Chapter Text
“I’m not being unreasonable,” Namjoon emphasises the last word with unnecessary vigour, his tongue straining like it’s about to snap with exasperation. “I am simply asking you actually consider what I am suggesting before dismissing it. Yet again.”
Yoongi sighs, the box in his arms far too heavy, early morning light already beginning to filter in through the windows. It is not yet 6 am and Namjoon is already here, face stupidly earnest, his dog snuffling insistently at Yoongi’s heels. He hasn’t had the basic decency to ask if he can help, instead following him around with that wretched announcement in his hand. He has clearly ripped it from where it was to be hung all day in the main square though he seems oblivious to his own crimes.
Yoongi nudges the dog away gently with the toe of his boot before dumping his supplies down, straightening to wipe off his dust-coated fingers against his sleeves. He turns to look Namjoon in the eye, the hope etched onto the other’s face making the answer undisputable.
“No.”
Namjoon’s face falls, his shoulders slumping and for just one horrible moment Yoongi thinks he may cry. He quickly busies himself with starting the furnace, the coals still warm from his hours of work the night before, black stains of soot bleeding into the grooves on his fingers.
Behind him Namjoon titters, still distressed, the sound of his scroll flapping beginning to grate on Yoongi’s nerves. Yoongi loves Namjoon with all his heart, he really does, but sometimes he finds it hard to handle his energy before his first drink of the day.
“All I’m saying,” his voice is lighter this time, more casual, as though Yoongi’s opinion on the matter hadn’t remained the same for nearly a decade. “Is that if you did go, you would win.”
“I know,” Yoongi replies, patient in the way he gently stokes the flames.
“And if you did win,” Namjoon shrugs, nonchalant, “you would make a rather handsome fortune. Which, and I’m no one to judge, I think you could greatly benefit from having.”
Yoongi scoffs, walking across the room to push the windows open, letting in the cool autumn breeze, pride a little too wounded by the all too real suggestion. “I don’t need money.”
“Sure,” Namjoon nods, sincerity not reaching his eyes, “it’s just, well, you refuse to sell the weapons you make to anyone you consider,” he coughs delicately into his closed fist, “’unworthy’ of them.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve sold approximately five in the last two months –“
“Four.”
“ –which makes, yes like I said, approximately five, which makes business a little hard. Whereas getting five hundred groats for one measly tournament that you could win in your sleep seems a really easy bargain. That is all I’m saying.”
Yoongi rakes a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath before turning back to Namjoon with a strained smile. “Joonie, I really appreciate the concern but I’m just fine okay? Seriously. I have everything under complete control.”
Namjoon stares at him a moment too long, as though if he stares hard enough the reasoning in his brain will somehow communicate to Yoongi. But Yoongi is made of the thickest hide in the entire kingdom, nothing is getting through to him. Namjoon sighs finally, shaking his head. “Come on Monie,” the dog gets leisurely to its feet, scampering along towards the door. “I’ll be at Tae’s if you need me.”
“Yeah yeah,” Yoongi waves dismissively, gathering up a sheet of iron and walking over to the furnace. “I have a lot of work to do.”
He relaxes when he hears the shop door jingle shut behind Namjoon, the three pairs of feet retreating into the distance. Yoongi tries not to allow the annoyance in his mind to build, tries to sweat it out with the morning’s grime. He feels oddly guilty, as though he has said or done something wrong, as though there might actually be merit to Namjoon’s meddlesome ways, that there might actually be some truth to his harsh words. He glances up, looks at the racks and racks of flawlessly crafted weapons, the shining metal and handsome hilts. Each without a wielder, each lonelier than the next.
He shakes his head to dislodge the thought, swearing softly under his breath. It is all just chatter, the worries of an overly concerned friend. Nothing for him to waste his time with.
The bell above his shop door tinkles gently though the sign on it is still turned to close. He sighs, slamming down his smelting iron.
“Namjoon I swear to god –“
“Can we have a word, Min?”
Yoongi turns, freezing when he sees his landlord slouched near the door, small eyes slanted into shrewd windows of excitement. He swallows, suddenly too hot in his airy shop, the fire seeming both in the furnace and under his skin.
“Yes of course.”
“You know I hate being the bearer of bad news Min,” the ear-splitting grin on his face indicates otherwise but Yoongi tries to focus instead on the words. “But we have a problem.”
“Which is?”
“You’re in debt. Massively in debt.”
Yoongi blinks, unsure, suddenly thinking that dawn was probably when he should start drinking seeing as the universe was out to get him today. God, he really hates Tournament season, it reeks of failure before it even begins. “What?”
“You,” his landlord points an accusatory finger at him, one menacing step for each word he spoke, “are in severe debt.” He stopped about a foot away, eyes gleaming with more than just the morning light. “And I am evicting you by the end of the season.”
For a moment Yoongi sees red, the unnerving urge to simply deck the man in front of him seeming an easy antidote to all his troubles. But murder is never the answer, or so Taehyung says with an air of profound wisdom that Yoongi doesn’t entirely understand the origins of. So he clenches his fists, takes a deep breath and tries the second, far weaker alternative. Reasoning.
“Now come,” he attempts to keep his voice light, friendly even. “You wouldn’t want to evict your favourite tenant.”
“I wouldn’t,” his landlord agrees, “so it’s good that you aren’t even in my top three.”
Yoongi swallows dry and painful, mind sprinting through possible plans of action, each slightly stupider than the last. He can’t afford to lose the shop, not after everything he has gone through to get it. It is his only home since he was thrown out of the palace, he won’t let himself be thrown out of here as well.
“How much is it?” Yoongi sighs, turning to glance at the small safe he has built into the wall, his not so handsome savings stored carefully within. “I’ll pay it off before season end.”
His landlord laughs, clapping his pudgy hands together, a delighted sparkle to his smile. “It’s running into almost three hundred groats at the moment, and don’t even get me started on the interest rate and the additions of the next few months. From where do you plan to acquire such wealth so fast, Sir.”
It is a pathetic attempt at provocation but it works anyway. Yoongi feels the words sink into his mind, contaminating his blood stream and sending spikes of adrenaline to the tips of his fingers. He grits his teeth, flexing his hands to ease the jitters away before gesturing rather grandly at his impressive display of weapons. “My work of course, that is how most honest men make their living.” He probably shouldn’t be so smug right now but it’s hard to resist. “All I have to do is sell about a dozen of these bad boys and I can pay you double.”
“And who exactly are going to be buying your weapons Min?” His tongue darts out, wetting his overly fleshy lips, “not the hundreds of customers you have turned away from your doorstep. Surely you are aware they all prefer Ahn’s Weaponry by now?”
Yoongi scoffs, rolling his eyes impatiently. “His craft isn’t a patch on mine.”
“Doesn’t matter,” his landlord has already turned towards the door, disinterest to the way the words drip from his mouth. “He has a good reputation, something I wouldn’t expect you to recognize if it punched you in the face. But by all means do your best till the end of season.” He glances over his shoulder, a leeringly hideous smile, “I shall enjoy watching you squirm.”
The Door has barely swung shut on its well-oiled hinges that Yoongi is pushing it open again and sprinting down the road, shoving bakers and merchants aside indiscriminately. He is a hot, panting mess by the time he reached TaeTae’s Tea Shoppe (spelt thusly purely to indulge its owner’s artistic sensibilities), hands on his knees as he tries desperately to catch his breath. Namjoon is sitting at a little outdoor table with Taehyung, still too early for business to have started thronging in, the two immersed in animated conversation. Namjoon startles when Yoongi collapses against their table, his cup spilling just a little at the impact.
“Ah Yoongi, thank God you said no to the tournament you’ll never believe what the town crier just –“
“Give me that!” Yoongi snatches the announcement Namjoon had brought him earlier, feverishly reading through the rules and regulations. “I’m doing this.”
Taehyung chokes inelegantly, Namjoon having to thump his back till he splutters tea down the front of his robes, wiping at his mouth as he looks at Yoongi with widened eyes.
“Yoongs, you can’t, I mean di-did you hear –“
“I am being evicted,” Yoongi hisses, palms flat on the table as he leans across for emphasis. “My landlord claims I’m broke and I no longer have the means to run my smithy.”
“What?” Taehyung frowns, rubbing at his unshaven jaw perturbed. “Why would he say that?”
“W-well, because I’m broke and I no longer have the means to run my smithy,” Yoongi mumbles, irritated at the sudden demand for details.
“Well can’t you ask him for more time? Who is this man I’ll talk to him,” Namjoon offers, hand still gently rubbing Taehyung’s back as though afraid he may choke again.
“He’s uh,” Yoongi straightens, blinking, the sun seeming too strong, “uh, his name is, um –“
“You don’t know your own landlord’s name?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Namjoon sighs, raking a hand through his hair, “but you can’t do the tournament, okay? They’ve added a clause that –“
“I don’t care if I need to dance at the front of every festival parade from now till the end of the next lunar cycle I am winning this thing. It’s the only way for me to get the money and my reputation back before season end.” He dusts his clothes down, an air of victorious finality to his words, holding up a hand when Taehyung tries feebly to speak again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I left the furnace on and if I don’t return immediately I will have nothing to return to.”
He fades down the road almost as quickly as he came, a flailing mess pushing through the morning crowd. Namjoon turns blinking at Taehyung, the latter sighing dramatically.
“What have I done?” Namjoon whispers, only half-afraid.
“Perhaps this is for the best,” Taehyung shrugs, unbothered as he pours himself a fresh cup of tea. “At least Yoongi isn’t some wizened old perv just trying to bust it down with the little prince.”
Seokjin prized little in his personal life. Having been upon the throne since such a youthful age he felt at least a few hundred years older than his peers. The endless rollercoaster of courtly life often left him feeling tumultuous, overburdened, a slave to his surroundings. Which was why he treated the ritual of morning tea with the utmost importance, his few minutes of peace. The warm fumes of earl grey settling his insides back to a calm sea before the day’s happenings began to rock his boat once again. He breathes it in, letting the steam caress his face, the windows thrown open to let in the early morning breeze.
Inner peace. He wouldn’t trade it for the world.
An ear-splitting scream interrupts his thoughts, the sound so high the glass besides him trembles. There is somewhat of a commotion outside his door, a very harassed looking page boy tripping inside, expression as bewildered as Seokjin’s.
“For-forgive me Your Grace, b-but your b-brother, t-the p-prince, he de-demands an audience.” He dabs at his forehead, sweating profusely despite the coolness of the room.
“Tell him to wait,” Seokjin says patiently, “I shall take all requests after my morning cup is done. He may promenade the balcony till I am done.”
“LIKE HELL I’M GOING TO WAIT!” The door is pushed open with such ferocity the poor page boy takes several stumbled steps forward, trying awkwardly to bow his way through each one so as to not offend Seokjin. “WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”
“Kook, hello, can I interest you in some Vanilla Chai?” Seokjin gestures benevolently, somewhat hopeful Jungkook will be easily distracted by his favourite beverage.
For a second Jungkook’s expression softens, his eyes becoming large as they fall upon the steaming cup of chai carefully poured out for him. But just as easily he is shaking his head again, snapping his teeth in anger as he turns back to Seokjin. “Care to tell me what lunacy you are up to?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Seokjin says airily, “unless of course you have strong feelings about the seven balls I have planned over this tournament season.”
“I couldn’t care less about your obnoxious number of balls I am referring to the fact,” and here he slams the announcement Seokjin had distributed around the Kingdom that morning onto the table, “that you are promising my hand in marriage to whoever wins the tournament.”
He is frothing slightly at the mouth by now, half-rabid with anger, Seokjin dabbing gently at his face from where Jungkook was enunciating a little too savagely. “Ah well you see, there’s an error. I had told them to announce that the winner could have any of my siblings hand in marriage, whomsoever they choose.”
“I’m your only sibling.”
“Is that right?”
“Seokjin, I swear to God –“
“Fine, fine, it’s true,” Seokjin sighs, placing his cup down, his mood too sour to drink now. “I thought the hand of a young, handsome steed such as yourself should bring many a suitor to the tournament.”
“B-but bu-but why?” Jungkook stares at him, incredulous, “h-how could you possibly – and without even asking me? What were you thinking?”
“Well to be honest, the tournament brings in more than half our revenue, what with the bets and the festivals and the feasts and what not.” Seokjin stands now, using his one inch advantage to glare down at Jungkook, doing his best to dwarf him with his impressive shoulder span. “Except for the last few years our turnout has been becoming smaller and smaller and people just do not have the same interest they did earlier. You know why?”
Jungkook scoffs, clearly feeling trapped with the way he stamps his foot like an impatient show pony. “Your parties suck?”
“It’s because you win each and every single joust you participate in. No one has any faith they even have a chance of winning so they simply do not enter and betting has become boring because everyone bets on you.”
“Well –” Jungkook smirks, just a little smug before Seokjin cuts him off rudely.
“And I don’t know about you but I am not going to see our Kingdom lose a substantial amount of our revenue because you can’t lose like a man.”
“Fine!” Jungkook barks, an air of haughtiness to the way he flips his jet black hair out of his eyes. “Guess I’ll just have to win and marry myself!”
“Ha ha ha,” Seokjin says dryly, his laughter mirthless as he lowers himself into his seat once again. “Tough luck ma chérie, you are not allowed to participate.”
Jungkook splutters, skin paling as the impact of Seokjin’s words take root, the actual realization that he is going to be married off to some run of the mill loser that could only win because he himself was not taking part. Seokjin immersed himself in his cup of tea, trying to block out the very obviously fratricidal thoughts Jungkook was having right in front of him.
“If you were just going to ban me why set up this elaborate marriage ruse?” Jungkook leans across the table, eyes gleaming with almost desperate agitation. “Why not just have me fake an injury and side-line me?”
“I needed it to be believable,” Seokjin says, “incentivize the competition.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are there’s something more.”
“No –“
“TELL ME!”
“YOU SING TOO MUCH!”
Jungkook takes a step back, hurt simmering in his eyes as he gasps softly. Seokjin slams his cup down, fingers shaking a little from the severity of his own words, cheeks blushed with too much emotion. He will come to regret this, but the proverbial cat has ripped through its bag and there’s no forcing it back in now.
“Y-you love my singing.”
“Yes I do but,” Seokjin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m tired of hearing my ministers going on and on about how the little prince has the voice of an angel. It annoys me.”
“Well maybe if you weren’t screeching at them all the time they’d think differently.”
“My mind is made Jungkook.”
“I can’t believe you’d do this to me,” Jungkook sniffs, turning towards the door, voice tremulous. “Your stupid incentive isn’t even going to work, no one new is going to come and I’m going to end up married to some-some….” His eyes widen as every possible option flits through his head, his voice lowering to a soft whisper. “Good lord I’m going to end up married to Park Boseok aren’t I?”
Seokjin tuts softly, pulling on his monocle as he surveys the agenda of the day, trying his best to keep the smugness out of his voice. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. From what I just heard Min Yoongi has confirmed he’ll be returning to the castle for the tournament.” Jungkook freezes, not daring to look back though Seokjin hears his breath hitching. “Rumour has it the promise of a certain someone’s favour has him galloping across the Kingdom as we speak.”