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♕ jimin 

Jimin is dreaming.

The palace gardens are in full bloom, apricot trees heavy with golden fruit, petals floating on the warm summer breeze. His silk sleeves trail behind him as he reaches for a branch, fingertips grazing the soft, dimpled skin of an apricot. It smells sweet, like the honeyed persimmons the servants bring him in the morning. He plucks one, lifts it to his lips—

A hand clamps over his mouth.

Jimin wakes instantly, heart thundering. His first thought: I am still dreaming. His second: No. This is real. The sharp edge of steel presses against his throat.

He is not in the gardens.

The chamber is dark, lit only by the weak glow of an oil lamp flickering against the wooden walls. The air is wrong. Heavy, damp, laced with the unmistakable scent of sweat, leather, and something smoky, like pine ash. A man is kneeling over him, a blade glinting in the low light.

"Make a sound and you die," the man whispers.

Jimin does make a sound. An indignant one, muffled against the gloved hand. The palace is the most secure place in the kingdom, crawling with royal guards. He should not be waking up to a filthy outlaw in his bed.

The stranger’s eyes narrow, taking in Jimin’s silk robes, the golden embroidery catching the dim light. His gaze flicks up to Jimin’s hair. Long, dark, carefully combed before bed. Jimin can see the moment realization sets in.

"Oh, shit," the man mutters. "You're the crown prince."

Jimin glares.

"Well, that complicates things."

The outlaw (because who else would be reckless enough to sneak into the regent’s personal fortress), pulls his hand away, but the knife stays, the blade gliding just below Jimin’s jaw.

"Who are you?" Jimin demands, voice unyielding, regal.

The man tilts his head, as if considering whether he owes him an answer. His lips quirk up, and Jimin is struck, momentarily, irritatingly, by how unfairly attractive he is. Beneath the soot and grime, the outlaw has high cheekbones, a small, sharp nose, and a mouth that looks perpetually unimpressed. His hair is wild, unevenly cut, dark strands falling into his catlike eyes.

A scar cuts through his right brow, trailing down past his eye, a jagged mark carved into his skin like an old battle hymn. A souvenir from one of his undoubtedly many crimes, or perhaps, a reminder that he has survived them all.

"Agust," the outlaw says at last, voice smooth and unreadable. "That’s the name you should remember."

He grins like this is the funniest joke ever told. It is not.

Jimin raises a brow, arms still pinned at his sides. "Agust," he repeats, slow, like testing the weight of it. "That sounds made up."

Agust smirks. "All names are made up."

Jimin exhales sharply. "Do you know what the punishment is for sneaking into the royal chambers?"

Agust leans in slightly, as if bored yet amused, the scar over his brow catching the dim light. "Do you know what the punishment is for hoarding the kingdom’s wealth and letting people starve?"

Jimin blinks. "Excuse me?”

Agust sighs, like this entire conversation is a chore. "Never mind. Look, pretty boy, this isn’t personal. I’m just here for the gold." He gestures behind him, and Jimin follows his gaze. His jewelry box is open, the small chest of silver coins missing from his bedside table.

Jimin’s blood boils. "You—thief—"

"Technically, I’m redistributing the wealth," Agust corrects. "From the corrupt to the starving. You wouldn’t understand."

"Because I’m the prince?"

"Because you’ve probably never worked a day in your life," Agust says, throwing a sack of gold over his shoulder. "Or starved. Or watched an entire village be burned because they couldn’t pay your uncle’s taxes."

Jimin’s fingers twitch against the silk blankets. His uncle, Regent Prince Yi, has always been harsh with taxes. It is not Jimin’s concern.

"I am not involved in state matters," Jimin says, stiffly. "And my uncle—"

"Your uncle," Agust cuts in, "is plotting to kill the king and marry you so he can take the throne for himself."

Jimin stares. He is used to people lying, his uncle is a politician after all, but this is the most absurd thing he has ever heard.

"You’re insane," Jimin says flatly. "That is treason."

"That is true."

"That is—"

Something crashes outside the chamber. Shouts erupt in the hallway.

"Shit," Agust mutters. "I told them to be quiet."

Jimin barely has time to process what that means before Agust moves. Swift, decisive. He yanks Jimin out of bed, throws him over his shoulder like a sack of rice, and strides toward the window.

Jimin shrieks.

"Put me down, you insufferable—"

"Shhh, you’ll wake the guards."

"The guards are already awake, you—"

Agust leaps.

For a second, Jimin’s stomach plummets. The night air rushes past his face, wind whipping at his silk robes as they fall. A scream catches in his throat.

Then, impact. Not the ground, but something softer. They land in a wagon full of hay, tumbling into a pile of stolen treasure and grain sacks. Jimin chokes on dust, eyes watering.

Agust groans beneath him, struggling upright. "That," he pants, "was not my most graceful exit."

Jimin, still half-sprawled over him, glares daggers. "You imbecile."

More shouts echo from above. The guards have reached the window. Arrows are notched, the hiss of bowstrings tightening in the air.

"Time to go!" a voice calls, someone from the wagon, holding the reins. Jimin catches a flash of another man’s face, dragon-eyed and grinning. The horses lurch forward, and before Jimin can protest, Agust pulls him flush against his chest, shielding him as arrows rain down from above.

"Hold on, pretty boy," Agust murmurs, smirking against Jimin’s ear. "You’re coming with me."

Jimin's outrage is immediate.

"I most certainly am not.”

The wagon jolts violently, wheels slamming against uneven stone, and Jimin nearly bites through his tongue.

“Slow down, you lunatic!” he snaps, his voice hoarse from the dust.

The driver laughs, reins snapping against the horses. “My apologies. Had I known we were kidnapping royalty tonight, I would've brought softer cushions.” He glances back, realization flickering in his eyes as he truly registers who their passenger is. "Wait—shit. You actually grabbed the prince?"

Agust makes a low sound of irritation beneath Jimin, voice dry but controlled. "Yes, I noticed. Can we discuss this after we've escaped?

Jimin seethes.

He does not belong in a wagon full of stolen goods, tearing through the capital like a common thief. He belongs in his chambers, bathed in candlelight, wrapped in silk, with servants at his beck and call.

Not half-sprawled over the most infuriating outlaw in existence.

Speaking of which.

He shoves at Agust's chest. Hard. “Unhand me.”

Agust does not unhand him.

If anything, his grip tightens, keeping Jimin firmly against him as another sharp turn sends them lurching to the side.

“Careful,” Agust murmurs, lips grazing the shell of Jimin’s ear. “Wouldn’t want you breaking that pretty neck of yours before we even get out of the city.”

Jimin goes rigid. The audacity.

“I will have your head for this,” he hisses.

Agust sighs, long-suffering, as if Jimin is the one being unreasonable. “You nobles are all the same. Always making threats you can’t follow through on.”

Jimin bristles. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t take it personally, pretty boy. It’s not like I kidnapped you because I wanted to.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Jimin deadpans. “That makes me feel so much better.”

The wagon lurches again, this time violently enough to knock Jimin forward, straight into Agust’s chest.

It’s solid. Warm. Jimin hates it.

Agust makes a small "oof" noise before tilting his head down, smirking. “Comfortable?”

Jimin bares his teeth, ready to sink them straight into Agust’s shoulder.

“Can you two flirt later?” the driver shouts, eyes scanning the rooftops. “Guards are still on us.”

“I am not flirting!” Jimin snaps, horrified.

Agust grins.

Jimin hates him. He hates him.

His hatred is momentarily derailed as something whizzes past his ear, a sharp, deadly blur in the dark.

Arrows. Again.

Jimin’s stomach drops.

The second one comes faster, lodging itself deep into the wooden cart, inches from his shoulder.

“Hell,” Agust curses under his breath.

“Brilliant observation,” Jimin mutters, heart hammering.

The wagon veers left, barreling down a narrow alleyway. Overhead, shadows dart across rooftops, palace guards, their bows drawn, silent as death.

Jimin has trained in combat before, every prince has, but he has never, never been actively hunted.

Until now.

“Hold tight,” Agust says, already moving.

Jimin barely has a second to react before Agust grabs him by the waist and throws him flat against the floor of the wagon.

Jimin shouts in outrage.

Agust presses a hand over his mouth. “Shhh,” he breathes, eyes flicking upward.

Jimin would bite him, but the moment Agust speaks, he sees it too.

A figure perches on the rooftops above them, arrow notched, drawn, ready to loose.

Jimin’s blood runs cold.

Then, a flash of silver.

Jimin barely registers the movement before an object goes spinning through the air, slicing clean through the bowstring.

A knife.

It lands hilt-first in the driver’s lap.

“Nice shot,” the driver calls.

Agust snorts. “I never miss.”

Jimin swallows. His throat is dry.

The palace guards shout behind them, their cries growing fainter as the wagon gains distance, weaving through the city like a shadow.

Finally, the rooftops empty, the streets fall silent, and the cool night air rushes against Jimin’s skin.

Jimin exhales.

He wants to believe it’s over.

But the way Agust’s grip lingers at his waist, fingers flexing.

The way he studies the city behind them, brows furrowed.

Tells Jimin otherwise.

“We’re not in the clear, are we?” he asks quietly.

Agust glances down at him, the barest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “We haven’t even started.”

Jimin hates how his stomach twists.

The city fades behind them.

Jimin feels it before he sees it, the way the air shifts, losing the familiar warmth of oil lamps and burning incense, replaced by the crisp chill of open sky. The pounding of the horses’ hooves against stone suddenly softens to dirt and grass.

The capital walls loom in the distance now, shrinking as they ride farther away.

Jimin’s stomach tightens.

This is real. He is leaving.

A burst of panic claws at his chest.

The wagon jostles over a root, and Jimin lurches forward. He barely catches himself before he goes tumbling out completely.

Agust, ever helpful, yanks him back by the collar, planting him firmly between his legs.

"Careful," Agust murmurs, lazy amusement lacing his voice. "I just stole you. Would be a shame if you rolled off before I even got to ransom you properly."

Jimin jerks away, horrified. "You! You’re ransoming me?"

A soft chuckle. "No, but I like that you think you’re worth that much."

Jimin glares daggers. "I am the crown prince."

"And I am the bane of your existence," Agust replies, tossing a coin from Jimin’s stolen jewelry box into the air, catching it without looking.

Jimin inhales sharply. "You!"

"Alright, you two," the dragon-eyes driver interrupts from the front. "I’ve had enough of the flirting."

Jimin seethes. "We are not—"

The driver raises a hand. "Please. Let me keep my delusions. It makes this trip more interesting."

Agust grins.

Jimin contemplates murder.

He crosses his arms tightly, ignoring the ache in his shoulders from the rough treatment. His robes are dusty, torn in places, his hair (gods, his hair) is an absolute mess.

"Where are you taking me?" he demands.

No one answers.

The wagon rattles on, weaving through the wilderness. The city gates are long gone. Jimin’s heart pounds harder.

His uncle will send the guards after him. He will not let this go unanswered. Jimin just has to last long enough for them to track him down.

He just has to—

A whistle cuts through the air.

The driver pulls hard on the reins, and Jimin lurches forward again as the wagon grinds to a stop.

Silence.

Then, movement. Figures stepping out of the shadows, half-lit by the faint glow of the moon.

Jimin counts them instantly. Five. Maybe six. More lurking between the trees.

They are dressed roughly. Worn robes, tied loosely at the waist, some dark with age, others patched with stolen fabric. Beneath them, simple tunics and wide pants, suited for riding and running. Armed. Some with bows, others with blades. Their shoes are caked in mud, their faces sharp with hunger and wariness.

Outlaws.

Agust leaps off the wagon, landing easily on his feet. He stretches lazily, rolling his shoulders like he’s just returned from an errand, rather than committing high treason.

"Miss me?" he drawls.

One of the men snorts. "Not particularly."

Another one steps forward, scanning the wagon, gaze lingering on Jimin.

Jimin stares back, proud and regal despite the dust on his robes. He is a prince, and these people are nothing.

The outlaw huffs a soft laugh. "And what, exactly, is that?"

Jimin’s eye twitches.

Agust grins. "That," he says, slapping a hand over Jimin’s shoulder like they’re old friends, "is an absolute pain in my ass."

The group erupts into laughter.

Jimin has never in his life wanted to punch someone more.

He clenches his fists, biting back his rage, watching as Agust’s men begin unloading the wagon, tossing stolen bags of rice and silver between each other with practiced ease.

Jimin forces himself to stay still, scanning their movements.

Agust is speaking to his crew, standing with the casual arrogance of someone who thinks he owns the world. His back is turned.

Jimin waits.

He waits until their attention shifts. Until the sounds of laughter, clinking coins, and rustling grain mask the faintest movement.

Then, he runs.

Jimin moves fast, faster than they expect, faster than they are prepared for. The moment Agust’s grip loosens, Jimin wrenches free, bolting into the trees.

The forest is dense, the undergrowth thick with gnarled roots and thorny brush, but Jimin does not stop. His bare feet sting, his silk robes snag and tear, but he pushes forward, lungs burning.

He just has to get far enough. Just enough to find a road, a passing merchant, anything.

A shadow shifts in front of him.

Jimin barely registers it before a foot hooks around his ankle and yanks him down.

He crashes into the dirt, a hard weight pinning him before he can so much as flinch.

A breathless chuckle. “You really thought that would work?”

Agust.

Jimin’s pulse pounds. His chest heaves as he struggles, but Agust’s weight doesn’t budge. He’s solid, pressing him into the damp earth, one arm braced against the ground, the other gripping Jimin’s wrist, hard.

“Get off me,” Jimin snarls.

Agust only grins, infuriatingly calm despite the chase. “Now, why would I do that when you just tried to make me look like a fool in front of my men?”

Jimin glares up at him, sharp and unyielding. “You don’t need my help for that.”

Agust laughs. “Gods, you really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

Jimin twists beneath him, but Agust’s grip tightens, trapping him further.

“Struggling isn’t going to help you,” Agust says, voice almost lazy. “And before you get any more ideas,” he shifts his weight, pressing down just enough to make his point, “I’m stronger than you.”

Jimin bares his teeth. “You’re insufferable.”

Agust smirks. “I get that a lot.”

Jimin stills, breathing heavy. The dirt is cool against his back, the scent of pine thick in the air. He hates how Agust is looking at him. Like he’s amused, entertained. Like this is all a game.

“I should kill you,” Jimin breathes.

Agust tilts his head. “Bold of you to assume you could.”

His grip lingers.

Jimin notices.

Heat coils at the base of his spine. Frustration, anger, something else. He shoves it down, willing himself to breathe, focus, ignore how close Agust is.

The forest around them is silent.

Finally, Agust sighs. “Alright, Your Highness,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something softer, almost mocking. “Let’s get you back before you catch a cold.”

And then, before Jimin can protest, Agust hauls him up, one arm around his waist, the other hooking behind his knees.

Jimin shrieks. “You! Put me down!”

Agust smirks down at him. “You’ll just try running again.”

“I will—” Jimin twists violently, but Agust’s grip is ironclad.

“Exactly,” Agust says, completely unfazed.

Jimin wants to die.

Behind them, Agust’s men watch with thinly veiled amusement.

“I see you two had a bonding moment,” the driver, the dragon-eyed one, remarks, voice laced with laughter.

Jimin prays for divine intervention.

Agust just grins. “Oh, we’re getting along splendidly.”

Jimin has never hated anyone more.

♕♕♕

The journey back to the camp is mercifully short, though Jimin refuses to acknowledge how easily Agust carries him. He remains rigid, his nails digging into his sleeves, his face burning with humiliation.

It is only when they step into the clearing that Agust finally, finally, sets him down.

Jimin stumbles slightly, the sensation of solid ground almost foreign after being manhandled so thoroughly. He barely has time to regain his balance before Agust's fingers close around his wrist, keeping him close.

Jimin scowls. “Are you always this clingy?”

Agust hums. “Only with people who run.”

Jimin seethes, but forces himself to still. Now is not the time for another foolish escape attempt.

The rebels push forward, moving quickly through the forest, their voices low and hushed. The wagon has long been abandoned, its stolen goods distributed among the men who vanish into the night like shadows.

Jimin’s wrist aches from Agust’s iron grip, but he refuses to struggle now. He has learned his lesson. For now, he watches, listens, catalogs every detail.

The camp is not what he expected.

There are no crumbling ruins, no desolate caves, just a hidden clearing deep in the forest, tucked beneath the sprawling branches of goryeojang trees. A cluster of tents and thatched huts form the heart of the camp, their fabric and straw roofs rustling in the cool night breeze. A bonfire crackles in the center, casting flickering light over the faces of thieves and outlaws.

These people, these criminals, sit eating, laughing, drinking.

Jimin’s stomach twists.

They act as if they have won something.

As if they are free.

He stiffens when Agust finally stops, releasing his wrist with a careless flick.

“Make yourself comfortable, Your Highness,” Agust drawls, his voice taunting, but also strangely distant.

Jimin glances around, gathering himself. He has trained his whole life for court politics, for standing his ground when surrounded by enemies.

This should be no different.

“You expect me to sleep in the dirt?” Jimin scoffs, dusting off his ruined sleeves. “Where is my chamber? My bed?”

Someone snorts.

Jimin’s jaw clenches.

A new voice, light and amused, breaks the tense air.

“I like him,” the man drawls. “He’s got spirit.”

Jimin turns, gaze narrowing.

A man steps into the firelight, sharp-boned and smirking, his hands resting easily on his hips. He is not particularly tall, nor broad, but the space around him bends to his presence nevertheless. His dark robes are worn but practical, layered loosely over a fitted tunic, the sleeves pushed back to reveal lean forearms. A single ribbon holds his hair in place, the strands wild around his face.

His eyes gleam, sharp as a blade edge.

“Who are you?” Jimin demands, voice steady.

The man’s grin widens, revealing straight teeth. “Jung Hoseok,” he replies smoothly. “Second-in-command.”

Jimin scoffs. “Does everyone here have an inflated title?”

Another chuckle. “You are high-maintenance, aren’t you?” Hoseok muses, rocking back on his heels. “Agust, where are we keeping him?”

“I don’t need keeping,” Jimin snaps.

Agust hums, unimpressed. “You keep running.”

Jimin glares between them, his pulse pounding with frustration. His bare feet ache against the forest floor, his silk sleeves are in tatters, and worst of all, he is losing control.

No one has ever spoken to me like this.

But this is not court. These are not nobles.

And the rules are not the same.

He inhales through his nose, lifting his chin. “If I am to be kept here, then I expect accommodations.”

Hoseok barks out a laugh. “Oh? Should we fetch you silk sheets? A silver platter?”

“I’ll settle for not sleeping in the mud,” Jimin replies flatly.

A pause.

Then:

“Let him stay in my hut.”

The voice comes from the shadows, quiet but firm.

Low, smooth. It sounds oddly familiar. 

A figure steps forward.

Jimin tenses.

The firelight carves across a face he once knew, illuminating dark eyes, a smooth, sculpted jaw, and a mouth curling into a familiar, boxy smirk.

Jimin cannot move.

Kim Taehyung.

Alive.

Jimin forgets how to breathe.

He stares, his mind struggling to bridge the impossible.

He saw the fires. He heard the whispers. He mourned for a boy who had been buried years ago.

But Taehyung is standing before him. He looks older, sharper, a quiver of arrows strapped to his back, his loose robe hanging effortlessly over his strong frame.

As if he belongs here.

As if this is his home.

Jimin’s throat is dry.

“Tae—”

“Careful, prince.” Taehyung’s lips curl. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jimin sways.

His fingers twitch at his sides. His nails press into his palms. His mind races, searching for reason, for anything that explains this.

“You’re dead,” Jimin breathes.

Taehyung’s smirk deepens.

“Evidently not.”

Jimin stares.

This is wrong.

Taehyung should be in the palace, at his side, laughing in the gardens, whispering jokes behind silk screens.

Not here.

Not standing with the men who kidnapped him.

Jimin’s stomach churns.

Taehyung watches him, amusement flickering like candlelight.

Then, he tilts his head.

“You thought I was dead,” Taehyung says casually, as if he is commenting on the weather.

Jimin’s breath catches.

His hands shake. “I—”

Taehyung steps closer.

Jimin freezes.

“Tell me, Your Highness,” Taehyung murmurs, his voice a blade wrapped in silk. “Did you ever look for me?”

Something cold curls in Jimin’s stomach.

He wants to say yes.

He wants to say I would have burned the palace to the ground to find you.

But he cannot.

Because the truth is a dagger between his ribs.

He never searched.

He believed the lie.

And Taehyung knows it.

The silence stretches.

Taehyung exhales, the tension shattering as easily as it had formed. “Relax,” he says, grinning like this is all a joke. “We’re not going to kill you.”

Jimin’s heart stutters.

Taehyung turns, walking away.

But before he vanishes into the night, he glances over his shoulder, voice light, mocking.

“Yet.”

Jimin follows in stiff, deliberate steps, his silk robes whispering against the dirt as Taehyung leads him toward a modest hut nestled deeper within the camp. The scent of pine and smoldering firewood lingers in the air, the distant laughter and chatter of the outlaws fading into a quiet hum.

Taehyung is alive.

It still does not feel real.

Jimin’s last memory of him had been a whisper of smoke, the frantic screams echoing through the halls, the night swallowing everything whole. And yet, here he is, walking ahead, posture easy, a quiver swaying lightly against his back.

Jimin wants to demand answers, to shake him, to ask why. Why he never sent word. Why he let Jimin believe he was dead.

Instead, all he manages is a harsh, “You expect me to sleep in this?”

Taehyung stops in front of the simple hut, its wooden frame sturdy despite the uneven patches of thatch reinforcing the roof. A single woven mat is rolled up just inside the entrance, next to a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a few scattered belongings.

From within, a groan of protest echoes.

"You’ve got to be joking."

A figure emerges from the shadows of the hut, stretching his arms over his head. He is younger, his hair dark and unruly, his features striking but still softened by youth. His doe eyes sweep over Jimin with open curiosity before shifting to Taehyung with unmistakable exasperation.

"Hyung," he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "Tell me you’re not making me sleep outside because of him."

Taehyung smirks, leaning against the doorframe. "Jungkook, meet His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Park Jimin."

Jungkook snorts, unimpressed. "I know who he is."

Jimin lifts his chin. "Then you should know better than to speak about me as if I’m not here."

Jungkook stares at him for a beat before turning back to Taehyung. "Hyung, is he always this insufferable?"

Taehyung grins. "Oh, you have no idea."

Jimin scowls. “You!”

"Alright, enough," Taehyung cuts in, waving a lazy hand. "Jungkook, go find somewhere else to sleep for the night. Consider it character-building."

Jungkook groans. "You always say that when you make me do something stupid."

"Then you should be plenty built by now," Taehyung quips, patting Jungkook’s shoulder. "Now, go. And stay out of trouble."

Jungkook grumbles under his breath but relents, shooting Jimin one last sulky glare before stalking off into the night.

Jimin sighs. "Your little disciple doesn’t seem pleased."

Taehyung steps inside, tossing his quiver aside before sinking onto the mat with a satisfied sigh. "Jungkook will get over it."

Jimin hesitates at the entrance. He should not step inside. He should not be here at all.

Taehyung glances up, brow quirking. "What, afraid of getting a little dirt on your silk?"

Jimin bristles. "I’ve slept on campaign grounds before."

"Ah, so you’ve roughed it in the palace gardens," Taehyung muses. "How very tragic."

Jimin glares but does not rise to the bait. Instead, he lowers himself onto the spare mat, careful to keep his ruined robes from touching too much of the ground. The silence stretches, thick and weighted, the firelight outside flickering through the wooden slats.

Then, Jimin asks the question that has been burning in his mind since the moment he saw Taehyung’s face.

"How?" His voice is quiet, but the demand is clear. "How are you alive?"

Taehyung hums, tilting his head toward the ceiling. “I barely escaped the fire.” A pause. “My father always told me, if something ever happened to him, I should find the rebels.”

Jimin frowns. “Why?”

Taehyung huffs a quiet laugh, but it lacks humor. “Because he knew he wouldn’t live long in the regent’s palace.”

Jimin’s stomach twists.

Taehyung shifts, his gaze settling on Jimin, hard and knowing. “You never asked what happened, did you?”

Jimin clenches his jaw. “I was told—”

“That the fire was an accident?” Taehyung supplies, voice light, mocking. “That my father was just another fool caught in the flames?”

Jimin doesn’t answer.

Taehyung’s lips curve, not quite a smile, not quite anything. “He was executed, Jimin. For treason. For consorting with rebels.”

Jimin’s fingers curl against the mat. “And you ran.”

Taehyung shrugs. “I had nowhere else to go. And the rebels…” he exhales softly, voice quieter now. “They saved me.”

Jimin studies him. This boy… the Taehyung he once knew had been all easy grins and mischief, quick laughter behind silk screens. This Taehyung is something else. Something harder.

“You belong here,” Jimin murmurs.

Taehyung’s gaze flickers to him. “More than I ever did there.”

Jimin looks away, staring at the dimly lit walls. His chest feels strangely tight.

A long pause.

Then:

“Yoongi always says a person is what they choose to be,” Taehyung muses suddenly, shifting onto his side. “That we’re not bound to the past, only to the choices we make now.”

Jimin glances at him. “Who?”

“Yoongi,” Taehyung repeats. Then, as if realizing something, he smirks. “Oh. Right. You only know him as Agust.”

Jimin blinks. “Agust’s real name is Yoongi?”

Taehyung hums in confirmation, amused by Jimin’s surprise. “Yup. His real name is Min Yoongi. Agust is just an alias. The name he has to use now.”

Jimin frowns, testing it on his tongue. Min Yoongi. The name feels… unfitting, somehow, for the sharp-eyed outlaw who had dragged him into the dirt.

“He’s the reason I’m still alive,” Taehyung says, his tone light but firm. “The reason Jungkook is alive. The reason a lot of us are.”

Jimin exhales. “You idolize him.”

Taehyung grins. “Of course I do.”

Jimin shakes his head. The man who kidnapped him, slung him over his shoulder like a sack of grain, an idol? The thought is absurd.

And yet, for the first time, he is curious.

"You should rest," Taehyung says, quieter now. "You’ll need it."

Jimin doesn’t ask what for.

He doesn’t think he wants to know. 

♕♕♕

Jimin does not sleep.

The woven mat beneath him is miserable, barely more than a flattened bundle of straw, and his silks, dirty and torn, itch where they cling to his skin. Every shift of his body sends a fresh wave of irritation crawling under his ribs.

This place is beneath him.

He forces himself to breathe. Deep, slow, controlled. The rebels’ voices outside the hut have dwindled to a low murmur, the occasional snap of burning wood punctuating the quiet. The air smells of pine, damp earth, smoke curling from dying embers.

And him.

The scent clings to Jimin’s robes, caught in the torn threads, the folds of fabric crushed beneath Yoongi’s hands when he’d pinned Jimin down in the dirt. Smoke and leather. Steel and sweat. The memory flashes unbidden; the weight of him, the warmth of his breath, the way he’d watched Jimin struggle with infuriating patience, as if waiting for Jimin to exhaust himself.

Jimin sighs deeply, flipping onto his back.

Absolutely not.

The ceiling of the hut offers no reprieve. Neither does his pulse, which refuses to settle.

He does not sleep.

♕♕♕

Morning comes in the form of movement.

Jimin feels it before he hears it, Taehyung shifting, stretching, the groan of wood beneath his weight.

A foot nudges his ribs.

Jimin’s eyes snap open, and he barely resists the urge to grab it and twist.

“Good morning, Your Highness.” Taehyung’s voice is as smug as ever.

Jimin sits up slowly, smoothing his robes with as much dignity as possible. His back aches, his legs stiff from being forced to sleep on the ground like a stray dog. He does not let it show.

“You kick me again,” he says coolly, “and I will make sure you never walk properly again.”

Taehyung laughs. “That’s the spirit.”

Jimin ignores him. “Where is the bathhouse?”

Taehyung tilts his head. “The what?”

Jimin exhales through his nose. “The place where people wash.”

Taehyung looks far too amused. “Ah. That’d be the river. Freezing cold this time of year. But hey, if you’re lucky, someone might volunteer to scrub your back.”

Jimin glares.

Taehyung slaps a hand on his shoulder, grinning as he pushes himself to his feet. “Come on, princess. Time to eat.”

Jimin almost refuses, but then his stomach twists. 

Betrayal.

He is hungry.

And that is the only reason he follows Taehyung out into the camp.

The camp is even worse in daylight.

The sun spills over the clearing, laying everything bare. No crumbling ruins, no caves, just a tangle of tents and crooked wooden huts, their fabric patched with stolen silk, their rooftops layered with reeds.

This is not some well-disciplined rebel force. This is a den of thieves, stitched together by desperation and stolen coin.

The stench of charred meat and sweat hangs heavy in the air. Outlaws sit hunched over steaming bowls by the fire pit, tearing into their food with bare hands, unbothered by grease slicking their fingers. Weapons are scattered across wooden crates, daggers worn with use, bows strung too tight, blades sharp from necessity, not luxury.

Jimin feels their eyes.

Calculating. Unimpressed. Like they are waiting for him to crack.

Jimin does not lower his gaze. If they expect him to cower, they are mistaken.

Taehyung watches him, something knowing curling at the edge of his mouth. “Relax. They don’t bite.”

“Neither do I,” Jimin murmurs, lifting his chin. “But I still draw blood.”

Taehyung grins. “See, this is why I like you.”

They reach the fire pit. Several men are already gathered, and a familiar voice calls out:

“Well, look who survived the night.”

Jimin’s gaze snaps to Jung Hoseok.

“Didn’t get eaten by the wolves, Your Highness?” Hoseok smirks, taking a slow sip of tea.

Jimin meets his gaze evenly. “They must not have liked the taste.”

Hoseok barks a laugh. “Careful. We might have to fatten you up.”

Jimin does not react. He will not entertain them.

Hoseok glances at Taehyung. “Where’s Yoongi?”

Jimin’s fingers twitch.

The fire crackles. Somewhere in the distance, a blade scrapes against stone, unhurried, steady. 

A figure shifts at the edge of his vision.

Jimin turns.

And there he is.

Min Yoongi. Agust.

He stands a few paces away, bathed in morning light, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, a ceramic cup cradled in one hand. The sun catches the faint glint of his brow scar, the loose strands of dark hair falling across his feline eyes.

He looks infuriatingly well-rested.

Jimin loathes him.

Yoongi watches him, gaze sweeping over Jimin’s immaculate posture, the simmering resentment in his shoulders. A smirk tugs at his lips, slow enough to make Jimin’s skin itch.

“Well,” he murmurs, taking a sip of tea, voice husky from sleep. “Look who’s finally awake.”

Jimin’s pulse jumps.

He hates it.

“Haven’t you run out of things to steal?” he says flatly. “Or is my sleep another thing you plan to take?”

Yoongi hums, stepping closer.

Jimin forces himself to stay still.

“Sweetheart,” Yoongi drawls, tipping his cup toward him, “if I wanted to steal your sleep, I wouldn’t have let you sleep at all.”

A flicker of heat.

Jimin swallows it down.

Yoongi holds his gaze for a beat too long, then turns, walking toward the fire pit. “Taehyung, feed your prince before he faints. Can’t have him dying before we get any use out of him.”

Jimin bristles.

“I am not your—”

Yoongi takes another sip of tea, utterly unbothered. “Eat, Your Highness.”

Jimin wants to throw something at him.

Instead, he sits, back straight, expression poised. He will not let them break him.

Not now.

Not ever.

♕♕♕

Jimin’s first day in the rebel camp stretches endlessly.

The morning’s breakfast had been humiliating enough; surrounded by outlaws, forced to stomach food he did not trust, and worst of all, enduring Yoongi’s insufferable presence.

But the hours that follow are worse.

There is nothing to do.

No attendants to bring fresh clothes, no books, no tea, no silence.

The camp is full of movement, men and women sharpening blades, restringing bows, preparing for whatever lawless endeavors they’ll set out to next. Voices drift from every direction, shouting orders, sharing crude jokes, laughing too freely.

This place is chaos.

It grates on Jimin’s nerves, loud and unrestrained, nothing like the disciplined order of the palace.

At some point, Taehyung had wandered off, not bothering to tell Jimin where he was going, leaving him with only Jungkook as his reluctant babysitter.

Jimin walks aimlessly, skirting the edges of the camp, scanning for weaknesses, gaps in their security. The moment they let their guard down, he’ll be gone.

Jungkook, sitting lazily on an overturned crate nearby, snorts. “Don’t bother.”

Jimin turns, expression cool. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jungkook grins, too knowing, too amused. “I mean, you’re looking for a way out.” He tips his head toward the tree line. “You think you can just slip away into the forest?”

Jimin says nothing.

Jungkook leans forward, voice light. “You wouldn’t last an hour.”

Jimin laughs softly, shaking his head. “You think I’m incapable of surviving without you?”

Jungkook stretches his arms overhead, unconcerned. “I think you’ve never spent a night in the wilderness in your entire life. I think you wouldn’t know how to track food, avoid wild animals, or find shelter before the temperature drops. And, most importantly, I think Yoongi-hyung would catch you before you got five feet past the tree line. Again.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches.

Jungkook grins wider. “You should see him hunt.”

Jimin walks away.

♕♕♕

By late afternoon, frustration coils hot beneath Jimin’s skin.

He tries not to watch the rebels as they move through their routines, but his eyes betray him, tracking their movements.

Near the central fire pit, Hoseok runs drills with a handful of younger fighters, their wooden practice swords clashing in rapid succession. A few yards away, another man, tall and broad-shouldered, his features cut with a certain aristocratic elegance, sits on a wooden stool, grinding herbs with the flat of his dagger.

Jimin watches as he presses a poultice against a wounded rebel’s shoulder, his expression unreadable while the injured man winces.

And then, there is Yoongi.

Jimin catches glimpses of him. He's leaning against a tree, sharpening a dagger; crouched near the armory, inspecting a shipment of stolen weapons; speaking in hushed tones with a rebel Jimin does not recognize.

No one questions him.

No one hesitates before following his orders.

It is unsettling.

Jimin had assumed Yoongi’s leadership was brute-forced, taken by threat or intimidation. But there is something else, something unnerving in the way the others look at him.

With trust.

With respect.

Jimin does not like it.

♕♕♕

By nightfall, he is exhausted.

Not from exertion, but from the sheer weight of being here.

Taehyung finds him just as the evening fires are being lit, tossing him a rolled-up bundle of fabric.

Jimin catches it, frowning. “What is this?”

Taehyung smirks. “A blanket.”

Jimin stares at the rough, scratchy material.

Taehyung claps a hand on his shoulder. “Better get used to it, Your Highness.”

Jimin wants to scream.

Instead, he walks back toward Taehyung’s hut, throws himself onto his mat, and waits for morning.

♕♕♕

The following morning, Jimin wakes to rough hands yanking him upright.

He barely has time to register the early light filtering through the slats of Taehyung’s hut before he’s being dragged outside, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, his robes twisted and wrinkled from a night of restless sleep.

A sharp tug nearly rips his sleeve.

“I can walk,” he snaps, wrenching his arm away.

Jungkook (his captor, apparently) barely looks at him. “Then walk.”

Jimin resists the urge to shove him. He straightens his spine, lifts his chin, and moves forward with all the poise of a prince who still, despite everything, refuses to be handled like common livestock.

Outside, the rebel camp stirs to life. Men and women move between huts, boots kicking up dust, the air thick with the scent of morning fires, damp earth, and the faint spice of dried meat roasting over the flames.

Jimin hates all of it.

He’s led toward the center of the camp, where several figures are already gathered. The fire pit from last night still smolders, gray smoke curling into the cool morning air. Hoseok lounges against a barrel, rolling a coin between his fingers. A second man sits nearby, cross-legged on a wooden crate, an unfinished map spread across his lap.

Jimin stills. The driver.

The man from the wagon, the one with dragon-like eyes and an easy, knowing smirk, sits over a crate, scanning a map.

Jimin’s gaze lingers. He had not expected to see him here, poring over maps like some war strategist, his fingers tracing over inked roads as if he knows them all by heart.

The driver lifts his head. Their eyes meet.

And then, just as smoothly, Yoongi speaks. “Namjoon-ah.”

Jimin’s stomach turns.

So that’s his name.

The knowledge sits uneasily in his chest.

Yoongi nods toward him. “What do you think?”

Namjoon studies Jimin, gaze flicking over his straight-backed posture, the slight tension in his jaw. His eyes are dark, unreadable.

“You’re the crown prince.” It’s not a question.

Jimin meets his gaze evenly. “And?”

Namjoon tilts his head, studying him. “Which means you’ve lived your whole life in the palace.”

Jimin resists the urge to scoff. “Astute observation.”

Namjoon hums, unbothered. “Then tell me, Your Highness, when was the last time you walked through the capital?”

The question is so absurd, so irrelevant, that Jimin doesn’t immediately answer.

A heartbeat passes.

Then:

“I don’t see how that concerns you,” he says smoothly.

Namjoon only watches him, eyes dark and steady.

Hoseok flips his coin. It lands neatly on the back of his hand. “That’s a no, then.”

Jimin’s irritation flares. “I have no reason to wander the streets like a commoner.”

Hoseok grins, amused. “Oh, you should. It’s a wonderful experience. You get to see people starving, begging for scraps while your uncle bleeds them dry.”

Jimin exhales through his nose. “Taxes are necessary for the kingdom’s prosperity.”

Hoseok barks a laugh, turning to Yoongi. “Did you hear that? Necessary.”

Yoongi still hasn’t spoken to him.

Jimin hates that he notices.

Hates that he’s waiting for it.

Namjoon folds the map on his lap, his movements slow. “Tell me, Your Highness,” he says, voice even. “What do you think happens when people can’t pay those necessary taxes?”

Jimin’s jaw tightens. “That is not my concern.”

Then, Yoongi moves.

He pushes off the post he’s been leaning against and steps closer. Not enough to touch, but close enough that Jimin feels the space between them shrink, the warmth of his body lingering at the edge of awareness.

“You’re right,” Yoongi murmurs, voice soft. “It’s not.”

Jimin's heart skips once at the sound of his low voice, betraying him. 

Yoongi leans in slightly, tilting his head, gaze never leaving Jimin’s. “And that’s the problem.”

Jimin clenches his jaw. “If this is some misguided attempt to guilt me—”

“You think this is about guilt?” Yoongi cuts in, finally, finally speaking directly to him. “Do you think the people you rule care about your guilt?”

Jimin does not rule. His uncle does.

But he does not say that.

Because it sounds like an excuse.

And something about the way Yoongi is looking at him makes it feel like he already knows.

Jimin lifts his chin, spine straight. “I have no interest in being lectured by a criminal.”

Yoongi’s lips curve, lazy and knowing.

“Strange,” he says. “You haven’t walked away.”

Jimin grits his teeth. He would have been long gone if it were up to him.

He wants to hit him.

Hoseok sighs, pushing off the barrel. “Alright, alright. That’s enough brooding tension for one morning.” He gestures loosely toward Jimin. “What are we doing with him?”

Yoongi sighs, stepping back, and Jimin refuses to acknowledge the breath he was holding.

“We keep him here,” Yoongi says simply.

Jimin stares.

“What?”

Yoongi’s gaze flickers back to him. “You heard me.”

Jimin’s hands clench at his sides. “For what purpose?”

Yoongi tilts his head. “You tell me.”

Jimin’s pulse spikes. “I—”

“You’re the prince,” Yoongi murmurs. “That makes you valuable. You might not care about your people, but I bet your uncle cares about you.”

Jimin scoffs. “You want to ransom me?”

A slow smile. “Something like that.”

Jimin scoffs. “You’re wasting your time. My uncle will not negotiate with thieves.”

Yoongi watches him. “No,” he says, quiet, almost thoughtful. “He won’t.”

Jimin falters.

Something about the way Yoongi says it, calm and assured, knowing, makes something cold curl in his stomach.

He knows something.

Something Jimin does not.

Before he can speak, Yoongi turns to Jungkook. “Take him back.”

Jungkook groans. “Why me?”

“Because you lost the bet.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

Jimin scowls. “I can walk myself.”

Yoongi’s lips twitch. “Then walk.”

Jimin glares at him.

Then, with all the dignity he can muster, he turns and stalks back toward Taehyung’s hut.

He does not look back.

But he knows, somehow, Yoongi is still watching.

♕♕♕

The sun hangs high overhead by the time Jungkook retrieves Jimin again.

Hours have passed since the morning confrontation, since Yoongi dismissed him and sent him back to Taehyung’s hut like some disobedient child.

Jimin had spent the time waiting.

Waiting for someone to tell him what they planned to do with him. Waiting for an opportunity to escape. Waiting for this wretched, filthy place to disappear so he could wake up in his own bed, surrounded by things that made sense.

But now, he stands here again.

Dragged from Taehyung’s hut and brought to the same open space in the center of camp, surrounded by the same rebel filth.

The difference is this time, he knows what to expect.

Yoongi waits for him, lounging in a wooden chair like it was carved just for him, one leg stretched out, the other bent loosely at the knee. His elbow rests on the armrest, fingers tapping lazily against the worn wood. Completely at ease. Completely unaffected.

Jimin loathes him.

Around them, a handful of rebels linger. Hoseok leans against a barrel, twirling a dagger between his fingers. Jungkook, now free of babysitting duty, stands a few feet away, arms crossed. The tall man Jimin saw earlier, the one who had been tending to the wounded rebel, sits on a crate, absentmindedly rolling up the sleeves of his tunic.

Jimin still doesn’t know his name.

No one speaks.

Yoongi watches him.

Jimin does not look away.

A breeze passes through the camp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. The silence stretches, balanced on the edge of something.

Then, finally, Yoongi sighs.

“Fine,” he says, tilting his head. “Go on, then.”

Jimin frowns. “Go on with what?”

Yoongi lifts a brow. “Whatever it is you’re dying to say. Usually, when people glare at me this much, they have something to get off their chest.”

Jimin exhales through his nose. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Yoongi hums, gaze dragging lazily over him. “Really? Because you look ready to start a war.”

Jimin’s patience frays at the edges. “You mistake me for someone who finds this conversation worth having.”

Yoongi leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You mistake me for someone who needs your permission to have it.”

Jimin’s nails press into his palm.

Hoseok snickers.

Yoongi, as always, looks entirely unbothered.

Jimin schools his expression into one of cold indifference. “If this is an interrogation, I assure you, you’re wasting your time.”

Yoongi smirks. “Interrogation? No. If I were interrogating you, you’d know.”

Jimin lifts his chin. “Then what is this?”

Yoongi tilts his head slightly, studying him. “Consider it a lesson.”

Jimin scoffs. “You think you can teach me something?”

Yoongi leans back, stretching out his legs again. “I think you’ve spent your whole life surrounded by people who tell you what you want to hear.” He gestures vaguely, flicking his fingers in the air. “Yes, Your Highness. Of course, Your Highness. Right away, Your Highness.” He flicks his gaze back to Jimin, gaze sharp. “No one’s ever told you the truth, have they?”

Jimin clenches his jaw.

The truth.

The rebels talk about truth as if they have ownership over it. As if their version of the world is the only one that exists.

Jimin was raised on duty, discipline, and order. On diplomacy and strategy. On knowing when to bend and when to break.

And yet.

Here, standing in a lawless camp of thieves, criminals, and outcasts, he feels something he has never felt in the palace.

Unsteady.

Yoongi sees it. Jimin knows he does.

And Yoongi, insufferable as ever, does not let it go.

“There’s something you don’t know,” Yoongi says, voice light, tapping a finger against the armrest. “Something about your uncle.”

Jimin keeps his expression carefully blank. “I don’t have time for riddles.”

“Good,” Yoongi says easily. “Neither do I.”

The fire crackles. Somewhere, a blade scrapes against whetstone.

Yoongi’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Your uncle,” he says, “is planning to kill the king.”

Jimin keeps his expression carefully blank. “You already mentioned that.” His tone is flat. “And I still think you're lying.”

Yoongi smirks, slow and lazy. “I could be.”

Jimin’s pulse spikes. “Then why say it?”

Yoongi leans in slightly, resting his chin against his hand. “Because a part of you knows I’m not."

Something beneath Jimin’s ribs pulls tight.

“My father is still fighting at the northern border,” Jimin says slowly, voice intentionally even. “He’s nowhere near my uncle.”

Yet the unease curls quietly in his chest. His father’s letters had stopped weeks ago, silence stretching longer than usual. He should have returned by now.

Yoongi watches him, eyes dark with certainty. “Then why do you look like you doubt that?"

Jimin says nothing, but the tension inside him deepens, coiling tighter.

Yoongi watches him for a moment longer, then sits back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Lesson’s over.”

Jimin stares at him. “That’s it?”

Yoongi shrugs. “That’s it.”

Jimin exhales slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders. “You expect me to believe an accusation with no proof?”

“I expect nothing from you,” Yoongi says, gaze flicking over him, unreadable once more. “But let’s make a bet.”

Jimin lifts a brow. “A bet?”

Yoongi’s lips curl. “You stay here. You listen. You watch.” He tilts his head slightly, gaze hard. “If I’m lying, you’ll know soon enough.”

Jimin does not agree.

But he does not disagree, either.

Yoongi smiles like that’s answer enough.

“Take him back,” he says lazily, waving a hand.

Jungkook groans. “Again?”

“Yes, again.”

Jimin does not fight it when Jungkook gestures for him to move. He turns, walks away without looking back.

But the weight of Yoongi’s words follows him.

He can’t help himself wonder.

If I’m lying, you’ll know soon enough.

What if he isn’t?

♕♕♕

Jimin does not think about Yoongi’s words.

Or at least, he tells himself he doesn’t.

But long after he has been dismissed, after he has stalked back to Taehyung’s hut with his head held high and his spine straight, they remain lodged in his mind like a splinter beneath the skin.

Your uncle is planning to kill the king.

It is absurd. A blatant lie. The ramblings of a criminal who knows nothing of the palace, nothing of the men who rule it.

But.

Jimin sighs and turns his attention back to his surroundings.

It is nearing sunset, and the rebel camp is stirring again. The late afternoon lull has passed, and in its wake, the familiar sounds of movement fill the air. Voices call out over the clatter of wooden bowls, the rhythmic sharpening of blades. The scent of roasted meat mingles with the faint, damp musk of the forest.

Jimin is not escorted this time.

Jungkook had led him back earlier, but after ensuring he returned to Taehyung’s hut, the younger rebel had muttered something about patrol duty and disappeared.

Taehyung, on the other hand, had been gone since the day before, vanishing into the forest with a bow slung over his shoulder. No one had said when he would return, or if he would at all.

In his absence, Jungkook had taken over the role of reluctant warden, sleeping in the hut, watching Jimin with the occasional unimpressed glance.

Which means, for the first time since he arrived, Jimin is alone.

Not unobserved, of course. He can feel the way some of the rebels still glance at him in passing, their eyes lingering, watchful, wary. But no one is actively guarding him.

The realization prickles beneath his skin.

Is it a mistake? A lapse in their security? Or is it intentional, another one of Yoongi’s games, meant to see what he will do?

Jimin refuses to give them the satisfaction of seeing him hesitate.

He moves forward, posture straight, steps even. If anyone notices his presence, they do not stop him.

And so he watches.

At the center of the camp, the large fire pit is already burning. Hoseok stands nearby, watching as a group of younger rebels spar. Their movements are fast, not untrained, but disciplined. Controlled. The air rings with the clash of wooden swords, the thud of boots pivoting against packed dirt.

Jimin lingers for a moment, observing the way Hoseok’s gaze flickers between them, quick and discerning.

“Again,” he calls, arms crossed. “Left foot back. Eyes up.”

The fighters adjust.

Jimin had assumed the rebels relied on brute force and recklessness, but there is a pattern to their movements, a structure to the way they train.

Something about that unsettles him.

He moves on.

Near the edge of the camp, Jimin sees the tall man from earlier, the medic.

He sits on a wooden stool, sleeves rolled up, hands steady as he wraps fresh bandages around a rebel’s arm. A small table beside him holds a neatly arranged row of supplies: poultices, dried herbs, clean strips of linen.

Jimin lingers just out of sight, watching.

The injured man winces as the medic pulls the bandage tight. “Yah! You’re worse than the chief, Seokjin-ah,” he mutters.

Jimin stiffens.

Chief?

The medic, Seokjin, hums, unconcerned. “Yoongi’s patience for injuries is worse than mine. Consider yourself lucky.”

Jimin’s pulse spikes.

Chief.

Not thief or criminal or traitor. The word unsettles something deep in his chest.

Jimin turns away.

He does not realize where he is walking until he hears a familiar voice.

“Didn’t think you’d wander far.”

Jimin stops.

Just ahead, leaning against a wooden railing, Yoongi watches him.

Of course.

Jimin keeps his expression blank. “I am not wandering.”

Yoongi lifts a brow. “No?”

Jimin steps closer, gaze unwavering. “I was told I am your prisoner, not your pet.”

Yoongi smirks. “A prisoner who isn’t being guarded? Seems like a poor strategy, don’t you think?”

Jimin hates that he has no response to that.

Because it is true.

No one had stopped him. No one had drawn a blade or questioned why he was walking freely through the camp.

Yoongi tilts his head. “Find anything interesting?”

Jimin does not flinch. He meets Yoongi’s gaze evenly, lets a slow, cold smile pull at the corner of his lips.

“Yes,” he says. “I learned that your little army is just a band of orphans and cowards, playing war in the woods.”

The words are meant to be cruel. They are meant to cut.

But Yoongi does not blink.

Instead, his mouth curves, slow and knowing.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low. “Keep looking too closely, and you might learn something you don’t want to know.”

Jimin exhales. He does not allow himself to react.

He will not give Yoongi the satisfaction.

Without another word, he turns and walks away.

But his steps are not as steady as before.

♕♕♕

It has been two days since Jimin arrived at the rebel camp.

Two days of stale rice and dried meat. Two days of restless sleep on a straw mat, of watching the rebels move around him like he does not exist. Two days of waiting. For what, he does not know.

On the third afternoon, the disturbance finds him.

It starts as a murmur, faint at first… voices layered over the usual camp noise, too hushed to catch from a distance. Then comes the shift in energy, something rippling through the space like an unspoken signal. Rebels moving toward the camp’s outer edge, their footfalls heavier than before.

Jimin watches from where he stands, near the main fire pit.

Something is happening.

He sees Yoongi first.

The rebel leader strides past, expression unreadable, movements hurried but controlled. Hoseok follows close behind, murmuring something Jimin cannot hear. Namjoon, Seokjin, and Jungkook are already ahead, waiting.

Jimin hesitates.

And then, because no one stops him, he follows.

At the camp’s entrance, a small group of ragged-looking villagers stands huddled together.

Jimin slows his steps.

Their clothes are threadbare, hanging loose over thin frames. Faces sallow, skin stretched too tightly over bones. A woman clutches a small child to her chest, her hands shaking where they press against his back.

Jimin realizes what he is looking at before anyone says a word.

They are starving.

A man steps forward, bowing low despite the way his knees tremble. His voice cracks when he speaks. “Please… we were told you could help.”

Jimin’s stomach twists.

He waits for the mockery.

Waits for Yoongi to sneer, to demand what these people could possibly offer in return for food.

But Yoongi does none of those things.

Instead, he exhales through his nose, tilts his head slightly, then gestures to Hoseok. “Give them something.”

Hoseok nods, already moving toward the food stores. Seokjin steps forward, crouching in front of the child, his gaze sweeping over him in quick assessment.

Jimin watches, silent.

This is not how thieves behave.

This is not how criminals behave.

A bowl of rice is pressed into the woman’s hands. She bows so deeply Jimin thinks she might collapse. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Yoongi says nothing. He only watches, arms folded over his chest, gaze hard and distant.

Jimin forces himself to speak. “Where are they from?”

Namjoon, standing at Yoongi’s side, glances at him. “A village east of the capital. The king’s tax collectors took everything last month.”

Jimin’s hands curl into fists.

He does not flinch, does not react, does not let the words settle into his skin.

Because the king is not ruling.

Because it is not the king’s tax collectors.

It is his uncle’s.

The woman weeps as she lifts a spoonful of rice to the child’s lips.

Jimin cannot look away.

♕♕♕

The camp settles back into routine.

It always does.

The starving villagers have been fed, their wounds treated, their gratitude given. They are resting now, some sitting close to the fires, others tucked away in borrowed tents. The rebels move around them like this is normal. Like this happens often enough that it does not shake them.

But Jimin, he cannot let it go.

He lingers near the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the ground. He tells himself he is not thinking about the woman’s trembling hands, the hollow look in her child’s eyes.

But he is.

He is.

“You look like someone just slapped you across the face.”

Jimin turns abruptly.

Seokjin stands a few steps away, a bundle of herbs tucked under his arm. His sleeves are rolled up again, forearms streaked with faint traces of dried medicine. His expression is unreadable, but there is something knowing in his gaze.

Jimin’s lips press together. “Should I be expecting one?”

Seokjin huffs a quiet laugh. “Not from me. I don’t hit people who are already in the middle of a crisis.”

Jimin exhales through his nose. “I’m not in a crisis.”

Seokjin hums, shifting his grip on the herbs. “You keep telling yourself that.”

Jimin clenches his jaw. “Did you need something?”

Seokjin gestures toward the villagers. “Just wondering if you plan on standing here all night, looking miserable.”

Jimin’s patience frays. “You act as if this is normal.”

Seokjin tilts his head. “It is.”

Jimin scoffs. “Starving people turning to outlaws for help?”

Seokjin sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You’ve spent your whole life inside the palace walls, haven’t you?”

Jimin lifts his chin. “I have spent my whole life fulfilling my duty.”

Seokjin watches him, then shakes his head, not unkindly. “And somehow, you still don’t know a damn thing.”

Jimin bristles. “Excuse me?”

Seokjin nods toward the villagers. “You asked if this is normal.” His voice is quieter now, less biting. “It is. And not just here. In the city, in the villages. People who can’t afford taxes, people who have to choose between feeding their families and keeping their land.”

Jimin forces his shoulders to stay straight. “There are ways to appeal to the court.”

Seokjin looks at him. Just looks at him.

Jimin’s stomach twists.

Because there is no mockery in his expression, no smugness, no cruelty. Just exhaustion.

“You really believe that,” Seokjin murmurs. “You really think they would listen.”

Jimin holds his gaze. “If they don’t, then they are failing their responsibilities.”

Seokjin lets out a soft, humorless chuckle. “The palace doesn’t fail its people, Your Highness. It just doesn’t see them at all.”

The words hit Jimin somewhere deep, somewhere uncomfortable.

Seokjin must notice the flicker of something on his face because he steps back, adjusting the herbs under his arm. His tone lightens, as if they were talking about something inconsequential.

“Anyway. You should eat.”

Jimin blinks. “What?”

Seokjin nods toward the fire pit. “Dinner’s being served. You might be a hostage, but starving you would be counterproductive.”

Jimin scowls. “I’m not hungry.”

Seokjin smirks. “Suit yourself. But if you faint, I’m not carrying you.”

Jimin watches him go.

He does not follow.

But the next time he glances at the villagers, huddled together in quiet relief, something in his chest feels heavier than before.

♕♕♕

Jimin wakes to movement.

A rustle of fabric, the creak of wooden planks shifting under weight. The faint scent of sun-warmed leather and damp earth lingers in the air, unfamiliar yet oddly recognizable.

He blinks, eyes adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the hut’s slats.

Then, a voice:

“You sleep like a corpse.”

Jimin jerks upright.

Taehyung crouches near the door, arms draped over his knees, a grin tugging at his lips. He looks well-rested, annoyingly so, his hair ruffled from the wind, his quiver slung lazily over one shoulder.

Jimin exhales, slow and controlled, smoothing a hand over his disheveled robes. “Where have you been?”

Taehyung tilts his head. “Missed me?”

Jimin glares.

Taehyung grins wider. “I was out doing actual work while you were busy playing hostage. You should try it sometime.”

Jimin chooses not to dignify that with a response. Instead, he glances at the bundle Taehyung has dropped beside him. A neatly folded set of clothes and a plain but clean towel.

He frowns. “What is this?”

Taehyung plops down cross-legged, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “A gift.”

Jimin lifts the fabric between his fingers. It’s rougher than he’s used to, simple cotton with no embroidery, no silks or gold-threaded designs. He has never worn anything like it.

But it is clean.

And Jimin, despite himself, despite everything, wants to be clean.

His silence must say enough, because Taehyung’s lips curl, something knowing flickering in his gaze. “It’s warm today,” he muses, stretching his arms overhead. “The river’s not too far. Might be a good time for a bath.”

Jimin hates how easily Taehyung reads him.

But his skin itches with dried sweat and dirt, his clothes still stiff with the grime of travel. He hasn’t bathed properly since arriving here.

He is too proud to admit it.

Taehyung sees right through him anyway.

He nudges Jimin’s knee with his foot. “I’d go sooner rather than later. Before someone gets the bright idea to make you scrub pots.”

Jimin lifts a brow. “Would they dare?”

Taehyung grins. “They might, if Yoongi puts them up to it.”

Jimin’s irritation spikes.

Taehyung laughs, pushing himself to his feet. “The river’s to the east. There’s a rocky bank where the water’s deep enough to soak properly. You won’t be disturbed.”

Jimin hesitates.

But his fingers tighten around the clean fabric.

And in the end, pride means little against the need to feel like himself again.

He stands.

The walk to the river is short, the narrow path winding through the trees, the scent of damp earth thick in the morning air. Sunlight filters through the canopy, flickering over his skin as he moves, the bundle of clothes tucked beneath his arm.

By the time he reaches the clearing, the river stretches before him. Calm, undisturbed, glinting beneath the midday light.

The water is colder than he expects.

Jimin sucks in a breath as he steps deeper, the chill seeping into his skin. The sun is warm overhead, its golden light spilling over the rippling surface, but the water itself is biting, unforgiving, a shock against his heated body.

He breathes out, slow and steady, willing himself to adjust.

The river runs through a small clearing, flanked by tall trees and jagged rock formations, their edges smoothed by years of flowing water. Birds call softly from the branches above, and Jimin feels like he finally has a space to breathe. 

There is no one watching. No guards, no rebels.

Just the wind, the water, and his own reflection staring back at him.

Jimin steps forward until the water reaches his waist. His muscles tense against the cold, but he forces himself to relax.

It is not the steaming baths of the palace.

It is not perfumed oils and silk robes, attendants waiting at the edge of a jade-tiled pool.

But it is clean.

And right now, that is enough.

He submerges himself fully, pushing his hair back as he emerges, water streaming down his bare shoulders.

The dirt, the sweat, the weight of the past few days, he lets it all be carried away by the current.

For the first time in days, he breathes without feeling trapped in his own skin.

He takes his time, methodical and unhurried. He scrubs away the grime clinging to his body, runs his hands through his hair until it feels weightless again. The sun warms the exposed skin of his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders, the ridges of lean muscle carved from years of training.

When he is done, he lingers.

The river laps gently against his waist as he closes his eyes, tilting his face toward the sky.

For a moment, just a moment, he lets himself forget.

Forget that he is being held against his will. Forget the rebels, the camp, the weight of Yoongi’s words pressing into his chest.

Just water, and sky, and breath.

Nothing else.

It’s the silence that unsettles him first.

A feeling like being seen.

Jimin opens his eyes.

Then, movement.

A figure stands near the trees.

Jimin freezes.

Near the rocky bank, barely a few steps from where he left his towel and clothes, Yoongi watches him.

Jimin’s pulse spikes.

He does not move.

Neither does Yoongi.

The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating. The sunlight filters through the leaves, casting shadows over Yoongi’s face, but his gaze is unmistakable.

Dark. Steady.

Unapologetic.

Heat floods Jimin’s chest, not from embarrassment, but something else. Something heavier.

He breathes out, steady but tense.

Yoongi does not look away.

Jimin clenches his jaw. “How long have you been standing there?”

Yoongi tilts his head. “Long enough.”

The way Yoongi says it.

Low, lazy, like a slow drag of a blade over bare skin.

Jimin hates the way something inside him coils tight, heat rippling beneath his skin, spreading lower.

The water is cold, but his body does not feel cold at all.

He forces himself to lift his chin, spine straight, gathering every ounce of dignity.

“Enjoying the view?”

Yoongi’s lips curl, slow and unhurried. “Very much.”

Jimin nearly chokes.

Yoongi’s gaze drags over him, taking in the wet strands of hair clinging to his neck, the curve of his bare shoulders, the droplets of water trailing down his skin. He does not speak, does not mock, does not try to hide the fact that he is looking.

Jimin can feel it, the weight of his attention, the slow, lingering way it settles over him. 

Heat rises to the surface of his skin, crawling up his throat, pooling low in his stomach.

The water, once refreshing, is now too cold, sinking into his bones.

His fingers twitch at his sides, tension coiling beneath his skin, tight and unbearable.

Jimin lets out a shuddering breath. “That’s enough watching. You can leave now.”

Yoongi tilts his head, expression unreadable. “Why?”

Jimin clenches his jaw. “Because I told you to.”

Yoongi does not move.

Jimin grits his teeth, the cold biting at his skin. He cannot stay in the water forever.

Yoongi knows it.

The bastard is waiting.

Jimin tries to even out his breathing, forcing control into every movement. Then, with as much composure as he can muster, he strides toward the bank, water cascading down his body as he steps out.

He does not rush.

Even as the air bites at his damp skin, even as Yoongi’s gaze flickers downward, dragging over him like a slow touch, Jimin does not rush.

Only when he reaches for the towel does Yoongi speak.

“You have nothing I haven’t seen before, princess.”

Jimin’s fingers falter.

A slow, burning heat crawls up his spine, pooling low in his stomach.

He hates the way his body reacts.

The towel is rough against his palms as he yanks it over his hips, wrapping it too quickly, too forcefully. But it does nothing to block the feeling of Yoongi’s eyes on him.

Jimin hears it.

The subtle inhale of breath, the quiet gulp.

When Jimin looks up, Yoongi’s gaze is lower than before, his jaw tight, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

Jimin feels his pulse stutter.

For one fleeting second, Yoongi looks like he wants to devour him.

But then, the moment passes.

Yoongi blinks, expression smoothing over, and the smirk is back, slow and knowing.

Jimin wants to wipe that look off his face. 

He lifts his chin, gathering every ounce of control. “Finished?”

Yoongi pauses.

Then, lips curling, he steps back. “For now.” But his eyes are still on Jimin, gaze dragging over him like a slow, unhurried touch.

Jimin swallows.

His body reacts against his will.

And Yoongi, the bastard, knows it.

The smirk deepens, something too amused, too satisfied flickering in his expression.

Jimin’s pulse thunders in his ears. He turns away before he does something reckless.

♕♕♕

In the days that follow, Jimin does not go looking for Yoongi.

But somehow, he keeps finding him.

Or maybe, Yoongi is simply everywhere.

Not in a way that turns heads or fills a space, but in a way that settles. Like something steady, something certain. Even when he is silent, even when he is still, there is something about him that pulls the camp’s movements around him like an unseen force.

Jimin watches.

From the shaded edge of the clearing, seated near the fire, walking past the armory, he watches.

And the more he watches, the more he sees.

♕♕♕

The first time it happens is when a widow comes to the camp. 

Jimin doesn’t know her name, only that she looks young, maybe thirty at most, with a child balanced on her hip and grief settled into her face like an old wound.

She approaches Yoongi near the supply tent, speaking in hushed, strained tones. Jimin doesn’t mean to listen, but their voices carry in the open space, and something in the way the woman clutches the child closer keeps him from looking away.

“I just…” she hesitates, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her sleeve. “I know it’s selfish to ask. I know you’ve already done so much. But my boy… he hasn’t eaten since yesterday, and the rations…”

Her voice falters, as if she cannot bear to finish the sentence.

Yoongi does not react immediately.

Jimin expects a sigh, a reprimand, a reminder that supplies are stretched thin as it is.

But Yoongi only nods.

Then he takes the dagger from his belt and presses it into her palm.

The widow blinks. “What—”

“It’s a good blade,” Yoongi says, matter-of-fact. “Sharp. You can trade it in town, maybe get enough for a few weeks’ worth of rice.”

She stares at him. “But, this is yours.”

Yoongi shrugs. “I have others.”

The woman clutches the handle, her knuckles white. For a moment, she looks like she might argue, like she might tell him that this is too much, that she cannot possibly accept it.

But then, instead, she bows her head.

“Thank you.”

Jimin expects Yoongi to brush it off, to act as if the gesture means nothing.

Instead, he reaches forward, quick and brief, barely noticeable, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind the child’s ear.

The boy blinks up at him, wide-eyed.

Jimin feels something twist in his chest.

He does not stay to see anything more.

♕♕♕

Later, Yoongi helps a rebel with an injured leg, sitting beside him in the dirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Earlier, Jimin had seen him inspecting food supplies, adjusting rations to make sure no one went without.

Before that, he had been kneeling by an unconscious fighter, pressing a damp cloth to their forehead as Seokjin checked for fever.

Jimin does not understand him.

Criminals should not act like this.

Outlaws should not carry the weight of an entire camp on their shoulders with steady, unshaken hands.

Jimin had spent his whole life being told that men like Yoongi were lawless, reckless, driven by selfish ambition.

But nothing Yoongi does is selfish.

And Jimin does not know what to do with that.

♕♕♕

Jimin refuses to ask for help.

Which is probably why he ends up seated on a crate, bleeding through his sleeve, while Yoongi crouches in front of him, unimpressed.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

Jimin glares. “I barely feel it.”

Yoongi flicks his gaze to the thin cut along Jimin’s forearm, where a slow trickle of blood drips toward his wrist.

“Right. And I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”

Jimin huffs, turning his head away. “It’s nothing.”

It had been a stupid accident.

Some rebel had been repairing a fence post. Jimin had been distracted, too caught up in his own tangled thoughts to watch where he was going. The next thing he knew, a splintered edge had scraped against his skin, sharp enough to sting.

It is nothing.

But Yoongi, apparently, has no plans to let him suffer in peace.

“Hold still.”

Jimin does not move, but he does not make it easy, either.

Yoongi pulls a strip of cloth from his belt and tears it cleanly in two. Jimin pretends not to notice the way his fingers twitch at the sound, not to think about how easily Yoongi’s hands could break something much more fragile.

Then, a touch.

Warm fingers against his wrist.

Jimin stiffens.

Yoongi’s hands are rough and calloused but steady.

Jimin should pull away.

He doesn’t.

Yoongi tilts his arm slightly, inspecting the cut, thumb pressing lightly against the skin just below it. His touch is firm but surprisingly careful. There is no hesitation in his movements, no unnecessary pressure.

Jimin watches.

For all of Yoongi’s cocky arrogance, his biting words and knowing smirks, this is different.

This is quiet.

It unsettles Jimin more than the wound itself.

Then, the sting.

Jimin sucks in a sharp breath. “Are you actually trying to make it worse?”

Yoongi doesn’t look up. “You’re the one who got distracted and walked into a fence, Your Highness.”

Jimin scowls. “I wasn’t distracted.”

“Mm.” Yoongi presses a poultice against the wound, securing it with one hand. “Must have been deep in thought, then.”

Jimin narrows his eyes. “What exactly do you think I was thinking about?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Me, probably.”

Jimin splutters. “I was not!”

Yoongi glances up.

Jimin stops.

The space between them tightens, something heavy settling between the inches they haven’t closed.

He grips the edge of the crate beneath him, forces himself to look away. “You’re good at this.”

Yoongi hums, tying the bandage off. “People get hurt. I fix them.”

Jimin frowns. “Isn’t that Seokjin’s job?”

Yoongi’s lips curve, just barely. “Seokjin sleeps, sometimes. And people don’t stop bleeding just because he’s not around.”

Jimin watches the way his fingers move, efficient and unhurried, like he’s done this more times than he can count.

“Where did you learn?”

Yoongi pauses, just for a second. Then: “I didn’t have a palace full of doctors growing up.”

Jimin presses his lips together.

It is not a real answer. But it is enough.

Yoongi’s fingers linger for a second longer before he pulls away.

“There,” he says.

Jimin flexes his fingers, testing the bandage. The cut still stings, but the warmth of Yoongi’s touch lingers.

He clears his throat. “I could have done it myself.”

Yoongi stands, brushing dust off his palms. “Maybe. But you didn’t.”

Jimin clenches his jaw. “Because you swooped in before I had the chance.”

Yoongi grins, slow and infuriating. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Jimin watches him go, fingers twitching where they rest against his thigh.

The air feels colder without him.

♕♕♕

➳ yoongi

Yoongi should be thinking about supplies.

He should be going over their dwindling food stores, the weapons that need repairing, the guards who need rest. He should be deciding whether to send another scout to the northern villages, to see if any of their allies can spare rice or cloth or medicine.

But instead, his eyes keep drifting toward Jimin.

It’s a problem.

Jimin walks alongside Jungkook, hands clasped behind his back as if he’s inspecting the camp, not just living in it. Jungkook gestures toward something, probably explaining how the training grounds work, but Jimin barely looks. He’s listening, but not invested. Yoongi can tell.

Yoongi also notices the way the light catches in Jimin’s hair when he turns his head, the way he holds himself, shoulders squared, chin lifted, like he’s still wearing silk instead of borrowed linen.

It’s irritating.

Not just the fact that he’s looking, but the fact that he keeps looking.

Yoongi lets out an exasperated sigh and turns back to the matter at hand.

Across from him, Hoseok sits on a low stool, flipping a dagger between his fingers. “You’re staring.”

Yoongi does not look up. “You’re imagining things.”

“Mm.” The dagger spins once more, metal glinting. “That’s unfortunate. Thought maybe you finally had something interesting to say.”

Yoongi ignores him. Instead, he shifts his focus back to the map between them, tracing a finger along the worn parchment. “We’ll need to move some of the food stores. If another flood comes, the cave by the eastern ridge—”

“Oh, sure, let’s talk logistics.” Hoseok leans back, spinning the dagger effortlessly between his fingers. “I’m just saying, if you’re going to make eyes at the prince, you might as well be useful and tell him where we keep the rice.”

Yoongi does not dignify that with a response.

Before Hoseok can press further, footsteps approach.

“Next time, you can be the royal babysitter,” Jungkook mutters as he and Jimin stop near the fire pit. “I didn’t sign up to be a tour guide.”

Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “You could have just let me wander.”

Jungkook scoffs. “Sure. Because explaining why the king’s son got eaten by wolves would be a fun conversation.”

Jimin huffs. “I was just looking around.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “You stared at a pile of firewood for five minutes and asked if it had historical significance.”

Yoongi snorts before he can stop himself.

Jimin shoots him a look. “I was making conversation.”

Hoseok grins. “Touching. Our prince wants to bond with the common folk.”

Jimin crosses his arms. “You’d miss me if I died.”

Yoongi tilts his head. “You seem awfully confident about that.”

Jimin meets his gaze, unshaken. “You didn’t let me starve. You fixed my wound. I think you’d at least feel guilty.”

Yoongi considers him for a moment, then shrugs. “I don’t like cleaning up messes.”

Jimin rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue.

Hoseok watches the exchange, lips twitching in amusement. Before he can comment, a voice cuts through the air. Lighter, familiar.

“Miss me?”

Yoongi doesn’t even need to turn. He knows that voice.

Taehyung stands a few feet away, dust clinging to the hem of his tunic, hair messier than usual. His smile is wide, easy, but Yoongi sees the tension behind it.

Something is wrong.

Jungkook moves first, stepping closer, eyes scanning Taehyung’s face. “You look like you’ve been dragged through mud.”

Taehyung hums, stepping forward. “Palace floors are a little cleaner than these, but what can you do.”

Jimin watches him carefully. “You got inside.”

Taehyung grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course I did.”

Jimin exhales, relieved. “And my uncle?”

Taehyung’s expression doesn’t change. But his fingers twitch at his sides.

“Ah,” he says, tone light, unreadable. “That’s the thing, Your Highness. He’s not just coming to rescue you.”

A beat of silence.

Then:

“He’s using this as an excuse to wipe out the camp.”

The words settle heavily between them, turning the afternoon stillness sharp, brittle.

Jungkook is the first to break it. “What?”

Taehyung sighs, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off the weight of his own words. “I heard it myself. Your dear uncle is sending an entire regiment, more than enough to flatten this place. Said he wants to ‘purge the forest of vermin.’” His lips curve, but there’s no humor in it.

Jimin doesn’t say a word.

But Yoongi watches his face closely, taking in the way his fingers curl at his sides, the way his throat bobs with a barely swallowed breath.

He’s shaken.

Good.

Maybe now he’ll understand.

Hoseok exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “So he was never planning to bargain.”

Taehyung’s expression darkens. “Not for a second.”

Jungkook lets out a sharp breath. “Bastard’s been waiting for an excuse to do this for years.”

Yoongi nods, gaze dropping to the map still spread out in front of him. It’s not a surprise, not really. He’s always known what kind of man Jimin’s uncle is. The only question now is:

“How long do we have?”

Taehyung’s smile fades completely. “A few days. Maybe less.”

A heavy pause.

Then Hoseok speaks. “So what do we do?”

Yoongi straightens, expression unreadable. “We start preparing.”

Jungkook frowns. “Preparing for what?”

Yoongi meets his gaze. “To move.”

The reaction is instant.

Jungkook tenses. Hoseok’s jaw tightens. Even Taehyung’s easy demeanor falters, his fingers twitching against his hip.

“We’re not leaving.” Jungkook’s voice is firm, unyielding.

“We don’t have a choice,” Yoongi counters, voice just as steady.

Hoseok shakes his head. “We built this camp with our own hands.”

“And we’ll build another.”

“That’s not the point.” Hoseok’s voice hardens. “If we keep running, we’ll never stop. We’ll be fugitives forever.”

Yoongi holds his gaze, his own jaw clenching. He understands. No one wants to leave. They’ve carved out a home here. A life, however fragile. But what choice do they have?

Jimin finally speaks.

His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the tension like a blade.

“You don’t have to run.”

All eyes turn to him.

Jimin lifts his chin. “Let me go back.”

The campfire crackles between them, the only sound in the stunned silence that follows.

Yoongi exhales slowly. He should’ve seen this coming.

Jimin meets his gaze, expression unreadable. But Yoongi can see the resolve in his eyes.

“I know my uncle,” Jimin says. “He won’t stop until he’s gotten what he wants. But if I go back, I can do something.”

Jungkook scoffs. “Like what? Throw a royal tantrum? Ask him nicely to call off the attack?”

Jimin doesn’t react to the jab. “I can gather information. See if he had a hand in my father’s disappearance.”

Yoongi’s eyes narrow. “So you finally decided to believe me?”

Jimin hesitates, then nods. “I don’t know. But I need to find out.”

His fingers tighten around his sleeves.

“I understand now,” he continues. “About the rebels. About this fight. And I can help. From inside the palace. I can pass along information, send messages through Taehyung.”

Hoseok watches him carefully. “And we’re supposed to trust you?”

Jimin doesn’t flinch. “You don’t have to. But you don’t have a better option.”

Another silence.

Then Yoongi sighs. “You’d leave at dawn.”

Jimin nods, something flickering across his face too quickly for Yoongi to read.

Yoongi leans back, glancing toward Namjoon’s hut. “Namjoon will take you back.”

Jimin doesn’t argue.

He just looks away.

And Yoongi hates the strange, twisting feeling in his gut when he realizes that he doesn’t want Jimin to leave.

➳➳➳

The camp is quiet, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only comes when the weight of the next day is too heavy to sleep through.

Yoongi should be resting, but his thoughts keep circling the same useless paths, and lying still only makes it worse.

So he gets up.

Hoseok barely lifts a brow when Yoongi tells him to get some sleep. He just claps a hand against Yoongi’s shoulder, mutters something about terrible habits, and disappears into the night.

Yoongi takes a slow lap around camp, moving through familiar paths, letting the rhythm of his steps settle the mess in his head.

Then, he sees him.

Jimin is standing outside Taehyung’s hut, arms crossed, pacing slow, restless circles. His hair is loose, strands falling over his face, catching in the faint glow of the fire pit still burning at the camp’s center.

Yoongi watches for a moment, then steps closer.

"Can't sleep, Your Highness?"

Jimin stills, turning toward him. His expression flickers, first startled, then something else, something unreadable.

“Neither can you, it seems.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Happens.”

Jimin lets out a sighs, gaze flicking toward the fire. He hesitates, then moves.

Yoongi follows.

The embers crackle as they step into the firelight, the warmth licking at their skin, casting shadows over their faces. Jimin doesn’t sit. He stands, arms still folded, fingers gripping at his sleeves.

“I leave at dawn.” His voice is steady, but there’s something in it. Something tight.

Yoongi nods. “I know.”

Jimin looks at him. “And?”

Yoongi tilts his head. “And what?”

Jimin’s jaw tightens. “You don’t have a damn thing to say about it.”

Yoongi exhales, running a hand through his hair. “What do you want me to say?”

Jimin’s eyes flash. “I don’t know, Yoongi. Maybe something. Anything.”

Yoongi watches him carefully.

Jimin is frustrated. And underneath that, buried so deep it would be easy to miss, he is hurt.

Something in Yoongi’s chest twists.

But what is there to say?

It’s already decided. Jimin will leave. He will return to the palace. He will play the part of the obedient prince while working in secret to undermine his uncle. It is the right move, the only move.

Yoongi knows this.

But still.

He breathes out slowly, shifting his weight. “Do you want me to ask you to stay?”

Jimin stiffens.

Yoongi watches him, unreadable. “Would that make it easier?”

Jimin’s throat bobs. He doesn’t answer.

Yoongi steps closer. “Or would it just make you feel worse?”

Jimin’s breath stutters.

And then something snaps.

Jimin moves first.

One second, he is standing stiff and silent, gaze burning, hands clenched into fists. The next, he is closing the space between them, fingers curling into the front of Yoongi’s tunic.

It is not soft, the way Jimin grabs him. It’s sudden, forceful, like a decision made in the span of a single breath. His hands fist into Yoongi’s tunic, and before Yoongi can react their mouths crash together.

The fire is the first thing Yoongi tastes, the lingering heat on Jimin’s lips, the burn of something unspoken, something unbearable.

Jimin kisses him like he means to erase the distance between them entirely. Yoongi sighs against his mouth and then, just as quickly, his body betrays him.

His hands move on their own, gripping Jimin’s waist, pulling him in.

Too close. Too much.

Jimin doesn’t falter. He presses closer, his breath warm, uneven. Yoongi feels the way his fingers tighten in his clothes, how his body leans into every point of contact.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Yoongi knows this is a mistake.

But his body doesn’t care.

His grip slides higher, fingers curling around the nape of Jimin’s neck, tilting his head, deepening the kiss until he can feel Jimin’s pulse flutter against his skin.

The fire crackles beside them.

Yoongi swears he can hear it in his own chest.

Jimin lets out a sound against his lips, a quiet, wrecked thing. Barely audible, but Yoongi feels it everywhere.

Heat pools low in his stomach. His fingers twitch, his restraint slipping like sand through his hands.

Then, Jimin shifts.

The smallest movement, but it’s enough. His body presses flush against Yoongi’s, heat bleeding through every layer between them.

Something snaps.

Yoongi grits his teeth and yanks himself back.

He’s breathing hard. Too hard. His forehead presses against Jimin’s, their breaths mingling in the cool air.

Jimin doesn’t move.

Yoongi can feel the way his chest rises and falls unevenly, the way his hands are still curled into his tunic.

For a second, he almost lets himself give in again.

Instead, he sighs, voice hoarse. “Go to bed, Jimin.”

Jimin blinks, dazed. “You’re…” His voice catches. “You’re seriously pulling away right now?”

Yoongi huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a thumb absently over Jimin’s wrist before stepping back. “You leave in a few hours.”

Jimin swallows. His throat works around words he doesn’t say.

He clenches his jaw. “And after that?”

Yoongi studies him. Then, finally, he exhales and puts distance between them.

“When will I see you again?” Jimin asks, quieter now.

Yoongi tilts his head. His lips curl, small and unreadable.

“Soon enough.”

Jimin sucks in a breath, then scowls. “I hate you.”

Yoongi smirks. “That’s the spirit.”

Then he turns and walks away, leaving Jimin standing alone in the firelight.

His pulse is still pounding in his ears.

His lips are still burning.

Damn it all.

➳➳➳

Yoongi does not say goodbye.

He could have.

He should have.

But when the sun breaks over the horizon and Jimin rides out of camp, he is not there to watch him go.

Instead, he sharpens his blade. Methodical. Precise. A distraction.

Hoseok notices. Of course, he does.

He leans against the doorframe of Yoongi’s hut, arms crossed, watching the slow, steady movement of the whetstone.

“You’re sulking.”

Yoongi doesn’t look up. “I’m working.”

Hoseok hums. “Right. That’s why you’ve been sharpening the same knife for an hour.”

Yoongi’s fingers still against the blade. His jaw tightens. “We have work to do.”

Hoseok tilts his head, watching him. “You could’ve said goodbye.”

Yoongi exhales through his nose. “What for? He was always going to leave.”

Hoseok doesn’t answer immediately. Then, casually, “You say that like it makes a difference.”

Yoongi sets the knife down a little too forcefully. His expression gives nothing away. “Drop it.”

Hoseok lifts his hands in surrender, but the knowing glint in his eyes is insufferable.

Yoongi ignores it.

He ignores a lot of things.

The emptiness of the hut across the way. The absence of Jimin’s voice, his complaints, his annoying remarks. The way the camp somehow feels quieter, duller, wrong.

Jimin is gone.

And Yoongi tells himself that it doesn’t matter.

➳➳➳

Days pass.

He throws himself into training, into weapons, into planning for the inevitable fight that will come. Anything to keep his mind occupied.

It doesn’t work.

Because Taehyung returns from the palace every few days, carrying news, and Yoongi listens.

He doesn’t mean to.

But he listens.

“His Highness has settled back into court life,” Taehyung announces one evening, flopping onto a pile of sacks near the fire. “Already playing the part of the perfect prince.”

Yoongi scoffs. “So much for change.”

Taehyung smirks, tossing a pebble at him. “Don’t be stupid. He’s playing the game.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, but something loosens in his chest.

It happens again a few nights later.

“He’s been digging,” Taehyung says, peeling an apple with a small knife. “Listening. Watching.”

Yoongi doesn’t ask what he means. He just waits.

Taehyung smirks. “He’s certain now. His uncle has the king.”

Silence.

Yoongi stills.

Hoseok and Jungkook exchange a glance, tension settling over the group.

“Where?” Yoongi asks, voice sharp.

Taehyung tosses him the apple core. “That’s what he’s trying to figure out.”

Yoongi catches it without thinking.

Then, finally, he exhales.

Jimin is gone.

But somehow, he is still here.

Still fighting.

Still in Yoongi’s damn head.

And Yoongi doesn’t know whether to be relieved or furious.

Maybe both.

➳➳➳

Yoongi isn’t waiting for Taehyung.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

But every few days, when the familiar rustle of leaves and the snap of twigs sound from the forest’s edge, his head lifts before he can stop it.

It’s always the same. Taehyung slips in and out of the palace like a shadow, returning under different disguises; sometimes as a merchant, sometimes as a servant, once even wearing a scholar’s robes. Each time, he brings news.

Each time, Yoongi tells himself he doesn’t care.

But he listens.

Tonight, when the footsteps approach, Yoongi glances up, just briefly, just instinct.

Taehyung steps into camp, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat shading his face. His usual grin is already in place. “Miss me?”

“No,” Yoongi says flatly.

Taehyung smirks. “Liar.”

Hoseok barely looks up from where he’s rolling up a map. “Any news?”

Taehyung tosses his satchel onto the table, stretching. “You could say that.” He turns to Yoongi. “Our favorite prince has been busy.”

Yoongi doesn’t react. “Go on.”

Taehyung rolls his shoulders. “He’s been digging, just like before. But this time, he’s got something.”

The fire crackles.

Jungkook leans in. “What kind of something?”

Taehyung tilts his head. “The king.”

Silence.

Yoongi sits up straighter. His shoulders go rigid, but he stays silent. 

Hoseok presses his palms flat against the table. “He found him?”

Taehyung exhales. “Not exactly.” He unties his satchel, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. “But he’s close.”

Yoongi takes the paper, scanning the messy scrawl. Jimin’s handwriting.

Old fortress. Mountains north of the city. Could be holding him there. Looking for more proof.

Yoongi lets out a deep breath. North of the city.

“That place has been abandoned for years,” Hoseok says, brow furrowing.

Taehyung shrugs. “Yeah, but according to His Highness, there’s been unusual movement there. Supplies, transport. More guards stationed near the main roads.”

Yoongi stares at the note.

Jimin is guessing. He doesn’t have proof, not yet. But Yoongi has seen this tactic before. A fortress no one looks at anymore? A perfect place to hide someone you don’t want found.

Hoseok scratches his jaw. “It makes sense. But we can’t risk a full-scale mission without confirmation.”

Yoongi nods. “We’ll send someone to scout it out.”

Jungkook straightens. “I can go.”

“No.” Yoongi folds the note, tucking it into his belt. “You’re needed here. We’ll send Byung-ho and Sejin.”

Taehyung lifts a brow. “You won’t go yourself?”

Yoongi glances at him. “There are more important things to focus on.”

Taehyung hums, rolling his shoulders. “Oh, that reminds me, I almost forgot.” He leans back, dusting off his sleeves. “The Regent is holding a tournament in three days.”

Hoseok frowns. “A tournament?”

Taehyung nods. “Big event. Some grand spectacle to keep the nobles entertained.” He scoffs. “A distraction, probably.”

Jungkook crosses his arms. “And the prize?”

Taehyung smirks. “Ah, now that’s the interesting part.” He stretches his arms lazily before turning to Yoongi. “A golden arrow.”

The fire flickers.

Yoongi’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his stance.

“That’s valuable,” Hoseok mutters. “We could trade it for supplies.”

Yoongi nods. “Then I’ll win it.”

Jungkook scoffs. “That’s not funny.”

“Who’s joking?”

Hoseok sets his hands on the table. “Yoongi. No.”

Yoongi tilts his head. “Yes.”

Jungkook frowns. “It’s too risky.”

“It’s necessary.”

Hoseok sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s a nobleman’s tournament. You’ll be surrounded.”

“I won’t go as myself.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “And if they recognize you?”

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate. “They won’t.”

Taehyung hums, tilting his head. “Not unless you walk in there looking like yourself.” His lips curl. “Lucky for you, I happen to be an expert at blending in.”

Yoongi eyes him. “No.”

Taehyung grins. “You’d rather go in there undisguised?”

Yoongi sighs. “Fine.”

Taehyung claps his hands together. “I love a makeover.”

Hoseok mutters something under his breath.

Jungkook scowls. “I still don’t like it.”

“Noted.”

Yoongi reaches for the parchment again, rereading Jimin’s note. North of the city. He exhales.

“The scouts leave at first light,” he says. “And I leave in three days.”

➳➳➳

The city is alive.

Banners ripple from the palace walls, strung high above the streets, their crimson silk catching the breeze. Drummers set the rhythm of the day, their steady pulse echoing between stone buildings as people flood toward the tournament grounds.

Yoongi walks among them, head low, moving like a shadow.

His disguise is simple. A faded robe, loose and unremarkable. A straw hat, pulled low over his eyes, hiding his scar. A cloth wrapped around the lower half of his face. Enough to make him invisible.

The tournament grounds stretch before him, packed with people. Nobles in vivid silks lounge in the shaded stands, their fans fluttering lazily, while commoners jostle for space, murmuring among themselves.

And at the far end, above it all, the royal box.

Yoongi’s gaze lands there before he can stop it.

Seated beside the Regent, posture straight, expression unreadable. Jimin.

The deep blue of his robes, embroidered with gold, catches the light, a stark contrast to the ornate headpiece resting against his dark hair.

Even from this distance, Yoongi can see it. The tightness in his shoulders, the way his fingers press into his lap. A mask so carefully placed, but one Yoongi has learned to read.

Then, as if he feels the weight of the stare, Jimin shifts.

Yoongi turns away before their eyes can meet.

“Touching,” Taehyung drawls beside him. “Shall I deliver a message, or would you rather stare longingly from afar?”

“Shut up,” Yoongi mutters.

Taehyung smirks but then exhales, rolling his shoulders. “Well, this is where I leave you, hyung. I’ll head back before someone starts asking too many questions.”

Yoongi nods once, adjusting the bow slung over his shoulder. “See you at camp.”

Taehyung claps him on the shoulder. “Try not to get caught.”

And then, he’s gone.

A horn sounds.

The tournament begins.

The other competitors glance at him, some sizing him up, others dismissing him entirely. He doesn’t care.

He rolls his shoulders, testing the weight of the bow in his hands. It’s good, well-crafted, balanced.

His fingers tighten around it.

A judge calls for the first shot.

One by one, the archers take their turn, arrows slicing through the air. Some land cleanly in the red center, others stray just wide of the mark. The crowd murmurs, pleased with the skill on display.

Then Yoongi steps up.

Draws.

Releases.

The arrow splits the previous one clean through the middle.

Silence.

Then, a roar of approval.

It happens again. And again.

Yoongi doesn’t miss.

Each shot lands perfectly, effortlessly. Distance increases, conditions change. The targets shift, moving further, swinging in the breeze. But his arrows never falter.

The whispers start soon after.

“Who is that?”

“Never seen him before.”

“Where did he learn to shoot like that?”

In the royal box, Jimin sits perfectly still.

But his fingers press tightly into his sleeves.

He knows.

Even before Yoongi lands the final shot, even before the tournament judge announces him as the victor.

He knows.

Then the crowd erupts.

A sea of voices, rising all at once; cheers, shouts, disbelief. Some chant for the masked archer, others grumble about bets lost, coin squandered.

None of it matters.

Yoongi lowers his bow, stepping forward as the judge lifts an arm.

“The winner of the tournament—”

A servant steps onto the field, presenting a silk-lined box. Inside, the golden arrow gleams, shiny and perfect beneath the midday sun.

Yoongi reaches for it.

And that’s when he hears it.

The pause.

Not in the cheers, not in the celebration, but in the Regent’s voice.

“Quite the performance.”

The words are slow. Drawn out.

Yoongi stills.

At the far end of the field, the Regent rises from his seat, clapping leisurely.

The crowd falls into hushed murmurs, turning their eyes upward.

Yoongi doesn’t move.

Jimin does not move.

He sits perfectly still in the royal box, hands clasped in his lap. But his gaze flickers, just briefly, to Yoongi.

And that is the only confirmation Yoongi needs.

This is a trap.

The Regent tilts his head. “Tell me, marksman, where did you learn to shoot like that?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer.

The Regent hums, stepping forward. “A true talent. A shame we haven’t seen you in previous years.” His lips curve. “Or have we?”

The tension is a living thing.

Yoongi’s fingers twitch. He could run. It wouldn’t be easy, not through a crowd this thick, not with guards already shifting at the edges of the field, but it wouldn’t be impossible.

Except, he can’t look away from Jimin.

Jimin, who has not moved, not reacted, but whose jaw is just a little too tight, whose throat bobs just slightly as he swallows.

Jimin, who knew this was coming but couldn’t stop it.

Yoongi’s chest tightens.

The Regent lifts a hand.

Guards step forward.

And suddenly, there is no more space. No more air.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder.

Another at his wrist.

Yoongi lashes out on instinct, elbow connecting with a plated chest, twisting free for half a second before a sword is at his throat. Then another, and another.

The crowd gasps.

The Regent smiles.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you, Agust?”

Silence.

The name hangs in the air, settling over the stunned crowd.

A slow, creeping shift. A ripple of realization, of whispers passing from one mouth to another.

Yoongi clenches his jaw.

Behind the Regent, Jimin’s hands curl into fists.

The Regent turns to the crowd, spreading his arms. “The infamous outlaw,” he announces, voice carrying across the arena. “A traitor, a criminal, parading in my city.” He turns back to Yoongi, lips curling. “How bold.”

The guards tighten their grip.

Yoongi stays silent.

Because what is there to say?

This was always going to happen.

From the moment he stepped into this arena, from the second he decided to come here, this was always how it was going to end.

Still.

His eyes find Jimin’s, one last time.

Jimin, who is watching him like his world is caving in.

Yoongi releases a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. 

The last thing he hears before the world goes dark is the sound of chains locking around his wrists. 

➳➳➳

Pain is an old friend.

Yoongi has learned to live with it, wear it like armor. But tonight, his body aches in a way that feels heavier, slower.

He leans back against the damp stone wall, wrists raw from the iron cuffs. The dim torchlight barely reaches the corners of his cell, flickering weakly against rusted bars.

The guards had been thorough. Not enough to break him, but enough to leave bruises that would linger.

Still, he’s felt worse.

A metallic click breaks through the silence.

Yoongi’s head lifts.

The lock turns.

Then, the door creaks open.

A figure steps inside, cloaked in shadow. Torchlight catches on familiar silk, the glint of a golden sash.

Jimin.

For a moment, neither of them move.

Yoongi blinks, slow. “Jimin-ah. Is that really you?”

Jimin sighs, stepping forward. His movements are quick, but Yoongi sees it. The tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers tremble when he reaches for the cuffs.

“Hold still,” Jimin mutters.

Yoongi doesn’t. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Jimin gives him a look. “Neither should you.”

The key scrapes against iron. The cuffs fall away.

Yoongi rolls his wrists, flexing his fingers. “How touching. Come to rescue me, princess?”

Jimin glares. “Shut up and move.”

Yoongi smirks, but doesn’t argue. There will be time for that later. Right now they need to run.

The corridor is empty, but not for long.

Jimin moves ahead, leading them through the maze of underground tunnels. He’s memorized the path. Every turn, every blind spot.

Yoongi watches him.

His movements are quick, calculated. A far cry from the prince who had stumbled through the rebel camp weeks ago, sneering at the food and cursing the dirt beneath his nails.

This Jimin is different.

Yoongi doesn’t know what to make of that.

A distant shout echoes down the hall.

Jimin curses under his breath. “They’ve noticed.”

Yoongi grins. “Good.”

Jimin whirls on him. “That is not good.”

But Yoongi is already moving. “Let’s go, princess.”

Jimin doesn’t hesitate this time.

They barely make it out before the alarms sound.

The moment their feet hit the outer courtyard, a horn blasts through the air. Torches flare to life along the palace walls.

And then:

“They’re heading for the west gate!”

“Seal the perimeter!”

Yoongi grabs Jimin’s wrist and pulls him forward.

They sprint through the narrow streets, ducking into alleyways, weaving through the maze of merchants and vendors closing up shop.

Behind them, the guards are gaining.

Yoongi glances at Jimin. He’s fast, but he’s not used to running like this. His breath comes in sharp bursts, his robes slowing him down.

Yoongi curses.

A cart overturns behind them as a guard lunges, narrowly missing Jimin’s shoulder.

They need to disappear. Now.

Then Yoongi sees it.

An old, crumbling bridge just beyond the main square. Below it, a canal.

Yoongi doesn’t think.

He yanks Jimin hard, and jumps.

Cold water crashes over them, swallowing the world whole.

➳➳➳

They don’t stop running.

Not when they drag themselves out of the canal, soaked and breathless.

Not when they slip through the gates before they can close.

Not when the city fades behind them, lost in the cover of trees.

Only when they reach the thickest part of the forest does Yoongi finally stop, pressing a hand against a tree to steady himself.

Yoongi leans back against the tree, still catching his breath. Then, without thinking, he laughs.

Jimin glares. “This isn’t funny.”

Yoongi exhales, shaking his head. “No, it’s not.” But he’s still grinning, breathless, adrenaline humming in his veins.

Jimin scowls, muttering something under his breath, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he rolls his shoulders, casting a glance over his surroundings. “We need to keep moving.”

Yoongi nods, pushing off the tree. The city is far behind them now, the forest stretching wide and endless. The path back is long, but they know the way.

They walk.

By the time they reach the camp, the fires have burned down to glowing embers. The night is cool, the damp fabric of their clothes sticking to their skin, but Yoongi doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t let go.

His fingers curl around Jimin’s wrist, grip firm but not forceful, leading him through the quiet maze of huts. Jimin follows, silent, breath still uneven.

They reach Yoongi’s hut.

He pushes aside the cloth hanging over the entrance, stepping inside first, tugging Jimin in after him.

The fabric falls back into place behind them.

They stand there, dripping, the only sound between them the harsh rhythm of their breathing.

Yoongi leans back against the wooden wall.

Jimin doesn’t move.

Neither of them do.

For a long moment, they just stare at each other. 

Yoongi’s eyes flicker over Jimin, tracking everything. The water clinging to his skin, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitch at his sides.

Jimin stares back, lips parted, breath shallow. His pulse is still racing, but he doesn’t know if it’s from the chase, or this.

The weight of the night presses between them. Heavy. Unrelenting.

Jimin exhales.

Yoongi moves first.

The space between them disappears in an instant.

Their mouths crash together. Hard, desperate, consuming.

Jimin gasps against Yoongi’s lips, fingers curling into the front of his robe. The fabric is still damp, rough beneath his touch, but he doesn’t seem to care.

Yoongi pulls him closer. One hand sliding to the back of Jimin’s neck, the other gripping his hip, fingers pressing firm against soaked silk.

It’s messy. Too much, not enough.

Jimin’s grip tightens in his robe, pulling him closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

Yoongi feels the way Jimin melts into him, the way his body presses…hesitant at first, then wanting.

Heat coils low in Yoongi’s stomach. His breath stutters as Jimin tugs at the knot of his robe, fingers quick, searching.

Yoongi doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t think to.

Instead, his own hands move, tracing the edges of Jimin’s robe, pushing it from his shoulders, feeling the shiver that runs through him as the damp fabric falls away.

Jimin sucks in a breath.

Yoongi watches him, his own chest rising and falling, something dark and unreadable settling behind his ribs. His pulse is loud in his ears, steady, unshaken… but his fingers tremble slightly as he pulls at the last of his own layers, stripping away damp fabric, letting it drop to the floor.

The air inside the hut is thick, heavy with warmth that lingers between them, with the weight of what’s about to happen.

Yoongi lowers himself onto the straw mat, muscles taut beneath cooling skin. He watches as Jimin reaches for the small glass vial of oil on the wooden table, his own clothes now a loose pile beside him, cock already hard and heavy between his legs.

He can’t tear his eyes away from Jimin, the smooth stretch of his bare chest, the flushed skin of his thighs as he kneels down between Yoongi’s legs. His hair is messy, his lips already swollen from kissing, and Yoongi wants to ruin him completely.

Jimin pours the oil over his fingers, rubbing it between his hands before reaching for Yoongi’s cock. The first touch makes Yoongi groan, hips twitching as Jimin slicks him up, slowly, working him over with careful strokes. His thumb circles the head, spreading the oil, teasing, making Yoongi’s breath stutter.

“Fuck,” Yoongi grits out, his fingers flexing where they rest on his thighs.

Jimin smirks, satisfied, before pulling back. He shifts, straddling Yoongi’s lap, thighs spread wide as he reaches back to prep himself up. He shivers as his fingers press inside, stretching himself open, getting himself ready for Yoongi.

Yoongi watches, stomach tightening, cock aching at the sight of Jimin fucking himself open like this. “Hurry up,” he mutters, voice rough, desperate.

Jimin huffs a breathless laugh. “So impatient,” he murmurs, but he’s already positioning himself, guiding Yoongi’s cock to his hole, sinking down in one slow, steady motion.

They both groan, Yoongi’s head falling back against the wooden wall as Jimin takes him in, his hole gripping him tight, sucking him in deep. Jimin’s nails dig into Yoongi’s shoulders as he adjusts, breathing heavy, thighs trembling.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Yoongi mutters, hands settling on Jimin’s hips, squeezing, holding him there for a moment to feel the way he fits, the way his body stretches around him. Jimin’s skin is burning, sweat already forming at the nape of his neck, but he can’t stop, won’t stop.

He starts moving, slow at first, rocking his hips in shallow rolls, getting used to the stretch, the fullness of it. Then, as Yoongi’s grip tightens, fingers digging into his skin, Jimin picks up the pace, bouncing on his cock, thighs flexing, his breath coming out in soft, broken moans.

Yoongi groans, hands sliding up Jimin’s back, one gripping the nape of his neck to pull him down into a kiss. It’s messy, all tongue and teeth, Jimin whining into his mouth as Yoongi thrusts up to meet his movements, fucking into him harder, deeper.

“You’re so fucking tight, princess ” Yoongi mutters against his lips, biting at his bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth before letting it go.

Jimin whimpers, the sound swallowed by Yoongi’s mouth. “Yoongi,” he gasps, hands bracing against Yoongi’s chest as he grinds down hard, rolling his hips in slow, deep circles. “You—fuck, feels so good.”

Yoongi groans, flipping them over in a sudden, fluid motion, pressing Jimin down against the straw mat. Jimin gasps, legs wrapping around Yoongi’s waist as Yoongi fucks into him hard, grinding his cock deep, making Jimin cry out, his nails raking down Yoongi’s back.

“Look at you,” Yoongi mutters, breathless, watching the way Jimin falls apart beneath him. His hair is damp with sweat, his lips kiss-bruised, his body arching to meet every thrust. He’s beautiful, wrecked, and all Yoongi’s.

Jimin reaches down, wrapping a hand around his own cock, jerking himself off in time with Yoongi’s thrusts. “Fuck, I’m close,” he gasps, legs tightening around Yoongi’s hips.

“Come for me, princess ” Yoongi grits out, slamming into him, his pace relentless, chasing his own release. “Wanna see you.”

Jimin moans, head falling back, mouth falling open as he comes hard, spilling between them, his whole body shuddering with it. The way he clenches around Yoongi sends him over the edge too, burying himself deep as he comes, groaning against Jimin’s neck, hips stuttering as he spills inside.

They stay like that for a moment, breathing heavy, bodies tangled together, slick with sweat. Yoongi presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to Jimin’s shoulder, letting himself rest, letting himself feel.

Jimin sighs, hands sliding up Yoongi’s arms, nails tracing lightly over his skin. “Gonna let me breathe now?” he teases, voice wrecked, fond.

Yoongi chuckles, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Never,” he mutters.

And Jimin just laughs, pulling him down into another kiss.

➳➳➳

♕ jimin

Jimin wakes to warmth.

Not the distant kind, not the fading heat of a dying fire, but something solid, steady, wrapped around him.

Yoongi.

His arm is draped over Jimin’s waist, heavy with sleep, his breath warm against the nape of Jimin’s neck. Their legs are tangled beneath the sheets, the air inside the hut thick with the remnants of last night.

Jimin smiles before he even opens his eyes.

When he finally blinks awake, the first thing he sees is Yoongi’s hand resting just above his hip, fingers splayed across bare skin.

For a long moment, he just lays there.

Then, very carefully, he moves, just enough to glance over his shoulder.

Yoongi is still asleep. Mussed hair, parted lips, face soft in the dim morning light.

Jimin smirks. He’s never seen him like this before.

So unguarded. So still.

The temptation to wake him just to be annoying is strong.

Instead, he presses back slightly, testing.

Yoongi stirs slightly, but doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, fingers flexing at Jimin’s waist.

Jimin bites back a grin.

Oh, he’s going to have fun with this.

“Yoongi,” he whispers, voice syrupy and sweet. “Are you awake?”

A slow inhale. Then, a low, groggy hum.

Jimin wiggles a little, just to be obnoxious. “You’re holding me awfully tight, don’t you think?”

Yoongi grumbles something unintelligible into the back of his shoulder.

Jimin snickers. "Didn't take you for the clingy type."

Finally, Yoongi's eyes crack open just enough to glare.

“Shut up,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep.

Jimin laughs, stretching luxuriously beneath the blankets. He feels good. Warm. Sore in all the best ways.

“Fine,” he hums. “I suppose you did earn a little cuddling time.”

Yoongi groans, burying his face in the pillow. Jimin grins like he’s won something.

Then, with a sigh, Yoongi pulls himself upright, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“Stay here,” he murmurs, already reaching for his clothes.

Jimin props himself up on one elbow, watching with open amusement. “Why? You going to bring me breakfast in bed?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer.

He just tugs on his robe, ties the loose knots at his waist, and slips outside.

Jimin watches him go, smiling to himself.

He stretches beneath the blankets, letting his eyes drift shut, savoring the rare indulgence of a slow morning.

He doesn’t know exactly how much time passes, just that the warmth of the sheets is beginning to fade, and the world outside remains quiet.

Then, the fabric at the entrance stirs as someone steps inside.

Jimin doesn’t look up immediately, he’s too busy stretching luxuriously, muscles pleasantly sore, warmth still lingering in his limbs.

The scent of warm food hits him, stirring his senses awake. 

He lifts his head.

Yoongi steps inside, balancing a tray of food in one hand, a steaming basin of water in the other.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “Oh. You really did bring me breakfast in bed.”

Yoongi snorts. “Shut up.”

Jimin grins, sitting up properly.

The tray is simple, bone broth, foraged greens, and a strip of dried meat softened by the heat. But the smell alone makes Jimin’s stomach tighten with hunger he hadn’t realized was there.

Yoongi sets the tray down, then crouches beside him, dipping a cloth into the warm water.

Jimin tilts his head. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Yoongi doesn’t look up. "Cleaning you up."

Jimin huffs a laugh. “You trying to take responsibility for last night?”

Yoongi’s lips twitch. “Something like that.”

Jimin grins, but lets him.

The cloth is warm against his skin, careful as Yoongi wipes along the inside of his wrist, over the faint marks on his collarbone.

Jimin watches him, something fond curling in his chest.

“Didn’t know you were such a softie,” he murmurs.

Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Don’t start.”

Jimin laughs, but the sound fades slightly when Yoongi reaches up, dragging the damp cloth along the side of his throat.

The touch is slow, steady.

Jimin exhales.

And suddenly, the teasing is gone, replaced by something heavier.

Something quieter.

Yoongi stills, watching him.

For a long moment, neither of them speak.

Jimin swallows, then asks softly: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Yoongi’s thumb brushes against his pulse point. “Like what?”

Jimin searches his face, heart stuttering.

“Like you’re afraid I'm going to disappear,” he says.

Yoongi doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t deny it.

♕♕♕

The morning lingers for as long as it can.

They eat in quiet, Jimin finishing the last of his broth, Yoongi sitting cross-legged beside him, picking at his own food without much urgency.

Jimin doesn’t rush.

But eventually, the warmth of the hut can’t keep them any longer.

They step outside.

Jimin barely takes two steps before heads turn.

The camp is waking, rebels milling about, voices rising with the first stirrings of the day. And now, all of them are staring.

Jimin sighs.

Then there's a low whistle.

Jungkook, leaning against a stack of crates, arms crossed. Smirking.

“Well, well.” His gaze flicks between them, entirely too pleased. “Look who decided to stick around.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Good morning to you, too.”

Jungkook snickers, stepping closer. “So? Should we assume you're back for good, Your Highness?”

Before Jimin can answer, another voice cuts through the camp.

“Yoongi! Jungkook! Get over here.”

Hoseok. And he sounds serious.

Yoongi is already moving. “Come on.”

Jimin follows them, ignoring the way Jungkook wiggles his eyebrows at him.

They find Hoseok and Namjoon standing near the central fire, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. Taehyung is beside them, his usual grin absent.

Two figures stand near the fire, dirt-streaked and weary. They look like they haven’t slept in days.

Yoongi frowns. “What is it?”

One of the scouts, Sejin, steps forward. His face is pale, jaw tight.

“The King. I think we found him.”

Jimin barely hears the rest of the camp around him.

His ears ring, the words echoing. The King. He’s alive.

He should feel relieved. Should feel something other than the tight pull in his chest, the weight of everything crashing down at once.

Yoongi draws in a slow breath, steadying himself. “Tell me everything.”

Sejin nods, stepping closer. “The fortress is a day ride from here. Isolated, heavily guarded.”

“The soldiers there…” Byung-ho shifts his weight, expression grim. “Twice the usual number for a location that size. They’re protecting something important.”

Jimin swallows hard.

Namjoon’s voice is quiet, but firm. “That confirms it.”

Silence settles over them.

Yoongi’s gaze sweeps over the group: Hoseok, Jungkook, Taehyung, Namjoon, Jimin.

“We can’t fight our way in.” His voice is steady, leaving no room for argument. “Not against a hundred trained soldiers.”

Namjoon leans forward, arms crossed. “Then we need a different approach.”

Hoseok nods. “So? What’s the plan?”

Yoongi glances at Jimin.

Jimin doesn’t look away.

But this time, Yoongi doesn’t say you’ll go in.

Because he wouldn’t. Not with Jimin. Not like that.

Instead, he asks something else.

“You grew up in the palace.” His voice is even. “How would they build a prison meant for a king?”

The camp goes silent.

Jimin’s stomach twists.

Because, he knows.

His uncle might be cruel, but he’s methodical. He wouldn’t just throw the King in a cell like any common prisoner.

Jimin exhales. “He won’t be in the main fortress.”

Jungkook frowns. “What?”

Jimin tilts his head. “If my uncle captured my father, he’d keep him close, but hidden. He wouldn’t risk putting him somewhere accessible.” He gestures to the scouts. “Did you notice a tower? A restricted wing?”

Byung-ho blinks. “There was a second structure. Smaller, but heavily guarded.”

Namjoon releases a breath, nodding. “That’s it.”

Jimin presses his lips together. “That’s where he is.”

Yoongi watches him carefully. “And how do we get in?”

“There’s a drainage tunnel,” Jimin says. “If it’s anything like the palace, it won’t be large, but it’ll be enough to sneak through.”

Namjoon nods slowly. “We’ll need to time it with the guard rotations.”

Yoongi glances at him. “Think we can pull it off?”

Namjoon meets his gaze. “If we’re fast enough.”

Yoongi smirks. “Good.”

Then, he turns back to the others.

“Jungkook, Hoseok, you’re with me. Taehyung, you take the second group and secure the exit.”

Jimin straightens. “And me?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer immediately.

Jimin’s heart beats faster. “Yoongi.”

Yoongi exhales sharply. “You stay here with Seokjin.”

Jimin stares. “Excuse me?”

“It’s too dangerous.”

Jimin steps forward. “That’s not your call. He’s my father.”

Namjoon watches the exchange, quiet.

Yoongi meets Jimin’s gaze.

The air between them tightens.

“I won’t lose you,” Yoongi says quietly.

Jimin’s heart skips a bit.

And for a moment, just a moment, the mission doesn’t matter.

Just them.

Just this.

Finally, Yoongi exhales.

“You’ll wait outside,” he concedes. “With Taehyung.”

Jimin hates it. But he nods.

Because it’s enough.

For now.

Yoongi turns back to Namjoon.

“We leave at dawn.”

♕♕♕

The night stills after the final preparations have been made. Plans are set, escape routes memorized. If everything goes right, they’ll be in and out before anyone sounds the alarm.

If everything goes wrong, though…

Jimin sighs. He doesn’t let himself think about that.

The camp is winding down for the night, but his mind refuses to follow. He lingers near the fire, watching as the last few rebels withdraw to their huts, the embers glowing dimly at his feet.

Tomorrow, they’ll leave at dawn.

Tomorrow, he’ll see his father again.

Tomorrow…

Jimin’s gaze drifts across camp, finding Yoongi.

He’s standing near his hut, speaking with Namjoon. His posture is relaxed, but Jimin recognizes the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch at his sides. He’s thinking too much.

Namjoon says something low, claps him once on the back before heading off.

Yoongi watches him go, then turns toward Jimin.

For a moment, they just stand there, staring across the distance.

Neither of them speaks.

But they don’t have to.

Because Jimin knows. They won’t spend this night apart.

He doesn’t know who moves first, but suddenly they’re walking toward each other, meeting halfway, falling into step without a word.

No one stops them.

No one asks where they’re going.

They already know.

Inside Yoongi’s hut, the air is warm, scented faintly of burning wood. It’s small, sparse, barely more than a sleeping mat and a few personal belongings.

Neither of them undresses. Neither of them lies down. Not yet.

Instead, Yoongi just looks at him.

Jimin feels it everywhere.

The weight of it, the quiet intensity.

Like Yoongi is memorizing him. Like this is the last time he’ll have the chance.

Jimin tenses, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “You’re looking at me like that again.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer.

He just steps forward, and kisses him.

The kiss is slow at first.

Yoongi’s lips are soft against Jimin’s, their breaths mingling in the dim candlelight. It starts like that, careful, just a slow drag of mouths and tongues, the taste of each other lingering between them. But then Jimin shudders, his fingers tightening where they rest on Yoongi’s arms, and that’s all it takes for the restraint to snap.

Yoongi presses forward, backing him against the wooden wall, one hand coming up to cradle the side of Jimin’s face as he deepens the kiss. Their teeth clash, their tongues slide together, and it’s not slow anymore. It’s desperate, like they’re trying to consume each other, to leave something behind that will last beyond this night.

Jimin reaches for the ties of his own robe, but Yoongi gets there first, tugging the fabric loose, pushing it off his shoulders. Jimin shivers as cool air kisses his bare skin, but Yoongi’s mouth is already there to chase the chill away, lips dragging down the column of his throat. He licks at the pulse pounding just beneath the surface, then moves lower, tongue tracing the curve of Jimin’s collarbone.

“Fuck,” Jimin breathes, his hands finding purchase in Yoongi’s hair, tugging when Yoongi’s mouth reaches his chest.

Yoongi hums against him, pleased, then flicks his tongue over a nipple, teasing before closing his lips around it. He sucks, bites down just enough to make Jimin’s hips jolt, his cock already hard, pressing against Yoongi’s stomach.

“Tease,” Jimin mutters, breath hitching.

Yoongi only smirks, kissing lower, down his ribs, over the taut muscles of his stomach. He drops to his knees, hands firm on Jimin’s hips as he licks across his navel, then further down, nipping at the sharp jut of his hipbone. Jimin gasps, head tilting back against the wall as Yoongi mouths over his clothed cock, dampening the fabric before pulling his pants down entirely.

Jimin steps out of them, and then Yoongi has his cock in hand, stroking once, slow and deliberate, before licking up the underside. Jimin groans, body shuddering as Yoongi takes him into his mouth, lips wrapping around the head before sinking down fully, taking him deep.

His fingers bury themselves in Yoongi’s hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he holds on, barely able to breathe through the pleasure. Yoongi’s mouth is hot, wet, his tongue pressing and teasing in all the right places. He bobs his head, hollowing his cheeks, sucking him down with an ease that makes Jimin’s knees weak.

“Fuck, Yoongi.” Jimin gasps, his voice tight, wrecked. He tugs at his hair, forcing himself to stop him. “If you keep going, I’m gonna come.”

Yoongi pulls off with a slick sound, his lips shining with saliva. He looks up at Jimin, lips swollen, pupils blown wide with want. “Isn’t that the point, princess?” he murmurs.

Jimin shakes his head, pulling him up by the shoulders. “Want to come with your cock inside me.”

That makes something dark flicker in Yoongi’s gaze. He kisses Jimin again, fast and eager, like he can’t hold back, like he doesn’t want to. Jimin can taste himself on Yoongi’s tongue, and the thought makes his cock throb.

Jimin fumbles at Yoongi’s clothes, desperate to get him undressed. It’s rushed, clumsy, their hands colliding as they work to strip him bare. The moment Yoongi’s pants drop, Jimin wraps a hand around his cock, jerking him off slow, savoring the way Yoongi groans into his mouth.

But Yoongi doesn’t let him tease for long. He guides them down onto the mat, hovering over Jimin as he reaches for the small glass vial beside them. The oil is cool against Jimin’s skin when Yoongi slicks his fingers up, then presses one inside him.

Jimin exhales, spreading his legs wider. He’s done this himself before, but it’s different when it’s Yoongi. His fingers are long, skilled, curling inside him just right. He adds another, stretching him open, preparing him properly even though they both feel like they’re on the edge of breaking.

Jimin gasps when Yoongi brushes against something deep inside him, his vision going white-hot for a moment. “Fuck. There,” he chokes out.

Yoongi smirks, does it again, pressing just right until Jimin is panting, body arching. “Ready princess?” he asks, voice strained, like he’s barely holding on himself.

Jimin nods, voice catching. “Yeah. Please.”

Yoongi slicks himself up quickly, then lines himself up, pressing the tip against Jimin’s entrance. He pushes in, slow, watching Jimin the entire time. Their eyes stay locked, neither of them blinking, as Yoongi sinks in fully.

Jimin lets out a shuddering breath. Yoongi groans, the sound rough and low, his fingers digging into Jimin’s hips as he stills inside him, breathing hard.

“You feel so fucking good,” Yoongi mutters, voice tight.

Jimin clenches around him just to hear him curse again. “Move,” he breathes.

Yoongi pulls back, then thrusts in again, slow but deep. Jimin feels it everywhere, the weight of him, the heat, the way his cock stretches him open so perfectly. He wraps his legs around Yoongi’s waist, urging him closer, needing more.

The pace is slow, but just right. Every roll of Yoongi’s hips presses deep, dragging over Jimin’s prostate, making his breath catch, making his body tremble. It’s overwhelming, the stretch, the fullness, the way Yoongi’s gaze never wavers.

It feels like a goodbye.

Jimin doesn’t want it to be.

His hands frame Yoongi’s face, pulling him down for a kiss. It’s messy, all tongues and gasped breaths, their bodies rocking together in perfect rhythm.

Yoongi groans against his lips, thrusts picking up just slightly, hitting that spot over and over. Jimin moans, his cock twitching untouched between them.

“I… fuck, Yoongi.” Jimin gasps, the pleasure curling tight, ready to snap.

“I got you,” Yoongi murmurs. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, as he slams into Jimin, his cock dragging against that perfect spot.

Jimin cries out, his whole body tensing as he comes untouched, pleasure washing over him like a tidal wave. His walls clench around Yoongi, dragging him under too, and with a strangled groan, Yoongi spills inside him, his cock throbbing deep.

But he doesn’t stop moving.

Even as he comes, he keeps thrusting, grinding in deep, like he’s trying to make it last, like he’s trying to leave something behind. Jimin shudders, body wrung out, but he takes it, lets Yoongi have this.

Finally, Yoongi stills, panting hard. He collapses on top of Jimin, their bodies a tangle of limbs, still joined together.

Jimin strokes a hand down his back, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. Neither of them speak.

They don’t need to.

Because they already know.

This might be their last night.

And if it is, they made it count.

♕♕♕

The night feels endless. 

Jimin stands in the shadow of the trees, eyes fixed on the fortress in the distance. The wind is cool, rustling the leaves overhead, but his palms are damp, his fingers curled tightly around the reins of his horse.

Beside him, Taehyung shifts, adjusting the bow slung across his chest. “You’re vibrating,” he murmurs. “Like a nervous rabbit.”

Jimin exhales, slow, measured. “I’m fine.”

Taehyung snorts. “Sure.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and unrelenting.

The plan is simple. Namjoon, Yoongi, and the others will enter through the drainage tunnel, slip past the guards, and extract the King. Taehyung and Jimin will secure the escape route, wait at the rendezvous point, and make sure no one follows.

It should be simple.

If everything goes right.

Jimin shifts his weight, eyes never leaving the fortress walls. “They should be inside by now.”

Taehyung hums in agreement. “Give it a few more minutes.”

Jimin nods, but his body refuses to relax.

This isn’t like before. The rebellion, the forest, the days spent in Yoongi’s camp, he had been a captive then. A guest at best. But now, now he’s part of this.

And it’s not just any mission.

It’s his father.

Jimin swallows. The weight of it presses into his ribs, thick and suffocating. He wonders if his father is even still awake. If he knows what’s coming. If he still believes in him.

A flicker of movement near the fortress makes his breath hitch.

He tenses, then realizes it’s just a patrol guard making his rounds. The man pauses briefly, adjusts the strap of his military hat, then disappears around the corner.

Jimin releases a slow breath.

Taehyung studies him for a long moment, then tilts his head. “You trust him, don’t you?”

Jimin blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. “Who?”

Taehyung huffs a laugh. “Come on. Don’t play dumb. You trust Yoongi.”

Jimin hesitates. His gaze drifts back toward the fortress.

Yoongi hadn’t wanted him here. Had tried to keep him out of it. Had looked at him that night in the hut like he was memorizing him. Like he already knew this might be the end of something.

Jimin sighs, voice quieter. “I do.”

Taehyung doesn’t tease. Doesn’t smirk. He just nods, gaze turning serious. “Then trust that he’ll get your father out.”

Jimin says nothing.

Because he does trust Yoongi.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not afraid.

So he waits.

Heart pounding, breaths even, fingers curled tight around the reins.

And he watches.

For the first sign of movement in the dark.

♕♕♕

The wait is unbearable.

Jimin keeps his eyes on the fortress, scanning every shadow, every flicker of movement. The night air is cool against his skin, but his body feels too warm, too restless. His fingers tighten around the reins, knuckles aching from how hard he’s gripping them.

Beside him, Taehyung shifts, rolling out his shoulders. “Relax,” he murmurs.

Jimin doesn’t answer.

Because it’s been too long.

By now, Yoongi and the others should have found his father, freed him, and started making their way out. Everything was timed down to the second. The guards should still be on their usual rotations.

So why hasn’t there been any movement?

Jimin swallows. His pulse pounds at the base of his throat.

Taehyung must sense it too, because his fingers twitch near the hilt of his dagger. “They’ll come,” he says, quieter now. “Just give them a little more time.”

Jimin nods. But his gut twists.

Something feels wrong.

Another minute passes. Then two.

Still nothing.

Jimin exhales sharply, shifting in his saddle. His instincts scream at him to move. To do something.

He turns to Taehyung. “I’m going in.”

Taehyung stiffens. “Jimin—”

“I have to.” His voice is firm. “Something isn’t right.”

Taehyung swears under his breath, but before he can argue, a shadow moves near the fortress wall.

Jimin tenses.

Then figures emerge from the darkness.

One. Then two. Then more.

Jimin’s breath stutters.

It’s them.

He recognizes Jungkook first, hood drawn over his face, leading a cloaked figure forward. His father.

For a second, Jimin can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Then Yoongi steps out behind them.

And their eyes meet.

They made it.

They’re coming home.

Jimin exhales. 

And then he’s moving.

He barely feels the ground beneath his feet as he rushes forward, his heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. His father. His father is here.

Jungkook is helping him walk, one arm steady around his back. The King looks thinner than Jimin remembers, his once-strong frame weakened by captivity, his robe hanging loose around his shoulders.

But he’s alive.

“Father.” Jimin’s voice is barely a whisper, barely a breath.

The King’s head lifts. Their eyes meet.

For a moment, there is only silence.

Then recognition flickers in his father’s face. His lips part, expression raw, unreadable. “Jimin?”

Jimin nods, throat tight, unable to speak.

His father reaches for him.

Jimin takes his hands, gripping them tight. Solid. Warm. Real.

Yoongi steps up beside them. “We need to go.”

Jimin blinks back to reality. Right. They’re not safe yet.

Hoseok is already moving, keeping an eye on the fortress, scanning for signs of pursuit. Taehyung pulls up with the horses, his face uncharacteristically serious as he hands the reins to Jimin.

“Get him on,” Taehyung says. “We’ll cover the retreat.”

Jimin nods, slipping an arm around his father, helping him into the saddle. The King is weak, his movements slow, but he holds himself upright. Always a King, even in moments like this.

Jimin swings up behind him, securing them both.

Yoongi takes the reins, leading them into the trees.

No words are spoken. Just the sound of hooves against damp earth, the rustle of wind through the branches.

Jimin keeps his arms steady around his father. He doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t let himself feel too much just yet.

They’re not safe. Not until the palace is in sight.

But still, his father is here.

And for now, that is enough.

♕♕♕

The forest is too quiet.

Jimin’s heart hammers as their group weaves through the dense trees, the horses moving fast but careful over uneven ground. Too fast, not fast enough.

They need to put as much distance between themselves and the fortress as possible before—

A sharp horn sounds in the distance.

Jimin stiffens.

Yoongi curses under his breath. “They’ve noticed.”

Jimin looks back. Torchlight flickers at the fortress gates. Shadows spill out, armored figures mounting horses, breaking into pursuit.

“They’re coming,” Jungkook warns.

“Faster!” Hoseok snaps, spurring his horse forward.

Jimin tightens his grip around his father, pressing closer to keep him steady. The King is tense in his hold but doesn’t speak, doesn’t panic. He knows. Knows exactly what’s happening.

The hooves behind them grow louder.

Closer.

“Split up,” Namjoon orders. “Meet back at the city gates!”

Jimin barely has time to react before Yoongi pulls his horse toward a different path.

Jimin follows without thinking. He doesn’t hesitate.

The trees blur around them as they veer off, the sound of their pursuers still thundering behind.

Jimin doesn’t look back.

He just holds on.

And prays they make it.

♕♕♕

The endless forest closes in around them, shadows twisting between the trees. The pounding of hooves behind them is relentless, each beat crashing against the morning air like war drums.

They’re gaining.

Jimin can hear the guards shouting orders, the metallic clang of weapons as they prepare to strike. His grip tightens around his father, pressing forward as the wind lashes against his face, stinging his skin.

“Faster!” Yoongi calls, eyes scanning the trees, looking for any possible opening, any chance to lose them.

Jimin’s horse stumbles briefly on uneven ground, but he corrects quickly, adjusting his weight, keeping his father steady.

A sharp whistle cuts through the air.

Yoongi curses. “Arrows!”

Jimin barely has time to react before something slices through the space where they had just been. A heartbeat slower, and it would have struck his father.

They need to lose them. Now.

Yoongi suddenly yanks his horse left, pulling hard at the reins. Without thinking, Jimin follows, steering toward the denser part of the forest.

Branches whip at their faces, the terrain growing rougher, but it’s their only chance.

“Keep going!” Yoongi shouts. “They can’t chase us forever.”

Jimin doesn’t look back. Doesn’t dare. He just holds on, breath coming hard, knuckles aching from how tightly he’s holding the reins.

The forest begins to thin ahead. A clearing.

Jimin’s heart slams. An opening means faster riding, but also fewer places to hide.

Yoongi makes the decision before he can second-guess it. He speeds up.

Jimin follows.

And the moment they break through the trees, Yoongi yells:

“Now!”

A loud snap echoes through the clearing.

Jimin barely has time to register what’s happening before the chaos erupts.

The ground gives way. A sudden drop.

No, not the ground.

The bridge.

The old wooden bridge that had once spanned the narrow ravine. Severed, collapsing, crashing into the depths below.

The guards behind them don’t have time to stop.

Jimin hears shouts, screams, as the first wave of riders plummets, their horses rearing too late.

The rest pull back sharply, but it’s too late. They’re stranded. Cut off.

Jimin gasps, twisting in his saddle to see Yoongi, gripping his bow, staring toward the ruins of the bridge with sharp, measured satisfaction.

Jimin’s breath hitches.

“You—” he pants. “You planned that?”

Yoongi smirks. “Would you have rather kept running?”

Jimin doesn’t answer. He can’t. His pulse is still hammering in his throat, adrenaline still spiking through his veins.

Yoongi nudges his horse closer, gaze flickering to the king. “Is he—”

“I’m fine.” The King’s voice is steady, but hoarse. He shifts slightly against Jimin, lifting his head. “Let’s go.”

Jimin nods, swallowing thickly. They don’t have time to dwell on it. Not yet.

Yoongi doesn’t wait. He turns his horse, leading them forward.

Jimin exhales, eyes lingering once more on the wreckage behind them.

Then he follows.

And they ride toward home.

♕♕♕

The palace gates loom ahead, massive and unyielding.

Jimin clenches the reins tighter, his heart a steady drumbeat in his ears. They made it. The king is slumped against him, weak but conscious, his grip loose over Jimin’s arm.

The guards at the entrance don’t move. They stare. Frozen in disbelief.

Then one of them stumbles forward, eyes wide. “Your Majesty?”

The King lifts his head. His voice is hoarse, but clear. “Open the gates.”

For a second, no one breathes.

The gates swing open. Voices rise, frantic and disbelieving. The palace guards scramble, some falling to their knees, others running to spread the news.

The King of Joseon has returned.

Jimin barely has time to react before attendants rush forward, easing his father off the horse. He forces himself to let go, even as something in his chest tightens at the loss of contact.

Yoongi dismounts beside him. Silent. Steady. Their shoulders brush, but neither of them speaks.

Then, footsteps.

Fast. Urgent.

Jimin lifts his head just in time to see the Regent.

His uncle stops short at the top of the palace steps. His face drains of color.

The air turns heavy.

For a moment, no one moves. No one breathes.

Then, the King finally speaks.

“Arrest him.”

No one hesitates.

The guards move as one, hands flying to their swords, boots slamming against the stone as they surge forward. The Regent stumbles back, his mouth parting, not in anger, but shock.

“No!” His voice is a sharp breath, almost lost beneath the rush of movement. “No, this… this is impossible.”

Jimin watches, stone-faced, as the guards seize his uncle by the arms.

The Regent wrenches against their hold, eyes wild. “You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he spits, voice sharp with fury.

His gaze snaps to the King, lips curling into a sneer. “You think this is over?” His voice drops, low and venomous. “You think your throne is safe?”

The King does not answer.

The Regent lets out a bitter laugh. “Fools. You’ll never be rid of me.”

Jimin’s stomach twists. Even now, even defeated, his uncle’s eyes gleam with something vicious.

The King doesn’t flinch.

“You will be tried for treason,” he says, his voice steady despite the exhaustion weighing at his frame. “For crimes against the crown, against the people of Joseon.” His gaze hardens. “Against your own blood.”

The Regent stills. Just for a second.

Then he laughs. A sharp, bitter sound that grates against the air.

He turns to Jimin, eyes dark with disdain. “And you, do you really think they’ll trust you now? You lived among traitors. Fought beside them. Tell me, nephew, where does your loyalty truly lie?”

Jimin’s jaw tightens. His uncle’s words slither under his skin like poison.

The King doesn’t respond. He merely nods toward the guards. “Take him.”

The Regent thrashes, but it’s useless.

Jimin watches as his uncle is dragged from the palace steps, his screams fading into nothing.

The weight in his chest loosens.

It’s over.

The King straightens, lifting his gaze to the gathered ministers, the court, the nobles. All of them waiting, watching.

He speaks clearly.

“Prince Jimin and the rebels of the forest saved me.” His voice does not waver. “They have restored the throne to its rightful rule. From this day forward, they will not be fugitives.”

Jimin exhales.

But his father isn’t finished.

“I will not allow this kingdom to fall into ruin again,” he says, voice steady. “Every family, every village will be taken care of. The people will not suffer while we sit in luxury.” His gaze sweeps over the court, daring them to argue.

No one does.

Instead, slowly, one by one, they kneel.

Pledging their loyalty once more.

♕♕♕

The throne room feels unfamiliar.

Jimin has walked these halls his entire life. He knows every stone, every carved pillar, every woven banner hanging from the vaulted ceilings. And yet, he does not belong here.

Not anymore.

His father sits before him, crowned once more, robed in deep crimson. Regal, untouchable. But beneath the weight of ceremony, he is still his father.

And Jimin. Jimin is still his son.

For a long moment, neither of them speak.

Then, the King sighs, folding his hands atop the armrests of his throne. “You fought along the rebels to bring me back.” His voice is quiet, unreadable. 

Jimin forces himself to hold his gaze.

“I had to bring you back.”

His father watches him carefully, eyes dark with something Jimin cannot quite name.

Jimin’s throat tightens.

“I had to,” he repeats. “Because without you, this country, our people, had no chance.” He draws in a slow breath, steadying himself. “Because I had to believe there was still something worth saving.”

The King studies him. Silent. Listening.

“And now?”

Jimin swallows. He should have expected that question.

Because now, everything is different.

“I lived my whole life in this palace,” Jimin says, voice steady, “thinking I understood the people I was meant to serve.” His hands curl at his sides. “I didn’t.”

His father does not speak, but his expression shifts, just slightly.

Jimin exhales. Remembers.

The villagers. The hunger. The helplessness.

The rebels. Their loyalty. Their hope.

Yoongi. His fire, his stubbornness, his fierce devotion to the people no one else would fight for.

“I saw what it means to have nothing,” Jimin continues, voice quiet. “I lived among them. I worked beside them. And I saw how hard they fight, how much they sacrifice, just to survive. I can’t forget that.” He meets his father’s gaze. “And I can’t sit here in comfort, knowing that fight isn’t over.”

The King’s eyes soften.

Jimin sees it, the struggle, the hesitation.

The King knows he is right.

But knowing is different from accepting.

“You are my son,” the King says finally. His voice is not stern. Not commanding. Just tired. “You have duties here.”

Jimin swallows. “I think I found a different duty.”

The silence that follows is thick.

For a moment, his father says nothing. Then he exhales, long and slow.

“I thought I had lost you.” His voice is quiet. “First to your uncle. Then to the rebels.”

Jimin blinks, breath catching. He hadn’t expected that.

The King’s expression is unreadable, but his voice is gentler now.

“I do not wish to lose you again.”

Jimin’s chest tightens.

His father never speaks like this. Never lets his guard down, never allows emotion to seep through his words.

Jimin steps forward. “You’re not losing me.”

The King lifts his gaze. “Aren’t I?”

Jimin clenches his jaw. He doesn’t know how to answer.

The King watches him for a long moment. Then he sighs.

“I knew this day would come,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I only wish it had not come so soon.”

Jimin stays quiet. Letting him speak.

“You are not the same boy I raised,” the King continues. “You walk differently. Speak differently. There is something in your eyes I have never seen before.”

Jimin opens his mouth, but his father lifts a hand.

“I see it, my son. And I understand.”

Jimin stills.

The words land heavily in his chest.

His father shakes his head, lips pressing together. “You wish to leave?”

Jimin nods. “Yes.”

Silence.

Then, his father breathes out slowly. His shoulders sink, just slightly.

“I will not stop you,” he says.

Jimin lets out a heavy breath, feeling something inside him loosen.

But before he can turn away, the King speaks again.

“This palace will always be your home.”

Jimin stops.

The King’s gaze is steady, unwavering.

“No matter where you go,” he says, “you will always have a place by my side.”

Jimin clenches his jaw. His throat feels tight.

He bows deeply.

“Thank you, father.”

His father nods.

And Jimin leaves.

♕♕♕

➳yoongi 

The palace feels too big.

Yoongi has never liked places like this. All stone and silence, towering walls meant to keep people in rather than let them breathe.

He stands near the stables, adjusting the saddle of his horse, listening to the quiet murmur of voices as the rebels prepare to leave. The fight is over. The King has been restored.

And Yoongi? Yoongi is free.

But he doesn’t feel it.

He tightens the strap, fingers moving on instinct, his mind somewhere else.

Somewhere inside the palace, Jimin is still there.

Yoongi hasn’t seen him since the throne room. He had stood beside him when the King took back his crown, watched the way relief softened his face, the way his shoulders finally lost their tension.

And then, that was it.

Jimin hadn’t come to him afterward. Hadn’t looked for him.

Because why would he?

Yoongi swallows, jaw clenching. He knew this would happen.

Of course, Jimin wouldn’t leave. This is his home, his place, his future.

They are not the same.

They never were.

Behind him, Hoseok speaks. “Almost ready?”

Yoongi nods without turning. “Yeah.”

Hoseok hesitates, then steps closer.

“You could stay,” he says quietly. “The King respects you. The people see you as a hero now.”

Yoongi lets out a low breath. “I’m not meant for this life.”

Hoseok hums. “And Jimin?”

Yoongi stills.

The question hangs between them.

Finally, Yoongi sighs, shaking his head. “He belongs here.”

He doesn’t say the rest. Doesn’t say how much he wants to be wrong.

Hoseok watches him for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he claps him on the shoulder.

“Well. Guess that’s that.”

Yoongi forces a smirk. “Guess so.”

He throws one last glance toward the palace.

Nothing.

Jimin isn’t coming.

He swallows, turning away.

“Let’s go,” he says.

And then, just as he reaches for the reins…

“Yoongi.”

“Yoongi!”

Yoongi stops.

His fingers tighten around the reins, breath catching in his chest. He must have imagined it.

Because Jimin isn’t here.

He can’t be.

Slowly, Yoongi turns.

And Jimin is there.

Standing at the edge of the courtyard, just beyond the palace steps. His robe is a deep navy, embroidered with gold, but the wind tousles his hair, and there’s something in his eyes… wild, raw, untamed.

His chest rises and falls. He looks breathless, rushed, like he ran here.

Like he almost didn’t make it.

Yoongi’s heart slams against his ribs.

No.

No, it’s not possible.

Jimin takes a step forward. Then another.

And Yoongi can’t move.

The others have gone still. Hoseok. Jungkook. Namjoon. The entire courtyard watches in silence.

Jimin stops before him.

And then, he says it.

“Take me with you.”

The words land like thunder.

Yoongi stares.

His throat works around a reply, but nothing comes.

Jimin shifts, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I told my father.” His voice is clear, but there’s an urgency beneath it, something fragile and unwavering all at once. “I told him I can’t stay here.”

Yoongi’s chest is aching.

Jimin swallows. “I don’t want to be a prince.” His voice wavers slightly, but his eyes don’t. “I just want—”

He stops.

His breath comes uneven. Like the weight of it all is finally crashing down.

Yoongi finds his voice, but it’s hoarse. “You’ll give up everything?”

Jimin lets out a sharp breath, almost laughing. “I already did.”

Yoongi blinks.

Jimin steps closer. Too close. His hands lift, just slightly, like he’s about to reach for Yoongi but isn’t sure he’s allowed to.

Then, softly, like a confession:

“I chose you.”

Yoongi’s pulse stumbles.

The words hit him too hard, too deep.

He knows what this means.

Knows what Jimin is leaving behind. Knows how impossible this should be.

But Jimin is standing in front of him, real and here and his.

Yoongi exhales sharply, dropping the reins.

And then he is reaching.

Their mouths crash together.

Jimin gasps into the kiss, and Yoongi drinks it down, pulling him closer, hands fisting in the fine silk of his robes.

It is not careful. Not soft.

It is desperate.

Jimin grabs at him just as fiercely, fingers curling into his robe, grounding himself.

There is no court. No palace. No expectations.

Just this. Just them.

Yoongi tilts his head, deepens the kiss, feels Jimin sigh against him.

The world narrows.

Nothing else exists.

Jimin pulls back just enough to whisper against his lips.

“Is that a yes?”

Yoongi lets out a shaky laugh. “Come with me before I change my mind, Your Highness.”

Jimin smiles.

And then they are gone.

➳➳➳

♕ jimin

The air is warm, thick with the scent of pine and woodsmoke.

Jimin sighs, rolling his shoulders as he adjusts his grip on the wooden practice sword. The weight feels different in his hands now. Familiar.

Across from him, Jungkook smirks, stance loose but ready. “Come on, Your Highness. Show me what you’ve got.”

Jimin scowls. “Call me that again, and I’ll use a real sword.”

Jungkook lunges.

Jimin reacts.

Their wooden swords clash, echoing through the clearing. A few rebels pause to watch, murmuring among themselves.

Jimin feels their eyes. He always does.

He is not a prince anymore. But sometimes, people still don’t know what to make of him.

The first time he picked up a weapon, they whispered.

The first time he sat by the fire with them, ate with them, laughed with them, they watched.

Now, they are used to him. Now, he belongs.

Jimin dodges Jungkook’s strike, shifting his weight like Yoongi taught him.

Yoongi.

He doesn’t have to look. He knows he’s watching.

Still, he steals a glance.

And there he is.

Leaning against a tree, arms crossed, smirking. Like always.

Jimin exhales, turning back to Jungkook. “We’re done.”

Jungkook groans. “Already?”

Jimin ignores him, tossing his wooden sword to the side. His legs move on instinct, toward Yoongi.

As he approaches, Yoongi pushes off the tree, meeting him halfway.

“You’re staring,” Jimin says, tilting his head.

Yoongi lifts a shoulder. “You make it easy.”

Jimin scoffs, but there’s warmth in his chest, spreading, settling.

Yoongi watches him for a long moment. Then, quietly, he asks, “Regretting it yet?”

Jimin knows what he means.

The life he left behind. The palace. The name. The future that was laid out before him.

He thinks of the cold stone floors. The gold-lined halls. The throne that was never his, but always waiting.

Then, he looks at Yoongi.

At the man who stole him away and made him see the world differently.

At the man who looked at him and never saw a prince. Just Jimin.

He steps closer. “Not even for a second.”

Yoongi’s lips curl.

Jimin doesn’t let him say anything else.

He grabs him by the collar, tugs him down, and kisses him.

Yoongi laughs into the kiss, low and breathless, but he kisses back, slow and deep, fingers curling around Jimin’s wrist.

The sounds of the camp fade. The world narrows.

For the first time in his life, Jimin isn’t thinking about what comes next.

He is here. With Yoongi.

And that is enough.

For now.

For always.

➳♡♕