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There was something wrong the day Min Yoongi was born.
Or rather, too much was wrong.
For one he was born with his eyes open, wide and alert, piercing as they stared unblinking into the sunless world. For another, he didn't utter a cry, nothing but a soft huff, almost laugh-like, the only tears those of the heavens above that raged outside. A cursed birth, the baksu muttered, cursed and ominous, one to bring nothing but hatred and cruelty to the Kingdom. But even amidst such prophecies the truth sat fat and heavy, undeniable by even those who claimed to come in the images of Gods - Min Yoongi was born to be King.
As evident as fate can be sometimes, it can also be cruel. Min Yoongi, the bastard son to the throne, blessed by the sun himself crowned with gold since birth, can never be King proper.
He is second in line in name alone, everyone knows concubines' sons do not rule kingdoms. They keep their heads bowed and are grateful for the little that is spared to them. But it becomes obvious to Seokjin from the first time he lays eyes upon the young prince that Yoongi is not one to show gratitude for the barest of humane gestures. He is not one to keep his head bowed.
Yoongi burns, more void than boy he burns and he burns and he sets fire to anything he comes in contact with. He isn't yet fourteen when he wins his first hunt, not sixteen when he rides into battle, not yet of age to be wed when he slays half of Baekje's army with nothing but two swords and the madness of Kings.
It is not long before he is both hailed and feared, the people seeing him as the last hope of a dying Kingdom. Fate is written it is true, but sometimes it can be rewritten, inked over by blood of a new kind. So it is a new fate that is accepted, one of things to come. Of Min Yoongi slaying his older, genial and hapless brother after he is named King of Silla, of him taking his rightful place upon the throne. It is so accepted in fact that the commoners call him alone King, prayers offered in his name every harvest season.
It is so accepted that the day Yoongi decides to spare his brother and reject the throne, Seokjin knows he has changed the course of all their lives forevermore. It is a surprising choice, perhaps the most surprising out of every one Min Yoongi has ever made. But then again maybe it isn't, it is not mercy or kindness or a sudden desire for retribution.
For it is not his brother he looks to when he throws aside his own rewritten destiny, it is to his brother's consort, Jeon Jungkook.
They meet when Jungkook still wears his hair unbound, feet barefoot and rough from play, hands gentle and calming. They meet when Yoongi is fearless still, laughter loud and actions louder, reckless and careful and unbidden like the summer wind. They meet when they still believe in love.
It isn’t an incident worthy of much praise but words of admiration were never a driving force for Yoongi. He leaves the palace in the shroud of night, a quick word at the bamboo dividers to rouse Seokjin and Namjoon from their quarters, another for Taehyung and Jimin. It is boyish and stupid, something they will regret come the first light of day, but Seokjin does not have it in him to caution against it. There has always been something too heady about the company Yoongi keeps, the one he creates, to step alongside him is to walk upon air, he is King of everything and nothing all at once.
It is a raid Yoongi caught wind of, bandits coming in from the north, a job that could easily be left to the capital guard but Yoongi never misses the chance to bloody his sword. It is almost poetic, his need for death, crimson bright and stark against his fair hair and fairer skin. Some who have watched him fight by moonlight have sworn they’ve seen a ghost, Seokjin has never disagreed.
“It is a far journey back.” Taehyung is already dragging his feet, a mischievous glint to his eyes, that slight madness of freedom in a wild horse’s gaze. “Can we not find rest before the morning comes knocking?”
“And it is rest you desire, Taehyung-ah?” Yoongi’s teeth flashing white in the jet-black of night, a smile carved from the devil’s face, the baksu had said, though Seokjin had pretended not to hear. Yoongi had never been one to indulge in whoring with his men but he doesn’t keep too tight a rein either, letting them wander as they please. Tonight however he wears a different care, eyes heavy with an emotion Seokjin hasn’t seen before, words dressed too casually when they leave his tongue. “Jimin-ah, your friend’s rest-house, it is close by yes?”
Jimin whirls around, always a few paces ahead, tongue running along his lips as his gaze meets Yoongi’s, so knowing Yoongi looks past, the moon paling in comparison to his face.
“I shall lead, Jeonha. ” He says, full of laughter, Yoongi huffing in response.
“A Kisaeng ?” Seokjin falls in step with Jimin, curiosity getting the better of him.
Jimin laughs, freer this time. “An angel if you asked our young prince.”
“Has he bedded her? Could she be –“
“Breathe easy hyung, they haven’t even spoken yet,” Jimin turns, squeezing Seokjin’s arm lightly. “And I doubt that is something we need worry about.”
Jung Hoseok keeps his rest-house like a palace.
The floors are scrubbed so hard the wood grain has changed course, running south where it should turn east. The carpets are regularly beaten, not a speck of dust woven through the thick wool, cups so clean they stick to the skin. They have been here before, Hoseok an old friend of Jimin’s, the inn a friendly stop on a forgotten road.
They have a few too many cups of mankgeolli , words slurred and heads lolling before the night has donned her darkest cloak though Seokjin doesn’t drink, his hand never too far from the hilt of his sword. Yoongi may think him more friend than protector but it is in moments such as these that Seokjin takes his duties with the utmost care. When his prince allows himself to be vulnerable is when he must be protected the most.
If only Seokjin could have thought to protect the fragile walls of Yoongi’s heart.
He is a healer, or so Jimin whispers a little too hot against Seokjin’s ear. A Kisaeng trained in all the arts of entertainment but stationed at an inn alongside the Great Yeongnam Road for weary, weather-beaten travellers. Seokjin has never met a male Kisaeng before, has heard of them surely but tradition lies a little too heavy in his veins for his stomach not to knot with unease.
He is light-footed, like running water, flitting in and out of the room to help serve food and drink, stopping often at Hoseok’s elbow to share a conspiratorial word with him. Even now he stops, eyes like wood smoke through a curtain of thick black hair, eyes searching only for Yoongi’s.
Yoongi has been raised the tactless way princes come to have their bearings, too unchallenged to know subtlety or nuance. He stares with the honest greed of a man starved all his life, gaze steady and unblinking, lips slightly parted. He stares as though he has never desired before, as though longing has been born in the moment he set eyes upon Jeon Jungkook.
They leave to their rooms in two and threes, Namjoon and Taehyung using their combined efforts to support Jimin to his feet, Seokjin decidedly sober. Yoongi has long since given up trying to cajole him into inaction, he will guard his prince whenever and wherever he must.
“You are hurt.” Jungkook’s voice is soft, almost hard to pick-up amidst the bustle of plates and cups being stacked away and washed, readied for the next morning. He is sat upon his knees in front of Yoongi, fingers tracing along the crusted blood upon his exposed arm, the scent of plum blossoms heavy in the air.
“It is a mere scratch,” Yoongi murmurs, watching the curve of Jungkook’s lips as he speaks, breath slightly hitched.
“May I tend to it for you?”
It is too forward, one does not talk to let alone touch a member of the royal family. Yet Jungkook sits there unafraid, waiting patiently for an answer.
“Yes,” Yoongi says, Jungkook finally raising his gaze to meet his, something too fragile in the way they look at one another.
Seokjin stands guard outside, a small space in the screen for him to keep a weary eye upon his charge. They talk in murmured whispers, hopes and dreams Seokjin doesn’t catch onto too well, words so soft he tries his best not to listen. Yoongi is still stunted, still abrupt, though laughing now and again with the carelessness of one drunk on something aside from spirit, the lilt to Jungkook’s voice teasing and gentle.
Seokjin turns his back when they kiss, his last glimpse Yoongi holding Jungkook’s face carefully, treasured and fragile between his heated palms.
They find their way back to the inn a month later, and then a month after that. And then again and again and again till Seokjin no longer bothers watching over Yoongi, knowing he is safe in the arms of his doe-eyed companion.
“Young love,” Hoseok calls it one night when Jungkook doesn’t give Yoongi time enough to greet the others, catching him by the hand and dragging him away to the inner chambers. And Seokjin cannot deny that it is, in fact, love.
He sees it in the way Yoongi looks at Jungkook, unbridled and unmoored, a gaping wound that won’t stop bleeding. He sees it in the way Jungkook bites his lip too hard every time the night winds into day, the way he wraps his arms too firmly around himself watching Yoongi mount his horse. He sees it in the disinterest Yoongi has for all the courtly beauties, the plum blossoms he carries in the stitches of his clothing, the absolute refusal he offers to any suggestions of bringing Jungkook to the palace, jealously guarding him from the eyes of all the other noblemen and women. He hears it most often in the soft sounds that seep from under their closed door, the quiet but worshiping utterances of one another’s names.
And it is fair, Yoongi who has raised himself on the bitterness of injustice, clawing his way right to the top with blood and sweat and righteous anger to become the fiercest warrior the kingdom has known in the last three ages, it is fair for him to encounter gentleness. For him to learn, on slow, shaking legs the vulnerability of intimacy, the softness of companionship. For him to have in Jungkook a home away from home, a final resting place.
But fairness is a colour the world tires of easily.
Min Yungsik was not much to consider even as a child. He had soft skin, that was what always struck Seokjin the most, hands unlined and almost silken to the touch. He was kind, kinder than most anyway, kind in the blind way of Kings, never having had to lift a finger for himself his entire life. He is soft where Yoongi is harsh, smooth where he is rough. He is whole where Yoongi breaks apart and bleeds, he walks upon the clouds, untainted, while Yoongi is made of all the colours of the soil.
Had Seokjin not known that Yungsik was too stupid to be cruel, he would have believed it was done with the singular purpose to break Yoongi’s heart. Yet somehow, fate manages that all by herself.
The first time Seokjin sees Jungkook, unslept and a little terrified, cheeks blotched with excursion, leaving Yungsik’s chambers at night he is certain his mind is playing tricks on him.
It is a beast that rises up in his chest, wild and full of anger, and perhaps rationality escapes him entirely for a moment. He grabs Jungkook, a roughness he will come to regret instantly, slamming him against the nearest wall, one hand wrapping firm but not tight around his long neck. Jungkook stares back at him, eyes hooded and somehow unsurprised though there is a hurt to the way he sighs, soft, in the summer wind.
“How long?” Seokjin chokes, suddenly aware that there is too much anguish to his voice. “Have you bedded the King behind our Prince’s back?”
“How long have you mistrusted me, Naegeumwi ?” Jungkook asks, the formality to his tone a knife to Seokjin’s gut.
“Answer me,” Seokjin says. He startles when he feels the bite of metal against his chin, the steel cold against his throat, Jungkook unblinking before him.
“Hyung, what are you doing?” Yoongi’s voice is gravelly with disuse, the thin fabric of his night clothes shimmering almost ghost-like in the dark of night.
Seokjin pulls his hands away as though burnt, the words seizing in his throat. Yoongi turns to Jungkook, his expression unreadable. For a long moment neither of them says anything, Yoongi raising a hand to carefully stroke at the blushed skin of his cheeks.
“His fever does not break,” Jungkook whispers, voice echoing in the emptiness of the hall. “They sent for me to try and help.”
“My brother?” Yoongi asks, a little harsher than he intends.
“Yes.”
“And you came?”
“He is our King,” Jungkook’s eyes flicker from Yoongi to Seokjin, uncomprehending. “Why would I not?” There are unspoken words that sit heavy between them, that leaden the air bidding Seokjin to silence. Jungkook shifts, uncertainty growing to unease. “I did not share his bed, I was simply performing my medicinal duties. He is your brother, of course I would help him.”
“He doesn’t know,” Seokjin says softly, Yoongi avoiding his eyes. They have spoken of nothing but the impending assassination for so many months Seokjin finds it hard to believe the whole kingdom doesn’t know by now. “You haven’t told him.”
“There is nothing to tell,” Yoongi says, firm, unblinking, the slightest touch of warning to his voice. “Jungkook, where do you rest?”
“I am to stay,” Jungkook replies, voice a little strained. Yoongi pales, ashen in the moonlight as he steps closer, the fear in Jungkook’s eyes from earlier finally making sense. “They’ve asked me to stay.”
“As a healer?” Yoongi asks, urgent. “Or…”
“They haven’t told me, I don’t know.” Jungkook shakes his head, one hand reaching for Yoongi even as he fumbles with his words, “forgive me I don’t-”
“Hush,” Yoongi draws him close, presses his lips to the corner of Jungkook’s jaw, one hand coming up to cradle his head gently. “Hush, my love, it’s alright.”
The King is enchanted by Jungkook. It isn’t surprising, most people are.
Yoongi vomits the first night he sees them walking together, Jungkook regaling the King with stories of his village, his light laughter ringing out across the palace gardens. He is careful yet unrestrained, frowning only slightly when both Jimin and Taehyung turn away from him, returning his attention to the nectarine tree the King is describing for him. Every now and again Seokjin sees his gaze break away, searching restlessly for Yoongi.
“Stay away from him,” Namjoon’s voice rasps over the crackle of fire, flame too high, too hungry. “Until the deed is done, stay away from him. Yungsik cannot know you begrudge him anything, Jeonha.”
Yoongi locks himself in his chambers, the door barred shut from within. As much as it tears at Seokjin he feels an almost haunted relief, an inevitability of heartbreak he had seen coming from the very first day. Cursed princes don’t get happy endings, they aren’t usually the heroes in fairytales no matter how honest their hearts.
Jungkook rises within the court rapidly, his presence so potent it is hard to remember a time he wasn’t there. He is a skilled dancer, an even better singer with the ability to tease the sweetest sounds out of any instrument. It isn’t long before he is a court favourite, bestowed with more gifts and luxuries than he could have ever even dreamed of. He looks unfamiliar almost, hair coiled and knotted, face dolled up, dressed in the finest silks of the court - but his eyes remain the same. Ever watchful for one face and one face alone.
He is hurt in the initial months, a wild hysteria taking over his face whenever he sees Yoongi deliberately look away, whenever he changes course so as to not run into him. It consumes him like a summer storm, his hands too agitated on the neck of the gayageum when he plays, his food often left untouched. He doesn’t sleep very much, wandering the gardens till the early hours of the morning, no cloak no fur seemingly untouchable by the autumn cold. Some nights he appears otherworldly, golden skin and hair darker than night, he looks almost divine.
Taehyung breaks first. Drunk and a little brasher than he should be, forehead pressed to the heated wood of Yoongi’s chambers, tears like rain driving down his face. It is a simple plea, the same one all of them have made in milder form to Yoongi several times over the last few moons, one Seokjin doesn’t understand why he refuses.
“Just tell him, Jeonha. Please. I fear this may kill him.” Taehyung clenches his fists against the floor to stop them from shaking. “Please Jeonha.”
Yoongi watches, a certain sadness clinging to the corners of his mouth pinning them down, no answer readily available.
“He is strong,” Yoongi says finally. “This is not his cruelest winter.”
“You will have to tell him before it is time though.” Jimin is careful, treading ice that may break beneath his feet at any moment. “If he doesn’t know he could get hurt.”
“I will tell him,” Yoongi says, rising and shrugging on a heavy fur, his breath frosting in the air before him. “When the time is right I will tell him.”
But one moon fades to another and then another and another and the rips between Yoongi and Jungkook tear and tear until they are a gulf apart, one the sun the other the moon, always orbiting but never meeting. Jungkook is too proud to wear his misery everyday so he conceals it behind laughter and music and rouge, though sometimes there are tear tracks down the powder on his cheeks. Yoongi is too arrogant to bleed openly so he leaves, far more often than he should. Any raid, any rebellion, any rumour enough to draw him away from the palace. They become strangers at some point, so resolutely refusing to look to one another that they fade, no longer as human as they once were. But it will be alright, Seokjin tells himself. Dongji, the Winter Solstice, draws ever nearer, now a mere month away. And with it comes a destiny they have spent their entire lives preparing for.
On the longest night of the year Yoongi will slay his brother and take his rightful place as King, and then all will be right with the world again.
They are playing a game of yutnori , the pavilion frigid on the full moon night, braving the last of the season before the snow keeps them confined to their chambers. They are trying to blunt their nerves, the day too close hanging over their necks as though they are the ones standing for execution. Namjoon is winning as usual, but his gaze is distant, fixed on Yoongi standing with his back turned at the end of the pavilion. He has had few words for them, fewer thoughts. He stands apart, watching over his Kingdom.
Seokjin doesn’t at first hear Jungkook’s footfall, light enough to tread water but with an anger made of flames.
“Where is he?”
Jimin startles, the dice slipping from his fingers skittering deafeningly across the board, a sound like thunder amidst the quiet night-time buzz of cicadas. Jungkook towers over the four of them, barefoot and half-dressed, his hair wild and unbound as he used to wear it. There is something terrifying to his face, something haunted.
“Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung gets hurriedly to his feet, pulling his nambawi off his head and holding it out to Jungkook as protection against the cold. Jungkook doesn’t take it. “You will catch your death in this cold.”
“There are many deaths I fear within these walls, hyung, the winter bears me no threat.” He has been crying, his eyes red and puffy, lips swollen. In all his time of torment Seokjin has never seen him this openly distraught, a familiar shame rises like blush to his cheeks, the phantom feel of his hand around Jungkook’s neck. “Where is he?”
“I do not think it is right for you to see him right now, forgive me.” Namjoon is on his feet too, concern in his eyes but his stance guarded.
“I have waited and I have waited,” Jungkook’s voice strains, too close to snapping. “If I do not see him now I never shall.”
“Jungkook,” Seokjin tries feebly, “Please-”
“This is all your doing is it not?” Jungkook’s eyes are hard, his words harsh and unforgiving, Seokjin feels each one like a vice around his throat. “He thinks I’ve been in bed with the King, I haven't. I would never hurt him.”
“It isn’t that simple,” Jimin reaches for his hand but Jungkook pulls away. “He simply means to -”
“ Jagiya .”
Jungkook freezes, eyes widening as he stirs almost possessed, breath fogging into smoke. Yoongi stands a few steps away, an old fatigue settled over his features. Jungkook’s hardness softens, not forgiving but broken, too many tears spent over a love he thinks he has lost. He walks, almost hypnotized, each step heavier than the one before, each step leading only to Yoongi.
Yoongi unclasps his cloak, slipping it off leaving him in the royal red of his hanbok, and placing it carefully around Jungkook’s shoulders, wrapping him tightly within. He uses it as an excuse to hold him a moment, arms steadying at his waist, ensuring that he is properly covered, gaze too shy. Jungkook makes no movement, so still he is statue-like, no breath leaving his body.
“I would make my excuses but I have none.” Yoongi’s words are quiet but they carry, the air around him frosting to lend them shape. “And no right to ask your forgiveness either.”
Jungkook shifts, looking to the sky blinking too rapidly. “What pains me,” his voice is far more fragile than it was moments ago, one blow away from shattering. “Is that you think I would begrudge you a change of heart.”
Yoongi watches him, a little too much resignation to his lips as he huffs, unmoved. “My heart is unchanged, as it shall remain forever.” He reaches up a hand, thoughtlessly tucking away a stray strand of Jungkook’s hair. “It has taken upon your shape never to be cast again.”
“Yet you will not speak to me,” Jungkook lays his palm over Yoongi’s, cradling it softly against his own cheek. “You will not so much as look at me. What use is your heart to me if it keeps you so distant?”
“I meant to come, to tell you,” Seokjin hears Yoongi’s voice catch, hears it begin to fracture. “But I couldn’t.” He shakes his head, dropping his hand and looking away. “I’m afraid I am not the man I promised you I could be.”
Jungkook’s eyes narrow, his gaze flickering uncertainly towards Jimin before he reaches for Yoongi’s arm and draws him close again.
“Speak to me.”
Yoongi inhales deeply, letting his eyes fall shut before he opens them, his jaw set with determination. “I am to be King.”
“Forgive me I don’t -” Jungkook shakes his head, uncomprehending, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.
“I am to kill Yungsik the coming festival and take my place as King. It is done.” He looks surer, more real once the words are spoken, Namjoon tensing at the openness of the confession. “I cannot be with you till the deed is done so as to not let my brother suspect I bear him any ill will.”
Jungkook releases him slowly, a single step back but the pain that flashes across Yoongi’s eyes is raw and bleeding.
“What?” There is something venomous to the way Jungkook speaks, something serpentine to the way he moves.
“I am to be King proper,” Yoongi says, “by the close of the season.”
“You,” Jungkook takes another step back, Yoongi’s jaw clenching reflexively. “You can’t.”
“Can I not?” Yoongi laughs almost bitter, “it is decided.”
“By whom?” Jungkook turns to Namjoon, a silent plea for sanity but all he sees is apathy, a determined resignation for a prophecy yet to be fulfilled. “Whom?”
“It is the want of the people,” Seokjin hears the words before he realizes he is speaking. “They deserve a King who will actually fight for them.”
“And what of their King’s soul?” Jungkook asks, a certain hysteria to his words, each brittle and clawing. “He is not a murderer let alone a usurper.”
“I have killed more men than you have possibly met in your years, Jungkook.” Yoongi sighs, for just a moment he seems wearier than Seokjin has ever seen him. For just a moment he looks more human, just a boy with a God’s destiny. “I assure you one more will do little to dirty my bloodied hands.”
“That’s different, war, rebels, outcasts - you’re not a Kinslayer, Yoongi.” Seokjin flinches at the casual usage of the prince’s real name though Yoongi himself doesn’t stir, eyes hard as they never stray from Jungkook’s movements.
“Do you love him?”
Jungkook stills, eyes wide with disbelief as he turns back to Yoongi. He scoffs, eyes shining in the moonlight. “He has asked me to join his royal harem, to be his consort.”
“Since when does a King ask such things?” Yoongi says, his voice too calm.
“He is not cruel whatever you may make of him.” Jungkook replies and Yoongi laughs, openly this time. “Ignorant, maybe. Unimpressive, yes. But he is not the worst ruler this land has ever had.”
Yoongi nods, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “You love him.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Jungkook snarls, “unlike you, love isn’t a game for me to be given and withdrawn so easily.”
“Do not question the one thing I have to give that is truly mine,” Yoongi says, words soft but dangerous.
“You are not a murderer,” Jungkook says. “You are not so forsaken as to cast yourself aside for a title and a throne.
“I am to be King, Jungkook. Whether you agree with that or not. It’s what I’ve trained for my entire life, what everyone expects of me. Without it I am nothing, I am no one.” Yoongi exhales heavily, the smoke-curling around his face making him appear almost dragon-like in the early morning blackness. “It must be done.”
Jungkook’s mouth twists almost cruelly when he speaks. “And what pray does our young prince not have that he must become King to attain?”
Yoongi opens his mouth, a few decades worth of justifications, of persuasions, of incentives lying heavy on his tongue. Words of prophecies that have burdened his shoulders since he was but a mere boy, the expectations of greatness from a whole Kingdom worth of people. They are simple words but they seem to fail him, too inconsequential in the moment.
“I’d have you,” Yoongi says, emotionless.
Jungkook looks to him, incredulous and fatigued, the night casting shadows of defeat across his face. “Yoongi,” he breathes, a gentle hand against his fevered skin to draw him close once again. “I have never belonged to anyone else.”
Yoongi shuts his eyes, lets his forehead lean against Jungkook’s, breathes in deeply as his fingers reach to thread through his hair. There are tears like diamonds glistening against his skin. Jungkook inhales unsteadily when Yoongi kisses him, nails digging into his cheek trying to cross the fragile barrier of skin and somehow bleed into one, somehow become inseparable never to be torn apart again. They are speaking too softly for Seokjin to hear now, but Jungkook is trying feebly still, persuasions and pleas, soft touches and even softer kisses.
“I’m sorry,” Yoongi whispers. “I cannot outrun fate this one time.”
Jungkook breaks away, hands unsteady as pulls off Yoongi’s cloak, tossing it to the ground. Seokjin thinks he can hear his heart beating at this distance, can hear the repeated, desperate pleas, searching blindly for the one he loves. He thinks he can hear Yoongi’s in answer, a singular, steady chanting of a name like a prayer.
Then Jungkook is gone, so suddenly it is like he was never really there at all. Though when Seokjin looks to Yoongi, already walking away, pale and ghostly in the early morning light, he is uncertain whether his prince is real at all and not just a subject of fable.
Seokjin has always been able to feel Yoong’s presence.
Ever since he was a little boy put in Seokjin’s charge, roughhousing and wilding around in the royal stables or out climbing trees and swearing godless oaths, Seokjin has been able to feel him like the blood in his own veins. Always near, always flowing. Yoongi is almost like another half to him, an extension of his body, never more than an arm’s length away.
Which is how, when Seokjin wakes in the early dawn of the Winter Solstice, the night outside just beginning to fade to morning, Seokjin knows Yoongi is gone.
There is nothing left behind. Just an empty chamber with an empty chest, a single plum blossom upon his bedding.
“Maybe he will be happier,” Yoongi lifts the goblet to his mouth, wine staining his lips red, eyes never leaving where his brother is speaking with Jungkook, the two crowded close wrapped in their own secrets. “He deserves a good life, one without a lover made of death and destruction.”
Seokjin gathers the flower in the palm of his hand, still warm from where it was held too tight, too loved. He walks out onto the palace grounds, wading through the mists, the grass sticky with dew beneath his feet. The pavilion looks like a cloud, a sunken stone structure nestled between thick, morning fog, the first rays of gold beginning to pierce through. He steps upon it, towers above the entire Kingdom as he walks the distance, each step heavier than the last.
The road unfurls before him like a great snake, satiated and gently undulating through the sleepy houses of the capital, the morning not yet having chased away the dreams of the night before.
There is a lone figure, head shrouded in the common earthy colours of a villager’s garments, a single sack of belongings in one hand. Seokjin would recognize Yoongi anywhere, even dressed as a beggar he walks like a God, too much for the feeble world around him.
As though sensing Seokjin’s thoughts the figure stops, turning back towards the palace, his fair head visible even at such great a distance. He stands motionless, his face turned towards the sun, bathed in the early morning golden light.
Then a second figure emerges from the head of the road, taller but slender, dressed just the same as the prince, footsteps gentle as he draws nearer and nearer. He stops before Yoongi, the two of them seeming aflame from the intensity of the sun, a few words exchanged, a kiss. Yoongi holds out his hand and Jungkook takes it.
Then they turn, the world before them infinite and wondrous, and walk towards the rising sun.