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Jungkook’s work was known far and wide, with the royals of every kingdom walking castle halls and holding showy banquets dressed in his finest pieces. He was commissioned by the most noble emperors and the richest lords, praised by the kindest ladies and adoring commoners. His hands had made the most beautiful clothing, his fingers were pricked by embroidery needles, his eyes burned in the flickering candlelight. He was good at what he did, he was proud of his pieces, he was incredible.

And when those royals spoke of his work, when high compliments were sent to the tailor, they went only to his master and mistress.

His master and mistress hadn’t touched a needle since his mother came into their employment ten years ago. They had barely touched cloth since she died and left jungkook, fifteen and scared and so suddenly alone, in their care.

They hadn’t been so bad then, not when she was there. They certainly hadn’t been kind, never letting them off easy—not that they expected them to. They had paid for her and jungkook to get away from her tiny village full of terrible memories and heavy-handed relatives, wanting nothing but work in exchange. It wasn’t a horrible deal, nor was it uncommon; there were worse things than becoming an indentured servant, and for Jungkook and his mother, staying in their old village was one of them.

They hadn’t given his mother a set time of servitude; it was only until she made this much money through their tailor shop, just enough to cover the costs of her upkeep and their good deeds. It seemed so possible for the first few years. 

Jungkook would spool thread and practice his stitching on scraps while his mother told him stories of what would be, of the little house they would build, tucked behind some trees but near kind neighbors, with a vegetable garden in the back and an herb garden just outside the kitchen window. She wanted room for Jungkook to run and play—somewhere so much better than the dirty streets in the city, the hovel of a room they’d been given by their masters in an area much too dangerous for any child, no matter how many other unfortunate children lived there. 

At least when she died they allowed him to move into the tailor shop attic. It was terribly cold in the winter and terribly hot in the summer, but—it was better. he thought. he made himself think.

He tried to focus on earning this much to escape the servitude he had inherited, but this much had incurred so much interest and so many charges and, he suspected, a painful amount of just because additions that it was two steps farther away for every one step closer he managed to take. The cost of their room, the cost of food, the cost of mistakes and torn cloth and lost time—it was too much.

But he tried. Jungkook tried. He slept only when he couldn’t keep his eyes open, straining to see his needle in the dark room. He woke before sunrise, sometimes allowing himself to go hungry so he didn’t have to add on the cost of an egg to his insurmountable debt. He did his best, he always did his best. But, of course, his best was never good enough. Not for them.

But—though he certainly didn’t hear it through his masters’ mouths—his best was beyond good enough for the people he made clothes for. He would glow with pride when he overheard them talking about some empress wanting another commission because her last was just so wonderful, when he saw someone was trusting him to handcraft their wedding hanbok, creating a new family heirloom that, perhaps, people alive after Jungkook was long gone would see.

And nothing, nothing, made him glow brighter than when he saw his very own highness’s commissions added to his tasks.

Prince Yoongi was wonderful.

Jungkook had heard his praises sung by everyone in the kingdom. He’d heard orphans say they’d been given gold coins from his hand; grieving widows had said he’d given them flowers for their spouses’ graves; he had ensured the care of elders who had no one else. 

He was a good person, a great ruler, and Jungkook admired this, of course—but what he loved, what he really and truly loved, what made his entire life seem so much brighter when Yoongi’s name came across his desk, was that Yoongi always wore his clothes.

He caught glances of him every other month, it seemed—during city-wide announcements of new (always good) policies, or as Yoongi strolled around the marketplace when Jungkook just happened to be there, or when he was tasked to deliver something to the palace when his masters couldn’t acquire an appointment to showily present their gifts or finished pieces and Yoongi was talking kindly to a servant in the kitchens.

Every time, without fail, he would recognize what Yoongi was wearing because it had been made by his very own hands.

And it seemed that every other week, Yoongi would place an order for something new—a dark purple hanbok, a gold-hemmed western-style frock, a simple hair tie made of velvet ribbon. He loved seeing the prince in his clothes, he loved hearing of his kindness, and he could not deny that he loved the plentiful coin that Yoongi’s commissions put in his masters’ pockets. Every long night spent bent over Yoongi’s requests was another night closer to his freedom.

It wasn’t until an order for an elegant suit appeared that Jungkook learned of the ball.

It was more of a political move than anything, he thought after reading the invitation posted on the public board, something meant to better introduce him to his populace and not to find a spouse or anything of the like. It was an opportunity for his people to see the palace, to meet the man that ruled over them, to gaze and gawk and find themselves grateful to live in such a wonderful place with such a wonderful palace and such a wonderful prince.

Save for his freedom, Jungkook wanted more than anything to go. It would cost him, he knew, just a night’s work could mean days added on to his servitude, but—the thought of seeing Prince Yoongi up close was much too tempting. He made the decision as he finished Yoongi’s beautiful suit days later: Jungkook allowed himself very few pleasures, this would be one of them.

The suit he made himself was simple; he couldn’t afford to buy luxurious fabrics and his master and mistress would surely notice if even a yard went missing. It was wonderfully tailored, of course, it was his work, but it lacked the intricate details most of his pieces carried. That was alright, though. He wasn’t aiming for attention—he was aiming for the opposite, truly, his only hope was just to see the prince as he waltzed by, perhaps grab a few canapés before he snuck away to his cold little attic to dream of a freer life. 

He didn’t need fancy clothing, certainly not like Prince Yoongi’s. But if the powder blue fabric he chose for himself happened to look pretty and delicate next to the eggshell he’d used for Yoongi’s, if the barely-visible silver thread of his lapel complimented the gold on Yoongi’s, if the simple buttons of Jungkook’s jacket were the plain counterpart to the bone-carved buttons on Yoongi’s—it was a secret that would go undiscovered, meant only to cause a flurry of excited butterflies in Jungkook’s mind.

Jungkook waited til his master and mistress had departed for the ball by way of their showy, rented carriage before he even started getting dressed, though it meant he had to rush if he wanted to actually make the ball. He had to travel by foot—he had no money to spare for a carriage and had no horse of his own. He walked a mile each way every morning to collect an egg for breakfast, one he had to pay his masters for; he could handle the few miles that led to costless excitement.

He went unnoticed, thankfully. he walked into the castle nervously, though he was greeted as an invited guest, as were all of the many, many people around him. the areas of the castle that were open to them were elegant, with traditional art and weavings displayed on the wall, tables that were adorned with heaps of enticing foods, a wide expanse of floor filled with dancing people in beautiful dresses and suits and hanboks and international styles that Jungkook had never even seen.

He weaved through the crowd with wide eyes, behind his mask, taking it all in with enchantment that took his breath away. he vaguely listened to the chatter going on around him - “where do you suppose the prince is?” they wondered, “surely his own disguise is miles more wonderful than our own.” - accepting finger foods and little flutes of champagne from uniformed waiters as he wandered.

In a fit of fancy, he accepted an invitation to dance from a graceful woman in a pretty dress, feeling giggly from the drinks and warm from the food, whimsical from the incredibly unfamiliar and enthralling environment he found himself in. He accepted a dance with a young man next, his hanbok a little too big for his frame, and Jungkook spent the entire circle around the room mentally hemming it and bringing it in at the waist, giving him an apologetic smile when the song ended for his distraction.

“Pardon,” a soft voice said from behind.

Jungkook’s breath caught in his throat when he turned. The stranger was in a simple mask that went well with his outfit, a gold and eggshell suit that Jungkook knew very, very well.

“Y-yes?” he stuttered out.

“May I have this dance?” Prince Yoongi asked.

Jungkook nodded jerkily, at a loss for words. Prince Yoongi took him by the hand, Prince Yoongi gingerly touched his waist, Prince Yoongi danced with him for one song, then another, then another. Jungkook was quiet throughout, as was Prince Yoongi. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, not at all - it was a sweet silence of companionship, though they were hardly acquainted enough to call themselves companions. it was peaceful, even surrounded by the din of the crowd.

No one tried to steal Prince Yoongi away because they didn’t know it was Prince Yoongi. but Jungkook—

“I made your suit,” he blurted.

Prince Yoongi stumbled before quickly recovering, the misstep largely unnoticed. “Sorry?”

“I-I made your suit, Your Highness.”

He blinked behind his mask, lips parting for a moment. “You’re my tailor?”

Jungkook nodded. “I—yes. or one of, I suppose. But—I made your suit, and I hope you like it.”

“I do,” he assured softly. They fell into silence once more as yet another song started, Prince Yoongi leading him in an elegant waltz. Jungkook nearly keened at the loss of Yoongi’s hand on his waist at the song’s end, though his hand remained in Yoongi’s own for a lingering moment. “I must go speak. I’m sorry.”

“Of course, Your Highness—” Jungkook rushed out, offering a few quick bows even though he had to take his hand back to do so. “I’m sorry for keeping you.”

Yoongi’s lips quirked. “You are a wonderful dance partner. I was hardly kept. Thank you for your company.”

Jungkook took a shaky breath and nodded. “Y-yes. Thank you.”

After another lingering pause, one that made Jungkook feel that he was frozen in the warmest way, Yoongi departed.

Jungkook was in a daze as he listened to Yoongi reveal himself, blushing shyly at the raucous applause and gasps that accompanied the announcement. His voice was so deep and caring and gracious and welcoming and—

“I believe we have something to discuss,” said an all-too-familiar voice, the vice grip on his arm making dread wash over him. “Leave.”

Jungkook didn’t look at his masters as he rushed out of the room, doing his best to not draw attention to himself as he pushed his way through the throng. When he turned to catch one last glance at the prince he felt he knew, he met his eyes. Feeling nearly ashamed of the longing that stirred within him, he turned and fled.

-

Jungkook saw Prince Yoongi arrive through the half-broken window of his hovel of a room above the shop. he nearly called out to him without thinking, without having anything to say but his name—but it would be of no use.

He was an impoverished, indentured tailor who had spent a few wonderful minutes with the prince that he hardly deserved. and now he was a terrible sight - littered with bruises, one side of his face ugly and swollen from his master’s hand, one of his wrists aching from his mistress’s grip, wrapped tightly so he could keep working.

Still, whether he deserved the prince’s attention or not, he pressed his ear to his locked door and strained to hear.

“I'd like to see your tailor,” he heard Yoongi say, muffled though it was, “the one who is often commissioned by the palace.”

“Well, Your Highness—” his master said, voice full of fake supplication. “My wife and I are the creators of some of your finest pieces—”

“I would like to see those under your employ.”

“Our employees are away,” his mistress said. 

Jungkook’s heart squeezed at the lie, knowing that he was so close to seeing the prince again, speaking with him, perhaps getting compliments on his work. Jungkook refused to dream of anything else. he refused to hope for anything more.

“How long til they returns?”

“Days,” his master dismissed, “the lazy thing. He—they take the coin and run to do god knows what!”

Yoongi was silent for a long moment. “I shall take my leave,” he said, and Jungkook watched him and his guarding entourage go.

-

The announcement was made the very next day: Prince Yoongi was requesting that his tailor come to his audience, to present himself for accolades.

Though Jungkook was unable to present himself in the slightest, locked in the shop with a long list of tasks and a large pile of pieces that never seemed to shrink, some tailors must have. 

All were claimed by his masters. Yes, he is one of ours, one who has worked on your commissions! And this one, and this one, and, yes, this one as well.

Another announcement was put forth the week after that: a contest would be held to determine who the true tailor was. 

“He’ll know you’re lying,” Jungkook told his masters, heart racing rabbit-quick in his chest. He was being bolder than he ever had before, brazen to the ones who were allowing him to live—no matter how little being locked in his attic felt like living. “I-if I don’t compete, he—he’ll be able to tell that—that you’ve lied about who’s in your employ. He knows my stitching, I know he does.”

Though there was fury on his mistress’ face and his cheek smarted from his master’s slap for his attitude, they acquiesced, the thought of earning the prince’s ire (and no longer earning his coin) enough of a threat to allow him to compete.

Relieved and filled with confidence and conviction, Jungkook began working on the traditional hanbok that the prince had requested, pleased that the colors specified by the prince were some of his favorites to work with. He cut the pieces perfectly, each fabric choice suited for a prince—no matter that it would cost him another three months of servitude. He made concessions for the buttons, no matter how much it pained him to do so; the etched pure silver buttons would add on a solid year, and the thought of that much loss of life was unbearable.

He worked on the hanbok every spare minute that he had—but, his masters quickly realized, he had too many minutes to spare.

He wasn’t sure if the orders they gave him were fabricated or not; it didn’t matter, anyways, he would have to complete them all the same. But they were all labor-intensive and difficult and time-consuming, and he was forced to put the hanbok aside save for a few stolen minutes between piece completion.

When even that seemed like not enough, his masters woke him at odd hours with new demands, finding fault in his finished pieces when there were none, but—then there were some, because he was exhausted. They refused to let him sleep, it seemed, though surely it meant that they had to be sleepless to wake him themselves. They refused to let him out of the attic, still, as well, only allowing him to cut stored fabrics and choose materials before ushering him back upstairs to work on them.

And when the loaf of bread he’d managed to sequester away ran out, as did the small store of rice he cooked on a tiny fire in a tinier pot, they refused to feed him. It took him a long while to even ask—it was so terribly hard to ask to acquire more debt, especially when whatever they would give him would greatly surpass the cost of an egg. When they refused, saying surely he could wait til morning (and Jungkook just knew morning would grant him the same refusal), he worked with a terribly aching head, the flickering candle making it worse and worse as the sun set behind him, no longer allowing him to see without sitting not even a foot away from candlelight.

He was hungry and exhausted and in pain, but— he finished, miraculously, without his masters’ notice. He completed his workload and the hanbok, in the early, early hours of the morning, the very day of the competition. The rush of success and feeling of relief seemed to accompany him even through his deep, dreamless sleep.

It wasn’t til his hanbok was laid out beside four others that he realized how terrible it truly was.

It was his worst work since he was a child learning to sew. The stitches were sloppy, the hem was uneven, the collar wasn’t perfectly symmetrical; it was nothing, nothing, like the pieces he had made for the prince before.

He hung his head in shame as Yoongi inspected each one, his fingers roaming over stitches, his eyes roaming over the drape—passing over Jungkook’s after the briefest inspection.

Tears stung at his eyes as Yoongi moved on. He was ashamed, he was embarrassed and regretful and felt like moonlight had just passed over him, blessing everything in its path except Jungkook.

The other competitors were true competition; wonderful tailors in their own right. And at that moment, Jungkook was most certainly not wonderful.

“There are many contenders,” Yoongi said after a moment. He did not mean Jungkook. “But the true tailor still cannot be determined. The true tailor has made three of my pieces. For the final test—tell me what they are.”

“The suit you wore to the ball, your highness,” the first tailor said confidently, “the waistcoat you wore to his majesty’s coronation, and your favorite riding pants.”

“Ah, th-the—your favorite riding pants,” the second stuttered, “and th-the robes you wore t-to her highness’s funeral, and the—the mask you wore last hallow’s eve.”

“The mask you wore last hallow’s eve,” the third said, head held high, “the suit you wore for our neighboring kingdom’s visit, and the blouse you wore to the spring banquet.”

“The blouse you wore to the spring banquet,” the fourth said, lips pursed unsurely, “ah, the suit you wore on your twenty-fifth birthday, and the cloak you wore all winter long.”

Jungkook was quiet for a long moment, long enough that it looked like Yoongi would turn away. “The suit you wore to the ball, your highness. The mask you wore last hallow’s eve. The blouse you wore to the spring banquet. The cloak you wore all winter long.” Though he was already past three, Jungkook couldn’t stop. He finally met Yoongi’s eyes, his heart racing terribly, hands shaking even as they were clasped in front of him. “And the outfit you wore when you visited the orphanage, and the jacket you wore to consult with the farmers, and the robe you gave his majesty last christmas, and the very ribbon you are wearing in your hair—”

“Enough,” Yoongi said, his eyes not leaving Jungkook’s. “What is your name?”

“Jungkook, sir,” he nearly whispered. “My name is Jungkook.”

Yoongi nodded, taking a step closer. He held out a hand and Jungkook took it, hoping his own hand didn’t feel as clammy as he feared. If it did, Yoongi made no sign of it. Nor did he make any move to let go.

“If I had asked you the night of the ball,” Yoongi said, voice quiet and meant only for Jungkook, “we would have avoided this whole mess.”

“I’m sorry—” Jungkook said, voice wavering.

Yoongi shook his head. “None of that, Jungkook-ah. Please. It’s my fault for putting you through such a trial.”

Jungkook’s eyes watered. “I-I should have failed the trial, your highness, no matter that I’m the one you were looking for. My work—” he glanced at the hanbok but had to look away, ashamed. “I did you a disservice, putting this before your eyes.”

Yoongi shook his head again, squeezing his hand, still not letting go. “You’re tired,” he said gently. His other hand twitched, like it yearned to touch the dark bags under Jungkook’s eyes.

“Yes,” Jungkook whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“And you’re hurt,” Yoongi said, even more gently than before. His eyes lingered on the healing bruise on Jungkook’s cheek.

Jungkook ducked his head. “Not terribly.”

Yoongi hummed. “I would like to talk to your employers.”

Jungkook could practically feel their glares on the back of his neck as they stood with the rest of the crowd, though they were as close as they could be to the competitors, keeping eyes on ‘their’ tailors. He might face their wrath that night, but—if it meant being near Yoongi for just a moment longer, he would endure it. Perhaps Yoongi would give them his own long list of pieces he wanted Jungkook to make; he would love nothing more than to offer his labor to outfit his prince.

Yoongi left his attendants to dismiss the rest of the competitors and to disperse the crowd—though, Jungkook saw, they offered the tailors shining coin to compensate them for their time.

Jungkook could barely look at his masters as he muttered “The prince would like to speak with you,” and was grateful that he and Yoongi—no longer hand in hand but with Yoongi touching the small of his back, bringing him immeasurable comfort—led the way back to the shop so he wouldn’t have to follow them to inevitable pain.

Once the doors to the shop were closed, however, the onlookers who had followed them kept behind windows, Yoongi turned to his masters, a no-nonsense look on his face.

“I apologize for any inconvenience it may cause, but I would like to take Jungkook under my own employ.” He paused and blinked, turning to Jungkook. “If it would please you, of course. I’m sorry to have presumed.”

Jungkook stared at him for a long moment, every word that might have escaped him caught in his throat.

Yoongi hesitated, touching his arm. “Do you wish to, Jungkook-ah?”

“I—” Jungkook shook himself out of it, taking a deep, shaky breath. “Y-yes. Yes, my prince, of course.”

Yoongi nodded once, relieved. He squeezed Jungkook’s arm before letting him go, looking back to his masters without the gentle smile that had graced his face just a moment before. “Though—I’m not sure how much of an inconvenience it will be, considering the other four fine tailors your shop claims.”

The uneasy look on his masters’ faces was enough to call out their lie, though they persisted. “Y-yes, your highness, of course.”

“However—” his mistress said, voice raising slightly, forcing confidence where there was none in the face of loss. “I’m terribly sorry to inform you that Jungkook is not necessarily under our employ.”

“Ah, yes,” his master said, catching on. “Jungkook has, unfortunately, acquired quite a bit of debt. His mother left him penniless and we took him in out of the goodness of our hearts—”

“Caring for him when he was sick, ensuring that he didn’t go hungry—”

“Nearly incurring a debt of our own, bottomless pit that he is. And ungrateful—”

“But, of course, not so ungrateful that he would leave us high and dry,” his mistress rushed to add, recognizing, at least, that insulting him would earn them no favors with the prince.

Yoongi hummed, looking between them. “Allow me to see a ledger of his debts.”

Jungkook felt nauseous at the thought of it; the last time he looked at the ledger a year ago, it showed that he had nearly nine years left in servitude. It surely had to surpass ten, now, considering the past few weeks of materials and mistakes. He still forced himself to look at the totals when the meticulously-kept ledger was brought out.

He owed thousands, for room and board, for food and drink, for candles and firewood and the chipped bowl he had rescued from the trash. He could pay it, of course, which he absolutely could not do—or he could work it off. For the next eleven and a half years.

Yoongi sighed after flipping through. “You must provide Jungkook with incredibly nice lodgings,” he said, “considering that the monthly rent costs as much as those in the lords’ district. May I have a tour, Jungkook?”

The thought of a prince seeing his tiny apartment, with the broken window and tiny fire and barely-sequestered washroom, was enough for another wave of shame to wash over him, but he could hardly deny him. Especially not now that suspicion had begun to take over. “Of course, my prince.”

He led him upstairs, his masters following closeby, all of them venturing up the steep, narrow stairs up to Jungkook’s lonely rooms.

Yoongi looked around for a moment before nodding, pulling out a small notebook and pencil and marking something down. “You’ve made yourself a lovely home, Jungkook,” he said softly, no lie in his voice.

Jungkook ducked his head; he had tried, truly. He made himself a quilt from fabric scraps, had his one childhood toy displayed proudly on his bed. He kept the washroom immaculate, his tiny pot was always clean, the flower on the ledge in front of the broken window had yet to wilt. “Thank you, sire.”

Yoongi touched his back, giving him a warm smile. “Tell me, Jungkook, what meals do your employers provide you?”

Jungkook swallowed, glancing at them. The warning glares on their face were unmatched, but lying to yoongi was unconscionable. “I don’t have coin to go to the market, so—I am provided with a pound of rice each month, and I am allowed to buy an egg in the morning if I fetch it myself. I-I am also allowed to bake a loaf of bread each week, if I have time and if I am allowed to rent my masters’ kitchen.”

Yoongi hummed, nodding, making another mark in his notebook. “And what is your work schedule, from start to finish?”

Jungkook paused. “I—I don’t believe I have one, sire. I cannot remember a time when I was not working, save for—for sleeping and making the hanbok for you. Though—” he made a distressed face, “I hate to think of it being for you, sire, it is not up to par, it is not good—”

“You’re tired,” Yoongi reminded him, making yet another mark. “And hurt. And, I believe, worked to the bone.”

“I—” Jungkook’s voice wavered. “I like being a tailor, my prince. And I love making clothes for you, especially. It brings me great joy and—and I am glad this is the job that I have.” He licked his lips, ducking his head. “It could be a lot worse, even if it isn’t perfect.”

“No life is perfect,” Yoongi agreed. “But—wouldn’t you like a better one?”

“I mean—of course,” Jungkook whispered. “But it’s not often that one is afforded a choice.”

Yoongi nodded. He glanced at his masters as though he had forgotten they were even there. “Leave us, please. I would like to talk to Jungkook alone.”

“He is young still,” his master rushed, “if you wish to negotiate—”

“Leave us. I will not ask a third time.”

When the door closed behind them, no steps sounded on the creaky stairs. Jungkook knew that the door, at least, was thick enough to hide a young boy’s cries and a young man’s singing.

Yoongi sat on the stiff chair at the small table that Jungkook used to sew when the shop had been locked up, gesturing for Jungkook to sit on his bed. He fiddled with his hands as he did so, unable to fully look at him.

“Regardless of if you accept my offer or not, I will pay off your debt. What I believe they could justify, at least, though I believe they owe you thousands for your work over the years.”

Jungkook couldn’t help but to jerk his head up to stare, eyes wide. “Y-your highness—”

“My offer to you is this: come work at the palace as my personal tailor. You will be provided ample pay for your work, your room and board would be free, as is the same for all palace employees, including meals. You will have evenings to yourself, nights as well, and you will not be docked or penalized for falling sick. In return—” he paused, then, tilting his head as he considered. “Well. In return, you would continue to do what you are already doing, though with a more concentrated workload.”

Jungkook swallowed, still staring. “Y-you must see how that seems like a dream, sire.”

Yoongi shrugged. “Perhaps. My dreams tend to be more magical in nature. And I promise you that if I were a dragon in a dream, my hoard would still be clothes made by you.”

Jungkook let out a tiny giggle, a blush painting his cheeks. “My lord—”

“Call me Yoongi,” he said abruptly. Jungkook blinked in shock, giggle cut off. It seemed that a blush had found its way to Yoongi’s cheeks, as well. “Please. So—” he cleared his throat. “Will you—will you accept?”

“Of course,” Jungkook said without hesitation. “I’m still a tailor in my dreams. I would love to make clothes for a dragon. Though they would take an awful amount of cloth.”

Yoongi laughed, a lovely sound accompanied by a show of pink gums. A thing of dreams, Jungkook was sure.

“I—I am glad to have found you, Jungkook, beyond your work.”

“Oh?”

Yoongi nodded. “You were—delightful. At the ball. I had a wonderful time dancing with you. I couldn’t believe myself, not finding out who you were—as soon as you left and I couldn’t find you again, I thought—ah.”

“What—what did you think?”

“I thought I would never find you again. It wasn’t until my friend pointed out that I could just visit my tailor— though I didn’t imagine your employers would make it so difficult.”

“Yes, well—” Jungkook let out a nervous little laugh. “I can’t believe I made a lasting impression, your highness— Yoongi,” he corrected himself before Yoongi could do it for him. “We did not exchange many words.”

“Maybe it was the words we didn’t exchange that made it such a memorable night,” Yoongi shrugged. “No matter what it was, I’m glad to have found you again. And—you truly will accept my offer?”

“I would be a fool to not,” Jungkook said. “And I would accept it even if it was foolish to do so.”

“I pledge to make it as unfoolish of a decision as I can, then.”

“I doubt you will have to try very hard, if you even have to try at all.” Jungkook felt the fabric of his sleeve for a moment. “My masters will be angry, I fear. I don’t think they’ll let me go as easily as you believe.”

Yoongi raised his brows. “Jungkook-ah. Though I know my nature is kind, I am the prince. I am not afraid to force their hand if I need to. It would take but a few words.”

Jungkook couldn’t imagine his prince speaking cruelly, though he could imagine nearly everyone in his life—and had experienced nearly everyone in his life—doing so easily.

“Thank you,” Jungkook said eventually. “I’ve never had anyone fight for me before.”

“I am your prince,” Yoongi said, reaching to take his hand. “It is my duty, my honor, and my pleasure.”

“I hope—I hope I can make it worth it.”

“Just by existing,” Yoongi dismissed gently, “you already have.”

-

Jungkook found himself tearing up as he gave his attic one last look. It had been his home for years, now, where he mourned his mother and made a living for himself. Rather, where he lived, unable to make a living within his indentured servitude. It had seen his worst days and his best ones, but, Jungkook thought, the best were yet to come.

He found it a bit embarrassing that his entire life could be consolidated into his secondhand trunk; his quilt and keepsakes and clothes the only things he really had to show for his twenty-three years of life. At least it meant he could carry it down to the waiting carriage himself without needing to ask the attendants Yoongi had sent to see him off to make the trip up and down the narrow stairs.

They’d already offered their help, of course, they’d been nothing but kind since they’d introduced themselves to him—but Namjoon was large and Jungkook would feel incredible embarrassed if Namjoon had to awkwardly climb the stairs sideways, lugging a chest all the while. Namjoon still insisted on loading it onto the carriage for him as soon as Jungkook came into sight, and he bashfully allowed him to, as light as it was.

“Thank you, Namjoon-ssi,” he said, bowing.

“None of that, please,” Namjoon smiled. “If you’re informal with Yoongi, you must be informal with me.”

Jungkook wasn’t entirely sure he could truly be informal with the prince, no matter how often he would insist on calling him by his given name. But being informal with a fellow servant was much more plausible.

“Thank you, Namjoon.”

His master and mistress did not come to bid him goodbye. It stung more than Jungkook expected it to. Though they had plenty of reason to resent him now, he had still given them so many years; they had known him as a scraped-kneed boy and had watched him grow into himself. They’d even comforted him after his mother died, assuring him he would not be without a home. Though, even then, they’d made it clear that it would not be without cost.

If Namjoon saw the shine in his eyes, he kindly did not mention it.

“Yoongi gives his apologies for not being able to greet you himself,” Namjoon said as the carriage began the journey to the palace.

“O-oh—” Jungkook blinked. “I hardly expected him to.”

“Still.” Namjoon grinned, a sly thing that was more confusing than anything else. “He’s talked of you nonstop, ever since the ball. I was waiting for him to figure out that he knew exactly how to find you, but—he is the smartest fool I know.”

Jungkook balked, staring at him. “I’m sorry?” he cleared his throat, touching his blushing cheek, astounded at Namjoon’s irreverent tone. 

It was definitely not a tone suited to speaking of the prince, especially not one under his employ. But—

“May I ask your title, Namjoon?”

Namjoon blinked before laughing. “I think my title must be the second smartest fool I know. I don’t have one other than that.”

“You’re not—employed by his highness?”

“No, no,” Namjoon shook his head. “He’s my oldest friend, my dearest enemy. If you’d like to know all of his most embarrassing exploits, you need only ask.”

Jungkook blushed again, letting out an unintentional laugh. “I see. I—I don’t believe I’ll ask, but thank you all the same.”

Namjoon laughed, giving him a warm grin. “Then I might spring them on you when it looks like you need one, for entertainment or for blackmail, whichever you so choose.”

“I would never—” Jungkook started, but Namjoon cut him off with a friendly wave of his hand.

“I jest, I promise. Not about telling them, though—”

And the story he told him, about a preteen Yoongi trying to sneak out from under his guards’ eyes to watch a meteor shower in the fields outside of the palace, wanting to join his non-royal school friends instead of watching it from the high peaks of the castle, crawling under rose bushes and tearing up his favorite robe, only to discover the guards on the other side of the garden ready and prepared to escort him to the fields—

Jungkook had a very good idea of a thank you present that he felt capable of making; though he would have to figure out how to not make it extraordinarily clear how he came up with it.

All thoughts of Prince Yoongi’s embarrassing years were chased away when the prince himself half-ran down the hall to meet them at the door, a trail of attendants following in his wake.

“Jungkook!” the prince said. He didn’t say anything more.

“Your—your highness,” Jungkook said after a moment. He corrected himself shortly after with “Yoongi,” though that was met with a quiet undistinguishable murmur from the others in the hall.

“I’m—I’m glad you’re here,” Yoongi said. “May I show you to your rooms?”

“What am I even here for?” Namjoon said. Yoongi ignored him, but Jungkook gave him a shy, apologetic smile. “I’m here to carry the trunk,” he said, hoisting it on his shoulder. “I see that look, Jungkook, don’t you try—”

Yoongi made a pained sound like the very thought was distressing, and Jungkook gave Namjoon a thankful bow.

Yoongi dismissed the others with a wave of his hand and a confirmation to his chief advisor that yes, he would be on time for the meeting with international ministers. He touched the small of Jungkook’s back as he led him down the hall. Not to the servants’ quarters, though, Jungkook was pretty sure—the paintings on the wall and the etchings of the doors were too fancy for even the most well-treated servant.

“Here we are,” Yoongi said, stopping in front of a pretty pale blue door, gilded flowers decorating the surface. “I hope it’s to your liking. If it’s not, there are plenty more to choose from, this one—this one has a nice view, though, especially at night—”

“Yoongi,” Jungkook interrupted quietly, “I’m grateful for anything you provide, you must know that.”

“Grateful or not,” Yoongi said, “I want you to be as comfortable as possible.”

“I would be happy and comfortable on a wooden plank in the dungeon, my prince,” Jungkook said, half-teasing. “You’re spoiling me too much.”

“Allow me to spoil you, then. Please. I have been spoiled by you for years without even knowing it. I have a lot to make up for.”

“It’s hardly spoiling if I’ve enjoyed doing it so greatly—”

“Then this is hardly spoiling then, by that definition. I’ve greatly enjoyed finding your lodgings, and I’ve—I’ve been looking forward to your arrival. Counting down the days.”

“The hours, even,” Namjoon muttered from behind them. Yoongi blushed, ignoring him in favor of opening the door.

Jungkook had never seen anything so fanciful even in his dreams. A canopied bed with matching curtains flowing in the gentle breeze the open windows, a fireplace meant for warmth and not cooking, a vase of fresh flowers on the mantle, a comfortable pillow on a more comfortable sofa—

“This cannot be for me,” he said. “Sire, please—”

“Is it not to your liking?” Yoongi worried, brows furrowing. “I can—”

“It is, I promise,” Jungkook assured. “It’s just—it’s much too great for someone like me. I’m just a tailor, not—not a lord or a royal guest. This is too much.”

“I promise my rooms are much more extravagant,” Namjoon offered. Jungkook was a little shocked to find that it did make him relax.

“They are,” Yoongi agreed. “Namjoon-ah said it would be—too much to put you in my personal hall.”

“I-it would have been,” Jungkook blurted. “If it’s more than this—”

“But—will you accept it? For now? If you find you truly don’t enjoy it, we can look at other rooms.”

“I—” Jungkook licked his lips. “I—yes. I don’t mean to be ungrateful, Yoongi, I swear—”

“I know. I promise. I may have been overeager, anticipating your arrival.”

Namjoon snorted. Again, Yoongi ignored him and Jungkook took his lead.

“Thank you for thinking of me, Yoongi. I hope to earn my keep well.”

“As I said before—”

Jungkook smiled gently, boldly knocking shoulders with him. “Indulge me the thought.”

Yoongi smiled, and was still smiling as he watched Jungkook walk around the rooms, still smiling as the bell chimed, still smiling as Namjoon chided him to leave so he would be on time.

When Namjoon left him to settle in, as well, Jungkook collapsed on the bed with a smile on his face.

-

He was surprised at how often Yoongi visited him in his rooms; the pleasure of it never fading even as he began to expect his arrival. They were both busy during the day; Yoongi with his many, many princely duties and Jungkook with his own, busying himself in the well-stocked tailoring rooms in the castle—something he had not known existed, considering how many orders Yoongi placed with him at the shop.

The other tailors teased him for it terribly, but they were beyond sweet and kind and he found himself making fast friends. He hadn’t had friends, other than a few children he played with as a child (and Yoongi, now), and it was a thrilling experience. (Even if one of them kept trying to convince him to meet her granddaughter. When Jungkook realized why he truly had no interest—)

He was already blushing when Yoongi knocked on his door, but he found it fading as they sat and talked, just as they always did. The prince was beyond kind, and, if Jungkook was asked when he was feeling bolder than life, they were wonderful friends. 

Yoongi asked about his life, held his hand when he spoke of his mother, shared his own fond memories with the late queen. They decided that they would have been fast friends; perhaps even as fast as Jungkook and Yoongi themselves.

Jungkook giggled when Yoongi swore him to secrecy before talking about his days in court, griping about ministers stuck in their ways and sharing jokes told by his favorite representatives under their breath.

They sometimes walked around the gardens or made their way to the kitchens for a midnight treat, but more often than not, they relaxed in Jungkook’s rooms, sometimes talking nonstop, sometimes in companionable silence, sometimes a mixture of both—hopes whispered and dreams shared and memories told.

Jungkook was curled up in his comfy chair working on an embroidery piece that had become his fixation, Yoongi in his usual place lounging in the window seat, going between looking out at the starry sky and back to the book Namjoon had recommended. When Jungkook let out a quiet hiss as the needle pricked his finger, though, Yoongi shot up, moving faster than Jungkook had ever seen him move. He blinked up at him as Yoongi leaned close, pressing his lips over the tiny, barely-bleeding mark, holding Jungkook’s hand between his own.

They stared at each other for a few long, long moments; even the air seemed to quiet around them.

“Goodnight, Jungkook-ah,” Yoongi said abruptly, fleeing from the room and leaving his robe and book behind.

Jungkook stared at the closed door before slowly bringing his finger to his own lips, pressing a kiss to it without thinking.

-

“I’m sorry for being so forward,” Yoongi rushed out as soon as they crossed paths the next day. Jungkook had been on his way to his own quarters, and it seemed Yoongi had been lying in wait.

Jungkook felt light at the very sight of him. “Yoongi,” he said fondly, “there’s no such thing. Thank you for your comfort.”

Yoongi nodded once, stiffly. “Yes, well—” he cleared his throat. “Would you be interested in a drink? I have a wonderful bottle of red wine I think you’d like, it’s nice and sweet.”

“Like you?” Jungkook asked, shocked at himself not even a second after the words left his mouth.

Yoongi’s lips parted as he stared at him, blinking quickly after a moment and ducking his head. “I-I don’t know if I could be called sweet, Jungkook-ah. Certainly not when I’m in the same room as you.”

Jungkook giggled, shaking his head. “Stop. You’re being sweet now.”

“Well—” he cleared his throat. “Would you like to judge the wine, see if it’s sweeter?”

“I wouldn’t mind a glass,” Jungkook said with a smile. “I’ve been forced to take a day off tomorrow.”

“Good,” Yoongi said, lifting his chin. “I’m glad I’m not the only one laying threats on you.”

Jungkook laughed, bumping shoulders with him as they walked down the halls to Yoongi’s own quarters. “Your threats are that you’ll wear the same shirt every day.”

“And it’s a very effective threat,” he said stubbornly.

“It’s not a fair one, considering I don’t have anything to threaten you back with.”

“I can’t take a day off. A prince’s duties never stop.”

“No,” he agreed, bumping shoulders with him once more. “But there are some that can wait a few more hours.”

“Yes, well—” Yoongi’s hand found Jungkook’s. If Jungkook had looked, he would see that Yoongi’s face was the same bright shade of red. “They can wait til the morning, at least. My duty is to be with you.”

“Is it a duty?”

Yoongi squeezed his hand. “No, of course not. It’s nothing but pleasure, just as it always is.”

Perhaps he had more than one glass of wine, and it seemed that it was a half glass too many. Jungkook was flushed-cheeked and tipsy and pressed against his prince’s side like the warmth of it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world. Yoongi certainly didn’t mind; he had an arm around Jungkook as they sat on the plush sofa near the fire, his hand rubbing Jungkook’s shoulder every so often, warm and broad and lovely. 

It didn’t take much for Jungkook to grow sleepy. “I should—” he started before cutting himself off with a yawn. He forgot what he had been saying after that. It was hard to remember, with Yoongi shushing him gently, giving his hair a few soothing pets when he whined as Yoongi got up. 

He must have been asleep then. He dreamt of Yoongi picking him up, cradling him so nice and close and lovingly, carrying him off before his dream faded away.

But perhaps that was when his dream started. When he woke just a few hours later, he was in bed—in Yoongi’s bed, surrounded by Yoongi’s lovely scent, head on Yoongi’s pillow, tucked in warmly under Yoongi’s covers. And Yoongi—

Jungkook rubbed his eyes as he got up, climbing out of bed with a yawn. He knelt in front of the chair where Yoongi slumbered, the prince’s cheek smushed against the side as he slept. Jungkook watched him breathe for a few moments—how many, he couldn’t say, as sleepy and dreamlike as he was. Every one of them was peaceful, though, filled with nothing but calmness and warmth.

Eventually he fell back asleep, his own cheek pressed to Yoongi’s knee and his arms wrapped comfortably around his legs. When he next awoke, Yoongi was petting his hair, a soothing rhythm that made him almost give in to sleep once more.

Yoongi’s pets didn’t stop as Jungkook stirred to wakefulness, though they did falter when Jungkook looked up at him.

“I fell asleep,” Jungkook mumbled.

Yoongi laughed, petting his hair again. “You did. As did I.”

Jungkook nodded, nuzzling his knee. “We should eat.”

“We should,” Yoongi agreed, making no move to stand. Jungkook didn’t either. He couldn’t imagine getting up. 

He did jump when there was a knock on the door, hurrying to his feet and smoothing out his clothes just before one of the maids came in with a tray laden with food.

She bowed after setting it out, hesitating for just a moment before admitting, “Lord Seokjin suggested that we bring double your usual portions, my prince.”

Jungkook went perhaps more red than he ever had before, covering his cheeks.

“Thank you,” Yoongi said, voice sounding a bit strangled. “Would you please tell Lord Seokjin to mind his own business?” He shook his head quickly, straightening up and offering his own bow. “I apologize, you are under no obligation to deliver that message, pardon my rudeness. Thank you.”

She bowed again before taking her leave. Knowing servants, Jungkook had no doubt the entire interaction would be the talk of the palace for a solid week. He was glad to not work in the halls or the kitchen, able to sequester himself away in the tailors rooms—though word would get back to the ladies who he shared them with. There would be no more attempts to set him up with any grandaughters, he was sure, but he wasn’t quite sure if it would be worth it.

“Well—” Yoongi sighed. “We mustn’t let a good breakfast go to waste, hm? No matter how much it made us blush.”

Yoongi did have to leave to fulfill his duties after breakfast, though he assured Jungkook he was welcome to delve into all of the deep dark secrets his quarters had to offer. He rolled his eyes and followed Yoongi out, their sides brushing together until they had to part ways.

Jungkook waved, but Yoongi gently grabbed his arm before he could turn away. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

Jungkook blinked before ducking his head, flustered. “I—I would be honored.”

Yoongi let out a quiet huff of a laugh. “If it’s just out of honor—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, giving him a brief roll of his eyes. “It’s more than honor, Yoongi. Don’t be silly.”

Yoongi’s face softened. “You make me silly.”

Jungkook snorted, rolling his eyes again. He shoved him lightly; the guards didn’t even move, having been told more than once that the prince’s favorite tailor was no threat. “Go.”

-

Yoongi knocked on Jungkook’s door when he had long ago blown the candles out and cracked the window to let in a cool breeze, sleep having taken him for at least an hour. Jungkook startled awake at the sound, hurriedly wrapping his robe around him before answering, blinking when he saw Yoongi looking small and miserable behind it.

“Yoongi?” he asked quietly.

“I can’t sleep,” Yoongi mumbled.

He couldn’t sleep, and he had come to Jungkook. He nearly melted. “Ah, Yoongi. Come in.”

Yoongi stumbled in, too exhausted to carry himself all perfect and princely as he usually did. Jungkook clicked his tongue, guiding him to the bed. 

“Sit, sit.”

Yoongi obeyed without question, watching Jungkook with dark bags under his eyes. Jungkook knew the furrow between his brow meant he had a headache and he nearly cooed, wanting nothing more than to smooth the crease and let him relax. Sleep would be the best thing for it, though.

He’d barely seen Yoongi the past week, the prince busy with meetings and visiting royals and reviewing laws and petitions and all manner of other things. To see him now, like this—

He knelt before him, carefully sliding the slippers off of his feet before standing, gently pushing his shoulders until he laid down. The covers were already turned down; it was easy to nest him under them, fluffing the pillow up before guiding his head down. Yoongi watched him the entire time, even as his eyes ached to close. When Jungkook took a step away, he made a discontent, panicked noise, hurrying to reach for him.

“Shh, pretty prince,” he said quietly, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t want to climb over you. Let me go to the other side.”

Yoongi nodded after a moment, though his eyes followed him the entire way. “So tired,” he mumbled as Jungkook climbed in.

“I know,” Jungkook said sympathetically, laying on his side to watch him. He cupped his face, humming when Yoongi’s eyes fluttered. “Just close your eyes, Yoongi. I’ll watch over you.”

“M’sorry, woke you up,” he mumbled even as he obeyed.

“Hush. I’m glad you did. I hate to think of you hurting alone.”

Yoongi nodded before wincing, putting his hand over Jungkook’s so he wouldn’t move. “Ow.”

“Your head?” 

Yoongi hummed.

Jungkook clicked his tongue before coming closer. There was no word for what he was doing other than cuddling Yoongi, tucking him to his chest to block out what little light there was. It didn’t take long for Yoongi’s breathing to even out, his body to relax heavily, sinking into Jungkook’s chest and his soft touch.

“Ah, my prince,” Jungkook whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head before he could think better of it. It was hard not to think of him as his when he was sleeping peacefully in his arms, able to find respite after long, hard days and a long, sleepless night. It didn’t take him long to fall asleep, too, lulled into rest by the thump of Yoongi’s heartbeat so close to his own.

-

He hated to wake him, the prince needed rest after the week he’d had, but—the week wasn’t over, and Jungkook knew Yoongi well enough to know that ignoring responsibilities even for his own health would not truly be healthy at all. He shook his shoulder gently, smiling when Yoongi grumbled into his shoulder, arm tightening around his waist.

“No,” Yoongi said.

“Yes,” Jungkook said back, warmth and teasing seeping through his voice.

Yoongi froze at the sound before stirring to something more resembling wakefulness, pulling back enough to peek an eye at him. “Jungkook.”

“Yoongi. You slept well?” It wasn’t really a question, though he felt obligated to phrase it as such.

“I did,” Yoongi mumbled. There were marks on his face from the pleat of Jungkook’s sleep shirt. “Thank you.”

“Ah, don’t you thank me. It is my civic duty to help his highness rest—”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, a pretty blush rising. “It’s too early in the morning for such cheek.”

Jungkook grinned, running a hand through Yoongi’s hair. He nearly pulled back when Yoongi froze under his touch, but the way Yoongi’s breath shook on exhale was hardly offended in the slightest. He smoothed it back lightly, tucking an errant wave behind his ear.

He wondered how often Yoongi was touched like this, in the back of his mind. How often he was touched with something more than perfunctory politeness. He and Namjoon weren’t touchy with each other, with Seokjin even less so. Were Jungkook’s hands the only ones that dared to roam and bring Yoongi warmth for more than a sense of duty?

“Is it early?” Yoongi asked after a moment, sounding close to sleep under Jungkook’s touch.

“It is,” Jungkook promised quietly. “The sun has only just risen. I didn’t want to wake you, but—”

Yoongi swallowed before looking up, meeting his eyes. “Could I wear your clothes?”

Jungkook blinked. That was not at all what he expected, if he had expected anything at all. “Well—yes, of course, but—why?”

“If I do, then—then perhaps we can sleep a half hour longer.”

Jungkook laughed, a quiet, light thing that he could see reflected in the shine of Yoongi’s eyes. When they bundled together once more in wordless agreement, Jungkook found himself pressed to Yoongi’s chest, tucked into the crook of his neck and feeling more relaxed than he ever had. A half hour was gone much too soon, and even the timid knock on the door by the guard that had followed Yoongi through the halls that night wasn’t enough to startle Jungkook from his hiding spot.

Yoongi let out a groan, squeezing him close for a moment. “Ten more?”

“I think we’ve reached our limit.” Jungkook sighed against his neck. “You’ll be late for—whatever it is if we laze about any longer.”

Yoongi groaned again. “Leaving bed with you to meet with someone determined to lower taxes for the rich—what hell have I found myself in?”

“A hell that allows you to return tonight.” Jungkook froze, a blush painting his cheeks. “If you’d like to, of course.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

Jungkook huffed, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Would I mind—no, silly prince. I’d mind if you didn’t after that—”

“If you don’t mind,” Yoongi said quietly, so soft and genuine it took all tease from Jungkook’s body and replaced it with clouds of gentle confusion that was not truly confusing at all, “then I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’ll be here,” Jungkook whispered. “Don’t wait until you’re desperate, okay? If I can help, allow me to.”

Yoongi nodded, cupping Jungkook’s face and rubbing his thumb over his cheekbone. “Thank you, Jungkook.”

Jungkook nodded, feeling frozen in the moment. It seemed Yoongi did too, and then it seemed Yoongi was getting closer and—

He sprung away when the guard knocked again, calling out “Your Highness?”

Yoongi cleared his throat. “Coming, thank you.”

Jungkook swallowed thickly. “You know my clothes are hardly princely.”

Yoongi shrugged. “I nearly exclusively wear things made by your hand, and I believe many of your own clothes are made by your hand, too, are they not?” He smiled at Jungkook’s nod. “Then they are princely by definition.”

Jungkook let out a quiet laugh before getting out of bed, finding the nicest things he could in his wardrobe. “Try these. They should fit.”

“Thank you, Jungkook,” he said, brushing over his hand as he took them. “I’ll see you tonight.”

-

Jungkook didn’t know how he didn’t notice, considering how much time they spent together. Nearly every dinner was spent by Yoongi’s side, bar those where there was a royal event that he couldn’t convince Jungkook to attend. Nearly every night was spent in Jungkook’s bed—and those that weren’t were spent with Jungkook in Yoongi’s. Nearly every morning, afternoon, and evening was spent with Yoongi so terribly busy he could barely stop to breathe, though he seemed to take a stabilizing, deep breath whenever he managed to see Jungkook outside of the tailor workrooms.

He didn’t know how he didn’t notice, but more than that, he didn’t know how he found the time. But clearly he had, because he had handed the little brooch to Jungkook and was standing there looking like he was close to throwing up or passing out and was wringing his hands nervously and—

“I love it,” Jungkook said definitively, brushing a thumb delicately over the pretty floral embroidery, inexpertly made and with odd gaps and love put behind every stitch. “This is so beautiful, Yoongi. You made this?”

Yoongi nodded jerkily, looking at everything but him.

“For me?”

He nodded again, choking out “Yes” before clearing his throat. “Yes,” he said again. “If—if you would like it.”

“If I would—” Jungkook pouted, clutching the brooch to his chest. “You would dare take my greatest treasure from me?”

Yoongi went red, though Jungkook could see his shoulders slump with some amount of relief. “No.”

“Good,” Jungkook said firmly, cupping it in his hands to look at it once more. “It’s truly beautiful, Yoongi, thank you.”

“I know you’re more than a tailor,” Yoongi said abruptly. “I know you’re more than—than flowers and canvases and sewing and whatever else. I know that’s not—that’s not all you are or all you like, I just—”

“I know you know me,” Jungkook said softly, warmly. “And that’s how you knew I’d love this.”

Yoongi nodded. “I—Jungkook.”

“Yoongi.”

Yoongi met his eyes abruptly, the prince’s face so intense, his expression so serious, that Jungkook nearly took a step breath. Instead, he followed his heart, taking a step forward, bringing them just a few inches closer, but a full few inches they were.

“Jungkook, knowing you is the greatest pleasure I have ever had in my life. We were brought together by fate, I truly believe that. I didn’t realize that I wasn’t whole until I met you, and then—I barely had time to realize it, because you made me whole immediately. Your friendship, your companionship, your—your very existence—” he took a deep breath, reaching to hold Jungkook’s hands in his own. “I am proud to know you, I am blessed, I am honored, I am luckier than any man has ever been.”

“Y-Yoongi—” Jungkook whispered shakily, clutching his brooch and taking another step forward, barely an inch away. “I—”

“May I?” Yoongi asked. Jungkook didn’t need him to clarify. As soon as he nodded, Yoongi’s lips met his own, both of them sealing the distance between them, their hearts beating in tandem, whole and complete and just as they should.

And Jungkook wore Yoongi’s brooch on his chest as they were wed, a matching kerchief tucked into Yoongi’s suit pocket. Yoongi still went to the throne room, and Jungkook still made the prince’s clothes—but, just as they had for what felt like all of their lives, they always came together in the end.