男孩: Boy

章节: 1 - Alone

This was when the western influence on the East was still on the softer side of things. A time of true tradition when Jimin could still have his hair long, reaching well beyond his chest, unlike those tacky Chinese who had widely first accepted, then acquired the western taste and cut their hair to a childish, short length.

Most vulgar. Jimin thought to himself, as he tried to set this final piece of beauty on his dark hair. It was a golden pin in the shape of a leaf or a feather - he didn't quite know nor did he care for anything other than the simple fact that it was beautiful. Beautiful, yet not at all functional. It didn't stick to Jimin's hair, the sharp edge only managing to scratch him. He huffed annoyedly at the pin, as if it too was trying to betray him.

"To think I'll spoil myself for a Chinese man." He muttered spitefully as he looked at himself - pretty and dashing, dewy face, in the golden framed, ornamental mirror. Said Chinese man was such a creature who had lost his culture, his tradition and his beauty for the western ones. The man didn't wear golden pins in his hair for his hair wasn't long enough to carry them. Jeon Jungkook was his name, and his family was rich enough to buy the finest of assets from Korea, but not China. The man's family were close with the emperor - Jungkook's father placing high in his ranks, yet not high enough to be granted a Chinese concubine. Though, even amidst the Chinese, he knew that he was a golden flower amidst all the cheap silver. And it was the greatest shame for such a flower to be diminished to a concubine, when his lineage was among the greatest of Korea - he just happened to have an older brother, a brother he had to despise for the sheer privilege he was born with as the first son.

"Jimin, we are leaving." Spoke the thick voice of his former right hand and friend, Namjoon. After that day, he'd too be given to Jihyun-hyung, his brother.

"Ridiculous." Jimin mumbled finally as he forced the golden pin down angrily to have it stay put, winced at the pain as it again assaulted his scalp, and then, stormed out of his room for the last time.

They took a boat - the Chinese sent it for them, and named it the "Blossoming flower" rejoicing over the acquisition of the Korean beauty, and sailed to 開花, 'Kāihuā', the city where Jeon Jungkook was to have him. It was located somewhere in 南海区, the 'Nanhai district' of southern China, he wasn't quite sure nor did he care. He hated China as of late - enough to warrant his ignorance. But as they arrived though, they didn't arrive to a great warlord, a ruthless ruler or a reckless fool, but a mere boy. A boy whose eyes were wide open as if surprised by this long planned arrival of the Korean concubine. Jimin had heard, from heralds and letters of this Jeon Jungkook, and they spoke of a handsome man, well educated and well built - to entice him he thought, yet it didn't, it couldn't. How could he desire a man whose father bought him so frivolously, a man who had him, the most fearsome flower of Korea, ripped out from his soil and his land. This man before him - who, from that moment onwards became a boy, for he could be no more than 18 years old, had stolen everything from Jimin, for his selfish, sick and childish desire to lay with another man.

Jimin could understand the urge to explore a man, to be pleased by a similar body and a body who knew the ways of its pleasure, and, was he still free and in Korea, would he too have indulged in this desire for he had no burden to provide children - the only privilege that came with being the younger brother. But Jungkook was the oldest, and only son to his father's name and the only one capable to extend the family. So it was selfish, for he didn't care about his family, childish for he couldn't see beyond his own desires. And sick, because it had torn Jimin from his home and like any other flower lacking of soil, commenced his path to wither.

He already hated the man, and he had only seen his shy smile.

It was Namjoon who bowed first. 90 degrees and a sturdy, stark posture. Admirable. Jimin would have thought had the tall man not sold him off so easily too. Even as he knew his friend couldn't have done anything. He couldn't go against father Jihong, he wasn't even meant to be seen by him as he was just a servant and even as Jimin saw the tear cascade down his supple cheek when the younger told him he was to be sent off, he was still mad at Namjoon, for whatever forsaken reason. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he was so utterly hurt, that he'd never see the other again yet the older still stuck to the house etiquette and protocol and restrained himself from showing any emotion. He'd only get a single tear instead of the cascades he deserved. They were built like that in Korea, surrounded by Japan and China, and now the Westerners too, that they had to remain restrained to not show weakness. Jimin was brought up with this thought in mind too, yet even he had fallen to Namjoon's arms, crying desperately when he broke the news to him.

He too bowed, though it was a shallower bow, for he had arrived with a plan and it was most unforgiving and strict. He wanted to show pliance but not weakness, and so his bow only reached his head. With his bow, the soft sound of silk shifting was heard from his luxurious, traditional garment. It was light green in colour and made from all that was expensive to show the prize of the flower this young boy before him had acquired. As he lifted his head, he confronted the doe eyes of the boy who had stood up from his lofty rest innocently, shaking his slim hands as if to deny the necessity of their bows. Jimin only offered a simple smile back, but his lips were plush and his schemes calculated, so above all it was coy and traitorous.

"田柾國您好!" Hello, great Jeon Jungkook! Namjoon wielded and pronounced the courteous tongue well as he was taught Chinese as his specialty. Most servants in father Jihong's house received a "skill" as they called it. Lee Ganyun was taught traditional dance, Heo Sian was taught to play the gayageum, a traditional Korean instrument. Namjoon had gotten very little use out of his skill and without his extensive attention to Chinese literature, would have forgotten much of what he had learned. Jimin began to ponder whether it had been father's plan all along to send his nuisance of a child to China and for that reason had Namjoon, his designated right hand from birth, learn the language. Oh, the sweet sting of betrayal. He thought to himself.

Yet unlike Namjoon, Jimin spoke the elegant language. 雅语, 'yáyŭ' they called it in the Middle Kingdom and it spoke the ordinary into beauty and to many, the most difficult tongue to acquire among the numerous languages of Mandarin. He hated the language too, but wouldn't let his demure smile falter. Not even in his rashest of stages would he let his act down, not until his hand held power. Jimin told the boy before him, of the great things he had heard of him, yet how even the most magnificent of stories told by the most well-spoken messenger couldn't match up to his height, his handsomeness and how the stories of his palace were caricatures of the true shine and richness of his halls. The boy seemed taken aback. Small lips separate as his mouth hung open. He stood in silence for a while seeking something from Jimin's emotionless eyes. A taste of honesty perhaps, but such things had Jimin already learned to hide and his eyes spoke even less than his pompous yet empty words.

"You may speak in Korean, Jimin-ssi." The boy then stuttered quietly in Jimin's mother tongue, explaining that he had spent his formative years in Pyongyang.

Jimin's face revealed only small glimpses of his surprise at first - even as hearing the son of a great Chinese army-man mutter soft, and only slightly accented words of Korean, distressed his system greatly. His plans to lure the boy with lush, lustrous language were also stripped so prematurely. He bowed his head again, to show compliance but also, to hide his face that wanted to curse.