Archive of Our Own ^beta

I.

Ostensibly, this is supposed to be a meeting of the in-laws, a cause for merriment and celebration, only the whole thing has the distinct air of a funeral dressed in jewels and silk-spun garments, pride and pretension filling in the empty spaces throughout the room not currently occupied by art commissions and expensive foreign imports. A fire flickers in the background, warm and diffused, the crackle of embers deafening in an otherwise silent room.

No, Minho amends. This is worse than a funeral. I’m getting married.

He inwardly scoffs at the thought.

Minho has never been particularly romantic. He did not have the time or luxury growing up to daydream about the particulars of his wedding or the faceless person standing at the end of the aisle, the one Minho will love in sickness and in health and through every turn of the season, whatever spoils or famine the changing of weather may bring. He’s known, since childhood, that his marriage would be determined for him. Minho knows this and yet –

And yet.

He cannot deny the heaviness in his heart to be anything other than disappointment, the weight of which cloaks the inside of his throat, three layers thick, leaving behind an aftertaste like tar.

Minho is disappointed.

The Queen Consort flourishes her arms, bell sleeves whooshing through the air as she encourages them to “Make yourselves comfortable, please.” The last word sounds forced and characteritstic of someone who is so used to giving commands, their tongue can no longer form around the shape of a request, only unmistakable orders so poorly disguised. She smiles like it’s a threat.

Minho, royalty or not, has made requests his whole life. He goes to bed asking for steady rainfall, for bountiful harvests, for trading routes free from bandits, and prosperity for his people. Tiny requests whispered into hands clasped in prayer, prayers to a Goddess whose face he cannot see but whose back is a lonely and all too familiar sight. Request upon request, made down on his knees.

Marriage, too, is a request. A proposal made down on both knees.

He takes a seat at the long, lacquered table next to Felix and waits for everyone else to follow suit. Minho sits on one end and Crown Prince Wonpil opposite that. On Wonpil’s right sits Queen Yubin, graceful even in stillness, and on Wonpil’s left is Minho’s husband-to-be.

Kim Seungmin is the picture of polite, hands folded neatly in front of him as he regards Minho with dark, impassive eyes. The shadows of his face shift in turn with the dancing crackle of the flames, so much older than Minho remembers and taller as well, knees scraping against the underside of the table, barely able to contain his blooming height.

Felix is the first one to break the ice. “Thank you for agreeing to host us. Your palace is as beautiful as I remember it from when I was young.” He is so nakedly sincere, it saps some of the tension from Wonpil’s shoulders and softens the glass-like quality of Yubin’s crystalline gaze. They both smile indulgently at Minho’s younger brother, the second prince and crowned jewel of Levanter.

Wonpil speaks and in a gentler tone than Minho had imagined him capable of possessing, “It’s no trouble at all, Prince Felix. We have more than enough room and provisions to keep you both comfortable until the wedding.”

“I trust that your journey here was smooth?” Seungmin asks, cutting in.

“As much as it can be,” Minho returns, tone and expression kept blank, even though he is tired and irritable. The last three days' travel has left him aching and sore, with only a few hours of time to rest in between his arrival and being called upon to make the first of many formal greetings that night.

Felix managed to snatch a moment’s peace while Minho spent the majority of that time being poked and prodded and prepped, the cloying smell of flower petals in his nostrils as he is scrubbed within an inch of his life, and forced to bear the tedium of putting on and taking off the carousel of dress robes brought before him until the green and gold-threaded attire he’s sporting now is deemed satisfactory to the attending noblewoman’s tastes. Lady Choi is ancient and well-situated enough to get away with treating Minho like a child, in a way Minho hasn’t been treated since he turned 13 and the first sweeping instance of oak wilt emerged within the borders of his land – Minho’s land, because it becomes his the minute his father falls ill as well.

They make small talk for a while, Wonpil politely inquiring about their younger sister Jaehee peppered in between dry discussions over seasonal weather changes and preparations for the upcoming solstice. Minho hopes to be back by the month’s end to enjoy all of the festivities they have planned.

“It’ll be the perfect time to introduce everyone to Your Highness as well!” Felix turns his bright eyes over to Seungmin, who has remained quiet following that first initial question. The way Seungmin’s eyes trace pathways between each speaker is the only indication that he is even listening at all.

Minho wonders if his curt response earlier discouraged Seungmin from speaking up again and if he’s being sulky now as a result. Seungmin was always sulky back then.

“Felix makes a good point,” Minho says. The solstice would be the ideal time and place to make Seungmin’s first public appearance and provides them with the opportunity to announce their union in one fell swoop.

Minho blinks at the younger prince, somewhat tentative when he asks, “Did you wish to attend?”

Seungmin takes a moment to contemplate his response before putting forth, “It would be my duty to stand by your side.”

Which is not an answer to Minho’s question, but is the closest thing to one he’ll get. Minho flattens out the reflexive twitch of his lips, desperately wanting to form into what is no doubt a frown.

Wonpil hums, a thoughtful sound. He addresses the Lee siblings. “You’ve done your due diligence greeting my father and making your rounds amongst the rest of his court today. I’m sure you’d much rather go to bed than sit here, idle, and chattering away.”

“On the contrary,” Minho says and it sounds convincingly unfeigned, “I’m enjoying our time together.”

Queen Yubin smiles. “Well, that’s kind of you to say.”

“I mean it most sincerely.”

“All the same,” she announces over the rustling of her skirts as the fabric straightens and falls and kisses the ground when she stands, “I would like to retire. You and Seungmin, feel free to remain. Ideally, it’d be nice to have an actual conversation before the big day. Goddess knows I wasn’t afforded the luxury when I was even younger than your age.”

She holds out an arm for Wonpil to take and needs only to glance over briefly at Felix for him to rise and do the same. When she is flanked on either side by a prince, Queen Yubin sweeps out of the room, the weight of her presence leaving behind a depression, a silhouette of absence in her wake.

Tension and buried boyhood memories battle to fill in the hollowed-out silence that remains.

It’s been years since Minho has been with Seungmin like this, up-close and personal rather than the occasional glimpse of each other from across cavernous chamber halls; convenings and diplomacy visits already few and far between, with the later years characterized by Minho acting as a figurehead and needing to conduct himself as such, no longer a playmate but the acting King of Levanter.

Long gone are the days where Minho is able to sneak out from under people’s noses, Felix and Seungmin following along and sticking to him as close as the plague, the three of them losing track of time in the swells of a forgotten summer’s haze.

Minho thinks it would be easier talking to a total stranger than it would be to try and color in the gaps that time and distance has created.

“Kim Seungmin,” he says at length – at last.

“Prince Minho,” the younger boy returns, a pitch-perfect balance between cordial and bland.

“How have you been?”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, lips quirking into something like a smirk but not quite, if only because such expressions are unbecoming of a prince of the Kingdom Cle. He shifts slightly in his seat, leaning closer. “Are you asking to ask or do you really want to know?”

“What gives you the impression that I wouldn’t want to know?”

“You never did back then,” Seungmin recalls.

“I was twelve back then.” Minho says this without qualifiers—not just, never only, simply twelve; not quite an excuse, but the approximation of one.

“You used to be more interested in animals than people.”

“Or maybe I just wasn’t interested in you.”

Minho means the words to sound teasing, but it comes off as just plain mean.

The thing is, he and Seungmin were never enemies, per se. That’s too strong of a stance to hold at such a young age and Seungmin is too unfailingly well-behaved to have earned such a negative designation. Still, their path to friendship was fraught with unspoken implications, an invisible hand that maneuvered them throughout every tentative interaction and a voice inside Minho’s head reminding him to be careful around this little boy. The voice sounded suspiciously like his father’s. Keep Seungmin happy. Keep Cle in his family’s good favor.

Raised as a Prince with the lack of humility that entails, too young to understand and much too insolent to ask, more than anything Minho resented the command. By extension, Minho resented Seungmin too.

Looking back, Minho knows he was meaner to Seungmin than he had any right to be, skirting the line between what can reasonably be attributed to the unpretentiousness of youth and Minho’s more candid personality, buffered by Felix’s mediation in part and kept in check out of respect for his father all the rest. Still, Seungmin looked up to Minho like he was tall enough to pluck the stars from the sky, more of a brother figure to him than Wonpil, who was groomed to someday be Seungmin’s king.

The second prince of Cle smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure that’s still the case.”

Minho doesn’t know what to say to that and so settles for not saying anything at all.

“I’ve been well,” Seungmin supplies to help bridge the gap in conversation. “Just in case you really did want to know.” He removes his hands from the table to let them rest atop his lap, ramrod straight posture shifting into something marginally more relaxed. “And you?”

Minho mirrors his betrothed and slackens as well, flexing fingers he didn’t realize he was clenching into fists. “What about me?” he counters.

“Have you been well?”

“Are you asking just to ask?”

“No,” Seungmin returns, dark eyes boring into his own. “I never do anything without intention. Everything is always for a reason.”

“Marriage, too?” The question slips out before Minho can think to shut it down, all the worse because it comes off sounding bitter, presented without layers of hidden meanings or the careful dictation of diplomacy; a question that is raw in all the ways Minho is feeling deep down. He can’t walk it back now, those damned words being too short and succinct to be anything other than what they plainly are, and so Minho decides to build upon them instead. Offense as defense. “I was hardly the only offer and far from the most advantageous one. So why this? Why me?”

“Because,” Seungmin considers Minho briefly, passionless and blank. Except when he speaks, there is an obscure intensity to it that Minho cannot place. “You wanted an army and I didn’t want to marry a total stranger. The match is more advantageous than you think.”

“Is that all?” Minho asks.

“What else would there be?” Seungmin fires back.

Unruffled and unperturbed. Completely unaffected.

How irritating, Minho observes and wonders what it would be like to make a home beneath Seungmin’s skin; how satisfying it would feel to boil the blood within Seungmin’s veins and chip away at the expertly crafted veneer, to see the boy underneath, the boy that Minho remembers and not the man before him now, old enough to understand the rules of Minho’s games and smart enough to make up ones of his own.

“Nothing,” Minho says. “Nothing at all.”

And it happens so quickly, it could just as easily be a trick of the light, only Minho is sure he spots something flashing across the planes of Seungmin’s face.

Something like disappointment, a perfect mirror to Minho’s own.

II.

“Move over,” a deep voice rumbles in the dark and is followed by the sensation of limbs draping warm and heavy across his torso. Cold feet press into and against Minho’s bare calf.

“You gremlin,” Minho hisses but does not flinch away from the touch. Felix curls up next to him in bed, a human question mark with an overwarm body to match his overwarm heart. His brother’s contented hum releases a puff of air that weaves through the spinal mountainscape of Minho’s back.

“Can’t sleep?” Felix asks, words mumbled into a nightgown that smells like the sea, like the briny ocean air that sweeps in waves across their lands. Minho favors the ratty scrap of fabric, too short at the knees and stretched out at the neck, over the gifted garments that a well-meaning maid had laid out for Minho when he got back to his chambers.

He grumbles, “I was about to.”

Felix willfully ignores Minho’s response. “Me neither. Do you wanna stay awake and talk until sunrise?”

Without waiting for a response, he snuggles up to Minho like they used to when they were little and brotherly affection was still encouraged, an innocent indulgence rather than the soft underbelly of ignorant youth. Before the winters grew colder and crop yields became lesser and Minho was forced to grow up and bear the weight of his crown too soon; assuming a persona strong enough to keep the cracks and fissures of their Kingdom together, in hands too small to hold the fate of a nation but the gaps between his fingers still wide enough to let everything precious slip through.

Felix is the most precious of all; soft in all the ways Minho is hard, like the flesh beneath calluses or newly-healed skin beneath scars.

Felix, too, will never marry for love, but Minho’s union will prolong the inevitability at least, and gives Minho more time to marvel at the stars still present in his little brother’s eyes. Although it occurs to him that Felix and Seungmin were born only days apart. That Seungmin is younger, still.

“It really is beautiful here,” Felix comments, probably looking over Minho’s shoulder and through the open window on the far side of the room, at the grassy knolls in the distance and the cloudless moon up above.

“Oh?” Minho hums, smiling into his pillow. “That wasn’t just lip service earlier?”

“Of course not,” Felix huffs. “That’s your job. For me, charming people just comes naturally.”

“That's true enough, I suppose.”

Felix nuzzles into Minho’s back, nosing into a divot between two vertebrae. “No matter how beautiful though, I still miss and prefer home.”

“Why?” Minho chuckles. “Not used to so much extravagance? Is the Kingdom of Cle too rich for your blood?”

Felix stiffens against Minho’s body. He says solemnly, “They have so much gold laying around, they’ve embossed the surface of their chamber pots with it. Imagine pissing into something worth enough to feed an entire village, livestock and all, through the winter?”

“I’m sure there’s a poetic meaning somewhere in there. You know—wealth in excess, excess to waste. Literal waste. Something like that.”

“That’s so pretentious,” Felix sniffs.

“Well, yeah. Have you not met Queen Yubin?”

Felix dissolves into a fit of giggles that burst like soap bubbles. Minho always feels a sense of pride whenever he manages to make his brother laugh.

They settle into a comfortable silence, although silence to Minho has always been waves lapping up onto the shore, seagulls squawking low in the distance, and wind whistling through through sails bearing ships further from land. Here, and all the more foreign for it, silence is simply the absence of sound.

“Seungminnie’s become handsome now, don’t you think?” Felix asks when the empty void around them becomes too much. He noses further into Minho’s back, prompting him to answer the question instead of ignoring it like he’s wont to do.

Minho deflects, “We’ve all come of age now. You can’t call him Seungminnie anymore.”

“Seungminnie’s still Seungminnie and will forever be Seungminnie to me.” Felix is quiet for a moment, before adding, “Although I guess he’s never been Seungminnie to you.”

No. To Minho, he has always been Kim Seungmin.

“Do you have to go through with this?”

“It’s too late to back out now, Lixie.” To renege would be too big a slight for the proud and noble Kim family to ignore, and has the potential to incite or even further inflame a war—entirely counterproductive, when preventing one on the borders is the only reason this wedding is happening in the first place.

“You don’t—” Felix starts, but Minho cuts him off.

“I do. You know I do.”

For a Crown Prince with power woven into the fabric of his upbringing and allotted to him since birth, and whose coronation is a mere formality when he has effectively already assumed the throne, there is still much that Minho is beholden to, that he must bow before: drought and disease, pestilence and famine.

Marriage is not just the least he can do for his people, it is perhaps the only thing he can do.

Felix reframes the question. “Do you want to go through with this?”

Minho doesn’t answer.

There is silence, again.

III.

Dawn breaks early and with it, Minho rises as well.

He’s used to waking up with the sun, squeezing out time from every hour of the day to be spent in council meetings, military planning sessions, and listening to citizen concerns. His body rouses like clockwork before the first rays of sunlight can warm his face, even though there is nothing urgent to attend to for a few more hours and Minho still hasn’t recovered from yesterday’s journey besides. Fatigue is familiar to him, a second shadow and ghost. It is rare for Minho to ever feel truly well-rested, so used to stealing sleep in snatches and tiny increments at a time.

While his eyelids hang heavy, Minho’s mind is abuzz. Try as he might, he can't go back to bed. Better to keep to his circadian rhythms then than deviate from routine. It also doesn’t help either that Felix snores like a riptide in his sleep.

Minho deftly untangles himself from his brother’s embrace, dressing quickly and slipping outside before the attending chambermaids can notice and protest. He doesn’t need an entire entourage following along with his every step.

One of the guards bids him good morning as Minho passes through the threshold of the door. “Stepping out, your Majesty?”

“Yes,” Minho replies, straightening up because he feels small standing next to the broad-shouldered sentry despite having a slight height advantage. “I think I’ll take a walk and take in some air.” He wants to familiarize himself with the castle grounds and its people as well.

“After you then,” the guard says with a playful flourish of his arm, too bright and cheery for someone who’s probably been up half the night.

He makes it a few more steps, hesitant to ask for directions and then thinking better of it, before ultimately pivoting back around. “Actually, if you could show me the way down to the courtyard area first.”

The guard nods his head pleasantly and smiles. “Of course. It would be my pleasure, your Majesty.”

This is the most kindness he’ll probably get during his stay in Cle. Back home, Minho knows every face and name, and is greeted with warmth and respect everywhere he treads. Here, he is regarded with cool detachment, curiosity, and ill-concealed hostility, because Seungmin is a beloved prince and Minho rules over cursed land.

What seemed like a maze last night in the height of his exhaustion is still labyrinthian during the day, but Minho thinks he can manage the journey alone next time from his chambers to the main areas of the castle. Along the way, he makes note of all the different landmarks; of the elaborate carpet tapestries and jade figurines atop stone pedestals painted in a shade of robin’s egg blue, the different hallways lined with portraits of monarchs and important figures from the past.

Outside, it is a beautiful day, perfectly cloudless because not even the Goddess casts shadows over the Kingdom of Cle. Minho cannot get used to the amount of greenery surrounding him. The courtyard is filled with various kinds of leaves and bushes and trees, ornamental grasses growing to twice and thrice Minho’s height, and highlighted with plots of colorful blooms. There is the smell of honeysuckle, cloying, rather than sea salt in the wind.

Minho stumbles across Seungmin towards the outskirts of the garden, closest to the wall, resting against a paper birch tree with strips of its trunk in the process of peeling away. Dappled sunlight through the canopy dance across Seungmin’s eyelids, shuttered close despite the tome he’s supposed to be reading laying open in his lap, spread out beneath his hands.

In the morning light, the younger prince appears softer somehow.

Minho turns to slip away unnoticed, only Seungmin notices him anyway.

“Minho-hyung.” The name sounds strange to hear. He hasn’t been Minho-hyung to Seungmin since the younger’s throat was as flat as the ground, Adam’s apple not yet fully-formed, pre-pubescent voice characterized by a perpetually nasally whine. Now, when Seungmin addresses him, the deeper bass of it strikes through the core of Minho’s heart.

He turns around; tilts his head and offers Seungmin a short and chipped nod of acknowledgement. “Second Prince.”

Seungmin sets his book aside. “You don’t have to be so formal with me all the time. We’ll be married in a matter of days.”

“We’re not married yet.” Minho closes the gap between them with a few, purposeful strides.

Seungmin regards Minho who is now looming over him, a shadow that effectively blocks out the sun. “Still, we’re not exactly strangers.”

“I can’t say that I agree. You were just a bratty little teenager the last time I saw you. Obviously, you’ve done some growing up since.”

Seungmin laughs at the thought. “You’re still the same though, hyung. A contrarian, as ever.”

“I’m not a contrarian,” Minho huffs and joins Seungmin on the ground. He threads his fingers through the downy tufts of grass, squeezing tight and pulling up a few emerald green strands.

Seungmin laughs again. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

He goes to flick the picked grass in Seungmin’s face but the attack is intercepted by a well-timed breeze. Once again untouchable, entirely out of reach. “I’m not a contrarian,” Minho repeats. “I disagree with you as a principle and as a carryover from our youth. Because even as a kid, you were so annoyingly self-assured. You always thought you were right.”

“Well it’s not like I’ve ever been wrong.”

Minho stretches like he’s preparing to fight; rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck and then his knuckles after that. “In another life, I would have kicked your ass by now.”

“Oh?” Seungmin smiles as he plucks a petal off a flower, rubbing in the velvety texture between his thumb and pointer finger, yellow pollen amidst the streaks of chalky red. He looks up with an expression that Minho can’t name, somewhat like mist, transparent in essence but wholly obscure. “Because you didn’t hurt me enough growing up?”

“What are you talking about? I never laid a finger on you growing up.”

“I fell out of a tree because of you,” Seungmin deadpans and points up at the branches above. “This one, to be exact.”

Minho looks skywards and is hit with the memory of nine year old Seungmin navigating those branches in full regalia for Wonpil’s coming-of-age; smaller than Minho at the time and therefore better suited to rescue the kitten that was stuck up there, whose tiny voice had gone hoarse from mewling for help throughout the night. Minho remembers calling out instructions from the ground, “Put your foot there! No, to the left. TO THE LEFT! Arm first, then leg! Yah, Kim Seungmin, are you trying to die?”

Minho rolls his eyes. “You did that on your own. I was prepared to go up there by myself.” He had even shucked off his outer robes in preparation except Seungmin had insisted on being the one to go, lips skewed and hands on hips, an air of determination he’d never displayed with anything else. He clambered up the tree trunk before Minho could protest, and even made it most of the way down, kitten bundled inside of his ceremonial robes, before a branch gave way beneath his feet and sent him tumbling to the ground.

“I just wanted to impress you,” Seungmin admits with a grin, tapping his leg in reference to the faded scar hidden beneath the material of his pants. Minho had blanched at the sight of blood after Seungmin fell, bending down to inspect the open wound, but Seungmin didn’t cry or acknowledge any pain, his chief concern being whether or not the kitten had landed alright or at least better than he had, hopefully upright and on its feet. Minho also recalls Seungmin’s wobbly smile afterwards, before he was whisked away with a face like muted sunshine, “Hyung, I did a good job, right?”

“Heroism isn’t as easy in real life as it is in the ballads,” Minho says, shaking his head to clear away the image. “Sometimes, you have to make sacrifices.”

“I don’t believe hobbling around on a bad knee for the better part of a month is an equivocal trade.”

Minho raises both eyebrows in admonishment. “Don’t be so self-centered. For all we know, that kitten could have been down to its last life.”

“I only have one life to begin with!”

“A pity then,” Minho chuckles darkly and upon Seungmin’s questioning stare, explains, “A pity to only have one life and have to spend the rest of it with each other.”

Seungmin takes a while to respond, allowing the tension between them to stretch thinner and thinner, and when he finally does speak, the second prince is no longer looking up at Minho but somewhere up in the trees. There’s a strange weightiness to his voice. “A pity indeed.”

IV.

The ceremony takes place in the Great Hall when the clock strikes noon, as the sun climbs to its zenith in the sky, shining light through the stained-glass windows casting a kaleidoscope of colors throughout the room. Dust motes swirl like snowflakes down from the overhead beams. Minho tries not to sneeze when it tickles at his nose.

Their wedding is small, smaller than one would think befitting of a prince of Cle and the Crown Prince of Levanter, but having agreed upon sending out announcements rather than formal invitations, there are no foreign emissaries or minor royalty to report back on the affair. Theirs is an alliance forged with cloak and dagger, hastily arranged and hastily fulfilled. Minho is losing land and people to border skirmishes every day. There is little time to waste.

On his side, Minho brings only himself and his brother, leaving behind the other members of his court, while Seungmin is flanked by family, the royal guard, and a few people he deems close enough to consider friends. All in all, there are less than 15 people in attendance despite using a space big enough to accommodate up to 100.

At the end of the chamber hall, Seungmin marches a steady line towards the dais; one foot in front of the other, with all the grace and self-importance his noble upbringing affords. His hair is swept back, his shoulders look wide.

He is a vision in white.

A string quartet plucks at their instruments in the background, a traditional wedding tune. One of them, a violinist, is playing a half beat slower than the others, lacking the dexterity to adjust so their notes ring out discordant into the open space. They are a second-rate group, cobbled together because Cle’s best and finest are too far away on tour to call back on such short notice so they have to make do.

It doesn’t matter much to Minho. He can barely hear them over the thundering of his pulse.

Seungmin is four paces away now; three, two, and then one. He closes the gap, until there are none.

His entire future comes to a stop by his side and regards Minho through pond scum eyes, a fine film masking his emotions on the surface but if Minho looks hard enough, he can see the ripples of something impossible lurking beneath; except Minho doesn’t look, and so Minho doesn’t see. His eyes are trained on the Priestess at the altar, ceremonial rights written down on a tome in her spider-veined hands. Seungmin’s eyes are looking at him.

The Priestess speaks with a voice like scorched Earth and desert sands; rattling off vows and promises, ‘til Death may you part, “Do you...?”—”I do.” “And you?”—”I do.”

At the end of it, she says, “You may now complete the rites.”

A seal to the binding contract embedded into the flesh of Seungmin’s lips.

Minho pivots but Seungmin moves first, one step to his left and then another, bending down just as Minho tilts his chin up.

The contact is brief, a gossamer brush, performative and perfunctory. Minho feels nothing and wonders if that’s normal; just skin against skin, closed-mouth up until they part and then the lingering warmth of Seungmin’s breath.

Their first kiss, two decades in the making. Two decades later, Minho will barely remember it.

It’s the memory of Seungmin whispering, “You look handsome, hyung” against the curve of Minho’s Cupid’s bow that haunts Minho later in his dreams.

V.

The royal family set aside a bed chamber slightly larger than the one Minho has been sleeping in for their wedding night, with the addition of an antechamber where servants and guards and the Priestess from before are waiting quietly on the other side of the door, ears strained and listening for evidence of a coupling before they can finally retire for the night.

Seungmin sits at the foot of their bed, white-knuckled before he forces his hands to relax. He’s trembling like a leaf, but only when he thinks Minho can’t see.

He doesn’t know why Seungmin is so nervous. Minho puts his husband’s mind—because that’s what Seungmin is now, Minho’s husband—at ease.

“There’s no need for us to do anything tonight but sleep, since we cannot produce offspring,” Minho says casually. Minho thinks he’s being kind.

“But the people out there—”

“Are simply wasting their time.”

Seungmin frowns and knits the blunter edges of his eyebrows together. “We need to consummate our marriage. How else are we to prove that it’s real?”

Legitimate, he means. Not in the eyes of the Goddess, but to everyone else.

Minho spins the gold band around his ring finger, the one worth more than what half of Levanter produces in crop yields a year, and holds up the adjoining hand by his face to prove his point. “This feels real enough to me.”

“Everyone will gossip.”

Minho shucks off his wedding attire into a pile on the ground, a weight off his shoulders that he doesn’t bother to pick up or neatly fold and hang on the back of the vanity chair. He shrugs in response. “They can talk all they want. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re mine.”

“And you?” Seungmin asks, somewhat stilted. Minho pulls on his nightgown while facing the wall. He’s been dressed and undressed by chambermaids his entire life, nudity has never bothered him, but in front of Seungmin, feeling his gaze burning a hole in Minho’s back, for the first time he experiences the prickling sensation of being wholly exposed.

It would be easy, Minho thinks, to turn around right now. To bear himself to Seungmin, to bear down on him as well, sucking bruising kisses into his neck, hands roaming, hands taking. He doesn’t. He won’t.

“What about me?” Minho lets the fabric of his nightgown fall and brush against his knees.

There’s an uncharacteristic quiver in his voice when his husband asks, “Are you mine?”

Minho turns around, feeling strange to be taking up only one half of the bed as he climbs into the four-poster affair and settles in. Seungmin follows suit, conceding to Minho a wide enough berth to avoid even the possibility of accidentally touching, and does not tuck himself underneath the covers either. Minho watches him impassively and says, “I will be King someday. I cannot belong to any one person, but to my people, equally.”

“Am I not included in your conception of people?”

He shakes his head slightly. “You are.”

“Then you are mine.” Seungmin presses his cheek into one of the goose-feather pillows, curling into a fetal position as he leans over to blow out the candle on his side. Seungmin remains there afterwards, impossibly still, back as wide as the ocean and as unknowable, too. “Whatever pieces of you I can get. Whatever pieces you let me keep.”

Minho rolls his eyes. Seungmin has always gotten everything he wants, ever since they were young. He stares down at the golden band again in the moonlight. “Don’t be so greedy, Kim Seungmin.”

“Do not mistake my feelings for greed.” Seungmin’s words are a warning, sharp-tongued and poison-laced, a sudden rage that catches Minho off-guard because Seungmin doesn’t get mad, he gets petty and pouty, or he will fortify his defenses and let nothing slip at all, but he is never mad in a way that is recognizable or can be used against him. Seungmin doesn’t get mad. At least, not like this.

The unexpected reaction sets off alarm bells in Minho’s head, but he refuses to back down. Not this time. Not anymore. Minho won’t bow down.

He bites back, “Is it ambition then? Is that what this is?”

Seungmin doesn’t answer him directly. He delivers a clipped, “Goodnight, hyung” and then curls up even tighter. Cordial until the end, because Seungmin is a prince before he is anything else.

Minho can see the tension Seungmin holds between his shoulder blades while trying his best not to explode, the knot of fury beckoning for Minho to sink his teeth into, to harness and tame. To mold into a shape that’s familiar again, into Seungmin’s back once more rather than this stranger’s in his bed.

As the night drags on and the silence between them stretches, deliberate at first before Seungmin eventually falls asleep, Minho wonders how it is possible to be sharing a space, to be so physically close but feel so far out of reach, to feel Seungmin’s body heat yet have it chill his heart instead.

VI.

Whatever lingering animosity Seungmin harbors towards Minho is burnt out of him by the first morning rays.

Unlike Minho, Seungmin has never been one to hold a grudge, probably of the mindset that such ugly emotions are beneath him or not conducive to whatever goals he sets out for himself to achieve. Pragmatic as always.

When Minho opens his eyes, prying them apart one at a time, lids and lashes glued together by a line of gunk that had formed in his sleep, it’s to find Seungmin standing by the window, up and awake and dressed for the day; contemplative as he’s staring out over the courtyard and down at the paper birch tree again. The tension from before still remains, but now it keeps Seungmin upright rather than acting like a center of gravity pulling him in, compressing him down.

As if sensing that he is no longer alone with his thoughts, Seungmin turns around and asks, “Good morning, hyung. How did you sleep?”

Minho stretches before sitting up, fingertips grazing against the headboard while his toes point towards the opposite end of the room. Cat-like. He hears his bones crack and pop back into place, distantly, like an echo in his ear. There’s a dull ache radiating up and down Minho’s spine from the tense way he slept—curled up, almost defensively—last night.

“Fine, I suppose.”

Seungmin cracks a smile like cotyledons bursting through seed cover, searching for the light. “You know, you talk in your sleep,” he observes.

“What? No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” Seungmin laughs. “Full sentences, too!”

“Did it wake you up then?” Minho asks with fake concern.

“Yeah, it did. Twice.”

He snarks back, “Good.”

Seungmin shuffles over from the window to the vanity table where there’s a fresh basin of water and a rag laid out beside it. Minho watches as the younger boy pushes up the sleeves of his shirt, delicate wrists giving way to milky forearms, all one blurred movement as he submerges the wash cloth, retrieves it, and then efficiently wrings it dry. Flower petals cling to the back of Seungmin’s hands, scenting him floral when he walks over to where Minho is sitting with both legs dangling off the side of the bed.

Seungmin says quietly, “Let me.”

Something stirs in Minho’s gut and refuses to settle. He grips Seungmin’s wrist, halting. “Why? There are chambermaids for that.”

Seungmin cradles Minho’s chin between the pads of his rose-soaked fingers. “You have a husband for it, too.”

The stirring feeling intensifies. Minho frowns but lets his eyes flutter shut, trying not to squirm as Seungmin drags the cloth in sweeping arcs across his face, moisture drying cool to contrast with the heat of Seungmin’s touch. He doesn’t understand how, even when performing subservient acts such as this, Seungmin still manages to make Minho feel like some specimen pinned beneath his thumb.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Seungmin says after a moment of gentle wiping, when Minho is lulled into a sort of peace that makes him want to sleep for a little longer. He thinks he could do it too, sitting upright as he is.

He hums, “Getting married, you mean?”

“Funny joke, hyung. No. I meant sorry about last night.”

Minho looks up at the younger boy, searching. He caves upon seeing the reticence in Seungmin’s gaze, at the sincere apology peeking through. Minho sighs. “I’m sorry, too. I said some things I didn’t mean.”

Almost sadly—”It’s okay. I probably said too much of what I did.”

While moving to ask for clarification, Seungmin all but shoves the damp wash cloth between Minho’s lips. “You don’t have to love me,” he rushes to say, before Minho can interrupt. “I know that our marriage is a political alliance in everything but name. But if we’re condemned to grow old and die together, I would prefer it to be as friends.”

Minho slaps away the rag and the hand that holds it as well. “You’re too annoying to be my friend.”

“And you’re being contrary for the sake of it again. I’m being serious here, hyung.”

The last part of the sentence raises up into a whine that Minho hasn’t heard in years, just without the accompanying foot stomp Seungmin is now too dignified to resort to. Secretly, there is a part of Minho that has always found Seungmin to be just a little bit cute. It’s just suppressed in favor of other, more prominent feelings – like the parasitic vines of resentment or some unfurling bloom, genus and species unknown.

“Okay,” Minho says. “So we’re friends.”

His husband frowns even though Minho is agreeing to his proposition. How fickle of him, Minho thinks.

“You can’t just say it and have it be true.”

He is affronted. “Well what am I supposed to say?”

“That you’ll at least try.”

Minho deadpans, “Why? When you meet someone, you either like them or you don’t. The same is true for everyone else. They’ll think of you what they think of you. What’s the point in trying to change their mind?”

“Except I’m not someone you meet once and can forget. We’re married.”

“So what?” Minho thinks it’s funny to see Seungmin stumble through all the potential counterarguments in his head, the formation of the crease between his brows and Seungmin’s tiny, subtle pout.

“You don’t like me. I’m your husband and you don’t like me.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions. I never said anything like that.”

Seungmin gives him a withering glare. “Never aloud,” he mumbles while twisting the towel in his hands. And then, bitterly, “I know it isn’t allowed. I know you only tolerated me growing up because you were following orders. I know it’s for a similar reason that you married me as well, because you’re so dutiful and duty-bound.”

“Insecurity doesn’t suit you,” Minho says. “I like you just fine.” Granted, whatever thread of affection he holds is nestled between a livewire of other tangled up and complex emotions, but it’s there, thrumming inside of his veins. Minho would be much nicer to Seungmin if that wasn’t the case. He would be much more polite anyways, given the cordiality afforded to strangers.

They say marriage is a compromise.

“I guess,” Minho starts and then sighs, momentarily distracted by the way Seungmin is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He doesn’t understand why the admission of his less than hostile regard makes Seungmin’s face light up, or why the sight of it makes Minho feel so warm inside. He soldiers on. “If it makes you happy, I’ll try and overlook everything about you. Your annoying personality. I’ll try and be friendlier.”

It doesn’t feel like a compromise when Seungmin smiles back, impossibly bright, open-mouthed and with a gleam in his eyes.

More than anything, it feels like total surrender.

VII.

They spend the rest of the month making preparations for the journey back home to Levanter, packing up the wedding gifts and tying up loose ends. The remaining days pass by in a blur of names and faces that Minho struggles to remember, but it is of little consequence since he is leaving soon anyways. It is enough to simply smile and nod and let Seungmin do all the talking. Minho’s only real responsibility is to accompany his husband on a never-ending carousel of dinner parties with lords and their ladies in the surrounding estates, feasting to secure their favor and more men for Seungmin’s army should these border skirmishes come to more violent blows.

Throughout it all, Minho also gives Seungmin the space to grieve his childhood and to say his final and most sincere goodbyes: to his parents and brother and the wet nurse who raised him, his friends and loyal servants, and to the Kingdom he loves but must leave behind, the one he yearns for but will never inherit because of Wonpil and later on, because of Wonpil’s son.

“All set?” Minho murmurs as Seungmin takes one last look around the room. The morning of their departure has finally arrived.

Minho doesn’t know whether to be excited that he’s going home or apprehensive about what he’ll be coming home to.

“No,” Seungmin answers honestly. “I’m not, but I’ve already lingered for too long.”

They are a few hours shy of high noon so the sun still sits at an angle in the sky. The heat will become unbearable soon and inadvertently lengthen the journey if they don’t swiftly get a move on. Minho doesn’t want to rush Seungmin though. Closure is a tricky thing.

Outside by the main gates, there is a small party loitering around, having risen before dawn and finished prepping for the long trip ahead. He recognizes Chan, the shorter guard from before with dimples as deep as his sense of duty. Minho didn’t realize Chan was a figure of authority up until now. It makes sense though, seeing him in more formal armor and uniform, smiley and affable whenever Minho catches his eye but otherwise serious, running through all of the different safeguard practices they have in place.

Beside him is a man even shorter and buffer than Chan, with crimson scales peeking out from the collar of his armor, ivy-like in the way it climbs up the thick column of his neck. A set of wings is folded conspicuously behind the man’s back, everything he owns custom-made to accommodate them. By reputation alone, Minho recognizes this as Seo Changbin, a rare dragon hybrid whose potential for greatness is as high as his risk. Both physically and metaphorically, people tend to keep their distance, the stigma against non-humans being very much deeply embedded within their culture. Dragons also do not inspire much warmth the same way a fox-hybrid might in shades.

Together, Changbin and Chan make up the youngest members of the Royal Guard and therefore the most expendable, thus reassigned to protect Seungmin in his new role as the Royal Consort of Levanter and taking point on security for the potentially treacherous journey there. The rest of the party consists of handmaids and servants and a fleet of horses with impressively glossy manes, a few dozen foot soldiers to round out their security detail, and finally, Hwang Hyunjin.

Seungmin brushes past Minho down the stairs to reunite with his friend. Something about the sight of it prickles, like pressing a hand down on a bed of cactus thorns, beneath Minho’s skin.

By blood, Hyunjin is nothing more than the son of some minor nobility not worth mentioning or memorizing. His name should not have registered to Minho at all. Hyunjin is no one, not really. But the status he holds in court does not reflect this impression.

Minho’s heard the rumors about Hyunjin, of course – not because he purposefully seeks them out but because they follow him wherever he goes, the shadow nipping at Minho’s heels along with everyone’s pitying stares. It only intensifies when news spreads that Hyunjin is making preparations to go with Seungmin as well.

There are whispers, ever-present, about the second prince and his faithful companion, attached at the hip since the latter made his debut in court. Whenever there is a decision to be made, it is Hyunjin’s voice in Seungmin’s ear, his every fleeting whim carrying long-lasting and far-reaching implications by virtue of his association with the prince. And how can anyone blame Seungmin for being so unduly influenced when Hyunjin is such a jewel? Blonde and beautiful and beloved across the Eight Kingdoms.

Any illusions of his quiet charisma are shattered the first time Minho hears Hyunjin speak.

“Minnie, please?”

“Hyunjin, no.”

“Minnie, pleeeeeeease.”

“Hyunjin, I already told you no.”

“Minnie, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.”

“Hyunjin, my resolve doesn’t weaken at a rate proportional to how long you can draw out your whine,” the second prince admonishes with a frown. “We can’t take a palanquin all the way to Levanter. It simply isn’t practical given the terrain and the area we have to cover, in addition to making more frequent stops so that the bearers -- if we can find any on such short notice -- don’t drop dead.”

“Okay but consider this: Minnie, if we don’t take a palanquin, I’ll drop dead.”

“We are not turning a four day journey into a four week excursion for the sake of your comfort alone.”

“I can’t ride a horse! I never learned how. What if I fall off and break my neck? What if it bucks and tosses me off a nearby ravine?”

“If it’ll stop your whining, I’ll let you ride with me on Gyeol.”

“Okay deal!” Hyunjin beams and drops the melodramatic act. He doesn’t, however, drop his hand from where it’s wrapped around Seungmin’s arm, boldly leading them over to where Seungmin’s snow white mare is feeding from a stable hand's open palm. No one bats an eye at Hyunjin’s lack of propriety, pushing and pulling on the second prince without a second thought, or the gall he has to so flagrantly flaunt his favor. Hyunjin does nothing to soften his open adoration and his pleasure at being adored in turn. It’s obvious that Seungmin indulges him more than most. He acts more his age around Hyunjin; not half so much as measured or stiff.

Hyunjin brings it out of him and that, Minho supposes, is also a sort of charm.

The revelation annoys him more than it should.

Hyunjin annoys him.

Minho wouldn’t be too torn up if he doesn’t survive the trip. He hopes they pass by lots of ravines.

VII.

“Seungminnie, look. Look at the cows!”

“Mhmm,” Seungmin hums, eyeline following the manicured tip of Hyunjin’s finger pointed towards a patch of grass in the distance where the bovine are grazing, languid beneath the afternoon sun. “They look exactly like the last bunch of cows you pointed out . . . and the fifty other ones before that.”

“Excuse me for trying to keep you entertained, your Highness.” The title is used sarcastically. It sounds weirdly formal in a way that Hyunjin rarely is around Seungmin, so used to referring to the prince by his birth name or nicknames stemming from such.

They are only halfway into the journey and Minho’s patience is wearing thin. He had expected to make most of this trip in silence save for the occasional remark from Felix. His brother usually shares the mindset that as much energy as possible should be conserved during the day instead of being dedicated to making pointless conversation. Minho supposes it’s the luxury of growing up in a Kingdom free from highway bandits who strike without fear because manpower is allocated to sustaining a stalemate along the borders rather than upholding law and order.

Changbin is the worst culprit of them all, loud and theatrical in his expressions, and further indulged by Chan who always treats the people he’s speaking to as if they’re the most fascinating person in the world. Felix doesn’t so much join in on the conversations as much as he observes and enjoys them, smiling all the while, perhaps a little brighter whenever Chan speaks. Minho has never seen his little brother enthralled by anyone as much as he's enthralled by Chan while desperately trying to hide it, averting his eyes whenever Chan turns to look

Seungmin also seems in high spirits, allowing himself to be pulled into the role of mediator every time Changbin and Hyunjin engage in petty bickering over some topic or another, and playing along with the occasional prank on Chan. The only person he doesn’t speak to directly is Minho, as if sensing Minho’s volatile mood and treading lightly with care. There’s nothing to talk about anyways.

They’ve never been particularly verbose around each other and there’s little opportunity to start when Seungmin is flanked by Hyunjin at every turn; speaking in hushed tones while riding together during the day, sitting side by side at dinner, and only parting when Seungmin returns to his and Minho’s shared tent at night. Travel renders them both exhausted by that point, the only words exchanged being a perfunctory “Good night” with their backs to each other, too tired to even dream. Minho listens to cricket song and a rustling from a passing summer’s breeze before closing his eyes and slipping off.

“Fix your face, hyung. What if Seungminnie gets the wrong impression?” Felix asks, grinning in a way that’s meant to be secretive but makes him look simple. He drops into the seat next to Minho holding a hot plate of stew.

“What?” Minho asks, blinking out of the bad mood he’s similarly simmering in. Why is everyone being loud? A ways away, Minho can hear a few of the soldiers grumbling over a pair of dice that clack around inside of a wooden cup and maidens giggling as they titter over Mingi, the handsomest soldier among them; the crackling fire and spoons scraping against the bottom of bowls, slurping and chewing and conversations whilst chewing. It’s all giving Minho a headache.

His younger brother smirks. “You’re glaring again. What if Seungminnie thinks you’re glaring at him and not at the nonexistent space between him and Hyunjin?”

“I’m not glaring at anything, my eyes are naturally this narrow. Also, smoke blew into them earlier. I’m not glaring.”

“Okay,” Felix is clearly unconvinced. He pats Minho on the shoulder.

“Don’t patronize me, you brat.”

“At the end of the day, Seungminnie chose to marry you. Don’t be so unpleasant all the time and make him regret it.”

Minho’s gaze returns to the pair opposite of them, squinting at the casual way Hyunjin’s head is resting against Seungmin’s shoulder. It’s that damned smoke again. Minho grumbles, “I was unpleasant before I married him. He knew the kind of husband he was getting when he agreed to join hands.”

“Love transforms,” Felix submits, like some wizened elder imparting hard-earned advice.

“Perhaps,” Minho considers the statement. “If duty can be mistaken for love.”

“One doesn’t preclude the other.”

“I will settle for just the one.” Duty, he means. The one that benefits the lives of thousands of people rather than a fairy tale he gave up on, once upon a time.

Felix frowns, eyebrows knitting together. Minho can see the thoughts forming inside of his brain, stitching themselves into an argument his brother doesn’t manage to verbalize because of the commotion that occurs before he can open his mouth.

“Your Highnesses!” Chan thunders towards them with purpose, emerging from between the collection of tents pitched for Seungmin and Minho and the rest of their party. Their group is amongst the few who aren’t relegated to hoofing it out in the open, exposed to the elements but protected beneath the watchful twinkling of the stars.

Arms bound behind by a length of rope and pushed along so forcefully that he stumbles every few steps along the way is a lanky figure in bedraggled clothes. The simple tunic and pants might have once seen better days but were, in essence, just as shabby back then.

Chan forces the boy down onto his knees before the fire, which the boy does while loudly complaining about his rickety joints and only because the point of Chan’s sword is digging into his back. He stares up at Minho, shadows dancing across his youthful face, and illuminates a gaze that holds no fear.

Chan professes, “I caught him in the act. He was rifling through your things in your tent and lining his pockets with gold.”

MInho hears a gasp. “A thief!” Hyunjin says, pointing out the obvious.

“I believe the term you’re looking for is an opportunist.” The captive grins without looking away from Minho. His attitude is cavalier because he knows he’s not in any danger.

“Let him go,” Minho commands.

Chan hesitates. “Are you certain, your Highness?” His best judgment won’t allow him to give in so easily, even in the face of a direct order, when sensing a threat.

“I’m certain, Chan. Release him now.”

Changbin doesn’t have nearly as much tact and diplomacy. He yells, “Your Highness, this boy is nothing but a dirty thief!”

“I resent that stereotype. I bathed last week!”

“And an annoying thief at that,” Hyunjin adds while delivering a very commendable side-eye, upper lip curling in disgust.

Minho heaves a sigh, somewhat embarrassed to admit that, “Even so, he is unfortunately also my best friend.”

Confusion descends upon the group, palpable as rainfall as everyone tries to process the revelation and divides their attention between Minho and the stranger’s shit-eating grin. The only other person who doesn’t seem surprised by this turn of events is Felix.

“Hello Sungie,” the young prince greets.

“Annyeong, baby.”

There is a familiarity between them that is hard to grasp when two of them were born in the lap of royalty and the other in the back room of a pub where his mother served ale even after her water broke, only stopping when the contractions physically rendered her immobile and the clockwork screaming grew louder than the general din of the crowd.

This begs the question, in what context would the three of them have cause to ever cross paths and rather than just carry on with their lives, forge long-lasting bonds?

Chan quietly assesses the scene. As respectfully as he can for someone without any idea of what’s going on and therefore how to best navigate the situation, Chan inquires, “If he’s your friend, then why did we catch him with his hands in the royal coin purse?”

“Frankly, I’d be offended if he didn’t at least try.”

“Well?” Jisung hums. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to all of your new friends?”

Chan cuts the rope that binds Jisung's arms and reluctantly sheaths his sword. Minho notes that the hilt is still partially drawn for ease of access should trouble greet them later on.

Chan takes a step back, giving Jisung enough space to get up and stretch but still remaining within arm's reach.

Jisung bows to Minho sarcastically. "Your mercy is as boundless as ever, your Grace."

“Have you eaten yet?” Minho asks.

Most people in Jisung's position eat like sparrows, stomachs having grown accustomed to taking meals so few and far between, predisposed to snacking in tiny increments throughout the day, but Jisung polishes off three plates of stew and a half day's worth of rations in one sitting. Minho isn't one to fuss over anyone but something about the sight of Jisung stuffing his cheeks like he's squirreling away food for the winter brings it out of him.

"Slow down or you'll choke," Minho warns.

Jisung isn’t the type to heed anything or anyone – royalty included – save for forces of nature, of which he is one himself. "Compliments to the chef," he sprays through a mouthful of bread and a healthy scrape of butter that Minho conjures up from their supplies. More than just men, Minho brings with him some of the surplus from Cle’s reserves, all that could be spared and that Minho has the labor to carry: flour and grain and other dried goods, salted meats and pickled vegetables in jars.

Minho flicks him on the forehead. “Swallow before you speak and for Goddess’s sake, chew with your mouth closed, you heathen!”

Jisung laughs. “Is that a direct order, your Highness?”

“Jisung was born exactly one day before me,” Felix says, apropos to nothing. At least, what Minho believes to be apropos to nothing until he looks up and sees Seungmin’s questioning gaze. “He is my and Minho-hyung’s oldest friend.”

Minho belatedly realizes that he has brokered a very poor introduction indeed, too preoccupied with Jisung’s comfort to make much of one at all; although, strategically speaking, the less people that know of Jisung’s connection to Minho, the better. As his unofficial eyes and ears, Jisung’s usefulness stems from the fact that he can slip into any environment or situation unnoticed, collecting stories and anecdotes, his finger on the pulse of the Levanter.

Jisung snorts.“I am Minho-hyung’s only friend.

“We grew up together,” Felix recounts, “running amok through the hallways of Castle Levanter when we were little, always sneaking out after dark and skulking around to plunder the kitchens at night. Sungie and I shared all the same tutors up until I was twelve.”

Before Jisung’s father fell into disrepute and they were forced from the grounds. Jisung took several beatings and had many close calls with the law that first year trying to pick up the art of pickpocketing before he discovered that he could make more money through music and bardsmanship. Even during hard times, there is generosity afforded to those who can make one forget those hardships, if only for the duration of a fleeting song or two.

“Jisung, this is my husband, Prince Seungmin and his companion, Hwang Hyunjin. Those two, the ones watching you like a hawk, are members of the Royal Guard, Captains Bang Chan and Seo Changbin. Now, if you’ll all excuse us, Jisung and I have some business to attend to.”

Minho rises and does not wait for Jisung to follow as he trudges back towards his tent, determinedly ignoring how Seungmin’s eyes track his movements and the way Hyunjin’s grip tightens infinitesimally in turn.

“Sorry to have missed your wedding,” Jisung says when they step inside the makeshift encampment, letting the entrance flap fall behind him.

“You weren’t invited anyway.”

“Harsh.”

Minho sheds his riding cloak and untucks his tunic from his pants. He shakes out several layers of dust before folding the garment as neatly as possible and tucking it inside the top trunk of a stack of them piled high in the corner. “The ceremony was barely more than a formality, seeing as how I rule over a wasteland and Seungmin’s only a second prince. It was an intimate affair.” Minus any actual intimacy, he muses.

“Speaking of intimate . . .” Jisung waggles his eyebrows.

Minho immediately shuts him down. “Nothing happened.”

The lewd expression falls and settles into one more thoughtful than one would think Jisung even capable of possessing. “Your call or his?”

“Neither. Our circumstances do not necessitate it beyond consummation.”

“Meaning?”

Minho sighs. “We don’t love each other.”

It sounds so childish when said so plainly. When entire family lines have continued, if not been thoroughly expanded upon, without love factoring into the equation; generations of Lee heirs matched and married off without their say so in the matter. Minho is special – he got to choose his own fate. And Minho knows he couldn’t have chosen any better than the man he married. Handsome and familiar Seungmin who contains unknown depths, who sometimes makes Minho feel so out of his own. Minho is loath to relinquish any control, under any circumstances, except Seungmin inspires in him thoughts and sensations he can’t explain and come unbidden, against his will.

“You don’t need to be in love to make love,” Jisung imparts sagely. He drops down and makes himself comfortable in the nest of blankets and pillows meant for Minho, hands skimming across the silk and fur material back and forth, luxuriating in the cocoon that forms around him. “Trust me, I would know.”

“Jisung, I highly doubt you’ve known a woman’s touch. Or a man’s, unless you count your own.”

Jisung gasps, mock-offended. “You’re a tyrant. You’re going to be a tyrant king some day, hyung.”

“If only because you drive me to madness. Anyways,” Minho swiftly changes the subject. He can’t give Jisung any leeway to launch whatever miniature campaign is currently formulating inside of his head. Jisung already exercises undue influence over Minho as it is. “What news do you bring from across the Kingdom?”

Jisung sighs. “Nothing you don’t already know. Although one thing to note is that morale seems higher in the border towns once the rumors of your marriage to Prince Seungmin started spreading.”

“Rumors?” Minho echoes. “Has an official announcement not been made?”

“Nobody wants to get their hopes up,” Jisung shrugs and explains. “Not when hope is such a precious commodity these days. Likely, no one will believe that your union is real unless you come riding through each and every one of their villages with your new husband in arm. Better if they can go to bed for a few nights in a row without the threat of foreign violence knocking on their door.”

“Which is easier?”

“Commissioning me to compose and perform a new set of songs dedicated to your guys’ strong and everlasting love, of course. It’ll be a hit amongst the masses. I’ll even give you a discount as a wedding gift!”

“How generous of you.”

Jisung grins. “Happy to help, although it would make my job easier if you didn’t always act like you had a stick up your ass.”

Minho calmly walks over and proceeds to smother Jisung using one of the available silk pillows. His protracted murder attempt is interrupted when Seungmin ducks into their tent, tight enough quarters for two grown men let alone three, so Minho straightens up and offers to walk Jisung out towards his accommodations. Seungmin doesn’t address Minho as he leaves, but turns to Jisung and bids him good night.

“Will you be joining us for the rest of the trip?”

“Remains to be seen,” Jisung responds. “It depends on which way the wind is blowing when I wake up in the morning. If this is the last opportunity for me to say goodbye, I would like to tell you that it’s been a pleasure to meet you, your Highness.”

“Likewise,” Seungmin replies, inscrutable where he is normally sincere. Jisung doesn’t seem to take offense at the lack of warmth in his tone.

There’s no need for Minho to accompany Jisung since the aforementioned accommodations are a patch of earth in between Changbin and Chan. Chosen not because Jisung needs to be monitored, but because the three of them hit it off earlier and Jisung had requested it. Minho acquiesces, as Minho always does with Jisung.

The night around them is still, most people having turned in for the night and fires dampened so as to not give away their positioning so obviously in the dark. The closer they get to Levanter, the greater the threat of ambush by thieves, rogues, and tenuously allied mercenaries.

“He doesn’t seem opposed to it,” Jisung muses, as if to himself. “Sleeping with you.”

“Excuse me?”

“He watches you very carefully, you know.” Jisung is referring to Seungmin, of course.

“He’s always been like that,” Minho dismisses. “It’s just who he is. Observant. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“But it could.”

“We don’t love each other,” Minho says.

VIII.

Jisung departs in the morning without saying goodbye, leaving behind a message with Chan that he’ll be back in the capital for the summer solstice in a few weeks and to not miss him too much in the meantime.

Minho’s heart sinks even though he saw this coming last night. It’s not in Jisung’s nature to linger for too long, much like a song you can’t hold in your ears but lives on in your memory. Jisung is not a person but a patchwork of moments.

Minho always feels a little glum on the days that Jisung leaves but can’t offer him anything that’s worthwhile enough to stay – and Minho’s definitely tried before, multiple times in fact. Proposals for steadier employment, a comfortable life, and a place to call home, all summarily turned down. “Thanks but no thanks, hyung. I want to make my own way in the world.”

“Cheer up,” Felix pats him on the back as they set out for their third day of travel. “We’ll see Sungie again soon.”

They ride on for Levanter.

The countryside soon shifts from barren fields and farms so few and far between, to clusters of homes that morph into small villages and towns, until they come upon the walls of the capital and the lonely seashore beyond it.

“Home sweet home,” Minho murmurs, taking in a deep breath. The salt air calms him, grounds him. He feels more settled here, out from under the scrutiny of Cle’s court and such nauseating excess. In comparison, Levanter appears much more plain. There’s a sleepiness that permeates the castle like the lull of a dying breath.

Jaehee runs out to greet them, skirts bunched up in her arms as she bounds down the stairs. She does not heed the words of the maid trailing behind her, a matronly woman whose admonishments surrounding the appropriate conduct of a Princess continue to fall upon disinterested ears. At 17, the youngest and only girl amongst the Lee family brood, Jaehee is spoiled beyond belief. Where Felix is sunlight, Jaehee is like a hearth fire, one who adores as much as she is adored.

“Oraboni!” She comes to a stop before Minho’s steed. His horse nuzzles her face in fond recognition. “You’re back!”

“Evidently.”

“It’s been so dreadfully boring around here without you and Felix.”

“Certainly there is no lack of people you could have otherwise bothered in our absence.”

“Nobody indulges me as you do, oraboni.”

Minho cracks a smile. “At least you are aware.”

He makes his introductions once everyone dismounts. Jaehee bows as a proper lady should when greeting Seungmin, ignorant to the fact that they’ve met before. Minho distinctly recalls his sister having once thrown up on Seungmin’s shoes as a toddler, too young to remember and having thrown up on too many people’s shoes to count. Minho keeps his amusement and the memory to himself.

“How is Father?” He asks when Chan and Changbin are dispatched to check-in with the existing guard, everyone’s personal effects sent up to their rooms, and food supplies whisked off to separate storage keeps.

Jaehee’s smile falters without falling. “He took a turn for the worse a couple nights ago, but he’s better now. Stabler. He’s already gone to bed at this hour, but requested that you visit him first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Of course.”

Jaehee attaches herself to Felix’s side and hassles him for details about the wedding. The two of them walk off and disappear somewhere, arm in arm.

Minho wants nothing more than to go upstairs to his chambers and crash for the next several hours, but there is the business of his husband and his husband’s best friend to attend to. He thinks it would be exceedingly unkind to let them fend for themselves, strangers in an even stranger land where they don’t know a single soul outside of the party they traveled here with. Seungmin carries himself well. Meanwhile Hyunjin, despite being trained to dance along the razor’s edge that is court politics, cannot disguise the unease present in the whites of his eyes.

“I’ll show you to your rooms,” Minho says. He holds back a sigh.

Castle Levanter isn’t as lavishly decorated as the one Seungmin and Hyunjin leave behind, but it is a great deal larger and therefore much easier to get lost within. He tries to point out landmarks and give advice on keeping one’s bearings, especially since Hyunjin is going to be housed in the Eastern Tower while Minho and Seungmin take residence in the South. He’s not sure how much either of them actually absorb since Hyunjin is more than likely angling to have his chambers relocated somewhere closer. Minho’s going to revel in telling him ‘no’ since the South Tower is designated for the Royal Family’s usage only, empty rooms be damned.

They drop Hyunjin off first before rounding back towards their own private chambers.

Unlike in Cle, there is no need to for pretenses like the pomp and circumstance that Seungmin’s Kingdom demands. Here, they don’t have to pretend that theirs is anything but a marriage of convenience. No one is keeping tabs on their comings and goings since Levanter doesn’t practice monogamy. Minho and Felix are technically half-brothers, born of different concubine mothers, although one of Seungmin’s few stipulations was that Minho would never take another.

Here in Levanter, he and Seungmin won’t have to share beds.

“It’s nothing much compared to your bedroom before, but I hope it’s to your taste.”

“This room will do well.”

Well enough, Seungmin means.

The room is what’s left of Minho’s old study, dismantled and turned into a second bedroom for Seungmin to use. Minho is immediately next door and they are connected through a common area furnished with a fireplace, two chaises, and a dining table for meals. Through another door is the antechamber which serves as a reception area for any guests.

What used to feel like too much space for one person now feels too cramped with two. It’s another compromise since Seungmin turned down his own separate chambers. The rigidity of Cle customs, so deeply instilled in him, won't allow Seungmin to sleep peacefully so far away from his husband.

“Rest up,” Minho instructs.

“Will you be joining me for dinner?” Seungmin asks before Minho can retreat back into his own room.

“Are you not going to be dining with Hyunjin tonight?”

“No. I want to have dinner with you.” Seungmin pauses. “Every night.”

Minho blinks. He doesn’t know why the confession affects him to the point where he can feel his heartbeat behind his eyelids. Lately, it seems like everything Seungmin does has some sort of effect on Minho. Inexplicably so. “I’ll let someone know to send up two portions then. I hope you like trout.”

“I do.”

Half-hidden in shadows, illuminated by moonlight, Minho initially thinks it’s Felix standing outside of his bedroom. Sleep-groggy, he wonders when Felix’s shoulders got so wide that his silhouette takes up the entire door frame.

And then Minho hears, “Can I stay here with you?”

Strange. That’s not Felix’s voice. Minho rubs the exhaustion from his eyes. Slowly, Seungmin’s face comes into view.

“Is there something wrong with your room?” he croaks, voice raspy from disuse.

Seungmin bunches the overlong fabric of his shirt sleeves into his overlarge fists. “You know how I am particular about things. It always takes me a while to acclimate to new spaces.” His husband shuffles closer, socked feet dragging soft across the floor, before he comes to a stop at the foot of Minho’s bed. “I’ve grown accustomed to sleeping next to you. The proximity would be comforting, I think.”

Surprisingly, Minho’s first inclination is not to say no. He attributes it to the quiet desperation in Seungmin’s tone and the way his body, too, has grown accustomed to Seungmin’s sleeping form; to the point where Minho naturally gravitates towards one side of the bed and curls deeper into his blankets to compensate for a warmth that’s no longer there.

Even in his tired state, Minho thinks it would be fun to make Seungmin beg, to draw this conversation out a little longer – before he hears, “Please, hyung?”

The notion quickly crumbles into stardust, along with his resolve. Minho gives in. “Don’t hog all the blankets,” he mumbles with resignation and a measure of mortification for folding without a fight.

Seungmin crawls under the covers beside him. “I won’t.”

IX.

It starts off with a cough the year that Minho turns 13, cheeks round with youth and trailing after his father’s every step like a too-long cloak.

The physician initially chalks it up as a symptom of stress since the emergence of oak wilt is taking its toll across the countryside and his father is spending every waking moment trying to stop the spread and plan for the aftermath. King Yeok barely eats or sleeps and it takes an exponential toll on his immune system.

Minho watches on, entirely unconcerned because fathers seem invincible at that age. He’s convinced his own will recover soon enough, stronger and better than ever.

The cough persists, becoming more and more unruly and untamed, rattling claps of thunder inside of a rib cage visible beneath his robes. It robs King Yeok of his strength. Minho’s father is bedridden for most of Minho’s teenage years but remains lucid at least.

Council meetings are relocated to his private chambers and take place within the few hours of the day where his father is awake. Minho, despite being so young and without needing an invitation or instructions to do so, begins to attend, standing in the background, passively observing, before eventually assuming his rightful place at his father’s side.

In King Yeok’s stead, Minho assumes the more expendable responsibilities like diplomatic visits and listening to citizen concerns. He’s also in charge of quashing minor squabbles amongst the court who grow more and more restless by the day.

There is obvious discontentment amongst the populace about having to relay their problems to a mere child, a poor receptacle for issues so deeply felt and with people’s entire livelihoods at stake. Minho works tirelessly to prove himself capable. He notes down everyone’s names and locales in his messy, kiddish scrawl, quill pen as large as a peacock feather when grasped within Minho’s tiny hand.

All the while, the King’s condition grows worse; aches and pains and shivers throughout the night, bedsheets that need to be changed twice a day to keep up with how he sweats through them in his sleep.

Delirium follows. More and more, there are moments when his father gets lost in time and he stops recognizing the faces around him, Minho’s included; when he calls Jaehee by her mother’s name, by the concubine he loved most. And then, at night, Minho can hear the sound of weeping echoing down barren hallways where its owner cannot roam; and it is wholly unclear whether those cries are born of madness or from the grief of a sane man mourning what’s become of his life.

Minho is 19 when he’s faced with a decision, recognizably an adult and therefore eligible to take the throne. The court clamors for him to settle the matter of succession and bring stability to Levanter. Minho’s stubbornness won’t allow it. His father is still alive, Minho submits to the court, and until he takes his last breath, his father will be King.

Minho’s father still doesn’t die. For years he endures, gripping onto life with a ferocity not evident in the frailty of his corporeal form. Divided loyalties fracture their court amongst those who clamor for change, for Minho’s reign at last, and those who hang on to King Yeok’s legacy. Lurking in the shadows, there are also those who are simply biding their time, looking for an opening to crown someone else altogether. Minho manages to keep them in check. He can’t afford a power struggle with enemies looming and as his people suffer in the meantime.

Minho takes on more and more responsibilities until he is King in everything but name.

“I must’ve been seven? . . . maybe eight? The last time I met King Yeok.”

Seungmin keeps stride with Minho as they make their way down the corridor towards his father’s quarters. That Seungmin can’t abide by silence belies his nervousness. He’s been talking Minho’s ear off since the moment they woke up, worried about meeting King Yeok after so long and as his new son-in-law.

“I was taller than you back then,” Minho says.

“Funny how you’ve barely grown since.”

Minho scowls but it’s half-hearted. Whatever nerves Seungmin is experiencing about the prospect of meeting his father, Minho is experiencing twofold at the prospect of introducing the two of them. To that end, he almost welcomes the mindless chatter.

They soon come to a stop outside of the chamber door. The two guards stationed on either side bow briefly in greeting.

He swallows and turns to address Seungmin. “When we get inside . . . my father might not be . . . well, he might not be all there.”

“What do you mean? Where else would he go?”

“Nowhere physically,” Minho clarifies. His heart clenches at the admission, a throbbing that starts in his chest and lingers in all of his joints, in the space between nerve endings. “It’s just that he disappears sometimes. Inside of his mind. He might not even realize we’re there with him in the room.”

Seungmin’s no doubt heard the rumors about King Yeok’s decline, but for someone who’s never experienced loss and whose closest brush with death and decay are the mushrooms that grow in shelf-like formations on trees, Minho feels a responsibility towards his husband. Some innate need to, if not shield Seungmin entirely, then to at least soften the blow.

Minho also thinks he might never forgive Seungmin for the rest of his life if the second prince reacted to his father with anything less than grace. He’s dismissed nursemaids in the past who so much as flinched whenever his father coughed or Goddess forbid grimaced when he lost control over his bowels.

"Regardless, I would still like to pay my respects."

One of the guards moves to open the door. Minho enters first with Seungmin following closely behind, peering over Minho's shoulder to get a peek at the plush bed and King Yeok sunken somewhere in its depths.

“Abamama,” Minho addresses his father formally. Father.

“Minho-yah,” King Yeok croaks. “Help me up.”

Bending down, Minho wraps an arm around his father’s waist and shoulders, lifting the older man into an upright and seated position against the headboard of the bed.

“How are you feeling today?” he asks when his father is better situated.

“As I always am,” he huffs, out of breath from just the act of sitting up. King Yeok looks aged beyond his years, sickly thin and sallow, gnarled like the bark of petrified wood. There’s a prominent bald spot on the back of his head from where it is normally pressed against a pillow. The rest of his hair is greying, wispy and matted.

Growing up, Minho was frequently told he favored his father in terms of his looks. Now the difference between them is like day and night; one a beginning, the other an end.

“Seungmin is here, too.”

“Ah yes, the handsome groom.”

Seungmin bows. “Your Majesty.”

“I used to be,” his father grins, self-deprecating but at least he’s feeling well enough to joke. His mind seems clearer today than it has at any point in the last five years. “Now instead, I am this. So I’d rather you call me Father, Seungmin-ah.”

“It is a great honor,” Seungmin replies, “to be a part of your family.”

“And to be married to my son.”

Minho watches as a blush spreads and stains the highpoints of Seungmin’s cheeks, like watercolor as it bleeds down the column of his neck and chest. Seungmin nods and says, “Yes.”

“I must commend you. It is rare to see such steadfastness in one so young. And after all these years . . .”

“I thought I was being plain, but you call it steadfastness. Minho-hyung thinks it’s ambition.”

King Yeok levels Seungmin a look, something searching in his gaze that he seems to find a moment later. His expression softens. “Ah. I see now that I am mistaken. I am relieved.”

He beckons Seungmin over and without hesitation, Seungmin sits beside him in bed. King Yeok, shaking from the effort, pats the back of Seungmin’s hand. Minho feels like an outsider in this moment, standing by and watching as the two of them engage in some form of silent communication that he cannot decipher.

“I meant what I wrote all those years ago,” Seungmin insists.

King Yeok smiles and holds Seungmin’s gaze. “I’ll hold you to it then, even after I’m gone.”

Minho’s lost the thread of the conversation entirely. More than likely, he never had a handle on it at all.

Over dinner that night, Minho asks, “This morning, with my father. What was that all about?”

Seungmin pauses, fork suspended in mid-air as he considers the question. His expression shifts between thoughtful to something oddly determined. The set of his jaw is tighter. Seungmin places the utensil, morsel included, back down onto his plate. “You know, you’re not that much older than me,” he observes, a total non sequitur. “The difference between us is barely two years.”

“I know how age works, Kim Seungmin.”

He can tell Seungmin is refraining from rolling his eyes, working past his irritation to further elaborate what he means to say. “The last time we saw each other, you seemed entirely different to me. A contrarian always,” Seungmin cracks a smile, recalling their earlier conversation from before the wedding. “But it wasn’t until that meeting, when you visited on your own as a figurehead and not as a tag along, did I really feel the weight of those two years.”

Minho was 15 back then and on the tail-end of a growth spurt that came all at once, puberty hitting him like a ton of bricks in an attempt to keep up with the responsibility he’d undertaken since his father had taken sick.

“I’ve always been mature for my age.”

“Whatever you say, hyung.”

“What’s your point?” Minho scowls and stuffs his mouth with vegetables. The mush of a roasted carrot slice bursts, warm, against the inside of his cheek. His utensils scrape against the plate as he testily cuts off another slice.

Seungmin takes a sip from his goblet. “For as much as I admired you throughout our childhood, I was jealous of you as well. For being older and the oldest in your family. For being an heir. For not being expendable like me.”

“Felix calls it your Second Prince Syndrome,” Minho mutters. “He says he has it, too.” Surprising for one whose amiable disposition has led everyone around him to believe that he’s never harbored a single negative thought or emotion in his entire life. But Felix speaks of it, of this festering jealousy, as if it were nothing more than a headache – something you catch and something you deal with until it goes away. A common affliction for people like him and Seungmin, not worth aggrandizing into something bigger than it is.

“We coined the phrase together. It was a point of solidarity for us growing up.” Minho watches the memories of yesteryears flickering across Seungmin’s face in varying shades of warmth. “But as I was saying,” Seungmin continues a short moment later, “it was strange for me. When you arrived in Cle as a stand-in king with everything the title implies, more than jealousy for something I’ve wanted my whole life, I just felt . . sad.”

Sad? The admission further piques Minho’s curiosity.

“At first, it was sadness for myself because you barely looked or spoke to me throughout the duration of your stay. Back then, I wanted to be the center of your world. I wanted you to sneak out during planning meetings and dinner parties to play with me, just like old times. I would watch you so carefully, waiting for the moment when you would finally slip away and I could follow, or for a signal of some kind. Only you sat there, so quiet and so still, until the end. So I watched you until it became a habit and searched for you first whenever I walked into a room. I still do.”

Minho meets Seungmin’s eyes from across the table, a darkened reflection of flickering candlelight in his irises and Minho at its center. Through the open window, the setting sun casts the whole room in a copper-hued twilight mixed with blue-violet dusk.

He wants to busy himself with dinner, the act of carving into his chicken breast with his fork and knife a welcome distraction from the strange and all too serious turn this conversation has taken. It is much easier to pretend that nothing between them has changed when they’re bickering or dancing around the other’s existence, rather than acknowledging the truth that everything’s changed – Seungmin and the way Minho regards him most of all. Where there was once forced tolerance and a begrudging affection has since been replaced with a fluttering kind of nervousness.

Seungmin makes Minho nervous.

“Where are you going with this?” He’s not sure he wants to hear Seungmin’s response.

It comes nonetheless, so readily Minho wonders how long the words have made a home on the tip of Seungmin’s tongue. His husband confesses, “I wanted to be the center of your world, but my own grew into the shape of you. My oceans smelled like the way the salt air clings to your skin; the Earth made up of the dirt beneath your fingernails, digging for worms to feed that abandoned nest of birds you onced saved. You were the highest peak of every mountain and the sun in my sky. I wanted to grow big enough to reach you. I wanted to become someone who could protect you.”

“I hardly need protection,” Minho mumbles, latching onto the one sentence he can wrap his brain around and ignoring everything else. His whole face catches fire. The room is engulfed by the heat that radiates off of Minho in waves.

Seungmin seems to find pleasure in Minho’s flustered reaction. He doesn’t hesitate to point out, “You think you can do everything on your own.”

“Because mine is a burden I must bear alone. You wouldn’t understand!”

“Because I’m an expendable second prince or because Cle has always been prosperous, fertile land?” Seungmin snorts. “Stop trying to pick a fight just because you’re uncomfortable, hyung.”

Minho prickles. He doesn’t even realize that’s what he was doing.

“What does any of this have to do with my father?”

“I wrote to him after you left,” Seungmin says. “To ask for your hand.”

“You what?”

Seungmin leans back in his chair, far too casual for someone releasing a truth he’s kept to himself for the last ten years. “I knew, at 13, that I wanted to marry you someday, even if it was born from a childish desire to take care of a beloved hyung who had to grow up too fast.”

“I thought you wanted a Kingdom.”

“Are you not a proxy for one?”

Minho swallows, barreling past the question in favor of his own. “Be serious, Kim Seungmin. What’s the real reason you agreed to marry me? It can’t have been because of some silly notion you had as a kid. If not greed or ambition or steadfastness, then what?”

“You know what,” Seungmin says. “You know the reason why I would do any of this.”

He’s right, of course. Minho knows.

He’s always known, although it looks different now, having lost that edge of puppy-like infatuation, a few shades shy of worshipful because Minho was older, Minho was beautiful, and Minho was his hyung who hung the stars in the sky. Over the years, it’s taken on the characteristic of a subtle, quiet devotion; unsettling because of how naked it is when everything else about Seungmin is so thoroughly buttoned-up. Seungmin, who never does anything by halves and pours in parts of himself to fill in every foundational crack. Until his will becomes the foundation for their relationship itself.

He won’t say it in as many words – Seungmin is calculated like that, precise when it comes to doling out just enough information to get Minho thinking but withholding the most important parts until he’s assured that Minho will give him an answer he’ll want to hear. If such a time will ever come.

“I don’t know,” Minho mumbles.

He’s successfully ignored it all these years. He’s pushed it to the back of his mind because there were always more pressing matters at hand, both real and contrived. It would take too much brain energy to try and puzzle out his emotions, Minho reasons. Energy that could be allocated elsewhere rather than examining what such an acknowledgement would mean for his and Seungmin’s relationship or what it means for him personally.

He’s always found comfort in Seungmin’s staunch, invariable ways, constant in a way a lot of other things are not. More difficult would be to reconcile Minho’s memories of that childhood friend with the man before him now.

“Say it,” Seungmin demands, his stare unrelenting, twin battering rams against the gates of Minho’s heart. “You know the reason why, so say it.”

“Pity?” Minho ventures.

Everything inside of him answers, love.

Seungmin lets the subject drop, probably sensing that Minho is unwilling to delve any further into the topic having already gotten his answer as to what the conversation between Seungmin and his father was about and much more food for thought. More than Minho bargained for, that’s for certain.

Minho gnaws on it in bed that night, tossing and turning and willing his brain to shut off, to finally rest after a long day and an even longer one ahead of him. His grace period having ended, Minho is expected to get back into the swing of things and properly assess the damage from his entire month away.

Too engrossed, Minho barely notices when the bed dips beside him and Seungmin makes himself comfortable.

“How are you supposed to acclimate if you keep climbing into bed with me?” Minho grumbles when Seungmin tugs at the blankets and his toes are exposed to the open air. He cracks them and then kicks Seungmin lightly in the shin in retaliation, but leaves the blanket situation as is. “It’s annoying.”

“Stop leaving the left side open for me then.”

“Maybe I like switching back and forth whenever one side gets too warm.”

“Like a spit roast?”

“I’ll turn you into a spit roast, Kim Seungmin.”

Seungmin hooks his right leg over Minho’s left so that their ankles cross and lying side by side, Seungmin’s calf resting on top of Minho’s knee. The simple act has Minho’s heart arrest inside of his chest. He wills his breathing to even out.

Seungmin jostles him. “Please, hyung?” His head turns slightly to face Minho in the dark, the corner of his lips brushing against the pillow case as he talks.

His silence is a response; it is Minho folding, once again. He even lets Seungmin steal most of the blankets this time.

Out of pity as well.

X.

It never occurred to Minho to wonder what Felix got up to, being so absorbed in the machinations of keeping a Kingdom afloat to properly pay attention to what his little brother does with all of his time, and is a curiosity that doesn’t cross his mind until Minho is sitting across from Seungmin night after night at the dinner table and his husband is idly telling him about his day. He’s also not sure what the overlap is in duties between a royal consort and a second prince, but Seungmin settles into the former role with what feels like practiced ease.

Seungmin tells him about how today, he had tea with such and such lord and managed to garner favor for such and such endeavor. Minho’s not really paying attention.

“I see you’ve been keeping busy,” he comments when Seungmin stops talking.

“As I can be. It’s either that or work on my swordsmanship all day. Perhaps I’ll take up a hobby?” Seungmin muses, drumming his fingers. There’s a far-off look in his eyes.

Minho feels guilty for how long it takes him to recognize the expression. “You’re bored out of your mind.”

Seungmin blinks out of his stupor. “I was probably born restless. It’s nothing to do with you.”

“Why is that?”

“What’s this?” Seungmin smirks, leaning forward with both elbows on the table, chin and cheeks cradled between his palms. “My husband showing a sudden interest in me?”

“See if I ask you anything personal ever again,” Minho gripes. More and more, Seungmin gains the confidence to tease him. It’s annoying as hell but Minho has since lost the will to discourage him. He simply bears it now, even if he doesn’t bear it well.

“Kidding. I know you’re just making conversation.” Seungmin retracts his arms and sinks back into his chair. There’s a sort of resignation in his tone that pinches Minho’s heart, made all the more acute when he watches as a dullness extends over the rest of Seungmin’s limbs. He sedately pushes around the few remaining bites of food with his fork..

Has Minho really been so neglectful and callous towards Seungmin all these years? This is not the first time Seungmin’s alluded to the way he feels like a formality at best and an afterthought to Minho.

He should fix this. Minho shouldn’t let this feeling fester and rot, having become too dependent on Seungmin’s understanding and indulgence for his emotionally-stunted hyung; for Seungmin to know, instinctively, what lies in the scarred-over husk of Minho’s heart, rough on the outside, but nectarine-ripe within.

“Seungmin, I–”

The words get stuck in his throat. Truthfully, Minho doesn’t know what to say or what he even wants to say. There’s so many confessions and sentiments and secrets he keeps buried inside of him and to shake off the dust is to reveal them all at once. Everything is so tangled and intertwined. How can he parse anything out and only show Seungmin the parts that he himself has made sense of?

“Yes?” His husband prompts when Minho falls silent and lets the sentence hang.

Minho starts off with the easiest concession. “I don’t want our marriage to be a miserable one.”

“I would hope not.” Seungmin looks as if he’s holding back a laugh.

Minho’s eye twitches and he contemplates not saying anything at all. Ultimately deciding against it, no thanks to Seungmin, Minho forges on. “Along those lines, I promised you that I would be a better friend. So if there’s anything I can do to help ease your transition or to make Levanter feel more like home . . .”

Something soft spreads and settles across Seungmin’s features. “It means a lot that you would offer.”

“I’m serious. You can ask for anything. I know . . . I know that I am the one who benefits the most from our arrangement.”

“You’re wrong.” There is an assuredness in this statement that gives Minho pause and makes him doubt his own conclusion. Seungmin had everything to lose in service to Minho’s gains. There is no context or scenario he can imagine in which Minho has drawn the short end of the stick. So how can Seungmin say that he’s wrong?

His husband sets his fork down and dabs at his mouth with a napkin cloth. “You married me for crown and country. I married you because you’re the hyung I like and admire most.”

“You have an actual hyung.” Minho is flustered. He can feel the physical effects of it, like rising steam, creeping up the back of his neck.

“I saw more of you during your occasional visits to Cle than I did Wonpil all of my life. He was always off somewhere on official Crown Prince business. Being seven years older than me also didn’t give us much to talk about when our paths overlapped. Plus, there’s always the looming fear that I’ll try and usurp the throne.”

The last part catches Minho off-guard. “Would you?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. Seungmin would never.

“No, but I can’t deny having thought about it extensively.”

“Thus your restlessness.”

Seungmin smiles. “What’s the point of being so well-educated, to have an active and curious mind, to be in possession of influence, privilege and connection, and then let it all go to waste?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Minho responds pragmatically anyways, “To make yourself more attractive for a potential match.” It’s the fate of second princes and those not born to inherit.

Seungmin hums thoughtfully. ““Did you think I was attractive when you asked to marry me?”

“Fishing for compliments does not become you.”

“I’m only guilty of wanting to hear sweet words from my husband. For example, I think you are the prettiest person in all the land.”

Minho shuts him down immediately. “You cannot make that assessment. You have not met every person in all the land.”

“I don’t need to,” Seungmin returns. “In my eyes, there will never be anyone as pretty as you.”

“Shut up.” Minho flourishes the carving knife in his hand for emphasis, bits of pheasant flying across the table. He knows he is probably poppy flower red. “That stupid face on your face is making me lose my appetite.”

Seungmin, highly amused, raises both hands in surrender. He then proceeds to lift them up further, turning his wrists to block off Minho’s sightline. Nose and mouth obscured by his palms, only Seungmin’s eyes are visible through the spread of his fingers. His affection, likewise, peeks through. “Eat up, yeobo.”

Minho chokes on air.

Seungmin doesn’t even go through the motions of retiring to his own bedroom anymore, instead trailing after Minho into his like a shadow at his heel. Even though they don’t go to sleep right away and Minho is too preoccupied with reviewing court notes and draft proposals to fully pay attention to him, Seungmin enjoys the company.

His husband keeps himself entertained by leafing through books or jotting down a new entry in his journal that he’s meticulous about maintaining. Rather than strained, the silence between them is a comfortable one born of familiarity. Minho also likes looking up every once in a while to observe Seungmin’s lips pursed in deep concentration and the tiny knit between his brows. It’s cute.

Hours pass like this.

Minho is pouring over a scroll when Seungmin asks him, “What’s wrong?”

“What?” It’s only when he feels the twinge in his neck while looking up that Minho realizes how long it’s been and how many times he’s poured over the same exact text.

“You’re talking to yourself.” Seungmin frowns. “You only do that when something’s bothering you.”

“It’s–” not nothing, as Minho is inclined to say as a way to dismiss Seungmin’s concern and go back to his pondering, except Seungmin clearly knows enough about Minho’s subconscious habits to recognize what they mean.

Minho’s also been thinking about what Seungmin said earlier, about being ornamental despite the many assets he has that lends him towards leadership. Seungmin is indeed too smart, too hard-working and ambitious to be relegated to a life as decoration at Minho’s side. There is power to be found in the role of a consort, certainly, but perhaps it is a disservice to his people – their people – that Seungmin not be able to exercise the full extent of his capabilities.

Should he? Should he not?

It isn’t hubris that motivates Minho to bear the weight of a Kingdom on his own, but a reticence to allow the people around him to feel burdened in any way. They say a king is three things: a crown, a throne, and a shield – divinity to rule, that which he rules over, and the things he must protect. Minho wants to protect everyone. Seungmin only wants to protect him.

Seungmin isn’t asking to help shoulder the weight of a Kingdom, he only wants to shoulder Minho.

“Can I ask for your opinion on a matter?”

His husband blinks before the corners of his lips flutter up into a smile. ”Since you asked so politely,” he sets aside his journal and settles his hands in his lap. “Yes.”

“There is an ongoing dispute amongst myself and my council members.”

“You mean you haven’t managed to bully them into agreeing to do what you want?” Seungmin laughs.

"I don’t bully anyone. I’m not a tyrant. I simply exercise my authority as I see fit."

"You’re straddling a very thin line, hyung.”

"Anyways," he replies curtly. Why does Seungmin insist on making everything so difficult? "There is a matter of business in a port town along the coast, small but integral to our trade routes and economy. There is a call to expand and invest in some local infrastructure but at the cost of raising taxes on the townsfolk there. Times are hard enough and footing the bill for larger ports is one thing, but two new inns and a brothel house?”

“So I take it you disagree on these additions?” Seungmin asks.

“I disagree with the idea of adding additional strain. I know the long-term benefits of expansion – my council has argued for them, around and around, ad nauseum, until I’m usually left nursing a headache. But how can I plan for a future when people’s livelihoods are at stake today, right now?”

“I see.” Seungmin quietly absorbs the situation and Minho’s thought process on the matter. Even if his husband doesn’t have an answer, Minho feels lighter just having discussed the problem with a sympathetic ear – to actually be listened to, rather than heard and heard only for the purposes of formulating a rebuttal.

“Impose higher taxes on the wealthier merchant class and fees for traders for docking in those harbors. Pay fair wages for an honest day’s work to those who wish to help build towards the future. Make use of those new inns as a gathering place and community center.”

Minho breathes. “Those are–”

“–Merely suggestions. Not all of them are feasible or likely to develop beyond just a thought, but it’s a start for a more productive conversation instead of just a black or white ‘Yes or No.’ Better, though, would be to ask the townsfolk their opinion on the matter since they are the ones who will be most affected by your decision.

“Brilliant.” The word escapes in a single breath.

Seungmin grins, unbearably smug and entirely too pleased to be paid a compliment despite Minho’s stubbornness and without having to fish for it no less! “I’m sorry, what did you say?” he wheedles.

Minho blushes in splotches of red but supposes he owes Seungmin the praise. “Those aren’t completely terrible ideas. I’m surprised.”

“Does this mean I get a reward?”

“Depends. What are you asking for?”

“Nothing big,” he assures Minho with shifty eyes.

Minho narrows his own. “You’re not going to ask me for something stupid like a kiss right?”

“Um,” Seungmin stammers, uncharacteristically flushing. “N-no?”

Minho flushes in turn.

Seungmin coughs and offers up, “A wish, perhaps? To be asked for and collected upon a later date?”

“On one condition.”

“What?”

“That you present your ideas to the council tomorrow,” Minho says. He notes Seungmin’s shocked expression. It’s not easy to take Seungmin by surprise; to stun him for long enough to knock loose the blanketed neutrality from his face. “They’re all leftover strongholds appointed during my father’s time and even bigger contrarians than I. Not that I am admitting to being a contraction, mind you. It’s just that anything I suggest will get summarily shot down.”

“The trick is to get them to think they came up with the ideas themselves,” Seungmin intones. “It requires a fair bit of subtlety and subterfuge.”

“Which I clearly lack.” Minho pinches his nose bridge in remembrance of so many afternoons spent arguing with a wall, or the equivalent of it. “Everything’s always written so plainly on my face. Annoyance, anger, boredom. I can’t pretend otherwise. Between the two of us, you’ve always been the better diplomat.”

“I suppose,” Seungmin smiles and beckons Minho to bed. It’s getting rather late. “You’ve never been very good at lying. At least, not about the things that matter.”

That’s not true, Minho thinks. He’s an exceptional liar, particularly by omission. He lies all the time. At least when it comes to you.

Seungmin steals more than his fair share of the covers again. Minho has no choice but to curl in closer.

XI.

Days and weeks pass and they fall into a comfortable routine.

Seungmin never quite acclimates to the point of going to sleep in his own bed and smirks when he arrives back to their chambers one day to see that Minho’s ordered for his former study to be restored. Seungmin’s personal items – what’s left of the stuff he hasn’t already migrated over slowly, somehow managing to evade Minho’s notice – are swiftly integrated with the rest of Minho’s possessions.

This move is a long time coming seeing as how it’s been a while since Minho’s thought of it as his room. A lesson learned: Seungmin’s will will always win out in the end.

Even his study acquires a second desk and chair for Seungmin to join him in the evenings while Minho works, which they often do together now that Seungmin is regularly attending Minho’s schedules. At first there was confusion, followed by outrage, at the prospect of a consort exercising such influence over council matters but Minho fires back against them as Seungmin soothes the resulting burn. He slowly garners support on the laurels of being Minho’s more reasonable and affable half. On the surface anyways. They’ll soon come to learn that Seungmin’s just as stubborn, only better disguised.

Minho still carries most of the burden of being a ruler. He’s gone too long to relinquish it now. However, it’s just nice to know that someone is there to prop him up when he tires, who absorbs the aftershocks of Minho’s stumbles but grips on tight enough to not let him fall.

More than anything, Seungmin brings him relief. Like rain after a drought, or spring after snow.

At first, Minho thinks it’s gratefulness: the reason for the glow in his chest when they lock eyes across the room, wanting to remain neutral in the face of whatever outrageous proposal that’s brought to the table, but needing assurance that they are not alone in their distaste. He’s grateful for the way Seungmin will nag him to eat his meals and go to bed at a reasonable time at night; that Seungmin is right there alongside him as Minho listens and is good-natured enough to ignore Minho’s resulting complaints. Worse is when Seungmin finds them endearing; when Seungmin looks at him and Minho sees all the fondness Seungmin holds for him unconstrained.

He wonders what Seungmin sees looking back at him. He wonders what expression he makes when Seungmin’s not looking at him at all.

XII.

The summer solstice takes place at the tail end of the month on the longest day of the year; when daylight clings to the skies and clouds and lingers like a lover on the horizon line where the land meets the sea, before the sun eventually sets and the moon takes her place.

The entire day is jam packed with festivities, with people milling around with friends and neighbors in the market squares, merchants from neighboring townships setting up shop to sell their wares. Music pours out into the streets from bustling pubs and bars, adding to the general jovial mood, and drowning out any lingering worries in the back of people’s minds about what happens when tomorrow comes.

Minho allots more money than is wise on the event and against his council’s advice, partially at Jaehee’s behest because his sister loves a party, but also because he figures it would be a welcome distraction from another difficult year. Minho is cautiously optimistic that the tides will turn but only time will tell if their harvest will be bountiful come fall. For now, this celebration is in tribute to everyone’s hard work throughout the planting season.

The plan is to make their rounds throughout the capital city so that Seungmin can admire the sights and for the public to admire them in turn.

Minho appears every bit a Crown Prince dressed in ceremonial garb, sans crown, and sweating profusely beneath so many layers of heavy velvet. He is styled after the fashion of Levanter’s first king and founder, a seafaring captain, albeit more lavish than is practical or realistic for the life of a former nomad and pirate. But where Minho is a captain, then Seungmin is surely his treasure.

It;s a gag-inducing analogy that Minho did not contrive — that achievement falls to Jaehee, who stares at her brother-in-law with bright-eyed wonder when Seungmin and Hyunjin arrive in matching attire. Right on time, they descend the stairs to meet the rest of the group.

Seungmin is swathed in a jacket cut to perfection, navy blue with strands of silver woven throughout so that he glimmers like a jewel in the sunlight, radiant from every angle and with only the slightest of movements; perfect for a day when the sun stays visible the longest. A cravat inlaid with diamonds sits at the base of Seungmin’s throat, catching whatever remaining light its bearer somehow does not.

“Seungminnie,” Felix greets him. “You look so handsome!"

“Thank you, Lix.”

Hyunjin preens, as if waiting for a compliment of his own, which he immediately receives courtesy of Jaehee. She fingers at the silken fabric, low cut and cinched in all the right places, that drapes perfectly across Hyunjin’s willowy frame. He accessorizes with an elegance that cannot be so easily assumed and a diamond of his own, suspended in a circlet that rests around his head. “Hyunjin!” she beams. “You’ll be the envy of the entire Kingdom!”

“And an object of desire for all the rest,” Chan finishes with a wink.

The corners of Felix’s lips twitch in a downturn but it happens so fast, Minho almost doesn’t catch it. He’s too busy imagining how tragic it would be if the sleeve of Hyunjin’s dress shirt snagged on a vendor’s stall, causing the blonde to trip and fall and accidentally getting trampled underfoot by a crowd of people in a rush to buy wares from a merchant who suddenly announces that their prices have dropped.

How very tragic, indeed.

“You flatter me too much,” Hyunjin simpers in a tone that suggests, Go on.

“Shall we go?” Minho interrupts before anyone can.

They stick to three horses knowing the streets to be too narrow and crowded to accommodate for everyone to have their own. Minho doesn’t know why it shocks him when he swiftly climbs atop his steed and then Seungmin swings around behind him. Flustered, Minho scoots towards the lip of the saddle to give Seungmin more room to get comfortable, which his husband does by sliding two arms around the small of Minho’s waist. They have to sit flush against one another in order to fit so Seungmin’s width ends up swallowing Minho whole like a cloak.

Minho just assumed Seungmin would be riding with Hyunjin again.

“What are you so stiff for?” Seungmin asks, breath tickling the shell of Minho’s ears which are pinkening brighter and brighter by the second. Minho doesn’t understand how such a nasally and annoying sound like Seungmin’s voice, when whispered so closely, can produce the amount of chills that ripple in waves down Minho’s spine. Regardless, he refuses to shiver.

“I must have slept weird last night.”

“Was it because you were cuddling me?”

“What?" Minho twists around in seat. He hisses, “I wasn’t cuddling you. We weren’t cuddling with each other!”

“Then how come I woke up in your arms?”

“I was trying to choke you! It was a strangle hold!”

“You were talking in your sleep. You were mouthing at my neck!”

“I was praying to the Goddess . . . to forgive me for the murder I was about to commit.”

Seungmin laughs. “I know you would never try and kill me, hyung. You like me too much.”

“I don’t like you at all!” Minho bursts.

“See? Now you’re just being contrary again.”

The mortification of knowing that he did in fact end up cuddling Seungmin last night propelled Minho straight out of bed that morning, claiming something about how he had some last minute details to attend to before the festivities began. He didn’t get dressed or wash his face before high-tailing it to his father’s quarters and hanging out there for a few minutes while he waited for his heart and another organ located further south to calm down.

Minho lives, breathes, and is comfortable with the way he often oozes sensuality. At nearly 25, he has taken plenty of people to bed and knows how to charm his way into getting them there in the first place. However, it just seems so impossible for Seungmin to be the one on the receiving end of Minho’s attraction and to be the cause of it, too.

Minho’s seen Seungmin in his knobbly-kneed youth, snot dripping down his nose when he cried because Minho wouldn’t hang out with him. How is it possible that Minho wants to kiss someone he’s known back when Seungmin was still in diapers, and to want to do so much more than just kiss him? When Minho felt that morning, pressed against him, physical proof that Seungmin wants to go further than simply kissing as well?

He feels inklings of that attraction still stirring somewhere deep in his gut, first seeing the way Seungmin is dressed, as handsome today as the day Minho married him in white; and now, so physically close it’s like they’re melded together, moving in motion with the clip-clop swaying of Minho’s horse. It’s becoming increasingly harder to ignore the fact that Minho is attracted to his husband in a way that can only be satisfied carnally.

Which is, frankly, highly embarrassing for him. He’s the one who turned down consummating their marriage on their wedding night. Minho can’t take it back now. He’d rather his dick shrivel up and die before he admits to wanting to have sex with Seungmin. He is also not in the business of asking for it either.

At this point, Minho’s only option is to seduce Seungmin into having his way. Although Minho thinks he might actually shrivel up and die if Seungmin sees right through his strategy; worse if his strategy doesn’t work and Seungmin ends up rejecting him.

Minho’s pride would never recover. He would have to give up his crown and retire to the mountains and Seungmin would end up with his own Kingdom after all.

He chews on this as they spend most of the day working their way through the crowds, greeting the general citizenry and passing out well-wishes and whatever coin they can spare. Chan and Changbin do a good job of maintaining a perimeter to keep them from getting overwhelmed, although Changbin does well enough on his own given the whole dragon-hybrid status so people naturally end up bearing him a wide berth.

They ride through narrower streets that bottleneck at the entrance and dismount whenever they reach the main strip that allows them more room to breathe. Seungmin sticks by Minho’s side the entire time they’re walking while Hyunjin remains a looming presence in his periphery. How Hyunjin remains there when everything about him begs for everyone’s full attention is a miracle. Thankfully, Felix seems content to entertain the blonde alongside Jaehee, who could talk anyone’s ears off if they let her.

The group passes by market stalls and pop-ups squeezed into every nook and cranny available. Despite the larger pool of customers out and about, there’s a corresponding ferocity amongst merchants to attract as many of them as possible.

“Everything’s so lively,” Seungmin murmurs, head on a swivel as he takes in all the sights. They are surrounded by offers of dining sets for sale, made of the finest ceramic; sweet treats and delicacies that melt on the tongue; various trinkets successful in catching the eye.

This is Levanter at her most beautiful, Minho thinks. An echo of the past when the Kingdom was still in her prime. Minho remembers sneaking out and running through the streets with Felix when he was younger, chasing after the scent of freshly-baked pies from a former kitchen maid who’d retired to open up her own bakery in the city. He recalls that she was forced to close up shop a year or two back.

“It isn’t always like this.”

“But it can be. And it will be again.” Seungmin always sounds so self-assured. Minho wants to believe in something as much as Seungmin believes in himself.

Fuck, his husband really does look very handsome today Minho thinks, watching as Seungmin peruses the shops from corner of his eye. Minho doesn’t want to be too obvious about his admiration when tracing the slopes of Seungmin’s shoulders down the snatch of his waist, skimming along his long, long legs and then back up again to the puppy-like smile painted across Seungmin’s face. His heart does funny things at the sight of it.

Today is as good a day as any to launch his plan for seduction. Unfortunately, the first step is a mystery to Minho. All of his usual tactics — batted lashes, sultry gaze, and touches that linger — are better saved for when they’re alone or have the option to escape somewhere to be alone. Therefore, Minho doesn’t think it appropriate to use any of those tactics when they’re surrounded by so many people and with a schedule to maintain. Also, the thought of executing any of those moves on Seungmin makes Minho want to cringe.

This isn’t some one-night fling he can have and forget. This is husband.

Minho has to do this right, which makes it all the more harder because Minho cares.

Proportional to the amount that Minho cares about Seungmin is his embarrassment at the thought of doing anything that can be construed as flirting, that demonstrates how deep his affection and attraction run. Minho can like Seungmin if he wants but Seungmin absolutely cannot know it — just the fact that Seungmin even suspects it makes Minho’s skin crawl in a way that is not wholly unpleasant, but so strange a sensation that it makes Minho uncomfortable.

So where to begin?

Minho looks around him and settles on the idea of a gift. It’s innocuous enough and Minho can play it off as an attempt to further stimulate the local economy. ‘Oh, I saw it and figured, why not?’ That kind of a thing. No big deal. Minho can’t help but default to faked nonchalance.

Suddenly, Hyunjin approaches and steals Seungmin away by the arm. They’re paused by a display of embroidered pouches. Hyunjin is casually perusing the selection, every so often holding one up against Seungmin’s face to determine which one best suits the other boy’s complexion. Seungmin does the same in joking imitation. When Hyunjin laughs, it’s with his forehead pressed into the crook of Seungmin’s neck. It appears that they’re buying pouches for each other.

Minho frowns.

The two of them are easy in a way that he and Seungmin are not and can never be, partially because Minho cannot be as open as Hyunjin is about his thoughts and feelings in the face of the boy he loves. As a future King, Minho’s been trained to talk in circles, to hide what he really wants and feels beneath pretty words and any number of added protections, impenetrable and thick, the way the heart of a nation should be guarded.

“Can I interest you in anything here, your Highness?” A voice pulls Minho’s concentration away from his husband and his best friend. A boy who can’t be any older than Seungmin is smiling at him with prominent cheekbones cut as sharp as a cliffside, situated beneath a pair of wide, foxlike eyes. His cart is filled with a variety of items without any sort of common theme or geographical place of origin tying them together.

“That depends. Do you have anything worth my interest?”

“Let’s see.”

The boy’s hand hovers over a number of objects, first a mug made of what looks to be jade, before moving onto a set of knives with intricately carved scabbards made of patterns and whorls. There’s a tea kettle stuffed with spools of golden thread, bars of lavender soap whittled down into the shape of flowers, plus tinctures and concoctions stoppered in vials made of sea glass. Maps of varying places and in varying conditions of disrepair are curled up and tied off with string ribbons in a basket by the wheel.

Minho’s fascinated by the jar of goblin teeth with the label on it reading ‘If you can guess how many are in here, I will give you one free! ‘ It is said that planting one and watering it will result in a tree that bears fruit without pause or consideration for the season.

“247?” Minho offers.

The boy follows his sightline. “Close, but not quite.”

“I bet you say that about everyone’s guesses.”

“Only because nobody has ever guessed correctly.” He grins. “But as a token for your favor, I’m willing to throw in a tooth with the purchase of another item.”

“I’m looking–” Minho starts and stops, taking a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure Seungmin is still preoccupied and that nobody is listening in. “I’m looking for a gift for my husband. It doesn’t have to be useful but it definitely can’t be sentimental.”

“Aren’t all gifts inherently sentimental?” The boy raises an eyebrow. There is a gleam in his eyes that hints at a kind of clairvoyance that can see straight through Minho’s intentions no matter how he tries to veil them with false words and misdirection. “Especially ones meant to be given to someone beloved?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Only as much as you make it so.” The boy bows preemptively upon realizing the tone he’s affected. “Forgive me for such candidness, it’s just that I’ve been to a lot of places and have met a lot of people throughout the years; and have lent an ear to a far few of them as well. Everyone’s different but most problems are the same. Oftentimes, the solution is far simpler than you’d think. Getting there is the hard part.“

“Do you presume to know more than a future king?” Minho says teasingly, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “You, who looks to have never shaved a day in his life?”

“Wisdom doesn’t always come with age, but with experience,” the boy intones, dimples deepening into wishing wells on each cheek. “Some people have lived entire lifetimes in the span it takes between full moons.”

“How many have you lived?”

“If you can guess, perhaps I’ll grant you another one for free.”

A spark of something ignites in Minho’s veins, so subtle he can almost dismiss it as a tremor or a chill despite the summer heat. Magic. Minho isn’t dealing with just a simple traveling salesman. He bristles.

“I have just the thing for you,” the boy says and ducks to rummage through a compartment at the bottom of his cart. “I can’t rightly recall where I acquired it, but it’s woven of a fine material and stitched by a finer hand. I think it would make a good gift for the royal consort, although it might be more sentimental than you’d think to want or ask.”

From the cart’s depths, he produces a fabric bundle inside of which, untied, carries a set of pajamas in matching shades of red. It’s an auspicious color too vibrant a hue for the dyes to have originated from anywhere except from the clay deposits in faraway Kwangya, the birthplace of many legends and stories of yore. The craftsmanship is immaculate and the pajamas possess a cooling effect beneath Minho’s outstretched touch.

“How much?” Minho asks, although he would have probably paid any price for it. He is not normally predisposed towards materialism. For such artistry though, Minho is willing to make an exception. Nevermind the implications of gifting Seungmin a set of pajamas that Minho simultaneously wants to strip off of him.

“Seven copper pieces,” the boy says.

“Surely not?” It’s a highway robbery for such finery. Minho was prepared to shell out money totaling somewhere in the hundreds.

“A discount.” He reties the knot on the bundle and slips the promised goblin’s tooth inside. Minho watches as the boy screws the cap back onto the jar. “But only because I’m rather fond of your husband.”

“You know Seungmin?”

'‘No, not in this lifetime. In this lifetime, I am merely an admirer.”

“In another?” Minho asks.

“We were best friends.”

There is a feast planned back at the castle after the sun finally sets. Minho barely has time to catch his breath after the whirlwind of the morning’s visitations and surreptitiously bids an accompanying maid to stash the gift he bought in his dresser after he and Seungmin have left to attend the feast so as to not ruin the surprise. Mostly, Minho just wants to prolong the moment when he will inevitably have to explain why he bought the gift in the first place. Because I’m trying to seduce you. Because I l–

There isn’t any time for a proper bath so Minho strips down and cleans off the sweat and dirt with a wet towel before again changing into less formal but no less ostentatious royal regalia. This time, Minho wears his best crown.

Seungmin is waiting for him in the common area when Minho emerges from his room, similarly changed and refreshed and his hair restyled again. He wears a crown of salt water pearls to compliment Minho’s and a string of pearls around his neck, pressed close to the throat. The strand stretches and strains every time Seungmin speaks or gulps or swallows, unintentionally drawing Minho’s attention to it, not altogether an unwelcome distraction.

“Do you think we can sneak out again?” Seungmin whispers as the night drags on, the two of them having sat through an acrobatic troupe and then a knife thrower who buries three consecutive daggers in the spaces between Changbin’s toes. Now, a choir of women are crooning to some ballad about lost love. “Just like old times?”

“Everyone’s watching us,” Minho responds into his goblet of makgeolli without looking away from the performance. For those in attendance, he and Seungmin are a performance in and of themselves. “How else are people supposed to position themselves, if not in reference? How would they know how to react to things? Our absence would hardly go unnoticed.”

“And besides,” Minho continues. “We’re expected to take the first dance tonight. Jaehee would never forgive me if there wasn’t any dancing because we didn’t set an example for it.”

The open courtyard is purposefully set up to leave a large space for dancing and entertainment in the middle, the outside perimeter consisting of tables configured in a U formation and laden with food. Servants buzz like bees back and forth to keep goblets filled and plates full. Torches and firelight cast everyone in a hazy glow while the moon hangs, full and bright, overhead.

“I can’t dance,” Seungmin admits. “I have two left feet.”

The image strikes Minho as funny: graceful Seungmin being anything but graceful on the dance floor. “Just hang on and follow my lead.”

“Haven’t I always?” Seungmin grins.

They wait for the orchestra to take over before Mino stands and offers Seungmin his hand. Together, they make their way to the center of the space. Permission thus granted, other couples begin swarming all around them, taking their place in order of importance, those of higher social standing closest to the Royal couple and petering outwards from there.

Minho settles one hand on Seungmin’s waist and instructs his husband to do the same. “Three steps back and then one to the right. Make sure not to bump into anybody or step on my feet.”

Seungmin squeezes their palms together tighter. “I’ll try.”

A lone note from a violin rings out as the cue to start. Minho takes the first step and essentially has to drag Seungmin along for the next few after that. “One two three four, one two three four. Keep up, Kim Seungmin!”

He swears Seungmin is doing it on purpose when plants himself every third step so that momentum brings the two of them closer, hips and chest knocking against each other, Seungmin releasing a little puff of air from the exertion of their collision. It blows softly against the bridge of Minho’s nose.

The only reason they don’t go sprawling is because Minho is spry enough to recover their collective rhythm and balance with dexterity. He’s not sure if they’re coming off as uncoordinated or if people think Seungmin’s just being playful. The smile on his husband’s face would indicate the latter. The pink tips of Minho’s ears do too.

“I never realized how tiny your hands were, hyung. Or your waist for that matter.”

“Don’t talk to me while you’re dancing,” Minho snaps, out of sorts to a degree that he nearly misses a step because Seungmin’s bent down to whisper and his lip grazes against Minho’s cheek. “You don’t have the brain capacity to do both.”

“It’s okay. The song’s almost over anyways.”

Seungmin’s right. The orchestra soon hits a collective crescendo before the music gradually fades out. Everyone bows to their respective partners and either both return to their seats or stay on for the next song. Minho and Seungmin move to do the former although Minho doesn’t let go of Seungmin’s hand, instead waiting for the swell of the crowd to obscure them before he finally leads them away.

They do not go entirely unseen, but are quick enough to cause a temporary confusion. Then he hears Felix’s voice calling for the next song to keep the ball rolling.

“I thought you said we were too high-profile to leave.”

“We’re also too high-profile for anyone to stop us. Plus, after that display, it’d be weirder if we didn’t. Everyone’s going to assume we’re leaving to thoroughly debauch each other.”

“Are we?” Seungmin raises an eyebrow, stopping them in their tracks by digging his heels in and forcing Minho to turn around.

“Are we what?”

“Leaving to get debauched?”

Minho doesn’t answer. His silence is his response.

XIII.

The official excuse given to Seungmin when Minho hands over his gift with a nonchalance he doesn’t feel is, “I felt sorry for the boy so I bought something. He couldn’t have made more than two sales the entire day and didn’t have any sense of profit in him either since he only charged me 7 copper pieces for the set. I tried to give him 100 but in the end, he settled for 10.”

Seungmin holds the top against his body, chin tucked against the fabric to clamp it down as he reviews the cut and measurements in the mirror, swaying slightly in place. Marveling at the coincidence, Seungmin says, “It’s a perfect fit.”

“That’s good.” Minho is secretly pleased that Seungmin seems to like it. The color looks good on him as Seungmin strips and changes in front of Minho without hesitation, so swift Minho can scarcely collect enough of his wits about him to turn away. He clears his throat and says, “I think the other pair might be a bit too small though.”

His husband looks up at him in surprise, the top buttons of his shirt still left to be done. The expanse of skin on display is milky and smooth. “You mean they’re both for me?”

“Of course.” Minho averts his gaze.

“I thought they were a matching pair . . .”

He waits for Seungmin to finish.

“. . . For newlyweds.”

Ah.

The sounds of the evening’s entertainment drift up from the open courtyard and through the window into their room. He thinks he hears Jisung’s voice entangled with the pluck of a lyre and snatches of lyrics about ‘a marriage so true.’ He must’ve written those songs for Minho anyways.

“They’re a gift for you, not me.” A rather sorry excuse.

Seungmin crosses the length of the room and presses the second set into Minho’s arms. To the detriment of Minho’s hammering heart, Seungmin doesn’t immediately step away. “This is my gift in return. Let’s wear them together, yeobo.”

Pulse thundering, Minho mumbles, “How dare you regift my gift so easily, you cheapskate.”

He doesn’t move when Seungmin begins tugging at Minho’s outer layers. He can’t tell if it’s Seungmin’s hands that are trembling or Minho himself.

Deftly, his husband works to undo every knot and fastening that keeps Minho intact, jacket first followed by his tunic and pants. Despite the implications caused by their departure, nothing about this interaction is frenzied or fueled entirely by lust. Unfortunately, Minho is in his right mind so he feels every bit of how his heart is fit to burst, how he’s being so gently handled and such close proximity. Minho feels, in this moment, every ounce of Seungmin’s care. Every degree of Seungmin’s body heat.

It warms him and Minho melts.

Once dressed, Seungmin sits Minho down at the vanity and takes off his crown. His hair is a tangled mess underneath, matted with a combination of sweat and friction, the knots of which Seungmin works out with a brush. Minho likes the look of them in the vanity mirror wearing matching red pajamas. He likes the look of them together in general, the marriage of Seungmin’s soft edges to Minho’s harsh curves, contradictory and complementary all at once.

“What are you thinking about?” Seungmin asks him.

“Nothing,” he responds reflexively and then, more quietly, “You.”

“So are you thinking of me or is it that I am nothing to you?”

“I’m not–” Minho pauses, taking in a frustrated breath. “I’m not saying it right.”

“You haven’t said anything at all,” Seungmin points out.

And therein lies the problem.

“That’s the issue with us, isn’t it? That I haven’t said anything. That I lie by omission and leave you to fill in the blanks.”

Seungmin doesn’t deny it. He says, “It’s okay. I’ve gotten very good at filling in the blanks.”

“Because you think you know me.”

“I do know you,” Seungmin insists. He bravely meets Minho’s gaze in the mirror. “I understand you, even if sometimes you make it really hard for me to do.”

“How can you understand me when I don’t understand myself?”

“You think you’re such a complex and mysterious person.” Seungmin snickers. “You’re not.”

“Don’t be such a know-it-all, Kim Seungmin. You’ll only embarrass yourself.”

Seungmin doesn’t even have the decency to get angry to match Minho’s flame. If anything, he gives off the impression of indulging Minho in another one of his tantrums. “Well? Tell me something I don’t know then.”

Minho grits his teeth, each confession like an arrow knocked against the bowstring of his tongue.

“When I look at you, I think of Spring.”

Carefully, he gauges Seungmin’s expression in the mirror; notes the slight surprise that too quickly gets absorbed.

“I find it annoying when Hyunjin clings to you. I’ve wished death and illness upon him at least a hundred times at this point. If there’s a correlation there, I don’t want to examine it.”

Seungmin’s mouth flutters into a half-smile before settling back into a straight line again.

“I like sharing our meals. I’m grateful that you insisted on it and that you invite Felix and Jaehee sometimes, too.”

“It makes me happy that you greet my father every day, that you don’t treat him any differently or any less than the King he is.”

These are the truths that Minho carries and keeps closest to his chest. Finally, he breathes them out and gives them life.

“I like going to bed together and waking up beside you. I dream about you sometimes and in my dreams, you’re wearing white. It makes me want to marry you again and have a proper wedding . . . and to have a proper wedding night. I would marry you again, Kim Seungmin. A second time. Just because I like the way you call me yeobo. Did you know any of that?”

Entire universes are born and destroyed in the time it takes for Seungmin to respond.

Slowly, Seungmin lays the brush back down on the vanity table. His fingers are cool against the brand of Minho’s ears, absently rubbing the cartilage between the pads of his thumbs, before placing a kiss against the crown of Minho’s head. “I told you already that I am good at filling in the blanks.”

“Which is?” Minho huffs, turning around and looking up. Up into a face that beams like a cat that got the cream.

“That you love me. You love me, Lee Minho.”

“And you?”

Seungmin leans down and presses a kiss to Minho’s forehead, to his nose and on both cheeks. “Of course. Of course I love you, too.”

Embarrassed and so happy he must look like a fool, Minho buries his face in Seungmin’s chest. He hears the hummingbird cadence of a heart beat and feels it throbbing against his lips. “Stop kissing me.”

“Okay,” Seungmin quickly agrees. “How about you kiss me then?

And because he is a contrarian, Minho says, “I thought you said you wanted a wish!”

“Fine. I wish you would kiss me.”

Minho does.

XIV.

Minho is a liar who never says what he means. He is someone who too often lies to hide his heart.

“Actually, I don’t have a heart.”

“I’m literally holding it in the palm of my hand right now?”

He tells Seungmin to shut up because he can’t refute that claim. Minho is the one who put it there.

Minho is a liar who never says what he means.

Seungmin loves him anyway.

XV.

Hyunjin catches a fever.

He unfortunately does not die.

fin.