Taehyung was aware that everything he did, did not leave a scratch on his father.

Couldn't give less of a fuck, though.

For, with time comes many changes. Good things come to those who know how to wait - how to be patient. He was sure that another round would bring him the king, as two important players on the opposing side dropped out in this round.

It's so easy when you play with a clear mind. Simple. You know how to attack and who to attack. But the problem here is that Taehyung wasn't sure what color Namjoon and Yoongi represented. Thought it was white. But then again, white was already taken by his father.

See, when it comes to chess, white is reserved for whoever moves first. The attacker. He had given this color to his father a long time ago. Back when he had taken his mother away from him. Didn't want a greedy lawyer or a deceitful doctor to wear the same hue. Figured they had attacked first too, so they were just as suitable as his old man.

He was black. He liked black.

And honestly, Taehyung would rather paint a canvas with shades of pink and maybe purple. Couldn't really be bothered with drab colors when the palette was so rich and bright. So when the police subpoenaed Namjoon for questioning, and you testified against him in court, Taehyung figured that brooding over colors was really childish and with absolutely no gain.

Some changes occurred to the situation that brought you and Taehyung together. Namjoon was already in some trouble with the law, and when a mouth belonging to the wife of a political candidate's son sang about how she treated her beloved husband's wound caused by a conspiracy between a greedy doctor and a vicious businessman, the law believed the claims about Jungkook's innocence. Instead, no investigation was conducted into the accident. The focus remained on the video that Taehyung showed to the world.

Deputy Cha was removed from office, just as Yoongi's license was revoked. A legal committee held a meeting to evaluate whether the inclusion of his name in an ongoing investigation was damaging the bar's image, which was indeed the case. As a result, his license to practice law was suspended.

But Taehyung didn't give a fuck about all this. Because his mind was full of images belonging to the celebration you threw after that eventful night. He wasn't sure if he could call it a proper celebration because you didn't have a party, no one there to clap for you, no confetti or expensive drinks. But you were together, and considering drinking on the stairs that led to an empty neighborhood near Haebangchon, a celebration, one that warmed his heart, brought peace to it, graced his face with a smile, was literally clouding his brain with questions that made him uncaring about the fruits of his sowing.

He thought of the smile you gave him before you hugged him outside the venue, seconds before you got into his car. Couldn't say what he liked more. The warmth of your genuine embrace that wasn't caused by cinematic pressures to convince people of your bond, or the way your eyes shone with affection? No, he must have been mistaken. Needed glasses as soon as possible. It was more likely gratitude or something that fell between these lines.

He loved it anyway.

And it was his need for glasses that made him believe you put your hand on his over the gear as he drove you away from that toxic environment. Away from your raging father who was willing to risk everything just to wipe that smirk off your face. Away from his, whose silence and lack of response was similar to one thing: the silence before a destructive storm. Except the feel of your warm skin on his didn't need glasses to confirm the reality of the occurrence. Because even if he was blind, that warmth traveled through every inch of his skin and eventually settled in his heart, where it made it beat with vigor, with a renewed willingness to see what tomorrow might hold in its folds. Drove his temperature up, and perspiration filled his hands with drops that he feared would stain the steering wheel and the gear stick, letting you know about feelings he was yet to confess.

One day. In the very, very distant future. Perhaps a future that will never see the light of day.

"Thank you, Tae."

Fuck!

Tae? Why would you call him that while he was driving? Why would you look at him with those eyes while calling his name and holding his hand? Why would you put him on the cliff of insanity and give him a reassuring smile that you would never let him fall? Why on earth would you do all this while thanking him for avenging your dead lover? Why, why, why?

For fuck's sake!

But he smiled. Faint, marred with something like loss. Perhaps loss of hope. Loss in a competition. Not sure. But it was genuine nonetheless. Was soft, gentle, like the notes of his perfume filling the space. You liked it. Liked his presence a little more. Wouldn't tell him you loved them both, but you would let him feel that you wished the night would never end.

"You're welcome, doctor."

And when you reached the secluded street, he took off his vest and draped it around your shoulders. Belined and took his coat from the back seat, along with a bottle of champagne he'd taken from his father's event before he left, and made sure you weren't sitting on the cold, dirty tiles, but put the coat under you.

The place was your choice. He would have gone back home or, maybe, checked on Zeus in the cabine. But you asked, and he complied.

"What brings us here, Doctor?"

He asked when your gaze became burning. A hot coal over his face. Felt ambushed. Wasn't ready to return it, because he was sure he would have done more than just that in his current state. Wanted to blame it on the fact that his vest suited you. Black and emerald were your colors, he concluded. Would have told you that too if your answer hadn't come so quickly.

"I always came here with Jimin. I thought there was no better place to celebrate what you've done for him - for me, for us - than here."

He felt a burning in his heart, similar to the one you exposed your cigarette to. While the fire of your lighter burned the cigarette, it was the realization that the pronoun 'us' would never be used to address him and you in the same sentence that set him on fire. Reduced him to ash. Burned him alive.

But he was confused again when you cooled the burn by offering him the bottle of champagne you'd been sipping. the lipstick tracing the details of your lips on the glass, reminding him of how they felt on and between and within his. So he accepted the offer. Forgave you too, but he didn't want to share this information.

"Should've come alone, then. Not sure he would like my presence with you here"

And suddenly, you felt something like guilt. You thought his words were the reason. But no matter how much you racked your brains, you couldn't find anything wrong with being there with him, except for the fact that he was suffering from the cold of the night while his vest warmed you.

"It's a public place. Nothing under our names." You offered as you took off his vest and handed it to him. He looked taken aback, and you thought he was processing your words while he processed your actions. Still, you clarified both. "People come by here every day. Here, put it on. This shirt suits you, but I doubt it's warm enough."

You liked that chuckle. The sound it made. The shape it had. It was perfect. Too bad he showed it so rarely. You would have told him how nice it was now that the alcohol was coursing through your veins. Liquid courage. But he spoke softly, and you were in a quandary because you didn't know what to praise first. His smile or the gentleness of his tone. "I doubt your dress is any warmer, Jae."

And liquid courage is a real thing. You never would have believed the saying, but when you returned his giggle with your own and pulled his vest over his shoulders just as he did to you, you realized that such a thing actually existed. Your hand lingered over his chest just as your eyes held his gaze and said, "Then keep you and me warm."

His vocabulary disappeared when you took his arm and placed it over your shoulder, resting your head on his chest and stealing his warmth with the words. Thud. Thud. Thud. His heartbeat was steady; you wondered if he could hear yours, too. Wished he didn't. It wasn't steady. Your heart was beating fast. Fucking alcohol.

"So we don't get sick," you justified yourself as his silence continued. And you felt the echo of his laughter coming straight from his chest. It vibrated. Brought confirmation that your heartbeat was indeed felt. But the discomfort didn't last long when he pulled you closer to him, stroked your bare forearm, and let out another puff of smoke. "What are married couples for if not to share a vest and physical warmth, huh?"

And then he sighed. At length. Hotly. Carrying words, antonyms, and a whole series of synonyms that he would prefer to spit out. Reckoned relief would follow if he simply freed his chest and made a place for what should remain shy and hidden. "Many other things, Doctor. For many other things, warmth is more likely to be what's at the bottom of the pyramid."

At that moment, you wanted to ask him for a list detailing what marriage meant to him. Felt curious. More so, intrigued. It was unreasonable, bordering on stupid, and just plain silly, but you wanted this moment to be included on that list. You tilted your head and looked up to find his gaze lost in the emptiness of the place. But it took him less time than it had taken you to seek his eyes to return your gaze, and at that moment, you realized that he had a pair of eyes that you would get lost in if he kept looking at you the way he was now. Heavy-lidded eyes full of words, ridden off hope but full of expectations. Full of stories that you wanted to hear and others that you wanted to remain oblivious about. "And what are they?"

You shared his breaths from how close your faces were. It was then that you realized that his scent had settled on your skin. Became yours. Wondered if you could keep it. Claim it. And if he had known of your thoughts, he would have told you that the mixture of his and your perfume was dissolving his control. "Honesty. Respect. Emotions." With each word, his gaze shifted from your lips to your eyes. He liked your freckles. Wished he could kiss every one of them as he enumerated the fundamentals of marriage. He would have, too, if the place you were sitting hadn't contained traces of your history with another man. "Love."

But it was your hand that held him closer when the last word came out of his mouth. It was your breath that faltered. It was your face that took on all shades of roses and sweet spring. It was your heart racing and pounding against your ribcage. And yet you could swear you felt his beating faster beneath the white shirt he wore. So you moved your hand because you were afraid the clamminess would stain the white linen. Make believe, for the real reason was that you couldn't stand the loud beating of his heart, scared he would realize that yours was beating just as fast. But it was he who held it between his, pushing it away from his shoulder where you had thought it a safer place to keep your touch without taking risks. He stood up and held his palm out to you, spinning the bottle and letting the alcohol spill across the floor.

"You came here for him. Might as well pour him a drink. I'll wait for you in the car."

He handed you the bottle and walked away. At that moment, you felt manifold emotions, including the guilt you thought you hadn't felt earlier when he told you that it was wrong for him to be there. But the guilt didn't come from the reason he implied. You felt guilty about him. Felt bad because you didn't consider that he, too, would want to celebrate. Realized how selfish you always managed to become around him, and that stung.

After you poured the rest of the champagne on the paved floor, you followed him to the car and thought about every word he used to describe marriage. Realized your marriage didn't abide by any of them. With bitterness, you also realized that whilst he may not have been physically respectful of the vows he chanted, he was honest with you, whereas you failed in that department, too.

See, life has a really strange concept. Especially when it comes to relationships. We come into the world with a clear instinct when it comes to affection for our parents. Would love them unconditionally and expect the same. We would protect our families, and they would do the same. But this mechanism of affection, protection, and love is different when it comes to bonding with other unrelated people. While life has instilled in us a clear concept of affection, it has also instilled in us a sense of prioritization. We will always love ourselves more. This may seem selfish, but it's purely a means of survival. Nothing complicated.

Now, though, you hated this prioritization. Hated this selfishness. Wanted to eradicate it and stand bare. For with him, you didn't have to be in survival mode.

He would protect you. You trusted him.

So when you entered the house, you followed him to the kitchen island, where he was pouring himself a drink. "There's something we need to talk about, Taehyung."

He remained neutral. Took his glass and sat down on the sofa while you stood in the middle of the living room like a thief awaiting punishment. "Go on. I'm all ears."

After a deep breath, you began, "I pressured Jungkook to convince you to get rid of your father and include me in your plan. I knew he was the one who assaulted Cha, and I used that against him." You took another breath, and in a moment where you couldn't decipher his look, you wished you could pour yourself a drink or maybe take the glass he was holding. "I manipulated him, and in a way, I manipulated you. I wanted you to know and to decide whether you wanted to keep our pact or not."

The sigh you let out was a contemptuous one. You were ashamed. Humiliated by your own actions and the fact that he listened in silence, taking in your confession with a passive look, made it even harder to say the word you actually wanted to say.

"I know." That was all he offered.

But in the end, you managed to say it. To apologize. To fight ego and say the word. "I'm sorry."

When he stood up and walked towards you, you didn't wish to know how he found out lest your embarrassment augments. When he stood in front of you and looked at you in the eyes, you refused to avert his gaze, despite the chaotic feeling you were carrying inside. The distance was suppressed, you could almost feel your chest touching his. Breaths mingled, your heart raced, and he refused to look anywhere but into your eyes.

"Forgiven," he whispered, "now it's my turn to apologize, Doctor."

And before you could ask why or hear the excuse, his lips enveloped yours. Molded them to the shape of his. Scalding breaths over fervent skin. He placed his palm on the small of your back and deepened the kiss further. He invaded your mouth. Tasted your tongue. Felt it. Sucked on it. Fought with it and over it. And when you responded, his other hand went to the back of your neck and pulled you closer, closer, closer. So close that you were afraid you would become one.

"Forgiven."