Chapter Text
The gardens around him were so vast and the men and women so tall. Jimin clung to his mother's skirts, the rich linen fabric slightly dampened with sweat in his bunched up little fists. He had to crane his neck to gaze up at the painted and powdered faces of the ladies and the rather frightening ones with big, bushy brows and mustaches to match of the lords his mother exchanged pleasantries with.
It was his first time at a festive gathering now that he was finally—finally!—ten years old (well, nine and three quarters to be exact, but it was close enough to ten to still count. Or so he had managed to get his parents to agree after countless polite yet persistent reasonings over cups of his parents' favorite tea he had made to help smooth things along.)
He had asked, practically begged to accompany them here today. It was just... perhaps he had not expected it to be so crowded, so abuzz. It was as though he was lost in some endless shifting sea of colourful skirts and glittering, pointy shoes, and his mother was the only sturdy anchor keeping him afloat. It was all more than a little overwhelming, to be honest.
He listened to the ladies chatter above him absent-mindedly for he saw little else to do. Briefly, he had considered jumping ship and going over to his father somewhere on the other end of the gardens where the other stood engaged in conversation with several grim-looking lords. And then had decided against it just as swiftly. Judging by their faces, one would think they were attendees at some wretched funeral instead of the Harvest-Festival-merrymakers they were meant to be. Jimin could only imagine what somber, grown-up talks were being held. At least here, among the ladies, he could occasionally catch snatches of juicy bits of gossip amid floating remarks about the latest styles, the weather, sports, theater plays, the weather again.
Lady Hana's son had renounced knighthood to become a theater actor apparently. Except that his performance was so awful, he got rotten eggs and tomatoes thrown at him before the first act of his play had even ended. Lord Seung was now a "cradle-snatcher"—something to do with his new wife being even younger than his most wide-eyed daughter. And Lord Kwan's son—oh, do not even get her started on that halfwit of a baboon, the lady whispered excitedly. Jimin strained closer to hear, interested in the tittle-tattle despite himself. The boy's brilliant new business idea was to send bed warmers—used to heat beds in the cold Northern winters—for resale in the Southern Islands, a tropical area. When that nearly bankrupted him, his next stroke of genius was to send wool mittens to the same place and—
The comforting feel of his mother against his side was gone, Jimin realised with a start. He whirled around to where she had stood not two minutes ago only to face empty air.
"Mama!"
The intermingling voices of the lords and ladies twittering above him barely allowed for his own calls to be heard above them. He floundered through the gathering, short legs clumsily trying to pick their way around towering bodies in fussy dresses and gaudy tunics. Once or twice he bumped against a thigh or caught an elbow in the temple, the offending ladies breaking away from their conversations only momentarily to throw a cursory glance at the wandering little one below.
"Mama," Jimin tried again. He heard the first hints of shrill panic seeping into his voice. "Where did you go?"
"Are you an angel?"
A soft whisper so close, he felt the warm breath of the words brushing against the shell of his ear. He jolted, neck instantly snapping to the side.
Silky strands of coal-black hair tickled his cheek as a boy breezed past him, seemingly emerging out of nowhere from behind. He rounded Jimin to stand directly before him, choosing to take up a spot at the very edge of what could reasonably be considered Jimin's personal space.
Already, his presence made Jimin feel a little ill at ease.
"You are an angel," the boy said. His eyes were round and twinkly as though he were gazing up at the starriest of night skies. Jimin shifted a little back, discomfited by the boy's intensity.
"Um—I'm Jimin," he offered after an ample pause, not knowing how else to respond. The boy was strange and was saying odd things.
"Jimin," the boy repeated slowly, as if testing the roll of the name on his tongue. "Jimin—Jimin—Jiminie." His already huge eyes got even huger like he had landed upon something phenomenal. "Jiminie!"
"It is Jimin," Jimin said, a slight frown crossing his brow. "And only once."
"Pleasure to meet you, Jiminie. I'm Jungkook," the boy continued on without a hitch. Jimin may as well have been one of the many senseless dogwood trees in the gardens for all the boy, Jungkook, cared, it seemed.
"Your hair..."
Faster than Jimin could think to react, or even make sense of what was happening, tricky little fingers found his hair, ruffling the carefully groomed strands. "It's so... yellow. Like those sunflowers that grow in the meadows near my home."
"Hey!" Jimin flinched away from Jungkook's overeager fingers, moving to the side and out of the other's reach. His mother had spent forever combing every strand of his hair to perfection before setting them with a dab of olive oil, smoothed down and parted in the middle.
Of course, someone like Jungkook would not know to recognise let alone appreciate such an effort. The boy's own hair fell over his brow in loose wavy locks, desperately seeming to be in the need of a haircut. He looked as though he had simply rolled out of bed and made for here. And lest anyone should think Jimin was being too harsh about the other's appearance, even Jungkook's attire consisting of a plain white shirt and dark trousers, had about as much stylishness and refinement as Jimin's bedclothes.
Jimin frantically smoothed down his hair with both hands. "You're—you're just—" he sputtered. He could not even decide what was it about Jungkook that appalled him more. His brazen manner, lack of proprietary, or sheer disregard for personal boundaries. "You've ruined my hair," Jimin said, "and now you're making fun of it for no reason at all. It's very rude. And you're very... very mean."
The twinkly-eyed cheerfulness in Jungkook's face dimmed a little. He looked confused. "Making fun of it? Sunflowers are pretty."
"No, they're not. They make my eyes water and my throat itch," Jimin huffed. This was pointless. Why was he even here wasting his time with this boy? He must focus on the real trouble he was in.
Pointedly ignoring Jungkook, he cast a gaze around, trying to spot the familiar rose-pink dress and long, plaited yellow hair sparkling with pretty jewels. Perhaps Jungkook would take the hint and leave him be.
But he should have known that was too optimistic a hope.
"Are you looking for someone?"
He was making an effort to avoid looking at Jungkook, but if the other's tone was anything to go by, Jungkook was not the slightest bit discouraged. Perhaps, even a touch more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—a thoroughly unnerving thought.
"My mother," Jimin muttered, unsure why he was bothering to reply. "I lost her somewhere in this awful jungle. Everyone here is so big and so loud. And no one minds their elbows."
He had expected to get a few words of sympathy, maybe a helpful suggestion or two. But what he had never expected was for a surprisingly strong arm to sling itself around his shoulders, Jungkook pulling him along to devil-knew-where.
"What—what are you doing? Where are you taking me?"
Jungkook continued to walk on, wholly unperturbed by Jimin's obvious reluctance. He was practically dragging Jimin alongside him. "To help you find your mother, of course."
"What?" Jimin wrenched himself out of his hold with much effort, making Jungkook halt at last. "That's silly. You don't even know what she looks like."
"No, I don't," Jungkook began slowly. He was giving Jimin a long, curious look as though Jimin was the one being silly. "But I know what you look like." His eyes flitted to the side somewhere behind Jimin, a sparkle of excitement shining in their warm brown hues. "Look"—he raised his hand to point a finger in the direction—"is that not her?"
Jimin turned around, all flustered thoughts brought about by the boy behind him going clean out of his mind the moment his eyes laid eyes on her.
"Mama!" he called out. "I'm here! I'm here!" His feet scampered toward her, heedless of the lords and ladies he was bumping into on the way.
The woman's yellow-haired head snapped in his direction, the expression of worry creasing her polished features instantly relaxing into one of palpable relief. "Heavens, Jimin." She leaned down to gather the small figure nearly careening into her close to herself, her hands on Jimin's shoulders holding him steady. "Where did you run off to? You had me worried sick."
"I did not run off," Jimin protested, an indignant little pout forming on his lips.
"And you've gotten your hair all messed up too." Long, nimble fingers threaded through his hair and began to tidy the ruffled locks with swift and expert yet gentle strokes. Jimin grimly considered whether denying this too was worth the effort. "Ah, but I cannot blame you too much, I suppose." His mother heaved a small sigh. "It's only natural a little one like yourself would get restless stuck among the grown-ups."
She straightened back up and took Jimin by the hand. "Come along now. I have a few someones I think you'd like to meet. And hey, no sulking," she said lightly, brushing her thumb over Jimin's lips, wiping away his tiny pout.
The "few someones" as it turned out, were the sons of Lord and Lady Roh, a noble house Lord and Lady Park had maintained close personal and business ties with over the years. The older of the two, Jisung, was about a year older than Jimin himself. Jaehyun, on the other hand, might have been a year younger, perhaps two.
Clearly, his mother expected Jimin to get along with the two solely by virtue of them being close to him in age. She left him to mingle with the boys while she conversed with Lady Roh in close vicinity.
Left feeling both shy and painfully awkward, Jimin introduced himself in a single, rushed-out sentence.
Jaehyun, sitting on the small stone bench in front of him, merely gave a grunt—Jimin was not even sure if it was directly in response to him. The boy's short legs were swinging in apparent boredom, his forefinger seeming quite at home in one of his nostrils.
A few feet away from them stood Jisung with his face scrunched up in an expression of intense concentration, eyes fixated on the lush, bright-green grass below. Grass that was home to about a jillion little creepy-crawlies. His shiny leather boots repeatedly lifted and stomped with enough force to cause a mini earthquake. "Die! Die! Die!"
In that moment, Jimin expressly regretted every decision in life that had led up to this. He should have just asked his parents for a new pony instead. It would have required him making significantly less cups of tea too.
The afternoon crawled on, slow and tedious as the fuzzy green caterpillar on the trunk of the dogwood tree Jimin was standing beneath. He stared at it, idly hoped the unwary little thing would not catch Jisung's murderous eye.
Shifting dapples of golden sunlight bathed him, the brown and berry-red leaves overhead fluttering in the gentle fall breeze. The weather was remarkably pleasant and fair. And yet, Jimin could feel beads of sweat trickling down the base of his neck and underneath the collar of his coat, making his skin itch as if there were tiny ants creeping all over his back. The sensitive skin underneath his jaw had turned red with irritation, the starch-stiffened lace ruffle at the neck of his shirt continually brushing against it with every slight movement. He was beginning to feel as though he could hardly breathe, let alone move in his stiff, overly elaborate attire.
The sight of the first of servants weaving through the gathering bearing large gilt platters lifted his spirits in an instant. Food was being served at long last. Which meant Jimin would get to leave for home soon after. And, of course, what came before that would be of no bother to him either. A scrumptious feast and all the sweets he could fit in his stomach? This whole ordeal might just have been worth it after all.
His eager gaze zeroed in on one item in particular. Juicy slices of the rosiest, most golden of peaches sat in small cups smothered in thick sugary syrup. He knew he would find them refreshingly chilled; peaches were served in this manner at his home on special occasions. He could just picture bringing one of the slices to his mouth and crushing it between his teeth, the delicate burst of floral sweetness delightfully coating his tongue, the cold syrup running down his throat and invigorating his overheated body from the inside out.
Grabby fingers reached readily for one of the cups arranged on the tray a server was presenting to the guests individually as he made his way round. The tips of Jimin's fingers had scarcely brushed the cold glass bowl when his wrist was caught in a gentle but firm grip.
"You know you've just recovered from the sickness of the cold, Jimin. It will not do to let your humours be upsetted again." His mother's tone was sympathetic, but not nearly enough to suggest she could be persuaded to allow some indulgence.
Jimin reluctantly withdrew his hand, the skin of his fingertips all but chasing the chilly condensation dripping down the sides of the glass cup. "I was only going to have a few," he mumbled.
His mother made a soft, consoling sound. "Now, we both know that's not true."
"Come now, do not look so put out. There is plenty of food here I'm sure you will enjoy. Oh, look, croquettes! Are they not one of your favorites?" She plated a few of those deep-fried rolls from one of the serving platters and held them out to Jimin.
Jimin watched curls of warm, savory steam rise from the plate held right in front of his face. The heat radiating from the croquettes was warming his cheeks. He felt like crying then.
He ended up not eating at all. All around him, people seemed to be having a grand time feasting and chattering—or in Jisung's case, flinging bits of peas and carrots into the convoluted updos of oblivious ladies. Everyone except Jimin.
Somewhere in the midst of his gloomy reverie, his eyes landed on a light-footed figure across from him all the way on the other side of the gardens. It was that boy from earlier. Jungkook. He could not have been much older than Jimin, if at all. But you could never tell by the way he strolled around the lords and ladies, looking perfectly at ease as if it was only common sense that men and women twice his size should move out of the way to accommodate him. Come to think of it, Jimin had not yet seen any of those ladies or lords around Jungkook interact with him in a way that would suggest kinship, though his parents must have been around somewhere.
By all appearances, Jungkook was an unchaperoned, unfettered boy and seemed entirely content to be thus.
A wave of cool breeze swept through the gardens. Jungkook's white shirt fluttered on his frame as light and soft as a feather. His round cheeks were puffed much like a squirrel's as he munched happily, fingers sticky with sugary syrup. In his other hand, he held a cup full of peach slices.
When Jimin looked at him with a heart sick with envy and dejection, Jungkook was already staring, his syrup-shiny lips stretched into an earnest smile, face glowing as bright and warm as the afternoon sun above them.