Chapter 73: Whispers of Kings

 

Morning arrived slowly and shyly over the hills of Prague, cloaking the villa in a fragile layer of silver mist. The fireplace had died down to a soft smolder, and in the center of the massive, plush bed lay three forms tangled in sheets and one another—Jungkook nestled between the warmth of his husbands like he had belonged there for lifetimes.

 

He stirred first.

 

A soft, tiny yawn escaped his lips, and one arm reached lazily to curl around the edge of V’s waist while his other hand clutched Taehyung’s shirt like a blanket. His lashes fluttered, eyes still heavy from sleep, lips pouty and slightly parted. He didn’t speak at first, just made a soft hum deep in his chest—the kind of hum a child makes when they’re safe.

 

It was a different kind of morning.

 

No art. No war. No identities to protect.

 

Just warmth.

 

Just them.

 

“Dada,” he mumbled after a while, nudging his nose gently against Taehyung’s chest. “Dada… hungy…”

 

Taehyung, who had been awake but still feigning sleep, cracked one eye open, a slow smile stretching across his face. He tilted his head down to see the soft puff of curls pressed against him, and his voice emerged low, still thick with morning rasp.

 

“Hmm? What’s my baby boy want for breakfast?”

 

Jungkook made a small sound—somewhere between a giggle and a whine—and twisted to peek over his shoulder at V.

 

“Daddy’s still sleepin’…” he whispered in that high, syrupy tone, eyes wide and mischievous. “We make pancakes, Dada? With shapes?”

 

Taehyung pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, smiling at the way Jungkook’s little space had completely softened the edges of the morning.

 

“Let’s do that,” he murmured. “But only if you promise not to get flour on Daddy again like last time.”

 

Jungkook’s giggle was instant—soft, and naughty, like a bubble of chaos already forming behind his innocent expression.

 

“No pwomise~!”

 

Downstairs, the kitchen became a battlefield of giggles, flour explosions, and pancake batter drips along every surface. Jungkook wore one of Taehyung’s oversized shirts, sleeves falling over his hands, and his bare feet padded across the marble floor as he danced between tasks with the concentration of a determined five-year-old.

 

“Heart one, Dada!” he shouted, holding up a terribly lopsided, scorched piece of pancake with pride.

 

Taehyung, apron smeared with butter, raised an eyebrow. “That one’s more like a… melting bat, baby.”

 

“Issa heart!” Jungkook protested with a huff, bottom lip jutting out dramatically.

 

But before Taehyung could tease him further, a low voice echoed from the stairs behind them.

 

“It’s beautiful.”

 

Jungkook’s ears perked up instantly.

 

“Daddy!” he squeaked, abandoning his bowl to rush over barefoot, jumping into V’s arms without warning.

 

V caught him, effortlessly lifting him up, letting the boy wrap both legs around his waist and arms around his neck.

 

“You weren’t s’posed to wake up,” Jungkook whispered in his ear. “We were making pancakes surprise.”

 

V’s lips brushed his temple. “You were making a war zone, baby bun.”

 

Jungkook giggled, burying his face into V’s shoulder. “Issa pancake kingdom…”

 

Taehyung laughed from the stove. “I should’ve taken photos. He declared himself King Bunny of Batterland.”

 

“King Koo,” Jungkook corrected proudly, pulling back to beam at both of them. “And I say no veggies today!”

 

“Oh no,” V smirked. “A tyrant.”

 

By noon, the villa had shifted back into focus. Little space had faded to soft comfort, and Jungkook sat in the sun-drenched living room between the twins, a thin silver laptop balanced on his legs as he flipped through curated galleries sent by their Paris contact.

 

“They’re suggesting we use an entirely new alias for the next exhibition,” V said, pointing to one of the digital folders. “Let Koo stay in the shadows—but let you speak.”

 

Taehyung leaned in from the other side. “What would you call yourself if you were a legend no one saw?”

 

Jungkook thought for a long moment.

 

Then he whispered, “The Ghost of Color.”

 

Both twins stilled.

 

“That’s…” Taehyung murmured, “Perfect.”

 

“You want to play with duality,” V continued, already calculating. “Let the world see one version of you. Koo—the myth. Ghost—the movement. They’ll never know it’s the same person.”

 

“And it’ll give them a new mystery,” Taehyung added. “Something to distract from chasing the old one.”

 

Jungkook nodded slowly.

 

“I like being a ghost sometimes,” he whispered. “No one expects ghosts to follow rules.”

 

That night, the three sat on the balcony wrapped in throws and silence, sipping honey tea while Prague glittered like a jewelry box below.

 

V was the first to break the hush.

 

“They’ll never stop,” he said quietly, eyes trained on the stars. “They’ll keep chasing your art. Your identity. You.”

 

Jungkook didn’t look up. “I know.”

 

“But we’ll never let them get to you,” Taehyung added, reaching over to curl his fingers around Jungkook’s wrist.

 

“I know that too,” Jungkook whispered, a small smile curving his lips.

 

V turned his gaze toward him, eyes dark and protective.

 

“Then let us make the next move. We’ll control the next gallery. Every piece, every appearance, every whisper—it will all start with us. And end with us.”

 

Jungkook leaned into him, warm and soft, his voice almost childlike again.

 

“You’ll protect my colors?”

 

Both men answered in sync.

 

“Always.”

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