25-long live the king
"We're up to eight new greenhouses now, with plans for an additional eight in Sector 9 to be established by the end of the year. It's slow going, all of us feeling like we're fumbling around in the dark without a handbook. The archives of the Institute have only yielded so much information about the nature of our abilities and how to hone and control them. So much data was lost or destroyed, either by the Cataclysm, at the behest of various monarchs, or Choi Nayoung in the final days before her arrest. But we are moving forward, step by step, little by little. I can grow five different kinds of crops now, and that has to count for something. Someday soon, the rationing system will be gone and we'll have trees in the city again. I can feel it."
- Entry from the personal journal of Kim Namjoon, head of the city-state of Seoul's first agricultural development unit
_ _
For the second time in recent memory, Jung Hoseok wakes up to unfamiliar surroundings, shivering at the chill of Death's breath on his skin and shocked that it didn't take him. Awareness comes to him in stages: an ornate, patterned ceiling stretched out above him, a soft bed beneath his aching body, the lack of vision in his right eye, the press of someone else against him, the twine of another person's fingers through his.
He exhales slow, wincing at the twinges running through his chest and torso, and manages to turn his head. Taehyung is asleep at the bedside, slumped over in a fancy-looking armchair with his face pressed to the mattress, holding Hoseok's hand. Relief rushes through him. That's one precious person still alive. He shifts again, to glance at his other side, and his breath hitches at the sight of Yoongi next to him. He's also asleep—face turned toward Hoseok, giving Hoseok a clear view of the bandages covering his eye and the upper part of his cheek. But his chest is rising and falling in a gentle rhythm and his face is lax and peaceful and he is alive.
He is alive and Taehyung is alive and Hoseok ... he hiccups through the first sob that rises up his torn throat from the depths of his ruined chest. He was ready to die, if that was a price that needed to be paid, he was. But the relief is nearly overwhelming. He worms a shaking hand out of the covers to wipe at his non-bandaged eye, embarrassed by his tears and glad the other two are asleep.
Once he's managed to calm himself somewhat, he pushes up from the mattress with one arm in an attempt to get a more accurate bearing on where he is. The room is perhaps the biggest bedroom he's ever seen, easily twice the size of the ones in Namjoon's apartment. It's sparsely furnished: just a dresser against one wall, a large mirror next to it, and a few white chairs clustered in a corner. A red rug covers the granite tile surrounding the bed and when Hoseok glances back to his right, he realizes that one wall appears to be made of doors. Two of them are open to a small courtyard beyond and sheer curtains flutter in the spring breeze.
The courtyard, upon a closer inspection, seems to actually be a private garden and Hoseok's mouth drops open at the sight of real plants scattered artfully throughout the space. He must be in the palace. Only the fucking king would have actual gardens.
Though, he supposes, there must be a new king now. He wonders what Seokjin will look like seated on the throne. After all this blood, it's hard to believe their plans have actually become reality. A knife-edged wave of pain ripples through his chest and he collapses back on the bed with a faint gasp. It's enough to wake Taehyung, though, who sits up so fast he might be in danger of giving himself whiplash.
"Hyung," he says, tightening his grip on Hoseok's hand.
"Hey," Hoseok wheezes and squeezes weakly back.
Taehyung pushes himself to his feet. "Don't move. I'm gonna go get the court physician." He kisses the back of Hoseok's hand and then slips from the room while Hoseok tries to wrap his head around the fact that he's apparently being treated by a court physician. Gods, he wants to find that guard commander, just to see the look on his face.
He turns his head, breathing through another surge of pain, and finds Yoongi looking back at him with his good eye. He freezes, surprised by the shame that suddenly burns hot through him, reducing the previous relief to ash. Yoongi must have seen his chest, must know the words that are permanently carved there now, must have watched him scream and weep as the guard cut him open over and over. It makes him feel small and fragile and weak in a way he's never wanted to be.
"Jagiya," Yoongi whispers and it's an aching, tender thing.
Hoseok's eyes well again.
"Jagiya," Yoongi says again and shifts closer to press his forehead against Hoseok's temple. "I'm so glad you're alive."
Hoseok chokes on another sob. He doesn't feel alive, but flayed open. Like someone has peeled his skin back and exposed every vulnerable piece of him and he wonders now, if this is how Yoongi felt at all those parties. Yoongi's fingers curl over his hip as Hoseok tries to rein his emotions in a second time. It's over and he survived, what is the point of tears? Of this strange, helpless grief hollowing him out like a dry riverbed?
"Seok-ah," Yoongi murmurs, lips brushing his cheek, but the doors creak open before he can finish whatever he might have been about to say.
The court physician bustles in, a petite, stern-faced woman with deep crows feet around her eyes and silver streaked through her immaculately styled hair. Her white robes flutter around her ankles as she approaches the bed—Taehyung trailing after her. Hoseok tenses when she stops at his side, age-old anxiety churning in his cut. He's learned to expect cruelty from most non-Marked, especially doctors who feel their time is being wasted by someone who would be better off dead anyway. He can't imagine what this woman might think of him, or the events of the past ... however long it's been since he was chained to that pole in the courtyard.
She introduces herself as Park Sooah and she speaks like Seokjin and Namjoon, crisp and clear-accented—so much more polished than his rougher outer sector dialect. But when she starts to examine him, she is methodical and precise. There is little compassion but also no disdain or disgust. She helps him sit up with surprisingly strong hands and unwinds the bandages around his torso to examine the healing cuts littered across his chest and stomach.
He keeps his eyes fixed on the wall across from him, unable to look at them. To see the words he knows are there.
"You're healing nicely," Sooah says as she spreads bitter-smelling salve across his skin. "But we'll need to keep an eye on the scarring, to make sure you don't lose any mobility."
She pokes at his cracked ribs and comments that she'll bind them a little tighter, to help with the setting of the bone. She peels the gauze carefully from his eye and tells them that he probably won't regain his vision.
"You're lucky you didn't lose the eye entirely," she says as he swallows with numb acceptance. It could have been worse, he tries to remind himself. He almost lost his tongue.
A different kind of salve goes over his eye and then she rebandages him with swift efficiency.
"Drink this." He accepts the cup she presses into his hands. "It'll help with regaining your energy."
The liquid is bitter on his tongue, unlike anything he's ever tasted, and hotter than he expected. He winces as it burns its way down his throat. "What is this?" he asks, speaking for the first time since she began her examination.
She glances at him in surprise. "It's tea."
Tea? He doesn't think he's ever heard of tea.
"It's made with herbs," Sooah elaborates. "Predominantly ginger."
Oh. He nods in understanding, curling his fingers tighter around the cup and marveling at the luxury of all of this. How normal it seems to Park Sooah. Will it become normal for all of them too? Fancy bedrooms and gardens and tea?
Sooah moves on to Yoongi's injuries, addressing him as "Suga-nim" while she checks his eye and the rest of his torso. She makes no move towards his legs, must not know about the still-healing brand on his thigh. Hoseok doesn't blame Yoongi for wanting to keep that wound a secret, above all the others.
"Your eye is in a little better shape," Sooah says, applying the same salve she used for Hoseok. "You should keep most of your vision, but how much I don't know."
"Thank you," Yoongi murmurs.
Hoseok forces the rest of the tea down his throat and Sooah gathers her supplies. Taehyung has remained near the door this whole time ... is he guarding them? A shiver runs down Hoseok's spine. They must still be in hostile territory, at least until Seokjin has finished securing his place on the throne.
"How long have I been asleep?" he asks Yoongi once Sooah leaves with a promise to check on them again tonight—Taehyung trailing after her.
"A couple days," Yoongi replies, fussing with the blankets around Hoseok's waist. "She gave you something to keep you under, help you heal." A wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Seokjin essentially locked us in here to recover. Literally locked. I tried the door once."
"Bastard," Hoseok coughs but it's without venom. He appreciates the concern, even if this room already feels stifling. He's never liked being idle when there is work to do and right now there is so much work to do.
"I could pick it if I wanted," Yoongi says, "but...." He trails off and Hoseok studies the exhausted lines of his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the faint tremors still running through his hands.
He reaches up and brushes the edge of the bandages around Yoongi's eye. "We match," he whispers sadly and Yoongi shudders out a pained breath.
"Hoseok..."
Hoseok swallows, throat clicking, and searches for the shape of what he feels he needs to say. His relief and his fear and the lingering agony in his bones. The knowledge that the ground beneath them still isn't steady. That the last week is going to haunt him in ways he can't predict. There's so much of it, all tangled together like the string that Jungkook used to practice weaving into shapes at their kitchen table.
He forgets, though, how intimately Yoongi knows him.
"Hoseok-ah." His fingers rub the back of Hoseok's neck, stroke gently over his mark. "I love you and we survived. The rest will come."
We'll heal, Hoseok hears in the undercurrent of Yoongi's words and grasps onto that with both hands, anchoring the belief in his chest. He shifts forward enough to press his mouth to Yoongi's shoulder. The air smells like sweat and salve and bitter tea, but the feel of Yoongi's skin against his own is warm and comforting.
I'm alive, he reminds himself fiercely. I lived.
The rest will come.
The rest will come.
_ _
Even after three days, Taehyung struggles to wrap his head around just how big the palace is. In his late night wanderings he continues to stumble across hidden courtyards, far-flung buildings, and secret gardens. It seems impossible that this all is meant to revolve around one man, as well as the city beyond it, but he's never understood the logic of monarchy. For now, it's a means to an end.
And what a means. Already, seismic changes are rippling through the city: the Seoul Institute, placed under lockdown and all test subjects released; the powerful Choi Nayoung, awaiting execution; companions removed from elite estates and placed under the care of the crown—whole hospital wings rapidly shifting to dedicate themselves to their treatment. The auction houses will be closing soon, many of them demolished to make way for shelters for freed sanctioned. The boarding houses will burn and Taehyung wants to set at least one of the fires himself.
The Seoul Institute, Seokjin said to him this morning, will you take charge of its archives?
And Taehyung nodded without a second thought. He itches to uncover the rest of their secrets, however horrible they may be. The current staff will be questioned and vetted. Most will be relieved of their positions. Some, perhaps, will find a place in the new order—dedicate their research to harnessing the abilities sleeping in all the Marked, instead of suppressing them. The thought of working with any of them, after the things they've done, leaves a bitter taste on Taehyung's tongue, but he understands the sometimes terrible nature of compromise.
He's already volunteered himself as an experiment, in spite of Seokjin's hesitance. Whatever it fucking takes.
But as full and chaotic as his days have been, the contrasting quiet of night grates against his nerves. It's so still here, tucked away from the usual bustle of the city. His world has always overflowed with noise: one of the others shifting in their sleep; the rattle of the window that never closed properly; the distant rush of traffic below; the voices of neighbors through thin walls; footsteps across his ceiling. Here he lies in a too-big bed and suffocates in the silence, not even Jungkook's presence enough to soothe him.
So he's taken to wandering, mapping the palace out in his head as he goes. He avoids the occasional staff and guard he comes across. Seokjin vetted all of them in the immediate wake of the coup, but Taehyung is still wary. People's attitudes about Marked aren't going to change overnight—even if the chip under his skin is gone, the tattoo remains.
Last night, he walked the perimeter of the small lake that brushes up against the banquet hall. Stopped in the courtyard where the pole was removed and Hoseok's blood scrubbed from the stone. Tonight, though, he's discovered yet another garden. It's both breathtaking and infuriating, seeing this many real plants close up. He runs his fingers along their leaves, marveling at the different textures of each. He wants to learn all their names—from the tree with the blooming pink branches to the similarly pink flowers sprouting from the bushes on the ground.
And there is so much water everywhere too. This garden has its own little pond, the surface nearly covered in green plants.
Taehyung starts toward it, then freezes when he catches sight of a silhouette already perched on a bench at its edge. He's carried a knife on him since the coup and his fingers twitch near his belt before he realizes that he recognizes the shape of that frame.
"Jimin-ah," he says, approaching the bench.
Jimin startles slightly, turning to stare at him. "Taehyungie."
He looks more like the Jimin Taehyung knows now—his hair dyed back to his natural black, the delicate outfits of a companion replaced with his usual dark and sturdy clothes, the glittering jewelry removed in favor of his simple silver hoop earrings. Only the tattoos along his arm and the seals, now dormant, remain.
And he looks tired, the same weariness Taehyung feels bone deep. He shifts on the bench to let Taehyung sit beside him and immediately reaches for Taehyung's hand, curling their fingers together. They've barely had time to talk in so long and it's nice to just sit here for a moment—allow himself to melt into Jimin like he always did when they were kids, resting his head on Jimin's shoulder and closing his eyes.
He's glad, after all these years, that Park Jimin has remained such a constant in his life.
"How are you?" Jimin asks eventually and Taehyung sighs.
"Tired. Overwhelmed. Determined."
Jimin laughs quietly. "Sounds familiar."
Taehyung straightens and pushes up the sleeve of Jimin's shirt, running his fingers carefully over the initials inked down Jimin's arm until he gets to Seokjin's. Jimin has barely left Seokjin's side in the last few days and Taehyung suspects that when he's not holding vigil at Hoseok's bedside, he's warming Seokjin's instead. He still doesn't know what to make of it.
"Just ask me," Jimin says as Taehyung traces over the romanized letters: K-S-J.
"What is he to you?"
Jimin is silent for a breath. Two. "Important."
"How important?"
Another pause. "I..." Jimin's voice goes small, hesitant but awestruck. "I think I love him, Tae-yah."
"You think?" Taehyung asks, prodding gently.
Jimin shakes his head. "No, I know. I love him. It's just...."
"Scary?" Taehyung guesses and Jimin nods.
It's always been harder for him to let people in. Neither of them trust easily, but Jimin's walls are built higher than Taehyung's. It took him nearly a year to lower them enough to let Yoongi, Hoseok, and Jungkook past them. For Seokjin to make it this far inside the fortress this quickly....
"He terrifies me sometimes," Jimin says. "Or ... how much he's come to mean to me. But we understand each other. We're the same in a lot of ways. Different, in key ones. I think we'd be good together."
"Even if he's a king now?" Taehyung asks.
The corner of Jimin's mouth pulls up in a familiar, wry smile. "I have no interest in serving anyone. He understands that. He may be sitting on a throne but he's still Seokjin. For now. And if that changes...." He pauses, jaw clenching. "I'll do whatever might need to be done. He understands that too."
Taehyung nods, absorbing all of this. It's potentially dangerous, continuing this affair with a man who has now been elevated so high above them in station. But Jimin has never shied away from dangerous situations, none of them have. And Taehyung knows what a powerful thing love can be—remembers the hope that refused to die as he searched auction house after auction house for a scrap of information, a clue, anything.
And he understands what Jimin wants from him right now—the question lingering in the air as Jimin tugs on the sleeves of his shirt in a rare nervous tic. It's always been the two of them above everyone else, no matter what. Jimin won't go forward with this if Taehyung expresses concern.
"Okay," he says, squeezing Jimin's hand. "You have my blessing, Chim."
He makes his tone overly solemn, a little grandfatherly, just to hear Jimin laugh. "Thank you," Jimin says, kissing the back of Taehyung's hand.
"You've already slept with him, haven't you?" Taehyung asks, putting more pieces together.
Jimin laughs harder, slumping into Taehyung's side. "Maybe."
Which is a yes. Taehyung rolls his eyes, trying and failing to hide his own smile. After a moment, Jimin sobers—a determined expression stealing across his face, tinged through with a tender sort of sadness that Taehyung has rarely seen him wear. "It's not my story to tell, but ... he's given up a lot, Taehyungie. To get here. I haven't regretted anything so far. I'm not going to regret this."
"Good," Taehyung says and pulls Jimin into a proper hug, engulfing Jimin's smaller frame with his.
Crunch.
Jimin tenses in his arms at the sound of footsteps on the gravel of the garden path. Taehyung glances over his shoulder and rubs Jimin's back to calm him.
"Relax, it's JK."
Jungkook emerges from between the trees. He's clad in nearly the same black as Jimin, hair still mussed from sleep, and Taehyung feels a stab of guilt at leaving him alone for so many nights. Jimin pulls away to greet Jungkook properly, reaching out to snag his hand as he approaches their bench.
"Hey, Kook-ah."
They shift to let Jungkook sit down between them and he gives them both a wan smile. He still talks so much less than he used to, but Taehyung hopes that's something that can still be remedied—that will change as Jungkook continues to heal, as the wounds inside of him seal properly closed instead of being hastily mended over and over with clumsy stitches.
"Jimin was just telling me he's in love with Seokjin," he says and dodges the smack Jimin aims at his arm behind Jungkook's back.
"I know," Jungkook says softly. "You're kind of obvious."
"We are?" Jimin asks, bristling a little.
Jungkook shrugs. "To someone who knows you both well."
Sometimes Taehyung forgets that of the three of them, Jungkook has known Seokjin the longest. That Seokjin's initials were on Jungkook's arm weeks before Jimin's. He saved my life, is all Jungkook has really said about it and Taehyung has never pressed him further.
"Ah," Jimin says, cutting through Taehyung's thoughts. He still sounds hesitant, but relieved too. Taehyung imagines that whatever shape this love takes, it will never be public.
"I think it's a good thing," Jungkook continues. "You're good for each other."
Jimin flushes a little at that, and stands quickly to mask it, brushing imaginary dirt from his pants. "It's late," he says. "We should all try to sleep."
Jungkook shoots Taehyung a knowing look behind Jimin's back, a little smirk lurking in the corner of his mouth like it always used to when he teased them. Inwardly, Taehyung revels at the sight of it. At the mischievous glimmer in Jungkook's eyes that suggest this won't be the last Jimin hears about his new, softening heart.
"Sure," is all Jungkook says for now, though.
They make their way back together, ducking under flowering branches and crushing petals beneath their feet.
"I'm sorry," Taehyung murmurs to Jungkook once they leave the garden behind. "I've been leaving you. I just couldn't sleep."
Jungkook coughs, a sheepish hunch curving his shoulders. "I, uh, I've been following you."
"You have?" He thought he was being careful, checking frequently to make sure he was alone. But he supposes most of the palace staff don't have Jungkook's particular skill set.
"Yeah," Jungkook says, rubbing the back of his neck, the seals on his wrists. "I know you wanted to be alone, but I was afraid to let you wander by yourself. I tried to give you space."
They're all trying to protect each other in their own ways, Taehyung muses.
"It's okay." He laces his fingers with Jungkook's. "Just come with me next time."
"I can do that," Jungkook decides and kisses him on the cheek.
_ _
Hoseok's awareness blurs again—hours rushing past like minutes, the world narrowed down to flashes: Sooah holding another cup to his lips, Yoongi's hand in his own, glimpses of Jungkook, Jimin, and Taehyung all occupying the same chair at his bedside, the murmur of what sounds like Seokjin's voice talking to Yoongi...
And now Namjoon, fitted against his other side. He's asleep with one arm laid across Hoseok's body, reaching to touch Yoongi like he's trying to cradle them both. His face is the same study of weariness as Yoongi's and Taehyung's were, and his skin is wan, washed out in the moonlight. Affection squeezes a tight band across Hoseok's lungs at the sight of him. Suddenly, the bed doesn't feel too big anymore, the room quite so suffocating. As though Namjoon is the piece they were missing and Hoseok can breathe normally now that he's slotted into place.
It's strange. His whole life, it's been him and Yoongi. Yoongi at his side, Yoongi in his bed, Yoongi on his lips and against his skin. But kissing Namjoon was easy. Watching him touch Yoongi, whispering reassurances in Yoongi's ear, flooded Hoseok's heart with wonder and tenderness rather than the jealousy he was expecting. Saying goodbye hurt, struck him with a grief that blindsided him.
He's not sure if he's in love, not yet, but he knows Namjoon belongs here and he's painfully glad to see him. Be held by him.
"Hey," Namjoon murmurs, eyes fluttering open, and Hoseok realizes that he's been staring.
"Hey," he whispers back.
Namjoon moves his arm, shifting up so that he can brush Hoseok's bangs off his forehead. It's another strange thing, receiving this kind of tenderness from someone who isn't Yoongi. He closes his eyes as Namjoon traces a gentle line down the side of his face and across his cheek, stopping there to stroke carefully over the bruised skin. The last week has trained his body to prepare for brutality, he isn't quite sure what to do with this much tenderness, with the press of Namjoon's lips to his temple or the shake in Namjoon's voice when he says, "I'm so glad you're alive."
"Me too," Hoseok says. He wanted more time and now he'll get to have it, what a miracle.
Namjoon's lips move: his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Tentative, like Namjoon isn't sure what he's allowed, even though Hoseok already handed over so much access to his body. He turns his head, connecting their mouths properly. He probably tastes like ginger and blood but Namjoon doesn't seem to mind, just shifts deeper into the kiss with a faint, broken noise.
He's not sure how long they've been kissing when he feels a different pair of lips press to the back of his neck: Yoongi. Namjoon pulls away, sucking in a deep breath, and Hoseok watches him reach over to touch Yoongi's face too.
"Sorry I didn't come sooner," Namjoon says. "Things have been ... intense."
Yoongi lifts his mouth from Hoseok's neck and settles back on the bed. "It's okay. Seokjin needs to let me out of this room."
"He's just really worried. About both of you." Namjoon's face clearly says he shares that worry and Hoseok can't blame him. Neither him nor Yoongi are good at stopping and listening to what their bodies might need.
"We'll be fine," Hoseok insists in spite of his own inner turmoil, squeezing Namjoon's hand
"I know," Namjoon says softly. "But you don't have to be. Right now." He looks at Hoseok and Yoongi in turn, pointed but still almost maddeningly tender.
"Thank you." He's not sure what else to say. Feels Yoongi kiss his shoulder again, feels Namjoon wiggle closer on the bed, kiss Hoseok's face again. Then lean up—and Hoseok twists so he can watch Namjoon draw Yoongi in, watch the movement of their lips against each other and the slide of Namjoon's hand over Yoongi's tattoo, the flutter of Yoongi's lashes against his cheeks. They're beautiful.
"I can't wait until we can have sex when we're not injured," he blurts out because its easier to think about that than the turbulence inside of him.
Yoongi pulls away from Namjoon to laugh quietly, a glorious sound, and Namjoon splutters, red ears and shocked expression suggesting that he wasn't sure sex would be on the table a second time, even after everything that's happened.
"I'm not sure I remember what that feels like," Yoongi confesses in a shamed whisper, solemn again.
Hoseok kisses the back of his hand. Smiles through the sharp ache in his chest. "We'll remind you, jagiya."
"Yeah," Namjoon agrees, recovering a little. "I, uh, you could fuck me, hyung. That would be great."
Yoongi blinks at him. "You ... you'd want that?"
"Yeah," Namjoon says without hesitation. "Very much." And Yoongi ducks his head, shy and pleased.
Hoseok smiles up at them both. It isn't much, a tiny glimmer against the enormity of what is facing them beyond the safety of this bedroom—the years of fighting and change stretching out ahead—but it's something to look forward to: having them again. Reminding himself that though his body may be forever damaged and altered, it can still give pleasure. Feel pleasure. It is still his own.
"I'd like to see that," he says, just for the flush on Namjoon and Yoongi's cheeks. Just to let them know that he's still okay with whatever is blooming between them, that he wants to see what they'll become together.
Yoongi shifts down to kiss him and Hoseok lets the rest of his thoughts drift away.
_ _
Seokjin can't remember the last time he slept. A week ago? Two? His nights leading up to the coup were spent around a table with Yoongi, Namjoon, and occasionally Baekhyun, Kihyun, and Minhyuk, trying to draft a plan for if they succeeded and a much easier one for if they failed. His nights since then have been occupied by different tables and faces both familiar and foreign as they try to move as quickly as possible to secure his position. They have plans for tomorrow, next year, one year, five years, ten. They have compromises and contingencies, constructions and destructions, beginnings and endings.
His head is full of names: elite like Namjoon who need to be drawn out of the shadows; court members who should be held at a distance; family heads and current heirs who should eventually be removed; the elite most likely to try to steal his throne and the best ways to watch them.
And who they might have to execute. It's a list he doesn't like thinking about, but it remains.
He's issued so many decrees and held so many meetings that his voice is nearly gone. A whole city, millions of people, is watching him as he tears up its foundations one by one. Never has he felt this brave. Never has he been more terrified.
Jungkook comes to him on the second night, a steely glint in his eyes, and offers himself up as both a personal bodyguard and a potential experiment for a refocused Seoul Institute. Seokjin wants to protest to both, but he suspects that Jungkook won't take no for an answer. And a weak, selfish part of him would be grateful to have familiar faces in this strange, sprawling palace.
"Yes," he says and stops Jungkook from bowing. "As long as you still call me hyung when it's just us and the others."
He doesn't mind sitting on a throne, but he can't lose Kim Seokjin entirely.
"I can do that, hyung," Jungkook says with a quiet smile.
Seokjin suspects that they'll fight more about the Seoul Institute later, but for now, he draws Jungkook into a hug. They'll need to overhaul the entire guard contingent anyway. Once Jungkook feels comfortable, he can vet candidates. But for now, for now, Seokjin closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe and soaks up the solidness of Jungkook in his arms.
On the second night, it's Jimin who slips into his quarters long after he's sent everyone to bed. They've barely spoken, pulled in opposite directions: Seokjin to the throne and Jimin to helping settle the companions liberated at the party, all of whom are remaining on palace grounds for the time being.
But here his, ethereal in the moonlight. The silver hair is gone and the seals are dormant, but Seokjin's initials remain.
"Hi," Seokjin says, rising from his chair.
"Hi," Jimin replies, little more than a whisper.
It feels, suddenly, like they're two ghosts, drifting together in the halls of a haunted and dead place, slowly fading from reality. Seokjin doesn't know when he'll feel human again. Maybe the throne will never let him. Let any of them.
Jimin's hands slide over his sides, anchoring him again.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," he admits. Confessions and promises on a balcony before a storm are one thing. Everything looks so different in the aftermath of it.
"Me neither." Jimin smiles up at him. "But I think you might be inevitable, hyung."
Seokjin's not sure what that means and he's afraid to ask. He takes a step back, letting Jimin's hands fall away. "You said you wanted to stay," he begins, hesitant.
"For a long time," Jimin finishes for him and nods.
"I don't ... we can't marry," Seokjin says. Beyond the fact that he has no idea if Jimin cares enough about him to enter a commitment like a marriage, it would be too risky before he's secured his position. And still could never be a public union, for restrictions are put on a king that average civilians don't need to abide by—such as the nature of the union they enter. And he would never insult Park Jimin by suggesting he be some kind of consort.
"That's not what I'mI proposing," Jimin says, arch. He sits in the chair Seokjin was previously occupying. "You need a spymaster. I would make a good one."
Oh. Oh, he'd make an excellent one, Seokjin has no doubt of that. But.... "I'd be putting you in danger, I can't ask that of you."
"You're not asking. I'm offering."
Seokjin shakes his head, turning away. "I can't ... I don't want to tie you to a throne. To service to a king."
"I'm not offering to serve a king," Jimin counters. "I don't care about crowns and thrones beyond the fact that you need to sit on one to change anything." Seokjin hears him rise from the chair again. Take a step closer. "No, Seokjin, I'm telling the man I love that I want to protect him from the people who are definitely going to try to kill him."
The worlds hit like a punch, go off inside him like an explosion. He spins to face Jimin, eyes blowing wide, and finds Jimin looking steadily back at him—chin up, defiant. It's still a war, Seokjin can see that. See how hard it was for Jimin to admit something so vulnerable, to fully place his heart in Seokjin's hands. But he's not retracting it, not backing down.
You heard me, Jimin's gaze says. Now what are you going to do about it?
He swallows, tells himself not to run. His heart, he's learning, has an unanticipated amount of room. For so long, he thought only Namjoon would be able to fit inside, but in the span of less than a year, Park Jimin has carved out so much space for himself. It's unnerving, terrifying, exhilarating. A part of Seokjin wants to deny him—the part that reminds him about the weight of the invisible crown now on his head and the target painted on his back; that whispers that love is selfish and blind and going to get them both killed. The rest insists he should trust Jimin to understand the tangles and challenges that are going to thread through a love like this. Very few things in either of their lives have been easy and this won't be, either, but maybe that doesn't matter.
Maybe they're strong enough.
He takes a deep breath. "Then ... I would be honored to have the man that I love protecting me."
Jimin's face breaks open, all the steel cracking right down the middle from his smile. He's so beautiful, Seokjin thinks helplessly as Jimin closes the gap between them in three quick strides and cups his face. Seokjin smiles back at him, feels Jimin's fingers brush the corner of his mouth.
"Keep me alive, jagiya," he says quietly.
"I will," Jimin replies, fierce. A promise, the only kind of oath Seokjin will ever need.
He bends down and seals it with a kiss, pulling Jimin closer. And when Jimin's hands find his hips and start to guide him towards the bed behind them, he goes willingly. It's nice to let Jimin pin his wrists to the mattress, to cede control and let Jimin take care of him. Let Jimin take him apart.
Tonight, though, he is alone again. He's stayed in his office instead of retiring to his quarters, reading over police reports and hospital reports and requests for audiences from various elite. Soon, he's going to have to plan a coronation and he's already being bombarded by all the detail and ritual that will involve. A dull ache has taken up residence behind his left temple and he rubs it as he sags back in his chair. Like so much of the palace, the room connects to an outdoor garden and he's opened all the windows to let in the night breeze. Soon it will be summer and the city will be choking on heat, he's going to enjoy the temperance of spring while he can.
In fact, he decides, he could use a short break. He shrugs his coat on and shuffles outside, sinking into one of the chairs. A guard is stationed at the door that connects the garden to the rest of the palace, but Seokjin waves him away. He wants to be alone, properly, and the knife he still carries in his life (and might until his reign is over) is a comforting weight.
After a few minutes, a chair creaks next to him and he opens his eyes to see Yoongi easing down with only a faint wince. Ah, he was wondering when Yoongi was going to get tired of humoring him. Five days is far longer than he expected, though he suspects that Hoseok might have something to do with that.
Yoongi looks just as tired as they all do, black hair brushing the tops of his cheeks and still clad in the loose, white robe and white pants that the palace doctor provided in place of a hospital gown. But his eyes are clear as he glances over at Seokjin, even the one bisected by a long, still-healing cut.
"You look like shit," Yoongi says and Seokjin laughs, suddenly overwhelmingly glad to see him.
"So do you."
Yoongi makes a noncommittal sound of agreement. "How are things going, your majesty?"
Seokjin grimaces. "Don't call me that."
"What should I call you then?"
"How about hyung?"
As predicted, Yoongi scoffs. "I've never called anyone hyung."
"There's a first time for everything, Yoongi-yah."
"You never answered my question," Yoongi dodges. Seokjin lets him.
He's patient, he'll wear Yoongi down one day. For now, he briefs Yoongi on the last few days, catching him up on as much as he can. It's all too much to fit in his head, recall from memory, but he hopes he provides a coherent summary of it at least. Yoongi stays quiet through it, nodding occasionally. He looks relieved, when Seokjin says that the companions they're housing in the palace seem to be doing alright. That they're moving as fast as they can to secure others across the city—find them a safe place until they can start enacting long-term plans.
"I'll go visit them," Yoongi murmurs.
"They ask about you," Seokjin says.
Then pauses, chews on his lip. He wasn't going to broach this topic yet—this one part of his plan that he's never mentioned to Yoongi, or anyone. He wanted to give Yoongi time to heal and recover from the ordeal of the last few weeks, the last year, but the coronation is approaching fast, in spite of his attempts to stall. He can't wait forever and Yoongi looks as strong as ever, lingering weariness aside. In the comfortable hush of this garden, Seokjin feels brave enough to turn towards Yoongi and say, "there is something I need to ask you, Yoongi-yah."
Yoongi frowns at him, a little furrow to his brow that pulls on his scar. "What is it?"
"It's ... it's a very selfish thing," Seokjin continues. "And I'm sorry for that."
"Seokjin...."
"If there is anyone that deserves a peaceful life after all of this, it's you. But ... it's very clear to me that I cannot do this without you."
The frown eases. "You want me to be your advisor? That's fine, I was already thinking that—"
"No," Seokjin cuts him off. Takes a fortifying breath. "No, Yoongi-yah, I don't want you to be my right hand. I want you to be king."
Yoongi's mouth drops open, shock rapidly unfurling across his pale face. "W-what?"
Seokjin pushes forward. "Two thrones, two crowns, two kings. Both equal in power. That's what I'm proposing."
"You can't be serious," Yoongi blurts out. His fingers twitch, tremble. He rubs the seals on his wrists like they're stains he can't wipe away.
Seokjin reaches out and puts his hand over one, stills Yoongi's restless fingers. "Yoongi-yah," he murmurs, a little surprised by the force of his own tenderness. The love he feels in this moment. "The people of the outer sectors already follow you. It's you they trust and you they listen to. Not me."
"And the rest of the city?" Yoongi rasps, dubious. "I'm a former companion. They'll...."
"Hate you," Seokjin agrees. "Yes. Far more than me." He smiles sadly. "I told you it was selfish, Yoongi-yah. I know the enormity of what I'm asking of you and I'm sorry for it. But I mean it, I can't do this without you. Together, we could truly unite this city. And we'll be able to hold each other accountable. Neither of us will be alone on that dais."
It will also be easier to hold on to their power—assassinating a king is one thing, trying to take out two? Much more challenging and hopefully enough of a deterrent to keep at least some of the seething elite from trying.
"Has this always been your plan?" Yoongi asks, voice more curious than accusing.
"No," Seokjin says.
"When then?"
"I started thinking about it after the first time I met you and realized who you are."
It solidified as he got to know Yoongi and learned the extent of his strength, resilience, and leadership. It became his main option when he watched Yoongi announce his freedom to the entire city with blood on his face and fire in his eyes and realized the Marked only believed it because Suga was the one telling them. Perhaps he should have mentioned it earlier, but he didn't want to burden Yoongi with a possibility that might never come to fruition—not when they were all barely holding themselves together, so many pieces of their hearts and bodies and minds laid on an altar, sacrifices for a desperate plan.
"That long?" Yoongi says now. He looks painfully young in a way he rarely has before—dark eyes big and uncertain in his face.
They're both so young, really. But ancient for two people who, in different ways, never expected to live past twenty-five.
"That long," he confirms softly. He rises from his chair so that he can drop to one knee in front of Yoongi's. Yoongi makes a stunned sound, blinking down at him. "I think you would make an incredible king, Yoongi-yah. Far better than me. And I would be honored to serve at your side for as long as life allows us."
Yoongi's breath shudders out from his mouth. "And if I say no?"
"Then I would be equally honored to have you as one of my advisors. Or, if you want, I will find a safe place for you to go, away from all of this." He pauses, gives Yoongi a pointed, knowing look. "But I don't think that's who you are."
"No," Yoongi agrees. "I was never going to walk away. But I expected to serve on your advisory council or something like that. Not..." he gnaws at his lip. "Not to sit on a throne."
His hand drifts again, to his thigh, and Seokjin catches it before Yoongi can dig fingers into the brand hidden beneath his loose pants, twining their fingers together. "You deserve it just as much as I do. More. But you can tell me no, Yoongi-yah. Think on it, if you want. Though I need an answer soon, we have to have a coronation of some kind next week." He laughs. "I can't imagine the faces of the ajummas when I tell them we have to make arrangements for two kings."
That makes Yoongi crack a faint smile at least, barely visible beneath the fall of his bangs from his bent head. Seokjin squeezes his hand. "I know it's a big decision. I can let you rest and—"
"I'll do it," Yoongi interrupts him, lifting his eyes to meet Seokjin's gaze again. His expression shifts into one of wry amusement. "Did you really think I was going to say no?"
"No," Seokjin admits quietly. "That's not the kind of person you are either."
Yoongi inhales deep, holds it in his lungs for a moment. When he lets it out, his shoulders slump and something like acceptance drapes over him like a cloak—the determination that Seokjin has come to admire so much. Min Yoongi will meet this challenge head on, just like he has everything else, and Seokjin will never doubt him.
"I'll do it," Yoongi repeats, more confident than before. "I'll rule with you."
Seokjin kisses the back of his hand, blinking through a sudden, surprising rush of tears. "Thank you." He turns his tone teasing to hide the depth of his emotion. "I'm honored. My king."
Yoongi's nose wrinkles and he pulls his hand away. "You're right, that's terrible. Don't do that."
Seokjin laughs and finally rises to his feet, ignoring the ache in his legs. "I won't if you won't."
"Deal," Yoongi agrees.
"I should let you go to bed," Seokjin says. And probably talk about all this with Hoseok and Namjoon, at the very least. Seokjin plans to tell the rest of their makeshift council tomorrow and then make an official announcement to the city sometime in the coming days, when they have everything in place.
But Yoongi shakes his head and gestures to the chair next to him. "It's okay. Let's just .... I'd like to sit for a bit."
Seokjin returns to his seat, but shifts his chair closer so that Yoongi can easily reach across the gap between them and take Seokjin's hand. He's learning that Yoongi craves a certain kind of touch—gentle and anchoring and intimate without being sexual—and he uses it to steady himself until he can stand on his own again. So Seokjin laces their fingers together and lets the silence settle into something comfortable and almost contented.
And as they sit side by side, some of the terror that has been hounding Seokjin in the last week finally slinks away into the dark.
After all, he thinks with fierce relief, he isn't going to be doing this alone.
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