Chapter Text
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Chapter One: A Moonlit Dance *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Jimin
In all of Park Jimin’s eighteen years of life, he was certain of one thing, and one thing only. He was completely, entirely, and spellbindingly in love with Jeon Junghyun.
Junghyun was the second son and the darling golden lamb of the Jeon family. He was the classic image of tall, dark and handsome, unparalleled in good looks and dazzling charm. He was twenty-seven and had never married, but was constantly in and out of love with somebody, sporting a new gorgeous heir or heiress on his arm every time he came strolling into the family’s lavish parties. Jimin sighed over their shining designer dresses and glimmering hand-cut suits, and imagined himself in their place, as the sole object of Junghyun’s enamored gaze.
Of course, Junghyun had hardly noticed Jimin. Still, it didn’t matter that they had barely ever spoken more than twenty words to each other. It didn’t matter that he only saw Jimin as the chauffeur’s son, little more than a child. Jimin had always loved him, and always would.
Everyone knew that Junghyun was the most eligible bachelor in Korea on looks and reputation alone, but it didn’t hurt that the Jeon family had more money than God, either. The Jeons were billionaires from old money, generous investments in transportation by a great-great grandfather meant riches spanning generations. Even better, the wealth was currently and comfortably held to this day, and ever-expanding and adapting within their booming technology company. JeonTech was a multinational corporation, with headquarters in Gangnam, Seoul, and divisions in Tokyo, Hong Kong, London, and Paris.
The Jeon mansion looked more like a small castle than a house, towering on a private estate a half-hour drive west of Seoul. It was entirely fenced in with marble walls, edged with perfectly-squared hedges. The estate boasted tennis courts, extensive gardens with seasonal expert groundskeepers on staff, an indoor and outdoor swimming pool, a stable full of prized race horses, and two solariums. Jimin and his father lived in the upper level of a large cottage whose bottom floor doubled as the family garage. Many members of staff lived alongside them there—the cooks, maids, butlers. This estate was Jimin’s home as much as anyone else’s. He had lived in that little apartment above the garage since he was three, after his mother died, not long after his father was first employed by the Jeon family.
Besides the successful business ventures, the Jeons were notorious for their lavish evening parties. Hardly any families in South Korea still held parties like this anymore. Few could afford to. They were formal black-tie and designer gown events that boasted the presence of political figureheads and wealthy businessmen of every shape and sort. They occurred whenever there was an excuse to throw them—holidays, family birthdays, or to celebrate the passing seasons. Invites were prestigious, and hard to come by.
On occasion, Jimin recognized faces from fashion magazine covers and articles from the Korea Financial Times. The Jeon matriarch and Junghyun’s mother, Lim Hye-jin, had just appeared on the cover of Forbes herself, in a spread celebrating her recent venture into the cosmetic industry. The success of her new company was the reason for the festivities tonight.
It was a clear night in April. It never rained on the night of a Jeon party. They wouldn’t have stood for it.
Jimin watched from the upper branch of an oak tree as the twinkling lights glowed around the grand backyard. The sight was nothing short of a dream.
Champagne glasses glimmered and clinked together in toasts. Ladies and gentlemen of all ages were dressed to the nines, waltzing on a dance floor to a live orchestra. A smooth, jazzy voice echoed around the yard from the scratchy timbre of the microphone. On the far end, a fully-stocked bar flowed endlessly; food would be served by butlers in finely-pressed waistcoats as long as people kept nabbing it off of silver trays. It was a proper affair, barring no expense, and an appropriate reflection of the status of the Jeon family.
Jimin leaned into the bark, this seat already well-worn from his habit of party-watching. He wouldn’t sit out here all night, but he wanted to take it all in for a while. Nobody would be in a rush to end such a party. The festivities would continue until the early hours of the morning.
Jimin’s eyes raked the crowd, watching the general attention turn to the mansion’s back patio. The main attraction waltzed out, making himself known.
Jeon Junghyun was the image of perfection, in a custom inky black Gucci suit. He had a dark red dress shirt underneath, stitched tastefully at the seams with gold thread. Jimin had seen the suit before, fawned over it when he saw the photograph of Junghyun wearing it on the red carpet. His friend was a film director who had a movie premiere in Seoul.
Junghyun’s angelic face was complemented with an even more perfect sense of style—a flawless balance of classic, timeless pieces with tasteful hints of daring and avant-garde touches. The man had never acted or walked a catwalk a day in his life, but it didn’t matter. Junghyun was a walking promotion; everything he touched flew off of the shelves. Therefore, he was invited to countless galas and fashion shows, just to grace their events wearing the latest and greatest pieces.
Junghyun stepped into the crowd, shaking hands and chatting away, and as always, he wasn’t alone. Jimin’s heart sank at the breathtaking woman beside him—she wore an open-back blue silk dress, long black hair parted and cascading down the pale curve of her spine. She floated beside him, seeming perfectly at home in the center of attention.
Jimin heard the whispers through his leafy hideout. People floated on the outskirts of the lawn, cradling their drinks and gossiping underneath their breath.
Kim Hee-young. Daughter of Korea’s ambassador to some little European country or other. A political family, up through the ranks. “Self-made.” Pretty, to be sure, but not well-bred or nearly important enough for Junghyun.
The murmurs swirled around but little to stop Junghyun from politely backing away from his conversation, taking Hee-young by the hand and spinning her into his arms as the music swelled up again. The twirl of her dress revealed a pair of white Prada heels. Still, she was several inches shorter than Junhgyun, swaying slightly as she settled into his chest.
Jimin settled his cheek onto his hand, sighing.
Junghyun was Jimin’s exact imagining of Prince Charming, through and through. He was gorgeous, romantic, and intelligent.
It wouldn’t be tonight, but Jimin’s chance with him would come one day.
Once he got his fill of pining, Jimin slid down from the tree and jumped to the ground. He’d ignored his father’s calls earlier, for him to come down from the tree. You have bags to pack, Jimin, he’d said, sighing when Jimin’s eyes never left the party, looking for the younger Jeon son. Maybe even Paris won’t be far enough to keep you from thinking about Jeon Junghyun. That wasn’t even a concern in Jimin’s mind—he could fly to the moon and the thought of Junghyun’s beauty would never leave his mind.
He braced his knees and landed with a soft thud, accustomed to the height, but eliciting a startled gasp from somebody below him.
The tall man backed away, knocking dirt off of his polished leather shoes.
Jimin apologized profusely, bowing deeply and attempting uselessly to straighten his clothing, smoothing out his worn jeans and the oversized white t-shirt tucked into them. He pushed his unruly blonde hair out of his face, pushing his glasses up his nose. The large silver frames took up half his face, the lenses a quarter-inch thick.
“Now what in the world do you think you’re—” the deep voice bellowed, then softened when he looked up from his expensive shoes. “Oh. It’s you, Jimin.”
“I’m so sorry, Jungkook-ssi,” Jimin gasped. “I didn’t see you walking by. I didn’t mean to startle you, I swear, I—”
Jungkook huffed, and waved a hand, dismissing Jimin’s apologies. “It’s fine, it’s fine. They’re just shoes, kid.”
Jimin nodded without a word, still gulping harshly at the man’s presence. Jeon Jungkook was the eldest Jeon sibling, Junghyun’s older brother by three years. He was the next in line to take over JeonTech as CEO. From all of Jimin’s experience, he was vastly unlike Junghyun. They were similar in appearance only—black hair, small but full lips peaking in a sharp cupid’s bow, and noses that they had both grown into well. Jungkook, however, was a formidable sight, even taller than Junghyun, with hair neatly cropped and styled off of his forehead. He was broad and sturdy in the way that Junghyun was lithe and elegant—clearly handsome, but he lacked the effortless charm and wit that drew people to Junghyun like bees to honey.
Jungkook was a stern personality, the no-bullshit businessman who allegedly had a talent for making men twice his age cry. The workaholic squarely focused on preserving the family company. According to Jimin’s father’s stories, status made no difference to the Jeon heir—friends, family, celebrity—all whose ventures did nothing to advance JeonTech were cut loose without much more than a parting word and a monetary gift sufficient enough to band-aid the slight. The papers were generous to Jungkook, but Jimin knew that many of the party-goers referred to him as “the world’s only living heart donor.”
Many feared to see him coming, but Jimin, who had lived with the Jeons on the estate for as long as he could remember, had had brief little run-ins with the love of his life’s older brother, and knew that Jungkook wasn’t all bad. The older Jeon son had seen and appreciated the photographs Jimin had taken with his mother’s ancient Kodak, which were now proudly plastered around the garage by his father, Ji-hwan. Jungkook had granted Jimin free reign to navigate and photograph around the property, but that was a few years ago. The man was now his father’s official second-in-command and properly busy; he was scheduled to take over the company within the next year upon old man Jeon’s retirement.
So, Jimin had barely set eyes on Jungkook, besides when he climbed into the backseat of his prized Rolls-Royce Phantom each morning to be driven to his office in the city. Jimin’s father was now Jungkook’s personal driver, much to Ji-hwan’s own delight. Jungkook kept up the polite conversation about sports and economics that Ji-hwan loved to babble on about.
“Where can I find your father?” Jungkook asked, face firm as always. A light, warm scent of expensive cedarwood cologne filled the air with a passing breeze. “I scheduled a last-minute meeting, and I need to see if he’s available tomorrow morning to drive me into town. I understand that tomorrow is Sunday, so I came to ask him personally.”
His black tie was crooked, and Jimin’s hands itched to reach up and straighten it. Jimin bit his tongue and refrained. It would be entirely inappropriate of him to do so, in both age and status.
“He’s in the garage. I believe the ignition switch in one of the cars has gone bad; he was replacing it last I checked,” Jimin replied. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to take you.”
Jungkook bowed his head politely, the gravel of the driveway crunching under his feet as he walked past Jimin, towards the lit garage filled with cars he hated to recall the value of. They’d have each paid his schooling threefold.
Jimin looked back through the open gate at the party. Junghyun was still swaying gently to the music, one hand traveling to the small of the woman’s back.
“He’s not all he’s made out to be, you know,” Jungkook called out. The older man had stopped halfway, now watching Jimin pine over his brother pitifully.
“Oh, I doubt that,” Jimin breathed.
“Junghyun’s pretty, I know. I hear it enough,” Jungkook sighed, deep voice reverberating across the distance. “But he’s still a regular person that lies, makes mistakes— farts.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s perfect, to me,” Jimin laughed.
“Right. You won’t be convinced either,” Jungkook shook his head. “People just seem to forget that my brother has flaws, like everyone else. He has many. I like to remind them, from time to time, when they get distracted by a nice face and pretty clothes.”
“I understand that Junghyun’s human,” Jimin rolled his eyes. “I’m not a child.”
The older man laughed softly, a deep rumble, as he looked Jimin over. “No, I guess you aren’t anymore. Goodnight, Jimin.”
“Oh!” Jungkook stopped again, offering a small smile over his shoulder. “Have a nice time in Paris, Jimin-ah.”
Jimin bowed his head as Jungkook disappeared into the garage.
Behind him, the music faded to its final note and then away to silence, and then the crowd erupted in applause and turned to face the stage. The conductor bowed from his podium. Junghyun and the woman hadn't parted from each other. Jimin watched as he leaned down to press a short, sweet kiss to her lips.
They parted, and then Junghyun took her hand, leading her off of the dance floor to grab a fresh bottle of champagne and two glasses, whisking them out of sight. They were off to the solarium, where Junghyun always brought his dates—they’d dance, flirt relentlessly, and then retreat to finish off the night alone.
It wasn’t the first time Jimin had seen this happen, but his resolve melted away in tiny pieces with every kiss Junghyun gave somebody else. He’d longed for years for it to be him.
The band started up again, this time at a faster tempo. The waltzing couples broke apart, and the gentle hum of conversation returned.
Jimin hummed the familiar tune. He stayed on his side of the fence, the white full moon lighting his path back to the cottage.
ততততত
Ji-hwan was still sitting up in the living room when Jimin walked by. He looked up from his novel when Jimin stepped in, getting a good look at Jimin’s crestfallen expression. It wasn’t a new one.
“Jiminie, you’ve spent more time in that tree than on solid ground,” he said.
Jimin shrugged, sniffling.
His father sighed, setting the book on the table beside a cup of warm tea. “You’ve got to stop this silly obsession with Jeon Junghyun, Jiminie,” he said. “You’re better than it. It won’t make you happy. Aren’t you happy that Ms. Lim has found this internship in Paris for you? You should be excited, Jimin-ah!” he said, voice soft but urging. “It’s not something easy to come by.”
Jimin toed at the threshold of the door, readjusting his glasses again. “What if Junghyun forgets about me?”
“Junghyun barely knows that you exist already.”
Jimin looked up suddenly, heart sinking to his stomach. How could he say such a thing?
“I’m sorry, Jimin,” his father started, rubbing at his brow. “I didn’t mean to be quite so direct. It’s just that you’re young, and smart, with a world of talents, Jimin-ah. Don’t waste your life pining over something impossible. I’m only saying this because I love you, and I want you to be happy.”
Jimin swallowed, and held back his tears. “Thanks, dad.” He nodded, backing away towards his bedroom. “I'll go finish packing. Good night.”
ততততত
With a bottle of wine in one hand and a handful of shirts in the other, Jimin threw the clothes into the suitcase he’d dumped onto his bed. He did it with a little more force than necessary, but he had to take it out on something.
He took another swig straight from the bottle, letting the dry taste burn down his throat. He squinted over towards the other side of the room. The huge glasses sat on his nightstand, useless as they fogged up with tears. On his cork board was a small picture of Junghyun tacked in the center. It was some old magazine cover, taken a few years ago, but a close up of his profile. It was Jimin’s favorite photo of him.
The longer he looked at it, and the more he drank, he was having a hard time remembering why he was hesitant to go to Paris in the first place. Junghyun wouldn’t think of him while he was away. He barely thought of him while he was right under his nose.
Jimin put the bottle down with a clank, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood and turned, zipping the suitcase up.
“There,” he said, nodding. He’d done it. He had packed everything.
Jimin huffed and turned back around, looking at the picture on the cork board again. The angelic lighting. The angled jaw with a hint of stubble. The large strong hand grabbing against the side of his own neck.
Jimin hurried over, untacking it from its place, and then unzipping his suitcase. He set the photo inside, in between two folded shirts. One picture wouldn’t hurt, right?
“There,” Jimin said, backing away and snatching the bottle of wine up again. “To Paris,” he said, pitifully, and took another drink.