"The powers possessed by those who would come to be known as the Marked were beyond the realm of human possibility. Their mutated DNA gave them the ability to manipulate the very earth itself, and they used this to their advantage. They toppled whole cities, rent the earth so that nothing would grow [...] They ended the Old World, in their determination to rule it, and it was only through the bravery of those who rose up in resistance that they were subdued."

- Excerpt from The Cataclysm, about the end of the Old World

_ _

Namjoon reaches out to an old classmate for his first party invitation, Cho Doyun. They'd been something like friends in university, even if Doyun's family owned the campus (and oversaw all schools in the city), and so he sailed through three years with minimum effort while Namjoon struggled to prove he was worth something to his skeptical family. These days, he's on the board of that same university, Namjoon's heard, but spends most of his weekends hosting lavish parties at his parents' mansion.

"I have a plan," he tells Yoongi when he gets an acceptance back, unfurling a long piece of parchment that he's rolled up like a scroll. Yoongi arches an eyebrow at him and he shrugs. He only trusts technology so far - paper is easier to conceal.

On it, he's scrawled the names of each of the Eight families of the king's court and notes next to them:

YOO - defense (city police, king's security detail, oversight of Marked/sanctioning)LEE - agriculture (city greenhouses, farms in the south, food distribution)HAHN - commerce (factories, auction houses, import/export with Gwangju/Busan, distribution of non-perishable rations)KIM - energy/transportation (city power grids and buses/trains)KWON - housing/construction (apartment complex maintenance, building/demolition as necessary, Marked lodging allocation)CHO - education (all schools and universities)KANG - labor/immigration (labor laws, Marked job allocations, processing of all citizens moving between cities)CHI - health/human services (orphanages throughout the city, hospitals, emergency services)

"Quite the list," Yoongi says as he eyes it. "All this power on one piece of paper."

Namjoon nods grimly. "And they're our main problem. We topple the king, they're going to fight for the crown. And that's if someone doesn't try a coup before us. The old king - he had their loyalty, or maybe they were afraid of them. Not his son."

"So how do you think you're going to subdue them?" Yoongi asks dubiously. "This much power isn't going to come to heel because of some secrets."

"No," Namjoon agrees.

He remembers hours with Seokjin, pouring over this short list, trying to think of weak spots to exploit, chinks in the armor - any way to bring these powerhouses down. These families are old, formed from the ashes of the Old World centuries ago, and their wealth and influence is even more widespread than the royal family's in some areas. But there was a quote Namjoon remembers seeing, tucked away in an Old World book on the back shelf of a city library:

A house divided against itself cannot stand.

"We need to make them fight each other," he says to Yoongi. "Take their attention off the crown. These families are more like ... like clans. Or a corporation. Full of branches and divisions and warring factors who want power. Rumor has it that Yoo Minseok is poisoning his own father for a place as family head. And just last year, Kang Hajoon died under mysterious circumstances and his younger sister conveniently took his place as head of the family. The foundation is already cracked, we just need to ... widen those cracks, if you will."

Yoongi's eyes are on the list, gaze sharp with understanding as he nods. "Use their secrets against each other, instead of other families." He looks up at Namjoon. "Are there any others like you?"

"With the mutation?"

"Yes."

"I don't know." He's thought about trying to look for others, to see if they could form an alliance, but he was always too afraid of exposing himself to the wrong people and ending up dead as a result. "We tend to stay purposefully quiet."

"Understandable. But making the Eight fight won't be enough," Yoongi points out. "We need at least one or two of them on our side. And our best bet is people like you, who have an interest in seeing the current system break down, even if it means losing wealth and power. Are there any rumors, at least? Somewhere we can start."

Namjoon chews on the tip of his pen, thinking. He remembers hearing something in university. Whispers, nothing more, but whispers often have a grain of truth to them - especially amongst the elite. "There have been some vague ones, about a boy from the Yoo family." He leans forward to scratch a star next to YOO on his list. "I think his name is Kihyun. Third in line for family head. He's even more reclusive than me, though. Doesn't go to parties and I don't think he owns companions."

Yoongi shrugs. "It's still a potential place to start."

He's right about that. Namjoon adds Kihyun to the bottom of the page and rolls it up again. "Let's get through a party first," he declares and the corner of Yoongi's mouth twitches in a sad smile.

"Yeah."

Before he can say anything else, there's a knock on the door.

Seokjin.

Namjoon stands, giving Yoongi a reassuring gesture in response to his questioning look, and goes to open the door. His cousin looks exhausted and far less put together than usual, wearing simple clothes and hair a mess. Namjoon knows better than to ask, knows that Seokjin keeps his vulnerabilities close to his chest and rarely shows them to anyone, even Namjoon. So he settles for patting Seokjin on the shoulder and beckoning him inside.

"Thanks for coming on such short notice, hyung."

"My companion's settled a little now," Seokjin says, pausing to eye the numerous shopping bags Namjoon hasn't cleared from the living room yet - neither him nor Yoongi really wanted to deal with them after getting home. "I can spare a few hours." His gaze moves to the bandages poking out of Namjoon's shirt and narrows. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Namjoon hedges. "Just a small misunderstanding."

Seokjin's brow furrows, frown deepening. "With your companion?"

"We've sorted it out now," Namjoon assures him, herding him towards the living room. The last thing he needs is Seokjin getting angry at Yoongi right now, when he's trying to make sure everyone is on the same side. "It's okay."

"You should still let me look at it," Seokjin insists, then stops when he catches sight of Yoongi rising from the sofa, a carefully blank expression on his face.

"Seokjin-nim," Yoongi says and bows respectfully.

Seokjin glances at Yoongi, then the paper on the table, then at the shopping bags again - and Namjoon watches him put the pieces together, understanding dawning on his face. "You're ... he's helping you?"

"This is Suga," Namjoon says quietly and Seokjin's lips part in surprise. "He's agreed to help us, yes."

"Why?" Seokjin asks, turning his attention to Yoongi again.

"Because I want a different world," Yoongi says. "And Namjoon says you can deliver it."

"You trust him that much?" Seokjin asks dubiously.

"No," Yoongi says and Namjoon pretends it doesn't sting. Reminds himself that Yoongi has no real reason to trust him - it isn't something he's completely earned yet, and he needs to keep that in mind. "That's why I asked you here." He looks hesitantly at Namjoon. "Can I talk to him? Privately?"

Namjoon suspected that he would request something like that and nods, grabbing his coat from where he's laid it on the kitchen counter. "I'll take a walk. Text me when you're done."

Seokjin gives him a dismissive wave, focused on Yoongi, and Namjoon leaves them to their discussion, closing the front door quietly behind him on his way out.

_ _

Kim Seokjin, Yoongi thinks, would look like a typical elite if not for the rumpled appearance and tired eyes. He's handsome in an aristocratic way: features perfectly symmetrical, skin smooth and flawless - the type of face that would turn every head in a room, men or women. With his broad shoulders and the confident, elegant way he sinks down onto the sofa, he feels like a king. Yoongi could picture him holding court.

The idea worries him.

"Why do you want this?" he asks, also taking a seat. "To be king?"

"Did you hurt Namjoon?" Seokjin asks, ignoring Yoongi's question.

Well. No use lying, really. "I stabbed him with a kitchen knife."

Seokjin's expression remains calm. "Why?"

"I thought he was going to kill me, so I tried to escape. You have to know the reputation you both have."

Now Seokjin grimaces. Strangely, it makes him look younger - more human. "I'm aware. But now you've decided to help him?"

"He told me who he was," Yoongi says, smoothing his hands over his knees.

"He told you he has the mutation," Seokjin guesses grimly and sighs at Yoongi's nod. "Of course he did."

"I want to help," Yoongi insists. "I ... we're on the same side, I guess. If you're not just trying to grab power for yourself."

"What would you do?" Seokjin asks, leaning forward. "If I was."

"Kill you," Yoongi says without hesitation. "Let the rest of the elite fight amongst themselves. Lead a revolution from the ground up instead."

"Burn us all?" Seokjin asks with a wry smile.

"Do you blame me?" Yoongi challenges, gesturing to the tattoo on his neck.

"No," Seokjin says softly. "No, I don't."

"So answer my question. Why do you want to be king?"

Seokjin sighs, shoulders dropping. His smile grows, turns rueful and a little sad. "I don't, to be honest. But I do want a better world, and I know that can't happen overnight. Someone needs to lead the transition. Make sure the rest of the elite don't try to grab power. This plan ... it requires two players. One to sit on the throne and one to pull the strings. As soon as I declare myself king, I'm painting a giant target on my back. At least several other families are going to try to have me assassinated, and one of them might succeeded. So ... I can't be the most important player."

"Namjoon will be," Yoongi guesses, putting more pieces together. "You're the public face, Namjoon is the mastermind."

Seokjin shrugs. "He's better at this than I am. Planning, governing. But I know how to work upper society in a way he doesn't. I'm charming." He bats his eyes and then laughs under his breath and it feels like another layer peeling back, allowing Yoongi to see him more clearly than before. "And not unintelligent, either, I'd like to think. I'd make a good figurehead, don't you agree?"

"It's a big risk to take," Yoongi says. "Why do it? You're ... you have everything you could want, why give that up? Namjoon, I understand. But you? Unless you have the mutation, too?"

"I don't," Seokjin says and pauses for a moment, mulling over his words. "When I was eighteen years old, my cousin took me to a boarding house. He said I needed to become a man and this was the best place to do it. They ... they brought me a woman for the evening. They told me that I could - that I could do anything I wanted to her. Anything. I could cut off her limbs, they had tools for that. I could torture her to death with at least a dozen provided instruments and it wouldn't matter. No one would care. She was crying, I remember that. They'd strapped her down to this bed and she was crying. I ... I couldn't do it, obviously. I told them I wanted to buy her. Kill her in the privacy of my own home. My cousin was so fucking proud of me."

Seokjin curls his hand into a fist against his thigh, fingernails scraping the expensive fabric of his pants. His jaw is clenched tight and quivering. "I tried to help her, but too much damage had been done. She ... killed herself. While I was at work. I found her when I came home. I didn't even know her name." He looks up at Yoongi, gaze fierce and wet. "That's why I want to do this. I don't care what I have, I don't want to live in a world where life is meaningless. Where someone is less than human because of a mutation they can't help. This is an ugly, horrible world and I want to change it. For Namjoon. For you. For everyone."

Yoongi blows out a long breath, watching Seokjin compose himself. Thinks: he'll make a great king. Thinks: he isn't lying. Thinks: this is enough.

He can see the raw, bloody mess of Seokjin's heart, pinned to his sleeve and dripping all over the sofa. Perhaps, there is still some good in their rotten society - people who look around them at all the horror and death and pain and think I won't stand for this.

"Okay," he says, voice a raspy croak from the chaotic swirl of his own emotions. "Okay, I believe you."

Seokjin gives him a watery smile. "Thank you. And Yoongi ... you don't have to do this. We'll find another way, eventually. You ... you shouldn't have to do this."

"Namjoon said the same thing," Yoongi murmurs. "It's why I offered."

Because this isn't easy and it shouldn't be. He knows it's going to hurt. His skin crawls at the idea of getting on his knees again, spreading his legs, forcing his body to take it and his mind to shut down - no matter how painful it is. He hates the burn of the no he isn't allowed to say in his mouth, hates even more when they make him beg and each plea tastes like acid against his tongue. But he's already endured it once. He'll do it again and again and again, until there's nothing left of his body, if it means that someday soon Hoseok and the kids will be free, everyone will be free.

Seokjin still looks pained.

"It's okay, Seokjin-nim," Yoongi says. "It's only my body."

"You know that isn't true," Seokjin whispers. "And please ... we're equals here."

So much like Namjoon, Yoongi thinks.

"Build me a better world, then," he says. "And it will be worth the cost."

Seokjin lowers his head, then stands and with a deep breath, bows. Ninety degrees, at the waist, like he's addressing an elder or a member of the royal family. All the air punches from Yoongi's chest. No one's ever...

"I will," Seokjin says. "I promise, Yoongi-ssi. And if I fail, I'll hand you the blade myself."

A great king, Yoongi thinks, helplessly. He'll make a great king.

_ _

Seokjin is gone by the time Namjoon returns, and Yoongi is staring off into space with a contemplative, conflicted expression on his face that Namjoon can't begin to decipher.

"Everything alright?" Namjoon asks, worried. They only have a few hours to get ready for the party tonight, but he'll cancel the whole thing if Yoongi asks him to. His stomach is already roiling at the thought of going out and kissing up to his fellow elite - playing the arrogant sadist, tugging Yoongi around like a toy.

Yoongi nods and focuses back on Namjoon. "Yes. I like your cousin."

That's a relief, though Namjoon wasn't worried about Seokjin winning Yoongi over. Few people have as good a heart as Kim Seokjin does, including Namjoon. "Good. I'm glad."

"We should get ready," Yoongi continues, glancing at the clock.

"Yeah," Namjoon says, though he doesn't move. Yoongi crosses the distance between them, stopping right in front of Namjoon. "Do you ... do you need help with anything...?" Namjoon asks hesitantly, so out of depth it's almost laughable.

Yoongi shakes his head and then takes Namjoon's hands and puts them on his hips. Namjoon jolts in shock, but Yoongi keeps them pinned when he tries to move away. "Yoongi - w-what?"

"You need to get used to this," Yoongi says. "You own me. You can't flinch every time you touch me - they have to believe you're fucking me."

Namjoon flinches again, but Yoongi's right. Fuck, Yoongi's right. So he sucks in a shaky breath and moves his hands, tightening his grip on Yoongi's hips and backing them up towards the sofa. He lowers himself down, pulling Yoongi into his lap, and hopes Yoongi can't hear just how fast and loud his heart is beating - he can almost feel it pressing against his breastbone, trying to escape his skin.

"There we go," Yoongi murmurs. "Now put your hand in my hair."

Namjoon obeys, though he's pretty sure his fingers are trembling. Once again, he takes a stuttering breath and tightens his grip, forcing Yoongi's head to side.

Yoongi's eyes flutter closed and he hiccups softly, but doesn't try to get away. Namjoon feels sick sick so fucking sick. But he moves again: mouths at Yoongi's neck, then his jaw, and finally kisses him on the mouth. It's awkward, uncertain - Namjoon can't remember the last time he kissed someone, trusted someone enough to bring them back here for a brief tryst. It's been years, probably. Yoongi moves, though, deepening the kiss and parting his lips, coaxing Namjoon's tongue into his mouth.

I own him, Namjoon thinks through the spark of heat that trills down his spine. I own him.

He can never let himself forget that.

He's not sure how long they kiss before Yoongi pulls away and guides Namjoon's head back down to his neck. "Mark me," he says - tone commanding but voice timorous.

Namjoon sinks his teeth in, right over the tattoo, and sucks, trying not to think about what he's doing, about the fact that he can feel Yoongi shaking in his arms, even as he shifts his hips closer. He makes sure the mark covers the whole tattoo - knows that it's going to bruise dark later, knows that it will hurt and fights down another rush of bile. When he pulls back, Yoongi is breathing hard and he leans back in to lick gently over the forming bruise, trying to soothe as much as he can.

Then he shifts again and tugs Yoongi forward until their chests are pressed together, wrapping his arms around Yoongi's back to hold him. Yoongi huffs and tucks his face into Namjoon's neck. "You can't treat me like this at the party."

"We're not at the party yet," Namjoon says. "So just ... give me a moment, hyung."

Yoongi huffs again, but settles, relaxing against Namjoon and they stay like that for five minutes, ten - until Yoongi finally says, "we need to get ready," and Namjoon reluctantly lets go of him, refusing to think about how nice the closeness was, or acknowledge the part of him that would have been happy to spend the night on his couch, just holding Yoongi.

Yoongi picks through the shopping bags, choosing an outfit and makeup, and vanishes into the guest bedroom. Namjoon forces himself off the couch, tells his protesting body that they are not throwing up, and shoves his jangling nerves out of his mind. In his own room, he slicks his silver hair back off his forehead and puts in the colored lenses that so many elite favor, shifting his eyes from brown to green. He chooses an intricately embroidered jacket - silver thread in swirling patterns across black cloth - and shrugs it on over a silky black dress shirt. Elegant, but understated, he thinks. He's never been one for flash, even back in his university days, and it would be pointless to start now.

He chooses simple diamond earrings to go with it and puts silver rings on his fingers. His boots are silver, too, matching the design on his jacket. Lastly, he puts a hint of blue shadow on his eyelids, and then stares at himself in his full length mirror.

He certainly looks the part, he thinks darkly, even if he feels like a stranger in his own skin.

When he returns to the living room, Yoongi is still getting ready. He tries to sit and read while he waits, but the words blur on the page and he gives up after repeating the same paragraph five times without comprehension. Settles for aimless wandering instead - from the living room to the kitchen and back again, until Yoongi finally emerges.

He looks ... stunning. Fucking stunning.

Smoky eyes; glittering earrings; delicate bracelets; a black harness over a sheer white shirt that shows off his skin and the smooth lines of his body; hair slightly curled and lips red and pants hugging every inch of his legs. He's fastened a shiny black strip of leather around his neck and he hands Namjoon a glittering leash.

"At parties, we wear collars," he explains. "Not wrist tethers."

Namjoon swallows thickly. "You look ..."

"Fuckable?" Yoongi asks dryly and Namjoon winces.

"Beautiful."

Yoongi actually flushes a little at that, glancing away. He shifts his weight, suddenly nervous, and won't meet Namjoon's eyes as he says. "Do you, um, do you have any oil? Or lube? I'd ... I'd like to prepare myself. It makes it easier...."

They'd agreed that the target for tonight would be Cho Doyun himself, as a thank you for inviting Namjoon to the party - and perhaps earning them more invitations in the future.

"No," Namjoon blurts, stunned at Yoongi's request, and Yoongi flinches.

"Oh," he says in a small voice. "Right. He likes it when it hurts? I ... I understand."

Shit, shit, shit.

"No," Namjoon repeats, hating the awful way Yoongi's curled in on himself in shame, gaze on the floor and arms wrapped around his middle like he's trying to disappear. "No, I mean ... no he's not - you don't have to do that. He doesn't get to do that to you."

Now Yoongi's head wrenches up, eyes widening. "What?"

"No one ... no one fucks you," Namjoon says. He's already decided this and he doesn't care if it hurts their cause. The idea of someone using Yoongi in any way still makes guilt and nausea twist inside of him, but at least this should take away some of the potential pain. Some of the worst of the violation.

"And if he wants to?" Yoongi asks, still in disbelief.

"I don't care," Namjoon says and affects an arrogant tone - the one he normally reserves for the auction houses. "You're mine, remember? No one fucks you but me."

Yoongi shifts again, crossing his arms over his chest. Mercifully the shame seems to be gone. "Maybe you'll be able to pull this off after all," Yoongi says with something close to admiration coloring his voice. "How far can they go, then?"

The character evaporates. Namjoon doesn't want to be the one to decide this - shouldn't be the one to decide this - but the world they live in...

"Your mouth," he says, stepping closer to press gentle fingers to the corner of Yoongi's pink mouth. "They ... they can have your mouth... no more. And if they go further, tell me. Please. I want to - I don't want you to hurt...."

Even though all of this hurts, he knows. Below the skin, where it's harder to see.

Yoongi nods, features soft. "Okay," he says, and reaches up to take Namjoon's hand. "Okay, thank you."

"Please don't thank me for this," Namjoon insists, hating that the horrible decision he's just made is considered a mercy in Yoongi's eyes. "Not for this."

Yoongi doesn't say anything in response, just tilts his head back for Namjoon to fasten the leash to his collar. Namjoon does and the soft clink of the metal attaching to the silver ring feels louder than an explosion in his ears, reverberating all the way down through his bones.

_ _

Cho Doyun's family estate is on the outskirts of the sector, tucked away behind a towering fence and a maze of artificial gardens. No real plants will grow in the barren earth out of carefully cultivated greenhouses, but the Cho family has poured their wealth into fake ones that look remarkably similar to pictures Namjoon has seen in Old World books, back when the forests were still alive.

Inside, the party is already in full swing in the main ballroom - men in dazzling suits and women in glittering gowns dancing and laughing and drinking, surrounded by pretty companions on sparkling leashes. It feels gaudy to Namjoon - all the bright hair colors and ostentatious jewelry that hangs from necks and wrists and drips from ears. It's a beautiful facade hiding terrible darkness and he can feel those shadows when Doyun approaches with a bright smile and hunger in his eyes. When he claps Namjoon on the back and thanks him for coming, then looks at Yoongi like he wants to devour him.

Doyun's gained some weight since Namjoon saw him last, plumping up his cheeks and rounding his stomach - evidence of the lavish lifestyle he's been leading - but he's still as boyishly handsome as Namjoon remembers: a charming grin and a mischievous sparkle in his eye. He's dyed his hair a pale lavender to match the embroidery on his jacket and there is glitter in the corners of his eyes.

"Namjoon-ssi! I haven't seen you in ages," he says. "Didn't think you'd ever leave that apartment of yours."

"I'm trying to branch out again," Namjoon says with a disinterested shrug. "I've been told I'm missing too much fun. And limited companions can only entertain for so long."

"Especially since you keep killing them," Doyun points out with a grin, laughing at his own joke. His cheeks are already flush with alcohol. "Which is why I'm surprised to see this one here."

He rakes a hot gaze over Yoongi again, who keeps his own eyes respectfully lowered, lashes fanning across his pale cheeks.

Namjoon shrugs again. "He's beautiful. And well-trained. It seemed like a waste to get rid of him so quickly. I decided I'd try out the social scene for awhile."

"Until you get bored of him, you mean?" Doyun teases and Namjoon forces a smirk on to his face.

"Exactly," he says and takes a sip of his bright green drink, trying not to grimace at the saccharine taste.

Doyun laughs again, boisterous. "Well, enjoy yourself! We have plenty of entertainment."

Namjoon inclines his head. "Thank you, Doyun-ssi. And come find me later." The smirk widens. "I'd love to offer you a proper thank you for the invitation."

Doyun glances at Yoongi again, even hungrier than before. "Of course. I'll be back to check on you again, soon."

He floats away, heading for another group of guests, and Namjoon sighs under his breath. Yoongi sidles closer to him, pressing into his side. Namjoon shifts to pet him, the motion allowing him to lean in so Yoongi can whisper in his ear, "you're a better liar than I thought."

"I've been lying for years," Namjoon whispers back and then tilts Yoongi's chin up. Says louder, "go get me another drink, pet," and kisses Yoongi briefly on the lips.

Yoongi dips his head demurely and heads for the refreshment table. Namjoon occupies himself with locating the bathrooms. Just in case he needs to throw up later - the alcohol isn't helping the state of his stomach at all.

Time blurs a little when Yoongi returns. Namjoon moves through the crowd, exchanging greetings with a few familiar faces from his school days, and many he only recognizes from magazines. His family keep him holed up in a remote office for work, which only furthers his isolation from the rest of his supposed social circle. Many of them have heard rumors about his "activities," though, and it brings out wariness in some and curiosity in others. But most of them dodge around the topic, instead inquiring about his family and his health and lavishing praises on his "pretty pet."

"He really is quite the specimen," one young woman from the Chi family says, reaching out to stroke her nails lightly down Yoongi's cheek. "I can see why you wanted to keep him."

Namjoon smiles and puts a possessive hand on Yoongi's neck, making sure to rub his fingers over the love bite visible even with Yoongi's collar on. "Yes. And he performs excellently, as well."

"Really? I'd love a demonstration sometime," the woman says. Her own companion is a girl with long pink hair braided into an intricate updo and clothed in a small, mostly sheer dress that leaves little to the imagination, including just how thin she is. She hasn't looked up once during the entire conversation, and lets her mistress tug her harshly forward by her collar with no resistance.

"We could trade," she says, gesturing to the poor companion.

Namjoon hums and consciously keeps his teeth from gritting. "Yes, I'm sure that can be arranged."

He switches the conversation to the woman's work next, inquiring about the new orphanages her family is building, and watches out of the corner of his eye as Yoongi subtly drifts closer to the female companion and reaches out, letting his fingertips brush her palm in a silent, fleeting gesture of reassurance. She returns it without looking up, trailing her own fingers over Yoongi's palm.

Namjoon wonders, aching, if this happens often: companions trying to offer what comfort they can to each other in the middle of this hell.

Too soon and not soon enough, Doyun returns to interrupt his conversation with the woman, making more small talk for a moment before politely but firmly dismissing her. She heads to different group, pulling her companion along behind her, and Doyun graces Namjoon with another charming smile.

"Now I don't mean to press Namjoon-ssi, but I believe you promised me a thank you?"

Right. This is it.

Namjoon gathers all the steel he has and pushes Yoongi forward. "Yes, I did. The rest of his body is mine, but you're welcome to his mouth. He's very good with it."

"Excellent," Doyun says and presses a thumb to Yoongi's lips, forcing them to part. Yoongi opens his mouth willingly and flicks his tongue over the pad of Doyun's thumb. "Eager, isn't he?" Doyun asks.

"He likes to please," Namjoon says, amazed that his voice is still calm. He gives the leash to Doyun with a hand that remarkably also doesn't shake. "Have fun, Doyun-ssi."

"I'll return him to you soon," Doyun promises. "Come on, pet."

He leads Yoongi away to one of the private rooms and Namjoon's skin scrawls. Bile climbs up his throat again, but he can't make a scene. Can't start unnecessary rumors about Kim Namjoon showing up at his first party in years only to vomit in the bathroom. So he heads for the refreshments instead, grabbing his third glass of sweet green liquor and trying not down it all in one go.

He feels disgusting. He feels like a monster. Like he's become the very thing he's wanted to fight against for so long. Right now, Yoongi is getting on his knees for Doyun and Namjoon allowed it to happen. Is a world really better if it's built on sacrifice like this?

The glass creaks in his grip and he forces himself to relax. Breathe.

Yoongi offered to do this. Yoongi agreed to this -

(It still doesn't feel like consent.)

-and it's too late to turn back now.

Waiting is still agony, though. It feels like years before he spots Doyun approaching him through the crowd, Yoongi trailing along behind him. Doyun's face is flushed with more than alcohol now and his posture is relaxed and happy. Yoongi's hair is a mess from Doyun's fingers and his mouth is red and swollen, lipstick smeared in the corners and down his chin.

"You weren't lying," Doyun said, handing the leash back to Namjoon with a pleased laugh. "He really is excellent."

Namjoon dips his head. "I'm glad you're satisfied, Doyun-ssi."

"More than. Bring him back soon. In fact, Kwon Jiwoo is hosting a charity gala next week. You should come."

"I'd be honored," Namjoon says with a grateful smile.

"I'll make sure you get an invitation," Doyun says and trails a hand down Yoongi's cheek, winking at Namjoon as he departs.

Namjoon waits until he's out of sight before leading Yoongi into a secluded corner of the room and handing his half-full glass over. "Here," he murmurs. "For the ... for the taste."

Yoongi drinks it in one long swig and refuses to look at Namjoon when he hands it back. They could stay longer, mingle more, but Namjoon doesn't think he'd be able to bear it without combusting.

"Let's go," he says and texts his driver to come pick them up. "Let's go home, okay?"

Yoongi nods, still apparently fascinated by the floor, and Namjoon leads him out of the room, making sure to keep plenty of slack on the leash, because Yoongi's throat is already showing signs of bruising.

In the car, Namjoon fishes out a handkerchief and gently wipes Yoongi's mouth, making sure all the lipstick is gone. Some of his liner has run, too, and Namjoon's gut clenches at the realization that it's probably from tears. That Doyun was rough enough to make Yoongi cry.

(So much for limiting the pain.)

He doesn't offer pointless apologies, though. Just lets Yoongi stay quiet through the car ride and up into the apartment. There, Yoongi stops in the middle of the living room, staring out at the city lights beyond Namjoon's expansive windows. Namjoon can't see the expression on his face, but his spine in bent with his exhaustion.

"I was wrong," he says, voice hoarse from misuse. "It doesn't get easier."

"Hyung," Namjoon says, his own voice breaking, "please, what can I do?"

He wants to soothe, to help, but he'll understand if Yoongi shuts him out.

Yoongi hesitates for a moment, two. Then says, small, "please could you - please will you hold me? Just ... just hold me."

Namjoon crosses the distance between them and does just that, folding Yoongi into his arms - Yoongi's back against his chest, his cheek resting on top of Yoongi's head. He presses a kiss to Yoongi's hair for good measure, knowing it's not enough but wanting him to feel loved, in this moment. To feel worth something. To feel human and know that his body isn't a toy, but something worth cherishing, worth gentleness.

Yoongi hiccups and twists around so he can lead Namjoon to the sofa. Then he curls into Namjoon's side again, feet tucked under him and head in the crook of Namjoon's neck. Namjoon rubs his back and strokes a gentle thumb over his hand in soothing sweeps, listening to Yoongi's breathing gradually calm.

_ _

They stay like that for a long time.

_ _

It's been nearly three weeks and Seokjin still hasn't touched him or tried to force him to speak. He cooks food and doesn't expect Jungkook to help. He lets Jungkook scratch answers in the notebook he's started carrying around with him everywhere and he's always patient if it takes Jungkook some time to find the right words. He doesn't comment when Jungkook dresses in as many layers as he wants or scold Jungkook for eating too much or ask him to clean while Seokjin is out during the day.

It's driving Jungkook crazy. There must be a reason that Seokjin bought him and it can't be for him to sit around and eat and let Seokjin practically wait on him. He's so kind - the kindest elite Jungkook has ever met - but no one does anything for free. Especially when they're an elite and the one they're looking after is a mere companion. Seokjin must be expecting something back, eventually - now that Jungkook's wounds have healed.

Maybe, Jungkook thinks, because he's so kind, he doesn't want to force anything. Maybe he's waiting for Jungkook to come to him. That's ... unusual, but not unheard of. Some masters preferred Jungkook to take the initiative - to show them that he was eager and he wanted it (even if that was always a lie). He quakes at the thought of doing that now, of ending these blissful three weeks free of unwanted touch.

But maybe Seokjin would be kind in this, too? Maybe it wouldn't hurt. Maybe Jungkook could even learn to like it. Want it.

Either way, he has to do something. He's tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop - so stressed and afraid trying to imagine various outcomes that it's messing with his ability to think. He wants a clear head and some semblance of normalcy back, even if that brings pain. At least then he'll recognize the ground beneath his feet again.

So when the clock says Seokjin is due back from work in an hour, Jungkook ducks into the bathroom to clean himself up. He styles his hair for the first time in weeks, pushing it back off his forehead with a little borrowed gel because he Seokjin seems to prefer it that way. He doesn't have any makeup, but he washes his face and tries to arrange his clothes to hang a little better off his body, leaving the robe open and tugging the shirt down to expose his collarbones. His earrings are little hoops that Seokjin provided him with - three in each ear. One of his previous owners had a double helix piercing put in his right ear and the current studs are plain, as well, but it will all have to do.

Next he tries to talk, to force words past the mental block that has taken up residence in his head, in the back of his throat. Nothing comes out except a weak croak, but he tells himself that's okay, too. He doesn't need to talk. Most masters prefer his mouth occupied with other things, anyway, and he doubts Seokjin is really that different, no matter how kind he chooses to be.

He goes back into the living room on bare feet, hoping that will add to the image of vulnerability, and tidies up the kitchen and the living room, heart somewhere in his throat when the lock clicks on the front door and Seokjin enters the apartment.

He looks tired. He hasn't been sleeping well, Jungkook knows, and he disappears several nights a week for long meetings with his cousin that he doesn't discuss when he gets home. He still smiles when he sees Jungkook, though: a tender thing that makes Jungkook's stomach flutter.

"Hey, JK," he says, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up in the hall closet. "How are you?"

Jungkook nods to indicate that he's good and hurries into the kitchen to collect the food he cooked earlier that afternoon. Seokjin's eyebrows jump in surprise when Jungkook sets the bowls on the table and gestures him over.

"You cooked? You didn't have to cook."

Jungkook shakes his head and indicates that Seokjin should sit.

"I'll clean up, then," Seokjin insists as he obeys, already reaching for the bowl. "You're not allowed to help."

Jungkook smiles in spite of his nerves, nodding. Dinner is spent in comfortable silence. Seokjin talks a little about his day, in vague terms as always, and Jungkook writes out the name of the book he was reading: an adventure story, about space. Then, as promised, Seokjin washes the dishes in the sink and goes to change. Jungkook waits in the living room, trying not to fidget too much.

It's going to be okay. Seokjin won't hurt him.

(He hopes.)

Seokjin comes back out in the loose clothes that he normally wears around the apartment and sinks down on the couch with a tired sigh. Jungkook takes a deep breath, then another for good measure, and moves closer.

He can do this.

"Everything okay?" Seokjin asks him.

(He's so kind. A part of Jungkook wants to give him this, in spite of the fear. Wants to make him feel good, to thank him.)

Jungkook nods and shifts again, settling in Seokjin's lap and leaning down for a kiss before he can let his nerves get the better of him. Seokjin makes a startled sound and Jungkook rocks his hips gently into Seokjin's, trying to convey: I want this and: I can be good for you.

Seokjin's hands slide over his waist, but they push him away instead of pulling him closer. "Stop," Seokjin gasps. "Stop."

He doesn't sound happy and his face is pinched in displeasure and oh god, oh no, he didn't want this Jungkook overstepped and now he's going to get punished. He should have waited for orders, for Seokjin to take what he wants instead of trying to assert some control oh god oh god oh god-

He tries to say he's sorry, but all that comes out is a battered wheeze as he scrambles off Seokjin's lap to kneel on the floor, pressing his forehead to the rug in a gesture of submission. The couch rustles and then he feels hands on his back, pulling him up. He whines in the back of his throat, bracing himself for a blow, but Seokjin just tucks him under his arm.

"Shh, it's okay. I'm not mad, I'm not mad," Seokjin says, petting Jungkook's hair. "Well, I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at myself. For making you think I still wanted this from you."

Jungkook makes another noise of distress, because that isn't Seokjin's fault. He's been so good.

"Shh," Seokjin says again. "Shh. It's okay. I'll ... I don't want this from you, JK. You don't need to pleasure me or serve me. I won't demand that of you and I'm not expecting you to offer it. I ... you want to know the truth? I bought you to get you away from that monster and I'm working on ... on a better life for you, I promise. But I like having you here. This apartment isn't as lonely with you in it. So that's what you give me, kid. That's all you have to give me."

A kiss to Jungkook's temple that reminds him so much of Hoseok he nearly cries. "And if you want to cook sometimes, that's fine. But I don't want anything else from you, I promise."

And he wasn't expecting it, but tears flood Jungkook's eyes at that and sobs claw up his throat immediately after, pressing insistent against the back of his teeth. He tries to hold them down, but the first one breaks free and then the next and the next and the next - until he's weeping on the floor in Seokjin's arms.

"I've got you," Seokjin says as Jungkook's tears soak his shirt, rocking him back and forth. "I've got you, kid."

Please don't be lying, Jungkook thinks through his tears. Please, please don't be lying.

His tattered heart wouldn't be able to take it.

_ _

Later, after he's dried his tears and washed his face again, Seokjin hovers in the doorway of his bedroom.

"JK," he says, "my cousin has a companion. I think maybe ... would you like to meet him? It might help you, I was thinking. To talk to him. I can bring you over there tomorrow."

A knot forms in Jungkook's stomach, but he nods. Knows better than to refuse a request, no matter how good Seokjin has been to him. Seokjin smiles, looking relieved, and bids him goodnight. Alone, Jungkook curls up under the covers and tries to figure out if Seokjin just meant talk, or if talk is a euphemism. If Seokjin doesn't like to touch, but he likes to watch.

Plenty of elite like to watch. He was the entertainment at many smaller, private parties. His second owner often invited friends and their companions over to her house so that Jungkook could put on a show.

He presses his face into the soft pillow beneath his cheek and tells himself he won't start crying again. He doesn't know for sure that's what Seokjin meant. Maybe Seokjin really does think having another companion around will help him.

And at least Seokjin said he. That might make it easier, especially if Jungkook's going to be the one required to submit. He prefers that to playing the role of the aggressor, to feeling like monster with a woman or a smaller boy under him, trying their best not to recoil from his touch.

It'll be okay, he tries to reassure himself. It won't be anything you haven't lived through before.

Still, it's a long time before he falls asleep.

_ _

Sometimes Taehyung thinks the Universe really does have it out for them, personally. Why else would they survive for three fucking weeks on the run - from the condemned zone in Sector 10, all the way to the abandoned factories on the edge of Sector 5 - only to be surprised by a routine patrol? A routine patrol who was completing their shift twenty minutes late, which Taehyung failed to calculate. Meaning that instead of being where they usually are, according to the maps Taehyung's built over the last week, they were three blocks over and right in the middle of their fucking escape route.

I'm sorry," he says for what feels like the thousandth time, watching Jimin put pressure on Hoseok's bleeding leg.

They got away, somehow - mostly down to quick thinking on Hoseok's part with a makeshift firebomb and even better shooting from Jimin with the stolen rifle they picked up a week back in Sector 8 - but not without cost. Hoseok is panting, clinging on to consciousness by a thread, and the bullet in his leg isn't life-threatening, but the one in his side, dangerously close to vital organs, might be.

"It's okay," he wheezes to Taehyung, because he's never blamed him for anything, not even Yoongi and Jungkook.

They're camped out in the corner of what used to be a factory but is now little more than a husk of metal and dust. A sign on the front door warned that this site was scheduled for demolition, but the date was two years ago and the sign itself has begun to rust at the edges. They should be safe for a little while longer.

"It isn't," Taehyung says. "I should have predicted this. I should have factored it into my calculations and-"

"There's no point in should haves," Jimin points out firmly, cutting off the rest of his rant. The cloth in his hands is soaked with blood when he pulls it away from Hoseok's leg, revealing a deep hole, ringed in torn flesh. "We need to focus on what we do now."

Their supplies are running low, especially food, and the cold has been a persistent problem. Taehyung doesn't even remember what it was like to be warm - the cold has sunk through every single one of his layers and then through his skin so that it could burrow into his bones. The chatter of his teeth has become a normal accompaniment to his daily routine - just another ambient sound that he tunes out - and coaxing technology to work properly remains a constant challenge. With Hoseok losing blood ... it doesn't look good. He's already shivering in the blanket Jimin wrapped around his shoulders, lips turning blue and eyes unfocused. The bandages on his side are close to soaking, too, even though Jimin tied them tight in an effort to stop the blood flow.

"You go," Hoseok says, like the fucking martyr he is. "Y-you run and you l-leave me. I'm the one on the w-wanted posters anyway."

"Like hell are we leaving you," Jimin snaps.

"We're not losing another member of this family, hyung," Taehyung insists, appalled at the very idea. He'd lie down and freeze to death alongside Hoseok before willingly abandoning him.

Hoseok looks frustrated. "W-we barely have enough food left and I can't w-walk anymore," he argues. "It's pointless ... for y-you to st-stay."

"Well we are," Jimin says, starting to wind bandages around Hoseok's leg, "so shut up, hyung."

Hoseok wheezes out a pained laugh and leans his head back against the metal wall. All of their faces are streaked with dust and grime. Taehyung can't remember the last time he showered, either, or ate enough food to feel close to a meal. They've just been trying to stay alive, taking it one day at a time, but now he knows they need a plan.

They need fucking help, too. But it was Yoongi who had all the contacts - Jimin is running the network at only half the capacity it used to be because Yoongi was sanctioned so abruptly, before he could pass on the full extent of his information. If he was here, Taehyung bets he'd know what to do. And if Jungkook was here, he'd have no problem carrying Hoseok, either. Would probably insist on it and refuse to admit when he got tired, stubbornly carting Hoseok on his back across the whole damn city if he had to.

Taehyung feels so lost without them.

"Rest now, hyung," Jimin is saying, coaxing Hoseok onto his back and adding an extra blanket. "We'll figure things out in the morning."

It speaks to Hoseok's exhaustion that he doesn't even protest, just sinks straight into sleep. Jimin pets Hoseok's hair for a moment before turning to Taehyung.

"We need Yoongi," he says, as if he can read Taehyung's thoughts. "He's our best chance of getting out of the city."

"Jimin," Taehyung says, because it's been over a month since Kim Namjoon bought Yoongi. "Jimin-ah, he's probably gone."

"We don't know that," Jimin says, eyes burning.

"How are we going to get to him?" Taehyung presses. One of them needs to be practical. "He's in Sector 1. In a fortress. We can't leave Hoseok here and we don't know that your papers will still work. It's suicide."

"What are our other options?" Jimin asks. "Stay here and wait to die? I can get to him, Tae. I know I can."

"Chim," Taehyung says helplessly. "I don't want to lose you, too."

"You won't," Jimin says, and there is nothing but stubborn determination on his face now - an expression so reminiscent of Yoongi. "You won't lose either of us. You just need to keep Hoseok safe, just for a little while. I'll find Yoongi and bring him back and ... and we can go from there. Please, Tae, I don't know what else to do."

"And if he's dead?" Taehyung asks, even though he knows he won't be able to change Jimin's mind, not once that expression has emerged.

"Then I'll come back," Jimin says. "And we'll keep running until we can't anymore."

Taehyung closes his eyes. Tries not to picture himself as the last one standing - his whole family gone. He'd put a bullet in his own head, then, he thinks. Fuck a revolution. He doesn't want to live in a world without Jimin or the others, even if he's free.

"Okay," he whispers in defeat. "Okay. Come back to me, though. You have to promise that you'll come back to me."

Jimin lets go of Hoseok and shuffles forward, pressing their foreheads together. Taehyung wraps his arms around Jimin, feeling the solid weight of him: the one constant in Taehyung's life.

"I'll always come back to you, Tae," he says softly, his fingers digging into the back of Taehyung's flimsy jacket. "I promise."

"Good," Taehyung says, swallowing down his growing tears. "I'll hold you to it."

Jimin kisses him on the cheek and stands. "I'll be back before you know it," he says, reaching down to collect his pack. "Look after Hoseok."

"I will," Taehyung says and watches him leave. For the first time, there is no certainty that he'll return, in spite of his promises. Only terrible dread in the pit of Taehyung's stomach. He scoots closer to Hoseok's prone form and takes his hand, pressing it to his forehead and feeling the cold even through the scratchy wool of Hoseok's fingerless gloves.

"We're gonna be okay," he says, more for himself than for Hoseok. "We're gonna make it."

Maybe if he repeats it enough, turns it into a mantra, he'll actually start to believe it.