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.”

Chapter Text

“I’m calling in sick today,” Yoongi says over speakerphone, drumming his fingers over the steering wheel while his car waits at a red light.

“Totally didn’t notice, after you didn’t clock in this morning,” Seokjin sasses in the middle of a yawn, his voice half muffled. “Why, what’s up? What got you so sick?”

Chancellor Kwak’s face flashes in Yoongi’s mind.

He scowls. “Capitalism.”

After the initial shock from the madness of that morning’s findings had worn off, Jimin went off first to change. They agreed to reconvene after lunch to rush over to whatever mountain temple his friend Taehyung was supposedly hidden away in, out of reach from the rest of the world. He spent some time packing essentials, just in case—Gangwon-do, the mountainous province of South Korea, is not exactly a stone’s throw away from Seoul. Afterwards, he devoted the remaining time into his little sleuthing scheme.

It was amazing how much peace of mind being away from Park Jimin brought. With the pretty boy distraction out of the way, Yoongi could focus his energy on skimming Princess Songhwa’s memoirs. He grew befuddled at the abrupt change in the Princess’ writings in the last three-quarters of the book — her writing tone became agitated, seemingly frantic, and there are entries that seem to lack context, as though even the ones who transcribed her writing had a tough time making sense of her unpredictable turns of phrase.

“Sleep evades me, or perhaps I have grown to hate it. I pray and pray. Resentment begs for direction but there is no name to blame. Yet. The palace is bleeding! I seem to scream all day with no voice. I cannot find the trace of the wound. My heart is torn paper. I will erase every man who scarred my flower.”

It sounded a lot like poetry, or some kind of narrative prose, but when Yoongi turned to the next page,  a new entry about trivial things unrelated to the previous page began. It was almost as if… as if he was missing out on a huge chain of events, unrecorded by the Princess. Or censored from history. No further mentions of paintings or art were made hitherto.

Now, three hours later, Yoongi steers his car into the alley where Jimin is temporarily staying, hoping the guy remembered their meetup time.

“Sheesh,” Seokjin says into the phone now, “If this is about those paintings, then you really are way deeper into this than I thought. It’s not really up to us what happens to them, you know. Relax a little.”

“Yeah, I know, but hyung. I think I have a lead,” Yoongi counters, stubbornness getting the better of him.

“Another one?”

“A really good one this time.” Yoongi doesn’t have time to explain the details, but he gives his colleague a condensed summary of what he and Jimin have found so far. At the same time, he keeps an alert lookout down the street, exasperation creeping in. He’s been waiting for so long that he starts to worry if he’ll get fined for illegal parking.

“Well,” concedes Seokjin, the doubt still clinging to his voice, “let’s hope this one doesn’t lead you to a dead end. Park Jimin could be a scammer, don’t rule that out. What does your gut tell you?”

Yoongi sighs. Right before he can give an answer, though, a figure looms in the rearview mirror.

“Gotta go. Update you later.” He ends the call just as the passenger door swings open. The cool autumn air sweeps into the vehicle, and Yoongi grimaces, then makes beckoning motions with one hand. “How kind of you to finally turn up.”

“Sorry I’m late!” Jimin chirps brightly, hopping in. Immediately the scent of freesia and something mint wafts into Yoongi’s car. “Couldn’t decide what to pack.”

“This is a work-related trip, not some hiking—“ Yoongi’s tongue twists as he gives the guy a once-over. Jimin looks fresh, literally — damp hair, rosy cheeks, and a denim jacket over a white tee and ripped jeans to combat the early autumn wind. He sends Yoongi an impish grin that threatens to send a hot flush rushing to the tips of Yoongi’s ears.

“It’s work for you, but not me.” Jimin’s eyes crinkle at the corners. When Yoongi doesn’t respond, the smile dips. “Well?”

“Well,” Yoongi parrots in a flat voice, eyeing the contraption at Jimin’s side. “Seatbelt.”

Understanding clears Jimin’s frown. “Ahhh. Right. So protective, I like that in a man.”

Yoongi side-eyes him briefly. “It’s just basic road precautions. And aren’t you- aren’t you dressed a little lightly?” he wonders aloud, shifting gears and draping one arm across Jimin’s headrest as he reverses out of the cul-de-sac.

He thinks he hears Jimin give out a small sigh, mumbling incoherently under his breath. “Wow... arm.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘No, I’m warm’,” Jimin says with a wink, tugging his denim jacket snug around his shoulders as if to drive home a point. “No worries.”

How can so much vivaciousness be contained in one man’s body? He’s exactly the kind of person Yoongi avoids at all costs – way too loud and flamboyant, chattering on about way too many things at an overwhelming rate, a total energy drainer. Yet it takes every ounce of Yoongi’s willpower to actively fight back the exasperated smile that threatens to take over his face.

“I packed an extra scarf in the back if you need,” Yoongi says noncommittally. “I hear it gets cold at night in Gangwon-do, especially closer to the mountains.”

“Aww, how sweet.” Jimin looks out the window as they spill out into the main road leading to the highway. “Have you been to Gangneung before?”

“Couple of times. Why?  S’that where your friend stays?”

“Pretty close. It’s great, you know — really different from the city. One time when Tae felt up to it, we went with some friends to take pictures at Jumunjin beach!” Jimin gushes. “Wanna see? I still have them in my albums.”

Yoongi glances at him pensively. “Why do I think you’ll show them to me anyway even if I decline?”

“Because you’re absolutely right.” Jimin shows him his phone screen. “Here! Look familiar?”

Yoongi cuts a wary glance at his phone. “Somewhat…?”

“C’mon, it’s that famous breakwater scene from Goblin!” Jimin says, grinning from ear to ear. “I wanted to try taking a similar photo as the scene, but I don’t have a soulmate whatsoever to share the fun with.”

Yoongi scoffs. “Soulmate?”

“The Goblin and his bride, fated to meet through reincarnations spanning lifetimes,” Jimin swoons, clutching his hands together. “Sounds kind of romantic, don’t you think?”

“Pure fiction,” Yoongi remarks without hesitation, leaning back to drive one-handedly. “You can’t seriously believe that. Next thing we know, you’re convincing me Santa Claus is real, when really he’s just a fantasy figure weaponized by capitalistic establishments to rake in even more holiday under the guise of gift-giving.”

Jimin shifts in his seat and shoots him a reprimanding look.

“What?”

“No offense but, when did you last laugh?”

Good question. Yoongi honestly doesn’t even remember the last instance he experienced a real, full belly-laughter. “And why is that relevant?”

“Because everyone deserves to laugh. Also, you’re giving off major boomer vibes. Smiling won’t hurt you, I promise.”

Yoongi scowls.

“But it’s okay, I’ll make sure you get there soon. Baby steps, baby steps.” Jimin returns to his phone and leans over to show him another photo. “Now lookie, look. I went here too!”

It depicts a random bus stop in the middle of a sandy beach. Yoongi hums with an approving nod. “That’s actually pretty.”

“Right? I hear it’s a tourist attraction these days after a famous boy band used it for their album cover or something.” Jimin slicks his tongue. “As expected, Gangwon-do is full of hot spots.”

“Yeah. Nice. wonderful. Anyway. Tell me more about this friend of yours,” Yoongi says pointedly, eyes on the road.

“Taehyungie?”

“Yeah. How long have your families known each other?”

Jimin hums thoughtfully, then relaxes against the passenger seat with an amused huff. “Forever, really. And I think that photo from the box is proof we go way back.”

“So that painting in the picture... I’m guessing Kim Taehyung’s family owns it?”

“I’d suppose so.”

“Even though they’re illustrations of your ancestor?” Yoongi adds quizzically.

“Like I said, I think my great-grand-uncle Park gifted it to them sometime back.”

Yoongi’s brows dip together. “But why?”

“Don’t ask me,” Jimin says. “I can’t even read hanja. How am I supposed to read a Joseon man’s intentions? I’m no telepath.”

Yoongi recalls the last page of the scrolls, which talked about how the truth was hidden in the painting.  If it was that important, why give it away?

“Anyway, can’t we just de-stress a bit and enjoy a peaceful joyride without cracking our heads over this?” Jimin says, turning on the car radio. A lo-fi song comes on, and he starts bobbing his head. “Min Yoongi-ssi, you gotta learn to chill a little.”

“I’m very chill.”

“Right. So what do you do outside of work at the museum?” Jimin challenges. “Any hobbies? Friends?”

“What kind of question— of course I do,” Yoongi snorts. What does Jimin think he is, an anti-social recluse?

“Okay.” Jimin nods, then lifts his chin as though to challenge him. “Then list the things you like to do in your spare time.”

Yoongi purses his lips together, surprised to realize that he’s actually racking his brain for an answer. “I… like to read. Often.”

“What kind of books?”

“Different genres. Sometimes philosophy, or sociology-related, but most of the time I find myself drawn to the ones about art and history.”

Jimin makes a noise of disbelief. “In other words, you like to read about your work when you’re not working?”

Yoongi chews on his lower lip, feeling reprimanded for some reason. “What’s wrong with that? It’s how I unwind.”

“But have you gone out recently?” Something in Jimin’s tone of voice tells Yoongi that there’s more to his question, but he can’t quite figure out what. He can hazard a few wild guesses, though.

“No. It’s a lifestyle choice, called being a homebody.”

Jimin nods, a playful smile gracing his lips. “I see.”

Yoongi swipes a sidelong look  at him. What is he playing at? Should Yoongi start being wary? Is Jimin trying to suss out if he’s actively dating? That would be flattering, but Yoongi reminds himself that they’re here for work, and besides, they’ve known each other less than a week–

“So you don’t believe in soulmates,” Jimin says after a blissful silence.

“No.”

“But you like mysteries.”

“Yes..?”

“And you love your job.”

“Yes.”

“Can I call you hyung?”

“Yes. Oh, wait—“

“Ha!” Jimin teases. “Caught you.”

“Park Jimin,” Yoongi admonishes even though he’s on the verge of letting out an amused snort. Okay, the guy’s witty, he’ll give him that.

“Yes, hyung?”

“No, no ‘hyung’ whatsoever. Park Jimin, I’m driving. Don’t distract me.”

“Oh?” Jimin waggles his eyebrows. “So I’m a distraction.”

“Yes, and you’re very pretty, so be kind to me.”

At that, Jimin lets out a pipsqueak noise, gaping at him. Yoongi casts him another glance and smirks. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

Jimin’s cheeks flush as he inhales deeply and leans comfortably against the passenger seat. “I happen to be very kind.”

“Well, be kinder then.” Yoongi doesn’t understand where the urge to tousle the guy’s hair comes from, so he suppresses it by gluing his eyes back to the road. A gentler quiet settles between them, one that Yoongi decides he doesn’t dislike.

Too bad the much-coveted silence doesn’t last for too long.

“So, tell me,” Jimin pipes after a while. “Why is this so important to you anyway?”

“You mean apart from the fact that the Folk Museum’s funding pivots on these paintings and I have a job to keep?” Yoongi says. He turns the honest answer over and over in his mind for a while, before thinking, well, fuck it. “I guess you could say—personal interest.”

“Personal interest,” Jimin echoes. “In what way?”

How is Yoongi supposed to explain being drawn to the art, and possibly its creator, without making it seem weird? How does he make this whole business of chasing down ghosts of a gone century sound remotely professional? He opens his mouth, then closes it, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “Okay. Y’know how we all used to do magnetic experiments in high school?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, when I saw the paintings, it’s like… it’s like being an iron shilling that got re-orientated after years of being scattered.” Yoongi doesn’t know how else to better put it; he’s no poet and he’s not equipped with words to make the connection sound eloquent. “I don’t know, it sounds stupid, right?”

“No, I get it. Finding a purpose and all.” Jimin licks his lips. “I felt the same when I saw the news headlines about the discovery.”

Yoongi shoots him a quick glance, and the moment their gazes lock, something warm stirs in Yoongi, like waking. Or wanting. He quickly dispels the thought as soon as it comes, and clears his throat.

“There’s uh, there’s something you should know,” he says, shifting through his bag to pull out his tablet device. “I’ve been reading Princess Min Songhwa’s memoir.”

“Princess Min?” Jimin’s eyebrows jump to his forehead. “What for?”

Yoongi shares the theory that he and Namjoon have come up with so far, and Jimin listens with rapt attention. Every now and then Yoongi makes eye contact with him and notes how there seems to be a brilliance in Jimin eyes, hinting at a deep wisdom often masked by his bubbly manner.

“So, in other words, Princess Songhwa was in love with my great-grand-uncle?!”

“That’s what we think, for now. I can’t say for sure until I’ve read through everything she wrote down.”

“I didn’t know my family bloodline was good-looking enough to catch the attention of a princess, but I’m not surprised,” Jimin titters, taking Yoongi’s tablet. “Can I read?”

“Go ahead.”

“Wait- 500 pages?!” Jimin’s eyes bulge at the page count. “Damn. Imagine being a princess and writing 500 pages of your personal diary, only to have everything published for the world to see hundreds of years later. Poor Princess Songhwa.”

Yoongi snorts.

Jimin flips to the chapter where Yoongi left off and clears his throat.

“Orabeoni has officially become a Sungkyunkwan scholar today, and so has the Crown Prince. However, Abamama is throwing a celebration feast only for the Crown Prince. My heart aches for our orabeoni.“

Jimin hums. “I didn’t know the princess had an older brother.” He flips to the next pages, skimming through paragraphs of text. “Judging by how fondly she writes about him, it looks like they had a close relationship.”

“The First Concubine had a few children with His Majesty.” The way of the old Korean empire makes monogamy sound like a joke, really – kings would traditionally marry a queen, the only woman who was responsible for birthing the Crown Prince, who was destined to be the future King. However, to ensure that the royal bloodline would not end with the queen’s children alone, the King was allowed to pick as many consorts as he wanted, spawning several half-siblings to the Crown Prince. The royal Princess Min Songhwa was one such case.

Jimin continues:

“The Royal Banquet celebrating Abamama’s birthday will be held soon, and my heart trembles in fear. Envoys from the Qing Empire will be visiting Joseon—I may get taken away to serve as a concubine for their Emperor but I refuse fo be separated from Yeol.”

Jimin looks up, forehead creasing. “Who’s Yeol?”

“Her lady-in-waiting.”

“Oh.” Jimin scrunches his nose. “They sound like very close friends.”

Yoongi bites back a tart remark. “Maybe. Just keep reading.”

“I ache. I burn. How will I ever sleep, away from my family and the arms of my beloved? Yeol is the warm spring air that thaws the palace winter, and each day I wake I feel only longing to see her face once more—“ Jimin pauses. “Huh. I don’t know about you, but that sounds sapphic as hell.”

Yoongi presses his lips to a thin line. It’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed his mind, but so far what they’ve learned about the Princess’... preferences... doesn’t support his theories. “She could have been of any orientation, we never know. But history doesn’t support diverging  theories, and we shouldn’t assume.”

“I dunno, she sounds pretty whipped.”

“That’s a hot take that you and I don’t share.”

“Whatever.” Jimin swipes vigorously on the tablet to flip through the book, skipping a few chapters until he’s neatly in the middle. “Hey, I know! Maybe we’ll find out something about my great-grand-uncle in this section.”

“By all means,” Yoongi says, eyes focused on the road. “I like your voice, keep reading.”

Jimin clears his throat, but Yoongi doesn’t miss the small smile that pulls at his lips.

“It is a bleak day, heavy with rain. Rain finally pours after the long drought. Something sinister is happening in the palace, and I am afraid. The Crown Prince has died. We are broken.“

This time, Yoongi doesn’t have to keep egging Jimin to read on, because Jimin swipes to the next page as though in haste, his expression clouding.

“Today, they’ve brought him back for questioning, our favorite court dancer. It pains me so, to write this, but he admits to treason and must be punished.”

“Wait, did she just...?” Yoongi breathes, heart rate accelerating. Court dancer. How could he have missed that? He exchanges a stricken look with Jimin, who nods.

Jimin reads the next entry tremulously:

“The day after orabeoni’s coronation was the day our dancer was hung for crimes against the throne.

it was necessary.“

The silence that descends following Jimin’s reading feels so thick it seems to permeate every inch of the car. Yoongi finds that his throat feels scratchy. When he clears his throat, tears sting at back of his eyes, for some unknowable reason. It’s weird; Yoongi’s not the type to get emotional over reading a book or anything.

“Sheesh,” Jimin musters shakily, putting the tablet down in his lap and looks out the window. He shakes his head to himself, puffing his cheeks out. “I know it was centuries ago, but “finding out how your ancestor died... feels kinda shitty man.”

Eyeing the still-open memoir on his tablet, Yoongi tamps down the urge to ask Jimin to read back a few pages. He doesn’t have the heart to listen to any more tragedy, not when the guy seems so visibly affected.

His own fingers are trembling on the steering wheel. He is not in the business of faking sympathy for others — he’s a museum curator, not a therapist — but he finds himself brimming with full sincerity when he mumbles, “Wh-what a jerk.”

“Huh?” Jimin cuts him a wary look.

“That prince.” Yoongi turns the car out of the expressway and into the road that leads out into Gangneung city. He ignored the way Jimin’s lower lip wobbles. “Princess Songhwa said this happened after the new Crown Prince stepped in, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He must’ve ordered it, then. What a bastard.”

“You don’t know that,” Jimin counters softly. “Anyway, earlier when you said the letters were threats— what did you mean by that?”

Yoongi swipes his tongue over his upper teeth, deep in thought. Now that he thinks back on it, calling them threats may have been a bit of an overestimation. “They weren’t explicitly threatening anyone, per se. They were riddles, idioms, almost like poetry.”

“Then how’d you know they were threats?”

“I’m not saying for sure that they are. But the imagery used...” Yoongi shakes his head. “It’s gut instinct. They seemed to be layered in some kinda double-meaning. I mean, ‘Shoot down the bird blocking the sun in the sky, casting a shadow over the town’ sounds pretty taunting.”

“In what way?”

“Well, back in the day, people weren’t allowed to say the King’s name, so they used euphemisms instead. You know that a metaphor for the ruler of the Joseon dynasty was the ‘Sun’ right?”

“And the queens are called moons, yes. I know my sageuk, dude,” interjects Jimin with a wave of his hand, “you should know that I binge-watched The Moon Embracing The Sun with my aunts when I was in high school— ooh, hyung, hyung, look outside!”

They’re beginning to exit the expressway and heading into Gangwon-do. By now they’ve crossed the last toll gate, emerging into an open skyway, and Yoongi spares a glance outside at the same time that Jimin rolls down the window and cries happily:

“It’s the sea!”

“Jimin, keep it down—“

“Hello, WOOO!” Jimin rolls down the window and raises his face to the rushing wind.

Yoongi muffles a snort, reminding himself to keep his eyes peeled to the road. But every now and then, he catches his gaze slipping. Stark against the hue of the approaching dusk, Jimin’s sunset-dappled cheeks appear emblazoned in gold. He looks angelic—

“TAEHYUNG-AAH! I’M HERE!”

A smile cracks over Yoongi’s face. He doesn’t even bother shushing the guy. “Isn’t Taehyung deep in the mountains or something? How’s he supposed to hear you?”

“The wind will carry my affections,” Jimin explains gravely, turning to face Yoongi for a brief moment. “HELLO, WORLD!”

“Yes, hello to you too,” Yoongi mutters, amused, rolling down his own window to enjoy the breeze. His palms are beginning to sweat, but not from anxiety. It’s been a while since Yoongi has thrown caution to the wind – literally – and stepped out of his own life’s stagnant rhythm to tap along to the beat of someone else’s. Park Jimin is really something else.

“World, is this the youth you told me about?” Jimin screams into the open, glittering seascape. “World, have we met before?”

“Maybe,” Yoongi plays along.

With a gasp, Jimin’s head swivels around and he stares at Yoongi, eyes softening. Against the window, silhouetted by sunset, his gaze sends heat like embers prickling up Yoongi’s nape. “I think so, too.”

Yoongi’s brows knit together as he studies the man thoughtfully. “Mmm.”

“I’ve known you all of four days, Min Yoongi, and I’m sure we’ve never met before,” Jimin sighs, eyes closing as he leans back to rest his head. “And yet the world tells me we have, we have.”

Yoongi feels his chest constrict. For a foolish second, he’s awash with the startling urge to reach out and—

“Can I hold your hand?”

“What—“ Yoongi splutters, heartbeat spiking. His hands tighten over the steering wheel, gripping for dear life. Next to him, Jimin laughs, bright and joyful.

“Relax,” he coaxes, gently lifting Yoongi’s right hand by the wrist and laying their palms flat together. “I just wanted to see.”

“See what?”

“If it’s still bigger than mine.”

Yoongi looks sharply at Jimin, the noise in his head diminishing as though he’s been sent somewhere far away, or plunged deep underwater. All he sees is the shape of their palms pressed to each other. Jimin turns over their hands together, his chubby fingers eclipsed by Yoongi’s fairer, callused and veiny ones. A breath catches in Yoongi’s throat at the sudden ache that lances through him. Familiar.

All too familiar.

The mind is like glass: it can be put back together once it shatters, but the cracks will continue to remain. The body, though… the body remembers what the mind forgets.

A car horn blares from behind, snapping Yoongi back to focus. Only then does he realize that the car’s been slowing down. He snatches his hand back with a grunt and places it firmly on the wheel. “Of course it is.”

Wait. How does he even know that? It’s not as if they’ve compared hand sizes before. He turns to Jimin, who wears a mirroring frown.

Then Jimin’s stomach growls, dispelling the odd tension in the air with their chorused snorts. Jimin covers his face and turns his head away, complaining about his shameless stomach. Yoongi’s cheeks hurt with the fierceness of the grin that stretches his face, and as he steers closer into the city center, he chimes, “It’s getting dark. Dinner?”

Jimin’s answering smile is like clouds parting. “I was craving for something warm.”

They stop at a local restaurant and order two steaming bowls of samgyetang to fight off the steadily growing autumn wind that comes with the night. While their food gets served in front of them, Yoongi can’t help but feel pinned by Jimin’s googly eyes on him.

“What?” Yoongi finally asks, self-conscious.

“What?”

“Is there something on my face?”

“Yes,” Jimin answers plainly. “Beauty.”

Yoongi narrows his eyes. “If you’re trying to compliment your way into my good graces, you’re doing a shitty job.”

“Eyyy, I don’t have to,” Jimin laughs. He leans forward on both elbows, fluttering his eyelashes while cupping his chin. “So. Since when did you fall in love with me?”

Broth spurts out of Yoongi’s nose mid-sip. Delusional. This man is absolutely deluded. “I- you… what?!”

Jimin gestures to the space between them. “Look at you, now look at me. Look at you, now look at me. It’s a date.”

“Are you quoting an Old Spice commercial?”

“No, I was singing a BLACKPEACH single.” Jimin smiles primly.

None of that matters to Yoongi right now; there’s only one word that stands out from whatever gibberish Park Jimin has just spouted. Date?

Date, his foot. Yoongi presses his lips together a no-nonsense, baleful glare. “We are on a business trip.”

“But you can’t deny the inherent romanticism of this whole thing. See, you trusted a complete stranger’s tip, brought him out with you in your expensive, and now you’re eating together.” Jimin uses both hands to mimi the shape of a rainbow in the air, eyes sparkling. “Romance!”

“This isn’t a date until I say it is.”

“And this isn’t a not-date until I say it isn’t!” Jimin holds up a peace sign. “It’s okay. No need to be nervous, you look like a cornered cat who’s never been in a romantic relationship.”

Yoongi squirms in his seat and sips quietly.

“Wait, unless...” Jimin trails off, squinting knowingly at him.

Yoongi focuses very hard on the piece of tissue tucked under his bowl. Ah, yes, tissue. Look at that pattern. Such intricate swirls pressed into the paper. What fine art.

“Oh. Ohhh. Hyuuung,” Jimin singsongs. “Have you ever fallen in love before? Dated?”

Yoongi carefully takes his time dipping his spoon into the bowl, and carefully takes his time sipping the broth. Part of him fears getting made fun of. The other part wills him to stay honest. “No.”

To his surprise, Jimin doesn’t point and laugh. “How come?”

Yoongi hesitates. What is there to be said about Min Yoongi’s approach to love and dating? He would perhaps compare it to finding good apples at the marketplace. Too bad he hasn’t even found a worthy marketplace at all. “Didn’t feel right.”

“Hmm. Then maybe find someone who doesn’t feel wrong.”

Yoongi lowers his spoon against the edge of his bowl, jaw clenching. In a heartbeat of a second, he seems to grasp something—words stitched in the fabric of his memory.

If you are so lonely, and worry too greatly about making mistakes, find allies who don’t make you feel wrong.

Hell. Where is he even remembering such words from? The rest of what comes next gets drowned by a strong wave of tinnitus ringing painfully in his ears. Yoongi grimaces and clutches at his head.

“Hey,” Jimin’s voice fills with concern. He cocks his head to one side, studying him. “Everything alright?”

“You,” Yoongi rasps, swallowing thickly.

Jimin points at himself, eyes wideningf. “Me?”

“You… talk too much,” Yoongi explains. The pain knocking at his temples subsides. “Yah, I thought you were hungry? Eat up.”

Jimin pouts but obliges.

They eat the rest of their dinner in peace, or what Yoongi supposes to be some semblance of it, what with the constant clatter of utensils and the back and forth of orders being called out around their table. Jimin steals looks at him every now and then, as if he wants to say something, but seems to think the better of it. Eventually, Yoongi’s attention drifts to a live telecast on the TV propped against the far wall of the restaurant:

“...an annular solar eclipse, also known as the 'ring of fire', is set to light up the skies of South Korea tomorrow. It will be visible between 11.24am to noon, and is the first eclipse of this kind to occur in over 99 years...“

“Oooh,” Jimin comments, staring at the TV. “I hope we can see it better from the mountain temple!”

Yoongi resists the urge to tap his knuckles against Jimin’s forehead. “You fool. One shouldn’t view a solar eclipse directly with the naked eye. You could go blind. And besides, we’re not here to go sightseeing.”

Jimin makes a face at him. “Blergh.”

The newscast switches to current affairs, and to Yoongi’s utter dismay, he sees a shot of himself at the Seoul Folk Museum, with a photo of the paintings juxtaposed next to his face.

“No comment,” the Min Yoongi on TV says. The screen cuts to a shot of him hightailing it out of the sea of interviewers, giving the camera a clear view of his backside. Yoongi flushes and glances at Jimin, who gives an appreciative nod. It takes all of Yoongi not to bury his face and groan out loud.

“‘No comment’, huh,” Jimin parrots, grinning at him. “How profound. A man of few words.”

Yoongi glowers at him. “Don’t pay attention to it. Yah, are you done eating? We should go.”

Jimin’s grin drops slightly when he looks down at his bowl and finds it empty. “Okay,” he mumbles sullenly, “oh, but wait!” He fumbles around his pockets and pulls out his phone.

“What now?” Yoongi groans.

“Let’s take a selca to celebrate our first date!”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Like I said, it’s not—“

He barely gets to finish his sentence when Jimin crowd around him, grinning and resting a hand over his shoulder. “Say ‘kimchi’!”

Yoongi inches away reluctantly. “Come on, be serious.”

“I am.”

“What’s this for, then?”

Jimin leans back to look at him, and Yoongi is surprised to find that instead of a playful, shit-eating grin, the man’s face is solemn.

“In case you forget me again.” His eyes seem to twinkle with something other than mirth tonight, something more tortured, but Yoongi doesn’t let himself acknowledge that. He doesn’t even know what rubbish the guy spits half the time.

Rubbing the back of ear, Yoongi sighs. “Fine, fine. Take a damn selca. Then we hit the road.”

“Yay!”

By “hit the road”, Yoongi meant to keep moving, not to literally hit a road—in the form of a dead end.

“Please don’t tell me we’re lost,” Jimin says, looking out over the window. “Do you perhaps have night blindness and can’t read directions?”

“My eyesight is perfectly fine,” Yoongi, reversing and sighing in relief when they reach the main road again. He flicks his wristwatch. 9pm. With the sun completely down now, is it even possible to trek up a mountain? The chances of getting lost are always greater at night…

“It’ll be impossible to reach Taehyung this late,” Jimin announces. “I don’t think we should risk it.”

Yoongi clucks his tongue impatiently. “That means—”

“I know, I know—pressed for time,” Jimin says, seeming to read his mind. “But we can’t hike at this hour. Even I wouldn’t trust myself with navigating the mountain path to reach the family temple. Too dangerous.”

Yoongi lets out a frustrated breath, but concedes. “Let’s find a motel for now.”

“Ooooh,” Jimin cackles, beside himself with giddiness. “Is this the part where the receptionist tells us there’s only one room left, and there’s only one bed, and—“

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Yoongi says. “That kind of thing only happens in dramas.”

“You’d be surprised.”

At that moment, lightning scissors across the sky, followed by a clap of thunder. Next to Yoongi, Jimin tenses and burrows deeper into his denim jacket. Then, without warning, the sky parts and starts pouring, angry raindrops pelting the windshield. Jimin gives a low, nervous titter and crosses his arms, one hand tightly clutching the strap of his seatbelt.

Yoongi says nothing, but he may or may not have stepped a little harder on the pedal so they can secure a place to stay quicker.

“Two rooms, please,” Yoongi says over the counter at the nearest place they could find—a traditional Korean inn, similar to the Hanok-style staycation places in the tourist districts of Seoul.

The receptionist gives a polite nod and smile, eyes on the desktop before her. “Just a minute, please.”

Another roll of thunder reverberates outside, and Yoongi bristles when cold fingers grab him by the crook of his elbow. He glances over his shoulder to find Jimin sporting an uncharacteristic frown, lips pressed thinly together. Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

Licking over his lower lip, Jimin admits, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Ah, so you’re brazen enough to strut around all day saying shameless things out loud, but a little rain and thunder bothers you?”

Jimin looks away pointedly, not emitting a single noise. A crease forms in the space between his brows.

Yoongi frowns. He was expecting the guy to come up with a wily retort.

“I don’t vibe with storms,” Jimin says, gaze pinned to the wooden floor.

“I see.” Must be some childhood trauma, Yoongi deduces.

“But, ah. I can understand if it it bothers you.”

“What does?”

“The idea of two men together sharing a room can be uncomfortable if you aren’t used to it,” Jimin deadpans. “I take it as you haven’t served the military yet?”

“What the- I have,” Yoongi says, petulant.

“Then why?” Jimin pouts and peers out the nearest window, into the sheets of rain pattering against the ground. “It’s a brotherly experience, is it not? Brotherhood. But, ah, of course, if I make you so uncomfortable, then—“

“Fine, fine,” Yoongi grumbles, shaking his head. He’ll show Jimin he’s not bothered by proximity. Real men sleep side by side! Brotherhood!

He leans over he counter and whispers to the receptionist, “Actually make it one room, please. But with two beds.”

With his back turned, Yoongi doesn’t see Jimin pumping a fist in the air.

The receptionist eyes them for a moment, a small smile quirking her lips. She looks back down at her desktop screen and nods like she's being let in on a secret nobody else is privy to “One room with two beds, noted.”

Their room is small and quaint, with a heated floor under a plain tatami mat and two futons at opposite sides of the wall. There is no window, but the other side of the sliding doors boasts a charming view of a central square, featuring bonsai garden that looks like it should belong in some period drama.

As soon as Yoongi pushes aside the papered sliding door, a phantom rush courses through him, overwhelming him enough to make him sway. He stumbles backwards, startled by the odd familiar that courses through him the further into the room he goes.

“You okay?” asks Jimin.

Yoongi directs a polite smile at him. “Just. A case of vertigo.”

He doesn’t mention how there’s a tingling in his ears or a niggling sense at the back of his mind that he’s been here before. That would be eerie, since he’s never personally had an overnight stay in Gangwon before. Maybe he should get checked when he gets back to Seoul. For all he knows, he could be coming down with an illness or something. An illness that involves hallucinating visions, or recollecting memories that don’t appear to be his.

He tells Jimin to shower first. While waiting, Yoongi sits at the edge of the door, looking out over the rain-soaked garden. He stretches out a hand and catches fat raindrops from the roof.

There’s a loneliness to this place, Yoongi thinks. An aching emptiness, spreading and pulsing into the life force of each bonsai plot, each wooden beam supporting the ceiling. If places could talk, this one would sing a mournful lullaby.

Or maybe Yoongi is just overthinking. He sighs to himself and takes out his tablet to once again try and sift through the pages and pages of Princess Songhwa’s memoirs. According to the princess’ writings, she seemed to have had a fairly close relationship with her older brother compared to anyone else in her immediate family. Every now and then she would mention the Crown Princess, wife to the Crown Prince, and how they would spend afternoons planning tea ceremonies together.

Page 99. Orabeoni turns twenty and one today, and I made him an embroidered pouch as a gift. I hope he will appreciate it. Too much time has passed since I last saw him, but I have been discouraged from visiting his quarters too often, as he is busy studying for the civil examinations. If he passes, he becomes a Sungkyunkwan scholar, and will become eligible for a position in court…

She’s a surprisingly detailed and entertaining writer. Yoongi skims over the next few pages and finds himself smiling. The girl had spunk. After they meet Taehyung, he should probably really get down and spend some time doing a closer reading of this memoir.

Page 120. I write with great delight as orabeoni has earned the title of “Ice Prince” among the court ladies. I daresay he deserves it. His behavior of late has been too frigid for my taste. I hate him, I hate him now!

Just then, the other door slides open and Jimin steps in, towelling off his wet hair while humming to himself. It’s a melody that strikes something deep in Yoongi.

He looks up from his tablet and turns, frowning slightly. “What song is that?”

“Huh? Oh.” Jimin shrugs. “I don’t know. I just hum whatever.”

The conversation ends there, and Yoongi takes his turn to shower.

Later that night, while they tuck into their separate beds, Yoongi takes out his tablet again, casting a bluish tint across the otherwise darkened room.

“Still reading the Princess’ memoirs?” Jimin’s voice floats from his bed across the room.

Yoongi hums noncommittally. “It’s better than falling asleep.”

“Why?”

“Nightmares,” Yoongi says without thinking.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t read tragic things before bed, you’d dream better. Don’t you know how Princess Songhwa’s memoir ended?”

“It wasn’t really in my required readings in school…” Yoongi mumbles, feeling a hot flush of shame. As a museum curator, he ought to have known better. But this particular Princess was one of the lesser royals of her time, and her life was not really of particular interest to academia. Yoongi looks up from his tablet. “What do you prescribe then, oh genius doctor?”

“Sing!”

Yoongi blanches. “No way. I’m more into hip hop and rap, if you catch my drift.”

“I don’t mean that,” Jimin elaborates, his voice lilting. “Hasn’t your mother ever sung you lullabies to sleep?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “I’m not a child to be consoled.”

“Eyyy, don’t be like that,” Jimin huffs into the darkness of the room. “Everyone is just a child in an adult’s body. Sometimes, at the end of a tiring day, you need somebody to pat you on the back and say, ‘good job, good job’. It’s a huge comfort.”

A long pause overtakes the room. Yoongi pushes down the lump forming on his throat. “You sound weirdly well-versed in this field. Are you secretly a therapist?”

“No. I’ve just seen enough pain to last lifetimes.” Jimin yawns. “When we get the chance, we should comfort ourselves, too.”

“Sing, then,” Yoongi finds himself saying, his heart skipping a beat.

“Hmm?”

“If you’re that good, let me hear,” Yoongi murmurs, feeling teary-eyed all of a sudden. He doesn’t know why he wants to hear Jimin sing so badly. “You have a nice speaking voice. Don’t disappoint me with your singing.”

“Ha. You wish. I won a trot competition once.”

Yoongi lets out a long exhale as Jimin picks up the same gentle melody from earlier:

“I remember the melody of the song // that we sang together as we sat across each other // in my softly closed eyes // I’m placing images of you.”

Once again, the familiarity of the melody strikes Yoongi with the same force of the thunder that rumbles above them. Jimin’s singing voice fills every nook of the room, and finds a way into the spaces between Yoongi’s ribs, making every bone tremble with hurt. This song is familiar. This song was… was his, once upon a time.

Wait, that makes no sense. The certainty that wraps Yoongi’s mind is unwarranted, out of place. And yet.

“Like a small photo in my mind // you still remain // Even if this dream-like fate disappears // You’re engraved deep in my heart

Even if I’m alone on this road // I can still see you.”

Sense and logic, it seems, pose a weak fight against nostalgia, misplaced and mysterious as it may be. Yoongi closes his eyes and focuses on keeping his breathing steady and even. It hurts to. A tear escapes down the side of Yoongi’s face. Jimin’s voice cracks nearing the end of the song.

“Do you know?

Because of you, I live today.

Don’t be lonely;

don’t be hurt again //

Live in my heart like this.”

Yoongi could have sworn he heard soft sniffles coming from the other side of the room. His throat feels raw. In the private shadows of the room, he blinks away tears that feel like they don’t belong to him.

A long silence passes. He shifts his position and whispers, “Where did you learn that song?”

“...I don’t really know. But it just comes to me, you know? I must’ve made it up.”

“Well,” Yoongi says, heart squeezing. “It’s beautiful.”

Jimin makes a soft noise of acknowledgment. “I could sing you more. Sing you to sleep.”

“You’ll do that?”

“Everyday if I could.”

Yoongi scoffs lightly, eyes gradually falling shut. Somewhere from the back of his mind, logic rears its head. “We barely know each other, Park Jimin.”

Jimin doesn’t answer, just starts another song again that sounds more like a generic lullaby this time. His voice is oddly soothing, like warm soup on a winter night.

Yoongi fades to sleep in minutes.

This time, the dream that visits him is neither harsh nor morbid. Yoongi is on a raised platform, watching a traditional performance in the ceremonial square before him. Dancing pairs rush past his vision, spinning so fast their faces become blurred. Among them, one stands out.

Dressed in colors so bright they’re almost gaudy to look at, the dancer rises and dips, arms swaying in circular motions, before leaping into the air. When he stands, he brandishes a fan, which he swipes in dizzying motions. Yoongi follows each movement like a hawk. Then dancer crosses the distance between the stage and the steps leading up to where Yoongi sits, and looks up. Yoongi rises to his feet as well, running down to look closer—

“NO!” A choked scream from the room rips Yoongi from his sleep. He wakes with a sharp intake of breath.

From the other end of the room comes Jimin’s cries. “No!”

Yoongi is on his feet in an instant. He never imagined Jimin’s nightmares would be as awful as this. He rushes to the man’s bedside and shakes him lightly by the shoulders. “Park Jimin. Wake up. Jimin?”

The whimpering doesn’t stop. Upon closer look, beads of sweat coat Jimin’s skin, and his lips are moving, mouthing something inaudible. Yoongi kneels on the floor and leans closer to hear.

“Make it stop...” Jiminmoans lowly, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed eyelids. Yoongi can only imagine what monsters he’s seeing.

“Hey.” He slaps Jimin’s cheek gently, then shakes him again. “Wake up, wake—“

Jimin’s eyes fly open. “No!”

“Jimin! Get a grip!”

Hands claw at the front of Yoongi’s shirt as Jimin gasps, eyelids rapidly fluttering open and shut. “Hyung?” Jimin’s chest rises and falls with every ragged breath. Yoongi hates the haunted look he finds in his eyes.

“Yes, it’s hyung.” He lets himself be pulled, lets Jimin hide his face into the crook of his neck.

“Make them stop,” Jimin whimpers, body trembling. Yoongi rubs his back soothingly.

“Shhh, there’s nobody there,” Yoongi murmurs, scooting forward to cradle Jimin’s cheeks. “Only me. It’s just me.”

Jimin shakes his head. Yoongi feels a wet patch beginning to form on his sleepshirt. “I was drowning again… so many faces... I was drowning...”

“No, you’re not.” Yoongi disentangles himself and stands slowly to fetch a water bottle.

Hands catch him by the wrist, accompanied by desperate whines. “No, no. Don’t go.”

“I’m not going any—“

“Don’t leave me, I’m sorry,” Jimin begs, face streaked with snot and tears, glimmering in the moonlight like broken glass.

Something in Yoongi cracks at the sight.

He scoots over until he’s sitting on Jimin’s warm futon, and guides Jimin into his the warm fold of his arms, caging their chests together. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re going to be alright. You’re safe here with me. Understand?” He makes sure to breathe slow and even, and eventually Jimin’s rapid breaths subside.

“It’s just a nightmare. Nothing real.” Yoongi asks, ignoring the way one side of his sleepshirt is turning into a warm patch of tears. “What are you even sorry for, silly?”

Jimin hides his face, but his tremulous answer is loud against the muted night. “Everything. Everything.”

He’s in a delirious state, Yoongi rationalizes, swaying their bodies back and forth gently. “You’re safe, I got you.” He sighs and pats Jimin’s shoulder until his terrified noises quieten down to calm breathing. After a long while, the man in his arms yawns, eyelids drooping.

Once more, sleep claims them as a pair.

If Jimin has anything clever to nitpick about the way they wake up in each other’s embrace the next morning, he makes no mention of it. In fact, it’s his silken voice that wakes Yoongi.

“Min Yoongi-ssi. Hyung.”

“I believe I never gave you permission to call me that…” Yoongi mumbles, still very much disoriented with sleep. A giggle pulls him closer to wakefulness.

“But last night, you answered when I called you that!”

Yoongi’s eyes open groggily. Jimin’s smiling face is mere inches away from him, his cheeks rosy in the morning light. Looking down, Yoongi sees his left arm is slung loosely over Jimin’s hip.

“What time is it?” he asks, too lazy to move.

Jimin glances the wall clock mounted somewhere behind Yoongi, before a wicked smile crosses his face and he snuggles closer. “Time for morning cuddles!”

Yoongi groans and rolls off the futon.

“Nooo, it’s cold,” Jimin laments as Yoongi sits up to stretch.

“That’s a sign for you to wake up and get your blood pumping,” Yoongi says, craning his head side to side to ease out a crick in his neck. He turns around and studies Jimin, his brown hair splayed out over the pillow. “How do you… how do you feel?”

Jimin looks up at him, the glee in his gaze dimming to an unreadable expression. But then his mouth lifts in a small smile. “Never slept better. You should be my personal human pillow, for real,”

Yoongi rolls his eyes again, shaking his head. Definitely back to normal.  Last night gave him a fright, but in the advent of morning, Jimin’s spirited self seems to have resurfaced. Nothing to worry about, then.

Just then his ringtone echoes in the room. Yoongi crosses the space between their beds and fishes his phone from under his pillow.

“Yoongi,” Seokjin says as soon as Yoongi accepts the call. “Big trouble.”

Yoongi’s stomach drops. “What? What now?”

“The Chancellor is holding a press conference later this afternoon. Can you make it here?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“The paintings, Yoongi.” Seokjin pauses, as though taking a breath. “They’re officially up for bidding.”

Yoongi goes very still. Becomes hyper-aware of his heightened pulse, of his stuttered intake of breath and the hissing exhale that comes after. He feels off-kilter, but forces his voice to be calm. “What the fuck.”

“Yeah, but listen—“

“Who?” Yoongi growls, pacing the tatami floor.

“I don’t know,” Seokjin says, sounding equally discombobulated. “Some anonymous sponsors are showing interest right off the bat. The Chancellor’s secretary just called to tell us.”

Yoongi ruffles his own hair in frustration. “But I thought the private meeting for all official organizations will only be scheduled much later.”

“Same. It’s fishy.”

“You don’t say.” As it usually goes with these capitalist bastards, there must be some backdoor, foul play involved. Yoongi knows he shouldn’t step in, but he can’t stay out of it, either. “What time’s the meeting, again? Maybe I can reach Seoul and convince them otherwise.”

“It’s at five.”

“That’s plenty of time,” Yoongi muses, his mind already running estimations. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Be careful. Keep me updated.”

“Yeah, see you.”

After the call disconnects, Yoongi heaves a long sigh and sinks to a crouch at the edge of the floor overlooking the bonsai garden, holding his head in his hands. Everything rattles in his brain, loud and messy. He’s so caught up in the clusterfuck of his thoughts that he belatedly notices a light blanket being draped over his shoulder.

He looks up just as Jimin sits next to him quietly.

“You’re still in your sleepwear.” Jimin adjusts the blanket over both of their shoulders so that it cocoons them both snugly. “You’ll catch a cold.”

Just like that, the bitterness bubbling in Yoongi fizzles to a dull throb. “Thanks.”

“What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t bother hiding his distress, hanging his head and hugging his knees. “We might lose the paintings.”

Jimin’s eyes widen. “So suddenly?”

“Money-hungry men trying to be early birds,” Yoongi grumbles.

A heavy silence grows between them, taut and thick. Yoongi appreciates that Jimin doesn’t offer sugarcoated apologies, appreciates that Jimin seems to understand how much this whole thing meant to him.

“And then?” Jimin says.

“Then what?”

“Do you still want to meet Tae?”

Yoongi closes his eyes. Part of him is tempted to just pack up and return to Seoul, but something in his gut tells him that’s would be tantamount to admitting defeat. “Since we’re already all the way here, we might as well see it through.”

“Are you sure?” Jimin sounds dubious.

Yoongi frowns, eyes snapping open. “What’s gotten into you? Weren’t you the one excited to see him again?”

Jimin shifts his gaze to an orchid plant in the garden, his mouth pursed into something plaintive. Worry sparks in Yoongi. Perhaps he had read the situation wrong. Maybe he’d gotten so swept away by his theories he forgot to consider if Jimin wants answers as desperately as he does. “You still want to know, don’t you?”

“I did. I mean, I do. But what if”—Jimin swallows, eyebrows twitching—“what if we shouldn’t? You can still back out, you know.”

Yoongi scoffs in disbelief and stands up to resume pacing. “What do you mean?”

Jimin hands his head, a picture of dejection. “What if there’s a reason why the truth hasn’t been revealed until now? The world might want things to stay as there are. I don’t wanna lose”—Jimin curls his hands in his lap. “—I’m scared of poking my nose into dangerous things.”

Yoongi stares, so dumbstruck he almost laughs. Of all people he knows, he never expected the bold, flashy Park Jimin to suddenly exercise conservative caution. “I don’t think you need to worry too much.”

“But what if the truth is something so unbearable you can’t handle it?”

“Honestly?” Yoongi shrugs off the blanket and stands. “Not knowing would be worse. It’ll gnaw at me ‘til I go crazy.”

He watches, growing apprehensive, as a tick works in Jimin’s jaw. Why is the guy suddenly being so stubborn, anyway? Such a 180 change in demeanor.

Jimin sighs, hugging his knees to his chest.

“Hey,” Yoongi says, not unkindly. He lowers himself to a squat before Jimin and pats his cheek lightly. “You don’t have to accompany me all the way, alright? You can just send me directions to the temple—“

Jimin snorts and turns his head to nip at his index finger. Yoongi bites back a scream.

“Ow- what the hell was that for?”

“If you think this is your chance to get rid of me, you have another think coming.” Jimin’s eyes flicker with amusement as Yoongi glowers at him, clutching his finger. “Forget it. I’m coming along. World, wait for me! Taehyung, I’ll be with you soonest!”

Yoongi shakes his head as he watches Jimin spring up and skip over to his bags, announcing that they must start packing their belongings. “You’re really something else.”

“Of course. One might even say I possess main character energy.”

“If I were a writer, I’d make sure you had no dialogue.”

“Good thing you’re not in charge of this story, then.”

It takes less than an hour for the two of them to get ready and hit the road. The sun has risen high over the horizon by the time Yoongi’s car emerges from the outskirts of town and reaches the edge of the mountainous region that Gangwon Province is famous for.

“So we’ll need to get off and go by foot from here on,” Jimin says as they reach a bend that leads to an uphill path. “There’s a parking lot for casual hikers not too far from the bus stop.”

They leave the car behind and as Yoongi clicks the lock, he checks his watch. 10.30am. They need to make haste if he’s got any hopes of getting back to Seoul in time to intercept the meeting at the museum. “We gotta hurry.”

Jimin shoots him an odd look. “Please, you can’t rush fate.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. He doesn’t bother arguing. No point engaging in a battle you can’t win. Instead he shifts his attention to their rapidly changing surroundings. A steep stone staircase greets them at the foot of the mountain, leading up to a seemingly endless flight of stairs flanked by towering trees on either side. Here, the air is fresher and the temperature lower, so Yoongi once again asks Jimin if his denim jacket is enough to keep him warm throughout the hike.

“I’ll be fine,” Jimin insists, though the pink tint to his nose and his foggy breath says otherwise.

Yoongi purses his lips, contemplating for three seconds before untying the black scarf around his own neck. “Here.” He tosses his scarf at Jimin, biting back a snort when it smacks him in the face. He also ignores the pleased smile that Jimin sends him the whole time while wrapping the scarf around himself.

“You’re secretly a softie, aren’t you?”

Yoongi ignores that comment. He looks at his watch again. “How long’s the hike?”

“Half an hour if you’re in good spirits, an hour if you want to stop and take pictures along the way.”

“Good thing we’re not sightseeing.” Gravel crunches beneath their shoes as they begin to climb the steep terrain. Yoongi is panting by the time the stone steps end halfway up their climb. He follows Jimin through an uncharted, wilder terrain with no set trail, just a dirt path.

“You know, I would prefer it if we could slow things down and go at a more leisurely pace at our next date,” Jimin declares.

“What makes you think there’ll be a next—“ Yoongi stumbles over a protruding rock. He pitches forward out of balance, but his cry is cut short when a strong hand catches him by the forearm.

“Easy,” Jimin croons, helping him to stand upright. “I got you.”

Just as he’s about to remove his grip, Yoongi’s hand shoots out to grab him by the fingers.

“For- for safety,” Yoongi stammers, cheeks warming. Why is he even doing this, for fuck’s sake?

Jimin’s brows arch in surprise, mouth lifting. With a musical giggle, he intertwines their fingers and tugs Yoongi along. “If you say so. Try not to lose your footing.”

“Simple.” Yoongi steps over a rock and meets Jimin’s gaze proudly as if to say, See?

Jimin’s answering smile is blinding. “Try not to get lost in my eyes, either.”

Yoongi pretends he doesn’t hear that.

For the first half of their hike they make little conversation, Yoongi being too fixated on keeping his balance to even realize how tightly he’s holding onto Jimin. He soon relaxes when he gets the hang of the terrain.

“So, about Taehyung.”

“Yes?”

“How long has he been staying out here?” Yoongi is keenly aware of the autumn leaves crunching with every step, the noises from insects and frogs nearby.

“Why do you ask?”

Yoongi may be an introvert, but even he wonders if Jimin’s friend feels cold or lonely. What kind of a life does a young person lead up here? Most kids these days are city-raised. “What, a guy can’t be curious?”

“Well, he’s been living on his own after high school graduation,” says Jimin thoughtfully.

“So early? You’d think they would’ve let him finish his education first.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jimin says, “but his family didn’t force him into it. Taehyung chose to stay here.”

“How come?”

Jimin licks his lower lip. “He’s... different, our Taehyungie.”

“That so?”

“He;s a shaman,” Jimin hums, nodding. “Apparently it makes him something of a clairvoyant? Or an empath? I don’t remember exactly. The way he described it to me... it’s like he sees things when he looks into people’s eyes for the first time.”

“Things,” Yoongi parrots, eyes narrowing. “Such as?”

“Dunno. Death? Auras?”

Interesting. Yoongi makes no comment, waiting for more elaboration.

“Anyway, I guess that’s one big reason why he didn’t want to be around too many people in the city,” says Jimin. “You know how crazy a college campus can get. That, and he’s not even fond of studying that much. Win-win.”

They reach a fork in the trail, and Jimin points to the well-tread one with flattened grass. As they pick their way through the path, he continues, “People often come here to pray and seek advice when it comes to spiritual matters, though, and I often visit, so our Taehyungie doesn’t feel all that lonely.”

Yoongi hums and nods. All this talk about Taehyung only serves to heighten his curiosity about the guy. He seems like a reserved introvert, one who prefers the offbeat, quiet life. The kind of person Yoongi would get along with.

Jimin parts some branches and tall grass aside. “We’re here.”

A temple in the middle of the forest clearing stands pristine among the greenery, blending naturally with the surrounding landscape. A small pond separates it from the dirt trail. It’s the kind of place that was built to fit its environment, not the other way round. Yoongi takes a minute to gawk and admire the backdrop, and only starts walking again when Jimin pulls his hand gently to cross the mini wooden bridge leading up to the temple.

A man in plain brown, nondescript robes is sweeping by the temple entrance.

“Taehyung-ah!” Jimin squeaks, arms waving wildly.

The robed man looks up. As soon as recognition crosses his eyes, his face morphs into a boyish, box-shaped grin. “Chim!”

Jimin takes off running, launching himself into his friend’s arms. Bright laughter fills the air. Yoongi ignores the sudden absence of Jimin’s hand in his.

Contrary to what he envisioned, Kim Taehyung has a youthful face and brown, curly locks falling into his forehead in a way that reminds Yoongi of his family’s dog, Min Holly.

Right. Jimin said the guy’s a shaman, not a monk. Maybe they don’t follow the same hairstyle guide. As Yoongi approaches, snippets of conversation float to his ears.

“You came alone?” Taehyung’s baritone voice rings with honeyed timbre.

Jimin’s eyes are bright as he shakes his head and points at Yoongi. “I brought someone.”

“Hello,” greets Yoongi, putting on a perfunctory smile.

Taehyung looks up. “Who— oh.”

Yoongi feels his own smile slip when the shaman’s warm eyes find his.

Two things happen at once—a wave of nausea sends Yoongi reeling back, and Taehyung gasps out loud, stricken, unable to break their gaze.

“Oh.” Taehyung gathers Jimin’s hands in his, eyes pinned to Yoongi. Then his breaks their gaze to look back at Jimin. “You poor things.”

“Hmm?” Jimin asks, looking alarmed when a Taehyung’s eyes start to water.

“You’ve been through an arduous journey.”

Struggling to regain his footing and steady his breath, Yoongi grunts, “Well, yeah.” Maybe that short uphill climb exhausted him more than he thought it would.

Taehyung blinks as though snapping out of a reverie. He clears his throat, and sends Yoongi one last lingering look before speaking. “Ah, yeah. It’s quite a hike, huh? Tires me out every time. Come in, I’ll get tea ready.”

“I brought what you wanted,” Jimin says cheekily, reaching into his backpack and pulling out—

“The latest volumes of Jujustu Kaisen?” Taehyung gasps, eyes aglitter.

“And the newest Troye Sivan album,” Jimin says, passing a plain wrapped parcel to him. “Coffee, too.”

The shaman gasps in glee and toddles from one foot to another, practically vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass, and Yoongi starts second-guessing his earlier expectations. Taehyung is far from the non-excitable, all-knowing type of person Yoongi had imagined he’d be. In fact, he looks and behaves like a regular Gen Z youth.

(“The coffee’s not actually for him,” Jimin later whispers under his breath as they follow Taehyung into the temple. “It’s for his master, but he’s currently out on a business trip.”

“Business trip?”

“Yeah. The ghost is French, so.”)

Jimin helps to put on the latest Troye Sivan album on an old CD player while Taehyung bustles around the temple to help prepare tea. They move with fluid assurance and familiarity, as if they’ve done this a hundred times, and maybe they have. Yoongi sits at a low table by the open deck and looks out at the tranquil landscape.

Taehyung joins him not long after, carrying a tray with tea, followed by Jimin who lays out some traditional Korean delicacies. It’s yakgwa—the sight of the honey cookies and Jimin at the same time fills Yoongi with an odd mix of longing and nostalgia out of nowhere.

“Royalty used to snack on these,” Taehyung says. His tone is measured and even, like he’s trying to be careful with his words, but Yoongi only hums noncommittally.

“Thank you,” Yoongi says before taking a sip of tea. Jimin settles down next to him and sips on his teacup, too.

They completely miss the wavering, pained look Taehyung directs their way.

“So I’m not going to waste any time,” Yoongi says, using his businesslike voice. “Park Jimin brought me here because I wanted to inquire about a certain painting that you have.”

“The family gift,” Jimin supplies helpfully.

“Oh.” Taehyung tilts his head. “What for?”

Yoongi gives a brief summary of what information he’s after. When he finishes talking, Taehyung stares at him, mouth parted as though horrified. “You’re… looking into the story behind the paintings?”

“Yes. It’s important for my job.”

Taehyung looks troubled. “Are you sure?”

“More than sure.” Yoongi rubs the back of his neck, sheepish about what he’ll say next. “I know it sounds obsessive, but... I get the feeling that I won’t ever feel at ease until I know for sure, and come to terms with what happened.”

Taehyung studies him intently, chewing on his lower lip without uttering a single word. Finally, he nods. “Very well.”

The shaman gestures to a connecting hallway behind them. “It’s at my master’s quarters. I’ll lead you there after we finish the tea.”

Yoongi nods, satisfied. Then, unable to quell his curiosity, asks, “Just to make sure, ‘cause you’ve got hair and all—you’re not a monk, right?”

Jimin giggles into his teacup. Taehyung grins.

“I’m a shaman. We’re vessels that promote the natural balance of the inner and outer worlds.”

“Balance, huh.” Yoongi recalls his headache and dizzy spells. He jokes, “If I commission your services, can you advise me on my health?”

Taehyung hums. “So you do feel it, then.”

“Feel what?”

The shaman leans forward, eyes burning. “I sense such an imbalance in your inner and outer worlds.” His eyes flit from Yoongi to Jimin. “A gaping rip in your souls, you two.”

Yoongi absolutely has no idea how to respond to that. “That’s... morbid.”

“You want to fix it,” Taehyung adds, and Yoongi can’t quite pinpoint if that’s a question or a declaration.

“Fix... my soul?” Yoongi shoots a strange look at Jimin, who looks just as confused.

“Yes.” Taehyung lifts the teapot. “Here. Have some more tea.”

Vaguely, Yoongi thinks he hears bells chiming in the air. He’s also aware of Taehyung’s heavy gaze following his every move, but he doesn’t know what to make of it. Jimin doesn’t seem to be fazed though, so Yoongi doesn’t bring it up. Maybe he’s starting to hear things now, on top of those nightmares and hallucinations.

“Park Jimin, my good friend. Min Yoongi.” Taehyung leans his chin over his palm, a knowing glint playing in his eyes. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“I do, but he doesn’t,” Jimin answers, pointing at Yoongi.

“Uh.” Yoongi scratches the back of his left ear. “Does it matter?”

Taehyung only smiles. “And do you know what the cost of having a soul reborn is?”

“A life?” Jimin tries. “A soul?”

“The Infinity Stone?” Yoongi throws in jokingly. Safe to say he has no idea what Taehyung is trying to get at. Do all mystics beat about the bush like this? Damn.

Taehyung chuckles to himself, then stands up to fetch an incense stick. Sitting down, he adjusts the folds of his robes and then proceeds to light the stick. His gaze burns.

As smoke begins to rise from the incense stick, Taehyung murmurs lowly, “Memory.”

The ringing of bells escalate in Yoongi’s ears, lulling him into some kind of trance. The air turns thick, lingering with a new, velvety warm scent from the incense. He sways forward, barely able to grasp the way his consciousness seems to be slipping away, robbed from his own mind in broad daylight, almost like he’d been drugged. The temple spins in his vision.

Yoongi mumbles, “What’s... in the tea?”

“The cost of a rebirth is memory,” Taehyung says, or seems to says. His mouth is moving, but the words don’t seem to match in Yoongi’s eyesight. “To mend a ripped soul, one must recollect. And to recollect memories, the cost—“

Yoongi and Jimin slump forward at the same time.

“—is a lifetime.”

Yoongi is floating in deep space, nothing but an inky, all-encompassing blackness swallowing him. Time does not exist here; time muffles the senses. The scent of something burning gives way to a heavy numbness. Yoongi is ungathered, an unbecoming of matter, detached from his own body. There was a voice just now, a deep baritone, but it’s fading fast, replaced by a thinner, higher one. A young girl’s voice.

“Orabeoni!”

He jerked awake with a sharp inhale. Above him were wooden beams supporting a low ceiling, and next to him was a folding screen illustrated with birds flying over a clouded mountain. The first sensation that came over him was how stiff his neck felt despite having slept in a futon. Groaning, he slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position, only vaguely noting the woody scent wafting from the incense burner at the corner of the room. 

There was a girl sitting by his bedding, dressed in a teal-and-yellow hanbok, her dark hair plaited neatly to reveal a sunny face. She grinned at him, her eyes brimming with pride. "At last, the sleepyhead wakes!"

He yawned and stretched. “What is it, Songhwa?”

“Orabeoni, congratulations on passing the civil state examinations and becoming a Sungkyunkwan scholar!” The girl reached into a cloth bag made of crushed velvet and produces a paper craft. It was rectangular in shape, decorated with little peonies and clouds. “I have fashioned a bookmark in your name to aid your studies.”

Craning his neck to ease out the stiffness, he gingerly accepted the bookmark and read the name on it, written in fanciful calligraphy.

Min Yun.

Chapter Text

Incense breathed out from one corner of the room.

Its gentle, swaying smoke filled Yoongi’s quarters with an aroma of sandalwood and a lighter scent that reminded him of a bed of geranium blossoms in spring. A perfect blend for an outdoor walk perhaps, but not quite so for indoor installation.

Yoongi wrinkled his nose as he sipped from his teacup. “This incense you have brought is stronger than the tea, Songhwa. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve been given a gift, or a curse.”

His sister, sitting straight-backed and elegant across the tea table from him, clicked her tongue and squinted her eyes. “Orabeoni. Could you have not answered a simple ’thank you’?”

“I was merely providing my feedback.”

The princess rolled her eyes. “The only curse you suffer from, my dear brother, is of having poor taste.” She gestured about the entirely of Yoongi’s room, shaking her head slowly. “Why, Nokseodang is so sparsely decorated that one might believe nobody lives here. Look at me, I am the brightest thing in your room!”

It was hardly a lie. Yoongi regarded his sister’s fine, silk hanbok – so apt for a young girl as sprightly as she – and then glanced about the rest of his quarters. Indeed, Songhwa did stick out like a yellow chrysanthemum in the dead of winter.

But this was not her room anyway, and if you were to ask Yoongi, he didn’t really think his personal quarters lacked anything. Unadorned as Nokseodang might be, it housed all the necessities befitting a grand prince of his status: a study desk, a wardrobe, a wooden bookshelf, his folding screen for propriety, and a round tea table set aside in one corner served their basic purpose. What more could a man want?

“I think you have too much time on your hands to be critiquing my living space,” remarked Yoongi.

Songhwa smirked. “You know what I think? Your demeanor aligns with the rest of Nokseodang.”

“Is that so?” Yoongi lifted a brow, crossing his arms. “What, boring and unfashionable?”

“Lonely.” The princess said in a casual tone, humming to herself while picking from the plate of delicacies on the tea table. “The entire East Palace knows of your reclusive studying habits, but I think your room needs more company than just your countless stacks of books.” Her eyes darted to the latticed windows. “It is high time. Let some sunshine in, won’t you?”

Yoongi blinked, his reply drying up on his tongue. He had no witty retort for that, not when his stomach churned like this. Strange. But it was probably out of hunger – dinner was not in another hour.

“Anyway, let us speak of your dreary living conditions any longer,” said Songhwa. Grinning, she set her cup down and leaned forward. Her voice lowered to a conspiratory hush. “Orabeoni, now that you have taken the civil state examinations, will you take up work in the royal court soon? What position have you in mind?”

Dread prickled in Yoongi, and he hesitated. He had been so hell-bent on taking the exams and focused too much on passing it that he had failed to anticipate what he would do next once that obstacle was crossed. Though he had a brief idea of what he wanted to do, he had not fully considered the potential roles he could step into. Furthermore, the King had yet to comment on this accomplishment of his.

“How inquisitive you are, Songhwa, but you need not know, do you?” he finally said after a pause. “As a woman, matters of the court should not be of your concern.”

Songhwa scoffed, but Yoongi saw the way they flashed with hurt. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her mouth.

“Ah, but of course,” she spoke slowly, nodding with exaggeration, “Yes, oh esteemed brother of mine, newly appointed Sungkyunkwan scholar, how dare I, a young woman of untalented nature, use her mind and develop a sense of curiosity?”

Yoongi suppressed a sigh. “Songhwa…”

The princess tore her gaze away, shoulders slumping. “Never mind. I spoke out of line.”

Yoongi softened. He had spoken too callously, he knew. But his pride would not let him retract his words, and he had only been speaking the truth, after all. Although Songhwa was allowed education as a member of the royal family, she was still female, and women of Joseon were never meant to be educated nor participate in affairs of the state.

“How about this,” Yoongi proposed gently, a solution forming in his mind. If Songhwa had too much idle time, then perhaps it would be best to keep her busy. He glanced down and traced the bookmark she’d made for him. “Would you like to learn some art? I shall put in a request for a specialized tutor.”

Songhwa peered up at him, eyes glinting with newfound interest. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she tucked a strand of her behind one ear. She shrugged. “Well. I have always wished to pick up the paintbrush…”

Yoongi nodded, relief flooding him. “Then consider it a gift in exchange for the, uh, wondrous incense burner.”

“Your Highness,” a throaty voice rang out from the hall outside.

Yoongi’s gaze was drawn to the sliding door, where a middle-aged man dressed in green robes was shuffling through, his head bowed. It was Hong Chilbok, Yoongi’s assigned servant and de facto guardian, who had been looking after him since he was a toddler. “What is it, Eunuch Hong?”

“Pardon my impudence, Your Highness,” said Eunuch Hong, hands fidgeting under his sleeves. “But the King has summoned your presence to the Main Palace.”

Yoongi shot to his feet, eyes widening. “Abamama has?” He swallowed, exchanging a nervous look with Songhwa.

The princess gawped back at him. “He must want to congratulate you for passing the state exam with flying colors!”

Yoongi exhaled tremulously and looked at his servant. “Eunuch Hong, prepare my robes. I must go quickly.”

As he rushed out of Nokseodang that morning, he was grateful he hadn’t eaten dinner yet.

--------------

The Main Palace loomed over Yoongi like a fortress, sacred and immovable. Its tiled roof had wide eaves and overhanging, upcurled corners to provide shelter and protection from weathering. Yoongi remembered carefree days spent darting between countless wooden columns, playing hide and seek with his older brother and Songhwa. Back then, they didn’t have to worry about the responsibilities that their future titles would place upon their shoulders.

As his presence was announced, Yoongi steeled his nerves and rolled his shoulders back. The doors to the throne hall opened, revealing a burly man dressed in heavy, scarlet robes adorned with the insignia of a dragon sitting on a raised dais. Yoongi kept his gaze downcast as he strode inside, his feet barely making noise on the polished, dark wooden floors. He sank to a kneeling position and lowered his head.

“Abamama.”

A grunt. “Raise your head, Yun.”

Yoongi obliged and found himself looking into his father’s stoic, wrinkled face. It was not often that he was summoned to the main palace, and the King was a busy man. Yoongi could scarcely remember the last time he saw the man smile. Hopefully, today he might. “I am most honored to be granted an audience with you, Abamama. I hope your health is well.”

“I am feeling good today, which is why I sent for you. Hmm, you look thinner now,” stated his father calmly, and Yoongi’s heart leapt with hope.

“Yes.”

“And what of Songhwa?”

Yoongi allowed himself a polite but sincere smile. “Still as chipper as ever. She has expressed her wish to learn how to paint, of late.”

The King threw his head back with a guffaw. “What a brazen young lady. Fair enough. I shall see to it that a new tutor be brought into the palace for my only daughter.”

Yoongi smiled to himself in triumph. Songhwa better paint him a priceless portrait after all this.

“That aside, I hear you’ve taken the state examinations of your own volition,” said his father.

“I have.” Yoongi felt his chest rise, bracing himself for a word of congratulations, hoping he might have won some of his father’s approval—

“Tell me, why have you done such a useless act?”

Yoongi’s back stiffened. He throat clammed up, and he wondered if he heard correctly.

The King sighed, pupils slitted. “You are aware there was no need for you to prove your aptitude through any means of examination whatsoever. The children of the royal family are assigned tutors for this very purpose. What were you trying to prove, Yun? Did you think you were being smart?”

“I—” Yoongi cleared his throat and swallowed down the uncomfortable, indignant throb swelling in him.

“Were you trying to demonstrate that you are more capable than the Crown Prince? Is this an attempt to sabotage your brother!”

“No!” cried Yoongi, falling forward to prostrate himself, forehead on the floor. Panic rose and thrashed in his chest. “Abamama- Your Majesty, I could never—”

“Figures. The House of Min is always trying to undermine my decision-making, my rule.” The King jerked up his chin and glowered at Yoongi over flared nostrils. “Your clan never fails to disappoint me.”

Then why did you pick one to be your concubine? But Yoongi could never dare to voice such a treacherous thought.

Hot tears stung the back of his eyes. He fought to steady his breath, and blubbered, “I apologize for acting without permission, Your Majesty. Please have mercy. This foolish son of yours is still lacking in matured wisdom. I simply enjoyed the rigor of learning, and wished to test my own aptitude.”

Once upon a time, the reigning King of Joseon had been a fair ruler, and a kind father. Yoongi still often though back to the days when he would throw banquets for all of his wives and children’s birthdays – he was a lover of the arts and festivities, and the early years of his rule were some of the most joyous and peaceful memories Yoongi had. But over time, countless assassination attempts and peasant riots had eroded away his passion. Yoongi had spent his adolescent years watching his father turn into a stranger, a man swallowed by paranoia.

“You may not study in Sungkyunkwan,” the King barked. “That is your punishment.”

Yoongi’s blood ran cold. He ignored the sharp hurt threatening to engulf him and gritted his teeth, hands trembling. So much for catching a glimpse of the man his father used to be, let alone accepting any form of congratulations.

How could he have hoped to be praised – and for memorizing the Four Books and the Five Classics, at that? He should have known by now that the man in front of him was too preoccupied with himself to regard even his own family. Swallowing his ache with a thin hiss of breath, Yoongi slowly rose. “I humbly accept.”

“But seeing as you are so keen to put that sharp mind to work, I want you to prove your loyalty to me,” said the King brusquely. “You see, I am not an unreasonable man, Yun. Tell me, have you given thought as to where you wish to serve? The royal court should have an open position. If not, I can have one opened for your sake.”

Yoongi’s gaze dropped. He did not want to imagine what opening a position entailed. His thoughts reeled. If there was one sector he could join, he might as well choose one where he had a friend. “The… the Royal Guard, I would like to join them, Abamama.”

The King’s expression darkened. “And incite a military coup against me?” he roared, so loud that the wooden windows almost rattled. His face turned scarlet, like a ripe grape, and he grabbed the nearest scroll to hurl it at the floor. It clattered and rolled away in one piece.

Yoongi wanted to hide.

His father rose from his throne and marched down to where Yoongi knelt, huffing. “How ambitious and cunning you are! No. I cannot allow that, can I?” He paced the length of the throne hall, muttering incoherently under his breath.

Yoongi bit his lower lip, reminding himself not to cower in fear despite the quake embedded deep in his bones. He would not show any more emotion towards this man, lest it spike any further senseless rage.

“Ha!” His father turned and pointed a shaking finger at Yoongi. “You shall join as an apprentice in the Royal Secretariat’s Office. That’s it. Brilliant. You may spend your days filing ledgers or transcribing books, yes, yes, that is how your talent should be used. If you prove yourself worthy, I can have you moved to the Foreign Ministry, be a diplomat. Now, is that not a fair arrangement?”

Yoongi bit his lower lip so hard he tasted blood.

Towards the doors, the King called out, “Eunuch Jang, Eunuch Jang! Have this foolish son of mine escorted out. I want him to disappear from my sight, now.”

After one last bow, Yoongi pushed to his feet, unable to meet his father’s eye.

The King let out a haughty cackle, satisfied with his own judgment. “Well? Have you nothing to say now? Are you not grateful for my grace?”

Yoongi struggled not to glare at the floor as he was ushered out of the main throne hall. “Immeasurably grateful, indeed.”

He spent dinner alone, grieving over the events of the day, and then buried himself in more books just so his mind wouldn’t spiral into a funk. By midnight, the candle by Yoongi’s study table burned so low it was barely taller than his thumb. He shut the book before him and stretched, groaning.

Late nights at the palace were the best for walks. Although curfew applied to the rest of Hanyang, there was no such thing for Yoongi as long as he stayed within the East Palace’s walls. He was free to roam about wherever he wished, and he often took advantage of this. Most court maids and servants pegged him as a recluse, not knowing that he preferred to come out when the sun was resting. Moonlight was Yoongi’s best friend.

Now, in the middle of the military’s training courtyard stood a lone, slender figure. Clad in inky black-and-crimson robes and wearing a band of cloth to keep his hair off his face, the man twisted about in various defensive stances. He shifted his feet and swung a thin, sword practice pole over his head.

Yoongi cleared his throat.

The man with the pole spun around and held his weapon just inches shy of Yoongi’s nose. “Ha—!” When he saw Yoongi, he blinked in surprise and backed away with a grin, dropping the wooden sword to the packed earth “Oh. Grand Prince Min Yun—what an honor to be joined by you!”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and moved closer. No need to be reminded of his role as the First Consort’s son. “You know I hate that title, Seok. I would have you call me by my birth name.”

The Vice Captain of the Royal Guard shrugged, eyes dancing as he bent low to collect the wooden sword. “Yes, yes, Min Yoongi. What brings you to my battalion’s training grounds this late at night?”

Yoongi masked his sigh with a nonchalant shrug, nodding towards the spare wooden pole on the rack behind Hoseok. “Care to spar?”

“Another one of your midnight walks then, I presume,” said Hoseok, grabbing the spare sword and tossing it at him. Yoongi caught the pole with both hands, and barely had a moment’s grace to react before—

“Ha!”

—Hoseok barreled towards him with his pole. Without flinching, Yoongi raised his wooden sword just in time to shield himself. Their wooden poles clacked as they collided. Hoseok grinned, before twisting and rallying forward again. Yoongi responded in kind, ducking out of the way and defending Hoseok’s next parry. Their chorused grunts carried over into the night.

Yoongi’s reflexes worked overtime as he met Hoseok’s wooden pole with matched skill. It was man versus man, each using his own technique with assured finesse, elegant and refined enough to make every move look like choreography. By the time their practice duel ended with a draw, they were both drenched in sweat.

Hoseok stepped back first, breathing hard. As one half of the famous Formidable Duo of the Royal Guard, his easygoing demeanor belied his true skill. While Hoseok’s older brother, the General, was cold and dignified, the second-in-command was anything but. He cocked his head at Yoongi admiringly. “You’ve still got it.”

“You speak as though there was something to be lost.” Yoongi retracted his wooden sword, catching his own breath.

“How am I to discern so? When I’ve barely seen you ever since you’ve become a serious Sungkyunkwan scholar,” Hoseok teased, tossing a flask of water at Yoongi. “How have you been?”

A serious scholar. Yet Yoongi’s father still would not acknowledge him. He shrugged. “Still throwing myself into my books to keep myself occupied.” And sane, given the stuffy, extravagant nature of the palace.

The Chief Guard studies him, then smiles. “No need to explain yourself.”

“I’m stating a fact.” Yoongi tongued at the insides of his cheek, only hesitating momentarily before adding, “Abamama summoned me to the Main Palace earlier.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows jumped. “And then?”

“He said I may not pursue my studies at Sungkyunkwan,” Yoongi muttered, as if saying the words any louder made them truer. “The royal family has its Institute of Tutors, after all. It was- it was all for naught, Seok.” He paced back and forth, crossing his arms. He relayed to Hoseok the verdict of his meeting with his father, careful to leave out the less honorable details. “All those days spent poring over books, only to be relegated to ledger-keeping? I thought I was doing something, but I was mistaken.”

Hoseok sighed and shook his head. “Well, you may not be able to join the Royal Guard, but should you feel the urge for a random duel again next time, you know where to find me,” he said, winking at Yoongi. “Right here, always. I know how lonely it gets.”

Yoongi held his breath. He had mentioned nothing of loneliness. First Songhwa, now Hoseok. Was he being that obvious? “I do not follow.”

“You miss him, don’t you?” Hoseok said. “Your older brother.”

Yoongi stiffened. Ever since Sohyeon had taken up the responsibilities of regency, things became different. No longer did they spend afternoons hunting or practicing archery, not when there were more pressing matters of court for Sohyeon to attend to. In fact, his older brother’s eunuchs and court maids saw him more often than Yoongi did. “The Crown Prince is busy these days.”

“You may punish me for indiscretion, my friend, but I daresay you ought to go out more often.”

“But I am outside. Right now,” countered Yoongi.

“No, I mean… why don’t you breathe the clear air outside of the palace. Touch a flower or two?” Hoseok smiled and nudged him with an elbow.

Yoongi wrinkled his nose.

“Or find a gisaeng to bed?”

Yoongi shot him a baleful glare. Hoseok laughed, head thrown back.

“Do you wish for a beheading at the crack of dawn?” Yoongi jeered, grabbing the wooden pole again to feign jabbing Hoseok’s sides. “Jung Hoseok, prepare your last words!”

“I jest, I jest!” Hoseok chortled, rubbing his hands together to mimic begging for mercy. Then the laughter in his eyes turned to something more muted as he added, “But do consider coming to town with me tonight.”

“Whatever for?”

“Well. I have a friend who passed the civil state exams as well. You might know him. Kim Namjoon of the Gwangsan Kim clan?”

The Minister of Finance’s son. Yoongi had never met him, but he’d heard, from rumors of the Minister’s endless bragging, that his eldest son was apparently intelligent enough to be one of the ‘pillars of Joseon’s future’. Yoongi hummed. “What about him?”

“He’s invited me to celebrate the night away at Aseowon,” said Hoseok.

“Aseowon? The gisaeng brothel?”

“You may choose to only drink, no?” Hoseok chuckled, flashing another one of his brilliant smiles.

It was a good thing that Yoongi had already ordered for Eunuch Hong to retire in his quarters for the night, because that made sneaking out of the East Palace with Hoseok much easier. All the Vice Captain had to show was his patrol warrant, and they were permitted to sail through the gates.

Kim Namjoon, as it turned out, didn’t simply pass – he was the top scorer in the recent state civil examination. The tiny feast that greeted Yoongi’s arrival was almost comparable to the ones at the palace during his own birthdays.

Hoseok, ever the moodmaker with his charismatic warmth, made introductions as soon as he and Yoongi were shown inside the private wing of the courtesan house. At Yoongi’s entrance, Kim Namjoon welcomed him with equal cheer and gusto, and after an hour Yoongi was surprised to find that he was beginning to enjoy their company. His vision floated and he felt like he was dangling, suspended from the ceiling, but compared to his red-faced companion, he told himself he was faring better.

“I must say, I was surprised to find the infamous Ice Prince of the Joseon court joining my table today,” Namjoon slurred, pink-cheeked and swaying left and right where he sat. He waved a jar of plum wine around, offering to fill whichever empty cup he could reach.

Yoongi scoffed, but let Namjoon pour into his cup. “’Ice Prince’? What do you speak of?”

“Ah, do you not know?” Namjoon grinned lazily at him, holding up three fingers. “Among the palace, the royal siblings born to His Majesty are known by their respective pseudonyms. The Little Sun—that would be the Crown Prince—the White Lotus, Her Highness, and then you.” Namjoon set the jar down and stuffed a pork scallion into his mouth. “The Ice Prince. Which is why I am most honored to make your acquaintance in this lifetime, seeing as most palace workers have never even seen your face.”

It was almost laughable, if not for the fact that it wasn’t entirely untrue, thought Yoongi,

Although he used to be more adventurous with his siblings in their childhood, in the last few years he mostly lingered about his own quarters at Nokseodang, or drifted about his favorite pavilions in the East Palace. Then, ever since eldest brother had granted him access to the Crown Prince’s library a year prior, Yoongi had holed himself up and made company of Sohyeon’s books.

“How do you even know of such rumors?” Yoongi prodded.

“The walls have ears. I just use what devices present themselves to be useful,” Namjoon quipped.

“What you say is not blasphemy, Namjoon,” Hoseok chimed in, toasting their cups together. “Today at the Main Palace, I heard several of my subordinates asking about you, saying it was their first time seeing you walk in.”

Yoongi arched a brow. “Your subordinates must be terribly young.”

“Young, not so much. Newly appointed, yes.” Hoseok downed his shot.

“I heard the grand prince possesses a frightfully intimidating aura, difficult to please,” said Namjoon.

Yoongi frowned. “Untrue. I just happen to know my tastes clearly.”

“So it seems.” Namjoon faced Hoseok and said, “Upon meeting the grand prince, I would be more inclined to compare his demeanor to a cat’s.”

“I am literally right here,” Yoongi deadpanned.

The Vice Captain cackled, then turned to Yoongi. “Say, would it kill you to send the people around you a smile or two? Have you not been paying attention to the way young maidens blush and bat their eyelashes around you?”

Yoongi scratched the back of his neck, a little miffed. He hardly thought he was a grouch, like Hoseok described. He did know how to smile! Songhwa always made him laugh! That counted, didn’t it? “Just because I do not flirt with everything in a skirt does not mean I am unaware, Hoseok. I’m just not like you.”

“Ooooh that makes me curious, actually,” Namjoon interjected, the grin on his face spreading wider. “What, then, would the grand prince Yun consider worthy of his affections?”

Yoongi cleared his throat and frowned. “Well, I- it isn’t anybody’s business—”

“C’mon, tell us what you seek in a lady!” Hoseok cajoled, raising his jar of liquor. “Otherwise we will chug all of this without sharing with you.”

Yoongi scowled. Hissing through his teeth, he rolled his shoulders back. “If I must speak. I can only imagine being betrothed to a proper noble lady, from a family deserving of the King’s grace.”

“But of course,” Hoseok muttered. Yoongi rolled his eyes but continued to paint his ideal woman.

“I would tolerate a partner with refined tastes. Somebody elegant and articulate, but not bold. She must be skilled in embroidery, unassuming and demure, and would never raise her voice at her husband. A lady who does not speak her mind, somebody the court would approve of.”

At the end of his speech, both Namjoon and Hoseok were staring at him as though he had grown horns.

“Are you sure you want a wife, or a mute servant?” Hoseok jibed.

Yoongi elbowed him.

Conversation flowed surprisingly smoothly with these two. The art of talk had never been Yoongi’s forte – he mostly left that to his servants, or his siblings. But it was a welcome change, to feel so relaxed in the presence of an old friend, and now a new acquaintance. Kim Namjoon was indeed bright and whip-smart, putting forward serious points through lighthearted banter. He was aware of Joseon’s position relevant to its surrounding nations, and spoke of ambitious solutions to the current rampant piracy problem faced by the country. His ideas might border on extreme, most of which men his age might only laugh off as whimsical fantasies, but they were not entirely irrational.

He had the makings of a good politician, and Yoongi wondered if he could put in a good word for the man to eventually join the imperial court.

“I ask you, Prince Yun,” Namjoon started a few hours later. His entire face had turned beet-red, and his upper body was half-draped across the low table while he drew little patterns onto the wooden surface.

“Just call me Yoongi.”

“Yoongi,” Namjoon obliged, eyes bloodshot, “would you rather upset Confucius or Buddha?”

Hoseok sniffled loudly, having just finished a loud weeping meltdown about the state of his platoon’s irresponsible cleaning habits. “Are they even capable of getting mad?”

“I would be more wary of upsetting my mother,” Yoongi said, fanning himself. His face felt hot.

Hoseok burst out cackling, and Yoongi prides himself for being a man of exquisite humor.

“That is true, that is wise,” Namjoon concurred, pouring himself another glass of liquor. “Oh? There s’no more.”

“I will get us another bottle.” Yoongi stood, swaying slightly.

“Careful,” Hoseok said, glancing at the door. “You need not stand. I will call for more bottles—”

“Need to relieve myself,” Yoongi cut in, dismissing Hoseok with a wave.

Sliding the papered door aside, he stumbled out slowly into the corridor, lit with low-burning lanterns hanging from the high ceiling. A thick, almost cloying mix of perfume and incense hit him. It did nothing to abate Yoongi’s tipsiness, but it sure did make him feel a lot more confident. Along the way down the hall, brushed shoulders with another young man dressed in a common man’s drab, wool robes.

“Ah,” Yoongi said, staggering dangerously to one side until a strong grip caught him by the arm.

In the dimly-lit brothel, Yoongi could barely see the man’s face, shadowed by the gat he wore on his head. Judging from his attire, so he must not be from the aristocracy.

“Pardon,” the man said quietly, and Yoongi waved him off. Any other day he might have taken offense at being shouldered, but he was too out of it right then.

With a curt bow, the man continued waking in the opposite direction, before entering a room at the end of the corridor. Yoongi stumbled forward, too, eager to find the lavatory. A few moments later, he heard a gisaeng’s gasp from a somewhere behind, where the stranger had gone.

“Oh, Jimin-ah!” a silken voice called out. “Come to accompany us?”

“You know I’m just dropping by, Sunghee-ssi.”

“Deliveries again? Why not stay with us longer,” she trilled, voice turning sultry.

Yoongi thought he heard a nervous chuckle followed by a quieter exchange of words, but he didn’t manage to catch the rest of the conversation as he made a turn into the men’s lavatory. The walls in the courtesan house are thin, made of wooden planks, and as Yoongi relievef himself, drifts of moans and drunken conversations from other rooms float over and into his liquor-saddled head. One, in particular, tugged at his conscious attention. It was coming from one of the rooms closer to the lavatory.

“Fuck Kim Namjoon! It’s because of him that I couldn’t get into Sungkyunkwan this year!” A man’s rough, inebriated shout echoes. “He is but an undeserving, arrogant jerk. He only got through because of his family’s connection. But no matter! I, Min Chanwoo, will get in next term—I’ve hired a man to take the exam for me.”

Min Chanwoo.

What a familiar name. Yoongi groaned and tilted his head back, trying to think clearly through the disarray of thoughts rattling around in his brain. The screaming drunkard sounded almost obnoxiously like someone Yoongi personally knew, someone whose guts he hated—

Yoongi froze.

His arrogant cousin.

With alcohol-induced adrenaline and courage pumping in his veins, Yoongi hurried out of the restroom, followed the source of the screaming, and marched into the adjacent private wing unannounced. He wrenched the door aside.

Courtesans squealed and scattered away like disturbed birds. Sitting at the head of the table, dressed in clean-cut silk robes, was Yoongi’s cousin, eyes wide in terror as he recognized the face of the intruder.

“Min Chanwoo.” Yoongi’s voice was low and gruff and he sauntered in.

“H-hyung-nim?” his cousin spluttered with a hiccup, neck reddening. A vein was bulging out from his temples. “What are you—“

“Hello, cousin. What a rotten loudmouth you are,” Yoongi drawled coolly. staggering in. The gisaengs slithered out of the room, whimpering. He pulled the sleeves of his robes back and flexed his fingers. “Announcing your incompetence so boldly.”

“Y-you heard?” Chanwoo’s beady eyes blew wider, and he scrambled to his knees. “Hyung-nim!”

“Got quite a lot of nerve for you to go around slandering the Minister of Finance’s son’s name and threatening to taint the Yeoheung Min clan’s reputation by cheating,” Yoongi growled, wishing the pounding against the base of his skull would cease a little. “I’m impressed. Cheating on the state exams? How low must you sink?”

He sneered down at his cousin, trembling and cowering before him, and wondered how in the world he could be of the Min clan’s blood.

The House of Min was known for two things – producing the finest young women befitting of royal titles over generations, and spawning fearless warriors out of its men. Chanwoo, it seemed, was an exemplary outlier.

Yoongi’s cousin crawled forward and desperately grabbed his ankles. “Have mercy, hyung-nim, please do not reveal this to my father. I am most sorry.”

“Dishonorable, that’s what you are. Did it not occur to you that your brash actions would taint the reputation of our clan?” The King already hates us as it is. “Do not be the reason for the Yeoheung Min clan to fall.”

“It is not my fault!” Chanwoo cried, tears streaking down his cheeks.

Yoongi tugged his ankle out of the man’s grip, his left eye twitching in irritation. “Not your fault?”

“I have fallen into temptation, hyung-nim. T-there is a man at the market, offering to take exams in our place.”

While Min Yoongi prided himself on being a man of peace, he was unable to turn a blind eye to corruption and injustices in the system, especially when he knew how hard his own family strived to keep Joseon together. Interest piqued, he tipped his head to one side. “Is that so?”

“I speak the truth, hyung-nim!” Chanwoo knelt low, rubbing his palms together to beg for mercy.

“Hmm.” Yoongi pinched the bridge of his own nose between his fingers, his jumbled thoughts slowly coming together. “How shall we deal with this, then?”

Chanwoo glanced up, eyes wide with puzzlement. “Beg your pardon?”

Yoongi crouched down to his cousin’s level and smirked. “How about we strike a deal, my dear cousin. If you tell me this man’s name and whereabouts, I might pretend I’ve witnessed nothing tonight.”

Chanwoo’s pupils dilated. “Gladly.”

At Hanyang’s common market, invisibility was an advantage. The gaudier the clothes you wore, the less likely you’d find success in haggling for cheaper prices. Anybody who knew how to navigate the marketplace knew the trick of blending in. The same went for the man in a straw hat and a plain tunic, standing amidst of a bustling crowd full of merchants peddling their goods.  The smell of meat and produce hung in the air to the left. An old lady selling ribbons and hairpins was beckoning Yoongi to come look.

But today he was not Grand Prince Min Yun, or an aristocrat roaming the market for frivolous gifts. Today he wore the role of a commoner Min Yoongi. In order to find the name he seeks he must not stand out from the crowd.

“Do you know where I may find this person?” he stops to show a butcher at work a small strip of paper, where a location’s name was scribbled in Chanwoo’s hasty handwriting.

The butcher—a brawny man chewing on a stalk of wheat, glanced down at the paper and pointed down the market street. “Ah, Master Kim? He owns the bookstore down there.”

Yoongi nodded and followed the directions. The cacophony of the market surrounded him. He politely refused an offer from a fruit peddler, then swerved at the last moment to avoid a gaggle of running children. At last he came to a stop before a quaint bookshop with thatched roofs and wooden doors. Its windows were open, displaying an array of textbooks, exam study guides of the Analects of Confucius, and children’s fables.

Clearing his throat, Yoongi stepped inside, and immediately the riot of the market street fell to a hush in his ears. The scent of old paper was calming.

“Welcome,” a young man in plain mud-colored robes greeted him by the door. “Is there any title we can help you look for?”

Although Yoongi was not certain how the fraud looked like, Chanwoo had described him in fair detail last night—a soft and youthful face and eyes that ‘bored into your soul’ or whatever.

As far as descriptions went, the young man standing in front of him fit exactly that. He was fit and slender, about Yoongi’s height. He wore a thin cloth band around his smooth forehead, and the rest of his skin looked supply and unblemished. When he smiled expectantly, his cheeks bunched up, making his eyes turn into twin half-moons, and yes, Yoongi supposed he could somehow understand what Chanwoo had meant by the whole eyes thing.

He wet his lower lip and calmly schooled his face into a blank expression. “Are you the man affiliated with this store?”

The young man’s smile faltered as his eyes widened and darted about. “Oh. I- well, I suppose I am. Are you here for... ‘that’?”

Yoongi frowned. “‘That’?”

“Yes, ‘that’.”

Chanwoo never mentioned anything about a transaction, but he did say he was making an arrangement with a man to help him with the state exams. In a way, Yoongi supposed that was a business transaction of sorts. And since Yoongi already here...

Yes,” he said, nodding with finality. “I would speak about ‘that’.”

The young man who went by the name of Master Kim shushed him, pressing an index finger against his own lips. His voice went quieter. “You’re a bit early, young master, but come.”

He backed deeper inside the bookstore and beckoned for Yoongi to follow him, and despite the growing bewilderment, Yoongi complied. They exited by a back door hidden behind a sheer curtain, and emerged at a secluded dirt alley behind the bookshop. Yoongi despised the niggling alarm in his mind, telling him he was being put on a tailspin by some conman.

No time to waste. Unable to keep up the ruse any longer, Yoongi decided to drop it. He must confront this man about aiding Chanwoo now. Scamming the system was unforgivable. He reached into his hidden scabbard.

“Well then—“ Master Kim started, then gasped when he turned to find his neck at a gleaming word’s tip.

Yoongi’s swordtip.

“Well then,” Yoongi repeated in a low growl, holding the young man hostage. “Get talking. I know of your despicable business.”

“W-what—“ Master Kim sputtered, gulping. “I mean, sure, one might call it ‘dirty’, but we run an honest business!”

Just then, another yelled into the alley, “Yah, Park Jimin!”

‘Master Kim’ froze at the name, face framed in horror.

Yoongi risked a glance towards where the voice rang from. At the other end of the alley stood three thugs, one carrying a wooden bat. “Little rat, you’re due this month! Don’t you think about hiding again!”

Yoongi lowered his sword, confused. “What…?“

The young man in front of him let out a string of curses under his breath and glared at the thugs. To Yoongi, he said in a rush, “My apologies, sire, but we must continue this some other time.”

Growing more puzzled, Yoongi spluttered, “Wh- who’re those?”

Master Kim’s face darkened. “Just some thugs. I must leave. Farewell!”

He ducked away from Yoongi’s steel blade and ran.

It took Yoongi a moment’s shock before he could recollect his wits about him. Oh, oh no. This conman must be trying to run away from him now that he believed he’d been busted. And how dare those thugs steal Yoongi’s thunder? He found Master Kim first!

Yoongi would not allow that. Injustice should not be free to roam the streets!

Without hesitating, he took off running after Master Kim. “Wait!”

Master Kim looks back at him in horror, dodging throngs of people as he turned into the main market street. “What- why are you chasing me!”

“I would speak with you!” Yoongi cried, gaining speed. He’d always been light-footed by nature, and running had never been a problem for him. They sprinted down the market, narrowly avoiding bumping into the growing crowd of merchants and stalls.

Yoongi heard footfalls behind him, and when he threw a haphazard look back over his shoulder, he spotted the same three scruffy-looking thugs bulldozing after them, too.

It clicked in his brain, only then—it was a three-way chase. Master Kim must be running from them, not Yoongi himself. So if Yoongi wants to confront the young man alone, then they needed to shake those thugs off their trail first.

He swore under his breath. Blood pumping in his veins, Yoongi quickened his sprint enough to overtake and grab Master Kim’s wrist, tugging him along to run faster.

“Hey! What—“

“This way,” Yoongi commanded, never slowing. “Come on!”

The zipped through the market street, and Yoongi accidentally upended a silk merchant’s table of fabric. Still they kept running. They leapt over an oxcart full of vegetables and dodged more raucous children. They meandered down different alleys, avoiding puddles and stray cats until they ended up at an abandoned warehouse at the outskirts of the marketplace.

Yoongi let go of Master Kim’s wrist, and the young man stumbled back against a wooden pillar, panting like a dog.

“That was”—pant, pant—“wild. Thank you for—“

He barely finished speaking when Yoongi drew his sword again with a resounding shing.

“Wah!”

“Tell me your name.” Yoongi was fully expecting the young man to throw his arms up in surrender, perhaps beg for forgiveness, but he got none of that.

“Eyyyy, don’t be a spoilsport,” Master Kim cajoled lightheartedly, gingerly pushing Yoongi’s blade away from his throat with one tip of his finger. The little rascal was brave enough to chuckle. “No need to shed my blood here. Won’t do you must good, I’m afraid. Heh.”

Utterly befuddled, Yoongi gulped, dropping his arm by his side. He had never met anybody who didn’t cower before a blade. “What nonsense you speak.”

Master Kim smirked up at him, and had the gall to pat Yoongi’s shoulder as if they were friends. “It’s alright, there is no need to feel shy. I understand how desperate men can get.”

“What?”

“Which is why I will only charge you five nyang instead of ten for this,” Master Kim continued, digging a hand into the folds of his robes. “Fifty percent discount!”

Yoongi’s frown deepened. “Speak clearly or—“

“Aha, found it!” Master Kim exclaimed as he pulled out a crisp, new book. “Here you go. The latest edition.”

Yoongi stared.

There was a small voice at the back of his mind vaguely telling him that he has gotten something very, very mixed up.

Stunned speechless, he took the book and scannned the title gracing cover.

‘The Salacious Adventures Of Love And Lust’ by Master Kim

Yoongi flipped to page 1. It seemed to be a typical novel, a fictional story that was popular among the commonfolk these days. Yoongi scoffed, flipping through the rest of the pages until the illustrations appeared.

The illustrations.

He nearly dropped the book, chest seizing wildly. “What in the..?”

Master Kim smiled and opened his palm. “Five nyang.”

Yoongi could forget the illustrations burned into his mind. He stared up at the young man with a mix of horror and dread. Was this not the person whom Chanwoo commissioned?

“This novel and guide book will open your mind to new heights and pleasures, literally,” Master Kim said smugly. “Five nyang, please.”

“I—“ Yoongi feels dizzy. He gazes up at the ceiling, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What of the exam cheat sheet?”

“Cheat sheet?”

“You’re not Master Kim?”

“What? No! I run errands for him. Wait.” The young man paced about, brows furrowing. “So you’re not here to pick up your book pre-order?”

This was far, far from what Yoongi had come here for. He reached for the hilt of his sword. “Bring me to see your master, then.”

The young man’s smile dimmed as he realizes he’d been cornered. “I will not. The Young Master is ill and bedridden.”

Yoongi snorted. How dare a lowly commoner refuse a nobleman’s command? “I don’t care, I would speak with him.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you leave me with no choice.” Yoongi lifts his sword in the air and dashed forward, eyes closed. It would be a shame to see this one die. He swung down.

It was a clean cut. Or it should have been.

Thwack.

Instead, Yoongi found pressure resisting his wrist, and when he cracked an eye open, he found not blood, but the base of an open fan pushing against the hilt of his sword. His killing blow had been blocked.

Behind the paper fan, with only the upper half of his face visible, the fake ‘Master Kim’ winked beguilingly at him, eyes dancing with danger and mischief.

Yoongi grunted and staggered back, arm aching with the weight of his steel blade. How unexpected. Where had this young man learned to block such a technique?

Before he could swing again, his enemy ran and jumped swiftly over the stacked barrels in the warehouse. Yoongi gave chase, sword swinging, but the man was already out of reach as he leapt onto the second floor.

“I have two masters, stranger,” he purred, balancing on the wooden railing.

Irked, Yoongi surveyed the warehouse. It was old and dilapidated, and the only stairs it had was half-rotted with termites. Luckily his eyes located a wooden latticework connecting the ground to the upper floor. He hoisted himself up, using it as a ladder. Meanwhile, his newfound enemy continued his monologue.

“The younger one taught me to dream,” he said, swaying his fan mid-air. “And the older one”—He snapped his fan shut and lowered his stance into a braced position—“taught me to fight.”

As he reached the top of the ladder, Yoongi lunged forward with a yell.

‘Master Kim’ avoided getting his ankles nicked by Yoongi’s sword by catapulting into the air, twirling and landing back on the wooden balustrade with perfect balance. “Nice one! You ought to adjust that grip, though. It’s a tad loose.”

Yoongi yanked his sword back, hating the way he felt clunky and uncoordinated, but swung again. “Not anymore.”

It was odd, Yoongi thinks to himself as they parried back and forth. He should be riled up and increasingly frustrated with this stranger’s air of bravado and slick confidence, but instead he found himself almost… enjoying this. Apart from Hoseok, he had never met anyone with whom his swordsmanship was so evenly matched in skill. If this could be considered a formal duel, that is.

‘Master Kim’ didn’t even wield a sword of his own, simply using the workings of his traditional, flimsy-looking paper fan to defend every last one of Yoongi’s attacks. Just when Yoongi thought he had the man pinned to a wall, he would get thrown off balance by the quick pop of an elbow.

And just as Master Kim raised his fan to knock Yoongi unconscious by the nape of his neck, Yoongi spun and disarmed him using the hilt of his sword. It dropped from his quarry’s grasp.

“Now who’s got a loose grip?” Yoongi smirked through his uneven breath. “You still haven’t told me your name.”

The other man had quick reflexes, though, catching his fan mid-air as soon it fell. “Neither have you.”

“I asked you first.” Yoongi kicked a barrel loose and watched it roll towards his enemy. Master Kim deftly avoided it.

“Maybe if you drop the sword.”

“I will as soon as you drop the fan.”

At this, Master Kim grinned almost maniacally. “I wasn’t taught to lose.”

Well, neither was Yoongi. Not even Hoseok went easy on him during the practice duels. He bit back an enthused smile. “Noted with care.”

Then he leaned back on his heels and shot forward, only to be blocked, but Yoongi had a vague understanding the man’s fighting style by now, so he feinted left then turned a sharp right. Then he unlatched his straw hat and used it to finally slap the fan out of the man’s hand, catching Master Kim off-guard.

But only momentarily. The next thing he knew, Master Kim diverted his attention and snatched away very same straw hat to disarm Yoongi’s sword.

Clang. Both dropped to the floor.

They faced each other off, breathing raggedly, neither one moving first.

“Was that,” the young man wheezed, sweat dripping to his chin, “was that really necessary?”

Yoongi struggled to catch his breath and bent down to pick up his sword. His heart was slamming against his ribcage, but it hardly distracted him from the thrill zinging up and down his spine. “But I won.”

A snort. “What? No you didn’t.”

“You dropped the fan first,” Yoongi pointed out. “So you owe me your name, at least.” He straightened up and cocked his head to one side, studying the man before him. Master Kim scampered backwards until his back hit the warehouse’s wall, resignation in his eyes.

“Fine.” He sighed. “I will whisper it to you. Come closer.”

Huh. Yoongi moved towards the young man as asked, frowning.

“Closer,” the man beckoned, holding out both arms as though asking for an embrace.

Growing wary, Yoongi stopped in front of him. He leaned forward until his ear was next to the other man’s face. This close, he could feel their body heat mingling, could hear the man’s breath magnified in the shell of his ears.

“My name is...”

Against his better will, Yoongi stepped closer, feeling a new, strange electricity sparking in his veins.

Then his vision blurred as Master Kim grabbed his shoulders and spun them around. Yoongi yelped as the man pinned him to the wall—literally—using a tiny, hidden dagger to dig into the hem of Yoongi’s tunic.

“...something you’ll never learn! Ha!” the young man shrieked cheekily, poking his tongue out.

“What the- let me go, unhand me this instant!” Yoongi fumbles with the dagger, but it was wedged too deep into his clothes for him to move without tearing it and leaving his body shirtless.

“Thank you for the fun duel.” The fake Master Kim shot him an impish wink. “You fight good.”

“Just you wait until I get my hands on you,” Yoongi threatened as Master Kim sauntered back, hips swinging, picking up his fallen fan along the way. “I’ll have you hanged!”

“Coming from a commoner, that’s a fantasy,” said the young man. “But I guess a man can dream. Nice to meet you, I hope we never cross paths again.”

It was only then that Yoongi remembered, as the young man walked further away, that he was dressed not in his usual aristocrat’s silks, but in peasant’s disguise. “Do you have any clue who I am?”

“I need not,” singsonged the young man. “Oh, by the way, here.” He turned around and tossed the novel on the floor. “You can keep it.”

“A commoner blocked your sword with a fan?” Songhwa giggled, clapping her hands together in glee. “Orabeoni, either you are pulling my leg, or you have seriously grown weak in your technique!”

“It’s the truth,” Yoongi said plaintively, then grumbled, “as much as it pains me to admit.”

“Should you ever encounter him again, at least try to win,” Songhwa said, bending down to croon over a flowering lotus in the pond. “This one is so lovely!”

Yoongi remembered the alias given to her by the people—White Lotus—and scoffed. At least one of them had a pretty term of endearment. He considered telling Songhwa about this, but decided against it. Heavens knew his sister would only use it to further her teasing.

In the late afternoon daylight, Gungnamji Pond’s surface glittered a soft peach. Earlier, Songhwa begged to take a stroll in the gardens together. Yoongi had planned to spend his day perhaps sulking and resting, but since he never could deny the girl anything, he found himself begrudgingly doing just that.

“Enough about my day,” Yoongi muttered, watching droplets trickle into the curve of a lotus leaf. He was not exactly fond of being reminded of yesterday’s humiliation. “How has my little sister been doing in her studies, hmm?”

Songhwa stood and smiled primly. “Poetry can take a dip in the pond and never return.”

“Charming,” Yoongi deadpanned. “You shouldn’t speak in such a crass manner, Songhwa-yah. How will you find a suitable husband in the future—“

“Orabeoni, as much as I love you, how I behave is not something I am comfortable being lorded over. Especially not by you,” Songhwa said. She faced Yoongi with a smile that seemed to hold more wisdom than Yoongi, in all his twenty-one years of age, possessed. “So, do us both a favor, won’t you? I’ve had enough of men trying to manipulate me. I’d love it if you would just stay as my brother, always.”

Yoongi harrumphed, but he could only nod. It was easy to forget sometimes, because Yoongi had only ever seen Min Songhwa as his little sister who used to grab him by the hem of his durumagi and trousers, snot-faced and whiny. In Yoongi’s eyes she would forever be a child, no matter how much of a headstrong young woman she was now blooming into.

“But if you must know, my art lessons are proceeding rather smoothly,” Songhwa said as they continued walking leisurely.

Yoongi’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve been taking art lessons?” At least the King had made good on that promise.

“I started only two days ago, from Tutor Jeon,” Songhwa explained. “I am enjoying it so far. Tutor Jeon is meek, but holds a lot of passion for his craft.”

“Would it be callous of me if I were to comment on how I think you ought to focus on your embroidery too?” Yoongi asked.

“Yes.”

“Ah. Noted.”

Songhwa’s nostrils flared. “Embroidery...” she mutters. “The bane of all housework! I shall gladly never become wife to any man. Ever.”

“Needlework can be fun,” Yoongi mumbled sullenly, and Songhwa nudged him playfully.

“Then would you like to take over my half-finished handkerchief? Better yet, why don’t you learn art with me, too? Tutor Jeon says we will begin painting next week.”

Painting. It was such a mindless, aimless form waste of time. Yoongi almost said it out loud. “Why do you paint, anyway?”

“For passion, orabeoni! Passion!” Songhwa let out a shrill noise of frustration, throwing her hands up in the air. “Haven’t you ever felt it? The burning pull towards something.”

Yoongi shrugged.

“Heavens, sometimes when I speak to you, I almost believe I’m talking to a rock.”

“In my defense, I have always wanted to be a rock in my next life,” Yoongi jested, grinning.

Songhwa rolled her eyes. “You should find something to be passionate about, dearest brother. It gives life an extra spark.”

“And painting gives you that spark?”

“It is an avenue, yes.”

Yoongi squinted. “How exactly so?”

For a brief moment, he caught the way Songhwa’s eyes flickered behind them, to where her lady-in-waiting, Yeol, waited on standby a few yards away, keeping distance to give the siblings privacy. “It gives me an excuse to use Yeol as my model.”

Curiosity yawned open in Yoongi’s mind. “Why Yeol?”

“We should paint beautiful images, should we not?”

Yoongi nodded slowly, getting the gist of it. “I believe I’m beginning to understand. You want to refine your artistic talent in order to impress a nobleman and hopefully, find a good suitor.”

“…Orabeoni, do shut up.”

The conversation with Songhwa weighed heavy on Yoongi’s mind for the rest of the day, her words lingering like the aftertaste of the royal physician’s herbal medicine. As Yoongi returned to Nokseodang, he sat by the desk and sighed, looking out the window in a daze.

“Your Highness,” Eunuch Hong said, hovering by the door. “You look seem ill at ease. Shall I call for some tea before dinner is served?”

Yoongi gave his eunuch a wave of consent, and Hong Chilbok fluttered away diligently. Yoongi scanned his table, and only then did he spot Master Kim’s book.

That cursed book.

How did that ‘Master Kim’ describe it again?

This novel and guide book will open your mind to new heights and pleasures.

It seemed there were still plenty of aspects of popular culture Yoongi had yet to discover, despite being a qualified scholar at Sungkwunkwan. Appalling, really, how little he knew.

But if there is one thing he was confident of, it was his linguistic repertoire. And he knew for a fact that ‘passion’, which Songhwa kept prattling on about, was closely related to ‘love’ and ‘lust’, which were featured in the cursed book’s title.

And what were books if not beacons of education?

A decision formed in Yoongi’s mind.

With a trembling hand, he reached out to flipped the cover of the book. He flinched, but the book lay there, harmless as a limp leaf. Still, he kept only one eye open, fearful of what cursed images might jump out of the pages. Last night Yoongi hardly slept soundly, what with those ill-conceived illustrations imprinted in his mind’s eye.

So far, so good. The opening pages contained only text. Curiosity took over from then on. He read the story of a humble innkeeper and the childhood first love he lost contact with after a tragic event... and Yoongi was utterly shell-shocked to find that the said childhood friend was also male.

Yoongi’s heart thudded against his ribcage.

“Male,” he breathed in disbelief, scrambling away from the book as though his hand had been stung. He stood and paced the length of his quarters, lower lip snagging on the roof of his upper teeth.

Yoongi rationalized with himself—this must be a story about a deep friendship.  A story of two men and their respective love lives, that was all.

Nodding to himself, Yoongi sat back down and flipped the book to where he left off. His neck felt warmer than it was moments ago, so he opened a window to let the air circulate.

The questionable matter of the main characters aside, the plot of the novel was actually intriguing—it involved murder, birth secrets, a loyal dog, and clearly outlined the separation and reunion of the two best friends.

“Jang Bong-man!” the innkeeper cries, kneeling on the sodden earth. “Is that really you, Bong-man?”

Yoongi pursed his lips, anticipation climbing up his gut. His forehead was a little feverish reading about such a strong, divine connection between such surprisingly strong characters. Both Bong-man and Jun-hyung were survivors of the worst traumatic events, and they deserved to reunite. As friends of course.

He turned to the next page and freezes.

There, in the center of the page, lay illustrations of Bong-man and Jun-hyung, labelled “Reunion Night”. The two men were drawn with one on top of the other, with the man below lying on his belly. Their cheeks were inked with rouge to indicate a flush.

Most incapacitating of all details was how naked they were.

Yoongi’s blood drained from his face. He hurled the book to the other end of his quarters, a scream of terror ripping from his throat. The book collides hard against the wall and slides out of view, behind his bed.

“Eunuch Hong, Eunuch Hong! Chilbok-ah!”

“Highness, is anything the matter?” a different servant asked form outside. “Eunuch Hong is still out fetching your tea…”

Yoongi could barely hear him. He cried, shaking, “Bong-man and Jun-hyung are...!”

It was indescribable, the way Yoongi’s heartbeat was accelerating beyond human speed. He pushed to his feet and burst from his quarters, willing the images away from his now-tainted mind. Perhaps some fresh air would do him good. He kept sprinting away from Nokseodang, until he reached the next courtyard, where the royal guards were trained.

“Hoseok-ah!” Yoongi all but hollered, not caring about propriety for once. He was hardly aware of the guards at the courtyard pausing in their practice, too caught up by his need to locate his trusted friend.

“Yoon- I mean, Highness?” Hoseok’s voice popped out from the somewhere at the front. His face appeared among the small sea of guards, brows wrinkled in confusion.

Yoongi skid to a sudden halt before the Vice Captain, panting heavily.

Hoseok was staring at him with concern. “What brings you here?”

“Bong-man and Jun-hyung...” Yoongi rambled unthinkingly. “They’re... I’ve invaded their privacy and I could not avoid being tainted—“

“Slow down, what?”

Yoongi’s vision spun, his throat tightening as a wave of nausea overtook him. He’d already been feeling under the weather ever since yesterday’s market trip, but the sudden spike in his blood pressure must be doing a number on him. For sure, death awaited next. “I feel unwell.”

“Hold on, Prince Yun, your face is pale, let me get—“

Yoongi couldn’t hear the rest of Hoseok’s panicked answer, because the next moment he sagged against his friend, a sheet of darkness knocking him unconscious.

His last thought was a curse—may ‘Master Kim’ never know peace tonight.

Elsewhere, at a gambling den in one of the busiest districts of Hanyang, the clinking of silver and brass coins ricocheted around. There was plenty of back-and-forth calls for another round of alcohol. More still, were the cries of the defeated, and the cheering of the triumphant. Opium smoke wafted about as men and women alike lay their cards on their tables.

One table at the corner of the den was occupied by four of its most regular patrons, all of whom were high-ranking military officers at the Main Palace.

“Did you hear? For this year’s Surit-nal festivities, the King gave out open invitations to members of the public,” said one of them, a bearded man with drooping eyes. “There will be celebrations at the Main Palace.”

More coins clattered on wood. “Is that so? Then how come I never got an invite?”

His other friend answered. “Well, you know how it goes. By ‘members of the public’, they really only mean the upper-class aristocracy.”

The bearded man hummed in doubt. “Then how come they’re inviting gisaengs and street troupes to perform at the banquet?”

“I do hope that is true. Who knows, if we are posted on watch duty that day, we might snag a maiden or two…”

Their conversation swirled out in the dank air, joining the buzz of voices in the gambling den. Unbeknownst to these four officers, there sat a lone occupant at the table right beside theirs. A tall, broad-shouldered man in silver and fuschia robes chuckled to himself, gently waving a large fan decorated with peonies. Slowly, he rose and approached the table of four, fan fluttering close to his face.

The four officers only noticed his presence when his shadow loomed over their table. Their heads turned as they stared up at the strikingly handsome stranger. Among the nobility of Hanyang, he was known for being a giant flirt, impervious to public opinion, and they’d dubbed him as Joseon’s Pearl-Faced Man for his undeniably good looks.

“Hello,” drawled the young man, dark eyes twinkling. He closed his fan. “As a fellow hot-blooded man, I must say I am most curious about these… gisaengs. You say they are looking to commission performers at the Main Palace?”

Shadows. They were all that surrounded him as he walked a lonely trail in the middle of the woods. Yoongi did not know where he is, so he could only follow the glimmer of moonlight from the crescent above, hanging in the sky like a tiger’s claw.

He could not remember how he came to be here.

A rustle of leaves caught his ear. Turning, Yoongi found himself facing a different dirt trail, but this time at the end of the trail there stood a single white crane, its delicate wings spread open as though caught mid-flight, or mid-dance. The crane looked so… lonely.

When Yoongi stepped forward, its attention snapped to him.

Bathed in the milky glow of moonlight, the looked like a mirage that could fly off any time. Walking slowly so as not to scare the creature away, Yoongi implored, “Take me with you.”

To his surprise, the crane answered with a familiar drawl.

“I am always with youuuuu, my good friend...”

Yoongi stopped, his pulse quickening. “What? I command you, speak.”

“Bong-man...”

Horror sliced through Yoongi. All of a sudden, the scenery in front of him rippled like water, showing two bare men rolling on top of one another. Beside them, the white crane looked on impassively. Yoongi stepped back, making a branch crackle and stealing the crane’s attention again.

“Who on earth is Bong-man?” asked the crane loudly, and Yoongi felt a sharp pulling sensation of panic—

He jolted awake with a gasp, eyes flying open.

“Oh, finally.”

The ceiling that greeted Yoongi’s eyes, which were still bleary as they grow accustomed to the light, was not the flat roof of his personal quarters, but rather the elevated wooden beams of the royal infirmary. He looked at his bedside, where Hoseok sat, grinning at him.

“Welcome back, you fuddy-duddy!”

Yoongi scrunched up his nose. “You are so loud, I could hear you in my nightmares.”

Hoseok laughed out loud and nodded to the royal physician. “Yes, he’s definitely awake now, all right.”

The royal physician’s brows knitted together in concern. “The Vice Captain tells me you were muttering names before you fainted.”

Yoongi’s stomach clenched.

Meanwhile Hoseok was nodding vigorously. “Indeed, indeed. Bong-man and another man, I don’t quite remember. What is the matter, Yoongi? Have these men harmed you? I could bring them in for questioning.”

Yoongi’s jaw fell open. “N—no. Do not disturb them.”

Hoseok’s face pinched in confusion. “You know them?”

“I am fine.” Yoongi sat up with a groan. “No need to worry, nothing is wrong with my health.”

“You looked very unwell, though...”

“I swear, do not lay a finger on them. They’re my”—Yoongi swallows, fists clenched—“uh, they are just some people I know.”

Hoseok and the royal physician exchanged dubious looks. Yoongi hated this, hated being put on the spot and cornered into answering questions he had no vocabulary for, so he scrambled out of bed. Ignoring the dizziness that came with the sudden motion, he shook his limbs to wake them into functioning.

“I am leaving. Hoseok?”

“Right behind ya.”

The servants parted the sliding doors for them. As they stepped out into the bright courtyard, Yoongi winced against the glaring sunlight. To Yoongi’s surprise, the area surrounding every corner of the palace was decorated in vibrantly-colored paper lanterns, each checkpoint festooned in ribbons and flowers that weren’t there earlier.

“How long was I out?” Yoongi asked. Surely such a grand scale of preparation couldn’t be done in mere hours. “What is all this?”

Hoseok fell into step beside him. “It’s for Surit-nal.”

“Isn’t that next week?”

The palace guard chief sent him a funny look. “Actually, it’s today.”

Yoongi gaped at him. “I was out for a week?”

“More or less. Very feverish, too. At one point in time we worried you might not make it. Songhwa stayed by your bed all night, every night.”

“I see.” Yoongi frowned. Perhaps he’d contracted an illness at the market that day.

Hoseok gave him a stern look, made soft by the small smile pulling at his mouth. “Eunuch Hong told me you snuck out of the palace the day before you fainted, all by yourself.”

“I’m glad you’re alive and kicking,” Hoseok said. “It surprises me that the Ice Prince is being so active, out and about, that’s all.

“Will you quit calling me that tactless name?” grumbled Yoongi. He thought of the forest in his dream, and how long it felt like he’d been wandering. Had he truly burned through several days while passed out? Out loud, he mused, “It’s all thanks to that crane.”

Hoseok shot him another questioning look. “What?”

“A little crane led me home, in a manner of speaking,” Yoongi shared. “It was dancing in the moonlight. Hard to ignore.”

“Er,” Hoseok scratched his head, “are you really sure you’re fully recovered? We could turn back and visit the physician again, get a final say—“

“Seok-ah, worry less for me, would you?” Yoongi said, patting his friend’s shoulder. “I am fine. Let us see the festivities through.”

Surit-nal—a traditional holiday that falls on the 5th day of the fifth month of the lunar calendar. On this day one might turn left and right to find every nook and cranny of the streets teeming with merriment and play, people drifting about dressed in festive reds and blues.

In the palace grounds, the festivities might be more extravagant in presentation, but they were no less different. Members of the Royal Council, the Internal Court and the royal family spent the better half of the day partaking in archery showmanship contests, followed by wining and dining over a slew of entertaining performances.

Now, as day crawled closer into dusk, performing troupes and travelling stage plays began to gather at the Main Palace’s biggest courtyard in preparation for the dinner banquet. Yoongi sat uncomfortably in a chair on a platform, raised from the ground but not on the same level as the royal family. He wasn’t really a lover of the arts as his siblings were, but his presence was warranted in order not to offend his father.

He cast a glance at the trio gathered on the highest dais at the head of the courtyard—His Majesty, the Queen and Crown Prince Sohyeon, each one wearing mirroring smiles at the ongoing musical performance before them.

Yoongi looked down and fiddled with his thumbs on his lap.

He would never get to have that.

A hand, as fair and smooth as tofu, entered his field of vision from the left, reaching for Yoongi’s fingers to get them to stop fumbling nervously. Yoongi looked sideways at his own mother, the Noble First Consort Min, and flashed her a watery, grateful smile.

At least they had each other. Songhwa, too. His younger sister grabbed his other free hand, toying with his knuckles.

The next performance was a martial arts demonstration, accompanied by heavy drumbeats that made Yoongi’s heartbeat jump with each thunder-like thump. Then a group of gisaengs swept onto the stage, waving light-colored ribbons around their wrists that twirled prettily with their dancing.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Songhwa whispered, leaning over from where she sat next to Yoongi. “I’ve always adored banquets.”

“That makes one of us,” Yoongi remarked, fighting back a yawn. “It’s getting rather draggy.”

The percussive music swelled in time with the undulating imagery cast by the skirts of the dancing courtesans. Then a loud, booming voice announced:

“For the finale, a special solo performance: Dance Of The Fallen Crane.”

Yoongi’s ears perked up as expectant applause rings out across the courtyard. Rather than percussion, the music that filled the air was that of a mellow string instrument. A gayageum—one of Yoongi’s favorites. After the base tune was set, a woodwind instrument followed to create a harmony.

At that moment, a barefoot dancer stepped onto the wooden stage, slow and graceful as though gliding, and the audience watched in hushed, riveted silence. The dancer’s hair had been let loose, silky black strands fluttering in the wind along with iridescent silk fabric draped around their arms. The lower half of the dancer’s face was covered by a veil, concealing his full features from view, but Min Yoongi would recognize those glittering eyes anywhere, face veiled or not.

After all, he’d seen the same eyes behind a paper fan before, once upon a duel. Yoongi sat forward in shock. What in the world?

“Master Kim,” Yoongi huffed under his breath. What in the world was a man doing, dancing in a courtesan’s attire? A soft rhythm of percussion began to accompany the gayageum and the flute, and the dancer swayed, raising his arms. Yoongi scoffed.

No matter. After the initial shock, a thrill of something electric and sadistic coursed through Yoongi. Alas, the prey had walked right into the trap.

As the dancer lifted his arms and molded his body into complicated positions, spinning and leaping into the air at certain points in the choreography, questions burned at the back of Yoongi’s mind.

Who was this mysterious conman, and what occupation did he hold? How was he suddenly a court dancer?

Yoongi momentarily forgot his spiraling questions, because the next moment, as the dancer made another graceful leap with a flourish of his arms, he landed facing the direction where Yoongi was sitting. Their gazes brushed for a nanosecond, too quick to linger, but something in Yoongi’s chest jumped the same way the dancer had moments earlier – an extended leaping sensation in his chest.

And... oh.

It was like drowning, except he was surrounded by pure air and he had a choice to keep breathing but forgot how to. This was what watching the dancer’s performance felt like: a tide locked you in its current, stubborn to part, leaving you too powerless to resist.

It was a trance. It was sorcery.

“Beautiful, right?”

Yoongi sucked in a shaky breath, crashing back into his pulse, and his head swiveled around to find the source of the voice. He was quick to realize he was not the intended recipient of the question when he spotted two court ladies gossiping near his table. He raised a ceramic cup to his mouth to sip his plum wine.

“What’s her name again?” one asked, hiding her mouth behind her hand, eyes glued to the performer onstage.

“Lady Aeshin, or so I’ve heard.”

“She is so lovely. I heard she trained with a travelling troupe in her youth. and attracts men from all over Hanyang.”

Yoongi almost choked on his wine, coughing to keep from wheezing out loud. Huh.

She?

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