Chapter Text
“I, Park Jimin take…” Maybe it was the way fiance looked at him with contempt, maybe it was the way he felt his father’s searing glare on his back, or maybe it was the fact that there were so many people watching him say his vows of everlasting love to a man he barely knows, he felt his mind growing blank.
It was his wedding day and he’d forgotten his husband’s name.
His vows hang, unfinished, in the air of uppity rich and snobbery sitting in the chapel as his heart and mind, as a last rebellion, wiped itself clean.
He doesn’t bother glancing at his “best man”, some son or cousin of his father’s friend, he’d probably met just a handful of times more than his soon-to-be husband.
Desperately, he flicks his gaze to his stepmother. In her eyes, he sees a mirror of his own drowning helplessness, profound sadness flashes through her eyes as she shapes the name, soundless but clear.
Jeon Jungkook.
The pastor’s discreet cough is like a gunshot. Jimin blinks, tears his eyes from that tiny island of sympathy and fixes them back on the man before him.
The show, as it always did, must go on, even if the two main characters were the most reluctant.
“—Jeon Jungkook to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.” He aims to keep his tone neutral but no one can fault him for the resentment that rims each word. For richer, for poorer. The irony is a bitter pill. This entire farce is for ‘richer,’ specifically, for his father to become obscenely so.
He once laughed at the cliché, at the pitiful heroines in novels forced into arranged marriages. Now, trapped inside the cliché, he can’t laugh, only finds a hollow, echoing silence where laughter should be.
“You may kiss.”
Kiss? The thought never occurred to him. He thought they could somehow just pass it by since none of this was real nor meant anything anyway.
But of course, his father, a maestro of appearances, would never omit the finale in this sham of a wedding. There was no escape.
When he finally meets Jungkook’s eyes, he sees his own annoyance reflected and quickly buried underneath cool impassivity. Like a robot under orders, Jungkook turns, a study of reluctant grace, and leans down. Jimin watches the approach in liquid slow-motion.
It’s strange.
Everything was.
But the weirdest part was that it was the first time he’s had Jungkook so close.
So close, he sees the chiseled line of Jungkook’s jaw, Jungkook’s silky black hair smoothed back, and the warmth of his breath ghosts over Jimin’s cheek.
He suppresses a shudder, not out of disgust. Objectively, Jeon Jungkook is stunning, a sculpture of masculine beauty who carries it with knowing ease. It is the intimacy of the act that chills him.
“Smile.” The hissed word is hot against his ear, Jungkook’s voice kept low enough that it doesn’t travel any further. “Or else people think I disgust you.”
Jimin bites down on a retort and instead he slips the hand further away from the rest of the audience to Jungkook’s waist and he pinches.
He hears the way Jungkook’s breath catches in surprise and he can’t help the small smile of petty victory that teases at the corner of his lips. “I smile when I want to, babe.”
Jungkook’s sigh is a gust of exasperation. Then his lips press, dry and fleeting, to the very corner of Jimin’s mouth. And then it is over in a blink; chaste, perfunctory, utterly empty. Just for show.
Jungkook pulls away first, and Jimin hates the sudden, unwelcome sense of absence, especially stemming from the very man in front of him.
Applause, real or perfunctory, he doesn’t care anymore, welcomes them as they walk down the aisle, arms linked in a mockery of their union. The weight of Jungkook’s arm linked with his is solid, warm, and feels like the heaviest chain he ever wears. Jimin steals a glance at Jungkook’s face, and without a mirror, Jimin knows his own expression matches perfectly, a blank slate. After a lifetime of practice, keeping his emotions caged deep within his heart is second nature.
In their little waiting room, just out of sight of the guests, the chain falls away. Jungkook withdraws his arm as if burned, the brief contact severed. He doesn’t look at Jimin, instead adjusts his cufflinks with sharp, precise movements. “The receiving line is in the garden pavilion,” he states, his voice back to its earlier flat neutrality. “We are expected in five minutes.”
Jimin says nothing, there’s not much he wants nor can say at this moment anyways. He simply nods, his own hands curl into fists at his sides, the ghost of Jungkook’s body heat against his palm already cooled to nothing as he retreats to his corner of the room to rest his feet.
The five minutes pass by way too soon as they are herded back to continue their next act in front of their audience.
Jungkook reappears at his side, close enough to touch, yet emotionally, miles away. “Ready?” he murmurs, the question devoid of any real enquiry.
“No,” Jimin answers honestly, despite everything.
A fraction of a pause. Then, almost imperceptibly, Jungkook’s shoulder brushes against his. “Neither am I.”
It is not comfort; just a stark, shared experience between the two of them.
And in that moment, it is probably the most real thing that passes between them all day.
Before Jimin has time to give it more thought, the first well-wisher is upon them, a senator with a too-firm handshake and eyes that assess Jimin like a new piece of corporate art.
Afterall, that’s what he’s become in this transaction.
His business smile clicks into place, radiant and empty.
He feels Jungkook’s hand settle on the small of his back, an all too perfunctory gesture for the thousands of cameras trained on them. It is textbook, part of the uniform they have to wear from now on, just like the ring wrapped around his ring finger.
The touch is light and professional, yet sends an involuntary shiver up Jimin’s spine. Not from disgust but from the surreal intimacy of this stranger’s hand claiming him in front of the world.
“Beautiful ceremony,” the senator’s wife gushes, her gaze flicking between their faces, searching for the love story she paid to witness.
“Thank you,” Jimin and Jungkook say in near-unison, their voices a blended harmony of lies.
The senator’s wife finally moves on, her perfume lingers like cheap sentiment. Jungkook’s hand remains on the small of Jimin’s back, that practiced and perfunctory anchor. But with each new congratulation, the touch begins to feel less like a prop and more like a hot brand. It is the focal point of all his simmering discomfort, a constant, low-grade reminder of his acquired status.
As a portly board member with a booming voice approaches, Jimin decides he’s had enough.
Just as Jungkook begins his slight forward lean, the prelude to another round of handshakes and faux niceties, Jimin shifts. In one smooth motion, he disengages from the hand on his back and instead slides his arm through the crook of Jungkook’s elbow, tucks himself neatly against the taller man’s side.
Jungkook stiffens, his prepared greeting falters for a microsecond. He glances down, a question in his dark eyes.
Jimin looks up, his public smile never dims. He gives Jungkook’s arm a slight, visible squeeze, a gesture that reads as affectionate and possessive to the board member now beaming at them. He tilts his head closer, as if he shares a sweet secret, and whispers through his smile, “My side is cold.”
It is a nonsensical excuse, but it is delivered with such flawless, loving serenity that Jungkook can only blink. The new position is, objectively, just as conjugal. But it is different. It is Jimin’s choice, Jimin’s grip. He’s no longer being steered; he’s the one choosing to hold on.
Jungkook recovers quickly, pats the hand now resting on his forearm with his free one. “Always so delicate, babe,” he replies, his voice warm for their audience. The endearment is hollow, but the pat is slow, almost thoughtful.
They greet the board member in this new configuration. Jimin finds it is somehow easier. The link of their arms feels more like a united front, a pact between reluctant allies. He can feel the solid muscle of Jungkook’s arm, the steady warmth through the layers of fabric. It is still a performance, but this way, he feels less like a mannequin being posed and more like an actor with at least one hand on the script.
When the board member moves away, Jungkook doesn’t immediately extract his arm, he just leans down again, his voice a low rumble meant only for Jimin. “Better?”
Jimin keeps his gaze forward, his smile serene. “Marginally,” he whispers back.
A faint, almost imperceptible huff of what might be amusement escapes Jungkook. He doesn’t pull away. And for the remainder of the receiving line, they stand tethered together by Jimin’s arm, a linked chain of their own making. It’s no less a shackle, but Jimin chooses which link to hold.
Jungkook had disagreed to the marriage, maybe the word disagreed was too peaceful of a word to describe his sentiments about his arranged marriage.
He had thrown a temper tantrum, as Jin liked to call it, and a vase, a Ming Dynasty replica, as Jin dryly noted. However hard he fought, he raged, and he bargained against the marriage with Park Jimin he couldn’t win against his father.
The ultimatum, delivered by his father’s all too stone-faced assistant, Haejoon, was direct and simple: the marriage or everything he’s worked for goes to Junghyun, just to fulfill a random age-old promise with Jimin’s parents. He had built himself from the ground up, even if he was a Jeon in name, he had started from the very bottom and he wouldn’t let any of that be stripped away by some spoiled little prince.
Now, said uppity prince stood stiffly beside him, small, delicate fingers leaving wrinkles on the jacket of his tux as they endured insincere congratulations hidden behind saccharine words.
After many years working, he knows to keep his practiced smile a polite curve on his lips as he recites thanks he didn’t feel.
Jimin, on the other hand, seemed to handle this farce a little better than he did. His smile seemed to almost reach his eyes, a convincing facsimile of joy.
And he hated that.
It felt like he was losing the game.
So the moment they had a sliver of privacy, he glanced at the dainty little hand on arm. “Let go, shortie. You’re wrinkling my suit.”
Jimin flinched as if scalded, immediately snatching his hand away. “Don’t call me that,” he hissed, voice low and cold. “We’re not close enough for nicknames, Jungkook-ssi.”
That last part was a very well aimed jab.
Before he could stop it, he felt the corners of his mouth tilt upwards.
He’d noticed it before but ruffling Jimin’s feathers was quite addictive.
There was something about the way Jimin’s polite, icy mask would shatter and he’d see the genuine irritation in his eyes, the way his small little button nose would scrunch, and the sharp and unfiltered retorts he’d try to bite back left his lips.
In their world of calculated words and scripted pleasantries, this part of Jimin felt so real. No longer just a porcelain doll his father had forced on him.
“But that won’t do, babe,” Jungkook echoed Jimin’s earlier words, layering with false sweetness just to see Jimin’s face scrunched up in anger. “What if our parents heard.”
He saw frustration flash through Jimin’s eyes, saw him struggling to swallow down whatever harsh words that come to mind but in the next millisecond it was gone. The grimace was fleeting, replaced with a chillingly cool gaze.
“At times like these,” Jimin keeps his tone with icy civility. “I really am quite jealous of the people who haven’t met you and never will.”
“Lucky you,” Jungkook shoots back easily, an inexplicable urge to ruffle Jimin’s perfectly styled hair and have it become the fluffy little nest it was before. “You get to spend the rest of your life tied to me.”
Jimin’s composure cracks and he scrunches his nose and gives him an oddly endearing glare, then without another word, stomps off.
A faint smile lingered on his own lips as he watched Jimin’s retreating figure, his narrow shoulders held stiff with outrage.
He promptly forgot about his new husband when Namjoon approached him with a dimpled smile and an outstretched hand. Namjoon was his father-in-law’s most trusted assistant, so he knew he needed to keep nice. Business was an endless sea of strategic connections after all.
But even as he conversed with Namjoon, a part of his attention kept flitting back to a particular spot across the room. He caught a flash of silver-blond hair as Jimin threw his head back in a laugh, the sound swallowed by the white noise of conversation and soft music playing in the background.
He won’t deny he’s not as bad as he’d assumed.
Spoiled, pampered, a prince.
Although these were the words that Jungkook had associated with Jimin, they didn’t exactly define everything he knew about Jimin so far.
Spoiled little princes were fragile, they shattered at the slightest bit of pressure. Jimin didn’t shatter, he sparkled, like a rough diamond, cutting and unpredictable, he pinched back.
As Jungkook accepted a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter, his gaze drifted back to Jimin, now leaning against his friend, looking younger and less guarded amongst his friends. The sight provoked a strange contradiction in him. It was the look of someone who had found shelter.
It caused a twinge in Jungkook’s chest. The part of him that raged against this forced arrangement and for Jieun, wanted to scoff and the other part, quieter and softer, liked this part of Jimin just as much as the fiery defiant Jimin he’d experienced the few times they’d met.
Shaking the thought away, he refocused back on Namjoon. This was why he was here in the first place. It was the business that mattered, not a pretty, prickly husband that pinched.
Jimin despised the nickname. From Hoseok hyung, ‘shortie’ was an affectionate tease. From Jungkook, it wasn’t like that, it was more diminishment than simple teasing.
“Jimin-ah.” Yoongi’s voice was a quiet anchor. His friend’s eyes held volumes of unspoken concern.
There’s not much his friend could say at the moment to make things better so he took Yoongi’s outstretched hand and attempted a smile anyways.
“I’m fine,” Jimin lied, forcing a smile.
“Jimin.” Yoongi’s tone brooked no nonsense.
Jimin took his other hand, puppeteering his own lips higher. “I’m going to be fine. He’s not a monster. His parents seem decent. It’s… more than I hoped for.” The words tasted like ash on his lips. He, who dreamed of grand, sweeping romance, was now reduced to a mere transaction. But in his world, it was better to cry in a Bentley than on a bus. Money was his father’s sole language and he might as well reap it in.
Feeling his anguish despite how much he tried to hide it, Yoongi pulled him into a tight hug. “He better not hurt you, or I’ll beat him up.”
Jimin giggled, the sound thin but real against Yoongi’s shoulder. “You couldn’t hurt a fly, Yoonie hyung.”
“I’ll scratch his eyes out.” Yoongi’s small smile faded into seriousness as he pulled away. “I mean it. We’re all here. Just say the word.”
The genuine love was a balm, thawing some of the ice in Jimin’s chest, allowing a real, fragile smile to bloom.
Yoongi opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something else but Hoseok descends down on them in a whirlwind of sequins and affection. “Jiminnie! You look amazing!”
Today wasn’t meant for congratulations, it was just a means to an end.
Just a show put on for an audience.
All of them knew it but it’s how it was but for Jimin’s sanity, they don’t say anything about it.
“Thank you for coming, Seokie hyung.”
Hoseok peels himself away, making a big show of straightening out Jimin’s bow tie. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. You’re family and I would have skipped out of any dance competition to support you.”
Jimin smiles his thanks at his closest friend, but before he can say a word, Taehyung is speeding towards them, throwing an arm over Jimin’s shoulder as if they’ve been friends since birth. He can’t deny the bubbly man beside him because even in just a short time since he’s known Taehyung, he’s already so endeared by him.
“Jiminnie!” Taehyung booms, jumping happily on the balls of his feet, jostling Jimin and almost elbowing Yoongi in the face. “You’re a Jeon now, can you believe it?”
“Jeon-Park,” Jimin corrects, a tiny act of defiance.
“It’s so long!” Taehyung rolls his eyes good naturedly. “You’ll get tired of saying it sooner or later.”
“Not in front of Jungkook, probably,” Jimin grins.
Taehyung laughs along, immediately understanding what Jimin meant.
Taehyung’s booming laugh cuts short as his attention, magnet-like, pivoted to Hoseok. “Hey, Hoseokie hyung,” he said, as if just noticing the others. “Yoongi-ssi.”
“Hyung is fine.” Yoongi says drily, noticing he’s already become an afterthought. The two of them existed in their own magnetic field, Hoseok’s bright laughter meeting Taehyung’s boxy grin. With a sigh, Yoongi gives Hoseok a gentle nudge forward.
Both of their cheeks turn a little pink and Jimin can’t help but share a small smile with Yoongi.
“I’ll bet you twenty it takes them a month,” Yoongi whispers.
“Three months,” Jimin counters, watching their painfully obvious attempts at flirting. “You know Hobi hyung needs certainty and Taehyung is… an enigma.”
As Taehyung stepped into Hoseok’s space, neither moving away, Namjoon joined them. “Congratulations, Jimin.” His smile was warm, but guilt quickly shadowed his features.
As his father’s lawyer-slash-assistant, he’d been the messenger, not the architect and Jimin didn’t blame him at all.
Without Namjoon, he’d probably be a lot worse off.
Jimin squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Joonie hyung. I’ll introduce you to Jungkook.”
Namjoon smiles back, the guilt melting away just enough. “I’ve met him. He seems quite polite despite what's been said.”
Namjoon had the same file of information about Jungkook sitting in his desk drawer, he knows what Jimin knows about him.
The good and bad are as good as rumors. Anything and everything could be fabricated anyways.
A snort escaped Jimin before he could stop it. Yoongi chuckled. Namjoon looked puzzled.
“Let’s just say he’s a brat,” Jimin clarified. “But not the worst.”
“Sounds perfect for you,” Yoongi deadpanned. “Maybe you found ‘the one.’”
Jimin’s unamused glare was met with one of Yoongi’s classic impassive stares. Namjoon just chuckled, ever diplomatic.
The circle widened as Jin approached, effortless and elegant. Jimin watched, amused, as Namjoon’s famed eloquence dissolved into stutters under Jin’s gaze, and Jin himself faltered when Namjoon’s dimples appeared.
Yoongi sighed. “Was I the only one who missed the memo that this was a singles’ mixer?”
“Music is your one true love,” Jimin whispered back. “But I’d still hold your hand.” He took Yoongi’s offered hand, lacing their fingers.
Hoseok pounced immediately. “Cheating on your husband already, huh?”
The resulting laughter from his friends, both new and old, wrapped around Jimin like a shield.