Archive of Our Own

but oh, my heart was flawed
i knew my weakness
so hold my hand
consign me not to darkness

hanyang, 1820

the blindfold over his eyes is removed in a single harsh pull. hair strands caught on the fabric are tugged along, and it hurts, stinging his scalp. jungkook breathes raggedly, the air that comes out of him is hot and humid. there’s a smell, of oil and sweet perfume, sickly and strong, and jungkook inhales it, letting it sink inside his lungs, corrupting everything within. he coughs, blood flooding his mouth, harsh copper against his teeth. “the son of the traitor,” he doesn’t know the voice that speaks, it’s rough and biting and he doesn’t like it. he blinks, the flickering light of lamps bothering his eyes, making them tear up. “jungkook, his only son.”

“— he had daughters,” someone else points out, that voice brander, less brash.

“everyone was killed, jeonha.” jungkook sucks in his breath, a heavy weight inside his chest. jeonha. the king. the bastard king. he lifts his eyes, only briefly, and he can see the contours of the throne ahead of him, the faint moonlight-white of the king’s hair, the way he’s sitting, his robes that look like blood stains on a throne. jungkook looks down again, to the ground underneath his knees, to his bloodied clothes. rage froths inside his mouth, and he swallows it heavily. it’s stronger than fear, that rage. he’ll die, but the rage will go on. it will stain the palace grounds just as much as his blood will.

“are you going to kill him in front of me, is that it?”

“he is a gift,” at that, jungkook frowns, head still down, the hair that has escaped his topknot hiding his features. a gift. a drop of blood runs over his lips, falling on the ground. “the general had a lot of allies within the palace, allies that are still here,” soft murmuring follows. jungkook has started to shiver. he gasps when a hand comes to grab about his hair, pulling him into a straighter position. he can’t help looking, then, seeing the king adjust himself on the throne, seeing the details about him, the dragons engraved in gold on his dark crimson robes, the silk fabric of them, the glisten of his jewelry. jungkook doesn’t look at his face. “keep him as your concubine,” the men around them gasp and shout, ministers, maybe, the council, and jungkook’s heart races, his eyes widening. “it will help his allies to remember who sits on the throne, jeonha.”

an eerie silence befalls the throne room as the king stands. it must be nighttime, because all the far corners are filled with darkness and there’s only the sounds of soft rustling of fabric and the leaves on the crown of the trees outside. jungkook’s breath picks up speed as the king walks towards him, his steps light. there’s panic inside him, brewing. a concubine. of course. a serf would be too easy, they’d brand his face and push him away, but a concubine— a concubine belongs to the king and not to the government. there isn’t bigger shame to his family, to himself. jungkook swallows. the king stops in front of him. “look at me,” this close, his voice is low and raspy. when jungkook doesn’t respond, his hair gets yanked again by the man behind him, forcing his face upwards, forcing him to look. look to the wicked colour of the king’s hair, how faint it is up close, at the sheer delicate features of his face tarnished by a scar, the skin in ugly reds around his eye. jungkook gasps, body reacting when the cold tip of a sword touches the skin of his cheek, pressing just under his eye. for a moment, he thinks of begging for mercy. then he remembers his father’s head impaled on his own sword, the contorted, inhuman expression of his face, his guts on the same ground pigs would be fed. there won’t be mercy for him, either. “— you look too dirty for a concubine.”

a wave of nausea takes over jungkook, nausea and disgust. “usurper,” he spits, angry. there’s screaming inside his brain; kill me, kill me, kill me. but the king— the king’s lips curl upwards, into some sort of crooked grin. jungkook feels the sword dig into flesh, feels when it breaks skin, when a drop of blood runs down his cheek. it’s sharp, that pain, bitter. the sword is pulled away.

“take him to a cell so he doesn’t murder me in my sleep,” it’s the final verdict, and jungkook exhales, shaking. when he’s firmly pulled up, he can see the king’s eyes following him, he can see how he’s shorter, he can tell he smells of oil and crushed flowers, too, of things that are pretty and not blight. then jungkook’s pulled backwards, stumbling, until he’s bruising his knees on the stone steps in front of the hall, dragged carelessly by guards that flank him. there isn’t anyone else on the palace’s prison cells aside from a corpse on the far end, plank around his arms still. jungkook’s tossed inside one, hands grabbing about to keep himself from hurting as he falls over hay and grime, and the smell of decay and rotten flesh makes him gag. jungkook groans, forcing himself to sit up against the wall, watching as the guards leave, taking with them the only light source, the only heat source. it’s the middle of winter. his shivering gets worse.

there’s blood about him, all over his clothes, on his face, on his hands. jungkook pulls his jacket closer to his neck, blinking, letting his eyes adjust to the poignant darkness around him. the light of the moon comes through a small opening in the stone wall, just above him. it sheds weak light inside, the kind that serves to little purpose. jungkook sniffles, his nose running, probably red from the cold. he’ll die like that, freezing cold, in a prison cell of a corrupted palace. he’ll die slowly. jungkook closes his eyes. his teeth hit against one another, the noise sounding too loud. the tears that suddenly burst out of him are hot, at least, salty when they stain his lips, and jungkook touches the back of his head to the wall. maybe, if he sleeps— a loud noise startles him, and jungkook opens his eyes, searching about the dark. the noise of a steel gate creaking follows, closer, and jungkook presses himself against the wall, heart beating heavily against his ribcage. the colour of the king’s hair is even brighter in the absence of light, as if it was thread by the moon hanging above them. jungkook breathes through his mouth, tasting panic again. the king stops in front of his cell. he’s alone. his eyes look light, whites pronounced. yoongi. jungkook stills remembers his name, his birth name, from when they met as children. he was older already, but just the son of a low-ranked concubine. he was never meant to sit on that throne.

when the cell door is opened, the hinges moan, almost a ghostly sound. jungkook can see the steam of yoongi’s breathing fogging his face. “here,” yoongi tosses something at him, and jungkook misses it, flinching as it hits the side of his body. it’s heavy pelt, warm from having been inside, maybe on a bed. his fingers touch it, unsure. he raises his eyes at yoongi.

“— i would have died,” jungkook says, his voice hoarse. “it would have saved you the trouble of executing me tomorrow, jeonha.”

for a moment, yoongi doesn’t say anything. they stare at each other, until jungkook looks away. you shouldn’t look at a king. even at a bastard king— kings aren’t meant to be gazed upon so easily. “you are mine now,” there’s a hue of amusement in yoongi’s tone. jungkook’s fingers wrap around the pelt more tightly. you are mine now. “you can only die when i tell you to.”

i am not yours, jungkook’s mind screams, his face flushing entirely. it’s too dark for yoongi to see, but he would have if they were still at the throne room, he would have seen how jungkook’s neck burns with crimson and hatred and shame. “you will regret,” he says, instead. there’s bile on the back of throat, burning. “i’ll make sure you regret it, jeonha.”

“we can see about that if you’re still breathing by tomorrow,” the moaning of the door repeats, seemingly louder now. “i’ve been playing this game longer than you,” there’s a warning in those words. jungkook lifts his eyes, finding yoongi’s again, even though he shouldn’t. yoongi’s eyes are quick to wander, following the contours of jungkook’s face for a moment that lingers. “i have yet to lose.”

then he turns, the drag of his steps getting fainter as he walks away, and jungkook watches him as he disappears into the shadows as if he belongs to it, his body entirely made of them. he lets go of his breath, and it staggers out through his gritted teeth. he could choose not to use the pelts. he could choose death. but, and the words repeat inside his mind— i have yet to lose. jungkook grabs about the pelts, covering his body until he can lie against the hay, feeling it prickle the skin of his cheek. the warmth is immediate and allaying. it smells like flowers, the pelt, like something else, like the steel of a sword, like frost, like beds in a royal chamber. jungkook closes his eyes. you willl lose.

morning light comes in in weak streaks that shade the hay a pale yellowish colour. jungkook blinks, his eyelids heavy. he feels lightheaded, body too faint to move, all curled into himself wrapped about the pelts. the heat is almost suffocating now, but jungkook ignores it. his mouth tastes as bad as the smell of the cells, and jungkook licks his dry lips, thirsty, hungry. they might forget him there. it might be a more tender way to go than the butchering that awaits him. jungkook touches his fingers to the fur, inhaling on the smell that still clings to it, the flowers, orchids, chrysanthemums, the plum blossoms. it’s vile to think yoongi smells like things as pretty as flowers when everything about him screams of blood. the noise from the front gate scares him, and jungkook forces his limbs to work, pushing himself up, groaning as they’re stiff and sore. it’s hard to stand, but jungkook does it, wobbly, palm flat against the cold wall, face warming under the sunlight. the pelts are forgotten at his feet. the guards eye him suspiciously. “you will come with us, the king requests for your presence,” one of them says, gravely. jungkook stills, fear digging sharp claws inside his chest again. “we aren’t supposed to hurt you if you do not comply, but we will.”

“i’m already hurt,” jungkook says, huffing.

they come into the cell, his hands being tied with ropes that burn the skin of his wrists, and jungkook stumbles over the fur and hay, being dragged out without sympathy. he gasps when a cloth is forcefully tied around his eyes. he knows the palace, it’s pointless to blind him— he’s been there, walked amongst the pavillions, the faint shape of mount bugak just over the tilted roofs and the cloisters. he knows where the king quarters are, and he knows where the gates are, the courtyard that fills with noblemen and peasants alike to the open six ministers street to watch an execution. jungkook doesn’t fight back, staring down at the ground from under his blindfold, his feet getting caught in pebbles, his legs hurting. he almost trips over the stone steps, his shoes skirting on the wooden flooring of one of the buildings when they go inside, and he falls painfully when the guards shove him inside a room, his body toppling over, his head hitting hard wood. jungkook’s vision goes red for a minute, and he has to suppress a whimper of pain. someone unties him, then yanks the cloth away. he’s facing up, and the first thing jungkook sees is the dragon carved on the ceiling. he stares at it for a minute, mouth bloody, mind confused. maybe it moves at night. maybe it’ll move now, and burn him to ashes. “it’s pretty, isn’t it?” the voice of the king echoes faintly against the tall walls. jungkook swallows, unmoving. “people used to say they ruled over the land once, as kings.” silence follows. yoongi seems to move, as there’s the sound of fabric. jungkook’s lungs are burning. “jungkook,” it seems too soft, his name, on his lips. “do you fear dragons?”

“no,” jungkook replies, spiteful. “they are nothing but myths.” he expects the whispering of voices over his bad behaviour, but there’s nothing. they’re alone in those chambers. “i’m not afraid of you either.”

steps follow, until jungkook’s looking up at yoongi’s face, and he almost looks away, almost— don’t flinch, he tells himself, when he kills you, curse him, curse the rest of his corrupted life. “can you stand?” the question surprises him, and jungkook frowns, confused. he blinks, unsure, gap between his lips. “i asked you a question, it is polite to answer.”

there’s a game there, albeit jungkook doesn’t know if he can play it well, if he can see it for what it is. still, he pushes the words out, careful: “i can’t, i haven’t— i haven’t been fed since we were captured.”

for a moment, yoongi doesn’t move, staring down at him, impassive. then he scoffs, turning away, and jungkook rolls his body with some hardship, raising himself off the floor. yoongi kneels down next to a table, his robes and silks spreading about him like waves of fabric. his hair is tied, jungkook realises, carefully wrapped in a topknot adorned with gold headgear. jungkook’s own hair is greasy and dirty, falling around his face. when yoongi approaches him again, jungkook fumbles backwards. a bowl is put in front of him. he looks down at it, suspicious. it’s rice porridge, the spoon made of silver sticking from it. it’s half-eaten already. jungkook raises his eyes to look at yoongi again. “it will give you strength,” yoongi says, and his tone is— different, maybe, less brash. “eat, jungkook.”

“i don’t need strength to die, jeonha,” jungkook says, not touching the bowl, too wary of it.

“why do you keep thinking i am going to kill you?” yoongi holds the bowl, then, taking a spoonful, lips wrapping around it. jungkook watches him chew, then swallow. “i told you,” he offers the bowl again. “you’re not allowed to die unless i tell you to.”

for a moment, jungkook thinks of slapping the bowl away, seeing its contents spread on the floor, the food of a king gone to waste. but he’s weak, and he’s hungry, and despite it all, jungkook so badly wants to live. living to spite the king, to find himself in a position like this again, to slice his throat and eat his rice with blood on it. it’s a game, and he’ll learn it, jungkook’s smart enough, he’s grown into his father’s footsteps, he’s got war in his bones as well. the bastard king won’t live long. so he reaches out, holding the handle of the spoon, feeling it cold under his fingers. the porridge tastes like pine nuts and mushrooms and it melts in his mouth, and jungkook’s entire body softens, sagging from the sheer effort of standing still. yoongi puts a hand on his shoulder, to keep him from falling. jungkook takes another spoonful. he wonders if some of it is yoongi’s taste, and yet he eats it. it’s shameful, as it was intended to be. still, still, still— he eats it all, yoongi’s hand firmly clasping his shoulder, jungkook’s fingers wrapping around yoongi’s over the bowl, feeling the cold of his rings, the bones of his knuckles. he cleans his mouth with the back of his hand, when it’s done. yoongi lets him go, standing up, taking the bowl back to the table. jungkook breathes out, shaking less. “thank you,” he says it, even if it hurts. “you are a kinder ruler than i thought.”

yoongi looks over his shoulder at him, a different expression about him, some sort of amusement in his eyes. “no one has ever said i was kind ruler before,” he huffs, a thing of a smile dancing on the pink of his lips. “come to the table, now, i’m sure you have proper manners. your father was a nobleman after all.” it takes jungkook a moment to move, his knees hurt over his weight but he stands, dragging tired feet towards yoongi, mouth watering as soon as he sees the variety of dishes on the three separate tables, the soups, the rice, the meat stew still boiling. they are all meant for the king, but the bowls have been pushed away from their setting. jungkook notices that his place faces west. “i don’t have a queen,” yoongi points out, noticing the way jungkook takes a moment to sit. “you may as well take her place.”

it’s another jab at his humiliation, but jungkook only nods, sitting down finally, feeling all too dirty and too commonplace for a king’s morning feast. there’s a wet cloth folded inside a square porcelain box. jungkook takes it without asking, cleaning his hands. there’s still blood and dirt under his nails when he puts it down, but at least his fingers look less filthy than before. he almost immediately moves to eat, but fear still clings to the back of spine, his hand hovering over the cutlery. yoongi sighs, seemingly annoyed, grabbing it for him, eating out of every dish, mouth full with its corners stained when he tosses them back to jungkook. their silence drags. jungkook picks up the spoon. everything tastes good— the rice with azuki beans, the fish soup, the seasoned vegetables cut in neat slices. yoongi watches him, for a moment that also drags, then he joins jungkook. they eat quietly. it’s almost uncomfortable. jungkook will every other minute raise his eyes at yoongi, only to find him staring back. he startles when a palace maid comes in, as if she’s detached herself from a wall, pouring yoongi tea, replenishing a few empty bowls. she doesn’t look at jungkook, doesn’t acknowledge his presence, doesn’t pour him any tea. still, jungkook knows she’ll leave the room and she will talk, and everyone else will know that he’s sat with the king, that he has eaten his food even though his father’s corpse has barely grown cold overnight. jungkook suddenly feels the hollows of his cheeks fill up with heat. concubine. the food feels like poison too quickly, and the woman hasn’t left yet when jungkook turns, vomiting everything out, coughing up blood, spilling gore on a king’s chamber. he heaves, throat burning with effort, the stale stench consuming everything around him. “call for the royal physician to see him,” yoongi’s voice says over the sound of jungkook’s harsh breathing. “and— run him a bath.”

“please,” jungkook mutters, but he doesn’t know what he wants to ask. he raises his head, looking at yoongi. “jeonha.”

“next time we eat i expect you not to waste the food.” yoongi sighs, then raises himself, standing. the palace maid is still there, jungkook can feel her walking around him. others come in. next time we eat. “prepare him a room at the gyotaejeon,” jungkook swallows. “send for the guards to take him.”

“yes, mama.” 

he’s left with the palace maids, then, with the guards that come in to take him, grabbing about his arms, lunging him out. there’s still a glimpse of yoongi at the end of the corridor, and jungkook watches him as he walks away before being taken the opposite direction. they’re in the king’s quarters, and outside daylight is harsh and the weather is cold and brisk. jungkook feels as it bites his cheeks, but it clears the haze behind his eyelids, waking him up from the stupor of sickness. he’s taken to the concubines residence, adjacent to the queen’s halls. the narrow corridors full of chamber rooms seem empty. a bath has been prepared, water steaming and smelling of peach blossom and herbs, streaks of sunlight coming in through the cherry panels. the guards leave as palace women flock in, and jungkook feels uncomfortable as they unwrap his robes, undressing him down to his undergarments. one of them offers him bathing robes, her eyes down at their feet. “don’t wait until the water is cold, mama,” she says, almost gently. they leave, but jungkook can see their shapes in front of the door, the panels too thin, their backs at him. he finally undresses, quickly putting on the cleaner bathing robes, their cotton fabric soft against skin. the water is hot, near boiling. there are stone at the bottom of the basin, reddish in colour. jungkook touches his fingers to the surface of the water, closing his eyes for a moment. he isn’t allowed to enjoy it. it isn’t right. still, he can’t help the weak, relieved moan that comes out of his mouth when he sinks into the water, sore muscles unknotting, grime lifting off his limbs. he undoes the gnarled topknot on his head, hair falling over his shoulders in black waves. jungkook inhales and exhales, allowing himself a moment to savour the feeling of being submerged and clean and rested. the clothes stick to his skin when he lifts his arms, scrubbing himself until the skin underneath turns a strong shade of pink. when the palace maids come in again, the water is stale and reddish in colour, and jungkook’s arms are wrapped about himself as he drips on the stone flooring. they dress him in a robe, patting his face with warm cloths. jungkook can’t imagine them doing the same for yoongi, touching the scar on his face without cringing.

“thank you,” he says, then. they must have been young, younger than him at least, for their faces are round with youth still. one of them smiles.

“you look better already, mama,” she says, in the same gentle way as before. he’s being treated the same way a royal consort would be, the same gentleness reserved to them in private, the same esteem. still, they all know it’s wrong, that he’s there, bathing in a consort’s chambers. it’s depraved and humiliating, for all of them. jungkook swallows. “we will help you get dressed.”

the silks that are wrapped around him are flimsy, but the overcoats are made of sturdy fabric, warm, soft fur on the insides of his vest. there’s a glass mirror against the wall, surface slightly foggy, ornated with carved wooden handles. jungkook hasn’t seem himself in a long while. he’s forgotten how round his eyes are, and the tanned colour of his skin. he doesn’t look like the king, he’s less fair, his edges are sharper, even though he’s younger in age. jungkook looks away. he’s taken to the private chambers, then, hair oiled and groomed into a knot, almost dry by the time he’s deemed fit and clean. there’s a garden on the way, the pound frozen over. jungkook can see the contours of another building behind it, maybe the library, he can’t place it. the physician is waiting for them at his chambers, white beard long and thin against his chest. he looks at jungkook with absolute despise. “our king has demanded you to be examined,” he says coldly, as they walk in. the guards leave, the palace maids, too, and the doors are closed. “i told him it’d be more fitting to get a butcher instead, but he wouldn’t hear it.”

“i am not sick,” jungkook says, flushing with heat. “you can leave if it bothers you.”

“treason is a sickness, young man,” he puts his working bag on a table, removing tools from it slowly. “it makes you spit blood until you drown in it, and from what i heard you left gore back at the king’s chambers.” the hanja embroidered on his bag reads physician heo jun. “i’m afraid i don’t have medicine for that.” he’s examined, then, prodded, wooden sticks against his tongue, making him gag, needles on his skin, hot to the touch. jungkook forces himself to stand still, not giving into the small portions of pain inflicted to him rather openly. after a while, heo jun sighs. “you’re healthy enough,” the needles are removed without much care, and jungkook winces. “i’ll prescribe you medicine, but i’m afraid they won’t help you enough to save you.”

“i don’t want to be saved,” jungkook tells him, staring at the watery small eyes of the older man.

“that saves us a lot of wasted time, then,” heo jun smiles at him, his teeth yellow from too many years of ginseng tea drinking. “your father was a good man before his mind went sick,” jungkook sucks in his breath, anger under his skin. “i wonder how long you will last here.”

“i’ll last long enough.”

“— very well.” they stare at each other for a moment longer, then heo jun leaves, and the doors are closed once more, locked. jungkook understands he is still nothing more than a prisoner right away, when he walks over to the door, pulling the handles without success. from one prison cell to another. this one just gilded instead.

the walls are clean, if not for one or two paintings hanging on them, depicting lotus flowers in different stages of blossoming. it’s a women’s chambers, so the furniture has delicate cuts, the bed looks soft, the mirror has golden edges. jungkook allows himself to explore, walking over the dressing table, finding combs engraved with stones and peach-coloured powders and norigaes. his fingers touch the sharp looking hairpin, the ending shaped like an orchid. jungkook takes it, burying it under his robes. there’s quietness outside, and the windows are closed and locked. jungkook takes off his shoes before moving closer to the bed, the tapestry warm. he feels tired. the fabric of the covers are as heavy as his overcoat. jungkook doesn’t allow himself to dwell — he quickly unwraps himself from his layers of clothes, letting his body into the bed, the pleasure of comfort almost unbearable after the past days of suffering and cold. there are pouches of fragrance under the pillows, and jungkook inhales, fingers lacing around the sheets. he sleeps almost instantly.

 the routine follows for a almost three weeks—

there’s no leaving that room. he’s only taken once for another full body bath, eyes closing under the winter sun outside. servants come and go, bringing him meals, bowls with clean warm water, tea, medicine. they make him sleepy, so jungkook sleeps, fingers wrapped fiercely around the hairpin, as if waiting to be stabbed in the night. sometimes he fights it, the drowsiness, forehead against the wooden panel of the windows, looking out through small slits, seeing only the faint contours of the buildings under the moonlight. the physician never comes back, and jungkook fears he might be losing his ability to speak completely, having not had conversations in a while. he’s found printed books in one of the drawers of the dressing table, and reread the romance in them too many times. sometimes, eyes blinking lazily in the dusky darkness, sometimes jungkook thinks it’d be better to be dead.

when his breakfast is brought in that morning, jungkook notices right away the different china, the two sets of cups, the extra cutlery and bowls. the maids are quieter, slightly nervous. when yoongi walks in they bow deeply, leaving without turning their backs to him, closing the door. then it’s just the two of them and the food sitting in between. yoongi seems to take in jungkook’s appearance, expression rather unreadable, and jungkook swallows, feeling the hairpin against his ribs. he could do it. he has to do it. the bastard king can’t rule. “you look well,” yoongi says, then, moving closer, to sit at the table. jungkook takes a wary step back, which makes yoongi scoff. “we have been through this before.” he pours himself tea, grabbing a spoon. “— are you hoping to be spoon-fed again?”

“no,” jungkook is quick to reply, flushing. he sits, then, in front of yoongi. this close, all he needs is to be quick. he’ll be dead himself before yoongi bleeds out, but he will bleed out. “i was wondering how long you were going to keep me.”

“you’re a royal consort now,” yoongi finds his eyes. “i’m sure you know that means you’re part of the court,” jungkook bites his own tongue, looking away. “that’s a rank i can’t take away so easily, even at your lowest.” he’s playing with him, jungkook can tell. “you should be thankful to your merciful king.”

“you’re not merciful,” he can’t help but say. yoongi only smiles. jungkook looks over his shoulder. there aren’t guards there, nor palace maids. “there’s nothing merciful about you.”

“is your head on a spike outside the west gates?” yoongi asks, almost softly. “have you been flogged in the courtyard?” jungkook lowers his head, hating every moment of it. yoongi pauses, chewing. “i can flog you if you want to.” there’s a hint of something wicked in his tone. jungkook bites down his bottom lip, canine digging into skin. “red looks good on you.”

it’s all it takes, maybe, later jungkook has troubles recalling it correctly. he flings himself over the table, the sharp end of the hairpin pointing at yoongi’s neck. maybe, in some other life, he’d have made it, but yoongi grabs about jungkook’s wrists, the both of them falling backwards, jungkook’s body heavy on top, and they wrestle for control. jungkook didn’t expect yoongi to be strong, didn’t expect him to fight back so fiercely, his hair coming undone. he yelps loudly when his wrist is twisted, and yoongi tugs on him until jungkook lets go of the hairpin. their breathing patterns match, heavy, humid. their bodies are too close together, their faces inches apart, and jungkook feels yoongi’s knees against his ribs, the pressure of his fingers over the bones of his wrists. he tries to stand, but yoongi holds him. “let me go,” jungkook tells him, hatred and fear lacing his words.

“you wasted our breakfast again,” yoongi says, after a moment. “and you didn’t even kill me.”

there’s tiredness in that sentence, as if yoongi was expecting jungkook to somehow go through with it. they stare at eat other, and jungkook blinks, confused, when yoongi touches the long strands of his hair. they contrast, like that, against one another. their colours vastly different. the halo on yoongi’s head is made of gold, whilst jungkook’s is made of soot.  “why are you keeping me?”

“because i think you wouldn’t die quietly,” yoongi offers, after a moment. “and i think that’s a valuable trait to have.” jungkook frowns, his heart pounding awkwardly against his chest. yoongi can probably tell, from the fingers on his wrist. for a second, jungkook thinks yoongi will tell him something else, something vicious. what comes out is soft-spoken, much to his dismay: “we’re alike in that way.”

“we are nothing alike,” jungkook’s own voice comes out weak. “let me go.”

“jungkook,” and jungkook swallows heavily when yoongi leans forward, feeling his lips brush the skin near his ear. “you need to learn how to play the court game before you try and murder your king.” you are not my king, jungkook thinks, panic all over him, limbs stiff. “learn from your father’s mistakes.”

“i hate you,” he says instead, pulling back, sitting backwards, pushing yoongi’s legs and arms away.

“that’s nothing new,” and yoongi seems to chuckle, head falling back against the wooden floor. “i hate myself, too.”

silence follows, the listless, empty kind. jungkook feels barren himself, exhausted. the hairpin is too far for him to try and grab. he’s too tired to try. learn how to play, learn how to play. jungkook closes his eyes. “— why do you hate yourself?”

“i was taught to,” yoongi replies simply. he moves to sit up, and when he stands he offers a hand to jungkook. jungkook stares at it, at the lines of palm, at the rings over his fingers. “at least we agree on one thing, don’t we?” jungkook looks up at him. “it’s something, at least.” he stands without yoongi’s help. his clothes are dirty now, the food has stained fabric, and the remains of it are spread about with broken porcelain. tea drips from the table into a puddle. yoongi reaches out, touching the collar of jungkook’s clothes. “those were once mine,” yoongi tells him. “they fit you well.”

the gesture lingers a bit before yoongi turns, leaving. jungkook watches him disappear, the door being left ajar. when he exhales, it’s heavily and warm as if he’s running a fever. when the palace women come in, minutes later, he’s still standing there, stiffly. they stop, eyes widening at the mess. mama, one of them says, surprised, before lowering her head, apologetic. they move around him, then, cleaning, brushing away the broken pieces of royal china, and jungkook barely moves through it all, rooted in place, heart still beating in chaos inside his chest. somehow his wrists still feel the touch of yoongi’s fingers around them, reddish in colour. a bowl of porridge is left by a new teapot, nothing else. when they leave, the door remains open, too. jungkook eats before trying to step out. no one does stop him when he tries, the guards standing outside barely glancing him over. the garden isn’t far. it’s probably more beautiful in the spring and summer, but jungkook likes the way the frozen water reflects the soft shine of the sun, how the foliage around the pound barely moves in the still weather, how the carps still swim underneath the layer of ice. there's a pavilion ahead, and jungkook crosses the bridge towards it. it is too cold to stay there, but jungkook sits down anyway, overseeing the walls and the trees, his back to the palace, to the guards, to the palace maids, to the king himself. “it’s called the pavillion of far-reaching fragrance,” someone says behind him, and jungkook turns, seeing one of the guards. “it doesn’t smell like anything in the winter, though.”

“i’ll go back to the chambers,” jungkook tells him, with a sigh.

“the king says you’re free to wander inside the quarters,” the guard shrugs, as he looks young, young and unworried. jungkook frowns. “you’re— his consort, after all.” at that, jungkook turns away, shame biting as harshly as the cold around them. the guard takes a step closer. “you shouldn’t stay outside too long, though, mama.”

“— where do the other consorts stay?”

at this the guard hums, and he touches the hem of his hat. jungkook waits for his answer, glancing his way. “there aren’t any.” jungkook blinks, confused. there aren’t? “when the,” the guard clears his throat. “when the traitor former king was dethroned, they were all sent away.” jungkook observes him from a moment.

“sent away?”

“yes. there hasn’t been anyone here since you.” jungkook remembers the news coming in, days late, that the king was dethroned by the illegitimate son of a low-ranked concubine. rebellion sparked quickly, brewing in the further villages. the king had been a caring man, his reign without troubles, his people fed, taxes just. it is said the the wicked king burned down halls full of people and sat in is throne, laughing. jungkook swallows. they were all sent away. he stands, then, leaving the guard behind, calling for him. there’s a library in the king and queen’s quarters, he knows, and so jungkook wanders, unbothered, no shackles about him, until he finds it. there are guards there. a few men that look like aristocrats leave through the front door. some of them look at him, some keep their eyes down. we have another thing in common, jungkook thinks as he climbs the steps slowly, people won’t look at us in the eye. a few scholars read and study at the gathering tables on the first floor. they’re too engrossed in their literature to notice him. jungkook looks up, smelling hanji and wood. he can see yoongi’s dragon-clad robes on the upper floor. he almost turns and leaves— his feet take him forward, though, onto and up the stairs, the wood creaking under his weight. yoongi doesn’t raise his eyes from the book in front of him, not even when jungkook stares at him from behind shelves, not even when jungkook sits in front of him on an empty chair.

“i’m hoping you’re not carrying another sharp object.” the sentence is said in a nonchalant way.

“i have a request,” jungkook tries, slowly. yoongi looks up, his eyebrows arching. they’re dark in comparison to his hair, dark and thick, adorning his eyes. “i—,” learn how to play, learn how to play. “i had sisters.” he fiercely tries not to let his eyes water, but it’s somewhat difficult. “i’d like to have them buried properly, as they were innocent.” yoongi stares at him, quiet. “outside the walls, behind the garden and the pavillion.”

“they are the children of a traitor,” yoongi points out, and he closes the book in front of him, exhaling. “i have shown you enough mercy.”

“no one needs to know, jeonha,” jungkook’s voice is careful, words calculated. “no one outside the palace knows you have spared the court women,” something shifts in yoongi’s eyes, jungkook sees it clearly. “no one inside the palace needs to know you are giving them a proper resting ground.” for some reason, he adds, more to himself than to the king: “they’d like the flowers in the spring, i think.”

“— i have had them buried already.”

some of the young scholars laugh, the sound startling jungkook for a moment. their professor seems to chastise them, and their voices become a hush, youthful muttering. “you— you have had them buried?”

“they were buried in the district of dongnae, with your mother.” jungkook can’t help but stare, and somehow warmth grows inside of his cheeks. “i was told they are facing the ocean.” yoongi seems bothered by the way jungkook stares, because he touches the objects over the table without purpose, pushing them around, moving them back where they were, until he finally sighs, sitting back, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “you shouldn’t stare at me, it’s forbidden.”

but jungkook doesn’t look away. it’s difficult. he licks his lips. “— can you bury me there as well?”

at this, yoongi raises his head again, looking at him. “i was not aware you were on your deathbed.”

“— i might as well be.”

the light the seeps in has dust particles in them, and they dance around yoongi when he huffs, chuckling in earnest. around him, they look shattered pieces of yoongi’s body, gold freckles that have somehow left his skin and the strands of his hair. he looks delicate, sitting there, in that library, laughing weakly. his teeth are small and square, his lips pink and fleshy. jungkook feels something warm in the pit of his belly, something akin to a likeness that tastes like sin in his mouth. he won’t ever learn how to play if yoongi has hidden pawns, if jungkook’s mind turns unsavoury the moment he hears him laugh. “i might have to behead you first,” yoongi finally tells him, lips still curled upwards. “but i can try and see that your body rests with your family.”

“thank you,” jungkook swallows, neck and cheeks still burning. “— for taking care of my sisters.”

“i didn’t take care of them,” yoongi shrugs. “i had them killed.” did you mean for me to die, too? jungkook wonders, but he doesn’t manage to ask. yoongi pushes his chair away from the table, standing up. the dragon on the sigil hanging from his neck steals away the light. he walks away, towards the shelves, and jungkook watches him before following. yoongi looks behind his shoulder at him, eyebrows knitting together. he proceeds, then, ignoring the towering figure of jungkook, fingers pressing against spines, flickering pages, yawning every other minute. it doesn’t look like he belongs in there, jungkook thinks. he wonders if yoongi, the son of a low-ranked concubine, was ever taught to read. “my mother taught me,” he says, then, and jungkook startles, stopping short a few feet away. “she said i would need it someday.”

“how,” jungkook starts, softly. “how did your mother learn how to read?”

“the former queen taught her in secret,” yoongi holds a book close to his face, observing the pictures in it. “they were close to each other before my mother birthed a son.”

there are puzzle pieces about min yoongi that jungkook cannot put together just yet. he’s made of layers, it seems like, strange ones, bitter ones, vicious ones, gentle ones—  if not more. just a couple of hours ago jungkook had tried to murder him, and yet now it feels pointless to try. maybe having yoongi alive means finding a way to depose him, means finding a hole in his story and digging into it until he can use it to bury the bastard king. he will die anyway when his house crumbles down, it doesn’t have to be by jungkook’s hands. jungkook swallows, watching yoongi squint at something on a page. “i can read it for you,” he offers, softly. yoongi’s eye flicker towards him. “i’m—  i’m a royal consort after all, aren’t i, jeonha?”

“are you going to try to kill me with a writing pen?”

“—  i cannot promise you i won’t.”

it makes yoongi laugh again, his honesty. jungkook huffs, not being able to stiffen a smile. the book is handed to him. jungkook takes it after a moment, feeling its weight on his hands. “i’ll send the guards to take you to my chambers when i need some light reading.” and then yoongi leaves, brushing past him, descending the stairs. the young scholars stand to bow, muttering soft jeonha under their breaths. jungkook finds himself short of breath.

when the guards come for him, jungkook’s asleep. they grab about him, and for a moment jungkook has the strange feeling of falling off a cliff, and he wakes up at the pull of the void, gasping, hands moving about him, fighting off their hold. he’s dragged out anyway, much like his first night in the palace, stumbling on his own feet, swallowing cries for help. i’ll send the guards to take you to my chambers when i need some light reading yoongi had said a few days ago. it cannot be it. jungkook’s heart races. the throne hall is lit up, and yoongi’s on the phoenix throne, looking paler than he is. he watches jungkook be shoved forward, falling on his knees, but his expression does not change. they are not alone. jungkook sees the faces of the ministers and a few council members there, standing still in their places. it’s late into the night, there isn’t a reason for them to be there, unless— jungkook lifts his eyes, finding yoongi’s. you have decided to kill me.

“jeonha, you can’t keep him at the palace any longer,” one of the men says, and his beard is trimmed and dashed with white. “we have gotten news that the rebellion has grown in strength and we are certain it is because—”

“do you think they will come save him?” yoongi scoffs, laughing in disdain. “that they will march to hanyang with their sickly villagers for a boy that is as good as dead?”

“the general was—”

“the general is dead,” there’s a rice box in front of the throne, and yoongi gives it a kick. it topples over, falling off the steps, opening as it does so. jungkook is almost immediately hit by sickness, curling over himself, trying not to vomit. his father’s head, severely decomposed, rolls on the ground in front of him, stopping a few feet away, magots inside his thw hollows of his eyes, purple on his skin. the men around jungkook groan, looking away. jungkook thinks he’ll cry. he has held himself together until now. it’s becoming unbearable. he barely notices when yoongi stands, barely notices when a blade is pulled from under the silks around his body. jungkook only realises yoongi’s close when the knot over his head is grabbed, and jungkook gasps again, grabbing onto yoongi’s wrist. they look at each other. there’s nothing inside yoongi’s eyes. no recognition, no emotion. the dragon lurking on the ceiling seems to move behind him. jungkook doesn’t look away. “we’ll send them a message.” jungkook swallows, fear bubbling at the back of his throat alongside gore and sickness. he expects to feel the steel against his throat, slitting it open. he expects to die in a pool of his own blood, in front of a corrupted throne. yoongi undoes his hair instead, pulling it down towards his shoulders, without care. the blade cuts through strands as if they’re nothing. jungkook thinks he stops breathing, feeling his head suddenly lighter, his eyes so wide in sheer terror that they’re out of focus, wet. some of the ministers make pitying sounds, some utter gasps that are quickly forgotten. yoongi searches inside jungkook’s collar, hastily pushing fabric away until he can grab at the thin gold band of a necklace. his father’s sigil is on the coin at the bottom. he rips it out. jungkook barely moves. “tell them that for each news of rebellion, i’ll send back a piece of jeon jungkook.” but jeonha— “the house of yi is no more.” yoongi turns completely towards the men flanking them, the blade inches away from jungkook’s face. if only he could raise his hand and take it. take it, jungkook. kill the bastard king. “there is a new dynasty in place. you do well to remember, minister. leave me, now.”

the long ponytail and necklace are tossed over the severed head, and yoongi walks away too easily, back to his throne, taking with him the blade, sitting down with a sigh that echoes on the ballisters. jungkook is trembling too harshly, his lungs feeling like a furnace. cold seeps down his neck in contrast. the ministers disperse after a moment or two, leaving him behind. the silence in the hall is heavy, then, if not for the way jungkook’s teeth grit, if not for the way he breathes all wrong. a guard collects the general’s head, jungkook’s hair and necklace, leaving without turning his back to the man on the throne. for a long while, they stand there, in front of each other. jungkook raises a hand, touching his head. “what,” he swallows. his voice is horribly rough. hot, unwanted tears have spilled out of his eyes. “what are you going to take next?”

“— one of your fingers,” a pause follows. “why did your father turn against the throne?”

“you killed the king, jeonha.”  the honorific is said mockingly. yoongi can tell, because he seems to huff. jungkook raises his eyes at him, angry. “you killed a good king—”

“you should not try to talk to me about my father.” the spat words make jungkook stop talking. they’re venomous, rancid on their endings, as if they, too, have been in a box for too long. yoongi touches his forehead, cheeks red. “you did not know your good king.”

“did you?” yoongi stares at him, some sort of twist in his expression, something akin to irritation, to dismay. jungkook pushes on, disregarding the fear that makes his legs weak under his weight. “you were the son of a low-ranked concubine, you were nothing.”

somehow jungkook expects violence in return for his hasty words. he expects hurt and blood, he expects being dragged outside in the middle of the night to have his back flogged. yoongi only looks at him instead, holding his stare, and perhaps, perhaps jungkook sees his eyes softening, sees past the viciousness of hatred, just for a moment— min yoongi is scared. “i am nothing, jungkook,” a self-deprecating chuckle follows. “that’s why right now i belong to this throne.” yoongi sniffs. “because it means nothing, just like me.”

his mouth opens, but jungkook can’t say anything. his bruised knees feel too painful, his body too stiff. he wants to leave that throne hall, wants to be allowed into his bed again, wants to forget the way his father’s head looked, the way yoongi looks, sitting there. yoongi hasn’t give him permission to move, though. “— am i allowed to leave now?”

“no,” yoongi replies, softly. jungkook looks at him, the skin of his cheeks hard from the tears that have dried. “you are my royal consort,” that makes jungkook feel like a bottomless pit has opened inside his stomach. “— keep your king company.”

“what if i don’t want to?”

“i think you have been stripped of wants when you were brought here alive,” yoongi says, quietly. “i’ll have them run you a bath.”

jaded, that’s how jungkook feels. jaded and faint, emotionally worn to the point he only nods, raising himself from the ground. yoongi waits for him to step closer to the throne. it’s built tall above mortals, raised so the king can always be closer to the heavens, above everyone else. jungkook looks up, whilst yoongi looks down. it’s a perfect allegory for the both of them. “why don’t you have other consorts?” jungkook dares to ask, voice so low it’s barely there. yoongi hears him anyway, as he stands, descending the steps, stopping one above jungkook. “you should have married already.”

“i see no point in marriage.”

“you said this is a new dynasty now, jeonha,” jungkook doesn’t look away, even though yoongi’s stare is dark and strange and beguiling somehow. “how is it a dynasty if it ends with you?”

the fingers that touch the side of his face are warm, but jungkook flinches anyway, fearing a slap. yoongi pushes the strands of short hair away, if anything, gently so, eyes wandering on his hair. “as long as the house of yi is no longer, i don’t care if i disappear, too.” jungkook raises his own hand, grabbing yoongi’s, stopping him from touching his face again, their eyes meeting. “it doesn’t look bad,” yoongi tells him, after a moment. “it suits you.” the words are said tentatively, almost, kindly, maybe, soft as if they are true. jungkook’s eyebrows knit together, bewildered by the way a quiet ache in his chest stirs his bones. he pushes yoongi’s hand away, then, looking down at his feet. he’s suddenly aware he’s wearing his sleeping garments, that they’re flimsy, of how improper they are. yoongi finally steps down, and he’s suddenly smaller. “join me.”

“i don’t think it’s right,” jungkook forces himself to say. “i shouldn’t be allowed in the royal chambers.”

“i will have the guards drag you there.” no, please, jungkook is fast to say, raising his head. yoongi huffs. “then come along, mama.”

it’s a minute until jungkook follows, and yoongi’s farther ahead, footsteps so light he almost misses him in corridors full of panelling walls. there are guards outside, their red uniforms contrasting against the night, and they walk closer when yoongi leaves the throne hall, jungkook behind him, all red, shivering, in so little clothes. it doesn’t look good, that scene, a man following the king to his chambers. jungkook stares at the back of yoongi’s neck, the collar of his jacket and its expensive embroidery, the way wisps of light-coloured hair are already leaving the hold of his topknot. the guards stop by the king’s quarters doors, as yoongi and jungkook step inside, palace women quickly detaching themselves from hidden nooks to open doors so the king doesn’t have to touch anything. run him a warm bath, jungkook hears yoongi tell the oldest of them, a lady with hair full of strikes of gray, and she eyes jungkook almost suspiciously before lowering her head, yes, mama. the bed chambers are pristine and neatly decorated, and for a second or two jungkook stares at the bed posts, the canopy adorned with thousands of gold dragons and clouds, the beautiful fabric that doesn’t seem real draping the bed in layers. there are trinkets, like those that come from foreign lands, maps, strange-looking globes, a cabinet full of coins and sigils. he wonders if all of this is what yoongi acquired in the two years he has reigned or if it’s something left behind, stolen like the throne. he would have asked, but yoongi’s removing his clothes, and jungkook turns his head away immediately. he can’t turn his back at yoongi, but he would if he could. “jeonha,” he says, eyes pressed closed. “you shouldn’t— it isn’t right to—”

“it’s just a body,” yoongi tells him, and jungkook hears the ruffling of fabric falling against the wooden floorboards. his heart has picked speed, confused. “much like yours.”

“please, put some— put your undergarments back,” jungkook asks, but his words stammer childishly. his cheeks have grown hot, and his ears, now visible under his short hair. “please.”

when yoongi walks closer, the air shifts. he does smell of crushed flowers, and of the rice box that was holding jungkook’s father’s head. jungkook opens his eyes, but keeps them on the ground. “i’m wearing my bathing clothes,” yoongi sounds slightly entertained. “i’ll join in the bath.”

“jeonha—!”

but yoongi’s already walking away, disappearing behind panels that are painted with the mountains that survey the palace, in blues and reds and greens deep enough they’re bright in the dim light of candles. jungkook watches yoongi’s contours on the other side, as he steps inside the hot water that fumes, and he watches as yoongi dismisses the palace women with quiet words and a wave. they don’t look at jungkook when they leave, ignoring his presence altogether. then there’s the drip of water, how it moves when yoongi lifts his arms, clinging to the fabric of his clothes before trickling down. the smell of the bath is strong, not the usual herbs in jungkook’s bath, but oils and flowers and things that only kings can touch. jungkook feels cold still. he wonders how late it is. 

“it’s going to get cold, the water.” the words are an invitation. finally, jungkook moves, swallowing down the nails of humiliation, forcing himself to remember this brings him close to his gruesome objective. he looks from behind the panel, and yoongi’s hair is wet, pushed back on his forehead, looking too much as if the gold in them is liquid. he looks fragile like that, vulnerable. jungkook follows the shape of his nose with his eyes, the curve of his upper lip, how it pouts even when he isn't speaking. he catches himself from going further down, from looking at the skin of his neck and seeing its faint reddish hues. he catches himself before looking down at how fabric sticks to shape of collar bones. "i am sorry," yoongi says it, then, startling jungkook. he doesn't move, nor he opens his eyes. "about your father."

"— i don't think you are, jeonha." jungkook tells him after a moment. yoongi's lips curl the slightest, a hint of a smile on its corners. "i wouldn't had felt sorry if i had killed you that day. or if i killed you now."

"i know that well,” finally his eyes open again, small slits between his eyelids, head rolling to the side rather languidly. “but the water is warm,” yoongi offers. jungkook licks the corners of his lips. “and you are cold.”

he isn’t supposed to bathe in his sleeping garments, but there isn’t a set of clothes provided for him, so jungkook steps into the round basin anyway, feeling them cling about his ankles. yoongi watches him, eyes hooded and dark, watches as jungkook lowers himself beneath the surface, careful not to touch yoongi’s legs, careful to keep his body covered and safe. the faint bruises on his knees, the ones scabbing and the fresh ones, they sting. jungkook breathes out when most of his body is submerged, the heat allarmingly good, the scent of flowers and oils making him drowsy. when jungkook opens his eyes again, yoongi’s staring, cheeks flushed, the scar on his face pronounced when it contrasts like that with the stained colour of his skin. jungkook doesn’t look away. “isn’t this humiliating to you?” he can’t help but ask, and his voice comes out low and breathy. “outside— they might speak of what we’re doing, they will speak.”

“and yet you are bathing with the king,” yoongi’s teeth show from under his lips when he smiles. jungkook scoffs, ashamed, and he thinks of standing and leaving but there isn’t a place to go. there is no freedom, not even in his gilded cage. he’s a prisioner of war, someone kept on a leash to inflict pain on people. he isn’t a consort, he doesn’t truly have a rank, it’s all a play. so jungkook stays, pressing his hands firmly against the sides of his legs, underwater. the lights of the candles dance on the surface, faint and pretty. “you are easy to read when you are angry,” yoongi continues. “your ears get red and you press your lips together.”

“you haven’t answered my question, jeonha,” jungkook says, then, trying to divert the subject from things that make him feel self-conscious. “if they think you’re depraved, they’ll depose you.” yoongi looks away, as if bored of the pettiness of that subject. “the ministers are strong enough to do it quietly, a lot of them support the jeonju yi clan.”

“i am not worried about any of that.”

“you should, it’s your reign.”

“would you like to sit on the throne on my stance?” and yoongi flickers water at him with the tips of his fingers, making jungkook flinch the slightest. it sprinkles on his face, and jungkook turns it away, bothered.

“neither of us was born to be a king,” jungkook tells him, starting to motion to leave, feeling like his time is being wasted in that basin, in that chamber, with someone like min yoongi. he’ll leave even if there isn’t a place to go. yoongi wraps a hand around his ankle, though, pulling, and jungkook sits back again, water splashing, falling onto the wooden boards, soaking the rugs. “jeonha.”

“they will be purged, every member of the yi clan,” yoongi’s hold is strong. jungkook doesn’t fight it. “until there’s nothing left for the ministers, nor to the state council,” it’s impossible to kill them all, jungkook mutters, shaking his head. “— i am tired of talking about politics,” the sentence sounds unrealistically human, and yoongi lets his head fall back again, still holding against jungkook, and he stares at the ceiling where dragons observe them. “you have no intention of understanding,” no, i don’t, jungkook thinks. i don’t have to. he means to leave again, but yoongi’s fingers tug on him. “stay.”

there’s something about min yoongi, perhaps. something strange, something mystifying. it isn’t only in the colour of his hair. there’s something unsettling, something that makes jungkook want to stay and understand. jungkook breathes in, sitting down again, and the hot stones under them keep the water warm still. they are quiet, then, for what feels like too long. jungkook lets his own head back, looking up, eyelids increasingly heavier. yoongi’s fingers are still against him, their pressure rather soft, almost loose. jungkook notices them too much, how they feel, how they almost brush directly onto skin, under the fabric of his clothes. he’s never been touched so intimately before by a man. his mouth tastes terribly of wickedness, and there’s heat in his belly. “don’t touch me like that,” he finally says, pulling his leg away. yoongi lets him go too easily. “it doesn’t feel right.”

“but it feels like something,” yoongi huffs, and jungkook does not understand what he means by that. if feels like— “i will fix your hair,” his thoughts scatter, and jungkook raises his head again to see yoongi stand, fabric clinging to every edge and curve of the body hidden underneath, water running down his legs, over his torso. it makes him choke on his own saliva, sitting up straighter, heart racing, all that heat about him. it feels wrong, that heat. he hears yoongi move around, hears as he drips all over, water in puddles on the boards. he comes back with the same blade he had hidden in his sleeves not even an hour before. jungkook stills as the yoongi brings it closer to the crook of his neck, the blunt side touching his skin, cold, all cold, making him gasp. “stay still,” yoongi mumbles close to him, too close, his body still warm, jungkook can feel it irradiating. he doesn’t move, too afraid of that blade, too aware of yoongi’s proximity, too ashamed of how strangely it makes him feel. his hair strands are tugged, pulled, there’s a sound when they get cut, and jungkook winces.

“why are you doing this to me?”

“— i don’t know,” yoongi seems earnest in his answer.

“i am of no importance to you,” jungkook continues. “i’m the just son of a dead general.”

“you are the son of the leader of a rise against the current throne,” the strands of lose hair fall against jungkook’s shoulder, drifting onto the surface of the water. “— there are far worse scenarios than me cutting your hair, or we bathing together.” fingers brush over his ears, making jungkook wince again. it nips skin, then, the blade, on the back of his neck, and the pain is sharp like that of a glass cut. “that is why i told you to stay still,” yoongi sighs. then, quietly: “— i’ll touch your neck.” it runs down jungkook’s spine, the soft shiver that follows yoongi’s touch. it runs down his spine and allocates himself there, on the bones of his hips, warm, foreign. yoongi presses against the cut, to stop the blood from flowing. “what did they say about me— in the southeast?”

jungkook sees a glimpse from the past, how he would join his father’s men to drink, how they’d bring stories about the wicked king of hanyang, the usurper, the illegitimate. he was cursed from birth, some would say, people say he looks like a monster, others would add, it is known he threw a feast for himself alone as the court ladies and noblemen burnt in the throne hall. “that you killed everyone in the palace,” yoongi goes back into cutting his hair, and it’s a relief. “the women, the children.”

“i killed the ones with royal blood,” yoongi hums. “i killed some of the scholars, and two members of the council.” it seems to be over, because yoongi walks away again, not any less wet, and he seems happy to climb into the basin again. it isn’t as warm as before. “i killed the royal family, and then i killed the king.”

the bureau of investigation should have done something about the massacre at the palace, but somehow, somehow min yoongi still sits on the throne. there’s more to it than bloodthirst, jungkook thinks, eyes unfocused. there’s something hidden in the throne hall, something that has stained those walls enough that the horrors committed in them were not made public. “i don’t understand.”

yoongi smiles. “i told you before,” a half-shrug follows. “you have no intention of understanding.” that makes jungkook wonder, makes him look to the other side of that basin, watching yoongi’s face, the way he looks away, the way he doesn’t seem to be bothered by the treason in his blood. when he yawns, he looks too real, too much like a person, less like a monster. jungkook barely sees the scar on his face. “i should go back to sleep,” yoongi announces then, standing, grabbing the robes left for him by the palace women, patting himself with red-coloured cloths. jungkook doesn’t look at him, sitting in the stale water, skin already wrinkled. “dry yourself, come to bed.”

“jeonha,” jungkook pants, face turning a bright shade of red. it makes yoongi laugh weakly. “let me go back to my chambers. you are not— you are not gaining anything from having me sleep in your bed.”

there is no answer to that, no commentary on it. yoongi leaves his wet clothes behind, dry clothes around his body now, and jungkook is left alone behind the panel. concubine. jungkook swallows. the wrongness of everything makes him feel sick again. yoongi has left a pile of robes for him, and jungkook quickly realises they’re just the clothes yoongi was wearing before, the dragon embroidery in gold, the silk soft in his hands, the slight smell of decay from the box he carried with him to the throne hall. they are to be worn by the king, those sigils, those patterns, those colours. once again, jungkook doesn’t know how to play. he’s too naïve in face of such corruption. “if you are looking for something to kill me with, i left the blade near the basin,” yoongi’s voice calls to him, and jungkook presses his lips together. i wasn’t, he mumbles in response, starting to dry himself, dressing up. the blade is there, stained with a smudge of blood, loose, wet hair strands still sticking to it. jungkook stares at it for a moment before taking it, pushing into the hidden layers inside the clothes he’s meant to wear. yoongi’s on the bed, an assortment of books around him. his hair is all down, now, drying around his shoulders, wisps of it in front of his eyes. he raises his head, looking at jungkook. for a second, neither says anything. “they are hoping for something to talk about tomorrow,” yoongi tells him, voice low. “come to bed.”

“i’m not a concubine.”  

“you know that there’s always an eunuch by the door?” jungkook lowers his eyes, flushed. “it’s law that everything i say is recorded by their department. even in here.” yoongi sighs, and jungkook can tell he’s left the bed and that he’s walking closer. his hand almost slip between the folds, almost goes for the blade, but jungkook trembles slightly, nervous. yoongi disconcerts him entirely. “here,” a book is pressed against his chest. jungkook looks down at it, then at yoongi. “i just wanted you to read to me.”

“i’m tired, jeonha.” but he holds the book anyway, fingers lax about it, too apprehensive. jungkook flinches when yoongi reaches out, pushing his hair back. he needs to stop flinching away from him. he’s just a man. he is not a dragon.  “— may i sleep?” the question is too small, but jungkook’s too spent. “please.”

his wrist is taken, then, and yoongi takes him into bed too easily. it smells almost the same as the bath did, like a field of flowers hidden under pelts and blankets. it’s yoongi who removes one of the layers of his clothes, pushing them over jungkook’s shoulders until they slide down his back, it’s yoongi who gently presses onto the small of his back until jungkook sits down on the mat. at some point, jungkook stops caring too much, allowing all those things to happen. they’ll sleep on the same bed. it’s nothing but a chance for murder. “you haven’t seen your hair, have you?” yoongi mumbles, seemingly distracted, noticing when jungkook touches the short strands as he adjusts himself against the pillows. jungkook shakes his head. i haven’t looked in the glass mirror. a round object comes into his line of vision, then, flat and small. jungkook looks at it, then at yoongi, eyebrows arching. “it doesn’t look bad.”

the small object opens into glass, and jungkook sees himself, his hair, the darkness of it against the reds of the pillows. he stares at himself as yoongi walks around the furniture, blowing up candles until the chamber is barely lit. then, with a sigh, he climbs onto the mat, too. jungkook’s body grows aware of his proximity, of the faint moonshine of his hair, of the contour of his profile, the way yoongi smells like his bed and his bath and a field of orchids all at once. “i don’t understand,” he says it again. why am i here? why are you letting me get this close? “aren’t you afraid of me, jeonha?”

“i am,” the reply sounds honest. yoongi turns his head, and the whites in his eyes seem weak in the dark, different from that night in the prison cell. “i am terrified of you.”

“kings aren’t supposed to lie,” jungkook mumbles, but his eyes are closing.

“no, they aren’t,” it sounds like a faraway voice. i could do it, jungkook tells himself too faintly. his body feels like it weighs too much all of a sudden. i could kill the king. but he doesn’t move, falling asleep fast, amidst the pillows and the warmth and yoongi’s soft-spoken ways: “i never lie, jungkook.”

 (

there’s nobody next to him when he wakes. jungkook touches the blade before his eyes are even open, but the bed is empty, the chambers quiet, only the sound of dripping and early birds and the palace’s meddlings outside. there are three palace women waiting by the door for him to wake. one is blushed, matching the panels behind her. “you are to be taken back to your chambers, mama.”

“where is the king?”

the question seems to bother them, too personal, too entitled. you’re just a concubine. “the king is having his morning meeting affairs with the state council, mama. you are not to join.”

“i don’t have clothes,” he feels himself grow hot. there’s a twitch in the face of one of the girls. the older one notices. she’ll get punished for it, jungkook knows right away. “it’s just that mine are— i came here in my sleeping garments and they are wet.”

“we will provide you with,” she pauses pointedly. “suitable clothing, mama.” jungkook only nods. “i will make sure to leave a set of your clothes in the royal chambers for—“

“no,” and jungkook gestures vaguely, embarrassed. “there won’t be a next time.”

they look at each other, the women, and one smirks. “as you say, mama.”

)

the blade is at yoongi’s throat faster than he can properly push jungkook away. he saw him coming, this time, jungkook did. he’s studied the patterns of breathing on the palace women outside. they gasp whenever yoongi approaches, they mutter. jungkook had less than a few seconds to walk behind the door, to wait it close, to grab against yoongi’s face, blade close to his jaw. it’s easier to hold yoongi like that, from behind. his body is smaller, after all, less bulky. jungkook has had enough practice to be able to pin his arms. yoongi doesn’t make a sound. he barely even tries to move. jungkook breathes rapidly against him, their bodies close. “you are not wearing clothes,” yoongi mutters, despite it all. no, he isn’t. not entirely. jungkook’s still has damp skin from washing up, the fabrics around him barely covering, not fully tied. he flushes, but doesn’t let go. kill the bastard king. “and you are taking a long time to decide whether or not you’re going to kill me.”

“stop talking,” jungkook hisses, but his voice is low, low enough the palace maids outside would think it’s someone’s ragged breathing. “you are going to die—”

“are you going to take my place?” jungkook feels when yoongi’s fingers raise to touch his wrist, just softly, ghosts of fingertips following the vein on his hand. “there isn’t anyone else, no descendants.” he sighs. “if you slay a king, you become one. it’s your fate.”

“shut up,” jungkook almost spits, tightening the hold around yoongi. “just— stop talking.”

“i think you would be a good king,” it’s also low that yoongi says it, also quietly, just someone’s breathing, someone’s sharp inhale on a bed. kill the illegitimate. jungkook’s hand trembles. “but the weight of the crown is heavier than the weight of murdering me,” fingertips against his fingers, touching the blade, and jungkook thinks he can feel yoongi’s heartbeat on it. “if you can’t hold one, you can’t wish to hold the other.”

“i do not wish for any of it,” he can feel yoongi’s nails against his skin, scrapping. “the throne wasn’t yours to take—”

“— is it yours?” the first time jungkook killed another man, he was nineteen. his sword wasn’t good, his hands were shaking, his clothes were drenched and the whole of the ganghwa island reeked of guts and burnt flesh. he remembers the feeling of it, the sharp edge cutting into skin, breaking tissue, perforating. jungkook felt it on his hands, in his insides, twisting them to a knot he never truly got to undo. it got easier with time, it’s what war does, and there’s always war, war is more certain than life itself, his father used to say. it isn’t easy in that chamber, blade against the throat of a king-that-shouldn’t-be, breathing against him. it isn’t easy, because it weighs. it weighs like a crown, like yoongi had said. jungkook doesn’t know if he should want it, any of it, the blood or the throne or the rewards or the songs. when yoongi pulls on his fingers, gently, but surely— jungkook lets him. the blade falls on the boards with a rispid thud. forgive me, father. he sucks the air inside, blinking. for a moment, neither moves, jungkook’s arms still firmly around yoongi, yoongi’s fingers still touching his palm, grazing the lines that cross them. “nothing is what it seems inside the palace, jungkook,” yoongi’s tone is soft, gentle, almost. “it’s dark under the lamp.”

“you made it dark,” jungkook swallows heavily.

“jungkook,” and yoongi tentatively leans his head back until it touches jungkook’s shoulder. “you are still holding me.”

when yoongi is pushed away, he stumbles forward for a step or two. jungkook wants to turn away from him, wants to move past him, wants the clothes that sit on the dresser to hide his body. yoongi stands straighter, looking at him, and jungkook’s aware of the way his eyes wander, the way they trace the exposed skin. but then yoongi finds his eyes, and jungkook holds it, unwavering, hands still trembling and unsure. “i’m going to try again,” he says, as if it’s needed. “until i can do it, i will try again.”

“i wouldn’t expect you to stop trying,” it surprises jungkook that yoongi huffs, a small smile adorning his face. yoongi looks around, then, until he sees the folded fabric on the dresser, stepping closer to take them. jungkook doesn’t move. the blade is still on the floor, near. yoongi ignores it completely. “you look good like that, but i suppose you must be cold.” jungkook doesn’t answer, stepping backwards when yoongi comes closer, offering him the clothes back. his face flushes. you look good like that. it isn’t a thing you should say to another man. “— come here.”

“no.”

“i thought you would like to walk with me,” for a moment, yoongi sounds too— timid, almost, jungkook can’t tell, so he stares, heart in a wavery pounding inside his chest. yoongi’s still smiling, a bit crooked, but a smile still. “i was not expecting to be murdered.” jungkook presses his lips together. “it would be best if you dressed before leaving your chambers, the palace maids might drop their trays if you walk out like that.”

“i don’t want to walk with you,” jungkook breathes out. “i want to—,” but words go missing. he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to want, he thinks. i want to kill you, i want to understand you, i want to understand the palace, the darkness that lives within. jungkook’s been there for over a month, toyed with, bathed, fed, got laughed at, knees scabbing from being dragged and tossed in front of ministers, exhausted, hands cut from holding blades in his sleep. and yet, and yet, and yet— every chance he’s gotten to kill the bastard king were fruitless. he’s a shame to his murdered family, and for the rebellion his father brewed. jungkook feels short of air. “i don’t understand what i’m supposed to want anymore.” it surprises him that the words are said out loud, his mouth moving, throat aching.

there is silence for a moment, but then yoongi leans down, taking hold of the blade, leaving jungkook’s clothes on the floor instead, over the tapestry that is still stained with the tea that dripped from their ruined breakfast days before. “you can try again,” yoongi offers. their fingers touch when jungkook holds onto the other end, and yoongi’s are still warm. jungkook stares at the blade, for too long. he almost feels it, the weight of yoongi’s dead body, the warmth of his blood pouring out of his like a river. and yet, and yet, and yet— he doesn’t move. yoongi takes a step closer, and jungkook lifts his eyes to find yoongi’s. they’re dark and they’re strangely shaped, as if cut out, sharp on their edges, coal-coloured, deep. yoongi raises a hand, but his movements are careful. he touches a strand of hair that’s falling over jungkook’s eyes. “i—,” jungkook watches him lick the corner of his lips, watches him swallow, watches him exhale. his breath is hot. “i will wait for you outside.”

then he brushes past jungkook, leaving quietly. jungkook’s lungs burn, his cheeks burn, his belly burns. everything about him burns, and he can’t understand why. his eyes feel like they’re wet, and he sniffles, holding it in. it takes jungkook too long to get dressed, and he almost expects to find no one waiting for him outside. yoongi’s there, though, his hands clasped behind him, and one the younger maids seems to be entertaining him with a story. jungkook stops by the entrance way, seeing how he smiles at her, eyes getting smaller. it looks— tender. he’s left his blade inside, he realises. mama, one of the palace maids greets him, bowing, and both yoongi and the young girl look his way. yoongi makes a gesture, a soft thing with his hand, dismissive. they all leave, aside from the guards that wait a few feet ahead. “you like her.” jungkook doesn’t understand why he points it out, but the words come out anyway.

it takes a moment for yoongi to say anything. when he does, it’s after a sigh: “she is just a child.”

“weren’t there royal children?”

“there were royal children,” yoongi swallows, looking away. “we are going in circles again.”

“we will always go in circles, as long as you keep me here,” jungkook walks closer. the guards stir just ever so slightly. “i am always going to try to kill you. you are always going to try to humiliate my father for what he’s done.”

“you could try not killing me.” they’re standing close now, only a step or two away from each other. jungkook huffs at that, and steam comes out of his mouth. it’s cold out, the high of winter, and everything around them seems stoic with it, frozen. “i cannot stop you from trying, but this will go on until we get tired, and it won’t end with you killing me.”

“leave, then,” yoongi looks up at him, eyebrows furrowing. “leave the throne.”

“— you really haven’t figured out how to play, have you?” rage burns at the back of jungkook’s throat. it’s childish, that rage, though. it comes from a place where he feels less. it should be raw, but it’s weak. yoongi looks inadequate, for once. his cheeks stained crimson, his posture wrong. jungkook sees the way he looks over his shoulder, to the guards, his eyes smaller when the faint sunlight hits them. “i don’t trust you,” yoongi pauses, and he nervously fidgets with his own rings. “you and i come from rebellion, we should— i thought i would be able to.”

“you are wrong, jeonha,” jungkook feels sick. he wants so badly to piece the puzzles of yoongi together, but all his edges are jagged and wrong and jungkook can’t hold them properly without getting cut. “i do come from rebellion, but you— you come from greed and bloodthirst.”

this seems to hurt, and it’s more emotion than jungkook has seen on yoongi’s face before. “you don’t know anything about me,” yoongi mutters, shaking his head. “you are just a spoiled child, after all.” he’s turning away, and he will leave, but jungkook grabs his arm instead, making him stumble closer. the reaction of the guards is immediate. yoongi raises a hand to stop them after a second— they do so, a couple of feet away, swords out. “he is not a threat,” yoongi voices, slightly louder. the guards take a moment to retreat. they don’t put their swords away, though. “if you are thinking of gutting me, i would not try in front of them.”

“i want to understand,” jungkook almost mutters. he’s confused and angry and lost. his insides are a smudge of too many colours. “you, this— i need to understand.” yoongi seems to assess him, eyes boring into jungkook’s as if to search for the truth in them. “why did you kill the king, jeonha?”

“would it make you feel better, knowing?” yoongi asks quietly. “would it make it easier to kill me?”

“— yes.”

at this, yoongi laughs, but it sounds deranged. “at least you’re an honest consort,” he tells him, sounding bitter and amused all at once. it makes jungkook blush, and he lets go of yoongi’s arm. yoongi doesn’t step away, instead— instead he holds against jungkook’s wrist, fingers sliding down to press against his palm. jungkook’s heart races, and he looks down at their feet, ashamed. “there is always someone listening so all my words are written down,” the sentence sounds unfitting, and jungkook frowns, wanting to look up. yoongi pulls on his hand, though, and jungkook staggers closer until yoongi can raise his head and mutter, almost against his ear: “make sure you come find me in my chambers without being seen.”

what— jungkook starts, but yoongi simply lets him go completely, only sparing him a look before walking away. jungkook’s skin feels warm where yoongi has touched it, his palm tingling as if numb. the guards flank yoongi’s sides, and jungkook notices how he says something, how one of them looks back at him, the same one that had followed jungkook to the pavillion days ago. it’s a strange coincidence, if a coincidence at all. jungkook stands out in the cold for too long, feeling it crawl under his clothes. there are a few hours that separate them from complete nightfall. there’s restlessness in his bones for the rest of day, even as he watches the carps under the frozen lake, even as he reads over books at the library, listening to the scholars and their bantering. jungkook watches them for a moment. watches and remembers himself, the few years he spent at the palace, and he tries to remember how yoongi looked back then, his clothes, his hair. his mind is hazy, and jungkook isn’t sure if the memories there are real or strange wishful thinking.

when night finally comes, jungkook doesn’t sleep. he lays on his bed for too long, staring at the way wax melts around a candle, watching as it drips red on the candlestick. it’s shaped like a dragon, too, the metal. jungkook swallows, sitting up. there aren’t a lot of royal guards around the queen’s private quarters, as jungkook is the only sole resident. still, he walks quietly, his sides pressed against walls. once or twice he needs to shrink to fit into a dark nook, holding his breath. he sees one of the gates in the distance, the torches giving it yellow contours. jungkook stops for a moment. he could flee, instead. he could flee instead of walking into the king’s chambers. it’s right there, the possibility of it. make sure you come find me. jungkook exhales, then turns the opposite way from the gate. the king’s quarters are heavily guarded, and difficult to access. there’s a window, though, jungkook sees it clearly, the brightness that leaks out, inviting. it seems too easy. for a moment, jungkook doubts it all— but then he hears the steps of approaching guards, and so he climbs, as quietly as he can, feet escaping the tiles every other step, until he can reach the window, pulling himself up. he almost yelps when someone holds his arm, and his eyes widen, but jungkook swallows it when he sees yoongi’s face close to his own, a finger over his lips and nose. be quiet. he’s helped in, hands on his arms, on his waist, and jungkook’s neck burns. yoongi pulls him closer, still, robbing him of breath. “just follow me,” the whispered words are breathy against skin, and jungkook shivers. he nods, faintly. the room isn’t completely darkened, but the candles are already dying out, their flame flickering constantly. jungkook can only see yoongi’s clothes, how they are guard’s and not king’s, and he sucks the air in when yoongi searches about him, undoing the ribbons on his waist. they look at each other, and yet jungkook can’t say anything. his jacket is removed, slowly, pushed about his arms, their bodies pressing together sometimes. yoongi offers him the uniform of a guard, then. jungkook touches it, confused. put it on, yoongi mouths, looking behind them to the door where palace maids and eunuchs stand by. jungkook swallows before doing as yoongi tells him to. yellow hair is hidden behind a gat, and so is jungkook’s short one. they look at each other, and jungkook wants to ask what are they doing, but yoongi reaches out, adjusting jungkook’s collar, knuckles brushing against his neck— so jungkook doesn’t, at loss for words. it’s too kind of a gesture, too intimate. yoongi leads them to the window, then, where they go out, and jungkook’s heart beats and beats and beats, confused and fearful. “i’m sure you can walk like a guard,” yoongi says, handling him a sword. jungkook looks at it, then at yoongi. “you can try and decapite me when we are away.”

the sword is heavy and the scabbard hangs too loose on his waist, but jungkook still does as he’s told. another guard joins them halfway, startling jungkook. yoongi barely blinks. “it’s nice to see you again, mama,” he smiles, boxy. “i’ll get you out safe.”

indeed he does, raising his head to request the gates to be opened, following them out as they leave the palace. jungkook feels exhilaration as he follows the two of them out, and it’s late but the main street is still lit, people coming and going, the smell of oil and fish reaching them as they walk away from the palace and into the innards of hanyang’s. “taehyung, you should go back,” yoongi says, then, as they stop in an alley somehow empty. taehyung, the guard, only nods. take care, jeonha. jungkook observes the exchange, curious. a guard and a king, friends somehow. “this is for you.” jungkook’s eyes shift from the disappearing figure of taehyung to yoongi’s hands, the mask he holds is made of wood, and jungkook sees the patterns of black and red on them.

“punae,” he says, with a huff. the concubine. his cheeks burn. “what are you going to be— a yangban?”

the mask yoongi raises over his face is that of the butcher, though, very thick black eyebrows, the strange smile painted on it. “we wear it only until we get into the tavern, yuji will keep us hidden.”

“— yuji?”

“she is a friend,” yoongi gets closer to tie jungkook’s mask around his head. they find each other’s eyes, and even within the small slits, yoongi’s eyes are dark and— jungkook blinks, confused. pretty, he thought, for an instant. pretty. it shouldn’t be a word for one min yoongi. “i’m surprised you heeded to my request.” yoongi’s fingers touch the nape of jungkook’s neck just slight as he withdraws them. jungkook presses his lips together, nervous.

“it will,” he stammers, nervous. he shouldn’t be this nervous. “it will be easier to kill you if i understand you.”

“i don’t trust you enough to tell you the things you want to hear,” yoongi drops his hands at his sides. “i killed those people, all of them. that should be enough reason for you to kill me.” it is, but—, jungkook starts, knowing they’ll just rekindle the same argument until one of them walks away, but yoongi pokes the wooden surface of the cheek of jungkook’s mask. “tonight we are a butcher and a concubine.” jungkook stares at him, unsure. “if i can trust you like that, i will answer your questions.”

“jeonha—”

“come, we are wasting time.”

the streets of hanyang are an organised collection of small buildings, quiosks, stalls selling food and other items. at night, everything is just softly rendered orange from the lights of the torches in front of entrance ways. not a lot of people look at them. most of common folk out are slightly inebriated, or too tired to pay attention to two palace guards, despite their masks. they reach a higher-end gisaeng house. yuji finds them right away, holding yoongi’s hand, her face delicate under the heavier make up. here, doryeonnim, i have a private room for you. no one truly looks at them. jungkook observes the noblemen sitting at tables, drinking and talking about their affairs, one or two gisaengs with them, some pouring them more alcohol, others languidly fanning themselves, naked shoulders peeking under their hanboks. it’s a brothel, more than just a gisaeng house, jungkook understands, quickly looking away. other gisaeng fill their room with bottles of soju and food, bowing heavily before leaving. yuji mutters something in yoongi’s ear, and he gives her a pouch of probably coins. he takes his mask off when she leaves, closing the door. the gat is also removed, left by the table’s side. jungkook hasn’t moved. “you brought us to a brothel,” he points out, and his voice sounds muffled out loud, from behind the mask.

“yes,” yoongi sits down on a pillow, surveying the table. “there is enough noise to conceal our voices, and yuji won’t pry,” he looks up. “you can sit down.”

“what if they find out you frequent brothels, jeonha?”

“are you going to tell the ministers?” jungkook sighs, taking off his mask, sitting down. yoongi pours them both soju. it is against the law to waste the king’s pouring, so jungkook holds the cup, disliking it nonetheless. he shakes his head, i won’t tell anyone. “cheers to that,” and yoongi touches the side of their cups, drinking down. jungkook follows up. the soju burns his throat, numbing his tongue for a moment. it heats him up inside, the sweet taste lingering. 

“— why the masks?”

“yuji doesn’t know what i look like,” yoongi takes a slice of fish, chewing. his nose got a tinge of red, from the alcohol. jungkook looks at him for a moment, before starting to eat, too. it’s pointless not to. “and so she can’t lie about what she doesn’t know.” another cup of soju is poured. jungkook stares at it without touching. “i remember you,” yoongi says, then. “from when you came to the palace for your studies.”

that’s surprising, in a sense. jungkook was just over thirteen, then, scrawny, unsure. “i remember you as well,” yoongi had to have been a few years older, jungkook doesn’t know— he was taller then, hair not as long, but just as light. jungkook remembers not understanding what was he made of, if man or deity, if the stories the other children shared about him were real. still, back then, yoongi was nothing. “min yoongi.”

“ah,” and that makes yoongi huff. he gestures towards the filled cup, and jungkook finally takes it. “it has been a while since i was called by my birth name.” the soju makes jungkook’s breathing slow down just the slightest, the hollows of his cheeks as hot as his neck feels. he looks up at yoongi on the other side of the table, how he lifts his hands to touch the topknot on his head, undoing it with a few tugs. silky strands fall about his face, then, contrasting against the rose of his skin, the dark on his eyebrows. yoongi drinks another cup of soju before finding jungkook’s eyes. “— your cheeks are red.”

“i—,” i like your hair, it’s what jungkook thinks, but he doesn’t say it, because saying it out loud is too much of a misdeed. he gives himself a moment, trying to dilute the thoughts about yoongi’s appearance into his anger, hoping they go away. “i haven’t drank anything in a while.”

they both hear when the room next to them gets occupied, the loud sound of high-pitched giggling following as the panels close, and jungkook tries his best not to give into the images that sudden burst into his mind. “i killed the king because he killed my mother,” jungkook’s eyes widen, staring back at yoongi again, watching him eat slowly, taking his time. “not directly, but he did.” yoongi puts the spoon down, for a moment. “his queen was killing her, the royal family was killing her, the palace was killing her.” coldness stains his speech. “he made a fool out of her even after she was dead.”

“— what did they do to her?”

“what do you think happens to a low-ranked concubine when she is the only one who births a son?” there were gossip, of course, of how the king’s failure in producing an heir was putting his government at risk, that his collection of daughters served to little purpose, that his younger brothers would maybe have to take over him so there could be an heir to the house of yi. now they’re all dead. yoongi looks bothered, angry. he fidgets with his rings when he is, canine against his bottom lip, nibbling. “and i was born looking like this,” jungkook feels a strange ache in his chest, one that isn’t new. “to make things worse for her.”

“why—”

“i gave you enough honesty to last you another month,” yoongi interrupts him, before drinking another cup of soju. “i’m a butcher, but you’re not being a concubine,” he adds. “i can’t trust you if you aren’t.”

what does that mean? jungkook wants to ask, but he doesn’t. instead, he looks down, at the mask left on the table, touching the wooden ends of a petite nose. he pours himself another cup and drinks it before raising the mask until it covers his face. through the holes, he finds yoongi’s eyes. “is this what you want?”

“maybe,” yoongi tilts his head, squinting, smiling. he reaches out over the table, taking off jungkook’s gat. it falls down his back. “but i don’t think you need the mask, your colours are just the same.” and maybe he means the red cheeks, the fleshy-looking lips, the dark obsidian of hair strands, the slightly tanned skin. jungkook sighs, putting the mask down again. i don’t understand you. the mumbled words aren’t missed by yoongi. “there is nothing to understand,” jungkook stares at him. “not about that.”

“about what?”

“i think you’re pretty,” and jungkook’s heart stammers for a moment, nervous. “prettier than that mask.” the sound of giggling seeps in again, and moaning, the sweet kind. jungkook feels the heat on his neck staining his chest, down his ribs, soaking his stomach. “there’s nothing to understand about that.”

it hinders jungkook absolutely stunned, those sentences, and his fingers curl around the fabric of his clothes over his legs as he looks away from yoongi. depraved, the sentences are, and they mingle with the sounds coming from the room next to theirs, and they burn under the fabric of clothes. “is that why you brought me to a brothel? to try and—“

“no,” and yoongi pours him another cup. jungkook realises he’s lost count of how many those were. “i brought you here to drink.” jungkook’s fingers tremble the slightest. “trust comes easier when one’s pissed drunk.”

learn how to play, jungkook reminds himself. there’s a sword attached to his waist. no one would knew. no one would find yoongi’s body until much later. he watches as yoongi goes back to eating, his knuckles very red, and jungkook’s eyes follow the shape of his wrist, bony like his fingers, follows the contours of his shoulders under the guard’s uniform, how his hair sort of drips down in front of it, strands of yellow against the red, follows the contour of his adam’s apple, of his chin, the way his mouth looks wet— jungkook startles himself, grabbing the cup, drying it accordingly. a numb sort of ache tugs in his middle. yoongi reaches out, food between his chopsticks, and there’s something fetching about the way he looks at jungkook, head tilted, eyes dark. jungkook opens his mouth, taking it, tasting the spice and the herbs and seasalt. he swallows. yoongi has already found something else to give attention to. “how old are you, jeonha?”

it isn’t truly the question jungkook should be asking, but the sluggish kind of words come out anyway, his body curious. yoongi thinks for a moment. “twenty-six,” he says, then. 

“i’m twenty-two,” he pours himself another cup of soju. “i will drink to your long, prosperous life, jeonha,” the mocking tone on his sentence makes yoongi laugh, his square teeth showing, wrinkles about the corners of his eyes. “as your royal consort, i drink to your—“ yoongi shushes him, laughing still, palm against jungkook’s mouth, muffling the rest of the words. jungkook touches his wrist, feeling his breath humid against yoongi’s hand. 

“you are being too loud,” the bodies on the other room are louder, though, panting soaking the walls, higher-pitched moans following. jungkook feels the bones under his fingers. his head starts to hurt, his middle does, too. yoongi pulls his hand back, but it still hovers in front of jungkook’s face. “in here i’m just the butcher, jungkook.”

“why haven’t you killed me already?” jungkook breathes out, still holding yoongi’s wrist, feeling how his pulse is restless. he doesn’t truly knows why he asks. yoongi has answered it too many times, in different ways, and jungkook’s aware he’s a political prisoner, but— it feels like there’s something else, and jungkook desperately wants to know. “why cut my hair and not my head?” yoongi looks at him, and he’s flushed. the lights from the candle chandelier above them dance inside his irises. “it doesn’t help your cause with the ministers and the state council. they are right in wanting me gone.”

“i don’t want you gone,” yoongi offers, quietly. 

“you should,” jungkook pushes yoongi’s hand away, nervous, but yoongi holds against him, pulling, pulling until jungkook’s chest is pressed against the side of the table. “you have spilled enough blood to bathe in it, jeonha. mine is just another drop.”

“i thought you needed to kill me.”

“well,” and jungkook doesn’t know what he wants to say any longer. he’s confused and angry and hot and yoongi’s fingers on him feel hyperbolic. he grabs the bottle of soju, drinking from it, until it’s over. it drips down his chin, but jungkook ignores it. the alcohol goes straight to his head, a heavy shoot of pain that has him wincing. the bottle topples over when he drops it on the floor, rolling away. “i don’t know what i need anymore.” he lets go of yoongi completely, falling backwards against the floorboards, staring up at the ceiling, at the wooden chandelier. it spins, slowly, edges blurred. jungkook breathes out. “— if you hadn’t murdered the king, none of this would be happening.”

“there’s no if in that sentence,” yoongi tells him, voice rough. “i was born to kill my father.” 

“that’s a cursed existence,” jungkook scoffs.

“yes,” the sigh that follows is soft. “yes, it is.”

“— i want to go back to the palace.” he shouldn’t say things like that to a king, but yoongi seems to move, gathering their masks, standing closer. jungkook looks up at him, adding, softly: “if that’s your wish, jeonha.” yoongi kneels, and there’s something akin to kindness in his eyes. he puts the mask over jungkook’s face, then his over his own. “why the butcher?”

“he doesn’t have a happy ending,” yoongi’s words come out breathy. “not even with the concubine.” jungkook is too still, his muscles stiff. he holds his breath when yoongi leans down, touching their masks together in a strange sort of kiss, pulling back as soon as it happens. “that’s the closest he will ever get.” jungkook wants to say something, wants to push him away, wants to pull him back, and the overlapping feelings are overwhelming. yoongi stands up again. jungkook doesn’t wait for a hand to be offered, standing, too. they don’t speak anymore. they don’t speak on the way out, nor as they walk the cold, almost-empty streets of hanyang, not as they reach the gate. yoongi pokes the ribs of the guard named taehyung, who’s too sleepy to comment on their endeavours, opening the gate slowly. they don’t talk as they walk together towards the queen’s quarters, their heads down under the moonlight, masks hidden inside the fabric of clothes. they don’t speak, just breathe, their patterns matching. jungkook detaches himself from yoongi’s side when they reach his chambers. yoongi holds the back of his clothes. “i need your sword back.”

“ah,” jungkook turns sideways, nodding. he gives it back, feeling the weight of it on his palm, blaming himself for being a fool. “i should have used it, shouldn’t i?”

“probably,” and yoongi almost smiles. he looks about jungkook for a moment before looking away. “goodnight, jungkook.”

“— goodnight, jeonha.”

the water is viciously cold as it soaks his clothes completely, pouring into the straw mat over him. jungkook swallows a gasp, entire body shaking. he can hear taehyung’s ragged breathing a few feet beside him, on another plank. if he raises his eyes, jungkook will be able to see yoongi, but he doesn’t want to— so he fiercely stares at the dirt on the ground, teeth clattering, lungs overworked. “there’s a second guard,” it’s one of ministers, jungkook recognises it faintly. “we are hoping to get his name from them.” 

we’ve learned two guards helped the concubine to be smuggled out of the palace, one of the state council members had said an hour before, as jungkook found himself with his chest against a plank, hands tied so harshly to the point his fingertips are slowly becoming numb. “they brought him back,” yoongi says. his voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t sound like it contains emotion. if he’s bothered by any of it, it doesn’t show. jungkook feels his mouth too dry. “why would they bring him back if escaping was their plan?”

“we have reasons to believe he’s communicating with the rebels, jeonha.” it’s a lie, jungkook wants to say, but yoongi knows, he knows, he doesn’t need to say it. “if we can only extract this information—“

“i will personally assign the bureau on that matter,” yoongi sounds dismissive. but they deserve punishment at least, mama, the ministers cry. jungkook’s heart races. “have them flogged, then send the consort back to his chambers.” a pause. “deploy the guard to the wall.” outraged muttering follows. jungkook finally looks up, to yoongi’s dragon clad clothes, to the way he looks just mildly distressed, as if he’s bothered to be there. he raises a hand, and the muttering stops. “— make it quick, you are wasting the king’s time.”

when the stick hits his side, jungkook feels the air being forcefully pushed out of his lungs, immediate pain spreading around his body, indiscriminate. he doesn’t have time to prepare, doesn’t have the time to hope for adjustment as another blow slaps against him, and he winces, eyes swelling with hot tears, teeth gritted. there’s a third blow, a fourth, a fifth, and at the sixth jungkook’s just mildly aware of it all, gone into a pain-induced haze, soft, broken whimpers leaving his mouth. it stops, then. jungkook feels feverish, feels himself shiver, feels as water and blood drip down his sides. everything is warm, burning, but jungkook feels entirely too cold. he gets untied, and he almost yelps when guards pull him onto his feet. maybe it’s the lunacy in his mind, but jungkook thinks he sees when yoongi takes a few steps towards him, only to be stopped. they look at each other, and jungkook spits blood out, coughing. yoongi doesn’t follow when he’s taken away, groaning at each step. palace maids quickly circle him as soon as he’s taken into his chambers, and jungkook barely cares he’s being stripped down, barely has the time to think his limbs are exposed. when cold cloth touches the raw skin, he screams, thrashing. “please, mama, stay put,” one of them says, forcing him down again, and jungkook cries, he can’t help it. his vision is red, red on the corner of his eyes, red on his mouth, red staining the fabric around him, the water in the bowls, red, red, red. “we’ll take care of you,” the voice is soft, gentle as jungkook groans again, broken things that pass for noises coming out of his mouth. “close your eyes, mama, please—“ sheer exhaustion is what compels jungkook to do so. behind his eyelids, in the dark, there’s no blood, no pain. jungkook breathes in slow strokes. the cold is allaying. it smells of guts and snow inside his room. maybe, maybe, he—

he gasps, swallowing air, coughing. jungkook blinks awake, confused, heavy. his back is exposed, he feels the cold about it. faint memories seep in. ghost pain creeps under his skin. “don’t move too much,” yoongi’s voice startles him, and jungkook turns his head to the other side, seeing as yoongi closes a book, the candle next to him almost burning at the end. it casts strange angles on his face. “you don’t want the snow to fall off.”

jungkook stares at him. “— why are you here?”

“you keep asking me questions i don’t have the answers to,” yoongi says, sitting back on the chair, sighing. “— i didn’t want it to happen,” jungkook feels too tired to say anything in return, so he just waits, breathing steadily. “i didn’t know other guards had seen your face. they have been punished.” they look at each other. yoongi looks uncomfortable. “you aren’t speaking to me.”

“did it feel good to you to punish me, too?” yoongi blinks, at this, mouth opening. jungkook’s voice is steady. other parts of himself ache, inner ones, for reasons he cannot comprehend. “you like violence, jeonha, don’t lie.”

“i like—,” this makes yoongi huff, and he looks away, bothered. “no,” he replies, after a pause. “it did not feel good.” jungkook watched him knit his eyebrows together, watched him touch the necklace with the sigil on his neck. yoongi doesn’t look much like a king sitting there in the darkened room. he looks more like a man who is terribly lost. “the bureau will come to investigate,” yoongi says, then. “— you can tell the truth if you want.”

“i don’t know what the truth is anymore,” jungkook almost laughs, but he feels too weak to do so. “i don’t know anything.”

yoongi presses his lips together, adjusting himself on where he’s sat. jungkook feels like screaming at him, but his throat is as aching as his chest. “the queen cut my face open when i turned eighteen,” yoongi’s monotone doesn’t let out any emotions. “she tied me to a plank as well, she did it every day.” jungkook stares. “a king can’t have scars, as you know— the body of a king is sacred.” quietness follows. melted snow drips from jungkook’s back, soaking the fabric underneath him. “when she killed my mother, she made sure she wouldn’t come back to look after me,” yoongi closes his eyes, as if reminiscing something bad. “her arms were thrown in the river, her legs were given to pigs in the market, her head was shown to the other lesser concubines as a threat.” sickness comes about jungkook’s throat, and he winces. “that is the truth i can give you for now.”

still, jungkook’s hurt, and he’s angry, and he’s bitter. “— do you want me to be sorry for you, jeonha?”

“no,” yoongi turns to look at him again, shaking his head. “you wanted my reasons, i’m giving them to you— so you know who you’re killing.” jungkook thinks of saying something, but nothing truly comes out. yoongi reaches out, looking under the cloths on jungkook’s back. “it won’t scar,” he comments. “you can still be king after all.”

“i don’t want to,” jungkook tells him, moving the slightest, feeling the sharp pain against skin. “i just want to see you gone from the throne.”

“don’t move much,” and yoongi sighs, standing up to come closer, adjusting the cloths on jungkook’s back. jungkook shudders, trying not to make any noises. “i will take those away, you are cold.” yoongi works quietly, announcing whenever he’s about to touch skin, and jungkook grabs against the fabric of pillows, wincing. he sees the bloody rags on yoongi’s hands, see how they stain his skin. still, he doesn’t stop, bringing a basin of clear water close, cleaning the cuts again, drying them up so it’s easy to patch. jungkook watches him, the way his eyes look, the furrow on his brow, the soft shapes of his contours. he doesn’t understand min yoongi, and it’s driving him crazy. “i’m not a good person,” yoongi tells him, helping him to sit up, fingertips light against jungkook’s lower back, against his waist. jungkook breathes out. “we share that thought, but—” yoongi pulls back, then, when jungkook’s fully seated. his fingers are still somewhat smudged. they look at each other, but yoongi seems to deviate from his original thought, looking away too quickly. “the physician will come to see you.”

jungkook isn’t entirely sure why he grabs the front of yoongi’s clothes, pulling, before yoongi can move away. yoongi looks down at his hands, at the fingers curled around silky fabric, slightly stunned. when his eyes find jungkook’s, they’re wider than usual, they’re curious, and wondering. “—don’t—,” jungkook stammers, suddenly. “don’t go.”

“— why?”

there isn’t a proper answer for that, jungkook can’t find one. he doesn’t know why he wants yoongi to stay, he doesn’t know what the stirring under his skin means, he doesn’t know why the anger inside of him is stained with heat. he remembers how yoongi had kissed the concubine mask, how he had leaned down, how that made the air thin all about him. when jungkook pulls yoongi down, tentatively, there’s some restraint, some fear, maybe. yoongi looks confused, but his eyes flicker down to jungkook’s mouth, and his cheeks quickly become coloured red. jungkook leans forward, tilting his head, unsure of what he wants, of the rights and the wrongs, of the strange depravation of it all. their breaths mingle, mouths close. jungkook feels himself shiver. “i’m going crazy,” he mutters, his upper lip brushing against yoongi’s, his neck straining from the awkward position. finally, finally, he forces himself to push yoongi away. yoongi stumbles back, still all red, looking flustered and breathless. jungkook lowers his eyes. “i—,” he expels the hot air inside his lungs, heartbeat too fast, making him lightheaded. 

“the physician— the physician will come see you first light,” yoongi says, voice a bit rough, a bit unsteady. “should be soon.”

“were you going to stay here until then?” 

“if you hadn’t woken up— yes,” they can’t seem to look at each other. jungkook doesn’t like how his pain is alleviated by the heat of other parts of his body. “i would have stayed.”

“they wouldn’t have liked it,” jungkook offers, finally lifting his eyes. yoongi’s looking to the door, his discomposure clear. “the council would learn about it.”

“a king can do whatever he wants sometimes,” this time yoongi looks at him, and he pats the front of his clothes, as if to press the wrinkles jungkook had made with his fingers. “even stay at a concubine’s chamber overnight.”

“not when the concubine is a man, jeonha.”

“maybe that’s why i stay,” jungkook blinks, mouth opening, then closing quickly. yoongi’s colours intensify, even his lips getting redder and fleshier. maybe that’s why i stay. jungkook swallows, suddenly embarrassed. “maybe that’s—,” but yoongi shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment. “you should try and get more sleep.”

he moves back to the chair, sitting, hands unsure of what to do when they find the book again. it’s too dark to read now, the candle almost all gone. jungkook doesn’t lay down at first, his heart beating harshly against his chest. yoongi ignores him, flipping the thick pages as if the words are of importance. jungkook’s too aware of him, of his body sitting there, of the way he breathes. it bothers him, it’s loud and obnoxious and jungkook doesn’t know what to do with it. but— if yoongi’s there, no one will come take him in his sleep again. but— if yoongi’s there, his whole body is kindled. “you stir my senses too much, i can’t sleep.”

yoongi raises his head, looking at him. “what?”

“you— i don’t understand you.” it’s difficult to hold yoongi’s stare, but jungkook does it. “it angers me, and—”

“you are always angry,” it makes yoongi snort, chuckling as if jungkook has said something ridiculous. “we are alike in that sense, as well.” and after a pause: “we might die of it.”

“i won’t.”

“i might,” yoongi offers. “you just said so yourself, i stir your senses—“ 

“it doesn’t make me want to kill you as much as it makes me—“

“jungkook.” his name is said in grave manner, and jungkook stops talking right away. he swallows, ashamed, blushed. “don’t say words you will regret later,” yoongi stands, and he reaches for the folded fabric by the dresser. jungkook looks up at him when yoongi dresses his bare shoulders, welcoming the warmth of fabric and fingers. “words don’t heal as easily as a body.”

“my body isn’t healing,” jungkook breathes out. “there’s something wrong with it when you are near.” 

“the physician,” yoongi almost mumbles. his fingers run down the folds of jungkook’s clothes, nails scraping the skin underneath almost faintly. “he’ll come see you.”

“he said treason is a sickness,” jungkook doesn’t know why he says it, but he does. “maybe i am dying from it after all.”

“i’m already dead, then.” there’s no helping to the way jungkook looks at yoongi, or to the way yoongi looks at jungkook, no helping how eyes linger on the shape of noses and cheekbones, on how lips arch into a bow, on how they look in the dimly lit room, fleshy and soft-looking. jungkook so badly wants to stop looking, but it makes him hot, and it makes him feel something other than hatred and anguish, and it’s good, it feels good to be allowed the respite, if only for a moment. “— you are really—“

“nothing,” jungkook looks down, then. his heart is beating against his throat. yoongi pulls his hands back. “i’m nothing.”

“— then we are even more alike than i first thought.” yoongi sighs, going back to his chair, and he sounds tired when he speaks again: “rest, jungkook. that’s a king’s order.”

“i don’t tend to obey those, jeonha.” 

“please.”

the soft way yoongi asks, it sounds— it sounds almost nice. jungkook looks over at him, following the line of his scar. it isn’t possible for someone like min yoongi to be nice. all about him, there’s only black, deep water of an ocean too tormented, and the void that it exists in. jungkook doesn’t think it is worth getting drenched to the point of drowning, so, quietly, he replies: “— i will.” it’s an unbearable kind of silence, then. jungkook never sleeps, yoongi never leaves, their arc never coming to a conclusion. they stagger close to each other, enough to touch but not touching, and jungkook isn’t sure what outcome would be the worst. he isn’t sure of anything anymore. by the time he presses his eyes closed, maybe yoongi isn’t even there any longer. jungkook doesn’t turn to look.

the new moon is seen early above, when the sky is still a clear blue. it’s a good omen, the palace maids whisper amongst them, a good omen for a good reign. jungkook watches it, from the open windows of the royal library, wishing he could be it, the moon itself, too distant, so much so he would be untouchable. he longs for that kind of freedom every time a maid comes to dress him, every time a guard grabs his arm, shoving him backwards until he’s walking away from the gates again. he adjusts himself on the chair rather painfully, wincing as the scabs on his back rub against fabric, bothering and prickly like small needles inside his skin. the year is coming to an end with that new moon. jungkook can taste it, how it becomes ash on his tongue, wasted and gone. before he can see that same moon again, he’ll die looking through windows like that, inside the palace. he tells himself to appreciate it, the moon, her ghostly shape against the infinite blue. “mama,” a somewhat familiar voice drags his attention away. he recognises taehyung, his guard uniform contrasting too violently against the environment around him.  

“i thought you were deployed,” jungkook speaks, raising his eyebrows, slightly confused. taehyung huffs, smiling.

“they have enough people at the walls,” a mild shrug follows. jungkook doesn’t say anything. he can tell, from the way taehyung stands almost sagged that he is also healing from his own injuries. “i’m supposed to take you the king.”

“— what if i don’t want to go?”

“he did say you might not want to, but he said you could read, so,” and taehyung fumbles with the folds in his uniform until he can pull out a piece of paper, wrinkled, almost torn. jungkook reaches for it after a moment, watching taehyung blush the slightest. “it wasn’t as wrinkled when he gave me.”

come have tea, it reads in a messy hangul that needs work. it takes a moment for him to understand, but then— he’s the oldest son, he’s suppose to lead the rites, it’s the last day of the year. it is twisted to think he’d do it for a king who killed his entire family. bile stains the back of jungkook’s throat. “i don’t want to go.”

“mama—“

“jungkook,” jungkook voices over taehyung’s frustrated sentence. “i’m not— i’m not  a real consort, there is no point in addressing me like one.”

“then,” taehyung clears his throat, looking behind his back. he looks fidgety and nervous. “jungkook,” the message is crumpled into a ball that jungkook lets it roll over the wooden table and away from him. “i grew up with— with the king, with yoongi,” at this, jungkook looks up, eyebrows arching. “we are both sons of concubines, see.”

“are you another son to the—“

“no,” taehyung shakes his head. “i’m— someone else's.” he snorts, smiling, but jungkook doesn’t follow. “what he did— it may seem cruel to you, but—“ may seem cruel. jungkook glares and it makes taehyung scrambles to find proper words until he gives up entirely, head down, sighing. “i will let the king know of your wishes, mama.”

he’s left alone, then, to the soft rustle of the wind on leaves outside and the presence of the moon, pale and small above, watching from the window to the sun that starts it descent. jungkook breathes out, the air inside his lungs feeling hot. despite the poison in it, he can’t help but wonder— he can’t help but think of the time he’s spent in the castle, if in his shielded privilege there were glimpses of yoongi and taehyung in the background. there’s nothing though, aside from the faint drawings of a young min yoongi and his straw-coloured hair, how instead of burning under the sun, it’d become like liquid whiteness. jungkook touches the crumpled paper again, unfolding it, pressing the corners flat. yoongi’s handwriting is odd, untrained. taught by a concubine in secret. he wonders what else is there about yoongi that he doesn’t know, but jungkook is scared to fully see him and not being able to look away. he could go— he should go do the tea rites, for his family, but jungkook is scared of what it means to bring them close to a person like min yoongi. ghost of touches are felt on his sides, where yoongi had held. they’ve been haunting him. his eyes behind the butcher’s mask when he leaned down, the soft edges of it. jungkook crumples the paper again, tossing it farther away, burying his face on his hands before letting his forehead down against the wooden surface of the table, breathing against it. just go ahead already, his mind tells him, bothered. don’t give him another reason to have you hurt. he stays, though, for a while, before finally sitting back again, standing up with staggering feet, undecisive. taehyung is waiting by the entrance of the library, and jungkook stops, cheeks heating up immediately, caugh red-handed.

“i thought you would change your mind,” his boxy smiles follows. “— he said you would.”

“what else,” jungkook shifts on the heels of his shoes, pretending not to feel too seen, too obvious. “what else did the king told you?”

“nothing else,” taehyung shrugs. “can i walk you, then?”

“— yes,” jungkook gives in, sighing. he tries to smooths the wrinkles on the fabric of his sleeves as they walk in silence, hands too jittery. there’s something akin to moths in his stomach, their wings hitting the walls of it, trying to push out. they don’t walk to the king’s quarters, but to the pavilion at the garden. jungkook can smell incense from afar. it stains the cold air, herbal and musky all at once. yoongi’s there, jungkook can see the faint light of his hair, the way the gold of his jewelry steals away speckles of light, reflecting. when they get closer, yoongi raises his head. jungkook’s feet stop moving at once, and he feels them against the dirt, toes curling inside his shoes. taehyung notices a few steps ahead, turning to look at him. his entire body feels the pain of the injuries on his back as if they’re fresh and open, mouth filling up with sourness. taehyung takes a step closer again. “i don’t think i feel well.”

“do you need a physician?” it’s yoongi’s voice, bland, from afar. they’re close enough he’s heard jungkook, and they’re close enough jungkook can hear him, too, raising his eyes to see him behind taehyung’s shoulder. 

“no,” jungkook shakes his head, and he knows he’s shivering, but he pushes himself forward, until he can walk past taehyung, until he can see yoongi’s eyes up close and how they stare at him. the tea is set, waiting, fume leaving the pot. there’s a pillow across from yoongi, and nothing else. jungkook swallows with uneasiness, then folds his legs, sitting down. “i don’t require a physician.”

it’s quietly that yoongi dismisses taehyung, the movement almost languid, lazy. jungkook’s aware of their solitude the moment the guard goes away, joining a flank on the other side of the gate ahead. there are birds chirping, in nearby trees, and the soft sound of running water where the icy surface snapped. everything else is still, waiting, much like the two of them. yoongi moves first, grabbing the pelts folded next to him, offering them to jungkook. they are dyed crimson like his robes, the fur soft when jungkook touches it. it might look strange, the red against the dark green of his clothes, but jungkook doesn’t push it away, too cold. “you look better,” yoongi wets his lips, sighing. “i’ve been informed your injuries are healing well.”

“yes, jeonha.”

he looks down at the tea table in between them. tea rites are usually held by families, by the oldest son, for ancestors. jungkook thinks how wrong it is, that they’re there, in that pavilion— there’s only death behind them, and only death ahead. there is no point in pretending to follow social rules when there isn’t anyone looking out for them. the pottery isn’t the pretty dragon-painted porcelain that jungkook often sees on yoongi’s table. the cups are small, earthenware, brown in colour. the pot is white, but chipped. it looks too poor against the background of a king and his ceremonial clothes. “you are a first son,” yoongi clears his throat. “i thought you would like to pour the tea for them.”

“— you think of what i like?” jungkook lifts his eyes to look at yoongi. his expression is tame, kept hidden under a facade of blankness. they’re always wearing masks, the two of them, it seems like. the butcher, the concubine. yoongi seems to press his lips together, just the slightest tinge of red about his cheeks. his hair is mostly down, and this close to his face, the colours contrast more wildly. “tea won’t make things right.”

“this isn’t making things right,” yoongi touches his empty cup, fingers grazing the rim. “nothing will be right, not for people like me and you.”

“i’m not like you.”

“why did you choose to come?” jungkook blinks, looking away from yoongi’s face, to the surface of the frozen lake. “i never told them to bring you by force.” that makes it hard to ackwoledge the ache in his chest, so jungkook does, letting it in, breathing out. he wanted to come. even if only to protect himself, he wanted to come. jungkook takes the pot, after a moment, pouring a cup for each loss of his family. there are cups for yoongi’s ancestrals, too. two of them. a mother, and a— “older brother,” yoongi offers, voice low, when jungkook staggers. jungkook doesn’t look at him, pouring all the same after a moment. he offers the pot to yoongi, then, feeling his cold fingers hold over jungkook’s warm ones for a moment too long. yoongi pours for the both of them, then. the green tea looks transparent inside the brown cup, and it fumes, mixing with the steam that comes out of jungkook’s mouth when he brings it closer. he should say prayers, but it’s difficult to come out with words. “i can rub your hands if you want.” jungkook stirs, looking over his cup at yoongi. “for prayers, if you don’t want to say them.” only a nod follows, because jungkook’s throat is stuffed with things that taste too much like ashes and snow and the flowers that grow like weed by the walls of the palace. he puts his cup down, and offers his hands to yoongi, keeping his eyes steady on the table. when yoongi touches him again, the cold of his fingertips, of his rings, to the warm of jungkook’s hands, jungkook feels like all those things in his throat have caught on fire. yoongi does it gently, pressing jungkook’s palms against each other and softly rubbing the back of his hands, his knuckles, the metal of his rings pressing on bone. jungkook should be thinking of words, of prayers, of his ancestrals and the things he needs to say, but his mind has grown too aware of yoongi’s skin and how it feels, how their hands grow hotter together. he pulls them  away after a moment, and the back of them is slightly red. yoongi’s hands hover over the table for a moment too long, as if waiting, but then he retreats, too, touching his cup. “don’t let your tea grow cold.”

the tea tastes like grass and roots, and it’s hot enough to burn his tongue, but jungkook doesn’t complain. he drinks it all, swallowing with hardship. when he puts down his empty cup, he makes sure to bow, distancing himself from the table, forehead touching the flooring, breathing against it just as he did in the library. “please receive a lot of good fortune for the new year,” he mumbles, more to himself than to yoongi. when he sits upright again, yoongi is looking at him, and there’s just the slighest hint of a breeze that makes hair strands sway. jungkook follows it with his eyes. “you are my elder, and the king,” he explains, voice low. “i should bow.”   

“i don’t think you wish me good fortune,” yoongi huffs, but he smiles. jungkook almost joins him. “but i— i appreciate that you came.”

“most kings spend the new year with their ministers,” jungkook points out, reaching for the pot to pour yoongi more tea.

“as you know, i am not particularly favoured by the ministers,” their eyes meet, and yoongi shrugs a bit before taking the cup. “i haven’t been killed yet because i have gotten the support of most guards.” sounds like a sad existence, jungkook thinks, but then he thinks that maybe it is only deserving. “it’s only a matter of time, though.”

“— aren’t you scared?”

“no,” yoongi replies right away. his fingers look delicate, as they hold the cup, and jungkook thinks to himself that he needs to stop noticing details that might hurt him. “i’m not afraid to die.”

“i am, now.” it’s a lot more sincerity that he should he allowed to give out, but jungkook can’t help it. yoongi’s eyebrows twitch just a bit, as if the underlines of that small sentence are difficult to fully graps. they aren’t, not truly. jungkook has never been afraid of anything, not even during battles, face hot with blood and tears, sword trembling in his hands, knees weak. he wasn’t afraid, then. inside the palace— inside the palace he’s afraid constantly, and it eats him up like maggots crawling on his insides. “i’m even afraid to go to sleep.” jungkook sighs, feeling too— too transparent, all of a sudden, see-through like glass. still, he can’t help it, the words roll out of his tongue, shaky in their endings: “i keep thinking you will have me beaten again, or—”

“i won’t,” yoongi interrupts him, but his voice is soft. jungkook’s eyes flicker up, then down at the table again. “i didn’t meant for you to get flogged.” it’s a lie, jungkook thinks, fingers curling over the fabric of his clothes. they aren’t ceremonial ones, like yoongi’s. he doesn’t have those anymore. “nor taehyung.”

“you said i look good in red,” jungkook reminds him, forcing himself to look up, into yoongi’s blank expression, forcing himself to see him lick his lips, shoulders sagging. “that day— you said you’d flog me if asked.”

“because i knew you would never ask,” yoongi’s tone is steady, albeit just slightly breathy. jungkook flushes, vividly, maybe, lungs growing in size inside his ribcage, holding air in. “if i had wanted to kill you, i would have done it when they brought you here.”

“why didn’t you—?”

“i thought you were pretty,” jungkook sucks in his breath, looking away from yoongi again, the muscles of his heart beating against his chest. “so i selfishly kept you.” 

“i’m not a bird, jeonha,” the sentence is said too softly, when jungkook wanted it to have bite. he’s too embarrassed. he’s too tired, too fearful. all the fight has left his body, only fear remains. 

“— i understand that.” they sit in staggering silence for a minute, but then yoongi stirs, reaching for the pot again. he is pouring the remains of the tea, already colder than before, when some of the palace maids arrive with a tray of dishes. the smell of the rice cake soup is enough to make jungkook less uncomfortable, raising his head a little to look at it. there’s only one bowl of it, and an array of side dishes. the women set things quietly, bowing heavily as they walk away, never turning. “i thought you would have left before the food was cooked.” it’s an explanation, for the lack of another bowl, another set of cutlery. jungkook nods, understanding. back to the cage. 

“i will leave then, jeonha.”

“you don’t have to,” yoongi reaches out as if wanting to touch, but he doesn’t. “you can eat this.” then, after a moment of choked, stained quietness, he adds, picking up the spoon and offering it to jungkook. “we can share.”

like the rice porridge, all those months ago, how yoongi took a spoonful, so jungkook would trust it not to be poisoned— he does it again, when jungkook doesn’t take the spoon, dipping it into the broth, tasting it. jungkook watches his lips pout, touching metal, how they curve around it, tongue touching surface. a soft feeling of numbness overcomes his limbs, and jungkook presses his own lips together, bothered. the spoon is once again offered to him. jungkook takes it after a heartbeat. it’s good, the slight sweetness of the egg yolks, the salty taste of the pheasant meat. he takes another spoonful, then breathes in, giving the spoon back. it makes yoongi’s lips curl, just a thing of a smile, smudged on the corners of his mouth. they eat like that, cutlery passing back and forth, and jungkook thinks he shouldn’t dwell too much on what flavours are yoongi’s. “here,” he says, raising his chopsticks towards yoongi, to give them back, but yoongi just holds over his fingers, grabbing a slice of meat and bringing it to his mouth instead, and it all makes jungkook’s face burn in a way that isn’t good. “you should take them,” jungkook mutters, flustered, fingers loose. yoongi just shakes his head dismissively. jungkook puts the chopsticks on the table, then, swallowing. “it’s wrong, jeonha.” 

“many things are wrong and we still do them,” yoongi says, in his monotone, breathy voice. “or do you believe some people are born into servitude while others deserve a throne?”

“i—,” jungkook stammers. 

“you were born into your yangban household to grow and be exactly like your father and inherit everything he’s acquired,” yoongi continues, and jungkook blinks, staring at him through the steam that comes out of his mouth in dense clouds. “i was born to serve people like you and inherit the shame of my mother,” he takes the chopsticks, picking up a slice of ginger, chewing. “and yet here we are, jungkook.” he picks up another slice, and offers it jungkook, hand forward, hovering over the table. jungkook inhales, his mouth feels dry. he finally leans in, after too long of a second, tongue against his teeth. the ginger hurts them, too strong, but he eats it nonetheless, swallowing, feeling his mouth fill up with saliva. yoongi pulls back, looking pleased. jungkook— jungkook feels like h’s crossed lines he won’t be able to uncross. “i like watching you eat.” the sentence is said almost fondly, and jungkook’s eyes shoot up, seeing the red on yoongi’s nose getting deeper. yoongi lets him look. 

“jeonha,” jungkook starts, quietly. yoongi hums in  response. “can i ask you a question?”

“yes.”

he doesn’t know exactly what to ask— why me? why not someone else? and the words stagger in a confused mixture inside his chest. jungkook doesn’t know what it means, to feel that confused. he doesn’t know how to feel things like that. and the palace, the palace is strangling him, suffocating his thoughts until they brim, making him gag. “— can i leave the palace?” yoongi’s eyes narrow, but only just slightly, as if in thought. jungkook doesn’t look away. “i’m— i feel smothered.”

maybe it’s too much to ask, maybe he will get punished for daring. jungkook braces himself for it, for a swift dismiss, like yoongi often does with the servants. his heart beats in a pace that sounds like a water clock but all wrong, drippling. “— yes,” yoongi says, then. jungkook exhales heavily. “you may leave the palace when you so wish to.” thank you, jungkook starts, repeating it, relieved. “i hope you know i will have to have you found and killed if you don’t come back.”

they look at each other, and jungkook reminds himself that the person sitting across from him isn’t someone kind. that the freedom he’s being given isn’t for free. “i will return.”

“good,” then, softly: “i trust you.”

i don’t think you do, jungkook wants to say, but he doesn’t. instead, he reaches for the chopsticks, picking up the last slice of meat, and for a moment he thinks of offering it to yoongi and see if it takes it, but he doesn’t, sticking it into his mouth, chewing instead. yoongi smiles at that, and maybe it’s derogatory, but jungkook’s cheeks are flushed anyway. “i am grateful,” he says, then, feeling warm from the soup and warm from the way yoongi sometimes says things. “i won’t cause you trouble.”

“i will provide you with a mask,” yoongi looks sideways, to where possibly servants are waiting, gesturing with his hand. “your father’s supporters may be in hanyang, they will recognise your face.” jungkook nods. it’s an opportunity, still, even if his face is hidden. if he can get to reach one of them, if he can— “i can see the wheels in your head turning.” a pause, in which jungkook sucks in his breath, just slightly ashamed. “don’t make me regret this, jungkook.”

“i can’t promise you anything,” jungkook tries for honesty, and it makes yoongi snort, his smile widening. that’s honesty, too. 

“i like it when you don’t lie.”

“—do you?” 

“yes,” maybe that’s going too far, maybe that’s testing waters that look too deep to swim in, and there’s some sort of exhilaration in jungkook’s chest when yoongi allows it to happen, that exchange. “tomorrow, go at first light.” yoongi moves to stand, hair cascading from his shoulders. “buy me a bokjori.” 

jungkook smiles at that, even against his better judgement. “— is that an order?”

“no,” yoongi searches inside the folds of his clothes until he retrieves a red silk pouch. it makes a dinging sound when he places on the table. coins, jungkook realises. “happy new year, jungkook.” he takes a few steps away, and jungkook watches him, until yoongi stops, turning again. “there is going to be a ceremony tomorrow, you are required to be there as a royal consort.” yoongi presses his lips together. “no one will make it easy for you.”

“thank you for warning me—,” jungkook starts, but yoongi’s already turning away, away and ahead, onwards to whatever he does when he’s alone. jungkook watches him go, hair swaying behind his back, soft as silk. it takes him a while to leave the garden. his cheeks are still flushed when he does.

the market street that early in the morning is a thing of a hassle. jungkook almost regrets, almost thinks he should have stayed under heavy fabric, comfortable in a warm bed, instead of shivering under the dawn light, waiting with a small crowd, everyone’s breaths mingling in steam clouds, the titillating conversation, the children’s loud laughter as they run around the stalls. jungkook pushes himself onto his tip toes, looking over the heads and gats, to the collection of bamboo strainers being offered between shouting of mild haggling, their yellow colour looking too much like pale gold against the weak morning light. buy me a bokjori. jungkook brings his hands against his mouth, blowing hot air on them. he doesn’t know why he came so early, why, of all things, it’s a king’s request he’s following. yoongi’s request, his mind prompts. in that moment right then— he wasn’t truly the king. jungkook doesn’t know that person well enough to know who he truly is, though. 

by the time he’s returning to the palace, his coin pouch is lighter, and he’s holding two strainers— one with reddish undertones and lace, the other just plain bamboo straw, nothing else. the sky is fully alight now, but there isn’t movement inside the king’s quarters. the lamps have died out during the night. jungkook takes the steps carefully. the guards touch the hilt of their swords. “— can you give this to the king?” he asks, then, wary, not trying to climb any longer. the guards eye him suspiciously. “he asked me to buy it for him.”

“are you going to hang it for him, mama?” one of the guards ask, and while his tone is polite and courteous, there’s a hint of a brashness underneath it that makes jungkook’s stomach knot. “i am sure he will very much like too see you hanging from his ceiling.”

something akin to shame splatters across jungkook’s face, but it’s quickly followed by anger. “fuck you.”

“ah, but that’s your job, consort. maybe i can pay you a—”

there isn’t a sound when the bamboo strainers hit the stone steps, they’re too light. jungkook’s feet aren’t, not in the morning cold when his muscles are still pulling, but it doesn’t stop him from tumbling forward, bile already boiling in his throat, anger and shame and revolt and frustration, all tasting bitter inside his mouth. the guard hits the wall of the building with enough strength to push the air out of his lungs. jungkook feels it against his face, his breath, hot against his cheek. the second guard grabs his side, jungkook feels his fingers digging into fabric. it’s difficult fighting like this, unprepared and reckless and tired, but there’s satisfaction in the blood that hits his skin when he manages a punch, and for a moment there, for a moment he manages to wrap fingers around the hilt of a sword, but it clatters on the stone when he pulls it, as one of the guards shoves him harshly and jungkook scrambles down the steps until he’s hitting the ground painfully. the blade is against his throat then, too fast, and it’s only his bare reflex that makes him hold it to avoid getting impaled, opening a gash at the palm of his hand. there are other steps, then, hard ones hitting the ground as if they had come running, the sound of metal leaving sheaths, and then, and then eerie silence. jungkook breathes heavily, so heavily his lungs feel hot and big and constricted inside too small of a chest. the sword retreats, the guard, too. there’s sharp pain on his side, and sharp pain on his hand, and sharp, sharp humiliation under his tongue. he stares up at the sky, at the grayness of it. “are you hurt too bad?” it’s yoongi’s voice, close, and jungkook shudders a bit when he feels a touch on his wrist, careful.

“no,” he swallows and iron spreads all over his insides. he pulls his arm away, hiding it under his sleeve. “it’s just a scratch.” he looks away from the sky to yoongi’s figure, but he’s already standing, turning towards the guards that are bowing, their spines shivering. jungkook forces himself up on his elbows, painfully aware of all the bones inside his ribcage. “jeonha—” but yoongi barely turns his way again, walking towards the guards. they mutter apologies, jungkook can hear, under their shaky breath. the ground under one of them is wet with piss. 

there’s some sort of elegance in the way yoongi holds the fallen sword, still stained with jungkook’s blood. guards that aren’t on the floor stay too still. some say the king’s moods affect the weather, affect the palace, affect the people— right then, jungkook believes those tales. the air feels stained by fear, bone-deep, chilling fear, and the gray of the sky has started to get darker. yoongi doesn’t look like yoongi— right then, he looks like a king and jungkook’s afraid of him, too. one of the guards start to cry, a ridiculous wail of sorts, said between begging. i have a family, jeonha, please, please, i beg you for mercy, cut my fingers, then, cut them. there aren’t words when yoongi swings the sword, no preparation, no warning. he swings it until it hit the back of the guard’s neck, and jungkook jolts so bad a weak gasp leaves his mouth. it isn’t easy to decapitate someone with a thin blade. the guard falls against the ground, scrambling in weird contortions, blood gurgling out of his mouth, the horrifying sound of bone mangling, and blood splatters all over yoongi’s ceremonial clothes, the white quickly becoming red. he swings the sword again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and each time the noises grow louder, until they’re gone completely. the other guard trembles visibly, soaked in blood, piss all about him, and it reeks, the smell of it warm. jungkook watches him vomit all over himself. it makes him gag, too.  yoongi tosses the sword over the dead body when the head is finally severed, toppling to the side, insides spilling about. then, then he looks back at jungkook. jungkook pushes air out, face burning, splattered with blood that isn’t his and guts and matter. when yoongi speaks, it isn’t directed at him: “i will need clean robes for the ceremony,” he looks down at his bloodied knuckles, sighing. “and a bath.” jungkook is shivering bad, just as bad as the guard that was left alive. yoongi kneels close to him, then, and their eyes meet, and maybe yoongi sees all the blunt fear inside jungkook’s pupils, how wide his eyes are in terror. his words are soft, and low, only to jungkook’s ears: “you are scared of me.”

“i—,” and jungkook wants to say he is, but his body is too overwhelmed to grasp what exactly he is feeling. “i bought— i bought your bokjori, jeonha.”

“ah, i’m glad,” yoongi smiles at that, and jungkook notices the blood on the side of his mouth. he looks like the mask of the butcher he wears. “come, i will mend your injury.”

maybe he shouldn’t go, not in front of the guards— but they’re all looking the corpse still bleeding out, barely noticing when jungkook takes the hand that is offered to him, too aware of death to mind the way yoongi touches jungkook’s waist to keep him steady. inside, the chambers are warm. the women are quiet, too quiet, as if their tongues have been robbed. bring me clean cloths and a sewing needle, yoongi mutters, as jungkook walks ahead, smelling the scent of flowers that seem to live inside yoongi’s chambers. panels are closed, and jungkook doesn’t manage to say anything until they’re alone. yoongi walks over to where a bath fumes, dipping a cloth into water. jungkook feels too aware of him, of how he moves, of how me smells of fresh blood, and yet— he offers his hand when yoongi asks, wincing when he brushes the clot against the cut, wiping the blood out. “it is’t that deep, i’m going to be fine,” jungkook mutters, but yoongi holds his hand, bones against bones, and it’s an incongruous feelings. “jeonha—”

“allow me,” yoongi says, and it isn’t an order, it sounds like a question. jungkook looks at him, then, seeing himself reflected in the darkness of yoongi’s irises. he only nods, pressing lips together, mouth dry. “i’ll sew it, it might hurt.”

“can you sew?”

“i’m good with my hands,” there’s a hint of a jester in his sentence, and jungkook would have smiled if his heart wasn’t still beating so fast. “this is going to hurt, as well,” he mumbles, then, just before washing jungkook’s hands with rice wine, making him flinch and bite down his lips. yoongi works meticulously, then, and it does sting, briefly, whenever the hot needle punctures into skin. jungkook watches him more than he watches his process, how his hair has gotten loose, falling over his face. yoongi stills completely when jungkook touches it, unable to help himself, feeling the silkiness of it. he pushes the strand behind yoongi’s ear, feeling the skin of it warm against the pads of his fingertips. when yoongi breathes out, it comes out just slightly shaken. they both ignore it. yoongi goes on, wrapping jungkook’s hand in cotton fabric once the cut is sewn together, smearing honey between the layers, and jungkook pretends he doesn’t see how yoongi licks it off from the side of his own fingers, mindlessly, maybe, even though his hands are still dirty with blood. “you are done.”

“thank you,” jungkook touches the fabric over his hand, flexing his fingers. yoongi walks over a basin, dropping the dirty cloths there. “— you didn’t have to kill that guard.” it is said carefully. yoongi looks over his shoulder at him, huffing. “he wouldn’t have hurt me further.”

“he wouldn’t have hurt you further today,” yoongi unties the waist of his robes, and jungkook wets his lips. the stained silk soon falls on his feet, and the flimsy undergarment seems too fit about his body. “they always come back at night.” jungkook’s eyes drag away from hips towards yoongi’s face. 

“what do you mean?”

“you know what i mean,” he touches the hems of his garments, pulling them down his legs, and jungkook turns completely, ashamed of his lingering eyes. “you aren’t that young, jungkook.” he hears the soft ruffling of fabric, and then the water, when it pours out of the basin and onto the floorboards. “come in to the water.”

“i don’t need it, i can clean up in my chambers—” 

“jungkook,” yoongi sounds tired. “we have done this before.” yes, they have. jungkook looks behind his shoulders, again, to the silhouette of palace women and guards behind the door panels. they will talk again, and another guard will find him, another sword will cut him, it doesn’t end. jungkook exhales heavily. he can hear yoongi’s breath, soft, the dripping of droplets, he can smell the oils and the blood washing up. jungkook takes his clothes off without much thought. yoongi’s eyes follow him, like they usually do, as he immerses himself in the basin, too, all that hot water feeling tender against skin. yoongi waits until they are at eye level, their limbs touching slightly. “— what did they tell you?”

“nothing,” jungkook’s answer is small, mumbled. “it doesn't matter anymore.”

“it matters to me if they are hurting what is mine.”

“i’m not yours,” it’s weak, that retort. weak and baseless. yoongi notices, maybe, probably. jungkook doesn’t look at him. “i’m not a concubine, not a consort,” his grip at the sides of basin get tighter. “i’m—” the son of a dead general, the last remains of his family, nameless, shapeless, homeless, futureless. the words seem to mock him, too. jungkook blinks, trying to swallow. 

“jungkook,” at this he raises his eyes, heart fluttering awkwardly. yoongi’s voice is too breathy. “that’s who you are.”

they stare at each other. jungkook breathes in. “— and who are you, jeonha?”

“just the butcher.” 

a startle runs down his spine when jungkook feels yoongi touch his hand, his fingers grazing skin, just gently, just slowly. he wants to understand what it means— that touch, the way it makes his middle hot, the way it steals away the air held in his lungs. so jungkook allows it, holding yoongi’s stare, watching his expression soften into something akin of want. want. jungkook’s eyebrows twitch. want. he feels it on his thighs, and on the back of his knees, and on the knuckles yoongi presses against. he’s felt want before, but not like this, not wanton and— reckless. his eyes linger on the shapes of yoongi’s face, on the flesh of his lips, how they look like they’ve been coloured by gore, the slight darkness of his mouth showing between them. jungkook teeth press against the inside of his bottom lip, as if pain would deviate his thoughts into something that tastes less like soot. yoongi stands, then, but only briefly, to come closer, and jungkook’s distracted by the sound of the water, distracted by the weight of yoongi’s legs over his own. his breathing staggers, and he exhales in chopped gasps, their faces close enough he can feel the hot air coming off yoongi’s mouth. his mouth, the gap between— jungkook feels suddenly dizzy, lightheaded as if he hasn’t eaten in days, weak against the way yoongi’s hair slide down his shoulders, touching the water, floating in it. his eyes flutter closed when yoongi touches the middle of his neck, tracing fingers against hot skin. jungkook doesn’t mean to let his head fall backwards, but he does it all the same, numb everywhere, burning. they press against him, those fingers, following the line of his jaw, towards his ears, and jungkook gasps loudly when he feels lips against his neck, wet and smooth and fleshy, he gasps as if he’s been drowning, choking on spit, hands coming to grab against the sides of yoongi’s body, clutching fabric to stop him. he opens his eyes again, staring at the dragon above. his lungs feel like they’re on fire. 

“you have a mole on your neck,” yoongi says against skin. jungkook can feel the pressure of yoongi’s knees against his sides, how they’re awkwardly positioned inside that basin, how their bodies are touching in too many ways under the fabric of their bathing clothes. he feels himself hot, hotter, wanting. jungkook’s hold on yoongi gets weaker. he wants it. panic floods him entirely, then, and he manages to push yoongi away, and they are both breathing raggedly, and they are both flushed, and they are both— 

“between two men, this is— this is wrong.” the words are forced out, shaky and unsure. jungkook can’t look at yoongi. he feels tense and choked and confused. “let me go— let me go back to my chambers, please.”

“— you may go back to your chambers, jungkook.”

it’s all he needs to stand, hiding his telling body behind the panels, losing the wet clothes to dress on yoongi’s blood-stained silky ones. this time he doesn’t care that those robes aren’t his own, that they are regal, that they have dragons embedded on the fabric. no one looks at him when he leaves, feet missing steps, stumbling. no one follows him, or spare him words. the body isn’t there anymore, but the puddle of piss, guts and blood remains. jungkook almost steps on it, heart beating too harshly against his chest. he only allows himself to stop when he’s closed inside his chambers. then he stops, sitting at the edge of his mat, burying his face on his hands. his mind is running with imagery, with the colour of yoongi’s mouth, with the way that it felt like on his neck, and jungkook doesn’t want to, but he bites down lips hard enough to split them, crawling into bed, hand between his legs. frustration builds alongside shame, but he does it anyway, feeling the fabric of yoongi’s clothes on his skin, the scent of his skin all over him. jungkook whimpers against a pillow, stroking himself too carelessly, fast enough it’s painful. relief washes over him when he comes, staining the folds in the silks, gasping for air. he touches himself, still, fingers rubbing skin until pleasure is akin to pain, until he can remind himself of what it would feel to let himself be touched by yoongi. his body convulses weakly, involuntarily squirming, and finally, finally, jungkook lets go. for a long time he lays there, motionless, body heavy against the sticky mess between his legs. his eyes stare the wall. some sort of sadness takes him, then, sadness and confusion. he feels sullied and empty. and yet, and yet, and yet— he closes his eyes, forcing the images out of his mind— and yet he wants to feel it all over again. jungkook breathes, letting slumber and exhaustion take him.       

by the time he stirs awake, it’s with the sound of the daechwita. the yonggo reverberates in his ribcage, shredding sleep off of him. he’s still lying on yoongi’s silks dirty with come and blood. jungkook rolls his body until he can face the ceiling. there aren’t dragons there, just bleakness. it takes him a while to wash up, the water on the basin is too cold, but he’s too ashamed to call for someone to change it. a set of ceremonial clothes was left in the room. he dresses himself too slowly. by the time he finally walks to the throne hall, it’s nighttime full. above him, the sky is dark as a river deep. when he approaches the courtyard in front of the hall, palace women quickly make them way towards him, taking him behind swaying colorful banners, towards where yoongi’s sitting. jungkook’s heart aches with warm immediately upon seeing yoongi, all the gold and white about him, the headgear on his hair too beautiful. he’s laughing, a cup on his hand, watching the performances happening in front of him. warm runs down his body, a puddle of it drenching his insides. he’s offered a seat close to yoongi, as his consort. yoongi doesn’t acknowledge him at first, but jungkook can tell other people do— the ministers, the council, common folk who flocked in to see the king’s consort, aristocrats. he feels mildly nauseated, as if they can see what he’s done hours before, as if they know. maybe they do. there might be walls in the palace, but they are fickle. finally, yoongi looks his way, and his nose is red, and his cheeks, and he’s still smiling— jungkook looks down at his own hands, to how they tremble.

“are you feeling better?” the question is low, but jungkook hears it under the sound of drums and marching feet. he nods, unable to speak. “here,” and yoongi pours him a cup of soju. jungkook takes it after a moment. when he doesn’t drink, yoongi huffs: “don’t waste it out, it’s a king’s pour.”

so he drinks it, and jungkook thinks the heat of it matches the heat under his skin. “i drink to your health, jeonha,” he mumbles, cheeks flushing easily. yoongi stares at him, still. “to your— long term reign.”

“it won’t be a long one,” yoongi shakes his head. jungkook lifts his eyes to look at him, then, finding yoongi’s. “unless you want to reign with me, then i will make an effort.” the way he sounds, with alcohol rounding his vowels, jungkook almost thinks he speaks something that could be true. nothing is true in that sentence, though. yoongi pours them both more of it, and it spills down the sides of the small cups and over their fingers. it doesn’t seem to matter. “you look good,” the sentence is said softly. “you are wearing my coat of arms, too.” yes, the ceremonial clothes given him match yoongi’s, his colours, his dragons. jungkook swallows the drink, feeling it numb out his lips, and his thoughts. 

“all these people,” jungkook starts, not daring to look at the crowd. “they will tell stories about— you and me,” it’s part of his imprisonment, of course, the humiliation. he only thought yoongi would not want to be dragged along and into the mud, staining the ivory of his skin. it doesn’t seem to bother him, though. “your court—”

“i don’t care what the old rats say,” yoongi chuckles weakly. “everything is fickle, jungkook.” jungkook stares at him, at the redness about him, at the slight sadness in his manners. “i have already done what i needed to do.” the crowd gasps at the fireworks that explode above them, and the both of them stare up for a moment. there is clapping and shouting, and the loud sound of the shawm. jungkook looks down again, to find yoongi looking at him, eyes hooded and pretty. pretty. jungkook blinks, heart racing. yoongi swallows, raising the bottle made of dragon-clad porcelain. “—do you want more?”

“— yes,” jungkook nods, offering his cup. yoongi doesn’t pour in it, though. he drinks out of the bottle, and before jungkook can understand, or think, or breathe— his clothes are being tugged forward, and their lips meet, and jungkook almost coughs, mouth flooding with hot alcohol, dripping down his chin. he swallows as yoongi’s tongue touches his, a small kind of keen sound pouring out of yoongi’s throat. jungkook pulls himself back, body failing him, too attune to the way yoongi tastes like, feels like, smells like. he touches the back of his hand to his mouth, shaking. people ought to have seen it. guards, and peasants, and clowns alike. the court, held in front of them. jungkook feels out of breath. yoongi turns away from him, then, and jungkook’s left to pick up the shards of his thoughts, cutting himself through. the kiss stains everything, every inch of him, inside and out. if he closes his eyes he’ll feel it, yoongi’s tongue, the heat of his mouth, the texture of his lips. if he keeps them open, he can see yoongi, his smaller frame, how he’s shaped under his clothes. jungkook feels alight, and sick. his head is pounding to the pace of a gong. his voice comes out strange when he speaks, hoarse: “— can i leave?”

it takes yoongi a moment to reply, without looking his way: “no, you cannot.” and so jungkook stays, forcing himself to look at the performances, at the prayers, hearing yoongi address the crowd. they are served food, but jungkook doesn’t touch it. his body is painfully aware of everything around him, of every gaze and every hushed voice, of the folds of yoongi’s clothes, of his hair, of the back of his neck. there’s respite only when yoongi walks towards the ministers, leaving him alone, but it’s fickle, that respite, as jungkook feels exposed to the whims of a crowd that despises him. he swallows heavily. it’s hours of it, torturous hours of celebration, and jungkook’s entire body feels sore and tense. in front of them jesters and clowns perform, a makeshift king and his male concubine, the racy scene loud. jungkook can’t breathe. finally, finally, finally yoongi stands, and finally he makes to leave, brushing past jungkook without words, disappearing into the throne hall. jungkook stands, too, after some time, knees weak as if they’re broken— and he follows, he needs to. the throne hall is empty, no lamps are on, so it’s dim, only the orange flares of trembling dappled light come through. the noises are muffled, but not entirely. yoongi’s sitting on his phoenix throne, looking flushed and sleepy. jungkook walks until he’s at the bottom of the steps. they look at each other. “i thought you were going to go back to your chambers.”

“i’m,” jungkook sucks in his breath, then take a step forward. there’s the loud sound of laughter outside, and the singing voices of street performers. he looks behind his shoulders, but they’re alone. the image of the debauched scene between the two men outside still bothers under his clothes. yoongi hasn’t moved when jungkook looks back at him again. “— what did you kiss me?”

“i wanted to,” jungkook takes another step upwards, climbing the flight of stairs slowly. yoongi looks amused. “you wanted it, too.”

“you don’t know what i want,” jungkook says, brashly. “you don’t know anything.”

“— are you going to kill me, jungkook?” and yoongi has too look up when jungkook finishes climbing the steps that aren’t meant to be climbed by anyone that isn’t a king. “cut my head off like i did that guard?”

“i want to.”

“and yet you are taking too long.” the clean dismiss makes the blood inside him boil, and jungkook can’t help it, then, vision red and bloody, frustration tipping over the edge again, everything heightened and all-consuming like a forest fire in the summer. he shoves yoongi back against the throne, hands on his throat, pressing. yoongi touches his wrist, but his expression doesn’t change, even if his breathing does. “go through with it or i will kiss you again.” jungkook presses harder, but it’s only for a moment, his heart against his throat, beating and beating and beating, and jungkook lets go only to grab about yoongi’s clothes, bringing them together again. it’s a different kiss, wet, unruly, harsh. jungkook can barely remember how it is to kiss without anger, if he ever did it before. yoongi’s hand press on his waist, tugging him closer until jungkook’s straddling him, his knees against the back of the ornate chair. it’s desperate, that kiss, desperate and raw and vicious, and yoongi laughs weakly against him when jungkook tugs at his hair, a fistful of it, feeling its softness. jungkook feels like he’s dying— like he’s made of flames and heat, and when he licks into yoongi’s mouth, he’s almost sure he’s tasting coal. yoongi kisses him back, yearning for it just the same. jungkook slides hands under yoongi’s vest, pushing it out of the way, making yoongi gasps for breath when his fingers graze skin, and jungkook’s face burns. his fingers explore ribs, pressing between the gaps in them, and they brush over nipples, and jungkook feels yoongi wince, a soft sound rolling out of his tongue. it’s a nice sound. jungkook swallows it. he lets yoongi touch him, too, undoing the ribbon on his waist too easily. “you’re wearing too many undergarments,” yoongi says against his mouth, pressing against the fabric he can’t seem to get rid of, and jungkook reacts more vocally when his nipples get brushed against. he didn’t know it felt that way, and the sharp pleasure that runs down his torso weights like a stone. yoongi kisses down his jaw, then, sucking the skin until it stings, as if wanting to hurt. he wants to hurt— that’s why they’re there. there’s nothing else besides hurt and shame. jungkook’s hands travel south, touching stomach and hips, and yoongi bites on jungkook’s shoulder when his cock gets touched fully, a corrupted kind of heave escaping through his teeth. he bites hard enough to draw blood, and jungkook gasps himself, aching. yoongi grabs on his wrist, then, head flinging back, hitting the throne with a dull thud, muted sort of noise leaving his throat. jungkook watches him, sitting over his legs, stroking and stroking, feeling the warmth of him, the weight. it would be so easy to slice his throat just then, it’d be easy to make a gash that would bleed out his contents and pour them down the stairs. in the play, outside, that’s what the king did, fucked the concubine and left him bleeding from his throat. inside the throne hall, instead— inside the throne hall jungkook leans in, kissing it, the patch of skin under yoongi’s earlobe, feeling him leak, feeling yoongi’s fingers tremble. “fuck.” 

jungkook wants to make it hurt, wants to make it shameful, wants yoongi to feel like he does, all those needles inside his lungs, ribbons for insides. he wants yoongi to remember how it felt every time he seats on that chair, and he wants him to want it, despite how humiliating it is. so he stops, fingers loose, tips touching the skin of yoongi’s stomach. yoongi groans, moving the slightest, as if wanting to raise his hips against him. jungkook’s heavier. “no,” he says against yoongi’s ear, kissing skin again, tongue flat over the muscle that goes down the crook of his neck, and yoongi breathes heavily, hands coming to touch the back of his head, pulling his hair.

“jungkook—“

“i don’t want you to speak,” jungkook mutters, kissing over collarbones, leaving purple bruises on them. “you are not a king right now, you’re just—“ his eyes close, too easily enjoying the way yoongi tugs on his hair, almost giving in, tempted to allow it. “you’re just min yoongi,” yoongi huffs, but it’s a weak one, broken by a sigh when jungkook gives him a languid, slow stroke. “yoongi,” he says his name softly, just as yoongi lets out a muffled moan against his hair. “does it feel good?”

“yes,” and yoongi nods, his cheek against jungkook’s hair, his breath hot. jungkook likes how it feels, that kind of embrace. he pulls away from skin to taste yoongi’s mouth again, shivering at how much he likes it, his tongue, his teeth, how hot they are. his strokes are still too slow, slow enough yoongi tries and press against him again, burning uncontrollably. “fuck you,” he complains, when jungkook stops once more. 

“no,” jungkook says quietly, pulling back completely to look at yoongi, his clothes pushed away from his shoulders, the bite marks on the side of his neck, the way he breathes, the darkness in his pupils. jungkook touches the headgear on his head, unlocking the hair pin that keeps it in place, tossing on the ground. its metallic noise echoes ghostly around them as it rolls down the steps. it’s easy to undo yoongi’s topknot then, to let yoongi’s hair falls around his naked limbs. “i like your hair, jeonha.”

“— do you?”

“yes,” and his fingers find a way through them, brushing scalp, holding, while his other hand slides between the folds in yoongi’s clothes again. yoongi’s eyes immediately close, a frown of something like pain twitching his eyebrows. jungkook watches him all along, pace getting faster, sloppier, and he thinks of stopping yoongi from touching him, over his undergarments, in a desperate matter, but it feels good. he almost loses it, then, his will, almost leans against that touch and lets yoongi takes another piece of him, staining it. yoongi gasps when jungkook goes faster, scrambling, and maybe the bandages on his hand burn his skin, and maybe it hurts like it’s supposed to hurt. yoongi brings him closer, and jungkook allows himself to rest his forehead on yoongi’s shoulder, the touch between his legs too good, so good, so good. he’s so blind to anything else that he barely realises when yoongi comes, spurting all over his hand, groaning against him. jungkook doesn’t stop. he knows it will become pain soon. yoongi’s breath hitches, his fingers leaving him to grab against his hips.

“that’s— enough,” he says, weakly, voice rough.

“it’s not enough,” jungkook tells him quietly, and yoongi’s back arches, the noises he makes becoming more desperate. yoongi doesn’t fight it, though, he holds against him instead, as if welcoming the pain that follows release, grabs about jungkook’s shoulders firmly, breathing on his neck. 

“jungkook,” yoongi seems to mutter, and jungkook likes how it sounds as if he’s afraid. “ah, please—“ somehow jungkook imagines the doors opening behind them just then, the crowd pouring in to see the king’s humiliation, how he looks on his throne, begging, legs slightly spread like that, dripping come, head tossed back, liking it. the thought alone is shameful, and jungkook’s face is red, and he only mutters a ragged touch me again, to which yoongi complies weakly, wrapping a hand around him over fabric, pressing without much care. “ah, ah, jungkook—“

jungkook only stops when he comes, too. yoongi breathes out too heavily, wincing at the way jungkook’s fingers still slide against him, body convulsing. the throne hall smells like them, now, like salt, like dirt and blood and honey. the noises from outside seep in stil, over the thumping of jungkook’s heart. the wooden chair creaks. jungkook feels as if he’s running a fever. he pulls his hand back, fingers sticky and wet with come, and yoongi stares at him when jungkook smears it on the side of his mouth, thumb pressing into lips and yoongi’s bottom teeth, touching tongue. “a king’s pour,” jungkook manages, and yoongi swallows, licking against jungkook’s fingers. “don’t waste it.”

“— don’t leave,” it isn’t what jungkook expects, that sentence. he had expected anger, disgust—not softness. jungkook pulls back his hand. yoongi looks at him, unmoving if not for the quick rise and fall of his chest. “sleep in my chambers.”

“no,” jungkook makes to stand, but yoongi holds him, fingers digging into the sides of his hips, then down his thighs, nails scraping fabric. “i wanted to make you feel like i do,” jungkook closes his eyes, enjoying the touch for a moment, head tilting back. “i wanted you to feel—,” yoongi leans forward then, kissing his neck again, like he did in their shared bath hours before. “i wanted you to feel wrong.”

“there is nothing wrong about this, you know there isn’t,” yoongi mutters, weakly. “you cannot lie to your king.”

“you are not my king,” jungkook swallows. his head feels heavy, his body does, too. he’s exhausted from feeling too much. “you are just the butcher.” he shoves yoongi back, standing, knees almost giving in under him. yoongi looks up at him, clad in depravation. “next time i will kill you.”

“if you don’t, i will just have to kiss you again.”

he takes the steps then, quickly descending them, feeling faint, head alight. jungkook leaves through a side door. palace women stand there, their eyes to the ground. they have heard it, seen it. jungkook sucks in his breath, pushing past them and out into the night, leaving the stained throne hall behind. the thought of having been watched is sickening. that sickness follows him into his chambers, as jungkook tears the fabrics of his clothes away, feeling dirty under his skin. the image on the glass mirror isn’t a good one— it’s harsh purple bruises flocking his body, the bite mark on his shoulder, how the blood has dried. he won’t be able to hide it, some of them. he will have to wear them, like a poor man’s necklace, like a criminal’s brand. jungkook turns away from the mirror, getting dressed into clean undergarments made out of ramie, their touch nice against his bruised skin.    

he doesn’t sleep for too long, listening to festival that goes on in the courtyard, staring at his door as if waiting for guards to show up, for yoongi to step inside. nothing happens, not when the songs die out, not when the voices tip into silence, not when the sun rises again, brighter than the day before, as if pleased. he slides his hands against the fabric of the mat, thinking they don’t compare to how yoongi’s hair had felt like. jungkook doesn’t sleep at all.

silence lasts them a month, maybe more. jungkook stops counting. he hasn’t left his chambers in a while, too fearful of the eyes that follow him, of the things they have seen or heard or thought of. after a month, maybe more, his body still doesn’t feel clean enough, even though the bruises are far gone, even though the cut on the palm of his hand has become nothing but a faint scar. the immaterial things haven’t scarred, though, the ones that jungkook tries and forget, only to wake up sweating in the middle of the night thinking of them, burning a fever, gasping for air— the hands on his throat, pressing, the touches between his legs, the texture of a tongue, warm. they are slowly killing him, all those things. so jungkook plots— plots an escape, plots a murder, plots his own death, and every time plotting needs to be action, the hand that holds the blade is weak and unsteady. that day, just as all the others, he stands in his chambers, letting the palace women dress him, too exhausted to push them away. he doesn’t want to, but he thinks of yoongi. his face flushes crimson, and he stirs, blinking. “are you well, mama?” one of them asks, a young girl, a child, her hair nicely secured in a nice knot. her face is familiar.

“no,” jungkook offers, finding difficult to lie. “i am not well.”

“do you want us to bring you some tea?” she is tying the ribbon over his waist, fingers working seamlessly. jungkook shakes his head instead of using his voice. “mama,” and at this jungkook looks down at her, watching her look carefully behind her shoulder, to where another woman stands. “i will adjust your pockets, if you do not mind.” he frowns, confused for a moment, but jungkook feels when she slides something in it, something heavy, like a knife. his eyes widen. her expression doesn’t change. “it would not be nice if your pockets were not properly sewn when you visit the king tonight,” she speaks carefully, measuring her words, and her eyes flicker back at him, and there’s something in them. “it would be improper.”

“yes,” jungkook finds himself saying, swallowing. “yes, that— that would be improper of me.”

“especially at night,” she finishes tying his ribbons, stepping back to bow a little. “it is difficult to see one’s pockets then.”

“you are spelling foolishness, child,” the other maid says, her tone sounding like a warning. she bows. “i will punish her later, mama.” the girl doesn’t look too bothered at that, maybe used to it. jungkook knows taking her side would be worse, so he doesn’t. “we shall leave you, then.”

he stands in the middle of his chambers, watching them leave, closing the panel doors softly. one stays, her back to it, waiting on him as she would to a lady. jungkook exhales slowly, then pushes a hand inside the folds of his clothes, pulling out a woman’s norigae, the tassels of red colour, the ornaments of blossoming orchids. attached to it, an eunjangdo, the steel knife thin and sharp inside its metal sheath. a virgin’s knife. it would not be nice if your pockets were not properly sewn when you visit the king tonight. jungkook wets his lips, looking back to the panel doors, wanting to go after the young girl. she had been laughing with yoongi that day, when jungkook had failed to kill him. his heart speeds to the point he feels uncomfortable. kill the bastard king, his mind says, and it sounds much like the small voice of that girl-maid. that’s why you were given a blade.

the day is spent in agony, if anything. jungkook feels hollowed out, burdened by the weight of the knife pressing against his ribs. it’s his filial duty, to kill the bastard king. his father would be able to rest knowing his rebellion was conclusive in a way. and yet, and yet, and yet— and yet jungkook feels like he cannot touch the knife without burning, and jungkook feels like he cannot take a step towards the king’s quarters without leaving behind things he doesn’t understand just yet, things that seem to be growing through his insides like thorns on a rose garden. it isn’t ease to prune those feelings, they’re thick, unwieldy. understanding what they are is as difficult as to understand the man to whom those feelings attach to. jungkook bites the insides of his cheeks, waiting for guards to take him, waiting to be dragged, waiting for the opportunity.

it doesn’t come. the night is quiet, the palace dorment— there isn’t anyone standing at his door. jungkook shivers in the cold chambers, confused. he pushes the panels sideway, sliding them until he can step out to the corridor, and then out into the bitter cold of the night. the silence is bulky, as if solid. it hurts inside his ears. when he walks forward, he fears his footsteps are echoing out all over hanyang, announcing his out of bounds trail. jungkook thinks of the girl, what have made her risk her life to see yoongi overthrowned, dead, what has he done to her. then he remembers his smile, and how she looked at him. what has he done to you—? there aren’t guards in front of the king’s quarters. jungkook stops at the shade of the nearest wall, watching the darkened building. some of the outside lamps still fume. the air smells strange, something like decay staining it. jungkook feels suddenly more afraid than he’s ever been, more afraid than in the day the guard had his head severed in front of him, more afraid than when he kissed yoongi and yoongi kissed him back. still, he climbs the stone steps slowly, hand sliding into his pocket, curling around the sheath. there’s a gap in the paneling doors. jungkook swallows. the breeze ruffles his hair, and the poignant smell of wrongness feels stronger, then. there isn’t any noise, the night is dead. jungkook steps into the dark entrance without breathing. it’s warm inside, but the air feels humid. he tries to remember the corridors inside, where they will take him, tries to bring out the memory of being yoongi’s chambers. his eyes adjust, after a few minutes, and it’s enough to perceive the contours of furniture, the white moonlight on the higher panels, the smell of musk softens the strange edge on the air.

he hears a noise, then. a soft noise, like a gasp that has been muffled. jungkook trains his ears to follow it, and the floorboards creak underneath his weight, making him stop every other step. there’s faint light coming out from the doors left ajar. the king’s chambers. the light drips out, trembling, candle light, maybe a fire. jungkook smells burnt flesh, and he has to bring a hand to cover his nose. “it is only right, jeonha,” someone says, jungkook thinks it’s a minister, the voice only barely familiar. “as a king, you know this is the right thing to do— for our country.”

the images inside his head, they’re conflicting. jungkook thinks he’ll see them around a body of someone like him, a traitor, a rebel. he thinks he will see them feasting on it, on burnt flesh pulling off bones. he thinks he will see yoongi sitting on his bed, looking at the ministers the same way he had looked at jungkook from his throne, hair undone, clothes wrinkled down his shoulders. it isn’t any of those things. jungkook holds his breath, and his heart stops beating for a sheer second. yoongi’s tied, the ropes around his wrists cutting skin, his knuckles bruised. cloth is stuffed into his mouth, soaked in spit. he’s wearing his undergarments, but they’re bloodied. there are three ministers around him, one guard holding a trembling sword, not looking at yoongi, another dead on the floor, puddle of blood around him. one of the ministers holds a branding iron, and it sizzles, red on the tip, hot. it would not be nice if your pockets were not properly sewn when you visit the king tonight. a coup, jungkook’s mind prompts, they are killing the king. the palace girl knew all along. “we will give you a criminal’s mark while you live so you remember how it hurts in death, too,” yoongi makes a noise, a groan of sorts, and he doesn’t look scared, he looks angry, and vicious, and like the dragon in ceiling. it doesn’t do well to bother dragons. “hold him.”

the guard doesn’t move. he looks scared. his hold on the sword is weak. jungkook exhales, heart thumping too harshly, so loud they might hear him. his hold on the sword is weak. for a split of a second, jungkook thinks of letting it happen— letting yoongi die like that, letting him go completely. but something clings to him viciously, something that tastes in his mouth like yoongi had. you only die when i tell you to, he remembers yoongi saying. the guard’s hold on the sword is weak, so weak he doesn’t fling it when jungkook runs in, so weak he lets go of it almost immediately as soon as jungkook grabs one of the ministers, puncturing the knife on the side of his neck, hearing his scream, feeling the blood spilling down his clothes and over jungkook’s hands. the sword clatters, the noise familiar, too, the fight familiar, the screams familiar. it’s different than the day the guards attacked him. it’s easier to fight. jungkook grabs the sword, and it slides through the stomach of the second minister as his veiny hands grab about jungkook, trying to push it away, and he coughs blood that splatters on jungkook’s face. he barely hears their bodies crumpling on the floor, the faint, painful breaths they take as they bleed out, their glassy eyes. the third minister shrieks when jungkook grabs him by the back of his clothes, and they wrestle until jungkook is able to press the knife into the side of his lungs, and again, and again, and again, and again, and he groans with the effort, and it’s too remiscent of battlefields and yoongi’s breathing as he severed a head months before. there’s only the guard left. jungkook pushes himself up. his mouth is full of blood. “no, please, mama—,” the guard starts, walking backwards. jungkook advances, but yoongi has managed to stand, putting his body between them. he’s splattered with blood, too. jungkook looks into his eyes, blinking, suddenly realising how much he’s shaking. he’s warm, all over. the knife cuts through the ropes, and yoongi gags when the cloth gets pulled out of his mouth, heaving.

“don’t— let him go,” he says, faint, grabbing about jungkook’s wrists. then, to the guard, he adds: “go, tell them there has been an assassination attempt.” blood drips into more puddles from the dead bodies of the ministers, dripping from their noses and their mouths and their ears, dripping against the flooring. they match the way jungkook breathes, rapidly, they are warm just the same. he is still staring at yoongi, wide-eyed, unable to stop trembling. he watches yoongi swallow. the guard leaves, running, his steps echoing faintly. “— how did you know, jungkook?”

“i did not know,” jungkook manages, and his voice comes out rough. “i was— i came here to kill you.”

“i—,” and yoongi seems to sigh. jungkook feels his fingers tight around his wrists, feel how hot they are. “i told you i would have to kiss you if you failed, didn’t i?” he doesn’t know why yoongi touches him like that, he doesn’t know why yoongi brings him closer, even with the knife in his hands, even knowing jungkook’s purposes. it doesn’t seem to matter. yoongi’s breath is humid, and his mouth tastes like blood, and tea leaves, and salt. the knife is close to his throat, and yet yoongi dips against him, and jungkook allows it, sighing into it, kissing back so he can hold himself on his knees instead of crumbling. “— how did you get that knife?” yoongi asks against him, and jungkook exhales.

“a palace maid,” jungkook shakes his head, finally stepping away, giving himself room in order not to burn. “she told me to come, she— she must have known.”  

“you could have let them do it for you.”

“you,” jungkook looks down at their feet, seeing red, and his lungs feel like they will stop working. “you can only die when i tell you.” that makes yoongi huff, jungkook hears it, and maybe he’s smiling, but there isn’t a chance for him to see. guards flock in, their steps heavy against the wooden flooring, lamps in their hands, swords out. jungkook sees members of the investigation bureau, their uniforms different, the feathers in their gats more poised.

“take him to his chambers,” yoongi says, looking at him, and jungkook’s eyes grow in size, confused, head snapping up, staring back. “keep him guarded, don’t let anyone in, and don’t let him out.”  jeonha, jungkook starts, but yoongi turns away, looking at the dead bodies and not at him. when he speaks again, his voice is as cold as the surface of the frozen lake: “and i would like you to call for the remaining three ministers, kindly, if you will.”

jungkook can only imagine their fate— if they will plead mercy as they burn away as yoongi spills flames. his chambers are left cold, and jungkook isn’t given fresh water, nor clean silks. so he stands there, in the dark, shivering, hand pressed so hard against the sheath of his knife the engravings are marked on the skin of his palm, the orchids over his scar. he knows he smells bad, like spilled guts, like sweat, like perforated stomachs, its contents having soiled the front of his robes. jungkook undresses until he isn’t wearing any of it. the basin in his chamber is half-empty, the water stale and slighty dirty from his washing up earlier in the evening. it’s better than nothing. jungkook rubs his knuckles, his fingers, getting the blood out, until they’re pink and cold. he grips the rim of the basin, then, breathing sharply. he failed, but it doesn’t taste like failure. it just taste like yoongi did, everything does. jungkook looks at himself reflected on the surface of the water, rippling softly every time a drop runs down his chin. right then, he looks just a like a monster, twisted features, grim. he resembles yoongi, too, for a moment. jungkook pulls back, walking away, towards the bed.

by the time the door is pushed open, jungkook’s almost asleep, sitting up still, chin almost touching his chest. he stirs awake immediately, limbs heavy bringing the covers around him more tightly to hide. the door closes. yoongi looks at him, expression mild. jungkook feels transparent again. his body heats up, cheeks flushing. yoongi’s flushed, too. flushed and smeared with blood. he’s changed his clothes, but those are also stained, different blood from different kills. jungkook thinks of saying something, but his throat is too dry. yoongi doesn’t say anything, either. his fingers touch the silky waistband holding his overcoat wrapped, untying the knots, and it falls noiselessly at his feet. jungkook watches him undress, unable to look away, unable to stop it from happening, wanting it to happen, wanting to see. yoongi’s skin is full of blemishes, scars, bruises. jungkook thinks they contrast too well against the pale limbs. he sucks in the air when yoongi pushes his underpants down the length of his legs. he doesn’t look away. yoongi steps closer then, naked, and jungkook doesn’t look away. the fingers that hold the fabric around him loosen. when yoongi kneels on over the mat, jungkook doesn’t look away. yoongi’s blushed, maybe as blushed as jungkook is. he reaches out, pulling the covers away from jungkook’s shoulders. jungkook doesn’t look away. it’s careful, the way they move, slow— maybe yoongi fears jungkook still holds a knife. he does, but it falls against the mat too easily, forgotten. jungkook reaches out, too, touching yoongi’s hair, untying it. yoongi gets closer, their breaths hot. when he leans in, touching his mouth to the side of jungkook’s neck, his hair falls against jungkook’s shoulders, brushing skin. jungkook closes his eyes, finally, vision slightly red, head touching the panel behind his bed, hands touching the sides of yoongi’s arms. yoongi kisses his neck, over his shoulder, up his jaw, and his fingers slide under the covers, rubbing over his waist, and jungkook stirs, enjoying how it feels. he moves a little, pulling yoongi’s legs over his own until they’re close enough their chests touch, and yoongi breathes out raggedly when jungkook kisses him, hand curling at the back of his head, tugging them together, tongues overlapping. jungkook tries to remember how it is to kiss with anger. he moans when yoongi’s fingers grasp in between them, pressing them together. the friction is alarmingly good. yoongi licks into his mouth before pulling back, their foreheads touching, the tips of their noses. the pace gets quicker, and jungkook inches forward, taking yoongi’s bottom lip between his teeth. it makes yoongi chuckle. jungkook doesn’t complain when he gets pushed against the panel, when yoongi untangles himself from his legs to kiss down his neck and over his chest, leaving bites that are love-like, but purple all the same. he inhales sharply when yoongi’s mouth presses against his nipples, and jungkook cards a hand through silky hair, pulling. yoongi goes down, still, over ribs, over hip bones, down until jungkook gasps, legs pressing against the sides of yoongi’s shoulders, feeling his tongue, the light scrape of his teeth, his hair against his thighs. it’s too good, it’s like nothing jungkook has ever felt— he lets out a noise, loud, loud enough it possibly drifts out, where guards stand, where the women stand, all looking at the ground. he brings his knuckles against his teeth, biting. yoongi doesn’t seem to mind the noises he makes. everything is hot, and jungkook’s toes curl, and his hips buckle, thrusting against yoongi, and he can hear the way it makes yoongi gag, pulling back, swallowing, gasping for air. for a moment they don’t move, their chests moving rapidly. jungkook’s fingertips softly grasp against scalp, scratching, caressing. he opens his eyes again, finding yoongi’s smaller ones.

“you taste good,” yoongi mutters, the fist words spoken out loud since he arrived. jungkook finds himself blushing harder. “but we are not clean enough for sex,” he turns his face the slightest, kissing the palm of jungkook’s hand, tongue between his fingers. jungkook doesn’t know how clean he needs to be. yoongi notices his silence, coming closer again, kissing the side of jungkook’s mouth. “you have never done this.”

it’s an affirmation, said softly. jungkook shakes his head. “only with women.” his spine arches again, feeling yoongi’s fingers on him, holding, pressing where it leaks. “ah, jeonha—”

“turn,” jungkook’s body is almost pliant, and he turns, and yoongi kisses between his shoulder blades, hand around his waist, still stroking gently. he barely remembers getting on his knees, hands against the panel behind the bed, and he barely remembers what yoongi says, too lost in the sensation of their bodies close. he can feel when yoongi pushes between his thighs, how wet it feels, how hot, their skin rubbing. jungkook bites down his lip, swallowing another moan, yoongi’s hand stroking and stroking, the sensation between his legs, the mouth on his neck, tongue warm. he learns too fast that clutching his muscles makes yoongi gasp, jolting against him, moaning softly— so he does it every time yoongi thrusts forward, hearing him grow unsteady, feeling his teeth on the crook of his neck. jungkook comes against the panel, and it drips white onto the painted summer flowers. yoongi comes between his legs, pushing against him almost desperately, the slap of their skin sounding crude. they stand like that for a while, jungkook’s head against the panel, yoongi’s head against his back, breathing hot, limbs growing heavy. jungkook moans too softly when yoongi gives him a few strokes still, before pulling away. he’s pulled backwards, then, against the mat, huffing as his back meets the bamboo frame underneath. yoongi spreads his legs gently, licking against the skin of his thighs. when he kisses jungkook again, his mouth is full of come, and jungkook swallows it, humming, bringing yoongi into an embrace that seems more intimitate that getting his legs fucked. they lay there, then, bodies curled together, sweat and blood about them. jungkook places his hands on the small of yoongi’s back, thumb rubbing skin. yoongi’s fingernails scratch over ribs. for a while, they don’t speak. then, yoongi says, voice small: “her name is nongae.”

jungkook blinks. “— who?”

“the girl,”  it would not be nice if your pockets were not properly sewn when you visit the king tonight. “i gave her that norigae with the knife.”

“why?”

“she is only nine and she lives within these walls,” he seems to sniff. jungkook’s heart is beating rapidly. “and these walls are full of monsters.”

aren’t you one of them? jungkook almost asks, but somehow that doesn’t seem right anymore. “— did you kill them?” yoongi sighs, nodding against him.

“in a couple of hours the people of hanyang will wake to find their ministers spread over the six ministers street.” it’s a cruel kind of sentence. jungkook swallows. “and they all deserved it.”

“— did my family?”

this makes yoongi uncomfortable, because he moves away from jungkook’s arms, sitting up, turning. jungkook blinks, gaping at the dragon tattoo on his back, the black ink contrasting with ivory, the way it moves when yoongi’s body does, as if its alive. he had not seen in before, his gaze always away, his mind too muddled. yoongi flinches only slightly when jungkook touches it, following the scales. a king shouldn’t have marks, their body a temple, a vessel. “i sent them for your father,” yoongi starts, picking up covers, bringing them around his shoulders. “i regret their recklessness.” jungkook sits up, too, and yoongi pulls the covers over him, as well, almost gently so.

“i don’t understand you,” jungkook exhales. “and you do not let me.”

“why do you crave so badly for understanding?” yoongi asks, but he doesn’t sound judgemental. he sounds— tired, if anything. “i am the mad king, the illegitimate, i killed my father and the royal family.” he touches the fabric of the covers, pulling the pelts closer. “that is what i am, jungkook. everything you think of me is true. i am not to be ashamed of that.”

“— and you gave a knife to a palace girl, and you protected a guard,” jungkook looks sideways at him. “and you kissed me.” yoongi turns his head, finding his eyes. jungkook leans forward, pressing his lips against yoongi’s again, until they gap, until he can feel the heat of his tongue. “even though you hate me, jeonha— you kiss me, still.”

“i don’t hate you.” yoongi breathes against him, speaking words into his mouth.

“why do you keep me, then?” somehow, the answer feels important. jungkook clutches to the feelings he cannot understand, the ones that weight over his lungs, pressing them until it’s difficult to breathe. yoongi kisses the side of his jaw, almost tenderly. “why—”

“i have grown fond of you, little bird,” the muttered words against his ears feel like silk. jungkook closes his eyes, body heating up again.

“i am not a bird,” jungkook repeats, touching yoongi’s shoulder, the side of his neck, tilting his head.

“i know,” and at this yoongi pulls back again, and something has changed in his expression, and jungkook’s chest aches painfully. “you saved my life when you wanted to end it,” he touches jungkook’s fingers. “you don’t have to stay here anymore. you have the king’s pardon.” jungkook’s heart stumbles inside his ribcage, sinking into mud too rapidly. he feels short of breath.

“— what?”

“go back to your family’s estate,” yoongi presses his lips together. “get married, have children,” a shrug follows. “grow old.”

“jeonha.”

“it was fun,” and yoongi stands, then, naked limbs walking away, and jungkook feels like there’s a gash on his throat, and it spills out all the warmth inside him until he’s cold. it was fun. the sentence hits him like a blizzard, frigid. yoongi leans down, pulling his clothes back over his body, tying ribbons, knots, hands running through hair to tie it up again. jungkook hasn’t moved. “you don’t have to be here when the throne burns down.”

“yoongi.” jungkook stands, too, holding the covers over him, shivering in the cold. yoongi looks at him, then away. “you could leave, too,” he almost says, with me. almost. “you don’t have to burn it down.”

“if i don’t, it will continue, like a weed. it will grow back.” jungkook doesn’t know what else to say. yoongi adjusts his clothes, even though they’re wrinkled, even though they’re bloodied. he still looks regal, his silks still pretty. his lips are still swollen from kissing, but he looks like a king. “i will make arrangements that you are returned safely home,” a pause. “i am sorry.”

“give me one last chance to understand,” jungkook steps closer, and his voice borders something akin to urgency. “the butcher and concubine, one last— one last time.” yoongi’s cheeks grow redder. “if you trust me now, i just want—,” jungkook swallows. “i just need to know who you are.”

yoongi looks at him, and jungkook watches him exhale, his shoulders dropping slowly. “very well. i will send for you.” and then he turns, and leaves, and only silence remains, and the smell of the both of them, the briny kind, laced with death. jungkook realises his eyes are wet all too late.

when jungkook breathes, he feels it, warm, against the mask. they’re in the same room, in the noisy brothel, two nights later. the alcohol is left unpoured, and maybe it has already grown warm inside the bottle. yoongi looks at him, then down at the table, touching the cups gently. he doesn’t pour, still. jungkook wants to reach over the table and push away his mask, and push him against the floor— but that night needs to be different, so jungkook doesn’t. they haven’t spoken yet, even though they walked together, still hiding under the disguise of guards so the city of hanyang ignores them, turning away when they step into the venue, turning a blind eye to the affairs of palace guards, even if they’re unusual, even if they’re sinful. “— what do you want to know?” the question is careful, and yoongi looks up at him from the holes of his mask.

“the truth.” jungkook places his hand on the edge of the table, not knowing what to do with it. his other hand is clutching against his thigh too harshly. “just tell me the truth— all of it.” 

“the truth is not the folk tale you think it is, jungkook,” yoongi huffs, looking away. “i am not the hero of this story.” a sigh follows, muffled. yoongi pushes his mask up over his head, just slightly to uncover his mouth, and he pours himself a cup, drinking it quickly, tongue pressing at the corner of his lips. jungkook feels his heart bloat. “you cannot make me into one to feel better about yourself.”

“that isn’t—”

“the house of yi was corrupt, and dirty, and vile,” yoongi pours himself another cup. “and i was born into it.” some of it runs down his chin when he drinks, and yoongi wipes it with his sleeve. he doesn’t pour for jungkook. jungkook doesn’t pour for himself, either. he’s watching yoongi’s mouth, and his nose, and his fingers, and his words. “i don’t believe people are born different than a king,” yoongi pulls his mask down again, and jungkook lets go of the air he was holding back inside him. “a butcher and a king can sit on the phoenix throne, there is nothing that makes them distinct.” 

“you know that isn’t right, there is a code of law—“ but jungkook stops talking halfway, swallowing all his words. the codes of law, the scholarly rules, all of those things feel strange, now, crooked, maybe, like the throne itself, like the kingdom. yoongi waits for his conclusion, eyes narrow. “what you suggest— it is not possible, jeonha.”

“the people are sick of looking down at the ground,” yoongi mutters. “they are sick of being told they cannot grasp their own destiny.” the bottle almost topples when yoongi touches it, but he holds it before it does, and some of the soju spills. “i am the king who will listen to their plead.”

“— by destroying the throne?”

“by allowing people to be whatever they want to be,” there is slight anger in those words, but there is also disappointment, and hurt, and smallness. jungkook doesn’t say anything, muted by the heavy weight of yoongi’s sentences. “a slave can be a king,” yoongi pours him another cup. “a dragon can be born in a ditch.” their eyes meet, as yoongi pushes him a cup, too, full to the brim. “a butcher can fall in love with a concubine and not lose his head for it.”

love. jungkook’s breath hitches. he looks down at the table, blinking. he doesn’t know what love feels like. if it’s anything like honey, like people say, sweet, so sweet your teeth ache. he doesn’t think so. somehow, in his head, love is a blade and does nothing but hurt. “is there,” he curls his fingers around the cup, taking it, raising his eyes again “is there a revolution in place?”  

“yes,” and yoongi’s eyes soften, as if he’s smiling underneath his mask. jungkook pushes his up and over his head, to drink. “i was born with it in my bones.” the alcohol spreads tingles down his throat and on his tongue. jungkook coughs, before swallowing. “it’s just a matter of time until the country is seized and the yi clan of jeonju is purged completely.”

“you are part of it, too,” jungkook points out, wary, mask sliding down to cover his face again. “what happens to you?” for the first time, yoongi looks troubled, his shoulders visibly tensing, his eyes becoming smaller and sharper. “what if the riots you are brewing turn against your throne, jeonha?”

“then i die,” the answer is small. jungkook feels himself sag, aching. “it’s all fleeting anyway.”

but it should not be fleeting, jungkook wants to say. instead, he pushes the air out, anger formenting inside him, and he tugs the mask away, leaving it to fall against the flooring. it isn’t fleeting. it’s permanent, like a scar, like a dragon tattoo, etched in every corner inside him. he tries to shove his feelings in a rice box, let it die of starvation, but they don’t fit. jungkook exhales. “what does— what does love feel like to you?”

maybe yoongi isn’t expecting that question, because he seems to blush under his mask. he takes it off, too, nose red, and his fingers traces the features of the twisted face, the sharp black eyebrows, the red smeared on a wooden cheek. jungkook doesn’t look away from him. “like a blade,” yoongi replies, then, looking up.

the things jungkook thinks of, the things he wants to say— they don’t come out easily. his fingers are trembling. he tries, once or twice, mouth opening, closing. nothing comes out, still. so jungkook takes the concubine mask again, placing in front of his face, feeling his cheeks burning on the other side. yoongi’s eyebrowns knit together. “i think i have a blade logdged between my ribs.” the way yoongi’s eyes change, the way they soften, the way they look at him, jungkook’s aware of it, then, viciously so, aware of the steel perforating his heart, soaking him up inside out. “i’m afraid i have been bleeding out for a while, jeonha.”

“— to death?” yoongi asks, quietly. jungkook swallows, nodding. to death. he watches as yoongi pushes himself off his seat, circling the table, and jungkook breathes raggedly when yoongi sits over his legs. the hand that holds his mask is weak. yoongi touches it carefully, pushing it away. his fingers trace the line of jungkook’s eyebrows, then, his nose, the shape of his lips. the air feels thin and hot around them. “if i change the rules, we can be whatever we want.”

“what do you want to be?”

they lean against each other, and jungkook closes his eyes, tilting his head, inching into yoongi. “a butcher who belongs to a concubine,” jungkook feels the words against him, how breathy they are. i’m not a concubine, he finds himself muttering still, hands sliding down the sides of yoongi’s body, feeling him solid underneath his fingertips, warm. “then i just want to belong to you.” jungkook finds yoongi’s lips, tongue touching them, licking softly, feeling them curl nicely. he thinks he can taste the revolution under his tongue. “i still want you to go home,” yoongi says against him, and jungkook pulls back. “to grow old by the sea. you smell like it.”

“you smell like war,” jungkook swallows. “and there’s always war.”

“i am sorry i killed your family,” yoongi breathes out, inching in just barely, their lips brushing again. he doesn’t seem to think he can kiss jungkook, though, because he doesn’t. “i am sorry i hurt you.” before, jungkook would have doubted it. now, there’s only loss inside his mouth. “but i did what i had to do.” jungkook allows himself to kiss yoongi, then, fully, open-mouthed, wet, feeling yoongi’s hand curl on the nape of his neck, fingers digging into his scalp. jungkook feels his lungs burn when they pull back, noses still touching. “— i don’t expect you to forgive me, or understand.”

“you cannot die,” jungkook says, then, and he feels reeling as if drunk. he isn’t drunk. he’s broken, and it makes him stagger. “i am the only one allowed to kill you.” yoongi nods, smiling the slightest.

“— do you know who i am now?”

i just need to know who you are. jungkook stares at him, and this close it’s like yoongi’s eyes are holes filled with dark, muddy water. the steel between his ribs hurt, aching inside. “yes,” their breaths mingle, humid, faint tinge of alcohol. “the king who fell in love with the son of a general,” he offers, softly. it makes yoongi’s face flush, and he huffs. “i don’t want to wear thoses masks anymore, jeonha.”

“you make it sound like we are a folk tale, little bird.”

“jeonha,” jungkook presses against yoongi’s back, bringing him closer. “— come find me.” when it’s over, come find me, he repeats against yoongi’s teeth as they kiss again, bodies close, and he keeps repeating it as yoongi kisses down his neck, and he repeats it when his clothes are pushed away, his back against the wall, all that heat between his legs, he repeats it, gently, when it’s over and they’re turning cold again, panting, and he repeats it against yoongi’s hair when they dress themselves, when they leave, when they take opposite directions to different quarters of a darkened palace, to not see each other again, to maybe burn away with a throne, to maybe lose oneself on the way home. please come find me.

he repeats it, until the words lose meaning altogether. until they sound like a song that’s been forgotten. he repeats it, still.

“and what does it say here?”

nongae makes a face, as if concentrating on the characters on the parchment  in front of her. jungkook watches her, amused. she’s grown a little taller, he realises. the breeze comes to sway her hair strands. “— that i love you?” she tries, childishly, showing him teeth and gums. it makes jungkook laugh weakly, still.

“try harder.” he ruffles her hair, leaving her to it, and she folds over her skirts and books, tracing the hangul with the tips of her fingers. “i’m heading to the market. would you like anything?” yakgwa, she chants, cheerfully, and jungkook shakes his head, smiling. the market is always packed with people, and jungkook navigates it swiftly. the air is stained with the smell of fish and seawater, and some swim in small basins, colourful against the white light of the sky above. it doesn’t snow in dongnae, not like in hanyang, but it is cold, still. his eyes finds a stall selling lucky bokjori. jungkook stops, forgetting where he was going in the first place. it happens, every other month, week, sometimes every other day. it happens whenever he takes nongae to see street performances, watching her laugh whenever the butcher does something silly. it happens whenever someone whispers the gossip of the court, the late news, the burning of the palace. jungkook feels it in his core, that norigae, pressing against his ribs again. he wasn’t aware love would hurt more once you secured the wound of it— but then again, a torniquet won’t save you from losing a limb. and jungkook has been carrying one around him. it has not stopped the stem of feelings from flowing still. he takes a few steps closer to the stall, fingers touching the straw material, how they resemble the colours in yoongi’s hair. “how much—” his voice falters as he looks up. behind the shoulder of the seller, jungkook sees a figure looking at him.

under the satgat, jungkook can’t see clearly, but there is something about the shape of lips, there is something about the fairness of skin. jungkook’s heart grows in size inside his chest, pushing against his breast bones, wildly. he leaves the stall behind, too easily, as soon as the man turns, walking away. jeonha, his mind calls, and jungkook feels himself stumbling on people, unable to look away, feet getting faster until he’s running.  he stumbles on chicken, and on smaller children, on a cart full of roots that ends of stumbling, and he bows in apology, but he doesn’t stay to help. when jungkook catches sight of the man again, he’s disappearing into a thinner alleyway. people still walk on the main street, elbowing each other, carrying things, talking. the alleyway is empty, darkened by the taller roofs of nearby constructions. jungkook walks closer to the man that waits too still. he doesn’t say anything. he knows the knuckles on those hands, and the bones in wrists, he knows the shape of those lips, he’s dreamed of them. the satgat is pushed back just slightly before their mouths crash, and jungkook holds against the sides of yoongi’s face, pressing them together, feeling yoongi’s hands grasp his waist. they stagger, until jungkook’s back hits the side of the building, until he feels like he cannot breathe, and everything around him burns. then— then he pulls back, finding yoongi’s eyes, his nose, his cheeks flushed, the scar still there. “i found you,” yoongi mutters, breathing with hardship. jungkook kisses his face, over his eyes, the kind of warmth inside him that leaves him breathless. yoongi lets him.

“jeonha,” his eyes feel wet, but jungkook holds it still, hands still splayed at the sides of yoongi’s face, and maybe if he lets go, yoongi will vanish.

“i am not a king anymore,” he says, softly. “someone else is,” jungkook exhales. “someone good.” yoongi leans in, kissing him again, and jungkook sighs against him, body suddenly lax, wanting to melt right there. “we can be whatever we want now,” the words are said against his teeth, his tongue. “and i still want to belong to you.” jungkook feels feverish, and he pulls back to look sideways, to the street. no one looks their way, but it doesn’t mean they are invisible. he takes yoongi’s wrist, tugging him through known streets, feeling him breathe close as they walk, and jungkook feels aware of everything, of the faint light of the afternoon, of the cold, of the smoke leaving taverns, of the voices surrounding them. nongae is still perched on her work, engrossed in letters, they can see her on the other side of the walls of the house. jungkook takes them around it, to a back entrance, and as soon as a door is closed, he presses yoongi onto a sleeping mat, climbing over him too easily, taking off his satgat completely. jungkook stops, blinking. yoongi looks up at him. “— what do you think?”

the short hair on his head is coloured like a crow’s feather, like soot. jungkook touches it gingerly, slowly. “how?”

“it will fade away,” yoongi tells him, pulling him down. “who i was before needed to die.” jungkook tugs on the dark strands, and yoongi touches his waist, untying the waistband, undoing ribbons. yoongi’s clothes are simple, a commoner’s hanbok, dirty at the seams. it’s easy to take off, pulling off his limbs as jungkook kisses on his shoulders, teeth gently nibbling skin, sucking. he grabs against yoongi’s wrists, pinning them at the sides of his head. they look at each other. yoongi looks less hollow. jungkook dips his head, rubbing their cheeks together tenderly. “— i love you.”

“when did you know?” jungkook asks, wetting his lips.

“when you put that blade on my throat,” that makes jungkook smile. “i was terrified of you.”

“i am nothing,” yoongi kisses the side of his temple, and it’s sweet, like honey, the kind it makes your teeth ache.

“you are everything,” he mutters against skin. jungkook looks at him before kissing yoongi again, feeling his legs tangle around his waist, and he’s certain, he knows, that whatever his own everything is, it only exists because yoongi is there, too.

(

the leaf seems to bother yoongi’s nose, and he scrunches it, huffing, batting it away. jungkook laughs, amused. the weather is warm, almost unbearable. there’s a breeze, but it’s faint. the tree they’re laying under provides them with dappled shades, faint sunlight drifting through the crown of it, the soft rustle almost too soft. yoongi’s hair has grown yellow again, like a headpiece made of gold. jungkook cards a hand through it, gently. they can hear nongae closer to the beach, her bare feet sinking into dark sand. “yoongi,” jungkook calls, and yoongi looks up at him, his head resting on jungkook’s thighs. “do you think we will find each other again after we die?”

“yes,” yoongi raises a hand, touching his chin only briefly. “even two hundred years from now. i will find you anywhere.”

“do you think you will be king, then?”

“i don’t care what i am, as long as you are there.” jungkook makes a face, but yoongi curl his fingers around the front of his lose hanbok, pulling him down until they can kiss. yoongi still tastes like the cheries they had been eating, and war, and steel, because he’ll always taste like a sword to jungkook.

“in two hundred years,” yoongi smiles against him, and jungkook chuckles. “i will be there waiting, jeonha.”

they sit in silence, again, and jungkook rests his head against the tree trunk, watching the waves, the soft orange hues of the tardy sunset. a flock of birds fly close, their song loud. jungkook hums with them, the tune of a folk song, gentle in its finishes. birds, birds, blue birds, sitting on our green-bean fields— their fingers touch. summer is stoic. yoongi soon falls asleep.        

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