Chapter Text
The course of true love never did run smooth.
___________ William Shakespeare
The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on Taehyung’s chest until he could barely breathe. He felt utterly ridiculous, laid bare. He had stripped his soul naked in front of Jungkook, sobbing out a love that was never meant to be spoken. And Jungkook… Jungkook had pitied him. That hug wasn’t an acceptance; it was a mercy offered to a breaking servant.
He couldn’t stay. He would suffocate on the memory of his own humiliation.
As the first grey light of dawn filtered through his small window, Taehyung finished packing his single, worn suitcase. He sat at his small desk, his hand trembling as he scribbled a few formal lines on a piece of paper.
To Master Jeon, Please accept this letter as my formal resignation from the post of steward. I thank you for your kindness during my employment. Sincerely, Kim Taehyung.
The words were sterile, giving nothing away. They were the absolute opposite of the torrent of emotion he’d unleashed hours before.
He took the letter and went to find Miss Edith, finding her in the morning room with her tea.
“Miss Edith,” he said, his voice unnaturally calm. “I must give you this.”
She took the letter, her eyes scanning the words. Her kindly face immediately furrowed with concern. “Taehyung? What is this? Why?”
“I… I wish to leave. To visit a friend. I miss them,” he lied, the words tasting like ash. He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“A friend? But…” she trailed off, studying his pale, determined face. She sighed softly. “If that is your wish, dear, then you must give this to Master Jeon yourself. It is only proper.”
Taehyung’s heart plummeted. Face him? Now? After last night? The embarrassment was so acute it felt like a fever. But he nodded, his throat too tight to speak. There was no other way.
He walked the long, familiar hallways to Jungkook’s room, each step feeling like a march to the gallows. He knocked softly on the heavy wood.
“Come in.” The voice from the other side was cold, clipped.
Taehyung pushed the door open. Jungkook was standing before his mirror, his back to the door, finishing his attire for the day. He was buttoning a finely tailored waistcoat over his crisp white shirt, his posture rigid and unapproachable.
Taehyung bowed slightly, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Sir,” he whispered.
Jungkook’s eyes flicked to Taehyung’s reflection in the mirror for a brief second before returning to his task. “What is it?”
With a trembling hand, Taehyung stepped forward and held out the folded letter. “This is for you, sir.”
Jungkook finished with the last button and finally turned, plucking the paper from Taehyung’s fingers. He unfolded it, his eyes scanning the short, formal lines. For a second, he was completely still, his expression unreadable. Then, he processed it.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.
“It is… it is my resignation letter, sir. I wish to leave the mansion. To retire from this job.” Taehyung’s own voice was a thin, reedy thing.
“Why?” The single word was like a shard of ice.
“I… I just must, sir. I cannot stay.” Taehyung’s composure began to crack. He could feel the hot press of tears behind his eyes, the familiar ache building in his throat.
“You are not allowed to leave,” Jungkook stated, his tone flat and final, as if discussing the weather. He crumpled the letter slightly in his hand.
The cold dismissal, the utter lack of regard for his feelings, was the final blow. A sob broke free from Taehyung’s lips. “Please, sir,” he begged, his voice breaking completely. Tears streamed down his face now, unchecked. “Please, you must let me go. I am begging you. I cannot be here anymore. Every second is agony. Please, just let me leave.”
He was crumbling right there on the Persian rug, his shoulders shaking, his entire being laid waste by a love that had nowhere to go. He was a servant begging for his freedom from a master who held his heart captive without even wanting it.
Jungkook watched him, his face a mask of distant, impenetrable coldness, offering no comfort, no understanding, only the stark, unyielding authority of his station. The gulf between them had never seemed wider, or more cruel.
The cold authority in Jungkook’s voice fractured, replaced by a tone of raw, aristocratic incredulity. “You stand before me, having bared your soul and confessed your devotion mere hours ago,” he stated, the words laced with a nobleman’s bruised pride, “and now you present me with this… this letter of resignation? You wish to take your leave?”
Taehyung kept his back turned, a servant’s posture even in his defiance. “It is an unrequited affection, sir,” he whispered, the title a formality that underscored the distance between them. “It is a path that leads to no destination but an abyss. Before that darkness claims me entirely… I must take my leave.”
He moved to go, but a firm, unyielding hand encircled his wrist, not with brutality, but with the commanding grip of a master.
“I am a fractured man, Taehyung,” Jungkook’s voice was a low, strained admission, the cadence of his class giving weight to the confession. “These walls around my heart were constructed to be impregnable—a fortress to ensure I never again endure the loss I suffered with Hikari. My heart is a tangled web of grief and… something else I find myself terrified to give name to.” He drew a sharp, unsteady breath. “But the notion of your departure… it is an untenable prospect. It feels akin to a fresh bereavement. You will not leave. You will remain at my side. You gave me your word that you would always serve.”
Serve. The word echoed, a bitter reminder of his station. That was his only purpose. Yet, the sheer, shattered quality in Jungkook’s usually imperious tone was his undoing. His heart gave a painful, traitorous throb. His resolve crumbled, his feet becoming leaden, refusing to carry him from the room.
He remained, a statue of conflicted anguish.
Then, the world shifted. Two arms, strong and sure, wrapped around his waist from behind, pulling him back against the solid expanse of a chest clad in fine wool and linen. Taehyung’s breath caught. Jungkook rested his chin on Taehyung’s shoulder, his voice a hushed, intimate murmur fit for a confessional.
“I cannot promise I shall ever be capable of loving you in the manner you merit. I cannot swear I will ever fully relinquish Hikari’s memory,” he avowed, each word a carefully measured concession. “But of this, I am certain… I will not tolerate your absence from my side.”
Taehyung felt the faint, warm proof of tears against his skin.
“Fate is a cruel artisan, Taehyung,” Jungkook breathed, his voice crumbling at the edges with a raw, unvarnished pain he would never show another soul. “Look upon the wretched masterpiece it has made of us.”
Taehyung wiped his face roughly with the sleeve of his shirt, the simple cotton a stark contrast to the fine fabrics surrounding them. He then turned around, his gaze lifting to meet Jungkook's. His eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, held a devastating vulnerability.
"So, you are telling me to willingly choose death, sir?" Taehyung asked, his voice barely a whisper, the honorific a painful formality.
"You have beautiful eyes," Jungkook murmured, his own voice thick. He reached out, and with a tenderness that belied his earlier coldness, he wiped the lingering wetness from Taehyung's cheeks with his thumbs. Taehyung’s eyes fluttered shut at the sudden, intimate contact, a sharp, quiet gasp escaping him.
"Is residing by my side truly a living death for you, Taehyung?" Jungkook asked softly, his hands still cradling Taehyung's face.
Taehyung let out a watery, broken scoff, a sound caught between a laugh and a sob. This man surely knew the power he wielded. But how could he blame him when his own heart was the greatest traitor? He wanted to leave, to flee, but his feet were rooted, his will broken. He decided, unwillingly, to stay—to exist as a living man shadowed by the ghost of the woman Jungkook would forever love.
"Put on my tie for me?" Jungkook whispered, his request a peace offering, a return to a familiar ritual that now held an entirely new, profound meaning.
Taehyung nodded, a silent acceptance of his complicated fate. He fetched the silk tie from the wardrobe and returned. Standing close, his fingers worked with a practiced ease, looping and knotting the dark fabric around Jungkook's neck, his focus entirely on the task.
Time changes everything. Just a few months ago, Taehyung had stood in this very spot, tying this very tie, feeling a confusing, flustered heat whenever his master was near. Today, he performed the same duty after having bared his soul and confessed a love that would likely forever be unrequited.
Jungkook watched him intently, his gaze tracing the delicate line of Taehyung's brow, the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks. He is so beautiful, Jungkook thought, and the realization made his heart ache with a fresh, sharp pain. Time was such a cruel thing. Months ago, when this same thought—that his steward was beautiful—had first, absurdly, crossed his mind, he had dismissed it instantly. Today, he not only accepted the thought but allowed it to settle heavily in his chest, a permanent, aching truth. He had accepted that this man held a piece of his fractured heart, and it terrified him.
The crisp morning air held a faint bite as Jungkook shrugged into his overcoat, the wool heavy and familiar. Taehyung stood by, a silent, attentive figure against the grand backdrop of the mansion's foyer.
"I shall take my leave now," Jungkook stated, his voice echoing slightly in the spacious hall.
Taehyung offered a slight, formal nod of acknowledgment. "Very good, sir."
Jungkook’s hand was on the polished brass of the door handle when he paused. He half-turned, a seemingly casual afterthought. "How would it be if I were to take you out somewhere today?"
Taehyung’s breath caught, his carefully maintained composure faltering for a single, visible second.
"Let us visit a suitably agreeable café upon my return from the firm," Jungkook continued, his tone leaving no room for debate, yet carrying an unfamiliar, almost tentative note.
"Whatever you require, sir," Taehyung replied, the words automatic, a servant's programmed response, even as his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
With a final, unreadable glance, Jungkook stepped out into the grey morning. Taehyung stood frozen until the deep purr of the Daimler's engine faded into the distance, leaving him alone with the thunderous silence of his own racing thoughts. The grand door felt less like an exit and more like a promise hanging in the air.
My Dearest Jimin,
I fear my heart has led me into a gilded cage of my own making. In a moment of unforgivable weakness, the dam within me broke, and I confessed it all to him—the love that has been my silent companion for so long. I laid my soul bare before my master, and what was his reply? A silence more deafening than any rejection.
This morning, with my shame as my only luggage, I resolved to leave. I penned my resignation, my ticket to freedom, to coming to you. I was ready to sever the tie that feels more like a chain.
But he… he has a way of unraveling me with a few well-chosen words. He did not accept my resignation. He did not proclaim any love in return. Instead, he spoke of his own brokenness, of walls built around a heart that still belongs to a ghost. He said he does not know what he feels for me, that he may never be able to love me… but that he cannot bear the thought of my absence.
And I, the greatest fool in all of Edinburgh, agreed to stay. I chose the agony of his proximity over the peace of distance. Do not blame him entirely, Jimin. My own heart is a traitor, refusing to take the step my mind knows is right.
It feels like being poisoned slowly. Each day, I die a little piece at a time. I am a man living in the shadow of a memory, tending to a love that is mine to give, but never his to receive. He offers me crumbs from his table, and I, in my starvation, mistake it for a feast.
If it were within my power, I would strike a match and set the very concept of love ablaze. Let it turn to ash and be carried away by the wind. For love is not universally beautiful. Its beauty is a lie to those of us who love without being loved in return. It is a masterpiece painted only for those fortunate enough to have it reflected back at them.
I remain here, in this beautiful mansion that is my prison, waiting for him to return… so he can take me to a café.
Yours, in sorrow,
Taehyung.
Taehyung sighed, a quiet, weary sound in the stillness of his room. He laid the pen aside, the weight of his confession to Jimin settling upon him. With precise, somber movements, he folded the letter and sealed it within its envelope, entombing his anguish.
He sought out Miss Edith in the kitchen, finding solace in the methodical rhythm of her domain. Without a word, he selected a knife and began assisting with the vegetables, the sharp tap-tap-tap against the board a counterpoint to his turbulent thoughts.
"Taehyung," she began, her tone carrying a gentle, observational quality.
"Yes, Miss Edith?" he replied, glancing up. He offered a smile, but it was a hollow gesture, failing to reach the profound melancholy in his gaze.
"It is a peculiar tragedy of fate," she remarked, her hands working a firm dough, "to encounter the right soul, yet at a profoundly wrong time."
Taehyung’s knife hesitated for a mere second. "Then what is the purpose of the encounter at all, madam?" he inquired, the formal address underscoring the depth of his despair.
"Life's purpose is not solely in possession or achievement, Taehyung," she stated, her voice soft yet certain. "At times, it is in the experience of a profound sentiment, however fleeting. It is the experiencing of a thing that enriches the spirit, not merely its keeping."
The knife stilled. "I do not wish for him to be a mere experience," he confessed, the words a raw, quiet fracture in his composure.
Miss Edith ceased her work, regarding him with a look of deep empathy. "From the moment you entered this house, I have observed the effect. I have seen the formidable fortifications around Master Jeon's heart begin to show their first cracks. I have noted his gaze... lingering. A man who has endured such a loss requires a considerable period to relearn the architecture of his own heart. He requires time to perceive what is directly before him."
Taehyung lowered his eyes, a single, traitorous tear betraying him. "And what if his realization arrives a moment too late?" he whispered, the fear he carried given voice. "That is my terror. That his epiphany will come only once the chance for it has already expired."
On the crisp, heavy letterhead of Park & Sons, Solicitors
Master Jeon,
I hope this letter finds you well following last evening’s most agreeable gathering.
I write to you with a matter of some curiosity. During the course of the evening, I had the brief yet striking pleasure of encountering a most intriguing individual. A young gentleman, I should think no more than twenty, possessed of a singularly elegant and refined demeanor.
He was attired in a most remarkable ensemble—a suit of the deepest sapphire velvet, I believe, of a most exquisite and unconventional cut, adorned with what appeared to be delicate silver embroidery and a rather dazzling array of gemstones at the collar. A truly singular fashion statement.
My curiosity is piqued, for our conversation was, regrettably, cut short. I could not help but observe that you yourself seemed rather intently focused on this same individual, and indeed, followed him with some urgency when he departed the ballroom.
I should be immensely grateful if you could satisfy my curiosity. Might you be acquainted with this gentleman? I should be very keen to know his identity and, if it is not too great an imposition, how I might make his further acquaintance.
Any intelligence you could provide would be received with the utmost appreciation.
Yours, faithfully
Park Bogum
Jungkook’s knuckles turned white as he clenched the fine paper. A cold, possessive fury, sharp and immediate, flared in his gut. The detailed description of his suit, on his Taehyung, being so openly admired and inquired after by a man of Bogum’s known proclivities, felt like a profound violation.
Jungkook scoffed, a short, derisive sound, and flung the elegant letter onto his desk as if it were a piece of refuse. Namjoon stood by, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"That insufferable bastard," Jungkook bit out, his jaw clenched so tight the words were barely audible.
"Might I inquire as to the nature of the correspondence, sir?" Namjoon asked, his tone carefully neutral.
"He is making inquiries regarding Taehyung," Jungkook replied, his voice dangerously flat.
"And what of Taehyung, sir?" Namjoon pressed, genuinely perplexed.
"You are acutely aware of the situation, Namjoon," Jungkook retorted, his gaze darkening. "The man has taken a… a fancy to him. He now seeks an introduction. He presumes to ask me for such a thing."
"Is that not… a favorable thing, sir?" Namjoon ventured, his confusion mounting. It was no secret that Park Bogum's tastes inclined toward men, and Taehyung's beauty was, to any objective observer, undeniable.
"How… ridiculously shameless," Jungkook seethed, his composure cracking to reveal the raw possessiveness beneath. "The sheer audacity to write to me directly and demand intelligence on my person."
"Pardon, sir?" Namjoon said, the specific phrasing striking him with force. "Your… person?"
"My person," Jungkook repeated, his voice dropping to a low, imperious growl as he fixed Namjoon with a piercing stare. "Taehyung is in my employ. He serves this household. He is, by every conceivable measure, my person. Is that not correct, Kim?"
The words were not a question but a declaration, a stark, territorial claim laid bare in the quiet of the study.
The Daimler purred through the rain-slicked streets of New Town, its headlights cutting a silent path through the Edinburgh gloom. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with a tense, unspoken anticipation. Taehyung sat stiffly in the passenger seat, his hands clasped in his lap, staring out at the graceful, illuminated facades of the Georgian townhouses. He was wearing the only suit he owned that wasn't his steward's livery—a simple, well-tailored black affair. He felt acutely out of place.
Jungkook navigated the streets with a focused intensity, his profile stark and handsome in the intermittent light. He had said little since his quiet command for Taehyung to join him, the invitation to dinner hanging in the air not as a question, but as a fact.
The restaurant, The Gilded Thistle, was an institution of hushed exclusivity. A severe-looking maître d' recognized Jungkook instantly and bowed them inside with a murmured, "Master Jeon, your table awaits."
The interior was a vision of understated opulence: dark wood paneling, crisp white linens, crystal glassware that caught the light from low-slung art deco chandeliers. The air hummed with the discreet murmur of conversation. Every eye in the room, however subtle, flickered to them as they were led to a secluded corner booth. The sight of the reclusive Master Jeon with a stunning, unknown young man was a spectacle.
Once seated, a bottle of exceptionally expensive Bordeaux was brought and poured without a word. Jungkook dismissed the sommelier with a slight nod. He finally looked across the table at Taehyung, who was studying the menu with intense concentration.
"Have you a preference?" Jungkook inquired, his voice a low baritone that seemed to absorb the room's noise.
"Whatever you deem suitable, sir," Taehyung replied, his eyes still downcast.
"Look at me, Taehyung."
Taehyung’s gaze flickered up, wide and uncertain.
Jungkook held it for a moment before speaking again. "You look remarkably well this evening." The compliment was delivered with a formal grace, yet it felt utterly intimate.
A faint blush coloured Taehyung's neck. "You are too kind, sir."
The first course arrived—seared scallops on a bed of pea puree. They ate in a silence that was not quite comfortable, but charged.
After a sip of wine, Jungkook broke it. "I find myself curious. Do you have an appreciation for poetry? A particular poet you favour?"
The question was so unexpected, so divorced from their usual dynamic, that Taehyung nearly faltered. He took a moment to compose his answer.
"I find a certain... melancholy resonance in the works of Lord Tennyson, sir," he said, his voice gaining a sliver of confidence. "There is a depth to his verse that I admire."
"An interesting choice," Jungkook mused, swirling the wine in his glass. "A preoccupation with loss and longing. Do you find yourself drawn to such themes?"
Taehyung dared to meet his eyes. "I believe the most profound art often springs from a place of deep feeling, sir, be it joy or sorrow. It is the honesty that moves me."
A ghost of a smile touched Jungkook's lips. "A perceptive analysis."
The main course was served, and the conversation continued, weaving through topics of literature and art with a careful, formal elegance. It was a dance, each of them choosing their steps with precision, yet beneath the polished surface, an entirely different conversation was happening in the glances they shared, in the slight tremor in Taehyung's hand as he reached for his glass, in the intense, unwavering focus of Jungkook's attention.
The Daimler’s return journey was undertaken in a silence far more comfortable than the one that had begun the evening. It was a silence of shared experience, of a barrier momentarily crossed.
The car came to a stop before the mansion. Jungkook turned off the engine, and the quiet of the night descended upon them. He turned to look at Taehyung, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the portico light.
"The evening was a most agreeable diversion. Thank you for your company."
"The pleasure was entirely mine, sir," Taehyung replied, his voice soft but steady.
"Taehyung."
The single word held him in place. Jungkook leaned over, closing the small space between them. He did not kiss him. Instead, he reached out and, with a touch so gentle it was almost imperceptible, straightened the lapel of Taehyung's jacket, his knuckles brushing against the fabric over his heart. The gesture was possessively intimate, yet achingly proper.
"Goodnight," Jungkook murmured, his voice rough around the edges.
Then he withdrew, the moment dissolving.
Taehyung alighted from the car, his legs feeling unsteady. He stood in the cool night air and watched the Daimler glide towards the garage, the place where Jungkook’s knuckles had brushed his chest burning like a brand. He was more entangled, more confused, and more hopelessly devoted than ever. The night had been a masterpiece of unspoken words, and his heart was its captive audience.