Chapter Text
When Park Jimin turned eighteen, he had decided nothing but the deepest love would move him to matrimony.
Which was a problem, because his father was the Sultan of Agrabah.
“Jimin-ah,” the Sultan says, laying back in his cabana. Jimin eyes the icy cold pina colada sloshing around precariously in his glass, “you need to get married.”
“Father, I don’t—"
“It’s not really something you have a say in,” the Sultan continues, waving his hand airily. “We have really, really unprogressive laws about love that way.”
“But doesn’t that bother you?” Jimin says, ready to burst into the spiel he’d been rehearsing about the importance of a progressive society and breaking down gender norms and all that.
The Sultan blinks.
“Should it?”
Jimin opens his mouth, fumbles with a comeback, and then shuts it again.
“Never mind, father,” he says, grumpily. “If you need me I’ll be in my room, plotting my suicide.”
Jimin’s suitors pile outside the castle, with dancing elephants, marching bands and for some unknown reason, sixteen black swans in tow.
“Prince Jimin,” one wheedles, “allow me the honor of your hand in marriage.”
“How about me?” Another grins, smiling to reveal a mouthful of crooked, yellowing teeth.
“You will find no better choice than I,” croons another, who looks to be around eighty.
“Well?” The Sultan says, tapping his foot. He looks pleased with himself.
The three suitors perk up, leering at Jimin in a way that gives him the heebie-jeebies.
“With such outstanding choices,” Jimin deadpans, “I really couldn’t decide.”
Back in his quarters, Jimin throws himself down on the bed with a groan.
“What am I going to do,” he sighs to Yoongi, who remains predictably silent. “The entire suitor presentation was a nightmare! Am I doomed to spend my life, chained to a partner who will never love or understand me?”
Yoongi, who is a rock, does not respond.
Jimin, who loves dramatic monologue, doesn’t mind.
“You know,” a charmingly deep voice says, “you could just marry someone you love.”
“Hyung!” Jimin gasps, getting up and throwing himself at Namjoon who appears around the door, looking tall and dashing because he’s six feet and has dimples. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
“Your dad sent me to check on you,” Namjoon says, his mouth quirking, “something about you and a tantrum and threats of suicide.”
Jimin crosses his arms, pushing his lower lip out. “You would feel the same way if you’d seen any of my suitors.”
“I’m sure it’s not quite so bad,” Namjoon says kindly, “give them a chance. There has to be at least one decent one in that crowd.”
Pointedly, Namjoon stares down at the line that’s beginning to snake outside the city gates.
“Have you even seen my suitors? I’m pretty sure all of them are twice my age. At least.”
“But,” Namjoon interjects, ever the pragmatist, “they also have a lot of food and money, which Agrabah is in short supply of right now.”
“I mean I know that,” Jimin sighs. “But what does that have to do with me? Or my future happiness?”
“Well, you are the crown prince so… technically, everything?”
“Either way,” Jimin huffs, “this is actually really unfair.”
“It’s actually really not,” Namjoon says and looks like he’s ready to launch into a spiel about how the royal family — Jimin included — is pretty much freeloading off of the hard work of the taxpayers so Jimin really doesn’t have a legitimate reason to complain—
But Jimin’s withering stare makes him swallow the words back down.
“You could always run away?”
“Run away?” Jimin collapses dramatically onto his fainting couch. “With our top of the line security? I could never!”
“Not to interrupt your pity party, but,” Namjoon points at the gates where the palace guards are fast asleep and snoring, rather loudly at their posts. “I wouldn’t call our security top of the line.”
“Wow,” Jimin muses, “we have really bad security.”
“I know.”
“Wait aren’t you my head of security?”
“I am,” Namjoon sighs, “but I’m also your friend, so just go already and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Jimin looks out at the gates, the tall imposing black doors that lead to the wonderful world outside. It’s tempting, but despite his complaints, there are lines he can’t cross and Jimin knows better than anyone the weight of the responsibilities on royalty.
“But my father—” he begins, but Namjoon holds out his hand.
“Your father is asleep and so are the eighty year old suitors. The rest of them will survive a week or two without you. After all, I’ve arranged an open bar and a free flow of nachos. That should keep them busy until you find your one true love and bring him back to the palace.”
“Hyung,” Jimin says, eyes wide with gratitude, “you’d do this, all for me?”
“Of course, Namjoon says smartly, “otherwise you’d never accidentally bump into a handsome, charming young man of fantastic character and meager circumstance, fall in love, and advance the plot.”
Jimin blinks, “what was that, hyung?”
“Go on then,” Namjoon says with an exasperated sigh, “since you want to be part of their world so much.”
Jimin packs quickly. But he doesn’t know exactly what to bring aside from his most fashionable hoop earrings, and necklaces and maybe a scarf or six because what if he needs to color coordinate?
When Jimin’s not looking, Namjoon is the one who thoughtfully fills his satchel with gold coins, and sandwiches because Jimin gets grumpy when he’s hungry, and then he ushers Jimin out by the secret entrance and watches all the way until Jimin’s silhouette disappears into the crowd.
“Stay safe, all right?” Namjoon says, fondly as Jimin skips toward the gates.
But Jimin doesn’t even turn back to wave goodbye, attention already fixated on the world outside.
It’s the first time Jimin has been outside the palace since he was a child. As the imposing palace gates clang shut behind him, he almost glances back, worried about everything he’s left behind. The soil beneath his shoes feels foreign, terrifying and exciting at the same time. He hesitates briefly, but then there’s the sound of voices, of people, shouting and excited and living their lives, so Jimin starts walking forward and doesn’t look back.
The bazaar is alive with sights and sounds. Hundreds of cloth stalls line up on the cobblestone streets, and in each, merchants tout their wares. The people on the street push past him, busy and engrossed in their work, while Jimin takes it in, excited and fascinated in equal parts.
Jimin’s in the middle of admiring a dainty gold ring when there’s a loud commotion behind him. He whips around, to see an a crowd shouting and pointing before a young man dressed in rags barrels right into him.
“Oof!” Jimin says, as they tumble backward onto the ground.
The boy topples right on top of him, nimbly sticking his hands out at the last minute to catch most of his weight before he falls right on top of Jimin.
Bright brown eyes meet surprised grey ones, as they stop and gaze into each other’s eyes. The buzz of the bazaar falls away, the busy streets fading into the background as the Romeo and Juliet love theme in harmonica soars quietly in their ears.
Minutes tick by.
Jimin’s thigh is getting numb.
“Are you going to help me up or?” Jimin asks uncertainly, when the boy remains perched on top of him.
“Oh,” the boy says, scrambling to his feet. “Um yes, right. Sorry about that.”
He pulls himself to stand, wiping his hands on his pant legs — which are artfully torn to reveal muscled thighs — before offering a hand to Jimin and tugging him up. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah I think so—”
Now that they’re both standing, Jimin realizes how much bigger the other is, the way he has to tilt his chin up to stare into the other boy’s beautiful doe eyes, which abruptly grow larger as his attention is caught by the commotion over Jimin’s shoulder.
“Oh shit, we gotta go!” The boy says, and grabs Jimin’s hand in his own and begins dragging him through the crowds.
“Why are we still running?” Jimin whisper shouts, after they’ve raced through sixteen alleyways and crawled under twenty push carts and the boy’s still going at breakneck speed because clearly he’s some sort of Energizer bunny that doesn’t get tired.
“They’re after me,” the boy says simply, and then stops long enough to stare down at their still interlaced hands, “which means they’re after you too.”
“What?” Jimin pointedly does not sputter, because that is un-regal, and un-princely and Jimin is an elegant, regal, princely princeling thank you very much. “Why would they be after me I’m—
The prince, dies in his throat. Jimin clamps his mouth shut.
“You’re?” The boy prods, his eyebrow quirking amusedly.
“Tired,” Jimin says, quickly.
The boy turns around, and eyes him up and down, his mouth pulling up at the corner into a small smirk. “Well, Tired, I’m Jungkook.”
Jimin scowls. “That’s not actually my name.”
“Don’t worry,” Jungkook says, in the same way people talk to bratty children they’re trying to coax. “We’re almost there. Just three skips and a hop away.”
“That’s what you said an hour ago,” Jimin grumbles, but trails after him, because Jungkook, for some unfathomable reason, still hasn’t let go of his hand yet.
“Details.”
It’s Jungkook’s teasing grin hat makes Jimin disobediently hang back and they tussle each other back and forth, Jimin hanging back on his heels like he’s deadweight and Jungkook retaliating by throwing Jimin over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and running for it.
They’re both sweaty and giggly until there’s a sharp cry from somewhere uncomfortably close. Jungkook immediately glances around to see if they’ve caught a tail, and he must not like their chances because before Jimin can ask, he’s already maneuvered them both into a dark alley.
“Sorry,” Jungkook mumbles, clapping a hand over Jimin’s mouth where Jimin squawks indignantly, “just bear with me.”
Jimin opens his mouth to bite the fleshy bit of Jungkook’s palm in retaliation, and Jungkook lets out an indignant noise, and then freezes, when here’s a responding shout from uncomfortably close by.
“Shit,” Jungkook whispers, his eyes darting to the guards who have just turned down the street, “just, just trust me on this, okay? And please don’t scream.”
That’s all Jimin hears and then Jungkook’s mouth is on his, and his arms tighten, almost protectively around Jimin until the faint thud thud of running disappears.
They stay like that, pressed up together in that dark, tight space, Jungkook’s body warm and secure wrapped around his own, his cheek nuzzled against Jungkook’s stupidly muscular chest. It makes Jimin feel—
“Sorry,” Jungkook says again, stepping away and releasing Jimin almost immediately. He runs a hand through his dark, messy curls but all Jimin can see is the way his lips look, pouty and pink and full. “It was an emergency.”
Jimin doesn’t know how he thought his first kiss would turn out, but fleeing down the streets of Agrabar, his cheeks flushed pink and Jungkook’s hand warm in his, doesn’t feel like a bad way to start.