Chapter Text
It’s mercilessly cold--winter in South Korea isn’t kind, however warm it can be during the summer. In Daegu, it can get especially bad, the wind whipping, stinging anyone who dares brave it, like a sea in protest, threatening to swallow any soul stupid enough to dip a toe over the threshold of a doorway. Unfortunately for Min Yoongi, or rather, in perfect coincidence with the kind of luck he’s had all his twenty-one years of life, today, that swimmer is him. The day isn’t just gray, it’s a kind of flat, matte white--rain water with muddy paint mixed in--and despite its sombre quality, has managed to be frenzied: never still, the wind swirling, tugging at the hems of his scarf, his coat, threatening to pull the hat off his head.
He’d asked the Orphanage Director if he could stay at least until the weather let up but Yoongi’s never been on very good terms with the Director, had rubbed him the wrong way one too many times growing up, wreaking havoc in the kitchens, riling other kids up, getting into fist fights. And so the answer to his pleas had been a firm, resounding no . Today is his birthday or when they guessed was his birthday, anyway: the age for leaving the orphanage had previously been eighteen but most of the kids released at eighteen had merely fucked with the judicial system again--and the last thing the system needed was more kids--so they’d decided to up the limit a little and here he is: twenty-one and wrapped up to the eyes in whatever clothing he owns, a mere 20,000 Won in his pocket, ears already red, hands already aching just from having walked against the wind for the 500 meters from the orphanage door to the gate.
Yoongi pushes the gate open and it creaks open slowly after he throws his entire weight against it. The road is long, wide, the snow coming up until his knees. As he trudges through the cold, he thinks about how the orphanage is the kind of place he’d been dying to leave since he’d gotten there at age eleven, suffering from a lack of memory after they’d found him unconscious at the Dongdaegu station. It sucked, anyway. This is better. Better the bitter cold than a house full of people who hate you. Perhaps the thing Yoongi hates the most about himself is that somehow, he’s managed to remain an optimist: whatever the situation, however bleak or miserable, his first instinct is to grasp at whatever good comes or has come of it--when, at 12, he was sent to bed without dinner for rescuing the mice he was supposed to kill, he thought at least I saved a life , when at 16, the boy he’d fallen in love with had been moved to another orphanage because they’d been caught kissing in the stairwell, he’d thought at least I know what love feels like. Today, as he trudges through the snowstorm with heavy legs, he thinks at least he has one sliver of hope, the clue to his identity that he’s been holding onto since he was a kid: a thin, silver lotus flower pendant hanging on a silver chain around his neck. On the back, engraved in fine characters: See you in Seoul.
The kids (and the Director, when he could get away with it) made fun of Yoongi for always talking about that necklace--always saying that he had relatives in Seoul or that there was someone waiting for him in Seoul. Most orphans, the Director would say, wishes they had relatives somewhere but it probably just means the damn thing was made in Seoul. But I’m not most orphans, Yoongi thought despite himself. I’m not.
Yoongi had believed in the necklace then and believes in the necklace now: he just has to get on a train to Seoul and everything will be fine. Min isn’t too common a last name; he’s read the books--it means sharp, clever, quick-witted, more common in the southern provinces, less so toward the north. It’s this thought that keeps him walking, keeps his legs--soaked under thermals under jeans--moving despite the heavy ache in his muscles. Other people want big things, he knows, he’s heard from the other kids when they were growing up, the “when I get out of here” stories: money, fame, prestige. Yoongi’s dreams are far simpler: home, love, family. And for that, he trudges through the snow, toward Dongdaegu station.
The real problem becomes that he doesn’t have any identification--and the ticket cost 24,000 Won. They wanted to see his ID card for the 20% off discount for anyone under the age of twenty-four, this being the only way Yoongi would be able to afford the damn ticket. The orphanage had only given him a temporary birth certificate saying what year he’d been found at this station, a mere estimate rather than actual proof of his age. Sorry, the girl at the counter had said. I’m so sorry but it doesn’t count. It never does.
Exhausted, Yoongi takes off his hat and sits in the waiting area, putting his legs--dried by the heating in the station but still a bit damp behind the knees--up on the chair opposite him. There is the option of begging, he thinks, but then his gaze falls on the old woman carrying all her belongings on her back, asking strangers for change with a small, white, fluffy puppy trailing her and a pang of guilt hits him like a frying pan against a brick wall. How could he compete with someone who needs the money more than he does? Someone with herself and a puppy to feed? The only answer, he decides, is to stay in Daegu a few more days and maybe find a job somewhere. Maybe they needed someone here at the station to help out with mopping the floors or carrying the vendo shipments in or maybe a nearby restaurant needed a delivery boy. He could drive a scooter or motorbike with his eyes closed, had been the orphanage’s carrier for letters most of his life.
He sighs, leans back against the chair and closes his eyes for a moment before reluctantly getting up, gathering his things and preparing to head to the Station Office to inquire. This time, he says it more like a mantra: home, love, family. Just get to Seoul. On the way out, he passes the old woman and slips her 2,000 Won despite his better judgement. He knows how it feels to be alone and to have nothing. 2,000 Won is a lot when you have nothing: it’s a cup of coffee, crackers, some form of sustenance. Yoongi is surprised when she tugs on his sleeve as she takes the money.
“Look.” She points at a poster hanging on the nearby wall. For the first time, Yoongi notices that the entire wall is plastered with them.
COULD YOU BE PRINCE YI SEJUN?
Auditions: 550-4, Dongdaegu-ro, Sinam-dong, Dong-gu, Daegu.
5,000 Won upfront.
On the poster was an old scan of a photograph from the late 70s--most of the features of the young boy in his bowl cut blurred out by the bad photocopy quality. But maybe that was the point, Yoongi thinks. Whoever this is needs someone to play that part badly.
“Which one is Yi Sejun again?” Yoongi asks the old lady. “Was he the one who killed his brother? Or the one who got killed by his brother? Or the one with the wife who they raised as an Empress or something?”
He thinks the old lady smiles for a bit but when he looks at her properly, she is looking up at the poster, away from him. Her puppy yaps at Yoongi’s heels. Yoongi looks down and smiles; the puppy has the cutest face he’s ever seen. They weren’t allowed puppies at the orphanage but if he had been, he thinks, this is the one he’d take home. He picks the puppy up, pets it under the scruff, behind the ears, grins when it snuggles against the crook of his arm.
“Rumor has it he’s Prince Yi Gu’s boy. They wouldn’t have been allowed back into Korea, not with offspring because it would’ve been a threat to the Imperial government, so everyone's always thought it was just a myth. They say he was smuggled in with a commoner’s last name, posed as a servant: Min or Jung or something like that.”
Yoongi smirks, shakes his head slightly. “Huh.” I guess everyone at some point wishes he were royalty--or at least not sleeping on a cold floor.
“Times were different back then. If they’d come back now, things would be better for them no doubt,” the old lady lets out a sigh.
“Mmm, we were just out of the occupation and the dictatorship and all that,” Yoongi says carefully, trying to recall his history lessons, realizing she may have lived through those times. “Bad timing.”
She’s looking at him, now, eyeing him from head to toe. “Why don’t you go to this audition? Maybe you can get money for whatever a rumor’s worth. You’re young, you could try.”
Yoongi almost laughs. Ridiculous.
“Why are they looking for him? They’re not going to kill him or anything are they?”
The old lady shakes her head. “Do you know of Kim Seokjin? Descended from the House of Yi? Currently Arts Minister? He’s apparently offering good money to find this kid. He’s his uncle, I think? I don’t know the whole story but royalty is very good for tourism these days. Like Princess Diana. Like being a movie star.”
“That kid’s probably dead,” Yoongi says, point-blank. “Or wherever he is, I’ll bet both legs he doesn’t remember who he is. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have taken him so long to get back.”
The old woman shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be the real thing. If you pretend well enough, you get to live like a prince.”
Yoongi grimaces. “But you’d have to live with a fake family.”
Now, the old woman really does smile, her shoulders shaking a little with laughter as she gestures to the dirty train station, other lost travelers bunking down in seats for the night, some of them huddled on the floor. “As opposed to?”
Yoongi looks at the poster a moment longer, the wind from outside whistling against the spaces in the station doors. He sees the night outside painted a flurry of white from the blizzard, like the reverse of a snow globe--a trap bigger than himself.
Yoongi sighs, picks one of the posters off of the walls. “Fair point.”
When he looks again, the old woman is gone. The puppy lets out a small bark. Yoongi sighs. “Looks like you’re stuck with me--Holly. I think I’ll call you Holly.”
The dog barks as if agreeing, and Yoongi tucks her into the fold of his coat as they both brace to face the blistering cold.
The audition hall is small and rundown in the basement of a large, derelict mansion across the street from the station. Really, it’s more an office with a makeshift podium than an actual theater. Yoongi shifts his weight from one foot to another awkwardly as he gets in line with around ten other guys who vaguely resemble him: black, bowl-cut hair, pale skin, slight frames. He hears two voices coming in from the audition hall--one sharp, loud, the other deeper, more relaxed.
“Try and look a little dignified. What if you move your hand like this? Strike a pose--and five, six, seven eight: pam, pam, pam, pam! No, not like that. Nevermind. Here is your money. Have some candy. NEXT!”
“Hobi! You can’t be so mean to them--”
“--well what am I supposed to do? We need someone royal not someone just off the streets and starving--”
“--that’s actually closer to what Prince Sejun’s situation would probably be like if he’d survived--”
“--yes but it’s not about history anymore at all, it’s about the effect, Namjoon. They have to believe it. It’s like theater.”
Yoong sighs, shuffling forward in line. He hates these people already--but 5,000 Won. He’d do it for the 5,000 Won. The next few people in front of him don’t take long: there are no pam pam pams or strike a pose comments. Just a dejected voice saying, “Here is your money. Have some candy. Next!”
By the time Yoongi’s turn comes, he’s just about ready to change his mind and leave, is already quarter-turning out the door when the loud voice yells at him. “Wait! You! Stop.”
And when Yoongi makes to dash out of the doorway, the man who owns the loud voice comes barrelling into him, taking him by the wrist. Yoongi scowls at him, realizing mid-scowl that the man is handsome: hair flopping away from his face, forehead proud, his lips resting in an expression that is half-smirk, half-smile.
Yoongi pulls his wrist away. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Perfect,” the man says, to Yoongi’s dismay. “That’s perfect. Oh my god you’re perfect. Namjoon! I found our Prince Sejun!”
“Look, I really don’t think I’m who you’re looking for--I just came here because I have no money and--”
He feels the handsome man’s gaze trace his frame, lingering on his face--his mouth, his eyes.
“Stop staring at me.”
“Look, I’m just trying to help a friend find his nephew.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Is that why you want to lie to him by giving him whatever impostor you find with the best acting chops?”
The man lets out a laugh, his gentle expression and the dimples that form at the corners of his mouth seeming deceptive in contrast with the next thing he says. “Do you know you’re not the Prince?”
Yoongi stops short, caught off-guard.“No. Well--I don’t really know anything about myself, though so it doesn’t count. But you know I’m not the prince and that makes you an asshole.”
The man grins. Yoongi hates how handsome it makes him look. Holly is restless in his arms.
“Cute puppy.” The man runs a hand through his hair, puts his hands in his pockets. “Let me guess. You’re an orphan. You have no money but the loony old lady at the station sent you our way for the 5,000 Won. Correct?”
Yoongi frowns. “How did you--”
“Well, Mr.--”
“--Yoongi. Min Yoongi.”
“Min, huh. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time.”
Yoongi shrugs. “I aim to please.”
The man grins again as if he knows Yoongi finds it attractive--he's roping him in, Yoongi already finding it hard not to smile back, already letting his guard down a little, following the man a little further into the audition room with the stage and the desk and the other man scribbling in a notebook in the dim light.
“Mr. Min, look at it this way: you can see this as an opportunity, a win-win situation. You come with us, we walk around Seoul for a couple of days, meet a few people, and if Seokjin says it isn’t you, then fine. It isn’t you. All a misunderstanding, then. Then we all go home and you never have to see my face again. But if it just so happens that you are the prince, then that’s a whole lot of birds knocked down with one stone, isn’t it?”
“Seoul?” Yoongi asks, his free hand instinctively coming up to play with the delicate chain around his neck. The city's name whispers in his ear like the melody from an old music box.
The man smiles, nods. “Seoul.”
Yoongi hesitates, watching him--he hates the way he’s smiling, standing the half-light with a smug expression on his face like he knows he’s already won, like he knows Yoongi will soon be walking into that room with them, ready to go with whatever plan they come up with. Yoongi shakes his head. “I don’t even know your name.”
The man’s grin broadens further like early light giving way to a sunrise. He sticks out his hand. “Is that what’s bothering you? Jung Hoseok, then. You can call me Hobi.”
Yoongi watches the man’s face: for all his sarcasm and sharp words, his face is a kind one--almond-shaped eyes, a quiet mouth, ears that fan out a little bit at the tops. At least he’s nice to look at. As soon as he thinks it, Yoongi cringes inwardly. You fucking hopeless optimist. Idiot, idiot, idiot. He reaches out to take Hoseok’s hand, shakes it firmly. It’s warm, even through the fabric of his gloves.
“Fine.”