at once.
But Taehyung’s already canvassing the stables for Jimin, seeking him out, his tender heart thundering in his ears. He dismounts, effortlessly sliding off the saddle, his feet finally meeting the solid surface after hours of riding.
Abruptly, his stomach drops at the reminder of it.
He was so overcome with the palpable desire to see Jimin that he didn’t even spare a thought to his undoubtedly disheveled travel-weary appearance.
Perhaps he should have been prim and proper about it, allowed The Minister of the Royal Household to host them and provide them with Taehyung’s usual spacious and accommodating chambers so he could have gotten the chance to refresh or maybe even take a soak in the baths. He could have used his favorite fragrant oils (bergamot and rose) and those vials of vanilla-scented liquid soap.
Instead, because of his heady haste, he’s standing at the stable’s entrance in his sturdy riding leather, sweaty, the road’s dirt and dust probably clinging on to his skin which is so unbecoming and unfitting. He reaches out for his horse’s bridles, suddenly anxious and embarrassed, his cheeks flaring pink. He's seriously considering leaving his horse in the care of one of the stablehands and running away to make himself presentable in whatever degree he can manage.
It’s vain and maybe a touch self-absorbed but the occasion warrants it.
Jimin warrants that Taehyung looks his best.
“Taehyungie?”
Taehyung’s wide-eyes dart up in panicked alarm. Jimin’s stepping out from the equestrian barn, gingerly peering at Taehyung as though he isn’t entirely certain that it’s him.
The blooming jasmine and clementine trees that tastefully huddle close on either side of the barn’s archway cast cavorting and jumping shadows over Jimin’s face, playing a private game all on their own.
Jimin looks as though he’s just returned from a spontaneous hunting trip: his obsidian black hair’s parted in the middle, his cheeks stained an enchanting rosy shade, and he’s dressed casually—an eggshell white linen tunic with its collar strings unlaced and its sleeves rolled up to his forearms tucked in a gorgeously embroidered pair of breeches and matched with long riding boots. His star-burst drop earrings glint in the golden light like the memory of resplendent coins.
Taehyung’s mouth goes dry, something in him scattering and fluttering like sun-warmed leaves trembling in the breeze. He must resemble a fish out of the water with the way he’s floundering and gaping. He's so ill-equipped for this kind of Jimin.
Definitely out of sorts.
Though, in all fairness, Taehyung doesn’t think he could ever be fully prepared for any kind of Jimin so it isn’t as though prior preparation would fortify his defenses. Taehyung is irrevocably defenseless against the devastating onslaught of The Crown Prince’s unequivocal captivating allure.
“Jiminie,” Taehyung breathes it out like a sigh. And then, “um, surprise? I know we informed the messenger you sent that we were going to arrive after sunset but I couldn’t really wait because I missed you so much it was excruciating and after I pestered Yoongi-hyung and rushed us out of the inn, I might have ridden out ahead of them and left them behind. But they’ll be catching up very soon. They’re probably right at the gates as we speak.”
No sooner than Taehyung pauses than Jimin breaks out in a brilliant heart-stopping smile so wide that his nose flattens and his glittery eyes crinkle and Taehyung’s saturated in Jimin’s pulsating delight, all previous concerns dashed against the rocks.
Jimin runs towards him, his arms spread out like a bird mid-flight, peels of relieved laughter spilling out of his lips.
Taehyung’s heart is a sun, a star, bursting and overflowing with light at the center.
Jimin barrels into him like a wild radiant force and Taehyung takes him in, receives him with all the caged up secret crushing desires that coalesce and reverberates inside of him like a poignant unsung thing. He dips his head down so he can bury his face in the crook of Jimin’s sweet-scented neck, inhales indulgently and goes dizzy from it. Feels Jimin’s undoubtedly toothy smile pressed against his cheek, a divine gift by all accounts.
He's dreamt of this for so long it seems now and how he endured this prolonged period of awful separation he can’t recall. It seems absurd. Impossible. Jimin’s so warm, so real, so much better than anything his mind could have conjured up.
“I've missed you too, Taehyungie,” Jimin murmurs and Taehyung hums blissfully when Jimin’s hand travels up across his back and into his dark curled locks. “Missed you too much.”
Jimin’s fingers slide down so he’s cupping the back of Taehyung’s neck and Taehyung barely suppresses the shiver that shoots up his spine.
“I’m glad you arrived earlier than expected,” Jimin confesses, pulling away from their embrace, his warm gaze locked with Taehyung’s. “Though,” he chuckles, something like shyness edging into his voice. Taehyung’s chest tightens in affectionate fondness. “I’m sorry I’m not better prepared. I was just on my way to the baths for a soak. I hope I don’t smell too off-putting.”
“Not at all!” Taehyung hurries to reassure, his mouth running before his brain can catch up, his heart tripping over itself, eager and besotted and spellbound and Taehyung’s too recklessly in love with Jimin to pretend otherwise.
He knows he should tread carefully, that he bruises as easily as an immaculate ripe peach, that though Taehyung’s doe-eyed and unspoiled and brimming with delicate spangled light, he’s just soft enough to be torn up and forgotten about—left all tattered and threadbare and exchanged for something shinier and lovelier.
Taehyung may be the third prince in line to the throne but there are always new hedonistic entertainments and fresh-faced buoyant nobles and courtiers and pets to distract and attract. Jimin has never treated him as though he might be replaceable, as though he could be exchanged for something else.
So, Taehyung wears his vulnerable heart on his sleeve for Jimin, The Crown Prince and heir to the throne, but as far as Taehyung’s concerned, Jimin’s his prince, his and no one else’s. He’s softened by Jimin, loosened up by him, made into this sugar-spun mellifluous thing, all shimmery and pretty and adoration-touched.
“Jimin-ah, you’ve never ever smelled anything close to off-putting, even when we go horse-riding or hunting for hours on end. If anything, you always have this fragrant scent that reminds me of jam jars and honey pots and flower-fields. It’s sweet, just as sweet as you are so it definitely suits you. Sometimes, I think even your letters smell like you. Almost as though they carry your memory with them like fragments of a dream.”
Jimin’s staring at him, his dewy cheeks flushed apple red, his plump dark pink lips parted open just enough so that his crooked tooth winks at Taehyung. There’s something like wounded shock in his eyes, like he’s trying to internalize—whatever it is that Taehyung laid out to him.
With his throat all closed up, Taehyung scrambles to remember if he’s accidentally slipped in a confession or if he’s somehow clued Jimin in on his burdensome feelings, but he mercifully comes short.
Jimin lifts his hand up, reaching out to touch Taehyung’s face. He tentatively and gently cups his cheek and his palm is so warm, so benevolent, like a fine shroud of silks and cashmere. Jimin’s dark slanted eyes are unfocused, as though he’s entranced or hypnotized, and Taehyung’s breath stammers in his tight lungs.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me, Taehyung-ah?” Jimin asks, his voice perilously soft, his thumb stroking Taehyung’s cheek back and forth.
Taehyung’s arrested, frozen to the spot, his heart valiantly trying to clamber its way out of his chest. Jimin’s gaze is heated, stoked embers blazing in the hearth.
And then, the gelding snorts, nuzzling the side of Taehyung’s face and the moment falters and fractures.
Jimin’s searing attention wanes as he shifts it to the horse. A playful smile tugs on the corners of his lips and he runs his fingers through the brushed out gleaming waterfall of the horse’s forelock. Taehyung grins easily and furiously denies that he secretly wishes Jimin were petting him instead.
“So, since there’ll be a celebratory banquet in your name tonight, both of us should retire to clean up and dress up. Of course,” Jimin glances at him, amusement swimming in his eyes like spangled light through water. “I expect you to show up and dazzle the court as is your habit.” He swivels back to Taehyung’s gelding, idly smoothing his palm up and down its neck in firm mindful motions. “More importantly,” Jimin says. “I want you to dazzle me. Impress me, my prince. My Taehyungie.”
The pet names seem as though they’re tacked on as afterthoughts, so delicate they could dissolve like sugar in tea, though the tea would still remain sweetened. But on Jimin’s tongue, through him, they’re as heavy and as prized as gemstones measured in something that resembles devotion. Fealty. Intimacy as familiar and as worn as their friendship.
“That's not fair,” Taehyung says, blushes when he realizes all too late that his voice came out a touch distressed and just a little strangled, awestruck. Jimin ruins him so easily. As easily as he overturns border skirmishes and with just as much precision. “You know what that… endearment does to me.”
“Oh, I know,” Jimin says smugly, teasingly, his voice close to dipping into a purr. It’s dangerous—this game that they’re playing. Taehyung shivers, tucks his hair behind his ear, half-giddy, half-preening. Are they flirting? Is this what they’re doing right now? “It’s cute that it gets to you like this,” Jimin continues and this time, it’s soft. so soft. Gossamer and unguarded and open. “You’re cute, Tae-yah.”
Fraught warmth crackles and pools in Taehyung’s tummy. It sizzles like embarrassment but flickers like desire. “You’re cuter, Jimin-ah,” he counters just as softly. Watches in both fascination and triumph as a dark blush rises on Jimin’s cheek. As Jimin lifts the back of his hand up to his own face so his knuckles graze against the undoubtedly heated flesh.
“I see you’re trying to get a rise out of me,” Jimin accuses, his full lips pursing in a wickedly kiss-worthy pout.
But Taehyung can easily tell that he’s secretly and incandescently pleased—Jimin loves giving out compliments and flattery but not nearly as much as he relishes in receiving praise. It is his birthright. or it should be, at any rate. Taehyung bites down on his lower lip to stifle his smile because, gods help him, he is utterly and hopelessly ensnared and he doesn’t ever wish to be anything but caught up in Jimin’s enchanting loveliness.
“I wouldn't dream of it,” Taehyung says, sure he’s grinning all cheeky and bright.
“I'm sure you wouldn’t,” Jimin replies, matching his warmth. then, quietly and affectionately, “brat.”
“Learned by example, Your Grace.”
Jimin hiccups on a spluttered giggle, dips his head down and lets laughter flow freely out of him, his whole body trembling with the force of it. Taehyung naturally moves closer towards him, gravitationally pulled into Jimin’s tantalizing orbit and Jimin accepts it, accepts him, immediately falling against him rather than cling on to the gelding’s reins for support because Jimin’s brazen mirth is dancing earthquakes and celestial bodies all at once and he can contain it no better than anyone can claim mastery over nature’s forces.
Taehyung holds him gently, lovingly, one arm slung over Jimin’s shoulder, his own lips stretching out in an elated grin as Jimin attempts to secret away his high-pitched adorable giggles into the crook of Taehyung’s neck, Jimin’s soft silky hair brushing against Taehyung’s cheek. Taehyung’s breath catches in his throat, his heart swooping pathetically.
Briefly, he wonders if they’re being discreetly watched by the palace’s servants and attendants. If they’re being gossiped about.
Oh, to be the subject of scandalous speculations surrounding The Crown Prince’s torrid affairs.
“What I wouldn’t do to have your courtiers and retainers witness His Royal Highness Kim Taehyung acting out on his incorrigible bratty tendencies. It’ll get their tongues wagging,” Jimin sighs out, his eyes twinkling as he peers at Taehyung. “You know I've always liked premium entertainment.”
“You’re such a terrible gossip,” Taehyung gasps in faux affront.
Jimin hums, barely holding back his resplendent amusement, his mouth curling up in a disarming smirk. “Or so the rumors have it.”
The two of them erupt in pretty little giggles, shared and intimate and hushed.
With warm delight brewing in the air, Jimin drawls petulantly, “if we tarry any longer, I suspect we’ll get yelled at by our advisors. Besides, the sun’s almost down. We’re supposed to be preparing for the evening’s festivities. Otherwise, we’ll have hell to pay.”
Sometimes, Taehyung’s convinced he might have dreamt Jimin up when he’s elbows deep in his duties, when Jimin’s out of his sight but never out of his mind.
But, this close, Jimin’s heart-stoppingly real and so bewitching that Taehyung can’t find it in himself to look anywhere else. Doesn’t want to look anywhere else even if he were given the chance.
He wishes he could duck down to press a fleeting sultry kiss atop Jimin’s inviting lips—there is a poetic symmetry to Jimin’s lips that deserves to be fully appreciated.
Jimin’s leveling him with a beguilingly sly gaze. “And I’d still like to admire you all dolled up and gorgeous from the other side of the dining hall. Or, preferably, I could have you sit right next to me. It’d make it easier.” Oh no. Taehyung can’t tamp down the shiver of longing that climbs up his spine. Jimin’s so wretchedly mean, Taehyung wildly thinks, but he doesn’t let up. his questing hand slips down between their bodies to lace with Taehyung’s own, their fingers interlocking sweetly. “And make sure that you wear that opal earring I gifted you which I'm sure you’ve remembered to pack. I haven't had the chance to see it on you yet and it’s gut-wrenchingly tragic in my princely opinion.”
“Oh,” Taehyung says shakily, dumbly. His tongue darts out to wet his dry lips, his heart rate picking up. “Only if you put on the bloodstone signet ring.”
Jimin grins toothily. “Seems like we’ve been plying each other with necessary ostentatious gifts.” Then, “it’s a deal.'' Jimin pulls away from Taehyung and turns to a stablehand who’s been subtly lingering an appropriate distance away, ready to take orders when asked to but trained well and clearly used to serving royals that he maintains an air of deferential professionalism. “Soojung-ah, please tend to His Highness’s black quarter to the best of your abilities and, of course, set him up in my personal stable.”
The stablehand bows, his form immaculate and respectful, the faint impression of a soft smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “Of course, Your Grace. It’d be our pleasure.”
“Thank you,” Jimin says warmly and without reservations. He's teasing and playful when he fixes his gaze back on Taehyung. “After all, this beautiful gelding delivered Taehyungie to me.”
Oh. Taehyung leans towards Jimin, so irresistibly drawn to him. Has always been.
Jimin must notice it because he’s looking at Taehyung like he’s anticipating something, like he’s waiting for Taehyung to act on an impulse, but with Jimin, it’s all less an impulse and more of a deliberate unruly spark of flame.
Taehyung perpetually feels like a candle with its oil-doused wick lit and its wax melting slowly, not unlike that myth of the acolyte boy who, struck by his overwhelming devotion and worship to the sun god, strapped a pair of waxen wings to his shoulders and took flight just to be closer to his lover.
Jimin’s not a god, but he could be.
He is also a boy with a heart of glass and a soul of honeysuckle, the softness of him draped around his shoulders like a regal velvety fur-lined cape. And maybe Taehyung’s a little tipsy on their silly flirtations and their glittery back-and-forth that feels like a wily sensual duel because his tummy flips and he thinks about how he tirelessly and sweetly ached for Jimin, for the airiness of his euphonious voice, for the sureness of his reassuring touches.
But more than that, Taehyung just missed being around Jimin, missed their riveting talks as much as he missed their arguments that tend to get blown out of proportion. Now that Jimin’s right here, standing in front of him, so close that Taehyung can smell him, that he can marvel at the constellation of skin-stars kissing the tops of Jimin’s cheeks and count the moles embellishing his forehead and neck, that he can reach out and feel Jimin and the perfect solidity of him, Taehyung’s not hesitant to give them what they both want.
Jimin’s expectant look emboldens him so Taehyung lids his eyes as he bends his head, lifts up their still linked fingers, and turns their locked hands around to press his lips reverently against Jimin’s ring-clad knuckles.
Jimin’s watching him intently, his eyes smoky and dark, his generous lips slightly open around a faint satisfied sigh.
The whole world blurs around them gently. It’s all inconsequential and weightless. Jimin stands out in sharp relief against the backdrop of it, like he always has.
“Your Grace is too kind,” Taehyung says, his lips moving against the back of Jimin’s hand. Jimin bites down on the flesh of his lower lip and Taehyung’s brain fuzzes up a little, but he soldiers on, his skin feeling flushed and tingly. “I promise that you won’t want to look at anyone else but me.”
“Good,” Jimin giggles, but there’s a strangled husky quality to it. Like he’s getting shy on Taehyung. Cute. The edges of Taehyung’s lips curve up and he’s certain that Jimin can feel his smile brushing his hand. “That’s exactly what I want to hear, Your Highness.” The title is as unfair as the pet names and it dives in to sweep Taehyung’s heart right off just like that as easy as anything. “See you at the banquet, then.”
It's both a promise and a temporary farewell.
“You shall, Your Grace,” Taehyung responds and he can’t hide his elated giddy beam no more than Jimin can.
The nimble musical tunes of a harp gently interweaving with the softer notes of the harp rise up and swell over the tinkling laughter and the swirling jovial voices. The orange glow of the setting sun has long since tipped down into night and the servants have swiftly lit up the wall-mounted scones and the candle chandeliers so that there are leaping fires everywhere warming up the saloon wonderfully.
Jimin’s sitting on top of a lavish feather-stuffed cushion at the low table caught up in a mostly one-sided idle conversation with a young dignitary from a minor but rising family. He’s animated in his speech, flashing an ingratiating cloying smile every now and then, but his unsubtle attempts at currying favor aside, he’s well-spoken, his hopeful and convivial expression reflecting his unwavering ideals and unflagging confidence.
Jimin doesn’t really mind entertaining the lords and ladies of the court. Has never found the task to be burdensome or weary.
Quite the opposite, he finds pleasure and delight in getting to know them, in memorizing their names and learning their mannerisms: discovering what truly makes them tick, all their idiosyncrasies laid out like treasure chests cracked open, stuffed with magic and wonder. He’s always had the keys for each locked chest and they’ve always clicked open for him as smoothly as pulling a sword out of its scabbard.
It is undeniable that he’s born a charmer, that the older he grew the more he picked up on and the better he became at it. He is as skilled a socialite and a politician as he is a swordsman.
Jimin’s admittedly many things but he won’t ever be invulnerable to Prince Kim Taehyung.
When Taehyung walks in, a nearly imperceptible hush pervades the private dining saloon. Jimin shifts so that he’s facing the entrance, his fingers distractedly twisting the band of the bloodstone signet ring that adorns the pointer of his right hand.
It’s ungodly arduous, perhaps closer to being out of the question, that he maintains his unaffected insouciant composure because Taehyung’s—he’s so ethereally gorgeous that it knocks the breath right out of Jimin’s too tight lungs.
Even from where Jimin’s reclined, he can glimpse the dainty sparkling jewels and pearls that are pinned in the curls of Taehyung’s black hair like a sea of stars splashed elegantly against the fathomless velvety night. His skin is sun-kissed dreamy, his lovely doe-eyes lined with this creamy smokey eyeshadow, and his lips are pink and glossy and intolerably kissable.
Jimin only remembers to take in the rest of him when Taehyung pauses to effusively and enthusiastically greet a prominent dowager, his smile unrestrained and his eyes warm in their truthful regard.
So Jimin takes his time and indulges in allowing himself to appreciate the effort Taehyung made for him.
Taehyung’s wearing an ivory white mulberry silk shirt, unlaced so that its collar reveals the sumptuous choker fastened around Taehyung’s thick neck: its golden metal is encrusted with gleaming crystals. Then, of course, the aristocratic robes he’s slipped into marking him as a high-ranking member of the Kim royal family are moss-green chiffon embroidered with an assortment of flowers and vines and leafy stems.
And, oh, how right Jimin was to gift him the opal earring.
Taehyung’s pushed his hair behind his ear to draw attention to the dangly piece: it cascades in three linked opal stones embedded in prong settings, the opal catching the lights and glistening as though alive.
Belatedly, Jimin dazedly notices that he’s barefoot.
He supposes it’s natural, considering that Taehyung reviles constricting footwear but delights in dressing up like a pampered pleasure pet. However, the illusion Taehyung instantly gives off is that of a regal forest nymph dripping in finery and luxury and who’s somehow accidentally but fatefully stumbled on their little gathering and must now bear the court as it desperately vies for an ephemeral taste of his spellbinding radiance.
Gods but Jimin is waxing poetic and pining quite terribly. tragic but inevitable, especially when Taehyung is concerned.
His unwitting companion maintains his chatter, perhaps either unaware that he’s completely lost Jimin’s attention and that there is no way he can get it back or that he’s astute enough to pick up on the fact and is content with running his mouth off regardless. Jimin can’t find it in himself to care and if it were up to him, he wouldn’t even be hosting this banquet.
He’d much rather have Taehyung all to himself away from prying eyes and relentless gossip, away from all the fanfare and the pomp, and certainly away from those frivolous nobles who may feebly and unsuccessfully attempt to woo his Taehyungie. Jimin would bargain away his crown in a snap if he could whisk Taehyung away and have him to himself.
He's never told Taehyung, never dared to confess just how deep his feelings ran. just how much he’s been yearning for him lately.
It chafes at him, this desire that flares every now and then so powerfully it hurts. But Jimin’s reasonably circumspect, too careful of misstepping, of transgressing. His relationship with Taehyung is too precious to be trifled with, not for the sake of his wild adoration—no, he shakes off the sentiment.
This is neither the time nor the place. Such painful musings will only spoil the evening for him and Taehyung’s too pretty, too beautifully ebullient that Jimin feels it’s only fair of him to focus entirely on him, that everything around him turns unbearably shabby in comparison to his compelling sweetness.
Just then, as Jimin’s resting his chin on the back of his hand with his gaze trained on Taehyung who seems now to have moved on from the dowager and is engaged in an amiable tête-à-tête with Hoseok, one of Jimin’s closest confidants and a lord of his own estate, Taehyung pretends to shift to make way for an attendant in a practiced manner and it leaves him with his back to the wall, Hoseok moving along with him so that he’s facing Taehyung with his back to Jimin and this makes it so that Taehyung’s within Jimin’s direct line of sight.
Taehyung’s nodding in response to whatever Hoseok’s sharing with him but his twinkling dark eyes are on Jimin, his pretty lips curved up in a devious smirk, the gold and the jewelry and the silk lending him an air of obscene unattainability.
Jimin’s in a half-distracted haze until he realizes it. So that is his ploy. He's nearly forgotten that not only is Taehyung maddeningly clever but he also evidently knows how to navigate his terrain to his advantage.
Jimin returns his smirk with an arched brow and a challenging smile of his own.
Let their games begin.
It's perhaps irrefutable that Jimin’s a masterful flirt, a notorious tease, but Taehyung’s got a few tricks up his sleeve.
He takes his sweet time in striking up friendly conversations with whoever approaches him or crosses his path. Jimin doesn’t let Taehyung out of his sight, doesn’t dare look away for fear of losing track of him, his longing unchecked and his fondness threatening to overwhelm him. Throughout it all, Taehyung repeatedly glances in his direction, his eyes lingering on Jimin as purposeful as an achingly sweet touch.
He moves with such liquid grace, keeps sweeping his hair behind his ear, the movement of it like a performance for his hungering audience (re: stupidly in love Crown Prince Jimin).
As the banquet crescendos to a full swing and the steward calls for the food and drinks to be served soon, the nobles and aristocrats begin to find their seats alongside their partners for the evening. The cushion next to Jimin has been deliberately left vacated, reserved for Jimin’s guest of honor.
He's tracing the rim of the ornate blown glass goblet when Taehyung finally finally glides towards him and sinks down on the floor cushion. Jimin inhales and lets his eyes flutter closed for a second or two because Taehyung smells exquisite, intoxicating. orange blossom and spices and honey and a hint of something woodsy. Jimin, too weak and too love-drunk to pretend as though the sole object of his affection isn’t next to him, turns towards Taehyung, gazing at him through his heavy lashes and quelling the firecracker shivers of pure want beneath his skin.
Taehyung boldly meets his eyes, a surreptitious knowing smile teasing at the edges of his glossy lips. “So, Your Grace, have I succeeded in dazzling you?” His voice is a sailor’s dream, a sleepy deep drawl.
Jimin’s heart stammers and his breath hitches.
For the life of him, he can’t remember why dragging Taehyung by the lapels of his expensive robes and kissing him senseless is unadvisable.
It’s nothing for Taehyung to render him into an unstoppable cataclysm of impossible half-formed castles in the air and wishful thinking. Jimin reaches out before he can dwell on it for too long, his ringed fingers brushing the lustrous opal earring and grazing Taehyung’s jawline.
Satisfaction thrums in his veins when Taehyung visibly shudders.
“You have,” Jimin professes. “How could you not when you’re always incomparably the prettiest person in any room?” The words have manifested on their own and wilfully push themselves out. Jimin doesn’t have the wherewithal to be embarrassed about it though he’s certain that mortification will haunt him for days after when he’s completely not disarmed by Taehyung and not impeccably playing the part of the lovesick fool.
To Jimin’s surprise, Taehyung’s eyes drift down in bashful ebullience, his face fever-flushed. Jimin’s heart leaps and flutters.
“Does that mean I've won our wager?” Taehyung murmurs and Jimin has to strain his ears to catch his words that float over the riotous giggles and the merry music.
“Wager?” Jimin repeats, tilting his head to the side, considering Taehyung with open curiosity. “I don’t recall it being a wager. It was more of a… demand.”
Taehyung has the gall to roll his gorgeous made-up eyes, but his lips are curled up in the prettiest smile that softens the blow so Jimin is inclined to immediately forgive him. “Well, it’s a wager now, Jiminie. And, as you’ve just declared, I won.”
“Tae-baby, I think that if I ever were to judge any contest or tournament you participate in, I’d declare you the winner in all of them. Then, the people would rally under one banner and go up in arms since I’m clearly abusing my position of power by favoring you and I wouldn’t be able to defend myself against all the incriminating evidence so I’d just admit to my crimes and I’d be dethroned and cast out but I wouldn’t care at all because I’d be a lost cause getting blissfully drunk in inns and taverns and singing your praises and overtures to any who’d lend an ear. What a dream of a life that’d be. Perhaps I’m not quite fit to be The Crown Prince, after all.”
Taehyung’s staring at him with his eyes splayed wide open, his lashes dark and spindly, and the blush on his cheeks darkening considerably. But then, he scoffs, waving Jimin’s theatrics away with a graceful dismissive hand, the bangles on his wrist clinking with the movement.
Jimin hides his enamored grin by taking a careful sip of the chilled forestry wine from the goblet.
“Jimin-ah!” He says and Jimin thinks that Taehyung meant for his voice to be admonishing but it comes out tremulous and weak. Taehyung must have realized it because he hunches in on himself, makes himself smaller, and he’s only ever done it in front of Jimin for Jimin. “Don’t tease! The air and the misdirection won’t distract me. Tempting as they are.” The last bit he mutters begrudgingly like he’s half-expecting it to be swallowed up by the ambient noise that’s surrounding them. He whips his head up towards Jimin, reinvigorated, his eyes resolute and his chest puffed out. “I want my reward.”
Jimin’s brow twitches, intrigued by wherever Taehyung’s going with this. He sets his goblet down and then places his elbow atop the tabletop so he can prop up his head on the heel of his palm and peer at Taehyung freely, his eyes greedily raking him over. “What kind of reward do you think you deserve, sweetheart?”
Taehyung pretends to mull this over by tapping over his bottom lip with the manicured tip of his nail, suddenly mischievous and scheming, his mouth quirking into a half-smile.
Not for the first time, Jimin marvels at his superb knack for acting. Taehyung could so easily belong to the stage and the limelights with his deep operatic voice and his polished artistic performances. Jimin wasn’t masking the truth when he said he’d dedicate himself to extolling Taehyung and his endless array of talents.
“Be my attendant for the night.”
“Oh? Interesting proposition,” Jimin manages as his pulse spikes up, his heart rate picking up.
“Not a proposition,” Taehyung shakes his head, the curled locks bouncing along, the fanciful jewels and pearls like frosted snowflakes sticking to the lovely darkness of his hair. “Think of it as more of a… service you’d be rendering me? Perhaps a display of affection between the two princes of allied countries? Besides,” here, Taehyung pauses, his lashes dipping demurely. “It’d be the best kind of reward from you. I like it when you dote on me and I've missed you and it’s been eight months. You know as well as I do that while letters and correspondence may temporarily stave it off, they never really suffice. I just want to be as close as I can to you throughout the evening. Is that so terrible, Jiminie?”
“No,” Jimin says, unfettered wonder and love and light pouring into the vowels. “I can't imagine there’s ever a world in which attending you and doting on you is terrible. You could have just told me that you’d prefer I promote myself to be your personal retainer rather than your braggart poet. It’d have instantly cleared out the misunderstanding.”
Taehyung’s eyes are luminous. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he breaks out in the widest prettiest smile, the kind of smile that bunches up his round cheeks and that reveals the whites of his teeth and that makes Jimin’s weak heart sputter and skitter. The kind of smile that’s all sorts of lethal and that leaves Jimin off-kilter and out of sorts and more in love than ever. “I’m glad that there are no more misunderstandings that could inhibit you, then, Your Grace.”
“Me too.” Jimin wants to soak him up. As one would languish in the sun for days after weeks of overcast skies. “Tell me, how shall I attend you and dote on you? And what does the job of being your personal retainer entail? Because I'm at your disposal, Taetae.”
Taehyung hums, tries to affect nonchalance but his cheeks are glowing crimson. “Exactly according to my nefarious plan,” he simpers. Shifts on the cushion, busies himself with arranging his robes and the fall of his shirt over his shoulders, his hands fluttering like frantic birds, his lower lip tucked between his teeth. His gaze flickers back over to Jimin who’s been watching him closely all the while.
Taehyung’s a kingdom all on his own, lush and full of history and a thousand elysian mysteries and Jimin could never tire of studying him and taking in the gentle composition of his elegance. But, oh, he seems shy at being observed like this by Jimin. Gods. Jimin’s so endeared.
“Okay, so,” he begins, his oceanic-deep voice soft and halting. “You could keep an eye out for my hair. Style it or brush it if it gets messy. You could also fill up my cup if I drain it. And perhaps hand feed me when the food’s served. Only if you’re amenable to it all, of course. I'd never coerce you if you’re uncomfortable.”
“Believe me, I’m very comfortable with this arrangement,” Jimin responds and he hopes he’s coming across as cool and suave but he’s fighting down a blush and it’s a losing battle and he suspects that they’ll both be flustered and flushed as the banquet progresses but it won’t deter them from stubbornly flirt-bantering. “And, honestly, this is looking to me more and more like I’m being rewarded instead,” he says playfully, his gaze flitting to Taehyung’s errant hair that has fallen over his pierced ear.
Without paying much thought to it and complying with their playacting, he reaches out and pushes Taehyung’s locks behind the shell of his ear, his fingers brushing through the curls… and lingers. It’s so soft, soft in a way only golden dreams or thick rose petals could be. He can’t resist the compulsion to tangle his fingers into Taehyung’s artfully tousled hair, cupping the back of his head, careful not to ruffle up the pins. “Your hair’s so lovely,” he says, his voice low and contemplative. “These jewels and pearls were made for you. no one could wear them as well as you do.”
Taehyung’s breath stutters out of him through his parted lips. “Tha—thank you, Jiminie,” Taehyung sighs out. “Wore them for you,” he says-confesses. “Just for you.”
“Did you really, Taetae?” Something inside of Jimin unclenches and unfurls and blooms. His gaze slides down from Taehyung’s face to the dip in his throat that’s glazed with a peachy sparkly sheen and he seriously considers drawing Taehyung closer and leaning his head down so he could kiss that mouthwatering bit of skin. Taehyung’s an irresistible masterpiece plucked out from the escapist fantasies of painters and romantics. But really, whether rosy-cheeked and fresh-faced with his hair damp just emerging from the baths or sweaty and dusty from days of hard riding or tangled up in his bedsheets drowsily warm and blinking sleep away with the shadow of his stubble darkening his chin, Taehyung’s simply devastatingly gorgeous. “Were you thinking about me when you were getting ready for the banquet?” Jimin asks, looping his pointer around a perfect curl at the nape of Taehyung’s neck.
“Yes,” Taehyung replies, a little preoccupied, a little dazedly, a stitch of gilded light from the candles casting him in a soft sensuous glow. “Of course, I did,” he continues, just as soft: it’s a secret shared between the two of them, frail like dew speckled spiderwebs here in the dining saloon amidst the tittering nobility and the subtle curiosities, but it’s theirs. Taehyung seems to pick up on the intimacy of it. on how the teasing has dipped into something gentler. His eyes, Jimin marvels, are wanting. “I could not think about anyone else even if I tried.”
“Is that so?” Jimin says for lack of anything better to say. He’s jolted by a fondness so fierce it drums through his bones and nerves, he has to take a steadying breath lest he causes the scandal of the century by throwing caution to the wind and recklessly kissing Taehyung deeply and hungrily and fervently right then and there.
But he would have to ask. He would have to ask because he has to. Because how can he be sure whether Taehyung feels that very same desire that tears and rends? Or the longing that sweeps him in its fractious but sweet undertow? Sure, they’ve shamelessly and playfully flirted and yeah, they’ve skirted the border of attraction. Jimin may affect humble modesty but he knows that he is sought after and desired as much as Taehyung is conscious of the lustful eyes that follow him whenever he walks into a court or a hall or a room. So, of course, they each think the other is attractive.
But I could not think about anyone else even if I tried.
Jimin’s stomach roils.
A knowing smile is playing at the edges of Taehyung’s pretty lips. Like he’s in on a joke that Jimin’s missed and Jimin’s both strangely turned on and helplessly intrigued and definitely blushing because—well, because His Highness Kim Taehyung is understandably flustering and the most vexing wretched creature there ever was. Jimin is, without a doubt, in love but achingly and frustratingly so.
“It is so,” Taehyung says primly, concluding the matter. “And will you honor the terms of our wager, Your Grace?”
Jimin pulls his hand away from Taehyung’s hair with obvious reluctance before it verges on being entirely and shockingly inappropriate (although, he’s certain that the rumor mill has started turning and that they’ve very likely to be lightly and patiently scolded by their personal attendants, Jungkook and Yoongi, but Jimin will weather whatever it is that he has to if it means he could stick by Taehyung’s side indefinitely).
“I will, Your Highness,” Jimin says. “I vow to be your most attentive and willing attendant. I'm at your beck and call. Though,” here, Jimin exaggerates remorse, his brows delicately furrowing and his voice turning apologetic. “I've not once been coached in the fine arts of servicing, if you could believe it. Therefore, I hope you forgive me any errors or slip-ups that my nonexistent training lacks.”
“Oh, I wouldn't worry about that,” Taehyung banters, his eyes glinting something nefarious and bewitching. “I think you’ll master it just fine, Jiminie. You’ll be a natural, I'm sure.”
He’s a proper demon, Jimin muses absently. Gods help him.
The evening, of course, goes about as well as can be expected.
Which amounts to near catastrophic. For Jimin’s tender heart at least.
The heavy food-laden platters are served in a disorienting but pleasing choreographed rotation that Jimin is accustomed to: bite-sized honey-glazed roasted lamb garnished with fresh forest-green scallions and sesame seeds, delectable grilled pork belly that swims in sour-sweet sauce and herbs, spicy rice cakes baked with cheese and milk, beef marinated in caramelized brown sugar and ginger along with an array of decadent spirits and steaming jars of water infused with fragrant jasmine petals and mint leaves if there are guests who are averse to drinking.
Taehyung glances at Jimin shyly but expectantly and Jimin complies with the silent request. Between a fork and a pair of chopsticks that are included in the cutlery fanned out on the low table before him, he goes for the chopsticks, handling them with the ease he would a sword or a dagger. But then Taehyung blinks at him with those doe-eyes of his, his lashes mesmerizing, and asks innocuously, “Jimin-ah, you won’t hand feed me?”
Jimin is only a man. A weak one at that and Taehyung’s just veritably struck him down with a clever strategic maneuver that Jimin didn’t see coming. Warmth, of varying degrees, suffuses him as he puts the chopsticks back as neatly as they were laid out. “I'd love to, Taetae,” he says, noting that his voice’s assured and love-touched. “Which would you like to try out first, then?”
“The lamb, please, Jiminie.” Taehyung’s cheeks are rosy and lovely but he’s holding himself with hypnotizing confidence.
“Polite,” Jimin praises quietly and watches as Taehyung preens so beautifully it’s tormenting.
Jimin feeds him by hand, sweetly, as he would feed his lover.
He cups one hand underneath the one ferrying the bite so that none of the sauce and the grease, if they slipped, would ever stain Taehyung’s billowy robes or his ivory shirt and if Jimin’s fingers brushed over Taehyung’s glossy-soft lips or grazed against his chin in a slow drag just long enough for it to be slightly indecent then that is between him and Taehyung.
Throughout it all, Jimin takes him in. Taehyung is the model picture of what a pliant receptive royal would be being fed and attended to, parting open his lips and taking into his mouth whatever bits of food Jimin presents him with, but the high flush coloring his face and the hazy darkness clouding his eyes give him away easily. He’s just as affected by this as he is.
There is a basin next to them with which Jimin could wash his hands and pressed lavender-scented linens to dry which he makes use of after the courses are cleared out from the table and replaced by savory dessert and cool refreshments as plentiful as the gossip circulating around the saloon.
As conventional etiquette demands, though drawn or devoted to each other, The Crown Prince and The Prince of the Hour are expected to mingle and to strike up conversations with their other nobility and lords of importance.
Jimin can’t lean so heavily on his yearning adoration that he convinces himself that they’re the sole occupants in their own little world. Taehyung knows this too because if Jimin isn’t mistaken he looks slightly crestfallen that their idyllic bubble has been punctured and it’s as though there’s no way of fashioning it or conjuring it ever again.
Jimin decides that he’s set on proving him wrong.
They are preparing to rise up to their feet and mingle but just before they part and lose each other to their esteemed avid guests, Jimin draws Taehyung close and murmurs into his ear, “If you’d like, we can slip into your favorite alcove for a little while. I'm sure we won’t be severely missed.”
“You’re giving me something to look forward to, hm?” Taehyung asks but his smile’s so relieved and pretty in its upturn that it’s verging on being illicit. Jimin swears he’ll be the sweet death of him. “I'll meet you there in two hours,” Taehyung quickly confirms, anticipation burnishing him with this thrilling golden light that Jimin relishes in and has taken great lengths to learn inside out.
Their sparkling audience is patiently waiting on their pleasure, all too familiar with the princes’ close bond that they don’t take offense to being made to wait a little longer than duly necessary, which Jimin is endlessly grateful to.
Predictably, Lord Hoseok is the first to lope towards him with a spirited skip to his step and amusement dancing in his eyes, the first word tumbling out of his lips, “finally,” but it’s harmless and more teasing than exasperated or incensed. “Your Grace,” he amends then to blunt the lighthearted jab, his grin stretching out his lips. “It’s adorable that you’re both possessive of each other.” His voice is fond and genuine and Jimin can’t tamp down the blush that climbs up his cheeks. “But,” Hoseok huffs. “I can't say I'm not happy that I get to have your counsel for myself. There’s a matter I’d like to bring to your attention.”
Jimin confers with Hoseok and promises him that he’ll arrange a meeting with him over the course of the next few days until the issue of increasing diplomatic outreach and sponsoring requisitions for nonperishable staples for towns or villages suffering from the recent aftereffects of unrelenting downpours and, in some cases, flooding. Then, he sets about the familiar task of charming and entertaining the lords and ladies, he is impeccably courteous, flattering with deft precision and winning admiration left and right.
Even surrounded by the glittering jewels of the court, Jimin’s scanning the saloon for Taehyung, aims for stealth but he thinks a few of the cheerfully prattling nobles he’s conversing with have astutely caught on. Still, it’s an hour in and he’s already achy. It’s a little bewildering but not really. Jimin has studied the source of it, mapped the topography of its shape, recognized it for what it was for with a startle but, really, he should have known. Jimin’s feelings for Taehyung are much like Taehyung himself: wild and final, tender and devouring. soft and affectionate. His attachment to Taehyung came all at once and struck him in one fell swoop.
His love though—that was brick by brick.
It’s unassailable now, a sturdy immovable thing that pierces the sky.
From across the saloon, Taehyung’s engaged in what appears like a riveting discussion with The Minister of Domestic Affairs. His smile is soft and encouraging, his demeanor plainly insinuating that the minister’s concerns and interests are at the center of Taehyung’s universe.
He has that spark, Jimin thinks. That inborn spark that leaves everyone around him grasping for even just one second of his time, for a passing acknowledgment, for a careless nod in their direction. Anything will do.
But, of course, Taehyung is too generous, too kind for these meager offerings. He gives so much of himself to anyone who would take and, oh, there are so many takers.
Jimin should stave off the possessive smolder that burns into a flare and the barest hint of jealousy that rattles his chest. his rendezvous with Taehyung thrums with promise. Jimin will get to have his prince for himself. Then, as though feeling the weight of Jimin’s attention on him, Taehyung’s eyes snap over to Jimin but Jimin’s too far away to read whatever emotion resonates in there.
With the wine jugs emptied, the jasmine and mint-infused water drained, the platefuls of dessert licked clean and then collected to the kitchens, and the torches waning in their mounted filigreed scones, Jimin smoothly extricates himself from the spinning carousel of formal pleasantries.
Stepping out into the temperate cool nighttime air feels as though Jimin’s jumping into a forgivingly refreshing lake at the height of summer’s scorching heat. He hadn’t realized just how stiflingly warm the saloon had gotten what with all the candle chandeliers and the torches and the windows that are sealed shut to conserve the drowsy warmth because more than one guest was wearing flowy dresses and thin gauzy fabrics that left little to the imagination.
Jimin makes a quick work of his crushed velvet ascot that’s tucked snugly against his throat, loosening it and slipping it free from around his neck. he strides through the dimly lit arched hallways with casual purpose, the heels of his boots clicking on the uncarpeted marble, passing by stationed guards on duty who give him little respectful bow and murmur, ‘Your Grace’.
Jimin spares them a quick smile, but his heart is set on Taehyung and their alcove tucked away within the palace’s secluded gardens.
Before he left, Jimin spied Taehyung lounging on a cushioned bench being fawned over by the son of a count and the daughter of a minister so Jimin took immense childish pleasure in the way he held Taehyung’s molten gaze, which tracked him until he was out of sight. Taehyung might have decided to excuse himself and follow Jimin immediately but he might also bide his time so as to mellow the suspicion that their mutual absence could potentially arouse.
Either way, Jimin’s shoulders relax, the evening’s taut tension bleeding out of him as he emerges into the fragrant gardens and weaves his way through the abundant jasmine shrubs and rose bushes and flowering clementine trees, the path petal-strewn and the night’s impenetrable darkness kept at bay by iron-wrought torch-posts.
Jimin and Taehyung had chanced upon the alcove a few years ago and have unofficially claimed it as their own. It’s veiled and kept hidden from view by a leafy canopy of intertwined vines and shoots of passionflower and sprigs of wisteria all supported by a wide stone archway with its own wicker outdoor sofa. It gives the illusion of being transported to another dreamy vibrant world full of riotous blossoms and sweet birdsong and Taehyung’s equally sweetly riotous laughter that quickens Jimin’s pulse and sets his heart aflutter.
Jimin pops open the first few buttons of his ruby-red coat that’s embroidered with gold threads and loosens the crushed velvet sash around his waist, releasing a relieved exhale as he rolls his neck and stretches out his back. He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it up, and collapses with abandon on the sofa’s end, the back of his head resting against the cushions, his hair parting like a curtain’s ribbony tassels, his throat bared out.
The muffled music and distant music drift on the chill wind, someone’s brash guffaw punctuating the steady stream of it all. He thinks he imagines the hissing rustle of footsteps on the grassy earth but then—“you look like you’re just about ready to fall asleep,” Taehyung teases. “I thought you were made of sturdier stuff.”
“Did you really? Contrary to popular belief, I’m actually made of flimsy insubstantial stuff.”
“There’s nothing insubstantial about you, Jiminie,” Taehyung clicks his tongue, but he’s amused despite himself, evidenced by the half-suppressed twitch of his pretty lips.
Jimin’s heart stammers. He tries to recover as quickly as possible but it proves to be a little difficult. He's likely more wearied by the banquet than he initially thought. “I disagree. I'm dissolving like sugar in water as we speak.”
“That won’t do at all. I need you in solid form,” Taehyung says as he settles back against the sofa’s arm and lets his bare feet come to rest on Jimin’s lap, the languid intimacy of it muddling up Jimin’s head.
Taehyung’s blissfully close again, close enough to touch, close enough for Jimin to be warmed by him and the joy in Jimin’s chest is so sharp and so powerful it wrecks him.
Taehyung’s curls have gotten a little frizzy and ruffled and his eye paint is smudged around the edges, some of it transferring to his lids and emphasizing his hooded gaze.
Jimin watches Taehyung as he’s gotten into the habit of and Taehyung watches him back, considering, measuring, Jimin isn’t sure but he doesn’t flinch or shy away. Instead, he runs his thumb up the arch of Taehyung’s foot and feels it jerk in response to the feathery touch.
“Mmm,” Taehyung hums. “That feels good,” he admits, his cheeks coloring but his eyes blazing like embers, unashamed and candid.
That's his Taehyungie.
“You’re quite set on making use of me tonight, aren’t you?”
“Do you mind?” Taehyung asks.
“How could I?” Jimin sighs and he probably sounds smitten and enamored beyond reason or doubt but he’s also resigned to it. Relinquished himself to pining for as long as Taehyung continues to stir his heart so it might as well be for an eternity. Jimin holds Taehyung’s foot in one hand and gently but firmly rolls down the pad of his thumb from the sole of Taehyung’s foot to his heel. He massages the soft creases of it, intent and worshipful, lavishes Taehyung with the reverent attention that he deserves. Taehyung shivers, a deep groan rolling out of him. “You could use me any way you want and I'd never mind. I told you, didn’t I? I'm yours to command. Anything for my Taetae.”
Jimin pauses, wonders if maybe he went too far, if he’s perhaps pushed the limits of Taehyung’s comfort. The thought of it sears him open so he scrambles to backtrack, to ameliorate the blow he’s just accidentally dealt in his untethered rush of heedless affection. “So long as I don’t lose you to your starry-eyed boys and girls.” That’s so much worse. “I mean,” Jimin stutters, focuses on the task at hand, on Taehyung’s lovely feet and hopes that Taehyung attributes his sudden fumbling to sleepiness and tipsiness. The chances that Taehyung noticed that he’s only sipped tentatively and sparingly on his wine are high but Jimin will take it.
“You could, of course, choose to lose yourself to your admirers. I’ve no claim over you and I shouldn't. No one should. And why shouldn’t you have admirers from which you could have your pick?” Oh, it’s out of his control, his mouth running off by itself and leaving him grappling for purchase uselessly. “You’re so beautiful. So gorgeous it kills and you’re funny and full of interesting thoughts and gracious and impossibly perfect even when you think you aren’t. It’d be an easy small thing for you to tumble with whomever you wanted so…” Jimin trails, falters, his stomach clenching with cold dread, his trembling fingers still wound around Taehyung’s foot.
He doesn’t dare look in Taehyung’s direction. Fear, the fear that he’s gone ahead and ruined it all, the fear that he’s shattered everything, the fear of Taehyung brushing it all off and gently letting Jimin down (because Taehyung would be gentle and patient and reassuring and would somehow find a way to tend to Jimin’s wounds while simultaneously putting back together the broken pieces of their relationship with quiet determination and painful desperation) all these fears crack open their jaws and clamp down on the softness of his heart.
He can’t swallow anymore, his throat refusing to work, clogged up with the promise of tears, and he has to reach up to curl his fingers around his throat to ease the discomfort. He doesn’t notice that his other hand is gently gripping the sole of Taehyung’s foot, that he’s rubbing circles into the flesh.
“I’m in love with you,” Taehyung blurts out, his voice thick and frayed and strangled.
Jimin whips his head up, the confession barely registering in his panic-addled brain.
Taehyung’s long-lashed eyes are wide with horror-shock, his cheeks flushed with color, the tip of his nose strawberry-red making the mole embellishing it stand out cutely, his lips working around words that he can’t churn out.
There's this long-drawn-out moment suspended outside of time and then Taehyung pulls his feet away from Jimin’s lap and scampers up so that he’s kneeling beside Jimin on the sofa, his hand pressed up against his chest as though to shore up his heart.
The opal earring swings like a pendulum from the sudden movement and Jimin’s eyes catch on it.
“Jiminie-yah, sorry. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to come out. It really wasn’t. I've held it in for so long. It’s just while you were speaking, it kept bouncing in my head and it wouldn’t stop and it started feeling like if I didn’t say it, it would have driven me mad. Absurd in retrospect! So, forgive me. It was a slip of the tongue. Literally. But, not really. I am in love with you. I mean,” he lets out a ragged breath, his lips quirking up sardonically, which, Jimin thinks distantly, doesn’t suit him. Not at all.
Taehyung’s face is made for sincerity. For heartfelt expressions. For delight and laughter and good dawn-touched things. Something in Jimin strains to fix it, to right it by whichever means necessary.
“For how long?” Jimin asks. He feels a touch out of reality. Like he’s been clobbered with the pommel of a particularly heavy axe. “Since when, Taetae?”
“It’s been seven years now,” Taehyung says, his head hanging down, his shoulders slumping, his lower lip trembling and his whole body wracked by shivers. “I’m—sorry, Jiminie. not sorry for being in love with you for seven years. I’d never apologize for that and you shouldn’t dare to either. But I’m sorry for letting it go out into the open like this. It must have been because I haven’t seen you for so long and then you were so good to me this evening that I allowed it to get to me and then you were saying all these… wonderful things I—I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” Jimin whispers.
“What?” Taehyung peers up at him, his glimmering eyes are pure starlight. “Why?”
“Because,” Jimin reaches out, his fingers hovering over Taehyung’s cheek but he drops his hand down, his heart in his throat. “You once wrote to me in a letter that I'm always the first person you want to share new things with. What I never wrote back to you is that you are like a light in all the world’s dark places. Everything you touch is made better having known you. Including me. Especially me. And I’m in love with you too. I've been in love with you for five years so i guess,” Jimin giggles, dazed and punch-drunk, everything turning topsy-turvy with impossibility. “You fell in love with me first and I’ll hold that over your head for a long time.”
Taehyung lets out a sound that’s a little like a whimper and a little like a garble of disbelief. Tears prickle the corners of Jimin’s eyes and he’s not sure what kind of face he’s making but Taehyung pushes himself to his knees and moves to straddle Jimin’s lap, cradles Jimin’s face so carefully and so gently between his palms, his thumbs stroking over Jimin’s cheeks. “Jiminie-yah, say it again.”
“I’m in love with you too, Taehyungie,” Jimin says, staring back at Taehyung’s frantic searching gaze.
“Again.”
Jimin laughs, lifting his own hand up to press it against Taehyung’s as he leans into his touch. As he revels in the contact. “I’m in love with you, Tae-baby.”
“Can I,” Taehyung starts, biting down on his bottom lip and he looks so hopeful and wobbly and as giddy as Jimin feels, the corners of his warm honey eyes creased up from his smile. “Can I kiss you, please?”
Jimin is suddenly and unaccountably shy, soft pulses of pleasure washing over him. Taehyung’s blushing, too, and the moment feels sacred, holy, anointed by a thousand moons and a thousand stars and the leaves hanging overhead as verdant as polished emeralds. “Do you know how many times I've dreamed and thought of kissing you? Of you kissing me?”
“No,” Taehyung giggles, bats his lashes at Jimin all seductive and indolent and Jimin’s stomach tightens with desire. “But you can start telling me.”
Jimin huffs out an airy laugh and their lips meet halfway, their joy echoing through them like a song. Taehyung’s hot mouth is as soft and as yielding as sun-warmed jasmine petals and Jimin is ready and willing to spend as much time familiarizing himself with its luscious heat and even then he knows with unshakable certainty that he’ll definitely be causing a scandal or two in court consequences be damned because he’ll always have Prince Kim Taehyung sitting in his lap like some extravagantly spoilt pet or that Taehyung will be glued to his side with his arms around Jimin’s waist in a show of possession. For now, though, Taehyung is his and his alone as he is Taehyung’s, crowns forgotten and lineage discarded.