Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Have we met before?”

Yoongi’s gaze jerks up to the TV screen hanging on the wall of the noodle bar, busying himself with his own bowl of steaming ramyun. Loud slurps and appreciative moans fill the air, which he ignores in favour of casually watching the rom-com movie playing onscreen. It’s the latest flick starring Park Hyungsik and IU, who’ve been casted as soulmates from another life meant to find each other in modern Seoul.

Onscreen, IU turns around in slow motion, and the background music escalates as soon as she locks gazes with Park Hyungsik. The camera pans left and right, then shows a closeup of their eyes, which look way too emotional for two characters who are supposedly meeting for the first time in this life.

Ah, the theatrics. The drama. As much as the arts fascinate Yoongi, he’s never been one for the grand, bombastic gestures. But what does he know about film, really. It’s probably the reason why he’s not working in that industry.

(“Ahjumma!” a customer at the table beside Yoongi’s raises his hand mid-chew. “One more bowl of bibimyun here, please!”)

“I don’t think so,” says IU’s character, tilting her head. “Otherwise, I would remember you.”

Park Hyungsik grins and raises an eyebrow. “Aw. I’ll take the compliment.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

Yoongi’s phone buzzes on the wooden table, stealing his attention. He glances at the caller ID with a grimace, but presses the green button anyway. “I just started my lunch break, man, come on.”

“Yeah, I know, but listen hyung, this is huge,” Kim Namjoon’s voice trills into his ear in his signature high-pitched ramble whenever he’s excited, or nervous, or both. “You know the excavation project my team was sent to this weekend?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, we finally got something, and we sent it to the Conservatory for a first look and cleanup this morning.”

Yoongi blinks and leans back on his chair, his noodles momentarily forgotten. “What did you find?”

“Ancient paintings. Unknown artist, though. You’ll see.”

“Where will they be kept?”

“Last I heard, they suggested letting Seoul Folk Museum handle it first since you guys have the appropriate storage tech for ancient artefacts,” Namjoon answers, and Yoongi can hear some rustling of papers through the line. “I kept some notes on my theories so far but uh, everything’s uh, kinda messy right now...”

But of course. Kim Namjoon. For the head archaeologist of a famous ongoing national history reclamation project, abstraction was his home turf. Which meant his mind was lost in the clouds ninety percent of the time. Genius extraordinaire, terribly poor at organization. “But like, I think there’s something to be said for these, hyung, because-”

“Tell you what, I swear I’ll go take a look at them when they arrive, yeah?” Yoongi cuts in, sensing his friend’s rising agitation from miles away. “Catch you later.”

He ends the call and finishes his lunch faster than he would have liked, then heads over to the counter to pay for the meal. While waiting at the cashier, he glances once more at the TV screen, where a montage plays with Park Hyungsik’s monologue in voiceover:

“All my life I’ve always felt fractured. Today, for the first time, I imagined what it might be like to mend.”

“Thank you so much, please come again soon!” the cashier girl tells Yoongi with a smile. He bows out of the noodle bar and makes his way back to the Seoul Folk Museum, beelining for the staff entrance that leads to the office side of the building.

He spends the rest of the day making his rounds with at least two tourist groups, then dedicates the better part of the early evening to his daily reports and other logistical droll. His colleague and deskmate, Kim Seokjin, is on leave today, and he is usually the one in charge of transporting new artefacts in and out of the museum. Tonight, Yoongi has no choice but to take over.

Not that he minds. If he were honest, the uptick of excitement in Namjoon’s voice while talking about the newly excavated paintings does bring a certain zing of thrill up Yoongi’s spine.

Which is why when the folks from the Conservatory come knocking on his office door a short while later, Yoongi jumps out of his armchair, puts on his gloves and does his proactive best to ensure a smooth transfer of the art alongside a small team of art handlers. They come delivered in huge, heavily protected wooden crates — one for each painting. True to Namjoon’s word, there are three of them. It takes a considerable amount of time to lift them out of each crate, clear away the foam packing,  and put up each painting behind the bulletproof-glass in the storage chamber located next to the office. Yoongi hasn’t received any instructions to put them up in the permanent gallery or include them in any ongoing exhibits, so in their storage facility they will stay for the time being.

After he finishes the necessary paperwork and bids friendly goodbyes with the art handlers and movers, he settles back into his chair with a deep sigh, massing his temples. What a day. What a fucking day. If Yoongi had it his way he’d just pack up and head home now, but he did promise Namjoon he’d at least give the paintings brief inspection.

He stands and makes his way to the storage facility, flicking the lights on. Yoongi’s dress shoes click heavily on the floor as he strides towards the glass casing at the far right side of the wall, where the paintings are hung. He stands before the three artworks with his hands in his pockets, face drawn in concentration. Right away, questions yawn open in his mind.

The paintings boast of a historically distinct style of art. They could have been random Minhwa-type of paintings from several creators, or perhaps one very talented artist. The subject of each artwork is consistently just a single person, a young man who seems to be an entertainer, or a troupe dancer based on his depicted attire.

A small jolt goes through Yoongi when his eyes land on the dancer’s face, something akin to the startling recognition he often experiences when he attends a high school reunion every now and then. But the feeling quickly fades, because that aside, something else is niggling at the back of Yoongi’s mind.

Though centuries old, the paper and paint used are of extremely fine quality, something not every commoner had access to. Yoongi snags his upper lip behind his teeth thoughtfully, pulling out his phone to dial a number.

“Where, exactly, did you say these were found again?” Yoongi says into his phone as soon as Namjoon picks up on his third call attempt.

“Hello to you, too, and yes I am now awake,” Namjoon greets in a sleep-hoarse voice. “Fuck’s sake, hyung, it’s the middle of the night. You’re still at the gallery?”

“Yeah, it was hectic.” Yoongi checks his wristwatch: 1am. He’d worked more hours overtime than he expected. “Anyway. The paintings…?”

“Found them stashed safely under the floorboards of a former ancestral home that was about to be demolished.”

“Who lived there?”

“It’s been abandoned for centuries. Building’s been in the public domain for a long time now. The government eventually reclaimed the deed so we don’t know who the last owner was.”

That makes it harder to trace who the paintings could have belonged to, then. Yoongi chews on the insides of his cheeks. “If I remember correctly, your team went south?”

“Yeah. Gyeonggi-do.”

In other words, around the area where several clusters of the Royal Tombs lay. As a tribute of honor for the royal bloodline of the Joseon Dynasty, their gravesites were marked as heritage sites, enshrined for respect and remembrance. “But you weren’t digging up their graves or anything, right?”

“Of course not. It’s in the area, but we’re not touching tourist spots or state-protected lands. Which is why it’s so interesting, because we found the paintings at an unmarked site.”

Brows knitting together, Yoongi’s mind races to put together pieces of a puzzle he’s not even sure of. If the inkling in his mind holds water, and the paintings potentially belonged to someone of high status — royalty, even — then maybe that area served as a burial mound for things of sentimental value to royal family members. “That means there might be more, right?”

“Maybe. I’ll update you if we found anything more. But hyung,” Namjoon pauses. “What do you think so far?”

Yoongi hums. In spite of age, the paintings have been so carefully preserved, as if whoever painted it loved its subject tremendously.

Just how priceless are they? He wonders.

Probably more than his life, if they’re deemed worth being safekept in one of Seoul’s most secure and prestigious museums. Remembering Namjoon’s question, Yoongi peers closer at the paintings to get a closer look at the finer details.

One of the paintings depict a portrait of the dancer with half his face masked by a veil, highlighting his dark, hooded eyes. Damn, Yoongi has seen countless paintings, but those eyelashes look so real he can practically feel their texture when he hovers a gloved hand over the glass paneling. There’s something about the dancer’s faraway expression that looks so jarringly mournful, soulful.

“What do I think?” Yoongi says into his phone. “The Conservatory did real good with the restoration in such a short time. And whoever the artist was, they must have been really committed to depicting every detail of their subject’s features as realistically as possible.”

The next painting the same dancer with his arms spread in a complicated pose that reminds Yoongi of a swan preening, arms extended and one leg lifted in the air. Yoongi’s gaze falls to the impassioned set of his the dancer’s lips and the graceful arch of his back before he glances at the next painting.

This one sends heat to his cheeks.

The dancer lies half-naked, with only his lower torso swathed in silks and satins, and he is wearing a brilliant smile while holding onto, of all things, a tangerine. Black hair cascades freely over his bare shoulders, and his eyes are fixed straight, as though he was looking at the artist the entire time he’d been posing. The perspective is so intimate Yoongi wonders how the artist captured it.

He shudders and rips his gaze away from the artworks.

Get it together. He mentally smacks himself. If any of his co-workers caught him, they’d call him an amateur. It shouldn’t be a big deal, really. Perhaps one of the princesses or queens fancied a troupe or court dancer back in the day. It’s not unheard of. Royal family members had so much time and power on their hands during those days, after all.

He forces his eyes to take in the rest of every nook and cranny of the canvases. And then—

“Oh?”

“What, what is it?” Namjoon’s voice rises with curiosity over the phone.

There is something scrawled on the canvas, a insignia or signature that’s so small, and so well-camouflaged among the dizzying colours that Yoongi almost misses it—

Min.

Yoongi pauses, blinking slowly. He frowns and searches the rest of the paintings with fresh eyes. Sure enough, at the bottom right-hand corner of every canvas is the artist’s signature. Min.

“There’s an artist behind this,” he says breathlessly, swiping his phone to switch apps.

“You don’t say. Surely the paintings didn’t just magically ink themselves,” Namjoon counters which a chortle.

Yoongi ignores him. “No, as in, I think I have a lead.”

“What, are you Sherlock Holmes now?”

“Shut up. Look at the picture I just sent you. What are you seeing?”

Namjoon groans over his yawn. “I see a badly taken picture of a dancer—“

“Zoom in,” Yoongi instructs, heart beating erratically. “Right hand corner.”

“I’m zooming in, and it’s getting pixelated— holy fuck.”

Silence hangs heavy between them on the line, and the next time Namjoon speaks, his voice sounds more alert. “This is— this is—“

“Yeah,” Yoongi breathes. “Remember when you told me the artist was unknown? After some light cleaning and repair, the details really came through more vividly. Maybe the artist is related to this ‘Min’ insignia, whatever it symbolizes.”

Namjoon lets out a low whistle. “That’s amazing, hyung. I can try to look into it for you tomorrow. We’ll still be here at the site until next month.”

Plenty of time to identify the artist and their beloved, mysterious dancer. “I need to get to the bottom of this,” Yoongi says, a long-dead fire kindling to life in his gut. His gut feeling has always been a good indicator of things, and right now it’s telling him… well, something is amiss, that’s for sure. What it is exactly, he’s about to find out.

“You’ve been curating for years and I’ve never heard you this invested,” Namjoon quips. “What’s got you so hooked, huh?”

Yoongi glances at the dancer on the canvas, feeling embarrassed to look directly into its eyes for some reason. “Just. Some spicy backstory. Part of my job.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Namjoon says with a chortle. “Interesting choice of signature, by the way.”

“Yeah?” Yoongi says, scanning the rest of the paintings. “Any idea what ‘Min’ could mean?”

“That’s a shot in the dark, hyung. It could be anything, or anyone. A name, an alias.”

Yoongi studies the signature with renewed interest. “Or it could be the dancer’s name?”

“Possible,” Namjoon concurs. “We can’t say for sure. Although if you’re looking at a period piece, the most relevant Min would probably the clan.”

Yoongi pauses. “As in—“

“Yeoheung Min.”

At that, Yoongi stifles a bark of laughter. “You’re talking about my family clan.”

“Why not? Y’all are bluebloods. Queen Min was the last before the dynasty fell, no?”

The idea that the artist of the painting could possibly be Yoongi’s ancient relative sounds so absurd. Yoongi shakes his head, mock-gasping, “What, are you suggesting that Queen Min was cheating on King Gojong with some nameless, lowly palace dancer? Kim Namjoon, if this wasn’t the 21st century, you’d be beheaded for treason.”

“How righteous of you. What makes you think the artist was her?”

Yoongi frowns. “I mean, look at the materials used. Too fine for commoners’ use. They’re similar to the paintings from other royal art.”

“Fair point, but let me rephrase that,” Namjoon drawls, and it almost sounds like he’s grinning. “What makes you think the artist was a ‘her’?”

Yoongi stiffens. His gaze falls onto the same painting again, the one where the dancer is wrapped in silks. Each delicate brushstroke and color seemed so lovingly chosen, and he’d automatically assumed the artist must have been female.

“Now that,” Namjoon chortles, “is spicy.”

Yoongi coughs and shakes his head. “We could be getting ahead of ourselves here. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“I was, until I was so rudely awakened,” Namjoon says pointedly, then yawns. “But yeah, I’m going to crash for real now. Get back to you tomorrow, hyung.”

The call ends. But the sleuthing doesn’t have to.

Yoongi stays up until 7am trying to map out his ancestral tree, going way beyond Queen Min’s time. Even before her, the Yeoheung Min clan had always maintained close links with the monarchy. The painter could have been some other aristocrat.

Even while lying in bed waiting for sleep to claim him, Yoongi stares at his phone, scrolling through the pictures he’d snapped of the paintings. Why does he feel compelled to find out about this stranger?

“Who are you?” he murmurs. “What’s your name?”

Tomorrow, he’ll find out.

In the aftermath of battle, the ground lies stained with splatters of dark crimson. Fallen bodies grow into an ugly pile of corpses. Among them rises a lone man with chinks in his armor, his underclothes tattered and his sword drawn. Blood drips from its sharp steel in a slow trickle. Gusts of wind churn ashes in the air like black snow, prickling his lungs with the sawdust tartness.

Somebody shouts. Something too distant to be audible, a name perhaps. Slowly, the swordsman lifts his weapon, wincing as sunlight catches on the steel. He turns the blade towards his face and sees—

Yoongi shudders awake with a sharp breath.

It takes a few moments to clock the quiet void of his own bedroom, the safe cushion of his own pillow. Sweat-soaked, but safe.  Gradually, his jaw unclenches and he groans while sitting up. Yoongi rubs a palm over his face.

Not again. The same damn dream, everytime. Him in some kind of battle gear, yells roaring in his ears, him dying. They’re not even his own memory, since he sure as hell has never experienced anything remotely close to war, not even during his military service. The man in his dreams undergoes a different kind of trauma entirely. Maybe he imagines death so much it feels more like a memory.

But there’s no time to dawdle or mull over weird recurring dreams. Today will be a busy day for the museum. Yoongi glances at the clock mounted on his bedroom wall and curses under his breath. As it is, he’s already—

“Late,” Seokjin tuts as Yoongi hurries through the door at the back of the gallery marked ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’. His co-curator is at the coffee machine.

“Thanks for the lack of a morning call,” Yoongi intones.

Seokjin shrugs. “We’re not in college anymore, that’s your responsibility as an adult— yah, wait I got us coffee.”

“You seen the paintings yet?”

“Nah. I was waiting for you to show up first. So polite of me, I know.”

Ignoring him, Yoongi brisk-walks down the connecting hallway towards the storage chamber, only stopping to turn to Seokjin and point at the steaming mug. “Not inside.”

“Don’t lecture me. I’m taller than you.” Seokjin sets down the mug on a nearby counter and follows Yoongi, pulling on a pair of latex safety gloves as they step inside.

The lights switch on, and there they are, right where Yoongi left them last night.

“That’s it?” Seokjin says, moving closer to to the glass casing to inspect the three portraits.

Yoongi nods, eyes latching onto the dancer’s black hair this time, painted so that it seemed to reflect sunlight. He doesn’t know why, but every time he looks at the portraits, he ends up noticing something new about the dancer’s features. There is still that niggling sensation at the back of his mind, a line of thinking that he would have been hesitant to voice out were it not Seokjin standing in here with him. “Doesn’t it… I dunno, doesn’t it give you a weird vibe?”

Seokjin folds his arms and tilts his head. “No...? Apart from the fact that they’re all obviously done by the same hand. Why?”

“Nothing.” Yoongi shakes his head. Best not to entertain whatever the feeling is. For all he knows, the paintings could be haunted, or worse, cursed by some ancient being.

“Honestly, I’m more interested in whether they’re all authentic.”

Yoongi blinks. In his fascination with last night’s discovery, he failed to consider that.

“Like, this is a huge deal for the conservatory and Seoul Folk Museum,” Seokjin continues, pacing slowly in front of the glass casing. “I know we’ve got PR to help us out, but how are we gonna draft the press statement for this? What’s the background story behind these paintings?”

“Well. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

Much as he is loathe to look away from the paintings, Yoongi meets Seokjin’s gaze and gives a summarized breakdown of what he and Namjoon discussed the night before, and Seokjin listens with furrowed concentration.

“You mean, this could have been a royal artefact?” Seokjin asks after he finishes explaining, eyes wide. “Wow.”

“We don’t know yet.”

“I can help.” As they step out of the storage facility, Seokjin whips out his phone. “There’s a guy I used to date in uni—“

“Without my knowing?” Yoongi mock-gasps.

“You were my roommate, not my mother. Anyway, he’s an art history associate professor at SNU now. Knows his shit. I’ll pass you his contact.”

Yoongi gives a small smile. “Thanks, hyung.”

Afterwards, they sit at their desks across each other in the cramped office and spend a few minutes going through the morning news and filtering spam mail. It’s quiet and comfortable for the first half an hour, until Yoongi’s phone suddenly starts buzzing incessantly with new messages and his email inbox notification tune starts pinging off on his laptop like a broken chime. He does a double take at the overlapping notifications on both devices.

“On second thought,” Seokjin says, eyes glued to his laptop. “Looks like we have a leak.”

Yoongi looks up sharply from where he’s desperately trying to make sense of the sudden influx in his mail. “Hmm?”

“Not sure how the press got word of it, but...” Seokjin turns his laptop screen to face Yoongi.

“RARE PAINTINGS DATING BACK TO JOSEON DYNASTY FOUND AT GYEONGGI YESTERDAY”

 

Below the headline is a clear photo of the three portraits.

“‘A member of the excavation unit led by Dr. Kim Namjoon has come forward to confirm the most recent findings of their team…’” Seokjin reads aloud, eyes furiously scanning the article’s contents. “...‘Already, there are inquiries on whether the works are authentic…’ Oh, lovely. Guess Namjoon has a sellout on his team. At least that narrows down the list of who could’ve contacted the press before us.”

Yoongi curses under his breath. Now the press will hound their asses aggressively for a clear statement and a story to tell. He thought he’d have at least a few more weeks to thoroughly clarify the artworks’ origins with Namjoon and the rest of the Folk Museum’s team. “Great.”

He stands and slings his messenger bag over one shoulders.

“Where are you going?” Seokjin sputters.

“Trying to do my job. Looks like we’re gonna have to rush things.” Yoongi takes out his phone and dials the number his co-curator sent. “I need to get the facts straight before the media twists shit.”

The call connects after a few rings, and the voice that answers is strained, somewhat breathless. “Hello?”

“Hi. Mr. Jeon?” Yoongi says, hightailing it out the gallery lobby and heading for the taxi stand. “It’s Min Yoongi, from Seoul Folk. I emailed you last night about some paintings?”

“Mm. Yes..?”

“So uh, listen.” Yoongi flags down a cab and grunts in frustration when an empty one passes him by. Damn it, of all days to have sent in his car for repairs and cleaning. He tries again and bounds down the museum’s stone steps when the next taxi stops for him. “I know I asked to meet over the weekend, and this is shameless of me, but I was actually wondering you might have some time to spare today?”

“Well, it’s my day off....”

Yoongi’s hand pauses over the taxi’s rear door handle. “Oh. In that case, maybe—“

“...which means it’s all cool!” Mr. Jeon huffs into the phone with a laugh, still sounding out of breath. “I got time, I got time. It’s just, I’m not on campus now—“

“It’s alright. I’ll go to you,” Yoongi says.

Of all the occupational oddities that Yoongi has gone through for the sake of earning an income, he never imagined he’d be here on a random Tuesday. Standing in the middle of a fitness gym in full, formal office attire, tie and all. The smell of man and sweat mingle, and he can hear a chorus of grunts from the weightlifting corner. It’s a lot of testosterone for a weekday morning, and it’s not even 9am yet.

Now that he’s met the art history professor face-to-face, Yoongi can understand why Seokjin dated the guy. Jeon Jungkook is far from the old geezer Yoongi concocted in his head. Contrary to his imagination, the guy on the bench press is baby-faced and has sparkly eyes a la Tom Holland, but sports an eight-pack and has biceps that could probably crush Yoongi’s head like a grape. Talk about cognitive dissonance.

Yoongi follows him around the gym, giving him a rundown of the situation while the man busies himself with squats and the pull-up bars. Briefly he wonders how the professor can keep up with such an unloading of information, but Jeon Jungkook seems to be able to handle multi-tasking well, because at the end of Yoongi’s talk, he says—

“I see.” He collapses on an empty seat and takes a swig from his waterbottle, sweat dotting his temples. “Could you let me have a look at the pieces found so far?”

Yoongi nods and tilts his phone screen to show him the paintings.

Jungkook’s brows furrow. “You said they’re from the 1800s?”

“When my colleague ran a first inspection, yes.”

“Well, this is definitely Joseon artwork, but…” Jungkook’s eyes flicker with renewed interest as he studies each portrait. “Min Yoongi-ssi, do you know when the golden age of Korean painting during the Joseon dynasty was?”

How could Yoongi not know? “Mid to late.”

“After the Ming Dynasty fell, several Koreans fleshed out a distinct art style,” Jungkook says, his baby face taking on a thoughtful expression.

“Developing from Buddhist-influenced natural landscapes and iconography to realism, yes. Starting from the 15th century, the arts scene in the archipelago boomed, but soared to new heights especially when Yi Gyeong-yun’s painting style incorporated unique elements borrowed from China—”

Jungkook nods and returns the phone to him. “There’s your answer.”

Yoongi blinks. “You’re serious.”

Jungkook nods again.

Yoongi hums, dissatisfied. 1400s to 1800s isn’t specific enough. “That’s too broad of a time period. If we want to find and credit the right artist—“

“Look again,” Jungkook urged, and there’s something gleeful in his voice as he leans to point at Yoongi’s phone screen. “It’s all in the style. The depth and dimensions aren’t defined enough to be considered impressionist, but there’s attempt at realism.”

Yoongi squints.

“Since you want my personal opinion, I’d bet on the mid-17th century, maybe late 16th. The canvas used resembles the same type of material popular among the aristocracy during that time,” Jungkook says, gulping down several mouthfuls of water. “Maybe start looking there?”

Yoongi nods slowly. “And among the nobility.” Social class and time period, check.

Still too broad, though. Even Sherlock Holmes knew that the trick to finding the culprit is to narrow down his prospects. Maybe there’s a clue that Yoongi’s isn’t seeing somewhere, in broad daylight.

“When in doubt, Google is your best friend,” Namjoon later comforts him over the phone while Yoongi hitches another cab back to the office. “Or hit the Conservatory’s library. They have an extensive archive of academic articles.”

“Yeah, time to catch up on my reading,” Yoongi deadpans. He looks out the car window dourly, wondering if this is worth it. Seokjin was right - why’s he particularly hung up on this? More than just tracing the artist of the paintings, he lowkey feels like he’s chasing a long-gone ghost.

“If it helps,” says the archaeologist, “ and if we’re still going with the Min clan theory, we could look at the timeline when the Yeoheung Min queens ruled—“

“Already did, but the time periods of the Min queens’ reign are way off from the paintings’,” Yoongi interjects with a sigh. “All of them. It’s a dead end.”

“Aha, but did you consider their children?” Namjoon counters giddily. “The princes and princesses who grew up to continue the Min bloodline?”

Yoongi stiffens. “What are you saying...”

“I’m just saying—if you’re looking at the 17th century, there was a Yeoheung Min in the palace.”

“There wasn’t a—“

“Queen Inhyeon,” Namjoon states. “1681 to 1688. And before her reign, the King’s first concubine was from the Yeoheung Min clan, too. And they had kids throughout the 17th century. Your clan was made of girlbosses, hyung.”

Yoongi’s mouth goes dry.

“If the paintings were found in Gyeonggi-do, then the artist must have been able to travel from the capital to the royal family’s resting pavilion. If not often, at least they had power and access. And who was famous for always being away from the capital? Princess Min Songhwa.”

The princess who was famously sent to live away from the main palace shortly after she had come of age. History never truly uncovered why. Many theories float about, though — that she must have taken horribly ill, or that she preferred to live with an unknown lover not of noble blood. Min Yoongi gapes even though Namjoon can’t see his expression. “Then... she and a court dancer...?”

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions if I were you. The only reason I know this is because I read an excerpt of her memoirs when they first published it a few years back.”

“Right. Do you have a copy?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Nevermind, I’ll borrow from the library or download a PDF of it online,” Yoongi says as his phone vibrates with another incoming call. “Hey, can I get back to you later? I’ve got another on the line.”

“Anytime, bro.”

“Later.” Yoongi swipes to accept the new call from Seokjin. “Hyung—“

“Where are you now?” his colleague snaps into the phone.

“On the way back now. Why? Did the gallery suddenly get crowded?” Seokjin doesn’t call him often unless it’s to ask for backup on peak hours, but usually they happen on weekends or peak season holidays.

“No, it’s just, someone’s—“

“Shit, is it the press already?”

“No, no, some guy named Park Jimin.”

Yoongi frowns. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Do I know him?” He scratches the back of his ear, tallying the names he’s learned so far this year.

“No, but he’s looking for you. Says he has something really important to say.” Seokjin’s voice takes on that sassy tone when he’s exasperated.

“I don’t see why he can’t tell you?”

“Precisely.”

“Have security escort him out,” Yoongi sighs, rubbing his temple as he practically stumbles out of the cab. “I don’t have time for irrelevant bullcrap today, especially not from strangers.” He slams the door closed and brisk-walks towards the museum’s revolving door.

“About that... “ Seokjin’s voice grows muffled, like he’s speaking with a hand over the receiver, “you see, the guy’s kinda… I don’t know, he’s pretty good with people?”

“Huh?”

Seokjin says, “He’s inviting the security guard to tea as we speak.”

“What the—” Yoongi grumbles under his breath as he pushes past the entrance. “Never mind, I’m here.”

He stalks up to the receptionist counter, where the ticketing ladies are gathered in front of someone who’s busy chatting them up. A slender guy with wavy, light brown hair, plain white shirt and ripped jeans. His back is to Yoongi, and—

“Good, you’re here.” Seokjin grabs Yoongi by the elbow and steers him aside before he can wedge himself into the disturbance caused by the newcomer. “In case you’re wondering, yes, that’s him.”

Yoongi studies the man named Park Jimin from behind, who’s busy chatting up the ladies, one forearm resting on the counter, on foot tucked behind the other. “And he’s here for...?”

“He might know something about the paintings.”

“He said so?”

“That he did. Just casually boogie’d his way into the gallery saying things about ‘rightful inheritance’ or whatever.” Seokjin scrunches up his nose. “I think I dissociated before I could bother to listen. He can talk a lot.”

Yoongi purses his lips. “I’ll deal with him.”

Sighing, he turns around and literally bumps noses with a person standing mere inches away from him, someone with no regard for personal bubbles whatsoever. It takes a moment to realize that this is the same person was all sidled up to the receptionists mere seconds ago. Yoongi’s field of vision zeroes in on amber-tinted sunglasses perched on top of a smooth, button nose. Colored contacts. Pillow lips. Minuscule details.

“Hi!”

“Uh,” Yoongi steps back with a frown, rubbing his nose. “Ow.”

“Yeah, ouch much, very ouch, but hey, listen...” The man named Park Jimin trails off as Yoongi gives him the once-over, from his Chelsea boots to his loose shirt to his face.

Their eyes lock.

Something in Yoongi twists.

Now, Yoongi is lucky enough to have never experienced drowning before, but if he must explain the sensation, it must be this—of air seeming to punch out of each lung, hollowing him from inside out. Something deep in his memory feels jostled, dislodged, his mind turning itself inside out. What?

Park Jimin’s eyes are an ordinary brown, but his gaze stirs a burning ache in Yoongi. It’s the strangest feeling—as though a chasm has opened up somewhere inside of him, ripping at the apex where parallels meet and begin and end. Jimin’s gaze feels so new yet familiar, heavy but freeing, like being found after years spent hiding. Yoongi’s throat burns. He wonders why it feels like he’s met the guy before. Somewhere. It lasts no longer than a few seconds, the two of them staring stunned at each other, but eventually Park Jimin finds his voice first.

He says softly, “Oh. The eye scar’s gone.”

Yoongi snaps out of his reverie.

“I beg your pardon?” he musters in full honorifics, assuming his customer service voice.

“What?” Jimin says, blinking like he’s just come out of a trance.

“What?” Yoongi parrots. “You said something.”

“I... I did?” Jimin frowns.

Between them, Seokjin clears his throat.

Yoongi tears his gaze away and focuses on the ceiling, loosening his tie to facilitate better breathing. His chest feels so tight and he feels like he might burst into tears any moment now, but he doesn’t even know why.

“Now that we’re all here,” Seokjin says to Jimin, standing at his full height the way he does when he wants to be intimidating, “how can we help you?”

Park Jimin blinks, a new alert light finding its way back into his eyes. “Aha! Right. Yes, yes.” He reaches into the brown satchel slung on his shoulder and takes out his phone. Swiping to a photo from the leaked news article, he says brightly, “I’m Park Jimin, and I’m here to collect these.”

“Collect?” Seokjin starts wheezing and Yoongi chokes back a gasp. Taking a moment to calm himself, he explains, “These paintings are not for sale.”

“Of course not, silly. I’m no fool.” Jimin waves a dismissive hand in the air. “I inherited them!”

Yoongi bristles. “‘Inherited’?”

Jimin nods. “Yeah, so I was just wondering what the logistics behind transporting ancient tapestries are like? I’ll have to call the movers—“

“Wait, wait just a minute,” Seokjin interrupts, raising a hand in the air. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we can’t allow that.”

Jimin sighs. “I told you, these paintings rightfully belong to our family—“

A light bulb goes off in Yoongi’s head. If this man knows about the ownership rights of the paintings, then he must have connections or information about the artist. “Do you have any proof? Who are you?”

At his words, Jimin steps forward and leans close to Yoongi, prompting Yoongi to inch backwards until his back hits the counter. “Look at my face. Seem familiar?”

And that’s when it hits Yoongi, why this guy looks so familiar—he’s practically the spitting image of the portrait.

“Surname Park Jimin, of the Miryang Park clan,” he says, face growing serious, “and the man in the paintings is my great-great-great-great-great-great-great grand uncle.”

He punctuates his sentence with a flourish of his hand, his slightly wild-eyed gaze flitting back and forth between Yoongi and Seokin. Yoongi scratches the back of his ear. If the guy is expecting some fanfare or epic music to start playing or for the museum staff to burst into applause, he doesn’t get it.

Instead, Seokjin lets out a snort of laughter in his face, then covers it up with a cough. Jimin scowls.

“That’s a lot of ‘greats’,” Seokjin comments, eyes brimming with mirth.

“I’m serious!” Jimin says petulantly.

“Yeah, and I’m Queen Min’s descendant,” says Yoongi. “For real.”

Jimin lets out a huff. “Look, I don’t care if you think it’s solly, but this is really important, okay? They’re like, family heirlooms.”

Yoongi and Seokjin exchange amused glances. “And your proof is?”

“The stories told down my family tree. Stories of those paintings.” Jimin’s eyes glisten as his gaze takes on a far-off look. “I can’t believe it’s all true.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re gonna have to cut this meeting short,” Seokjin says, gesturing to one of the security guards to come and escort Jimin away, much to the young man’s protests.

“And even if you’re right, art most often than not belongs to the creator, not the subject,” Yoongi adds.

Jimin’s face falls.

“You don’t get it,” he insists, lower lip wobbling.

Yoongi almost feels bad for the guy. But it’s not the first time someone’s barged in claiming to own art from their exhibits. With a sigh, he simply gives a shrug and nods to the guards to prompt them to take the stranger away.

“But fine.” Jimin marches off before any security members grab him. “If you won’t help, I’ll learn hanja fluently and read the letters by myself.”

Both Yoongi and Seokjin freeze at the same time. They share stricken looks.

“Wait,” Yoongi orders.

As if on cue, Jimin shrugs the security guards off and turns, a smirk playing on his lips. “Yes?”

And this could be a trap, but it could also be a clue to answers. “What letters?”

“Enjoy your meal,” the waitress says, setting down three bowls of steaming  dumpling soup on the table.

“Thank you so much, miss,” Jimin chirps, already pulling one bowl towards himself. He picks up a spoon and slurps the broth. “Ah. Chef’s kiss.”

“You were saying,” Yoongi intones.

“Right. Where was I? Oh. Ohhh. So then the deputy director asks me, ‘How good are you with kids?’, and you know, honesty is a virtue, so I was frank and told him I have a younger brother and I used to teach kendo part-time at a dojo in my hometown, and he clapped and hired me.”

The guy sure can out-chat a talkshow host. Yoongi casts an exasperated look at Seokjin, who’s sitting beside him with a deadened expression—his ‘Dissociated Face’, as he often likes to describe it to Yoongi.

When he asked Jimin to explain the letters, he hadn’t expected the guy to giggle and invite himself to a lunch meeting since it’s apparently a ‘long story’. But so far, in the time it took for the food to arrive, Park Jimin has only managed to outline his 5-year-plan and the origin story of how a Busan brat came to be offered a full time position at a dance academy in Seoul.

“Honestly I never really thought I had a calling for dance, but I guess fate works in wondrous ways, you know? Also, please feel free to dig in, or the food will go cold. Don’t be shy in front of—“

“The letters,” Yoongi manages to grit out, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. “You said you’d tell us about these letters? Written by your great grand uncle, fifty times removed?” The more Yoongi repeats the situation to himself, the more bizarre and illogical this whole shebang sounds. For all he knows, Park Jimin could be a con man squeezing a free meal out of them.

Jimin shakes his head. “Not fifty times removed.”

“Thrice or fifty, let’s not pick at the details,” Yoongi dismisses, leaning both elbows on the table. “I think you’re forgetting why we’re here.”

Jimin sends him a ‘duh’ look. “Lunch?”

As if on cue, Seokjin’s stomach rumbles.

Jimin beams at them. “See? Food is a basic human right. Eat up and allow yourself to indulge in your bodily needs. History is past; hunger is present.”

Yoongi suppresses a groan, but they oblige begrudgingly, sipping some of the broth and popping a few dumplings into his mouth.

“And yes, about my great grand uncle Park to the nth power,” Jimin finally begins. “Poor man. I heard from my grandfather who heard from his father that he died single. Must’ve been an outcast. I heard that he was a good dancer, too. Must run in the gene pool, huh? My family has a knack for the arts. I think he even wrote poetry.”

“In the letters?” Yoongi prods.

Jimin shrugs. “I suppose. Not that I’d know. Anything goes, to be honest. Like I said, they were written before Hangul was popularized, you know? And who reads Hanja these days? Unless you know Mandarin characters or a fluent historian—“

“Or a trained museum curator,” Seokjin adds.

Jimin’s eyes sparkle. “So you can read them?”

“I can try. I’m not the most literate reader around.”

Jimin looks at Seokjin, who snorts.

“I’m worse than Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s forehead creases. “If everything is in Hanja, then these letters must have been after the 15th century, and before the 19th.”

Jeon Jungkook’s calculated guess was tight.

“I guess. They’re all kept in a box at my grandparents’ house,” Jimin remarks offhandedly.

Yoongi stops chewing. “Wait. They’re not with you?”

Jimin gestures to his medium-sized satchel. “Do I look like I’m carrying ancient scrolls?”

“Then what are we here discussing this for? I thought you wanted to read them?”

Jimin’s expression sours. “I didn’t think you’d expect them now. Kids these days, so impatient.”

“That’s rich, coming from someone younger.”

“Okay, ahjussi.”

Yoongi lets a tiny sigh escape.

“Don’t you have pictures of them or something?” Seokjin asks, pushing away his emptied bowl. “Proof to back up what you’re saying?”

“Right,” Yoongi adds with a nod. “How are you so sure the letters are connected to the paintings? Or that it’s truly your dead ancestor?”

“Woah, easy with the sus activity,” Jimin says, raising both hands in the air as if to surrender. “I’ll be honest and say I’m not. But if you really want, I can visit my grandparents now and personally bring the letters to Seoul.”

Yoongi’s eyes narrow. “When?”

“In a few days.”

Seokjin nudges Yoongi with an elbow. “In the meantime, we can look into other sources.”

It’s not a terrible plan. Even if Jimin’s mysterious letters turn out to be completely irrelevant to the paintings, then at least that’s one less door to explore, helping to narrow down their leads. Win-win.

Yoongi nods and waves down a waiter to ask for the bill. “Fine. Just bring whatever you can and we’ll see if you’re telling the truth. Here, I’ll pass you my business card so you know where to find me.”

Jimin grins. “You can count on me.”

Yoongi doubts that, but whatever. They pay the tab and step outside the restaurant and into the sunlit sidewalk, Jimin humming happily.

“Thanks for the treat,” he says, eyes crinkling. “You know, I don’t know why, but I feel so comfortable with you.”

“That makes one of us,” Yoongi mutters under his breath.

“I’m going this way,” Jimin says, pointing towards the bus terminal. “The bus to Busan is slower but cheaper.”

Seokjin waves, and Yoongi looks up to see the guy off, feeling irked and used. But then his gaze falls on Jimin’s smile, and he thinks:

I’ve loved that smile before.

The thought is as fleeting as the breeze, and Yoongi blinks out of the weird haze a split second later.

“Dude.” Seokjin nudges him.

“Keep staring at me like that and you might as well kiss me,” Jimin laughs, and once again, something about his phrasing makes Yoongi frown.

Keep staring at me like that and you might as well kiss me.

The syntax Jimin used was in old spoken Korean. Yoongi’s spine stiffens.

“Just kidding!” Jimin throws up two peace signs and wiggles his shoulders. “Do yourself a favor and smile more, Min Yoongi. It won’t hurt, I swear.”

Yoongi stares at him.

“See ya in a few days!” Jimin leaves Seokjin and Yoongi stunned on the sunny pavement the way a tornado deserts an area. Yoongi feels as though a sandstorm just whirled over his head.

Seokjin turns to him, scratching the back of his neck. “What just happened?”

By the time Yoongi finds a reliable PDF copy of Princess Songhwa’s memoirs, the clock at his bedside table reads 8pm. He opens the first page of the book and checks the page count:

500 pages.

Yoongi’s mouth drops. How is he supposed to find answers ASAP? The last time he’d done such intensive research was for his final dissertation. Even the research required of his job these days is considered lighter compared to a textbook as fat as a brick. But whatever. He knew what he was signing up for when he want down this career path.

“Alright, let’s crack this baby down,” he mumbles, turning on his reading light and rollings his shoulders back.

Reading a princess’ memoir should probably be a thrill. The life of royalty ought to be more exciting than a novel! But this one chronicles achievements in embroidery and sewing, one after another. There are descriptive paragraphs of the palace’s gardens and other natural landscapes in vivid detail. Every now and then the princess talks about art and her family.

In the end, Yoongi caves in an uses Ctrl + F using the keyword “painting”. He ends up getting over 1000 mentions of the word. When he searches for the word “dance” and “dancer”, he gets over 200 results within the document.

Still too broad of a scope. He sighs and glances at the clock. 10pm. Well, then. Time for the final resort.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of a late night call from my dearest childhood playmate?” Namjoon says by way of answering his call. “You’ve been clingy lately.”

“Shut up.” Yoongi sets his phone on speaker mode and tosses it lightly in the air. “Joon, am I a lazy reader?”

“It depends on the material. Remember that geek phase you had at 16, when you binged the Lord of The Rings trilogy in two days? Oh wait, your geek phase never ended.”

Yoongi clucks bis tongue. “I’m not getting anywhere with this one.”

“Is it about those paintings?”

“What else?”

Namjoon only hums. Yoongi raises an eyebrow. Over the years he’s learned how to tell apart the sounds Namjoon makes—this one is the “I know something” hum. “What is it?”

“So, I’ve been doing a little more digging,” Namjoon states, “and found an excerpt from the Concubine Min’s memoirs.”

“The First Concubine?” Yoongi sits up straighter in bed. “As in, Princess Songhwa’s mother?”

“Yep. Not sure if this one would help though, but”—Namjoon clears his throat—“The children have been keeping secrets from me.”

“Go on,” Yoongi urges.

“I visited the prince’s chambers and was greeted with five tapestries of an unknown man’s face. I screamed, ‘This cannot be, this cannot be.’ He said they are Songhwa’s possessions. Rage and relief floods through me. Tomorrow he will be Crown Prince. I will protect our dignity.”

How the hell is Kim Namjoon so lucky to have found exactly the kind of information Yoongi wants? Yoongi waits with bated breath, straining his ears. When Namjoon doesn’t continue, he says, “That’s it?”

“It ends there. You know not all of the Concubine’s memoirs were found, right? The rest burned during a rebel attack.”

Yoongi tongues at the insides of his cheeks thoughtfully. “That solves it then. So the paintings really are crafted by royalty, and they belong to Princess Songhwa. Easy enough.”

With this, he can carve out the bare bones of a press statement with Seokjin tomorrow. Yoongi should be thankful, but rather than pure, breezy relief, his gut tightens with the gnawing sensation of something being… off. Doubt creeps into him, but he can’t pinpoint a reason.

“Are you sure you’ll be ready to exhibit the paintings so soon?” Namjoon asks as though sensing his unrest.

Yoongi cocks his head aside. “Why not?”

“Hyung, the Concubine’s memoirs speak of five paintings,” Namjoon sags somberly, and the realization crashes on Yoongi in a landslide.

They only found three.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” Yoongi grins at the man in corduroy overalls and smoothes his hands over the steering wheel. Reunited with his precious at last.

“No problem, she’s young. Got a lot of life in her now that I replaced her engine.”

“You’re still the best in town, Mr. Do,” Yoongi says appreciatively.

“You bet. Hit me up anytime if ever something goes wrong again.”

After days spent painstakingly taking the public transport to and from his workplace, Yoongi can finally spend his alone time uninterrupted. One of the biggest perks of driving is it gives introverts like himself some downtime to run things through his mind, privately.

Last night’s epiphany with Namjoon left them both shaken. Unable to sleep, Yoongi ended up browsing back and forth between textbooks and countless Wikipedia tabs about Joseon era figures. Things just don’t add up. If the Princess was an artist, why was her skill never mentioned? And if there were five paintings, where and why had the other two vanished?

Princess Min Songhwa. Born to a concubine, she had another sibling, but that’s hardly relevant. She was most noted for being the half-sibling of the Crown Prince who went on to rule Joseon eventually. Yoongi purses his lips as he turns from the main road and into the Folk Museum’s underground parking lot. Her lifetime puts their current search roughly around the reign of King Injo. And during that time period, the Crown Prince Sohyeon had been held hostage in the Manchu court in ancient China for years, only to mysteriously die.

Which means there had been two Crown Princes during that time—Sohyeon, and a brother who stepped in. What Yoongi doesn’t get is why the next monarch after King Injo was known posthumously called King Hyojong - whatever could his birth name have been?

A blaring horn startles Yoongi, and he steers aside to let another car drive out of the carpark entrance.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Min Yoongi,” he mumbles while parking. There’s no point jumping to conclusion and running his mind in circles when nothing is confirmed yet.

He steps out and walks out to the museum lobby, which is precisely where he finds the brewing shitstorm. Blocking his path to the museum’s staff gantry is a thick crowd of journalists, swarming every possible nook and cranny of the lobby.

Fuck. Yoongi’s eyes fall shut. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and makes the split-second decision to make a run for the back door.

Bad move.

As soon as the media spots him, they flock to him, armed with cameras and firing questions faster than a bullet.

“You’re part of the team in charge of the Joseon era paintings, correct?”

“Are they authentic? Will there be a press con?”

“What is their relevance to art history?”

Yoongi grimaces and bites back a curse as he shoulders his way past the crowd. Fuck’s sake, he’s not even some celebrity. Just another average dude trying to make it to work on time. Security guards shout to make way for him to pass through. Fed up with the growing mob, Yoongi finally sighs and holds up a hand.

The journalists fall silent.

“Listen very carefully,” he drawls in his full authoritative voice.

There. Yoongi spots the shining opportunity—a clear path for him to squeeze through, wide enough to get him to the staff entrance. But he needs to play his cards right. Yoongi clears his throat and takes a deep breath. The crowd tenses—

“No comment,” he says, then sprints. He bursts through the door breathing raggedly and rests his palms to his knees to catch his breath. “Yah, Jin-hyung, did you see that mob outside—“

“Min Yoongi-ssi.”

Yoongi stops short. That was definitely not his co-worker and college friend’s voice. He straightens up and finds a middle-aged man at the lounge chair. With greying hair and thin glasses perched on his nose, the Chancellor of the Conservatory never fails to give off a self-important aura.

“Chancellor Kwak,” Yoongi gulps. “What a pleasant surprise, so early in the morning.”

“Are the paintings authentic?” the Chancellor shoots.

Yoongi blinks, disoriented. “Pardon?”

“The ones from Gyeonggi-do,” the Chancellor says. “How much are they worth?”

“Uh—“

“Tea’s ready!” Seokjin calls from the pantry with a tray. “Now now, sir, how about we walk this through slowly, one at a time? Our poor Yoongi’s confused.”

“Very well. Sit with us.”

Yoong catches Seokjin’s eye, who responds with an expression that says, Just go with it.

“As far as I know,” Yoongi says as he pours tea for himself and the Chancellor, “Kim Namjoon found them under the floorboards of an ancestral home near the Royal Tombs.”

“And have the paintings been inspected?”

Yoongi nods. “They’ve been preserved rather well, but my team is still trying to find out its origins and background. It’s still quite a mystery, we’ve found three so far but—“

“I want them cleaned up for a private viewing,” Chancellor Kwak cuts.

Yoongi’s fingers pause over his teacup’s handle. “For— I beg your pardon?”

Next to him, Seokjin shifts uncomfortably. “Yoongi-yah, you see, remember how the National Arts Council threatened to withdraw funding for our Folk Museum?”

“Yes...?”

“We have some new keen sponsors. Big names are offering to fund us in exchange for ownership of the paintings,” Chancellor Kwak adds smugly. “Including Sunrise Corp, CJENM and YJ Group.”

Yoongi nearly spits out his tea. “You want to sell them?”

“Put them up for bidding,” Kwak corrects.

“Like in an auction?”

Kwak smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m glad you caught on quick.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightens, and he reminds himself to maintain honorifics. “With all due respect, sir, these paintings could be as priceless as national artefacts, and they could raise our status if we find—“

“The representatives will visit on Friday,” Chancellor Kwak announces nonchalantly, standing up and dusting crumbs off his trousers. “Please make all the necessary preparations so that we don’t embarrass the conservatory.” He turns to leave. “Thank you for the lovely tea.”

Yoongi fists his hands. As soon as the door shuts, he grits out, “Fucking capitalist pig.”

“Language,” Seokjin berates.

Yoongi faces him, disappointed. “Doesn’t this frustrate you too? Is everything about money?”

Seokjin levels him with a cold glare. “Don’t liken me to that scumbag.”

“YJ Group,” Yoongi scoffs in disbelief, falling back against his desk. “Why even YJ Group? Aren’t they an idol company or something? ‘BLACKPEACH in your zone’? Why would they be interested—“

“You forget they have a gallery under their sister company,” Seokjin states sullenly.

Yoongi groans aloud. “Is nobody else in it for the craft? The value? Damn it.”

“Look, I get how you feel,” Seokjin says placatingly, pouring a new cup of tea for Yoongi. “But let’s calm down and be rational—“

“Don’t tell me to calm down about this.”

“Why are you so riled up, you punk?”

“I—“ Yoongi’s mouth clamps shut.

“No, because I’m actually curious,” Seokjin says, a new inquisitive glint flashing in his eyes. “What’s it to you, anyway? Why are you so mad if we don’t own the paintings?”

Yoongi averts his gaze.

Seokjin grunts. “They’re not yours, Yoongi.”

So why does the thought of parting with them create a hole in his gut?

Yoongi sighs as he steps into the cooling storage chamber and turns on the lights, gaze falling on the paintings behind the protective glass case. Seokjin left earlier to make his rounds on the second floor.

Yoongi pulls out a wooden stool and parks it a few steps away from the glass case, feeling watched by the illustrations instead of the other way round. He sits, hands propped between spread legs. In the silence of the room, his panicked thoughts seem to recede to calm waters.

Once again, for the nth time since he first laid eyes on the paintings, Yoongi finds himself staring at each blot of ink, the clean brushstrokes limning the dancer’s soft face. His cheeks had always been pudgy despite his chiseled jawline.

Yoongi gasps.

What a weird thought.

He must be drifting off into one of his daydreams again, which can’t be good. Min Yoongi has always prided himself on his work ethic, and he can’t afford to get distracted. Still, it doesn’t hurt to educate himself, so candidly he fishes his phone out and types into the Naver search bar:

“IS DEJA VU REAL?”

“DEJA VU WHY”

“DEJA VU EXPLANATION”

The search results explain it from a neuroscientific point of view, which Yoongi appreciates. Déjà vu, according to the Internet, is a phenomenon involving the human capacity for memory. It seems that the human mind interprets things that were not fully perceived during a previous viewing as though for the first time, which is why people get the sense that something has happened to them before. It’s all in the brain.

All in the brain. Yoongi consoles himself with this finding. Yet, as he gets up to leave, eyes glued on the paintings, a stray thought occurs to him:

I can’t lose you again.

In the evening, after washing the dishes, it occurs to Yoongi that he hasn’t checked in on one other pending source all day. He ought to ask about the so-called ‘letters’ by now.

Too bad neither he nor Seokjin asked for Park Jimin’s number.

He’ll have to wait. So he settles into bed with his new favorite nighttime routine: reading Princess Songhwa’s 500-page memoirs. Fun. Most exciting.

The first few chapters outline her early life in the palace—court ladies, classes, books and favorite foods—all of which end up boring Yoongi to death.

By chapter 7 though, there’s a considerable shift in tone, and Yoongi finds out that the princess had stopped writing for a few years before resuming at age 16.

I cannot trust anybody within these walls. Only Yeol, my most precious friend. Yeol whom I grew up with. She is mine.

Yoongi’s eyebrow rises by a fraction.

Yeol and I have shared secrets not even my eomamama’s ears have heard, and we will carry them to the grave. My passion for her eclipses moons. It pains me greatly, therefore, to learn of her affections for Tutor Jeon’s art. I can see it clearly.

Tutor Jeon never should have come to the palace! I detest having to witness Yeol slip away from me. My older brother seems to think otherwise. Orabeoni has become passionate about art and paints, of late. Tutor Jeon indulges him fondly. I will never be rid of him!

At that moment, Yoongi phone starts ringing, jolting him out of concentration.

“Just when it was getting entertaining,” Yoongi mutters, grabbing it from his bedside table. It’s an unknown number. Could be a spam call. Yoongi sneers and rejects the call.

His phone rings once more. Again, Yoongi ignores it. He’s considering blocking the number when a text notification banner pops up on his screen.

[unknown number]

ehehe hello~~~^__^

min yoongi-ssi, right? OwO

Yoongi’s brows dip together in confusion. 

[minyunki93]

who u

[unknown number]

it’s me
park jimin
:D !!!!!

Yoongi blinks at his phone screen, feeling his heartbeat freeze for a long moment.

[unknown number]

oh dear
wrong sent ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ
i mean, didn’t mean to send a picture!! U__U
but yes it’s me
owowowowo

“Shameless.” Yoongi shakes his head, wrinkling his nose at his phone screen.

He’s not exactly in the mood for a text conversation, so Yoongi taps the unknown number and hits ‘call’.

“Hello!” Jimin answers after two rings. “Missed me so much you wanted to hear my voice already?”

"How did you get my number?" Yoongi cuts to the chase, ignoring the small flip his stomach does.

"Your colleague said I should contact you in case of anything..."

Which means Jimin must have an important update for him, then. “Are you at your grandparents’ house now?” Yoongi asks candidly.

“Yup.”

“And is the box of letters there?”

“My, my, you’re not even going to ask if I’ve eaten dinner yet?” Jimin says in a pitchy tone, and Yoongi can just imagine the guy’s pout from miles away. He rolls his eyes.

“Answer me, please.”

Jimin sighs. “Yes, I found them this afternoon.”

“Good.” Yoongi nods to himself. “Send me a picture, won’t you?”

“Okaaay,” Jimin says, and they quickly end the call.

[unknown number]

here you go ^__~

“What the fuck,” Yoongi cusses. “What the actual fuck.”

[minyunki93]

not that

[unknown number]

you asked for a pic!!
oh wait
unless
you wanted A Pic...?
as in...
oh boy
i mean i haven’t started my onlyfans yet but i guess i could give you a free trial

Yoongi feels heat rise to his neck, and he rubs a palm over his face. Park Jimin is a true menace if he’s ever seen one. How the hell is he real?

[minyunki93]

A picture of the letters, please.

[selca brat]

OH
damn you should’ve just said sooo
here’s a few. some of them are really old

In the darkness of his bedroom, Yoongi squints at the photos, but decides he’ll have a better look in person.

[minyunki93]

listen, i have a favor to ask.

[selca brat]

i don’t do favors for free

[minyunki93]

what flavor ice cream do you want

[selca brat]

do i look cheap to you

[minyunki93]

fine. lunch and dinner’s on me.

[selca brat]

Is it your cooking?

Yoongi grits his teeth and tries not to clutch his phone too tightly.

[minyunki93]

done and dusted.

[selca brat] is typing...

[minyunki93]

with dessert of your choice.

[selca brat]

How may I be of assistance, good sir?

[minyunki93]

I’m a little pressed for time

could you bring over the letters to Seoul tomorrow?

[selca brat]

i thought i asked for a few days T^T

[minyunki93]

I have Lotte Store coupons.

and won a free ramen cooker from a company raffle.

you can have them

[selca brat]

CYA TMR<3

Unlike other nights where his dreams form vivid shapes and scenes, tonight his subconscious drifts by in flashes, sharp but fleeting. Like a strip of film superimposed in the reel of his mind, too fast to grasp. Silk and paper; a sword’s tip against a smooth chin. A voice asking—

Why is it that each time we meet, you are threatening to cut my life short? How rude.

A quiet lake full of fireflies; lanterns dotting amber across a velvet sky.

And then blood.

Red—pooling at his feet, rising to his ankles, filling his throat.

Yoongi wakes up whimpering. Grasping for his phone, he swipes open a meditation app that encourages deep breathing. He puts on some ambient music ('Light Rainshower') and lies back against his sweat-drenched pillow, forcing himself to relax.

He ignores the guttural ache that tells him he isn’t whole.

“Min Yoongi-ssi?” a female receptionist approaches Yoongi after he finishes his rounds on the museum’s 3rd floor the next afternoon. “There’s a man named Park Jimin looking for you at the office.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows jump. “He actually made it.”

He speedwalks to his office and hears Seokjin’s trademark windshield wiper laugh, followed by a series of squeaky giggles.

“And he asked, ‘What color is a burger’s favorite’? And I said, duh—“

“BURGUNDY!” Seokjin exclaims, and opposite him, Jimin falls to the floor laughing.

Yoongi watches the scene unfold with growing horror—so Seokjin has been won over by the menace, too. He must proceed with caution. “Park Jimin-ssi?”

“Ah, hi! Hi, Yoongi-ssi, you gotta hear Seokjin-hyung’s ‘unbeliebubble’ backstory—“

“Seokjin ‘hyung’?” Yoongi repeats testily.

“Heee,” Jimin says, prancing over to Yoongi and raising a hand in greeting. “Nice to see you again, I missed you.”

Anyone else and Yoongi would have cringed. But Park Jimin carries a certain charm that makes him hard to resist. At those simple words, Yoongi quells the urge to shrink back and hide his reddening ears. He covers his mouth with a hand. “You—“

“The box is over there, by the way,” Jimin says nonchalantly. On top of Yoongi’s desk is a medium-sized wooden crate, slightly larger than a shoebox. Jimin walks over to it, beaming smugly. “You’re lucky I had a friend who was coming to the city today, or else I wouldn’t have gotten here in time.”

Yoongi shrugs and strides over. “I would’ve fetched you.”

“Of course you— wait,” Jimin stutters, looking legitimately thrown off for once, and looks up at him with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Sure,” Yoongi replies calmly, reaching over to open the box.

“Why?” Jimin’s voice lowers and he narrows his eyes.

Yoongi pats the box. “Call of duty. I’m a man of the arts.”

Next to him, Jimin falls silent, expression pinched.

“What?” Yoongi asks.

“Nothing.” Jimin shudders. “I feel like I just had a serious case of déjà vu. I have those sometimes, I don’t know why.”

“It’s normal, that and jamais vu,” Seokjin says. “I wrote a song about it once.”

Yoongi wrinkles his nose. “You write songs?”

“I’m a man of the arts too!” Seokjin says petulantly.

Jimin giggles.

Sighing, Yoongi returns his attention to what’s on his desk & flips open the creaky box with utmost care. There are a couple of items inside, but his focus lies on the scrolls—4 of them. They smell of mildew and old paper. Tied with a piece of string and browned with age, the parchments look so fragile Yoongi is scared to unscroll them. Nevertheless, he puts on protective gloves and ever-so-slowly opens one scroll.

“See?” Jimin purses his lips. “All in hanja.”

He’s not exactly wrong. Most Koreans have an understanding of basic hanja, but the script on the scrolls seem to be written in the archaic form of Middle Korean, so the average, untrained eye would have zero to no grasp of the letters’ contents. Furthermore, instead of beautiful, flowing lines of calligraphy unfolding before Yoongi’s eyes, all he finds are browned characters, mostly badly eroded due to age. He picks out some clearer words, like “bird” and “Sun”, but the rest are unintelligible.

For some reason, the sight of these paragraphs leaves his legs feeling weak, and he sinks into his chair, heaving.

“So?” Jimin prods. “Are they love letters?”

Yoongi frowns. “What gave you that idea?”

“They’re fucking unreadable,” Seokjin murmurs, leaning for a look.

“Oh.” Jimin’s shoulders droop.

Yoongi hums in thought and gingerly puts back the scroll into the box. Peeling his gloves off, he asks Seokjin, “Do you still keep in touch with our hoobaes from university?”

Seokjin glances at him quizzically. “Which one?”

“That kid from orientation camp.” Yoongk racks the back of his mind. “The one from the Faculty of Conservation Science?”

“Ah. Choi Soobin?” Seokjin’s expression brightens. “I heard he’s a TA now.”

“Yeah, him. D’you think he can help us access the lab for some restoration work?”

“I can call him for you...”

“Great.” Yoongi grabs the box and swings his bag over one shoulder. “Tell him we’re on the way.”

“‘We’?” Jimin asks, pointing at himself. “Now?”

Yoongi grins and tugs him by the wrist, feeling like he’s on the cusp of a discovery. “Yes. ‘We’. Now. C’mon.”

Choi Soobin is as tall as he’s adorable, and as soon as he spots Yoongi, his puppy-like face breaks out into a smile that almost rivals Jimin’s. Almost. He carries himself with the energy of a golden retriever, but as soon as his eyes falls to the artefacts brought by Yoongi and Jimin his face does a 180-degree transformation and he goes into business mode.

“It’s similar to Forensics. I’ll have to dust these off and let the chemicals do their work,” Soobin deduces after examining the scrolls. They’re standing in one of the labs, the mixed scent of different chemicals lingering in the air. It’s fascinating listening to Soobin explain the process of restoring the the old scrolls. So similar yet just a degree different from art restoration. Yoongi only hopes the ones in their hands are not just random parchments or worse, dupes.

Yoongi nods slowly, eyes latching onto the faded characters in hanja. “And how long would that take?”

“Three days, tops.”

Yoongi bristles. “That’s too long.”

“But if you need them ASAP”—Soobin yanks his gloves on, determined—“Choi Soobin can work miracles in 24 hours.”

Yoongi lets out a long, slow breath, wondering if he’s being overbearing like this, but unable to stop just the same. “Don’t overwork yourself, Soobin-ssi. Just do what you can.”

Soobin winks at them. “I’ll give it my best shot, sunbae.”

“Thank you,” Jimin says. “Also, nice hair.”

Soobin positively glows, cheeks pinking. He thanks Jimin profusely, and to Yoongi, he says, “I’ll send you scans of doctored pages once they’re done.”

“Take your time,” Yoongi insists.

“Yes,” Jimin chirps. Yoongi turns to send him an unimpressed look, but his heartbeat spikes with concern as soon as he takes in the sudden paling of Jimin’s face.

“Take your”—the young man blinks slowly and sways forward, face paling—“time.”

And then he slumps against Yoongi, head lolling against Yoongi’s shoulder.

What.

“Oi, oi, Park Jimin!” Yoongi barks as he catches the brat’s weight in his arms, muted terror rising in him. “Hey!” Internally he’s already rationalizing, considering the possible conditions that causes people to have fainting spells out of nowhere.

Soobin scrambles to his feet, blowing eyes wide. “Sh-should I call for help?”

Nestled against Yoongi, Jimin’s eyes flutter open as he sucks in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering.

“Oh.” His gaze is unfocused, voice several decibels softer. “Not again.”

Not again? Yoongi himself feels ill. Is this a usual occurrence? Sharp fear prickles him as he struggles to hold Jimin’s weight while at the same time fighting to stay upright. “What are you talking about, Park Jimin? Come on, you can’t suddenly- I just found you—“

“Min Yoongi...” Jimin whispers, bringing his lips closer to the shell of Yoongi’s left era “I... I’m…”

“Yeah?” Yoongi adjusts his forearm to better support Jimin around the waist, not caring about proximity.

“I’m kinda… hungry.”

Yoongi pauses and cranes his neck back to take a good look at Jimin. It’s as though a record scratch has gone off in his head, dispelling his earlier concern and replacing it with dumbfounded disbelief. “Park Jimin.”

Jimin, whose lips are now pouted, bats his eyelashes as he looks coyly up at Yoongi. “Food?”

Only then does Yoongi realize — he’d promised him meals, but they haven’t eaten since Jimin arrived from Busan.

“I didn’t even eat breakfast,” Jimin adds in flightily. “Since I was asked to rush over to Seoul on such short notice…”

Fuck’s sake. Yoongi releases the man and rubs his temples, torn between annoyance and sheer relief.

“You brat.”

The aroma of tangsuyuk wafts from Yoongi’s kitchen stove to the dining room as he sets the table. His slippered footsteps are muted as he pads his way around the carpeted floor, carrying plates and pots and utensils here and there.

Just a few feet away in the  living room stands Jimin, looking at the photos framed on a bookshelf by the TV. As someone who rarely invites people to his room, Yoongi is more than a little disconcerted, observing larger-than-life Park Jimin in his quaint place. Something about his presence alone seems to fill up whatever space he takes up, making him hard to ignore.

“Do you live alone?” asks Jimin, picking up a photo frame of Yoongi and his parents from his high school graduation.

“Yeah,” Yoongi replies.

“Cool. I live alone, too. What happened to your parents?”

“In Daegu.”

“That your hometown?”

“Mmm.”

Since their trip to the Faculty of Conservation Science had taken up most of their evening, most restaurants were already closing by the time they step out of the Folk Museum, except for a few tented stalls dotting the streets. When Yoongi agreed to cook for Park Jimin he’d envisioned something more along the lines of bringing him a lunchbox and eating together in the office, rather than this — Yoongi in an apron, Jimin shuffling about his personal space while chatting away. They’re nowhere near close enough to be doing this. Heck, they’re not even friends. But he would like to think of himself as a man of his word, so with nowhere left to go they ended up here.

They’d left the letters with Soobin but brought the wooden chest back with them, and now there it lies on Yoongi’s sofa, looking out of place in his sleek, minimalist interior deco.

“Food’s ready,” Yoongi calls out, and Jimin comes zooming in like an energized kitten, eyes blowing wide at the spread on the table.

“Wow, look at that. Looks yum. Yum yum yum. Thank you for the food.”

Yoongi warily watches him dig into the food, cheeks all aglow as though he hadn’t looked on the verge of death mere hours ago. He clears his throat. “Seriously though, what just happened back there? Are you like, anemic? Should you get checked?”

Jimin swallows down a mouthful of rice. “It’s normal.”

“Normal,” Yoongi repeats monotonously. “You ever considered, uh, getting it checked?”

Jimin waves him off. “It’s nothing, trust me. When I was younger, my parents used to worry, too. But the doctors said I’m perfectly healthy! Just that I get weird dizzy spells sometimes. Or headaches and nightmares—“

“Nightmares?” Yoongi’s eyebrows jump, his interest piqued. He leans forward.

“Oh, yeah. I get these recurring dreams of me being in prison, getting tortured and bleeding a lot, and then I get a hot iron pressed to my face—“ Jimin shudders, face darkening. “They’re terrible. My teachers would tell my parents I have an overactive imagination.”

“That’s... “ Yoongi blinks and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, “pretty rough…. wow.”

“Mmm, I know. They’re just getting a bit more frequent these days, but really you don’t have to worry— oh? Yoongi-ssi, why are you crying?” Jimin furrows his brows, lowering his spoon.

Yoongi blinks and only then becomes aware of the sensation of a wetness beneath his lashline. “Huh?”

A strange look passes over Jimin’s face, and he reaches over to thumb the stray tear away from Yoongi’s cheek. “Don’t cry for me. Don’t.”

His hand feels so warm, almost familiar. Yoongi surprises himself by leaning into Jimin’s touch for a fraction of a moment. “I know, but I can’t help it.”

Jimin studies him without a word, and the moment hangs fragile as glass between them. Something in Yoongi feels compelled to say, to say more, but the words don’t quite bubble their way onto his tongue. Where words fail him, though, his body seems to respond in kind. All rational thought seems suspended elsewhere, like this, and once again that deeply unsettling feeling of knowing wraps around Yoongi’s chest like second instinct. I recognize you. Yoongi lets his eyes fall closed when Jimin brushes a knuckle against his cheek, a gentle warmth blossoming in the place where their skins touch.

From the kitchen, the kettle starts keening. Jimin’s hand abruptly lifts away from Yoongi’s face as though he’d been scorched. Yoongi blinks, the moment gone before it even began.

“I’ll go make some tea,” Yoongi says, standing up. The chair scrapes against the floor, echoing way too loudly in the otherwise silent apartment.

What the fuck just happened?

“Where in Seoul do you stay?” Yoongi asks as they clean up after dinner, awkward silence notwithstanding.

“Nowon-gu,” Jimin answers, clearing away the teacups and setting them onto the sink.

“That’s kinda far,” Yoongi comments offhandedly.

“A little, yeah.”

“And it’s late.”

Jimin turns to him, smirking. “Ohhh. I see how it is.”

Yoongi glances at him. “Hmm?”

“Are you inviting me to a pyjama party!?”

Yoongi thinks about it. As a man of good morals and values, it would only be hospitable to let a guest stay over instead of kicking them out into the dark of the night. Plus, he still has a load of unanswered questions for his strange guest. Might as well make use of the time. “There will be pyjamas. But no party.”

An earsplitting grin spreads across Jimin’s face and he pumps his fist in the air while doing a happy dance. “Well, don’t mind if I do make myself comfortable, then. I’ll be good, I swear.”

Yoongi bites back a smile. He’ll never admit it, but a fraction of him is beginning to understand how Park Jimin grew on Seokjin so quickly. Most adults his age walk around as though they carry boulders on their shoulders, heads down and feet dragging. Jaded, disillusioned. Something about Jimin lack of restraint feels like a breath of fresh air.

Walking to his wardrobe, he fetches a set of fresh sleepwear for Jimin and very much tries not to stare when the guy emerges from the bathroom looking extra soft and swaddled in Yoongi’s oversized cotton pyjamas. Yoongi had grabbed the first pair on top of the folded pile, which just so happen to be the floofy, baby blue ones that Yoongi only wears during stormy nights when he wants some extra warmth but has nobody to cuddle with.

Be calm, Yoongi tells himself, tearing his gaze away. He’s known the guy for less than a week. It’s weird to be attracted so early on.

“So, are we going to Netflix and chill?” Jimin suggests, plopping down on the sofa, and Yoongi offhandedly susses his feet off the coffee table.

“Actually,” Yoongi glances at the old wooden box next to where Jimin is sitting. “I was wondering if you wanted to go through stuff in there.”

Jimin shrugs. “Sure.”

He goes to grab two sets of latex gloves from one of his drawers - always handy to keep his own stash aside in case he needs to handle anything valuable at home. They set the box on the coffee table and flip the lid over. A thick layer of coats the box’s rim, and Yoongi wrinkles his nose.

“How long has this been with your family?” he asks.

Jimin hums. “Dunno. Centuries, probably.”

“And the person who owned this was...?”

“I told you. The man in the paintings!”

“The great grand-uncle fifty times removed,” Yoongi deadpans. “Right.”

“I’ve only ever heard legends passed down from generation to generation, okay?” Jimin says, reaching into the box and pulling out a cloth bag. “Oh. How familiar.”

Yoongi shoots him a strange look. “You’ve never opened this box before?”

“It’s not very interesting, so no. Just one of those random stuff hidden away in my grandparents’ attic for the longest time. My halmeoni was actually about to throw it out the other day,” Jimin says. “But then I saw that news article about the newly unearthed paintings so I asked her not to. You know, just in case. Anyway…” Jimin tilts the palm-sized, velvet cloth bag under the light, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. “Maybe I’m having a case of jamais vu, as per Seokjin-hyung’s words. This all feels so strange to me.”

“What do you think’s inside?” Yoongi asks.

“Uhhh. Jewelry. A bracelet.” Jimin answers with no hesitation, and sure enough, when they pull the drawstring loose and reach inside, a silver bracelet with a tourmaline gem tumbles out, glinting in the living room light.

Yoongi goes slack-jawed. Jimin lets out a noise of surprise.

“Wow. Nice.”

“How did you know it was a bracelet?” Yoongi questions, part of him wondering if this is truly the first time Jimin is going through this box.

Jimin gives him a “duh” look. “Man’s intuition. But never mind that. Look at this! I can’t believe it.”

“It’ll be a national treasure if you ever surrender it to the Korean Arts Council.”

Jimin’s smile dims. “No.” He shoves the bracelet back in the bag & returns it into the box. “It’s a family heirloom. I wouldn’t dare.”

Yoongi swallows down a comment about how it could make his family rich—who is he to talk when he himself vetoed capitalism just yesterday? “Anything else inside?”

They both peer into the box, but apart from its mouldy corners, it’s otherwise empty.

“Well. That was anticlimatic,” Jimin says, yawning and leaning back on the couch. He gently lowers the bracelet back into the velvet pouch.

Yoongi hums. He looks inside the box, then glances at the coffee table, and measures the box’s bottom width. Something’s off. Pulse quickening, Yoongi dips his fist inside the box knocks on the bottom plate.

It rings hollow.

“What are you doing?” Jimin asks.

“The height...” Yoongi mumbles, comparing the box’s width from the outside to the inside.

The facts click into place and he halts, stricken by the possibility. Could it be…?

Without a word, Yoongi hurries to one of his kitchen sink drawers, grabs his toolbox, and reaches for a hammer.

“What are you— don’t break the box!” Jimin cries, arms shooting out protectively.

“I’m not gonna pound against it,” Yoongi says in defense. “Look. It’s a false bottom.”

Exercising as much caution as he can, Yoongi turns the hammer over and uses the curved claw to yank at the corner of the box’s bottom. If his theory is correct, the bottom should pop open—

Thwack. The bottom gives way and rises by an inch.

Jimin gasps and leans forward.

With another measured tug, the false bottom completely flips up to reveal the box’s true bottom, which is even dustier. Yoongi lets out an awed exhale.

“Wow.” His gaze flickers to Jimin, who looks just as amazed as he feels. So this is how being in an Indiana Jones film must be like. “Park Jimin-ssi, looks like your great uncle fifty times removed had a couple of tricks up his sleeve.”

What lies inside the hidden compartment bewilders Yoongi even more. There’s a very, very old handkerchief that must have been pearly white once upon a time. Now it’s faded to a cream shade and smells odd. When Jimin unfolds it, Yoongi spots a tiny bird embroidered into one of its corners. A crane, wings spread mid-flight.

“It’s made of silk,” notes Yoongi. “Expensive stuff, back in the day.”

Jimin hasn’t said a word since they opened the secret compartment. He traces the embroidery decorating the handkerchief, an unreadable look crossing his expression. Then he shakes his head and carefully folds the handkerchief again before setting it aside. “What else is inside?”

Yoongi peers into the box. Lying hidden beneath the handkerchief just now is a tattered photograph of two men dressed in formal wear in the style of the early 19th century.

Yoongi flips the photo over and reads the barely readable, cursive penmanship scrawled on it: 

Park Jinhyuk, Kim Taekyung.

1897. Old University Street.

Yoongi frowns. “1897...”

It makes little to no sense. That’s at least two centuries from when the originally paintings were dated. How in the world..? Perhaps Jeon Jungkook had estimated his time period wrong.

“Daebak,” Jimin murmurs, gently taking the photograph from Yoongi’s fingers to examine it himself. “This has got to be one of the earliest photographs my family has ever owned.”

But Yoongi is hardly hearing him.

Because his eyes are fixated on something in the photo’s background, almost indiscernible if you didn’t know what to look out for. But Yoongi has seen similar variations of it, because he’s spent the past few days staring at the same art style. A painting hangs on the wall behind where Park Jinhyuk and Kim Taekyung are posing for the camera, but it’s not any of the three that Namjoon had recently unearthed.

It’s a portrait of a sleeping dancer’s face, drawn in the same art style with similar brushstrokes. The same dancer, as far as Yoongi can make out, as the one in the paintings currently held in the Folk Museum.

A shudder runs down Yoongi’s spine.

“Come to think of it, I guess similar looks really do run in my family’s bloodline,” Jimin is chattering to himself, completely unaware. “Look at my great-grand-grandpa-or-uncle-something! We look so alike. Fascinating.”

“Jimin,” Yoongi breathes, pointing at the photo.

“Yeah?”

Yoongi can barely think clearly over the thoughts thundering over one another in his ears.

The memoirs said that there were five paintings, Namjoon had told him over the phone. Could this be? Is this one of the missing illustrations? “Jimin, what’s that painting?”

Jimin squints at the photograph. “Oh, that?”

Yoongi gawks at his casual tone. “What do you mean, ‘that’?”

Jimin chuckles. “I’ve seen that forever at Taehyungie’s house. I think it was a gift from my family to him, long ago.”

Yoongi chokes on his own spit. “Who’s Taehyungie?”

“My bestie!” Jimin shoots him a peace sign. “BFFs for life! Although I’m a little sad since he recently moved away to the mountains at Gangwon-do, you know? His family are hardcore believers of shamanism so they’re making him practice his spiritual energy at their temple.”

Yoongi inhales slowly and deeply, reminding himself to fill his lungs with air in order to calm down. He’s getting way ahead of himself. If anything, maybe the painting at Jimin’s friend’s house isn’t even by the same ‘Min’ artist. There’s just no way.

Get a grip, Min Yoongi.

“That’s... nice,” Yoongi croaks, replacing everything back into the box. Maybe it’s time to resign for the night. His mind is in a whirl and he’s still freaking out and there’s no way he can get any more sleuthing done after this. Besides, Seokjin has always been reprimanding him for being a workaholic. This is a sign that his brain needs downtime. Yoongi gets up and feigns a yawn. “Anyway, I’m going to sleep.”

“Oh,” Jimin says. For a second he looks like he might prod, but to Yoongi’s relief he just relents. “I’ll join you in the bed later!”

Yoongi freezes. “Join me… in the what?”

“Ah,” Jimin gasps, “are you sensitive about physical proximity? Does my being nearby make you blush? Are you sweating right now?”

Once more, Yoongi is left staring dumbly at him. Everything about Park Jimin is just… unreal. Like, fictional character unreal.

“Does the idea of being a breath away from another able-bodied man bother you, and keep you up at night?” Jimin continues in an impassioned voice. “‘Cause I can respect that.”

“I- no, just—“ Yoongi clams his hands over his ears as Jimin keeps going on about men in close quarters, yada yada. “Yeah, okay, stop! I don’t care if you sleep next to me, whatever. My bed’s queen-sized, anyway.”

Jimin beams at him and sends him a finger heart. “Fabulous.”

Yoongi buries himself under layers of his blankets and duvet, and he’s already fast asleep by the time Jimin also crawls in beside him, exhausted.

If there’s one benefit to sleeping next to another warm body, it’s that Yoongi doesn’t get plagued by terrors through the night.

The next morning, while eating breakfast, the first email that Yoongi finds in his inbox is from Soobin.

from: Choi Soobin

[Joseon Era Scrolls_scanned.pdf]

Yoongi’s eyes widen at the title as he opens the file right away. Next to him, Jimin munches on cereal.

As soon as the first page loads, Yoongi hungrily reads the perfectly restored hanja characters. Soobin’s work is impeccable - each line and stroke is readable, although of course the effort of mentally transposing the language from Middle Korean to Modern Korean takes Yoongi a solid few minutes to get accustomed to. After he deciphers the first paragraph of the scrolls, Yoongi’s heart drops, blood draining from his face.

“So?” Jimin asks. “Are they love letters?”

Dread encroaches Yoongi’s chest, clutching him in a vicelike grip as he scans the next pages. As he reaches the last scroll, one that is smaller and written in a different, neater script, it reads:

Truth lies in the art left in my dearest friend’s care.

“So?” Jimin quizzes. “Was I right?”

“Jimin,” Yoongi says darkly, jaw tight. “Call that family friend of yours. We have a painting to chase.”

“Huh?”

“These aren’t love letters,” says Yoongi. “They’re threats.”