Chapter Text
Rain patters in a soft drizzle against the foggy plain of their living room window, the faint sound of droplets hitting against sturdy glass a gentle backdrop to the animated voices from the nearby tv. Jungkook only half listens to the news playing continuously ever since they returned home yesterday just before dawn, both him and his mother exhausted beyond imagination and still unable to get some proper rest. Not until they’re certain at least.
Not until they’ve heard it themselves.
So even though exhaustion pulls at his bones, even though his whole chest hurts where his heart weakly beats against his cracked ribs, even though the pain killers and sedatives try to lull him back into an uneasy daze, Jungkook reminds himself to stay alert, to have his eyes glued on the tv until the minute he hears it himself.
The words of freedom.
“Here,” the melodious voice of his mother shortly rips his gaze away, her slowly ageing hand holding out a dark blue cup smelling deliciously of Jungkook’s favorite herby tea bland she mixes together herself. The steam curls softly against his face when he takes it from her, murmuring his thanks. She smiles, albeit tiredly, and joins him on the low couch, her eyes flickering shortly to the blinking screen before drifting back to him. Her hands fiddle with the corner of the blanket draped over his shoulders.
“Anything yet?” she asks, the uncertainty, the worry creeping into her voice even though Jungkook knows she tries very hard to hide it. How nervous she is, how fucking terrified she is about someone finding out. Jungkook gulps down his own unease sitting in his stomach like stones, his fingers tightening around the ceramic cup as he shakes his head a short no.
“Just the weather,” he rasps and immediately winces, his throat still sore after all these hours. He takes a slow sip of the hot tea, the herby liquid instantly soothing some of the pain. “But they mentioned that the palace would make an official statement today.” His mother’s eyes round slightly. “Did they...?” Jungkook shakes his head again. It almost feels forbidden to voice it.
What they’ve done.
“There are rumors,” he says, his voice dropping into a breathy whisper. He clears his throat, but the fear still sits deep in his gut. “But nothing’s confirmed yet.” His mother’s hand shakes lightly as she once again fiddles with the blanket, pulls it tighter around Jungkook’s tired and sore body. “It’ll be fine,” she says, almost to herself, her hand stilling on his arm, just a few inches above the hard wrap of the gauze. “You’ll see,” she adds after a heartbeat. Her mouth closes then opens back up, as if she wanted to say something more, maybe reassure him once again, but then she lets her lips fall shut together, not a single word emerging.
Jungkook can’t muster more than a strained smile in response, the hope buried under a mountain of fear and uncertainty. What if it won’t? What if it was all in vain?
He voices none of it though. His mother’s already stressed enough as is, her own worries eating away at her right in front of Jungkook’s eyes. He reminds himself that she did all of this just for him, to give him the life she’s always pictured for him, to have him choose for himself. Jungkook quietly squashes away all those ugly thoughts and takes another sip of his tea.
Whatever it will be, Jungkook will probably learn it very soon. Today, he reminds himself. The palace will issue an official statement today. He’ll just have to wait a little bit longer, maybe another hour or two, or maybe the statement is already so much closer than he thought. Either way, he will know.
“Do,” Jungkook starts cautiously, glancing at his mother and the paleness of her complexion. He barely suppresses the cough lodged somewhere in his chest. It would just hurt like crazy. “Do you think they’ll announce it right away like this? It has barely been a day...” Jungkook swallows heavily. “Or do you think they’ll-“ His mother shushes him fervently. “Don’t even think about something like that.” She tuts, then adds quietly, “There’s no going back now anyway.” She shoots him a pointed look, one that clearly says for Jungkook to stop worrying, but it’s weak, more plea than motherly order.
Jungkook’s heart twists in his chest.
Because she’s right. Whether they were successful or not, it cannot be reversed now. Not ever. And suddenly Jungkook isn’t so sure about what he’d do if they weren’t, worse even, if they found out and decided to appear right on their doorstep. They’re the kings, they had their ways to find out things like that, right? They’d find out and then they’d come to find him, maybe drag him away right into a life Jungkook never wanted for himself. He almost gags just thinking about that, his stomach twisting sharply even though there isn’t much in it to begin with.
Jungkook’s a mess. A complete, utter mess.
He sighs, a long, deep exhale he’d hoped release some of his tension but only ends up reminding him of the various cracks left in his ribcage. The breath quickly turns into a pained cough, Jungkook clutching his sore chest helplessly, tears beading at his eyes. His mother’s at his side within seconds, carefully taking the cup from him before he could spill the tea all over himself. Her hands return to gently rub along his spine, her soft words a mirror of his pain until the fit finally mellows out. Jungkook takes in a short gulp of air, wincing when even that sends a sharp sting through his chest.
“I’m sorry, Jungkook-ah,” his mother mumbles from his side, her eyes that resemble his own so much filled with the tears of her guilt. “Eomma’s really sorry you have to endure this,” she sniffles and yet forces her mouth into a strained smile. It lasts only a second. “I’m sorry this is what it takes to be free.”
Jungkook’s breath rattles a bit in his sore lungs, but the coughing has gone. He lifts the corners of his mouth, hoping it resembles a trying smile rather than a pained grimace. His fingers cradle hers softly, “It’s okay, eomma. I chose this myself, remember? And I’m willing to pay the price if that means...,” he takes another strained breath, “if it means I’ll have enough freedom to make other decisions like that for myself.” His mother nods somewhat shakily, her eyes still teary, still colored in guilt but it’s a little less than before. Jungkook thinks that it’s enough, enough for him to redirect his eyes back to the tv, to the female news anchor guiding the viewers through the weather forecast and one traffic incident after the other.
Tension grips his whole body though when the picture behind the woman changes to an image of the palace, Jungkook’s hand immediately reaching for the remote to turn up the volume. His mother next to him stiffens visibly. Jungkook feels like fucking dying and yet his fingers press the button for the volume continuously, until the woman’s voice is the only thing discernible in their small living room.
Jungkook feels his mother’s fingers tighten around his hand.
“We are interrupting our regular program for a special live broadcast directly from the Royal Palace,” the woman says, her face an expressionless mask that betrays nothing at all. Jungkook’s pulse thunders painfully against his ribs. It’s time, he thinks, it’s actually time.
“Earlier this morning, the Palace announced that Their Majesties the Kings will address the nation in a matter of exceptional importance today. No further information has been released until now, and palace officials have so far declined to comment on the purpose of the statement.” The image behind her changes once again, the frozen picture of the palace replaced with a live recording of the sprawling silhouette of the actual palace, its pale stone façade and curling dark roofs standing stark against the grey afternoon sky.
Jungkook thinks he stops breathing, his own grip around his mother’s fingers turning nearly bruising.
He watches as the camera sweeps across the ceremonial plaza, dozens of reporters already gathered behind barricades, camera lenses pointed toward the single lectern having been set up in front of the broad staircase leading up to the main entrance. Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, the fear creeping into his muscles like ice.
The news anchor continues, “The announcement has prompted considerable public speculation throughout the day. While a number of rumors have emerged, much of the attention has centered on the long-awaited Seventh Monarch, whose identity has yet to be revealed.” Her expression doesn’t change. “Whether today’s statement is connected to those rumors remains entirely unconfirmed however.”
Behind her, movement suddenly ripples through the crowd gathered before the palace. Several cameras shift position at once, flashes erupting across the plaza as reporters turn toward the grand entrance. The woman inclines her head lightly. “We now join our live coverage from the Royal Palace.”
The image changes again, the woman disappearing to make way for the same live feed of the ceremonial plaza, the continuous patter of the rain turning the pristine white of the stones into a damp grey.
For a second, nothing happens. The camera remains fixed on the broad staircase leading up to the palace, reporters crowding behind the barricades despite the rain, umbrellas of varying colors and shapes bumping into each other as people shift around in clear impatience. The lenses remain pointed toward the entrance, waiting.
Just like Jungkook.
Then the doors begin to move. The distant chatter from the present reporters dies instantly, the movement spreading through the crowd faster than wildfire as people straighten where they stand, cameras lifting ever so slightly. A flash goes off, then another and another. Jungkook feels his stomach twist violently and yet his eyes do not dare to drift from their point of attention, even blinking becoming bothersome.
A person appears at the top of the stairs, a huge black umbrella and the distance of the camera obscuring their identity despite the zoom. Then another figure behind them and another one, and another one. Jungkook watches with his breath stuck in his agitated lungs how six figures line up before the entrance, the rain peltering against the expensive material of the same black-colored umbrellas.
Flashes go off left and right, everyone trying to get the best quality shots of the possibly most famous men within the borders of their country. Jungkook nearly shivers as he takes in the six monarchs, the kings of Korea. They look regal how they’re standing there atop everyone else, their postures impeccable, their clothes clearly upscale but not extravagant, all six men clad in dark colors and surprisingly little accessory.
Jungkook doesn’t dare hope, quickly pushing it away before it could fester for real. He has to hear it first. He can’t allow himself to hope before he hasn’t heard it with his own ears. That their hard work has paid off, that Jungkook didn’t put himself and his body through such an ordeal for nothing. He reminds himself of his mother’s earlier words while watching the kings slowly descend the stairs. That it’ll be fine, that Jungkook would actually be free.
The kings stop a few feet behind the lectern, the royal crest printed on the sleek white wood glinting in the rain and the continuous flashes of the cameras. It’s the first time Jungkook is able to take a proper look at their faces, the rain and the umbrellas having shielded them from the curious onlookers and camera lenses until now. He expected the regality, the seriousness, the solemnity. What he didn’t expect to find where the hints of exhaustion clinging to their young faces, the fallen skin beneath their reddened eyes, the drawn quality to their cheeks. Not even the make-up could mask the tiredness written all over the kings’ faces.
Jungkook swallows heavily. Is that a good sign? Or rather the very opposite? He cannot tell and it’s making him go crazy the longer this drags on.
Finally, one of them steps forward, taking his place behind the lectern. The microphone cracks lightly with the sound of his breath. He subtly clears his throat before directing his dark gaze directly into the camera. “Thank you for joining us today,” Kim Namjoon says, his voice a bit rough but his words enunciated clearly. As expected of the First Monarch.
He continues, his face betraying nothing, “We are aware of the numerous speculations concerning today’s announcement and we sincerely apologize for the prolonged wait.” The microphone cracks faintly with the king’s deep inhale before he says, “Unfortunately, we stand before you today to share news that will undoubtedly come as a shock to many across the nation as it has to us.” He looks down briefly, the tension rising even through the screen. Jungkook stills.
“For generations, the arrival of each new monarch has been a moment of great significance for both the Crown and the people of this nation. In recent years, much anticipation has surrounded the Seventh Monarch, whose arrival, and with it the completion of the 57th Royal Household, has remained one of the most awaited moments of this generation.” The king’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the edges of the lectern while Jungkook’s chest stops all movement, the breath stuck in his throat.
“It is with profound sadness that we must inform the nation that yesterday, the individual meant to become the Seventh Monarch has passed away before ever being able to take their rightful place among the Seven.”
Jungkook distantly feels his mother’s grip tightening around his hand, a sound close to a relieved sob emerging from between her trembling lips. He can’t say for sure though, his surroundings having completely blurred around him, his mother’s presence, the rain, the soft cloth of the blanket over his shoulders all dulled at the First Monarch’s words. The words of his freedom. Finally.
On the screen, grave silence has taken hold upon the people within the palace grounds. It lasts for a few hurried beats of Jungkook’s sore heart, every single one louder than the silence travelling from their tv. And then a shocked gasp. No, two, maybe three or more, the sound easily drowned by the sudden roar of the reporters’ voices. Question after question fired to the lone king behind the microphone, the man’s gaze jumping back and forth in a quest to make sense of the many mismatched words, every reporter trying to outvoice the other.
King Namjoon raises his hand and the plaza plunges back into deafening silence. He waits for another second before continuing. “At this time, neither the identity of the Seventh Monarch nor the exact circumstances surrounding their passing have been conclusively determined.” His voice remains calm, steady, a King addressing his nation.
Jungkook allows himself to breathe, most of the tension bleeding from his sore body. Tension that had held him in a merciless grip ever since that damn mark appeared. The mark of his doom, as he calls it. His fingers absently find the gauze wrapped tightly around his forearm, hiding the agitated scar that was left behind.
On screen, King Namjoon carries on with his little speech, his voice ever steady as he recites the exact script he’s probably been given beforehand. “We understand that this announcement raises many questions and concerns and we apologize for the lack of definite answers at this point.” Jungkook nearly rolls his eyes. “We will of course provide any additional information as soon as they become available.” The King pauses briefly. “Until then however, we ask that any form of speculation regarding this matter will be approached with caution and that respect be afforded to the deceased and their family.”
The rain continues to fall against the row of black umbrellas, low murmurs erupting from the crowd of reporters. Jungkook smiles, he just can’t help himself. Next to him, his mother discreetly wipes away a tear, their eyes meeting for half a second. Relief is everything Jungkook sees in hers and it’s probably not much different with his own.
The microphone cracks again with the king’s next words. “While this great loss leaves this generation of the Royal Household forever incomplete, it does not diminish our responsibility to this nation in any sense or form.” The king’s jaw tightens visibly, the first sign of actual emotion Jungkook’s seen on his stoic face ever since he stepped up to the lectern. “I stand here before you today to assure you that the Crown remains steadfast in its duty despite this tragic development and will continue to serve the people of this country with the same dedication, integrity, and resolve that have guided us thus far.”
All words that aren’t your own, Jungkook thinks bitterly as he watches the First Monarch’s dark gaze sweeping across the gathered crowd before returning to the cameras. It’s an act. A good one, Jungkook can admit that, but an act nonetheless.
“But regardless of what lies ahead,” King Namjoon says, “nothing can diminish the weight of today’s loss.” For the first time since the beginning of the announcement, his voice seems to falter. Only a second, short enough for Jungkook to question its authenticity. Another deliberate part of his perfect act? To show just enough weakness for the people to believe them that they’re actually sad about this? Somehow Jungkook isn’t so sure anymore. Maybe there’s actual regret, but not about the supposed loss they’re grieving. Jungkook weakly shakes his head, straightening his thoughts. If they’re grieving one thing it’s the political stability forever lost with the Seventh’s ultimate absence.
His eyes drift back to the screen, to the six men portraying the perfect image of monarchs maintaining regal composure despite the severity of the news currently brought to the public. What are they trying to express? Strength? Unity? Steadfastness? It’s definitely not grief. Even though they’re trying.
“For reasons we may never fully understand, the Seventh Monarch was taken from us before they could take their rightful place among the Seven,” King Namjoon goes on, “before they could answer the calling entrusted to them, and before they could stand beside those they were chosen to rule alongside.” He sounds regretful, his words lingering in the air long after he’s fallen silent again, swallowed by the steady drum of rain against stone and fabric alike. Jungkook shifts slightly beneath the blanket draped over his shoulders, immediately regretting it when pain flares through his ribs. It’s a painful reminder of what he’s done, alongside the First Monarch’s words of fake grief.
Yet there’s no regret to be found in his heart. Jungkook meant what he’s said to his mother earlier. That he gladly takes this temporary suffering just so he could be free, that he could decide about his own life. King Namjoon calls it a divine calling, something that is entrusted to those meant to rule. Jungkook thinks it’s a fucking chain around their necks, binding them to the palace and the poison behind its walls.
On the screen, the six kings remain perfectly still however. Jungkook finds himself staring at them, at King Namjoon and the five others behind. Their dark umbrellas may shield them from the shitty weather but not from his attentive gaze catching the solemn expressions worn like a mask. They make it seem so effortless it almost compels him to laugh. It’s ridiculous how naturally they make it look, as if they could actually mourn someone they never knew as if they were someone dear to them. Jungkook nearly scoffs at that.
At the palace, the king resumes his little speech. “That loss cannot be undone in any way, nor will it be forgotten,” he says, heroically honoring a loss he couldn’t even understand. “Though we may never learn the name of the person we mourn today, that does not lessen the value of the life that was lost.”
This time, Jungkook doesn’t stop the scoff spilling from his lips.
The First Monarch’s gaze never wavers from the cameras as he speaks, his voice carrying evenly across the palace grounds despite the rain still falling relentlessly around him. If not for the slight tightening of his fingers around the lectern, Jungkook might have believed every word rehearsed.
“It is a tragedy that neither we nor the people of this nation will ever have the opportunity to get to know the person we have lost,”- Jungkook calls it a fucking blessing -, “to know who they were, what kind of life they lived, or who they might have become.” King Namjoon lowers his head, looking somber. “All we will ever know with certainty is that this life has ended far too soon.”
The words settle heavily over the plaza.
Jungkook finds himself staring at the television screen despite himself, at the six men standing beneath their umbrellas as though carved from stone. It should feel ridiculous. A nation mourning a man who was never truly part of it. Six kings grieving someone they had never met. Yet the longer he watches, the harder it becomes to ignore the exhaustion written beneath their eyes, the tension hidden in shoulders held a little too straight, hands gripping umbrella handles and lecterns just a little too tightly. That must be part of their act surely, Jungkook thinks, there isn’t a way this is all real. They just want it to look real, that’s all.
“In recognition of that loss,” the First Monarch continues, “the Royal Household will enter an official period of mourning starting from tomorrow and lasting for seven days to honor the memory of the Seventh Monarch whose life was sadly taken from us.” A murmur travels through the gathered reporters, visible more than audible from behind the screen. Camera flashes continue to erupt sporadically across the crowd, briefly illuminating rain-damp faces before disappearing once more.
“Throughout this period, all national flags across the kingdom will be flown at half-mast, and the members of the Royal Household will temporarily withdraw from all public engagements and ceremonial duties not essential to the continued governance of the nation.” Another camera flashes, the murmur from the crowd shortly rising in pitch.
Beside him, his mother lowers her head, her fingers tightening around his hand. He can basically see the gravity of their decision unfold within her teary gaze. Jungkook can understand, he, too, can’t deny the heaviness settling somewhere within his stomach, a heaviness that feels a lot like the first spark of guilt. He still doesn’t regret a thing, but it doesn’t mean that he can’t feel guilty about it. Guilty about not regretting it and guilty for being selfish enough to choose for himself.
“We, as the monarchs of this nation, certainly understand the responsibilities entrusted to us, and it is not lightly that we take a step back from them, even for a short time.” The king pauses again. “We therefore ask for the nation’s understanding as we take these days to properly honor the life that has been lost.”
For the first time since stepping behind the lectern, King Namjoon’s gaze drops briefly. Only a heartbeat, gone almost immediately. Yet Jungkook catches it all the same.
“During this period of mourning, opportunities will be made available throughout the nation for those who wish to pay their respects and join us in remembrance.” Rainwater streams steadily from the edges of the black umbrellas gathered behind him, disappearing against the pale stone beneath their feet.
“We may never have had the opportunity to know the person we lost, nor learn the story of the life they lived.” Somehow the king’s voice wavers again. As if the act is getting to tiresome to hold up any longer. Jungkook’s brow twitches in irritation. “Nevertheless, they will not be forgotten. Their memory will be honored and carried forward alongside those who came before them.” He inhales loudly, the microphone easily catching and amplifying it for the whole nation to witness. Something twists uncomfortably inside Jungkook’s chest, but he doesn’t know what, if it’s his irritation, the questions left by the kings’ contradicting expressions or if it’s simply the strained muscle of his heart protesting the amount of stress he’s put the organ through in the last days.
King Namjoon lowers his head into a small bow. “Thank you.” The five others mirror him, faces the same unchanged mask of solemnity they’ve upheld for the duration of the whole speech. The reporters immediately erupt into a cacophony of hurried questions, the camera shaking slightly as everyone pushes forward, trying to get even closer but being contained by the barricades and the dozen security guards shielding the agitated mass of people.
King Namjoon has meanwhile stepped back from the lectern, the First Monarch giving the subtlest of nods before the kings start to move up the stairs again, rain dripping from the edges of their umbrellas and down their straightened backs. The live feed cuts back to the studio and the same news anchor from earlier even before they can disappear back into the palace, the screen light up with the breaking news.
‘Seventh Monarch dead’ it reads and it’s everything Jungkook needs to finally let loose, tears easily gathering in his eyes as he looks at his mother next to him. No words need to be shared between them, both of them understanding each other even with their mouths remaining shut.
They did it.
Jungkook’s officially declared dead.
Silence hangs heavily over the empty foyer the moment the giant doors of the main entrance falls shut behind them. Seokjin’s shoulders droop within a heartbeat, the composure he’s been holding onto for the sake of their people shattering like frail glass under the first hint of pressure. A weak sniffle sounds somewhere to his right, his gaze immediately darting to the two youngest, their reddened eyes already tearing up again.
Seokjin sighs, the exhale so deep and long it nearly echoes through the empty hall. He steps up to the Royal Maknaes, his lips curling into a trying smile as his hands find their subtly shaking shoulders, his ears easily picking up on the wet quality of their breaths. “You did well,” he says gently, meaning to reassure them, his fingers travelling to their necks and pulling them against his body. Both of them follow easily, the sniffles quickly turning into actual tears wetting the skin on Seokjin’s neck.
He throws a glance over his shoulder, to Namjoon and his drawn face. He carried most of the weight, today and on many others. Seokjin feels his nose prickling with his emotions. “You, too, Joonie,” he adds, his voice turning a bit rough around the edges. Namjoon nods, accepting his gratitude like he always does, but it lacks the usual sureness, his head simply giving up to gravity and then fighting its way back up. It’s strained.
Hoseok next to him slowly reaches for Namjoon’s hand, their fingers intertwining as naturally as breathing. Seokjin watches as Hoseok offers his strength through a simple press of his fingers, a strength that even he seems to need on this gruesome day. His heart pinches seeing Hoseok like this, his natural brightness absent under the shadow of their grief. It’s horrific, something Seokjin never wished to see on his cheery sunshine’s face.
Jimin and Taehyung continue to cry against his shoulders. Seokjin shushes them quietly, squeezes their necks and rubs their backs. He presses a soft kiss on the top of their heads. When he looks up again, he’s met with a dark gaze already resting on him. Yoongi’s face is a blank canvas, emptied of all emotions. Seokjin wants to pull him into his arms as well.
But the other turns away, directing his empty gaze to Namjoon instead. His voice is as cold and blank as his eyes when he asks, “Any updates?” Namjoon tiredly shakes his head. “Not yet.” Yoongi crosses his arms over his chest, the annoyance clear, but also the fact that it’s just a shield. To protect him from what lies beneath. “We checked with every possible hospital and every morgue,” Seokjin sighs, only reluctantly releasing the youngest from the warmth of his arms. A sad smile steals itself on his lips as he wipes away the leftover wetness from their cheeks. He turns back to Yoongi, the other’s arms still crossed tightly over his chest.
“Maybe we should eventually come to terms with the possibility that we might never find them.” Even just saying it out loud makes Seokjin wince, his chest stuttering with his next breath. They all know what he’s trying to say. That there are ways of dying that doesn’t leave a body behind to bury and properly mourn. Taehyung stifles a sorrowful sob, Jimin next to him flinching as if the words itself have physically hurt him.
“Do you really...,” Hoseok shakes his head, the question dying on his tongue. He doesn’t need to complete it for all of them to understand. Namjoon’s jaw tightens visibly and yet... his shoulders lift in an uncertain shrug. “Hyung’s right,” he admits quietly, almost reluctantly. “The fact that we haven’t found them yet probably means that there’s nothing to find in the first place.”
Jimin bristles. “Maybe we haven’t searched thoroughly enough! We’re the damn Kings of Korea, there shouldn’t be a thing we can’t find!” His voice breaks and tears begin to stream down the apples of his cheeks, washing away layer after layer of make-up that’s been plastered to their skin an hour ago. To hide the roughness beneath. Jimin cries, “It’s been barely a day and you’re already giving up? What about international hospitals? What if they weren’t even in Korea? What if-,” he hiccups and Taehyung reaches for his crying soulmate, pulling him into a tight hug. Seokjin’s own eyes water at the sight of his two youngest trying to find comfort in each other’s arms, a comfort they’ve all been craving but that seems more and more unreachable with every hour that passes.
He gently pets Jimin’s mop of blond hair, the gesture a weak attempt to lessen the unintentional sting of his words. “We may be kings, Jimin-ah, but we’re not almighty,” he reminds him, his hand stilling where hair bleeds into skin and spine. “There are limits to what we can do and you know that.” The younger’s body shakes with a heartbreaking sob. “Maybe we’re not meant to find out.” It’s a sad thought, one he didn’t intend on actually voicing, but it doesn’t change the fact that it rings true within all of them. He can see it. The dejection on Namjoon’s face, the droop of Hoseok’s shoulders, the way Yoongi’s arms fall lax to his sides.
“What are we gonna do now?” Taehyung raises his teary gaze, worry etched into the lines of his beautiful face. “What if they come for our heads now?”
Seokjin winces.
“We do what we always do,” Yoongi retorts, his own gaze turning steely. “We reign. With or without the Seventh.” Hoseok flinches slightly, the words harsh, too harsh possibly for the tenderness of their hearts but there’s nothing wrong to them. They are the Kings, the rulers of their country and they’ll continue to be so for the rest of their lives. It’s just pretty damn disheartening that they’re forced to carry that burden without their Seventh, the last piece to a bond that will forever remain incomplete now.
His hand absently wanders to his forearm, to the sore spot under the layers of his clothes, his fingers gently rubbing along the lines of his mark. It’s still tender, like a cut that hasn’t even started healing yet. Seokjin isn’t sure it ever will.
He looks back up, taking in every single member of his family. “Yoongi’s right,” he says, his voice sounding more even than it has ever since they felt the tear within their bond. “We can’t change what happened, but we can make sure it doesn’t change anything about the way we’ve handled things until now. If there won’t be a Seventh, we will stand together as Six.” His gaze drifts from Namjoon, to Hoseok still holding his hand, to Yoongi’s pale complexion, and his teary-eyed youngest. “As Family,” he adds.
“As long as we have each other, we’ll find a way.”