" We all know the narrative, right? About how the Old World ended. The Marked and their powers brought chaos. They rent the earth, made the land shrivel and die so that no crops would grow. The forests died, too, and the oceans roiled and humanity barely survived. But what if the stories are wrong? It's been three hundred years and I often wonder if something got lost in translation. If things were hidden. By the people who became the elite. By the men who became kings. It is convenient to label someone else as a villain, while you grab power for yourself."

- Excerpt from the writings of RM, revolutionary leader

_ _

Two years ago

" Are you sure about this?" Yoongi asks him, hovering in the doorway. This used to be an office once, maybe, in the Old World. The building has crumbled steadily into decay, abandoned decades ago and they've been using it to store smuggled supplies, and the radio equipment Hoseok has slowly been assembling.

"Yes," he replies to Yoongi, adjusting the dial on his transmitter. "Besides, you run a smuggling network, hyung. I don't think you're allowed to call me out on dangerous choices."

Yoongi grimaces. "I know, but..."

"This is different?" Hoseok prompts with a hint of bite in his tone. He didn't protest when Yoongi decided to start the network two years ago, or when the kids inevitably got involved last year. Hell, he's even done a couple runs himself. But he's long wanted to make his own contribution to their burgeoning cause and this feels right. Feels like something he could be good at.

"It is different," Yoongi insists quietly. "You're putting your voice out there, Seok-ah. Painting a massive target on your back. What if they figure out who you are and catch you?"

"The same risk applies to you," Hoseok says, standing to face Yoongi. "To all of us. But I think I can actually help people with this." He crosses over to the door and cups Yoongi's face in his hands, thumbs swiping across the bones of Yoongi's cheeks. "So you have to let me do this, love."

Conflict flickers briefly across Yoongi's face, but Hoseok knows that this is a battle he's going to win. It isn't even really a battle at all - Yoongi's always supported him. Ever since they were kids in the orphanage and he schemed of running away. Ever since the first time he gathered all the courage he had and kissed Yoongi in the dark and Yoongi kissed him back.

A love like this is unwise, in a world surrounded by death and loss. They grew up learning about the dangers of attachments - why open your heart to someone when they could be gone tomorrow? When they could be sanctioned or taken by illness or starvation or the cold, furious grip of winter? But Hoseok never had a chance to guard his heart. He was seven years old when Yoongi crawled into his bed one night with a hot towel he'd stolen and soothed the bruise on Hoseok's cheek from a matron's hand. Wiped up his tears and whispered, "it's going to be okay, Seok-ah."

Hoseok loved him then, from that instant onwards - there was no going back, and in the years since the love has only grown and adapted. Now, he knows the feel of Yoongi's body beneath his hands, what Yoongi looks like, sounds like, in the throes of pleasure. The taste of Yoongi's mouth and the weight of Yoongi's fears whispered to him in the quiet hours before dawn. He has nursed Yoongi through one of those terrible illnesses, praying he'd come out the other side alive. He's fought with him through over a dozen winters, weathered starvation at his side, expanded their apartment to include the kids. Yoongi taught him to read and write and he taught Yoongi how to build tools from a heap of discarded parts. A piece of his heart beats in Yoongi's chest and there is a piece of Yoongi's in his.

It's probably going to kill him, when Yoongi's gone, but he refuses to think about that. They've had sixteen years together. They can have more.

"I can do this," he tells Yoongi now and rests their foreheads together. "Let me do this, love."

"Okay," Yoongi whispers and kisses him, deep and a little desperate. "Okay, just please don't get yourself killed?"

"Same goes for you," Hoseok says. "You have to stay with me, remember?"

"I will," Yoongi promises, and it doesn't feel like a lie, in this moment. It won't become a lie until Jungkook -

Now

-- but he shouldn't think about that. He shouldn't think about Yoongi at all, but that's gotten harder, as the months have worn on and Hoseok's failed to find him.

"I miss you," he says to the empty shed. To his blinking radio equipment. There is a storm gathering strength outside and it was a risk, coming here. Trying to broadcast. But he had to try. People need hope right now, more than ever. "Fuck, I miss you so much."

He leans back in his creaking seat, listening to the howl of the wind. Sometimes, he does this when the kids aren't around to hear him. Stops pretending to be strong and talks to Yoongi like he's still here, perched on the table with his legs kicking back and forth, teasing about how sexy Hoseok's radio voice is.

"Taehyung said that your current owner kills companions. God, god , love I hope that isn't true. I hope you're as safe as you can be." He can't think about someone hurting Yoongi in the ways that Hoseok used to love him. Can't imagine someone else's hands on Yoongi's bare skin or pain where there should be pleasure. "We're trying, we are. The fucking king isn't making it easy." He laughs, rasping and jagged. "But I'm sure you know that."

He shifts forward again and flips the dial on his transmitter. He may not be able to get a signal out because of the storm, but he's damn well going to try. "Just hang in there," he says as he pulls the microphone closer. "Remember that I love you."

His phone buzzes on the table next to him. Have Jimin. Headed back. Be careful of patrols.

Another lockdown - so much for the king getting bored of them. But at least the kids are hopefully safe.

He takes a deep breath, cupping the microphone in gloved hands. The wind throws itself against the thin walls of the shed like a furious banshee. "Good afternoon, folks," Hoseok says, trying to keep his voice light. "Welcome to another day in hell."

_ _

Morning dawns bright and snow-filled and the furious ache in his shoulder reminds Namjoon that yesterday wasn't a dream. Yoongi stabbed him. Yoongi is Suga, prolific anti-government writer who disappeared last year. Yoongi now knows that he has the mutation, that he's RM, and Yoongi sat on his sofa and offered himself up for Namjoon's cause.

His chest still feels twisted and strange at that thought - at what Yoongi's willing to give. He's been meaning to call Seokjin and update him with the news, that the plan is finally going to be moving forward. But apparently Seokjin bought a companion on a whim at a party and has had his hands full for the last twenty-four hours, so Namjoon decides that it can wait until this afternoon, at least.

For now, he focuses on getting himself up and figuring out how to change the bandages covering his shoulder. It was a messy patch-up job, and he needs Seokjin to look at it and probably stitch it properly, but that's another thing that can wait. He settles on the guest bathroom, instead of his en suite, because that's where he keeps the first aid kit.

It takes a long time, getting his shirt off and trying not to cringe at every fresh stab of pain through his shoulder as he moves. His fingers are still clumsy as he tries to unwind the bandages, fumbling for the haphazard knot holding them in place.

"Let me do it," Yoongi says suddenly from the doorway, nearly making Namjoon out of his skin. His ability to move silently is both incredible and infuriating.

"It's fine," Namjoon tries to insist, but Yoongi's grown a lot more assertive since yesterday and ignores him, knocking his hand aside to reach for the knots himself. He thinks he's probably lost what little authority he had as Yoongi's owner and can't bring himself to mind at all.

Yoongi's quick and efficient and practiced. "Do you want me to stitch this up?" he asks as he examines the wound, which is still raw and open even though it's finally stopped bleeding.

"You know how?" Namjoon asks in surprise and Yoongi snorts.

"Of course I know how," he says as he rummages around in Namjoon's first aid kit. "A lot of doctors won't see us unless we're actually dying. I learned as much first aid as I could when I was twelve. Needed to be able to patch myself up."

There is so little he knows of Yoongi, and suddenly Namjoon wants all of these details. Wants to understand this boy who became Suga, now that Yoongi is staying. Now that they're in this terrible thing together.

"You weren't in an orphanage?" he asks quietly, watching Yoongi pull gloves on and hold the needle over a match to sterilize it.

"I was," Yoongi says, tone flat. "They separated me from my parents when I tested positive at five. I ran away when I was ten."

"Why?"

"The streets were better. Now hold still."

Yoongi smears numbing agent around the wound before starting, but it still hurts - forces Namjoon to grit his teeth and grip the sink hard enough to feel the strain in his knuckles.

"Sorry," Yoongi mutters and Namjoon wants to say don't apologize because the seals hurt worse. Instead he bows his head and focuses on breathing, on keeping still for Yoongi.

What has to be only a few minutes later, but feels like hours, Yoongi says, "I'm done," and ties off the thread. Then comes disinfectant and fresh bandages and Yoongi helping Namjoon back into his shirt.

"Thank you," Namjoon says and Yoongi just nods. His hair is sticking up in little tufts, like he just got out of bed, and Namjoon has the sudden, strange urge to smooth them down.

Yoongi stuffs the first aid kit behind the sink. "You have almost no food in this goddamn apartment but I'm making stewed fish and cucumber soup for breakfast."

"You don't have to wait on me," Namjoon insists and Yoongi pauses, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. Surprise, maybe?

"I'm not waiting on you," he declares after a moment. "I'm hungry and you can't cook." He shrugs and steps through the door, Namjoon trailing after him. "After that, we should go shopping. You ... you need to buy clothes for me. For the parties. And makeup and jewelry."

"I ... I haven't really gone to any parties in years," Namjoon stammers. "Or any social functions. I don't know what to buy."

Yoongi nods, biting his lip. He looks soft in his baggy clothes - hair just a little too long, falling into his eyes - but there is steel in his spine and the set of his shoulders. "It's okay," he says, not looking at Namjoon. His jaw clenches and relaxes again. "I'll show you."

He starts towards the kitchen, but Namjoon reaches out and snags his hand. Yoongi flinches at the sudden contact. Doesn't pull away.

Namjoon squeezes. "Thank you. Hyung."

Yoongi's eyes blow wide and shell-shocked. "What ... what did you just call me?"

"Hyung," Namjoon repeats, determined now. "You're older than me. I saw it on your file."

"That still doesn't mean you should call me that," Yoongi says with a shake of his head. He's still clutching Namjoon's hand. "You ... I'm beneath you. You shouldn't call me that."

"In this apartment you aren't beneath me," Namjoon says, squeezing Yoongi's hand again. "We both have the mutation. We're equals."

"That's not how this works," Yoongi argues.

"It's my apartment. Don't you think I can decide what happens in it?" He takes a step closer, lets his earnestness creep onto his face. "Let me do this, please. Let me ... let me give you this one stupid little thing. This one thing in exchange for everything else."

Yoongi deflates slightly. Enough. "Okay," he says. "Okay, fine. Call me what you want."

Namjoon smiles at him. "Thank you. Hyung."

Yoongi huffs and drops their hands, shuffling his way over to the fridge to pull out ingredients. Namjoon's never been the biggest fan of fish, but it's by far the easiest meat to come by. It's hard, keeping other animals alive in large quantities. The seas are one of the few unscathed things left from the Old World, where there used to be farms that stretched as far as the eye could see - full of thousands and thousands of cows. At least, according to some of the books he's managed to dig up from his family's crumbling collection.

He leans against the counter, well out of the way as Yoongi works. He's as efficient in the kitchen as he was mending Namjoon's wounds, seemingly able to do a dozen things at once: boiling water, chopping vegetables, salting the fish, adding spices Namjoon didn't even know he owned.

"Shit, you're good at everything," Namjoon blurts before he can stop himself.

Yoongi snorts again. "Lots of practice."

They leave it at that, neither willing to stay too far into the shadows of the past.

_ _

After possibly one of the best breakfasts Namjoon's had in awhile, he changes and swallows several pain pills and braces himself for a day of shopping. He usually doesn't mind shopping - even occasionally finds it soothing and enjoyable. But this is different. He has a whole list of stores written down that he's never visited before and he's already trying to wrap his mind around the character he'll be required to play - the same one that goes to the auction houses, arrogant and cruel.

Yoongi slips out of the guest bedroom quiet as always, but he doesn't duck his head immediately at the sight of Namjoon - doesn't seem as small and skittish anymore. Namjoon can't tell if the early submissiveness was always just an act or if they've actually made some progress on trusting each other.

"You ready?" he asks Yoongi, who nods. He's dressed in slightly more form fitting clothes - a jacket Namjoon vaguely remembers buying for his journey to Busan and pants that he's had to roll up at the ankles. His earrings glint in the morning light as he brushes his hair out of his eyes and holds out one slender wrist.

Namjoon blinks in confusion. Yoongi blinks back.

"You need to ... a tether?" Yoongi says, voice dropping down to past whispery levels. "You need to tether me."

Shit, he'd forgotten: all companions must be tethered to their owners when out in public. Namjoon supposes there have been one too many escape attempts, even with the tracker designed to prevent them. Panic wells in his chest - he's never taken a companion outside; he has no idea how to do this, no idea where to even begin.

"The auction house should have included one," Yoongi elaborates when he notices Namjoon's frozen, probably half-terrified expression. "It's a cuff that goes on my wrist and a ... a leash. For you to hold."

"Ah," Namjoon says and tries to remember where he dumped the courtesy packet from the auction house.

The office, he thinks, and motions for Yoongi to wait while he enters the code and slips inside. Normally, he throws out the courtesy packets - full of tips for keeping your companion docile and return policies and a bunch of sickening language designed to dehumanize the person you've just bought - but he vaguely remembers keeping Yoongi's, intending to get rid of it after he'd put Yoongi on a train.

Sure enough, he finds the box shoved into one of his desk drawers and opens it, wincing at the leather cuff and leash curled up inside. He picks them up and blows out a deep breath, reminding himself to stay calm. He won't make it through today, otherwise. Or all the days after that. Yoongi is calm and he's the one who's going to be wearing it.

He's waiting patiently when Namjoon returns to the foyer, holding out his wrist again and watching, impassive, as Namjoon slides the cuff on, cinching it tight.

"You can buy nicer ones," he says as Namjoon awkwardly holds the leash. "Ones that look like jewelry."

"Is that more common?" Namjoon asks, realizing for the first time how little he actually knows about this world that he's supposed to live in. He spends too much time shut up in his apartment, closed off from the rest of his fellow elite.

Yoongi shrugs. "Somewhat? A lot of owners like to be discrete and flaunt their wealth at the same time."

"Oh."

An uncomfortable silence. Yoongi nods to the door. "Should we go?"

Namjoon straightens, grips the leash tight. "Right. Yes. Let's go."

_ _

There is an order to this apparently: clothes, then makeup, then accessories - all at shops specializing in dressing up companions.

"I didn't realize," Namjoon says as the car pulls up in front of the first place: a tailor, with elegant gold lettering across the glass storefront, "how ... involved this all is."

"People take pride in it," Yoongi murmurs. "We're currency, remember? So everyone wants to have the prettiest, most stylish and desirable companion in the room. It's a status symbol."

Namjoon's stomach churns. "I hate this world."

The corner of Yoongi's mouth twists in a bitter smile. "That makes two of us."

"Sorry," Namjoon says automatically, guilt coiling along with the nausea. "I shouldn't be complaining so much I-"

"No," Yoongi says, quiet but firm. "I'm glad. That you hate this."

Namjoon grips the door handle tight. "I do. I hate it."

"Then let's get it over with?"

"Yeah." He pauses, in the middle of opening the car door and pulls it closed it again. "Wait - I ... what should I choose for you? For - for a style?"

Fuck, he's so far out of his depth.

Yoongi chews on his lip, thinking. "Elegant," he decides after a moment. "Understated, but meant to highlight my ... my delicateness." He gestures to his body. "I'm small, right? Thin. People like that - me looking breakable. Especially men. Go more feminine, too. For the men. For the women, still delicate. Easy to overpower, to subdue." He sucks in another breath, fingers curling into fists on his skinny thighs. His gaze is far away, turned towards the leather seat instead of Namjoon's face, but his voice is steady. "Highlight my waist, especially. My legs. Straps that can go around them. Something gauzy and a little more sheer for my upper body. But nothing too overly-complicated - that still allows ... easy access."

"Okay," Namjoon whispers and carefully puts a hand on top of Yoongi's, feels the knobs of Yoongi's knuckles dig into his palm. "I'm -"

"And stop apologizing," Yoongi mutters, glancing up at him. "I offered. Stop - it's okay."

It isn't, nothing about this is. But Namjoon can't change it yet, so he squeezes Yoongi's hand and guides him out of the car and into the shop.

The tailor is a man who looks at Yoongi like a decorative piece. He coos over Yoongi's pale skin, commenting that it's like pure sugar, before measuring Yoongi's waist and hips and legs, turning his head this way and that with rough fingers underneath his chin, murmuring about the angles of his face. He picks out pants that hug Yoongi's thighs and gauzy, clinging shirts that dip low across his collarbones. They're mostly darker colors, to contrast with Yoongi's skin, but also some patterns and some greys and whites. ("It's an innocent color," he says of the white, winking, and Namjoon breathes slow through his nose.)

Namjoon forces himself to examine Yoongi in each outfit, to let his gaze linger before he nods his approval or shakes his head. He always latches on to Yoongi's eyes last, trying to ask what the answer should be, but after the first few outfits he senses that Yoongi's tucked himself away somewhere safe and is just letting his body be poked and prodded and dressed. So Namjoon chooses for himself, trying not to feel disgusted when he finds Yoongi pretty in some of the outfits - understands their twisted appeal.

He leaves with almost two dozen items that will be custom-fitted and delivered to his apartment, a tight grip on Yoongi's tether, and a lead weight in the pit of his stomach.

The most recommended cosmetics shop is only a short drive away, spent in silence, and two women in sharp suits and flawless makeup greet them. They, too, remark at Yoongi's skin, shifting the sleeves of his shirt up to run their fingers down his arms. One of them pokes at Yoongi's cheek and comments that it's looking a little too round - a more restrictive diet, she suggests, to bring out the bone better. Perhaps even surgery, though that's an expense rarely spent on companions. Yoongi holds himself still for them as they test out a range of products Namjoon's never heard of.

They brush glittery eyeshadow on Yoongi's lids and line his eyes with dark liquid; apply gloss that makes his lips shiny and red; blend power on his cheeks that somehow sharpens them. Once again, Namjoon is forced to choose the colors and shades that he prefers, though he mostly listens to their recommendations.

"You know how to do this, yes?" the second woman asks Yoongi.

Yoongi nods, keeping his gaze respectfully lowered. "Yes," he whispers. "I was taught how to apply everything."

She hands him a makeup brush and Namjoon realizes this is a test. "I don't think-" he starts but first women politely quiets him.

"We want to make sure he can replicate these looks, sir," she explains with a bow. "Before you purchase any products."

"Companions lie sometimes," the second women remarks casually. "To avoid punishment. Most owners prefer to witness a test of their skills."

"Right," Namjoon manages and inclines his head. "Of course, I'm sorry. I'm fairly ... new to this."

The women smile beautifically and offer him refreshments while Yoongi is positioned in front of a mirror. He reluctantly accepts a glass of wine and an offered chair, waiting Yoongi sort through the products. It definitely looks like he knows what he's doing, and though he moves a little slower, a little more carefully than the women did, by the time he's done, he looks almost the same as when they first made him up - eyes dark, cheeks sharp, lashes long, and lips red red red.

"Excellent," the first women says and begins packing up products for Namjoon to buy. "I believe these to start with."

"Please come back any time, sir," the second women says. "If there's anything you'd like to experiment with."

They're talking to Namjoon - like Yoongi is a dress-up doll he can mould and change to suit his whims. "Thank you," he says, hoping he still sounds polite.

They bow and hand Namjoon back Yoongi's leash.

One more to go, Namjoon tells himself as he swallows more pain pills, and that's accessories, also close by. This time it's a man and a women, also in suits, also with immaculate faces and hair. Once again, Namjoon is offered refreshments and a plush chair and Yoongi's dragged to the middle of the room. Namjoon shows them some of the clothes he's purchased and Yoongi's made to put them on, with instructions not to smudge his makeup. Then the game of dress up begins again.

"I think he'd look best in silver," the man says, holding up several long earrings to Yoongi's ears. "The multiple piercings were a good choice, we can try out a few different styles at once."

"He has a nice neck," the woman says, curling her fingers around it while Yoongi's breath hitches subtly. "We have a lovely selection of collars that would be perfect."

"And his waist," the man says, big hands pressed against Yoongi's ribs, "would be good to accent. I'd recommend some corsets. We also have harnesses that are easy to take on and off."

"I'm open to your recommendations," Namjoon says with an arrogant wave of his hand. He's getting better at this, he thinks. "Though I agree on the silver. Bring me out some collars?"

They come in velvet boxes, and he watches as several different kinds are fastened around Yoongi's neck in succession. All of them are tight, meant to be slightly restrictive. Some are made of sturdy fabric, some have a loop where a leash can clearly be attached, some are thick and heavy, and some are sparkling and delicate.

Namjoon chooses two cloth ones and two thin, silver ones, hoping desperately they're the least uncomfortable. He also selects a dozen various earrings, two corsets, and a leather harness. The man also insists on including one that straps around Yoongi's thigh, as well. Just another form of restraint, Namjoon supposes bitterly, marveling at how ordinary things can be become so sinister depending on the meaning attached to them.

In another world, he'd look at all this and think Yoongi beautiful. In this one, none of it is Yoongi's choice and all of it is meant to create a picture of submission and desirability - entice people to touch, to take.

Namjoon wonders when he'll stop feeling nauseous.

"We can also recommend a different tether, sir," the woman says, dragging Namjoon out of his thoughts. She's holding up Yoongi's cuffed wrist. "This is auction house issued, correct? We have a nice selection."

"Okay," Namjoon says. "Show me."

These cuffs could pass for bracelets almost, if they weren't a little too thick and a little too chain-like. Namjoon chooses the simplest looking one and a leash made of a strong, almost cloth-like material and hopes that this is the end of it.

Fortunately, it seems to be. He's handed half a dozen shopping bags and Yoongi's leash and ushered out with bows and requests for him to come back any time. He all but runs to the car once they're out on the street, throwing the bags inside and slamming the door closed once Yoongi's seated.

"Home, please," he instructs the driver and rolls up the partition so he can slide forward and grab Yoongi's hands, ignoring the ache in his shoulder and hating the way Yoongi's hunched in on himself in a tense ball.

"Please talk to me, hyung?" he asks. He hasn't heard Yoongi speak in hours beyond a few responses to questions asked by the various shop workers. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Yoongi says after a moment, lifting his head. He still has his makeup on, though it's been a little smudged by the shop workers' hands. "This isn't the worst part."

"No," Namjoon agrees softly.

Yoongi blinks down at their joined hands and Namjoon flushes in embarrassment, wondering why his first instinct was to touch, wondering if he overstepped a boundary. He goes to pull away, but Yoongi makes a low noise of protest and clutches on.

Namjoon settles and twines his fingers with Yoongi's, palms pressed together tight.

_ _

There are many things that Seokjin hates in the world - too-salty food, pretentious people, traitors (though perhaps he isn't one to talk in that department), his grandmother and her constant disapproval, this gilded cage that grows tighter every year - but the biggest one is seeing people in pain.

He wants to remove himself from the room when the representatives from the auction house arrive and strap Tokki (he really needs to learn the kid's name somehow) to the bed, but he owes it to the frightened boy to stay.

"Would you like us to drug him?" a woman asks, already assembling her tools for a tattoo.

Seokjin glances at Tokki's wide eyes, sees the terror increase at this prospect, and shakes his head. When he was young and a little more reckless and a lot more arrogant, he took pills at his cousin's party and watched the whole evening turn liquid and elastic. It was awful, and he doesn't want to put anyone else through a loss of senses and control if he doesn't have to.

Sometimes, pain is preferable.

And there is pain: Tokki bites his lip as the tattoo gun whirs, as Seokjin watches his own initials appear on the boy's skin with a mixture of awe and horror. The seals are worse. He's never understood how they work - nanotechnology or something fancy like that - but they're meant to be coded an owner's fingerprints, to release some sort of burning agent into a companion's nerves to quell any resistance.

And of course the bastards have to test it.

He presses his fingers to the seal once they're done and watches it flare red. Listens as Tokki cries out and jerks on the bed, instinctively trying to get away.

God, he's a horrible person, he thinks, waiting for the signal from the representative to withdraw. He's a horrible person for this.

At last it comes and at last the representatives leave, handing him a courtesy packet on their way out the door. He dumps it into the trash as soon as the lock clicks and rushes to untie Tokki.

"I'm sorry," he says as he soothes the tears away from the boy's cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

Tokki shakes his head, dark bangs falling into his eyes. He pushes them back with one hand as he sits up. He looks older, with them swept off his forehead, but still so heartbreakingly young.

"Will you accept food as a better apology?" Seokjin offers, already knowing he's in danger of overfeeding the kid. He could honestly stand to gain a pound or ten, though, if the slight gauntness in his cheeks is anything to go by.

Tokki stares at him, seemingly surprised, and then nods. He trails after Seokjin into the kitchen, looking a little like a lost puppy. He's still moving stiffly and he avoids sitting down. Seokjin remembers the blood on his thighs last night - the shamed curl of his shoulders - and has to tamp down a fresh wave of fury.

Too many things are acceptable in this wretched world of theirs.

He was planning on cooking for himself, but Tokki (god, he really needs to figure out his name) hovers, still looking scared and uncertain. Seokjin finds himself narrating what he's doing as he prepares bulgogi and then pulling Tokki in to help, instructing him to watch the pot and add various ingredients when they're ready. He looks relieved, to be of use, and while Seokjin is sometimes a big believer in the power of denial, he refuses to shy away from why that is. What this boy has been trained to do and what he expects that Seokjin will still demand of him, no matter how many times Seokjin tries to reassure him otherwise.

"Here, what do you think?" he asks, holding up a piece of meat with his chopsticks.

Tokki tentatively takes it into his mouth. He chews for a moment and then nods, a pleased expression momentarily chasing away the nervousness. Seokjin smiles around the sudden, unexpected swell of affection that balloons in his chest.

"Good," he says gently. "Let's eat, then."

They once again do it standing up in the kitchen, but Tokki seems a little less afraid this time, not flinching with every shift of Seokjin's weight like he's expecting a blow.

Once they're done, Seokjin washes up, waving off Tokki's noise of uncertain protest. "I like doing the dishes," he says. "I find it soothing. Sometimes I just wash everything in my cupboards whether it's dirty or not."

Tokki blinks and points to himself. It takes Seokjin a moment, but he smiles when he gets it. "You do that, too, huh?"

A shy nod.

"Then you can dry," Seokjin decides and hands him a bowl.

After they've finished, he changes Tokki's bandages and helps him dress in fresh clothes, careful of the wrapped tattoo that is still angry and raw. He hates seeing his initials on Tokki's skin - add that to the list of things - but he's careful not to show it.

He needs to get the boy papers, which will be hard so close to his last relocation. He may need to wait a week or two before tapping his usual contacts. One thing at a time, anyway. Right now, the first thing is setting Tokki on the couch, locating a notebook and a pencil, and placing them in Tokki's lap.

"Do you write?" he asks as Tokki's fingers trace over the cover.

Fortunately, Tokki nods.

"Then will you tell me your name?"

A flinch.

"Not the name the auction house gave you," he clarifies. "Your real name."

Another flinch. Tokki's eyes dart nervously to the notebook.

"You don't have to tell me," Seokjin amends quickly. "Just ... what do you want to be called? I shouldn't keep calling you a rabbit."

Tokki swallows. Hesitates. But then he picks up the pencil and cracks open the notebook. Scrawls two letters in it: JK.

"JK?" Seokjin says, surprised by the romanized letters instead of Hangul. Who taught this boy? That's more of an education than most Marked get.

JK nods.

Seokjin smiles, aiming for reassuring. "Okay. JK, it is."

JK swallows. The pencil moves again, Hangul this time: 고맙습니다.

Thank you.

Seokjin's chest tightens. It's such a simple thing. It doesn't deserve thanks, but JK's eyes are shining with gratitude, just because Seokjin let him choose his own name.

"You're welcome," Seokjin murmurs and reaches out to squeeze JK's hand. "And you can keep the notebook. Talk to me whenever you want that way."

JK ducks his head. Taps his pencil against the thank you again and Seokjin is helplessly endeared. This boy has been through a hell he can't even imagine and yet there is still so much self left, shining through all the wounds and scars. What a brave, brave kid.

"I have to go out for a few hours," he continues. "For a meeting. Will you be okay here? You can help yourself to any of the food, though I should be back for dinner. And anything else you like - the books, anything."

JK nods. Fidgets.

"And ... I'm going to help you, alright?" Seokjin says. This is a speech he's given nearly forty times, but he amends it a little - adds more than he usually would because he's never had someone like JK before: so young and raw and freshly hurt. "I'm ... I have ways, to make sure you're safe. I can't tell you everything yet, but I'm going to try to give you as much freedom as I can. Just be patient with me. Don't try to escape. This building - the security is tight and they might kill you for trying. I don't want that to happen. Please."

It happened once. Just once. Seokjin's never let himself forget that failure.

JK nods again, eyes wide. Writes: I won't next to the thank you.

"Good," Seokjin says and hopes JK means it. "Thank you. I'll see you tonight."

JK lifts his hand in a shy wave as Seokjin heads for the door.

_ _

It's rare that they all sleep in until the afternoon, but with the storm still raging there's very little that they can do. Sectors 1 and 2 are rumored to have technology in place that keeps the worst weather at bay, but the outer sectors haven't been granted that particular luxury. So the power's out and it's fucking freezing and Hoseok has been huddled up with Jimin and Taehyung on the mattress all morning, buried under every threadbare blanket they own while snow piles up from the gap in the window.

"I hate winter," Taehyung whispers, teeth chattering. "I hate it so much."

"Apparently there are places that don't snow," Jimin says, tucked between him and Hoseok. "Or freeze."

"We'll find one," Hoseok mutters, rubbing Jimin's back. "When we get Yoongi and Jungkookie back."

"Yeah," Taehyung agrees, a sad edge creeping into his voice.

"Yoongi would hate it," Jimin declares, purposefully keeping his own voice light. Bless him. "He always gripes more in the summer than the winter."

Taehyung actually manages a wheeze of a laugh. "You're right. He'd melt away."

It hurts and heals, hearing the kids joke like this, skirting around the edges of the hole still sitting in the middle of them. Hoseok is about to suggest they try to get some more sleep - if they freeze to death, then at least it will be a peaceful end - when he hears it: shouting from somewhere beyond the front door.

"Shit," Taehyung says.

"That doesn't sound like a domestic argument," Jimin says, starting to sit up. Taehyung, closest to the door, beats him to it, clambering to his feet and wrangling the door open to peer out into the hallway. The wind howls inside, making Hoseok shudder from head to toe. Taehyung steps further past the threshold, peering over the railing to the floors below.

"Shit," he exclaims as more shouts echo up and scrambles back inside, slamming the door shut behind him. "City police. It looks like they're going from apartment to apartment."

Hoseok sits up now, too, alarm trilling down his spine. "What?"

They've dealt with raids before, but never in this building. Everyone here keeps their heads down as much as possible, and many of their neighbors are elderly - just waiting for something to take them.

"I think they're looking for someone," Taehyung says grimly.

"One of us?" Jimin asks, because that's always a possibility.

"I haven't heard anything, but maybe."

Either way, they can't take any chances.

"What floor were they on?" Hoseok asks as he gets up.

"Three floors down," Taehyung says, hovering by the dining room table.

"Right. Pack up everything you think we need. Let's go."

Both Taehyung and Jimin explode into motion. They've practiced for this - needed to, with their various underground occupations - and it's a swift and efficient dance around the apartment, pulling food from the shelves and stuffing it into courier packs. A change of clothes for each of them, Taehyung's laptop, Hoseok's radio equipment, Jimin's forged papers - anything else that might be incriminating.

The shouts are getting louder, Hoseok notices as he zips his pack closed. The police are moving fast, only a floor below them now.

Jimin has opened the door to their rickety balcony, snow pouring in. Taehyung makes the bed, trying to erase all signs of recent occupation. Hoseok secures his face mask and then a scarf for good measure, heaving the pack onto his shoulders. He spares a last glance for their apartment: Yoongi's and Jungkook's coats on the wall pegs, Jungkook's plant drooping and forlorn on the kitchen table - all these scattered ghosts of life.

Somewhere on their floor, a door breaks on its hinges and someone screams.

"Hyung," Taehyung says, pulling at his sleeve. "Hyung, let's go."

They may never come back here. Over five years in this apartment - Hoseok isn't sure whether he's relieved or devastated. It was a home, in spite of everything.

But sentiment like this is a waste of time.

He follows Taehyung out onto the balcony. There is a fire escape that runs the length of the building, but police are no doubt watching the ground level so they make for the roof, clinging tight to the rattling railings and battling the wind with every step.

Fortunately, all the buildings here are squashed close together and it isn't too far of a jump from this roof to the next one. Jimin goes first: a running start. They're facing away from the wind now and with it against his back, he makes it across safely. Taehyung follows. Then it's Hoseok's turn. He backs up a few steps and sprints, battling the frigid air like shrapnel in his lungs and the adrenaline pounding through his veins. His feet leave the edge, hundreds of meters of empty space below him, and then he's crashing onto the other roof, folding his body into a roll to absorb the impact. Jimin tugs him to his feet.

"I'm okay," he says in response to Jimin's questioning look. "I'm okay, keep going."

Before the police decide to check the roof, too.

They descend this building's fire escape safely, ducking past balcony doors in the hope that no one catches sight of them.

"The condemned zone," Hoseok tells them on the street. There is always a risk of decaying Old World buildings falling on you there, but at least the police don't patrol it nearly as much.

Taehyung nods and takes point - head down, hands shoved into his pockets, blending in with the crowd.

There are police everywhere, it feels like, searching multiple buildings along the street. And as he passes a bus station, Hoseok catches sight of a fresh poster plastered to the board. A silhouette of a man and beneath that, in big, screaming letters: WANTED, BY ORDER OF THE KING. DEAD OR ALIVE.

And beneath that, one familiar word: HOPE.

So, Hoseok thinks grimly, the king has finally come for him.

Well. Bring it on.