Archive of Our Own

The dawns were always playful.

Every morning Bambam would throw open the curtains, flooding Mark’s chamber with the pink light carried in from across the gardens. “Another day, your grace,” the valet announced with far too much energy considering how early it was. “Come on. Up you go.”

Mark groaned, twisting onto his back and stretching out. His nightshirt rising up his legs as he tried to refit himself into the comfort of his sheets.

Bambam sat on the edge of the bed, his round eyes drawing up the Prince’s body. Not as covertly as they should be. “What did you dream of, your grace?” he asked, his seemingly signature smile playing across his full lips.

Mark’s hair curled downward, grazing his lashes. “Places far away from here,” he sighed.

Bambam sneered. “What’s so abhorrent about the palace?”

“Everything,” Mark grumbled. He sat up, crossing his legs and feeling his shoulder peak from the width of his unlaced shirt. The rays of fresh sunlight warming his skin.

“Everything?” Bam’s lip jutting slightly forward in a pout.

And it was enough to draw a wisp of laughter from his chest. “Not you, Bam,” Mark reached out, hand coming to rest upon the boy’s cheek.

Bambam looked at him, cropped white hair silhouetted in the pink light. He seemed to lean into Mark’s touch for a moment. Closing his eyes for a fraction of a second before his shoulders jolted them back open. “Come on, your grace,” he called, getting up from the edge of the bed. “Let me draw your bath.”

Mark smiled, watching him walk off. When the Prince was fully awake, he came into the bathroom where Bambam was opening the windows to keep the glass from fogging. Outside the call of birds was enough to draw Mark closer, leaning onto the sill to watch them flit about. Climbing high just to dive, looping in circles with their companions in a beautifully choreographed chase.

“To be a bird,” he sighed, leaning his chin onto his hand.

“Most people say ‘to be a prince,’” Bambam offered, pouring another bucket of steaming water into the bath.

Mark spoke over his shoulder. “Most people are fools,” he furrowed his brows.

“I guess I am one of them, then.”

Mark turned towards him. “Surely, you wouldn’t want a life like this.”

Bambam laughed, splashing lavender oil into the bath with his eyes averted. “And why not?”

Mark scoffed. “Trapped in a palace awaiting the day my father breathes his last authoritarian breath so that I can lead a country of people I don’t even know?” he looked out over the palace gardens, now only seeing the labyrinth they created. The one Mark could never be released from.

“Come, your grace,” Bambam called. “A bath will ease your petulance.”

Mark sighed again, willing himself to let the swing of pessimism go. He came to the edge of the bath, raising his arms over his head. “Bam,” he titled his head. “Would you so oblige?”

The steam from the bath dotted just above the valet’s lip. Mark wondered if it would taste like lavender.

“Of course, your grace,” Bam nodded with sure eyes as he rounded the bath toward him. Movements slow as he reached for the sides of Mark’s nightshirt, warm hands coming to lay against his ribs and pushing the linen up. Pulling it off of his head and letting it fall to the bathroom floor.

Mark’s nakedness made the space between their bodies seem that much less and he could see the considerable effort it was taking Bam to not trail his eyes downward to admire the sight. That youthful light in his dark eyes that warmed Mark just as equally as the early sun flooding across his skin.

“Best make haste,” Bambam smiled. That genuine smile that was only for the Prince. “Before the water cools.”

Mark stepped into the bath, feeling the heat coat him. The smell of lavender ease him. He exhaled, sinking into the bubbles.

Bambam knelt beside the tub. He rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. Leaning against the edge and letting his fingers trace against the surface of the water, dredging up a mound of softly scented bubbles with it. Watching them pop on the tips of his fingers. “I heard your father has doubled his efforts to find you a prospective wife.”

Mark felt the flood of melancholy rush back in, dousing his warm body in an inescapable heaviness. “Unfortunately, it would seem you are correct,” he pursed his lips.

Bambam’s hand dipped below the water, fingertips grazing the soft skin at the inside of Mark’s knee. Just faintly enough to seem like an accident, though Mark knew it wasn’t. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so awful,” the valet shrugged. “To settle down. To start a family. Focus on the path that lies ahead. The path to the crown.”

Mark scoffed. His face drawing up in disgust. Sinking further into the bath until the grown out hair at the nape of his neck was dipped below the water. “Who in their right mind would want that?” he murmured.

Bam rolled his eyes. The fingers teasing at the inside of the Prince’s knee now gripping into the skin, only making Mark’s leg fall more open. “Then what do you want, your grace?”

Mark thought. His eyes flicking up at the valet. His smile growing wide. “I want,” he said softly, drawing his face closer. “To play.”

Bambam’s face flickered with alarm. In a flash, he tried to pull himself away.

But Mark was quicker, grabbing his arm with both hands and dragging him into the tub with a splash. The waves overflowing onto the bathroom floor with a wet crash. Bam’s clothes saturating with the perfumed water. Their weight dragging him down until he was fitted between Mark’s legs.

Mark’s arms hugged him close until the boy’s back was flush against his bare chest. His lips found the curve of his neck, kissing at it relentlessly.

“Mark,” Bambam whined, through a fit of giggles.

“Where did ‘your grace’ go?” he laughed, his hand moving under the water into the space between Bam’s legs.

“Exactly where your modesty went,” Bambam said, more breath than voice. “Directly out the window.”

“Mmm,” Mark hummed, fingers working against the buttons of his trousers and dipping in. “Perhaps the loss of modesty is exactly what may earn my title back.”

Bambam hips tilted upward towards the effort of Mark’s hand. “Less speculating, more doing,” he panted. His head turned to capture the Prince’s lips in a misty kiss. Confirming the mild taste of lavender that acted as a most delightful breakfast.

The mid-mornings were always gentle.

The King had always raised Mark to believe that a good walk in the morning was the best way to start the day. “Get the limbs moving. The blood pumping,” he’d say, his eyes not raising from the staff-drafted speeches he was looking over at the breakfast table. And so Mark had made a habit of wandering around the gardens in the cool, dewy mornings.

It must have been one particular morning at the very start of spring. Mark was walking up and down the rows, admiring the fresh seasonal blooms when his eyes caught on a beautiful pink flower that he’d never seen before. The bloom unfolding itself into an infinite amount of feather light petals. And his gaze went from the flowers to the roughened hands planting them, blackened in dirt and calloused around the edges. Yet something gentle in the way they handled them.

“I haven’t seen these before,” the Prince remarked, getting closer.

The man looked up, eyes going wide. “Your grace,” he stumbled to his feet, bowing at once. “I apologize,” he rushed to say, voice nervous. “I didn’t see you approach.”

Mark’s eyes were still transfixed on the flowers. “What are these?” he knelt down, studying them closer.

“R-roses,” the gardener stammered.

Mark’s eyebrows furrowed, his gaze going back to the man’s hands. “But you aren’t wearing any gloves,” he observed. “Aren’t you fearful about getting pricked?”

The man rubbed his soiled hands against his apron, self-conscious. He knelt down alongside Mark. “No, your grace,” he shook his head. He reached out, touching his fingertips carefully to the blooms. “They are thornless roses. One may approach them with caution,” he looked to Mark. “But they are harmless.”

And from so close, Mark could look up under his wide brimmed hat into his gentle face. The sunlight was peppering through and dotting his round cheeks that were brushed with a dusting of freckles and an indescribably sunkissed pink. The color not very far off from the roses he was tending to. Mark felt himself being drawn closer, smelling the soil on him. The scent of the earthy morning dew. “I haven’t seen you before either,” he felt himself smile, softly.

“I’m afraid you haven’t,” the man held his gaze. And it made his eyes squint, as if looking into the sun. “Jaebeom, your grace,” he beckoned his head. “I’m the new royal gardener.”

“And I’m-”

“Indeed,” Jaebeom stopped him with a small smile. “I know who you are.” He looked back to the roses. “This variety are particularly good climbers. With the right amount of sunlight, they’ll be as tall as you or I come summer.”

Mark looked to them, eyes wide. “Then I pray the sun keeps us in her good graces this spring.”

Jaebeom looked to Mark. “As do I,” he breathed. Broad chest expanding under his linen shirt. “Your grace,” he blinked. “I could tour you around the gardens tomorrow. If you so desire.”

“I don’t want to keep you from your work, Jaebeom,” Mark laughed.

Jaebeom removed his hat, his dark hair damp with sweat and sticking to his temples. The sun fully illuminating his precise features and the faint pink bridge across his sharp nose. “I’m sure you would only add to it, your grace,” he bowed his head.

Mark returned the next morning. And every morning after that. And Jaebeom would walk him up and down the lines of flower beds, pointing out each breed and telling Mark about their histories and their intricacies and how they’d traveled from distant places and climates to come make a home here at the palace.

Jaebeom spoke so passionately. His face lighting up under the brim of his hat. And when he touched the flowers, tending to them with the utmost care, his labored hands worked gently. And Mark found himself staring at those hands with as much wonder as the flowers.

One day, Mark asked Jaebeom what was planted beyond the manicured hedges that lined the edges of the garden. The ones that grew up the stone walls of the palace.

“The hedges, your grace?” Jaebeom had looked at him, squinting eyes under the spring sun. “Well, only wildflowers grow there.”

“I wish to see them too,” Mark titled his head, wrist flicking his fan. The soft curls that framed his face fluttering in the self-imposed breeze. “Can you show me?”

Jaebeom’s face seemed tight with unease. “But your grace,” he blinked. “You aren’t supposed to leave the palace grounds.”

Mark shook his head. “It’s just to admire the flowers, Jaebeom,” he giggled. “Surely, there’s no danger to be had in wildflowers.”

Jaebeom paused. Hesisting for a moment. But then he seemed to surrender under Mark’s gaze. “As you wish,” he nodded, leading him.

Jaebeom had been right because past the stone walls lay an open field of tall grasses and multicolored blooms that seemed to stretch on for miles. Turning up towards the eastern sun and quivering in the whispering winds.

“Incredible,” Mark gasped, feeling his chest bloom. “Jaebeom! Come on!” And he started to run through the field, feeling the grasses brush the gray tapered fabric on his slender calves. His heart racing to life. His mouth falling open in an unrestrained howl of laughter.

“Your grace,” Jaebeom called from a distance, clumsy footsteps chasing after him. “Wait! Oof-”

And Mark looked back. Jaebeom disappeared under the line of grasses. Mark’s smile fell. He ran back, calling out for him.

When he found the imprint of Jaebeom in the field, the man was laying on his back. His hat knocked off and his eyes closed. Limbs splayed out at random angles. A groan falling from his mouth.

“Jaebeom,” Mark gasped. “Are you hurt?” He knelt down beside him.

“Your grace!” Jaebeom’s eyes widened, looking to Mark’s knees against the floor of the field. “Your clothes. You’ll ruin them.”

Mark scoffed. “Damn my clothes. Are you alright?”

Jaebeom looked back up to him. His hair pushed back off his handsome face. His lips tugging upward in a smirk. “You said there was no danger to be had.”

And Mark smiled, bright laughter being pulled from his fluttering chest. “Perhaps I was wrong,” he shrugged. “Would you rather return to the safety of your garden walls?”

Jaebeom sat up, his presence close. “If you so desire, your grace,” he whispered.

Mark smiled, smelling the soil on him. That fluttering growing a little louder. He turned his head, looking out over the field. “They are so beautiful,” he sighed. “Aren’t they?”

Jaebeom’s eyes didn’t move from Mark’s face but nevertheless he hummed in agreement. “Exceptional.”

Mark smiled. “I mean, yours are beautiful too,” he shrugged. “But the way these flowers grow. Not placed deliberately. Just growing wherever they see fit. Not sequestered to only interact with those of the same variety as them. Just… free.” He looked back to Jaebeom. “Is that foolish of me?” he laughed. “To see freedom in something rooted to the ground?”

“No,” Jaebeom shook his head. “No less foolish than for me to see them all arc towards you.”

“Me?” Mark’s eyebrows went up. “Why me? Why not the sun?”

Jaebeom shrugged. “I’m not sure they can tell the difference,” he looked down into his rough hands. “And neither can I.”

Mark's smile widened across his face. He felt the dewiness radiating off of the man. His broad shoulders near enough that Mark could almost rest himself against him just to feel small between his arms. He looked down at his calloused hands, picking one up and feeling its heaviness. Smoothing his soft fingertips against each of the rugged spots like they were new discoveries.

Jaebeom laced his fingers into Mark’s, bringing the Prince’s hand to his mouth and kissing into it. Tending to it just as gently as he did those flowers. His sharp eyes no longer squinting but round and open.

So Mark pulled his hand away and replaced its presence against Jaebeom’s lips with his own. Feeling all the width in him go slack against the soft kiss. So slack that Mark had no problem pushing him down into the grass and settling in his lap.

“Your grace,” Jaebeom breathed. “Your-”

“I said damn my clothes,” Mark smiled into the corner of his mouth. “I won’t be needing them.”

Another day, when the thornless roses were well above their heads, Mark and Jaebeom lay amongst the wildflowers again. Nothing but bare skin and familiar quiet between them. Mark’s skin more golden than it had ever been as it basked under the cloudless sky, hearing the buzz of bugs and brush of grass surrounding them. The melody of nature louder here than the walls of the palace ever offered.

Jaebeom was leaned up on his elbow facing away, head drawn downwards toward something in his hands.

Mark’s curiosity got the better of him and he sat up, letting himself peek over Jaebeom’s bare freckled shoulder. Seeing a journal in his hand and a pen moving in practiced strokes across the paper.

“What is that?” Mark asked, leaning his chin to Jaebeom’s shoulder.

Jaebeom whipped his head around. “Nothing,” he gasped, slamming the book shut. “Nothing at all, your grace.” He started to stand.

And it was the wrong response, only getting Mark more curious. He grabbed Jaebeom’s wrist, pulling him back down onto the grass and rolling on top of him. “Let me see it!” he commanded through a fit of laughter. His hands working up Jaebeom’s broad chest and firm arms to try to grab the book.

“It’s nothing-” Jaebeom grimaced, trying to hold it out of his reach.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Mark said. He leaned down, lips fitting onto Jaebeom’s. Feeling the way the man’s body tended to go soft in response. He pulled the journal away. Sitting up in Jaebeom’s lap and flipping it open.

But what Mark saw had his brows creasing together. He flicked his fingers through the pages. Seeing the muted colors of pressed petals. Their delicate, shriveled veins tracing up like an imitation of branches against the paper. And below each of them, a date inscribed in black ink. “It’s a collection of flowers,” he tilted his head, looking down at Jaebeom.

“Yes, your grace,” Jaebeom sat up onto his elbows. That subtle burn across his cheeks growing more scarlet.

Mark blinked. Not understanding. “What are they for?”

“Well,” Jaebeom sighed. Wincing as if in pain. “They are for you.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” Jaebeom’s gentle hands came to rest against the Prince’s hips, smoothing up his sides. Against his taut ribs and muscled stomach. “For every day since I met you. A flower. To remind me.”

“Remind you of what?” Mark huffed, smiling now. Melting into the roughness of his hands.

Jaebeom gulped. “The moments I am privileged enough to spend with you.”

Mark’s smile was wide now. Seeing the way Jaebeom’s grew in a perfect mirror of his own. He looked down to the book, flicking the pages. Opening up the one with today’s date etched in perfect sharp handwriting. And on the page, two bright yellow flowers lay flat. Still fresh, colors vibrant with undrained life. “What are these ones?”

“Daffodils,” Jaebeom said.

“Two of them?” Mark looked down at him, narrowing his gaze.

Jaebeom looked back. Chest wide with a breath as he lay between Mark’s legs. “Well,” he started. “One daffodil alone is a symbol of bad luck. And yet their poisonous sap keeps them from being planted alongside other flowers. So this is how they always exist. Together. In their own world.” He smiled, that soft smile with his squinting eyes. “Much like your grace and I.”

And the book fell from Mark’s hands as he leaned back in, lips fitting over Jaebeom’s again and again.

The noons were always fierce.

Mark had known of Jackson’s reputation even before making his acquaintance. The son of a wealthy lord, said to be the most eligible young man for miles around. Revered for his physical prowess. To the extent of which the King thought it would be suitable for the sometimes aloof Prince to have a friend with more red-blooded pastimes.

When Mark first saw him, he was dressed in his sparing clothes. All white that made his mahogany hair look even richer under the sheen of the high sun. Gloves folded into the line of his waist, drawing attention to his powerful hands. And obviously, Mark had heard whisperings about the young man’s strapping good looks. But he was pleasantly surprised to find that the rumors did not disappoint.

“Have you ever held a saber before?” Jackson asked. His round eyes more friendly than Mark had imagined they’d be.

“Never,” the Prince smirked, shaking his curls from his face. “Would you be so kind to show me?”

Jackson looked down to the red clay field that was fenced off near the stables. A smirk tightening across his bold features. “Of course, your grace,” he nodded. “Stand here.” He beckoned to a spot on the ground.

Mark followed, his shadow small against the high sun of midday.

“Now mirror my stance,” Jackson said, shuffling one foot in front of the other and bowing his knees outwards. Raising one arm forward and one curving behind his back.

Mark assumed a similar position. “Is this suitable?” he asked, tilting his head.

Jackson pursed his lips, eyeing the lines of the Prince’s body. “Not quite,” his hands started to reach forward, before drawing back slightly. “May I, your grace?”

Mark smirked at him. “You may,” he nodded.

Jackson’s hands went to Mark’s outstretched arm, lifting his elbow slightly higher. He knelt down to his knees, drawing Mark’s thighs outward, his hips lower. Manhandling him with his firm grip. Standing back with his fist under the square line of his jaw, assessing.

“Better?” Mark fluttered his lashes, over his shoulder.

“Almost,” Jackson drew his brows together. He put his palms against Mark’s other arm, the one folded behind his back. He constricted his grip, leaning in to hold it firmly in place. Breathing hot air into his ear. “Can you keep this one tight?”

Mark felt himself shiver despite the heat of midday. “Yes,” he smiled to himself. “I can try to do that.”

Jackson backed off, grabbing the dulled practice sabers from his equipment. He placed one in Mark’s outstretched hand. “Alright,” he said, lining up across from him. “We are going to start slow. So you can follow each of my motions.”

Mark licked his lips. “Do you promise to go easy on me, Jackson?”

Jackson smirked. “Of course, your grace.” He locked his knees together. “First, we salute,” he held the saber up between his eyes.

Mark mirrored the action, gazes connected and intense. Feeling the air of competition drawing the strings between them tighter.

Jackson snapped the saber away. The end of it whizzing through the air fast enough to elicit a hiss. “En garde,” he called, stooping low into his stance. The muscles of his thighs flexing under his white pants. “Prêts?” his warm eyes glimmered.

Mark took one more look at him up and down. Taking in the sight before calling out, “Allez!” The Prince lunged forward. His perfectly choreographed footwork drawing him in towards his opponent.

Jackson stepped back, caught off guard. Rushing to block the advance before regaining his balance. His eyes widened. “Prince Mark,” he smiled wide. “Are you sure you’ve never held a saber before?” he laughed, satire biting through the tone. “You seem quite good at it.”

Mark smirked. Maintaining his stance and letting the timing line up just so to lunge again. His light as air steps criss-crossing over each other. Eyes drilling into his target. This time sticking a hit square against Jackson’s firm chest.

Jackson groaned, shoulders dropping. “Good God,” he cried, a smile stretching the width of his face. “I’ve been played like a fool.” He walked himself around in a circle, Mark’s position opposite his own. “I should have known the Prince would have been in lessons since birth.”

Mark laughed. The race of his chest amplifying the sound outward. Side stepping around the edge of the circle their footsteps made in the red clay. Flipping his saber easily in his hand. “Are you sure you’ve never lost to a prince before?” he titled his head, lifting his saber again to stare down the curved blade. “You seem quite good at it.”

Jackson worked his tongue against his cheek. “I see how it is,” he nodded. He planted his feet, bouncing between them. “Okay, fine. Let’s go again.”

After that day, Jackson started having his father’s carriage driver take him to the palace to spar with Prince Mark. The two of them often going back and forth for hours. Backing each other into the wooden fence, kicking up red clay onto their pristine white clothing. Until their chests were heavy with labored breaths and the sweat dripped down their necks, sticking their clothes to their skin.

One day, Mark had Jackson pressed up against the fence. Saber pointed into the soft spot of his shoulder making the young man cry out.

“Damn it,” Jackson scoffed, his arm coming up to wipe the sweat off his hairline. Skewing his warm locks to the side. “You’re too quick.”

“I think I’m just quick enough, thank you very much,” Mark panted. He grabbed Jackson’s arm, pulling him off the fence. “Come on. That’s enough for today,” he smiled. “There’s water in the stables.”

The stables smelled wet with horses and hay. Mark’s eyes blinking to adjust to the change in light. He tucked his saber under his arm, grabbing the water pitcher and filling two glasses for them. He passed one to Jackson.

“Thank you, your grace,” Jackson accepted with a small nod and downed it with ease.

And Mark admired the way some of it trailed out his mouth and down his neck, mixing with the sheen of sweat.

The young man gulped, gasping for air and going to fill the glass again. “Some days,” he panted. “I swear I’ve never met a sportsman who looks as unassuming as you do, your grace.”

Mark held his glass to his lips, scowling over the brim. “If I didn’t know better, I would say that was a thinly veiled insult,” he murmured.

Jackson looked up, eyes blinked wide. He shook his head with a nervous laugh. “It doesn’t mean to be,” he assured. “It’s just. You must know. Others must have told you. You just look... sweet.”

“Alright, now I’m properly insulted,” Mark scoffed, putting his water glass down.

Jackson groaned, putting down his own glass. “Not sweet as in weak,” he reached forward, grasping for Mark’s arm to anchor his attention. “Sweet as in…” he tinkered for the right words. “Lovely. Pretty.”

Mark’s ears perked to the compliment.

Jackson’s fingers trailed down the fabric of Mark’s sleeve. “It’s hard to imagine you capable of fighting so fiercely,” his eyes trailing down his body. His tongue darting out to lick at his lips. “It makes me curious what else you can do just as fiercely.”

Mark felt the summer heat emanating off Jackson’s skin. He grabbed Jackson’s hands, letting the sabers fall to the floor in a metallic clang. Pulling him forward with agile backwards steps, just as light as when he fought. The Prince backed himself against the wood of a stall, his fingers gripping into the fabric of his linen shirt and untucking it from his trousers before pulling it off his frame. He placed Jackson’s hands on his bare waist.

He looked up into the young man’s widened eyes, “Then let your curiosities lead you, my lord.”

Jackson rushed in. A crash of mouth and hips and skin. Mark clawing off his shirt and bearing witness to the rippling flesh beneath. Jackson’s strong arms leveraging Mark’s legs around his waist and pinning him against the stall. Both of them just as fiercely competitive in this arena as when sparring. Far enough away from the palace walls that their moans were lost in the brays of the horses and the sizzling of the summer grasses. And the noons that proceeded that one weren’t much different.

They were both outrageous. Products of the inherent boredom that their privilege offered. Willing to do anything to stave it off. To make the fighting that much more thrilling. To make the love making that much more crazed. And each of them always, always vying for the higher ground. Placing the most ludicrous bets in order to see who could best the other. So when Mark showed up at the red clay field one day with a bundle of canvas tucked under his arm, Jackson didn’t seem surprised.

“I managed to swipe them from the throne room,” Mark giggled, unfolding the bundle to reveal two sharpened swords. Their shining blades and rubied helms reflecting in the light.

“Your grace,” Jackson sighed. “That’s ...too big a risk. I could hurt you.”

“Why are you convinced that you will be the one hurting me?” the Prince smiled, knowing that Jackson could never refuse him for long.

The young man smiled back at him. His glimmering brown eyes rolling with a sigh. “The wager then?”

Mark licked his lips, feeling the sheen on them tingle in the noon sun. “Winner takes all.”

“All?” Jackson’s eyebrows went up.

“Whatever they want,” Mark shrugged.

Jackson’s eyes glazed for a moment as they stared at the intentionally untied neck of Mark’s white shirt, the singular mole upon his chest that he knew Jackson had become fond of. The young man drew in a breath, “Deal.”

The duel lasted longer than most did. Largely because both of them were hesitant at the start, careful not to be too frivolous with their strikes. But as they both continued to block each other’s blows, they grew more confident. And maybe a bit too careless as well. Which is why when Jackson made a lunge, he overstepped slightly. Momentarily too eager and used to the dull end of a practice saber. And the blade sliced through Mark’s sleeve and across his shoulder. And it took all but the beat of them realizing what had happened for the fabric to start soaking through, brilliant red.

Mark dropped his sword to the clay, clutching at his shoulder and wincing.

“Damn it all,” Jackson jumped, flustering immediately. Dropping his blade and rushing forward, his palm pressing into the Prince’s wound with all his strength. “Bloody hell, Mark.” And when he pulled his hand away, it was marred in that terrifying red. The young man exhaled, “Come on.” He scooped Mark up under his knees, with barely any effort, and started to carry him toward the palace walls.

“No!” Mark rushed, squirming in his arms. “You can’t take me there! My father will be furious!”

Jackson grimaced down at him. “My apologies, your grace, I thought you were bleeding out, for God’s sake.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “It's just a nick. Take me to the stable and I can clean it myself.”

“Mark,” Jackson looked down, panic exaggerating all his bold features.

“Jackson, please,” Mark panted, pressing his hand further into his shoulder.

Jackson sighed, complying. Taking Mark into the stable and hoisting him into the hayloft. He laid him down on the soft hay, seeing the way his shirt was soaked through. He pulled his own off, pressing it down into Mark’s wound and applying pressure.

“Down there,” Mark pointed to the stable floor with his other hand. “The water. And there’s a kit. In that basket near the wall. It has a bunch of string in it. Bring it to me.”

And Jackson rushed down the ladder, collecting the materials before bringing them up.

Mark started trying to drag his shirt off, wincing in pain when he couldn’t properly raise his arm.

“Relax. You’ll make it worse,” Jackson scowled. “I’ll do it.” He slowly raised the shirt up off the Prince’s head. Revealing the scarlet gash in his shoulder. Jackson poured the water pitcher over it. The blood staining all of the water bright red as it ran down into the spaces between the straw. “I’m going to inspect it, alright?”

Mark nodded, face still tight in anguish.

Jackson thumbed around the wound, trying to assess it’s depth. Watching how the flesh parted where he pried at it. “It’s nothing fatal,” he sighed. “Just ghastly as hell.”

“I told you,” Mark smiled through his pain. Because even encumbered, he still cared about being right. He sat up on his elbow, beckoning towards the basket Jackson had brought up. “Now for the fun part.”

Jackson grabbed the basket, rummaging through the contents. Tangling his fingers in balls of multi-colored thread. “What is this?” he furrowed his brows.

“Needles and thread,” Mark said. “They use it to braid the horse's tails for ceremonies.”

“So you’re telling me that you are going to stitch your own wound?” Jackson’s eyes went wide again.

Mark scoffed. “Of course not. Do I look capable of that?”

And Jackson paused for a moment before the realization dawned across his handsome features. “No,” he shook his head. “I can’t do it. I refuse.”

“It’s not a big deal, Jackson,” Mark assured. “My valet taught me how to sew buttons back onto clothes. I can’t imagine this would be much different.”

Jackson seemed unsure.

“Please,” Mark looked up at him. Flashing his own attempt at round eyes and pouting lips. “The quicker you stitch me up, the quicker you can claim your prize.”

And that was how Mark convinced Jackson to sew up the wound at his shoulder before stripping him bare and rutting into him in the hayloft with as much care as the brawny young man was capable of. And after they were both spent, collapsing into the heat of their post-coital glow, Mark rolled onto him, the operative arm bearing his weight as he dipped down to kiss the young man’s mouth.

“Thank you, Jackson.”

Jackson’s fingers went up, tracing around the sewn wound. “You know it’s going to leave a ghastly scar.”

Mark smiled. “Good,” he whispered. “I hope it does.”

Jackson looked up, pretty brown eyes full of light.

Mark licked his lips, the salt of their sweat still clinging to his skin. “You know I let you win, right?”

And Jackson smiled, chest exhaling heavily. “Far more than just the duel, your grace.”

The afternoons were always coy.

Too often Mark was asked to join his father at court ceremonies. They were intended to be teaching moments for his future role but Mark always found himself unable to focus. The humdrum of noble dogma boring him to pieces. And therefore, his eyes had a tendency to wander.

There were rows of guests. Rows of council. Rows of knights. All trying to get a peek at the King and his sheltered son. The faces and handshakes blurring together until each of them was indistinguishable. But from across the room, Mark locked eyes with a soldier he had not seen before.

He was a boy, taller than the rest but with a face so young, one would wonder how he stole his father’s uniform. Dark hair parted, revealing eyes that drew upwards at the corners along with his small smile. And as soon as the young soldier noticed the Prince’s gaze returned, his face went immediately... well. The same shade of scarlet as his uniform. And Mark couldn’t help but laugh as their eyes kept meeting. The boy’s blush saturating more red each time.

The ceremony concluded, giving way dancing. Coupled partners spinning around each other in synchronicity. And the King raised his brows to Mark, beckoning his head in an plea to join the festivities.

Mark stepped forward, the audience of young maidens suddenly standing straighter. Clasping their hands together against their full skirts. Tightening their modest smiles. Mark walked past them. He looked up into the young soldier's face.

“Good afternoon,” Mark nodded.

“Your grace,” the soldier bowed deep.

“What may I call you?”

The soldier flustered, nearly gasping to find his voice. “Yugyeom, your grace.”

“Yugyeom,” Mark smiled. “Have you danced this step before?”

The boy shook his head. “Not often, your grace. I’m afraid, as expected, I’m out of my depth.”

Mark laughed. “Well, that makes two of us,” he offered his hand. An almost imperceptible gasp arising from the nosy onlookers. “Should we practice together?”

Yugyeom’s eyes went wide. "I... uh,” he stammered. “Your grace. Maybe you’d be better suited to practicing with a young woman.”

Mark shook his head. "But I didn’t ask a young woman," he said. “I asked you.”

Yugyeom’s cheeks flushed again. "I don't know how to follow, though..." he quaked. The few medals on his uniform clanging together.

"Fine,” Mark shrugged. “You lead then." And before Yugyeom could protest again, Mark was taking him by his white gloved hands and dragging him forward. Placing one of the soldier’s hands on the small of his back and clasping their palms together. “Ready?”

Yugyeom’s face was uneasy. His eyes wide. And he didn’t say another word. He just stepped forward. And Mark stepped back. And Yugyeom stepped to the side and Mark followed. And their steps picked up pace until they were at tempo with the music.

“People are staring, your grace,” Yugyeom’s eyes darted to the side.

“Then don’t look at them,” Mark smiled. “Just look at me, Sir Yugyeom.”

Yugyeom held his gaze, eyes blinking like it was hard for him to do. “Your grace,” he winced. “There is no need to call me sir. I’m not a knight.”

Mark let Yugyeom pivot them with ease, his size lending him an advantage in leading. “But you may be a knight one day, will you not? Under my rule, perhaps?”

“I hope so, your grace,” Yugyeom nodded. “If your grace will have me.”

Mark let his tongue run over his teeth. “Then, I best like to practice now. Much like we are practicing this step, don’t you think?”

And the boy smiled, his round cheeks and his upturned eyes shining in the afternoon sun that cut through the stained glass. “Yes, your grace,” he nodded, and Mark could feel the slight unclenching of his shoulders.

As they danced, they conversed. Of Yugyeom’s life being raised in the town. Of his father’s extensive military career. Of his desire to make him proud.

“Maybe that’s the difference between you and I, then?” Mark shrugged. “You make your father proud. But I make my father miserable.”

“That can’t be true, your grace,” Yugyeom argued.

“You’re right,” Mark noted. “It’s not the only difference. You’re also taller.”

And Yugyeom laughed, a warm and gentle sound that drew more eyes to them. “Your grace,” he pouted. “I'm quite heartbroken that soon this song will end.”

“Then maybe we should not bear to hear the end of it,” Mark suggested.

The boy blinked. Long eyelashes catching the low sun. “What do you mean?”

“Come,” Mark pulled his hand. “Let’s find another place. Where we can make our own music.”

Mark dragged the boy along with him, down the hallways of the palace. And Yugyeom pointed to the paintings, imitating their expressions and their stances in a way that had Mark gasping for breaths. Had him feeling just as beautifully youthful as the boy’s energy exuded.

“What room is this?” Yugyeom asked, looking up around him as Mark led him into a room with floral wallpaper that climbed up the walls, tufted furniture, and garish filigree rugs.

“Just a drawing room,” Mark looked to the clock that ticked away in the corner. “Look at the time. No wonder, I’m famished. Would you join me for tea?”

Yugyeom nodded. “Of course, your grace.”

Mark smiled. He called for a staff and a few minutes later, they were wheeling in a tea cart for the two.

“Come, Yugyeom,” he beckoned. “Join me on the settee.”

The boy came to sit next to him. Mark poured him a cup of tea and handed him the saucer. “How did you enjoy the ceremony?” he took his own cup.

Yugyeom held Mark’s eyes more comfortably than he had before. “It’s an honor to be in the presence of my King and my Prince.”

Mark smirked from behind the rim of his cup. “You didn’t seem like you could take your eyes off of your Prince.”

Yugyeom tinged pink again. “My apologies, your grace,” he smiled into his tea, before looking up again. “You see I had heard the tales of your beauty. But to witness it myself was something I was unprepared for.”

“Mmm,” Mark took another sip. He put his saucer to the tray. He sat forward, reaching out a hand to touch at the soldier’s knee. “Tell me. What else have you heard of me?”

Yugyeom’s spine seemed to straighten. His eyes fixated on Mark’s hand. “Just… that you have a fondness about you,” he said. Voice tight and high in his throat. “A fondness that you impart onto choice young men.” Yugyeom sipped at his tea, gloved hands trembling slightly.

“I see,” Mark’s eyes widened in understanding. His voice going husky and deep. “And you hoped to become one of those fond young men of mine.”

Yugyeom choked on his tea, putting the cup into its saucer and coughing into the sleeve of his uniform. “No, your grace,” the boy gaped. “I mean. It was not at the forefront of my th-”

“Hmmm,” Mark thought out loud, tapping a finger to his pursed lips. “Come to think of it, I’ve never slept with someone who is four years my younger.”

“Your grace,” he glowed with a new found hue of pink.

“Well,” Mark tutted his tongue to the top of his mouth. “I suppose there is my valet. But he’s still not as young as you.”

“Are you…,” the boy fumbled through his words. “Are you suggesting we sleep together…, your grace?”

“Are you opposed to that?”

The boy paused, putting his saucer back on to the tray. “No, but-”

“Good,” Mark smiled. “It’s settled then.”

Yugyeom’s mouth hung open. Everything about him frozen.

“Yugyeom,” Mark leaned in. “I can’t properly kiss you with your mouth agape like that.”

Yugyeom closed his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a gulp. “I apologize. I’m afraid I’m sorely out of practice.”

Mark smiled, drawing in closer. Smelling the starch on his uniform. “Well, that’s perfectly fine. After all, it’s just like dancing.” The Prince closed the remaining space, gently kissing the boy once, then again. Stretching out each kiss a little longer, pressing a little harder. Until he was pushing the boy down onto the settee and crawling over him.

It took many kisses before the boy was relaxed enough to soften the tight line of his body. To snake his gloved hands up to the Prince’s waist and draw their bodies closer. Yugyeom digging his hips upwards with needy little thrusts to accompany the needy little sounds that he used to fill Mark’s mouth.

Mark kissed a scarlet mark into his neck. “Sir Yugyeom, who is your king?”

Yugyeom stuttering hips jolted up. “You are, your majesty,” he breathed.

Mark sat up in his lap, grinding down into him. “And are you loyal to your king, sir?”

Yugyeom cried out. Opening his eyes to look up at him, chest heaving. “Of course, your majesty.”

Mark smirked. He collapsed forward, putting his hand on the arm rest and holding himself over the soldier. Rolling his hips down into him. “Are you subservient to your king, sir?”

Yugyeom trembled. He nodded frantically. “Yes, your grace.” His head angling up as if trying to capture Mark’s mouth in another kiss.

But Mark pulled away, beckoning to the rug of the drawing room. “Then fall to your knees,” he commanded. “And let me bestow upon you this great honor.”

The dusks were always resolving.

Mark was laying in his bed, looking out his chamber window. Watching as the sun met the horizon in the distance. A kiss goodnight from the sun to the earth. Mark pursed his lips and closed his eyes, trying to mimic the same sensation against his own mouth. Watching the green metallic orb dance behind his lids, an inversion of color, when there was a knock at his door.

“Your grace. Your father wants to know if you will join him for dinner.”

Mark did not turn his head. He just sighed. Eyes opening back on the horizon. “Tell him I’m not feeling well,” he called. “And tell the staff that I’ll be taking my dinner in my private sitting room.”

“As you wish, your grace.”

A few minutes later, Mark roused himself, ambling from his chamber to his sitting room that sat adjacent. He shut the door behind him, lifting his eyes to see a boy standing at the other end of the room.

The boy was young. His dark hair parted behind one ear. His face round and his lips pursed. Eyebrows tilted upwards in what felt like a question. And in his hands, he held a worn, leather bound folder that was laced shut with cord.

Mark held his gaze with sudden curiosity, taking a seat in an armchair. “I can’t imagine that will digest well,” he beckoned to the folder.

The boy looked down into his hands. “Hilarious,” he said, face unmoving. “I’m not kitchen staff. I’m a pianist. Your father sent me. He mentioned something about helping you feel better.”

Mark sighed. Because truly, all he really wanted was to be left alone today. But when he looked up, ready to send the boy away, something about him changed the Prince’s mind. Maybe it was the offhanded way in which he stood, one hip cocked to the side, not bothering to bow. Or perhaps it was his eyes which looked unflustered in comparison to the usual staff members. Or maybe it was the thoughtless way that he had deflected Mark’s comment, like it didn’t even phase him. And all of it piecing together only heightened the Prince’s curiosity. He cleared his throat. “Very well,” he nodded. “You may play.”

The boy went to the grand piano in the corner by the window. Pulling out the bench and sitting down. Adjusting his folder against the music rack. A shuffling of papers in the quiet. The boy smacked his lips. “What sentiment are you looking to mimic tonight?” he asked, a hint of sarcasm in his weary tone.

Mark blinked back at the piano. Watching the pianist look at him from over the edge of his folder, just a placid set of eyes. “What?”

The boy’s head titled, as if in a shrug. “Something celebratory? Somber? Aggravated? Thrilling? Verklempt?”

Mark thought. He felt the boy’s eyes on him as if he was unafraid of staring. He shook his head. “I have no preference,” he settled on. “You may choose.”

The boy raised his brows. “As you wish,” he breathed.

Mark couldn’t see his hands but he could hear as the music started to overflow from the raised lid. Crawling across the floor and up the Prince’s legs. A chill rising from his toes towards his head in one slowed motion. The piece felt like something bleak, maybe sleepy. Slow and steady. Turning up and down the scales in a subtle waltz.

And as Mark listened, he felt himself rise to his feet, coming closer and closer. Watching the way the boy’s face slowly revealed behind the cover of the piano. His eyes not even reading the sheet music but instead just running his fingers almost carelessly against keys. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. The piano an extension of his own body. Mark sat down next to him on the bench.

The boy’s hands halted. He looked to the side. “Something wrong?”

“No. You can continue,” Mark nodded, gazing at his hands. “I am most content also watching rather than merely listening.”

The boy didn’t react. Just reset his posture. Hands positioned diligently over the keys. Taking a breath in before starting again.

His playing seemed to go on and on. Each piece leading into the next so fluidly that time itself seemed to halt. But alas, when Mark looked up, seeing the profile of the musician's face silhouetted against dark violet twilight, he knew that the lingering traces of the day were nearly finished. As well as their time together.

His fingers pressed the final notes into the keys. Pedals letting the sound ring out for measures and measures before the boy's foot stepped off. Pausing for a moment, before looking to Mark. “Will that suffice?”

Mark nodded. “It will.”

The pianist reshuffled his music together into its folder, wrapping the leather cording around it.

“You play well,” Mark smiled, trying to catch his eye.

The boy looked up, gaze traveling up and down Mark’s face in a fleeting moment before looking down into his folder again. “Thank you.” The boy stood from the bench, crossing closer to the door.

“What’s your name?” Mark called after him.

The boy turned. “Youngjae.” And with that he turned and left.

The next night, Mark looked up out the window, seeing that descending sun again. He called for his staff. “I’ll be taking dinner in my sitting room again. Alert my father.”

“Yes, your grace. Will that be all?”

“And send for the pianist.”

A few minutes later, Youngjae was in the doorway of his sitting room.

“Good evening,” Mark smiled brightly from his arm chair.

“Your father sent for me again?” one of the boy’s eyebrows raised defiantly above the other.

“No. I sent for you.”

Youngjae’s gaze narrowed. “May I ask why?”

The Prince huffed a laugh, shrugging his shoulders with a certain lightness. “Because I wanted to watch you play.”

Youngjae stood in the doorway for a moment too long. Like he was unsure if he should even step inside any further. The silent battle playing out across his features. But then his shoulders sank. He closed the door behind him, moving in a straight line to the piano. Not raising his eyes to Mark again.

“Anything you’d like me to play?” he called, dispersing the papers against the rack.

Mark came over, sitting down on the piano bench again. “Pianist’s choice.”

Youngjae flicked his eyes toward him. His brows furrowing before looking down to the keys. He took a small breath before starting.

This time the piece was something slightly more uptempo. A melody that jumped to and fro. Showing the deterixity of his fingers as Mark struggled to keep up with their movements. The quick and nimble brightness giving way to a tone was witty, almost in jest.

When the final chords sprang in finality, Mark gilded himself closer. Nearly brushing shoulders with Youngjae. “Where did you learn to play?”

Youngjae looked to him. Mouth twisting up. Like maybe all that sat behind his lips was a brazen retort. But he seemed to swallow it down. His face shifting into something more sincere. “The church,” he shrugged, looking away. “My family was never wealthy. Just farmers working to make ends meet. So I was never afforded lessons. But I would take our only horse every evening around dinnertime and ride out to the church. A father there taught me everything he could. But when the hymns and psalms stopped being a challenge, I made the rest up.”

“What about the classical composers? Mozart, Beethoven, Bach,” the Prince listed off, leaning his elbow against the edge of piano.

Youngjae shook his head. “Everything I play is self-composed,” he beckoned to the sheet music.

And Mark’s eyes followed. Only now realizing that none of it was printed. All of it was handwritten. Titles in scrawled letters sitting at the tops of pages. Autumn Leaves Sonata. Ballad of the Water Nymph. Waltz of Accidental Memories.

“Incredible,” Mark gawked, paging through them with his fingertips.

“And now, I’m a glorified wind up toy for royals,” Youngjae murmured, almost under his breath. Shoulders going slump. “Who would have thought?”

Mark drew his face back, brows furrowing together. “That was awfully aimed at me,” he scoffed.

Youngjae shook his head with a sigh. “My apologies. That may have been better suited to an internal reflection,” he sat up again, hands primed over the keys. “What do you want to hear next?”

“Mmm,” Mark’s hands brushed through the sheet music, trying to find one that grabbed his attention. But before he could, his ears perked, drawing his gaze out the window. The sky above was a brilliant shade of fading indigo that was edged with a gathering of lilac clouds. Upon the glass, droplets began to cascade down. He looked to Youngjae. “Do you have anything for rain?”

Youngjae’s smile broke, white and bright, making his eyes crescent. A small huff of laughter accompanying it. “I have just the thing,” he said, parsing through the sheet music. “Here.”

And Youngjae started again. The piece was almost dreamy. Sparkling. A singular melody playing against the interspersed chords. And Youngjae played it from his memory. So entranced as he played. Meditative. Losing himself in the moment. Until the melody died out and Youngjae’s fingers ran up every note in the resonating final chord. Finally raising his head and looking over to the Prince.

Mark licked his lips. “May I call on you again tomorrow night?”

Youngjae nodded. “If you must.”

And something in it had Mark scowling at him. "You're quite indigent, aren't you?"

Youngjae’s mouth flattened into a thin line. "Don’t take it personally,” he shook his head. “I'm not too keen on authority."

Mark thought for a moment, the picture piecing together. Youngjae’s general apathy, the way he never bowed his head, never used Mark’s title when speaking to him. "You're an anti-monarchist,” he said quietly.

Youngjae swallowed, nodding.

“Well then,” Mark’s eyes went wide.

Youngjae tried to explain. "You have to try and see it from my perspective. My parents worked their lives away. Paying taxes to fund a palace for a family who doesn't even work."

"Some of us work," Mark narrowed his eyes.

"You don't work.”

Mark paused. Then smacked his lips. "Fair," he conceded. "But tell me. Why in God’s name would an anti-monarchist want to work in the palace?"

Youngjae sighed. His eyes growing wide, almost pleading. "I long to become a composer, but to do that I have to study at a music conservatory. And I can’t afford that. So, I’m trying to raise the funds to support my education."

“If funds are what you need, then I easily can provide them,” Mark shrugged.

Youngjae scoffed, rising from the bench and grabbing his folder. “Because throwing money is how a prince solves problems, I assume?”

Mark felt his words like the sharp end of a blade. “Youngjae,” he rolled his eyes. “I was only offering to help.”

Youngjae stood, nostrils flared in quickened anger. He straightened his coat. "You’re right. I don't have a lot of respect for the concept of royalty,” he enunciated “Or a need for fancy titles and vain formalities. Because I'm just an honest man trying to do what I love. And I’d appreciate it if you keep your title out of that."

“Youngjae,” he called after him.

The boy stopped at the door, turning back for a moment.

Mark swallowed. “I do hope you get to do what you love. That will make one of us.”

Youngjae stilled. And he seemed to nearly let the moment slide away, but instead he took a deep breath in and asked, “What do you love?”

“I don’t know,” Mark shook his head. “I’ve never had the luxury of being able to look for it.”

He saw the thought dance across Youngjae’s features.

“Good night, Youngjae,” Mark nodded.

The boy blinked. “Good night.”

Mark called on him the next night. But this time, when he came to the sitting room, he looked far more irritated than he had at their previous meetings. He did not wait for Mark to invite him in. Just hastily shut the door and crossed over to his piano bench. Hands devoid of his usual folder.

“Any preference today?” he asked, not drawing his eyes up from the keys. But before Mark could open his mouth to speak, Youngjae was replying. “Nothing then? Good.”

And he began to play, but the song that came forth wasn’t anything like the ones he’d played before. It was furious and heated. His left hand heavy against the lower keys, banging out dark, low chords in quick succession. His right hand jumping along the black keys sporadically.

“Youngjae,” Mark called to him.

But the Prince’s voice was drowned out by the music. The insidious measures that were aggressively hammered out, one after the other.

Mark came closer, looking into his face. Seeing immediately his red, raw eyes. The tears down his cheeks. The way he didn’t bother to stop, to wipe them away.

Mark sat beside him. “Youngjae,” he called again, reaching his hands out and pulling the boy’s face towards him. Looking into his eyes, demanding his attention.

The boy finally stopped. Hands falling away from the keys. “My apologies,” he murmured, eyes blinking. “I’m…” he tried to breath.

“What’s wrong?” Mark shook his head, eyebrows drawn in concern. “What happened?”

The boy’s face crumbled between Mark’s hands. “My sheet music. My compositions. They are gone.”

“What?” Mark’s eyes widened. “How?”

Youngjae sighed. “Last night,” he wiped the tears with his sleeve. “I walked home after I left the palace. The night was dark and rainy. Three men approached me. They demanded my valuables. And I told them I didn’t have anything but they searched me anyway. They turned my folder upside down into the mud. Threw it down, walked all over the refuse when they couldn’t find any money. And I tried to collect them. I tried to salvage them. But it was useless. They are unreadable. Ruined.”

Mark drew him closer, hugging his arms tightly around him. “Youngjae, I’m so sorry,” he hushed. “I shouldn’t have let you walk home in the rain.”

Youngjae’s voice was dampened by Mark’s shoulder. “Are you blaming yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Mark said. “I just- I want to help.” He breathed. He pulled back looking into his eyes. “Do you need money? I can give you money.”

Youngjae’s eyebrows drew together, a nerve immediately striked. One Mark should have foreseen but, in his alarm, he didn’t. “Money can’t bring my compositions back,” the boy gritted through his teeth.

Mark blinked. “I know that. I was just hoping that maybe-”

Youngjae stood from the bench, putting space between them. “I don’t want your money,” he bit out. “The money your family has been stealing from the working class for centuries.”

“Come on, now,” Mark sighed. “Let’s not go there.”

“Fine, let’s not go there.” Youngjae seethed. “Instead, tell me why you have been calling on me every night.”

Mark felt taken off guard. His mouth falling open. His mind trying to find the words. “I like having you here, Youngjae. I like you playing for me,” he shook his head. “Is that such a crime?”

Youngjae laughed, something cruel and callous plucked from the depths of his chest. “You think because you're the Prince and because you’re beautiful that you can just bat your eyelashes and beckon for whoever you want?” he jeered. “Well, I’m not so easily dazzled.”

Mark breathed, “Youngjae-”

“Don’t call on me again,” he stormed out.

Mark didn’t call on him the next night or the next or many nights after that. Instead he took dinner with his father in the main hall. But even there, Youngjae would play across the room and Mark would try to keep from watching him. Wondering how he was. If he was still plagued by the anger that had roared inside of him the last time they spoke.

Two weeks must have passed when Mark was finishing his dessert and Youngjae was trying to pack his sheet music up. Trying to wrap the papers in the large swath of canvas that had replaced his leather folder. But as he tried to contain them, his hands fumbled, spilling the papers across the marble floors.

The King raised his gaze to the sound.

Youngjae’s eyes went wide. “My apologies, your majesty.” And he kneeled to the floor, trying to shuffle them back together.

Mark sighed, coming forward. He crouched beside the pile, helping him collect them. His eyes glossing over the handwritten ledger lines. The messily written titles, before his eyes caught on one in particular.

Prince Mark

Mark froze, the sheet clutched between his fingers.

And Youngjae looked up at him. Eyes trailing down to the paper. He gave a small inhale, snatching it away. Scrounging the rest of together before rising back to his feet.

Mark rose as well. Standing across from the pianist.

And Youngjae looked at him, wide eyes and breath held in his chest. Bowing before seeing himself out of the hall.

The next night, Mark wasn’t feeling well again. Watching the shades of golden hour sink down the walls of his sitting room. Looking over to the empty piano bench, when there was a knock at the door.

“Your grace, the pianist is here. Did you call for him?”

And Mark blinked. Mind sifting through the layers of meaning. He nodded slowly. “Yes,” he sat up. “Send him in.”

Youngjae closed the door. Standing with his hips askew. Fingers feeling at the bundle of canvas in his arms. He took a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize,” he said, softly. “I was upset. And you were an easy target.”

Mark pursed his lips, looking down into his lap momentarily. “I’m a prince. I’ve heard far worse.”

Youngjae shook his head. “That doesn’t excuse it. You are still a person.”

Mark looked at him. Seeing the push and pull in him. Not much different than that of the hammers in a piano. “Come, sit,” he offered. “I want to show you something.”

Youngjae’s brows tightened ever so slightly but he came forward, gingerly taking the seat across from him.

Mark pulled a box from under the chair. “Here,” he said, reaching out to put it into his lap. “I had this made.”

Youngjae looked up at him, brows drawing even closer.

“Just open it,” the Prince urged.

Youngjae lifted off the lid. Taking out a shiny leather case. A secure metal buckle at the side. Running his fingers over the initials that were embossed into the front. His eyes stared at it in wonder. “This is…” his voice trailed off.

“I know you might think it’s too much. You may even hate me for it,” Mark twisted his lips together. “But I wanted you to have it. To keep your compositions safe.” He waited for a response, continuing when he didn’t receive one. The boy too focused on the case. “And I’ve arranged for you to have a carriage take you to and from the palace. To ensure your safety. If it’s alright with you.”

Youngjae looked up finally, meeting the Prince’s eyes. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely. “This is all… very thoughtful.”

Mark drew in a breath. “Now, can I request something of you?”

“Anything.”

“Can you…” Mark breathed, containing a smile. “Can you play that piece for me? You know,” his eyes brightening.

Youngjae smiled down into his lap. Putting the case to the side and getting up. Sitting down at the piano.

His fingers starting to move with that precision that the Prince had missed watching up close.

So Mark came forward, sitting beside him.

The pianists fingers moved smoothly, evenly, as the notes rang out. And in them there was a feeling Mark struggling to place. Flowing freely and growing. Rising just to fall again. Like a current of water descending up and down slope. Or a sun descending down into the sky to kiss the earth goodnight.

And as the music played, Mark felt more and more entranced. His chest swelling, almost too full, before releasing. He leaned his head on the pianist's shoulder, closing his eyes and listening to the way the music aligned itself with the beat of the boy's heart.

The piano stopped, the heart did not. Mark looked up into his face. “Is that the end?” the Prince tilted his brows upward.

Youngjae’s hand came to Mark’s chin, forefinger holding him at eye level. The boy shook his head, “You’re everything they say you are. And yet so different from what I thought you’d be.”

Mark’s lips pulled up at the corner. “I hope for the better.”

“For the best,” Youngjae said. He craned his head, lips fitting against Mark’s.

Sunsets were for Youngjae at the piano in Mark’s sitting room. Not just using the time to play, but also compose with a pencil tucked behind his ear. His brows drawn tight and his tongue poking out as he tried to get the chords to lay just right.

And all the time when Youngjae’s fingers weren’t on the piano, they were on Mark instead. Feeling at his face, his sides, his hips. Just as diligent inside the Prince as they were against the keys.

They ate their dinners together. Even if some of the meals were as simple as a bottle of wine. Or two. Or three. Youngjae playing something raucous and loud while watching Mark dance around the room. The both of them giggling the aroma of red wine into each other's open mouths. Stumbling to the couch where Youngjae would bend him over the back and make his own music out of him.

And at the end of every sunset, when the sky had faded too black, Mark walked Youngjae down to the courtyard where his carriage waited. Kissed him goodnight before waving to the image of him framed in the carriage window until he was out of sight.

“There’s a famous pianist coming to the palace tomorrow,” Mark noted off hand one night as he was walking Youngjae to the courtyard.

Youngjae laughed, incredulously. “Not just any famous pianist,” he shook his head. “You’re going to be meeting the greatest modern piano composer in the whole bloody country! This must be the only time I’ve ever been jealous of you.”

Mark titled his head. “Oh, so you’re a fan of his work?” he jeered. “Hmm. Maybe I shall get his signature for you then. Or shall I just give him a love letter in your name?”

Youngjae pushed the Prince’s shoulder. “Hilarious,” he rolled his eyes, before grabbing for his hand.

And after Mark kissed him goodnight and shut the carriage door, he went to the driver. “Bring him here tomorrow. In time for the ceremony.”

The following day came. A ceremony to honor the pianist’s renowned contributions to music. And Mark waited till his father wasn’t looking to pull the man aside. To talk animatedly about their young court composer. How talented and well loved he’d become. “Oh, you must hear him play,” the Prince nodded, turning to a member of the staff and whispering into their ear. “Would you please call Youngjae to my sitting room?”

Hours later, Youngjae was laying on Mark’s lap, recounting the event. For maybe the second or third time now. “And then he told me that he wanted me to come with him when he leaves tomorrow morning,” he breathed. “To study under him. Travel with him. Around the world!”

Mark smiled, pulling him closer on the sofa. “He saw your potential. Your gift.”

Youngjae shook his head, mouth open. Grabbing fistfuls of his own hair and crying out in elation. “I just can’t believe this!” he cheered, hands smoothing down behind his neck.

Mark pulled his hands away, holding them in his own. He leaned into him, feeling the stretch of his upturned mouth when he kissed him. “There is no one more deserving of this than you.”

A sudden wash painted over Youngjae’s face. It drew his brows up in the center and the corners of his mouth down in an instant. Eyes going distant and dark. "But... if I go,” his voice broke, suddenly despondent. “I won't see you again.”

"You will," Mark nodded, reaching out and clutching his face. "And when I see you again, you can tell me all about the places you've been. The people you’ve met. And then it will be my turn to be jealous,” he laughed, eyes growing glossy.

“Mark,” Youngjae breathed, his shoulders falling.

“Youngjae,” Mark urged, pulling his face close. “Go. Have your adventure. Because you are so much more than just a page in mine."

The midnights were always profound.

Jinyoung must have been about sixteen when he came to live at the palace. The son of a marquess who lived at the southern border where the land met the sea. And when it became obvious to Jinyoung’s parents that their boy was more comfortable in his books than anywhere else, his father leveraged his status to meet with the King. And at that meeting, he proposed a deal of sorts. That his boy would come live at the palace, as the ward of the King, and get the best education that could be offered. So that one day, when the crown fell to Mark’s head, Jinyoung could take on the position as his royal advisor.

Once Jinyoung came, the King was the one to introduce them. And immediately he spoke of their sealed fates. Their bond that would last a lifetime. And the meeting had them both visibly awkward, averting their gazes from across the room. Mark was unable to piece apart what it all meant. Because people had a habit of talking about his life with such a level of grandeur that it had become impossible to distinguish between imperatives.

But what Mark came to realize was that Jinyoung was the eager pupil the marquess had promised. Always putting his studies first. Reading and writing under the watchful eye of his tutors from sun up to sun down. So in those first few months, Mark barely saw him except for politely pressed lips, slightly upturned at the corners when they passed each other in the hallway. And even from their wary distance, Mark couldn’t help but admire the way the boy’s regal features wore in the light of the windows. His high cheekbones, his sharp jaw, his rich brown eyes that stared into Mark’s for only moments at a time before averting. Like glimpses into a world unknown.

No, it wasn’t until months later when Mark was restlessly tossing in his sheets that he decided to roam the halls. Candles lighting the way as the imposing paintings towered over him. And as he stared out the windows at the fields that unfolded outwards, a quivering light in his peripheral caught his attention. He turned, seeing Jinyoung standing at the end of the hall, a candlestick held between his fingers.

And they stared at each other for a moment. The silence of the night stretching on like a dream they couldn’t wake from.

Jinyoung took a deep breath, the candle in his hand flickering when he exhaled. “Sleep keeps refusing you?” he asked.

Mark nodded his head.

Jinyoung came closer. One side of his face illuminated in candlelight, the other in moonlight. And Mark couldn’t decide which one he preferred. “Shall we wander together then?”

Mark felt the stirring of something. A sensation like ill-tempered butterflies coming to life. One which was not common to the Prince. Because all his life people had stared at him with nervous eyes. Like they feared simply making conversation with him would disrupt his path to the crown. But something about Jinyoung’s presence. His intimidating beauty. His unhalting gaze. His inherent permanence. It was different. So he didn’t answer with words. Just nodded again.

The two boys walked together. The silence stretching on again. The watchful eyes of Mark’s ancestors and predecessors staring down judgmentally. Mark sticking out his tongue in response. And the Prince kept following Jinyoung until they ended up at the heavy doors of the library.

Jinyoung held the door as Mark went inside. And admittedly, it wasn’t a place that the Prince often went. Maybe back in his younger years, playing hide-and-seek with the ghosts and the dust bunnies. But ever since Jinyoung had become his father’s ward, this place didn’t feel like Mark’s anymore.

He went to the large windows, overlooking the palace grounds that folded out. In the distance a lake sat, a silver coin upon its shattered surface was the high moon reflected.

“What keeps you from sleep?” Jinyoung asked behind him.

Mark almost jolted, nearly forgetting he was there. He turned, seeing him seated in a plush velvet chair. A book in his lap that he was paging through under the candlelight.

“Chronic restlessness,” Mark commented, fingers tracing over a shelf of books, feeling at their weathered spines. “I’m afraid it’s fatal.”

“There is no cure?” Jinyoung asked, a smirk playing at his lips.

Mark sighed. “I’m afraid not,” he came forward, sitting on the floor. Crossing his legs and looking up at him. Feeling his robe dip a little too low on his shoulder. “Sometimes, I wish there was a magic spell. Or a tincture I could drink. Something to ease it. Something to put me to sleep and help me dream of places far away from here.”

Jinyoung was quiet for a moment, looking down at him. His warm eyes glazed in the yellow flickering candlelight. He opened his mouth, hesitating around the words. “Can I-” he started, recollecting himself. “Can I read to you?”

Mark was silent. Looking back at him with questioning eyes. His curls brushing against his lashes as they fluttered.

Jinyoung looked down at his book, smiling to himself. The dimples in his round cheek growing deeper like a pitted stone fruit. Sweet enough to eat. “When I couldn’t sleep, my mother would read to me.”

Mark licked his lips. Apprehensive but curious. He shifted onto his hands and knees, crawling forward. Sitting at Jinyoung’s feet and putting his cheek to the inside of the ward’s knee. Watching his eyes widen. And those mercurial little butterflies decided to quiver their wings again, as if their tiny little lungs were suddenly asphyxiated. But Mark swallowed the sensation down in favor of a gentle smile across his face. “Carry on then.”

Jinyoung’s chest filled with a breath. He looked down to his book, flipping through the pages. He cleared his throat. His voice so rich and warm when he spoke that Mark felt it everywhere. Admiring the careless way in which he formed the words with his lips.

“Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die,
I have travell’d a long way merely to look on you to touch you,
For I could not die till I once look’d on you,
For I fear’d I might afterward lose you.

Now we have met, we have look’d, we are safe,
Return in peace to the ocean my love,
I too am part of that ocean, my love, we are not so much separated,
Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us diverse forever;
Be not impatient – a little space – know you I salute the air, the ocean and the land,
Every day at sundown for your dear sake, my love.”

Jinyoung resealed his languid mouth. He closed the book. His hands smoothing over the leather. A look of wonderment in his eyes. From the words or from the Prince, Mark could not tell.

Mark lifted his head, his cheek still grazing at the inside of his knee. “Who wrote that?”

“Walt Whitman,” Jinyoung replied. He got up, stepping over Mark’s place on the ground. His robe flowed in an emerald wave behind him. He wedged the book back into its place on the shelf.

Mark twisted his mouth together, leaning up his back up against the chair. “You’re from the coast, right?”

“I am,” Jinyoung turned back. A certain optimism in his tone.

“What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

Mark breathed. “The ocean.”

Jinyoung furrowed his brows. “You’ve never seen it?”

Mark shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I’ve only known life here.”

Jinyoung took a breath. His eyes still glossy in that light from the candle. He came to sit down in front of Mark on the floor. Tightening the tie around his trim waist. “It’s hard to describe,” he shook his head.

Mark reached out, touching his knee with his fingertips. “Try,” he pleaded. “Please.”

Jinyoung blinked. He took yet another breath. Like maybe he’d been forgetting to do so. “It’s brutal. And beautiful. Always changing. It’s louder than you might imagine. But perhaps what’s most notable is the way it extends. Nothing but rippling blue as far as the eye can see. A whole horizon dedicated to it. And the way it makes everyone feel. The sailors, the fishermen, the townspeople, the birds. When they look at it, it’s almost like… Almost like-”

“Freedom,” Mark whispered.

“Yeah,” Jinyoung breathed. “Like freedom.”

The moment stretched on. Mark’s fingertips still against Jinyoung’s knee. The ward pulled away, standing up. “You should get some rest, your grace.”

Mark had a feeling. An emptiness. Like maybe he missed Jinyoung already. “Maybe you are right,” he sighed, standing to his feet.

Jinyoung pursed his lips. “May I walk you back to your chamber?”

“You may.”

And they walked back in silence. Jinyoung knowing the way. And when they arrived at the doorway, Mark turned to look at him. No candlelight in his hand anymore, just the moonlight shining through the hallway windows. And the way it hit his eyes, illuminating the depth of them. Depth that may have gone unnoticed by anyone else.

“I have something,” Jinyoung licked his lips. “Perhaps it could ...ease the restlessness. It isn’t a spell or a tincture,” he shook his head. “But it will have to do.”

Mark felt the smile growing on his face. “What is it?”

Jinyoung drew in a deep breath. He put a hand to Mark’s face, drawing him close. Pressing his lips into Mark’s. Softness on softness. And Mark couldn’t help but hear the echo of those words his father had said about sealed fates. And suddenly, that prospect of their inevitability didn’t seem so overwhelmingly daunting. For Mark was realizing, in that very moment, that sealed fates and sealed lips maybe went best together.

Jinyoung pulled away, thumb caressing against Mark’s cheek before tucking his hands behind his back. Like he had to restrain himself from reaching back out. “I hope you dream of places far away from here. And I hope I’m with you in them.” He bowed his head, walking himself back down the hallway.

The slowed flap of wings against the Prince’s diaphragm told him that those precarious little butterflies could breathe easy again.

For years to come, when midnight would chime on the great clocks and Mark’s restlessness would come roaring back, he could take to the hallways to find Jinyoung waiting for him. And the Prince discovered, in darkened corners or up against bookshelves, that the press of his soft lips was indeed the perfect medicine. In fact, perhaps the only fault was that the drug in question was especially addictive.

They were older now. No longer in the spring of their teenage years, but over the peak of their second decade. Their bodies firmer, their actions bolder, able to navigate around each other without words needing to be exchanged. Though between Jinyoung’s inclinations toward wistful eloquence and Mark’s affinity for spirited quips, the words were still there nonetheless.

Mark leaned into the sill of the library window. “It’s such a beautiful night,” he sighed. “I swear I’ve never seen a fuller moon.”

And Jinyoung came up behind him, whispering in his ear, lips brushing against the shell of it. “Then we should go admire it.”

Jinyoung had been studying the palace records and happened to know a defensive tunnel out of the palace that hadn’t been used in over a century. Dark and damp and perfect for intertwining their fingers as they navigated their way out past the palace grounds. On the other side, lay the distant lake. Sapphire blue under the light of the moon.

They were lying on the hillside that dipped down towards the water. Mark’s head in Jinyoung’s lap. The ward’s fingers combing through his dark locks. The night sky bright enough to illuminate Jinyoung’s book. The sound of the trees brushing together in the wind soft enough to carry his voice.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

“Shakespeare,” Mark looked up. “Is it not?”

“Indeed,” Jinyoung smiled down at him.

Mark’s face tinged with nervousness. He licked his lips. “Jinyoungie?”

“Yes,” Jinyoung closed his book, placing it down on the grass beside them.

“What did you hear about me before coming here?”

Jinyoung stilled. Eyebrows drawing together. “Why does it matter?”

Mark’s finger absentmindedly twirled itself into the ties of the ward’s shirt, eyes averting. “It’s just…” he tried to speak. “Well, I have a whole country of people out there, most of whom imagine that they know me as well as a character in their favorite novel. And yet I’ve never actually met them. It just makes me curious. What do they think of me?”

“Mmm,” Jinyoung hummed, a small knowing smile upon his face. As understated as the everpresent tenderness in his deep eyes. “Though few have been privileged enough to meet you, your reputation precedes you. The people yearn for the lore of Prince Mark, the Doe Eyed Muse.”

Mark scoffed. “Is that what they call me?”

Jinyoung smiled, thumb grazing the skin of his cheek. “Indeed.”

Mark looked up to the night sky, the stars hidden. Their intricate details, their complexities, outshined by the brightness of the moon in the foreground. And Mark ached with empathy for them. “What sorts of lore?” he whispered out.

“Tales of your wit and your charm. Your enigmaticness. Your quiet obscurity,” Jinyoung spoke, voice just as rich as when he read. “Without ever meeting you, they are taken by thought of you. And the people speculate on how one could properly hold the focus of your bright eyes. Or expose the pinpoints of your brilliant smile. Ruminating on how best to capture you, like a minnow always slipping between their fingers.”

Mark shivered. His body at odds with the coolness of the breeze and the warmth of Jinyoung’s words. “And what about those who have met me?” he asked, even softer. “Do I even compare to the caricature that has been pieced together without my consultation?”

Jinyoung fell quiet, his hand stilling against Mark’s face.

The Prince looked up. Seeing the slight furrow of the young man’s heavy brows. The unfathomable depth in his warm eyes. He swallowed. “What is it?”

Jinyoung blinked. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Mark’s core stirred awake. “Know what?”

Jinyoung breathed. His expression losing whatever it had just held. “Come on,” he shifted Mark off his lap, rising to his bare feet. “Let’s swim.” He started to gallop down the steep hill.

“Jinyoungie,” Mark groaned, calling after him. Still desperately trying to make sense of his words.

But the ward didn’t stop. Instead he pulled off his shirt and cast it aside, hopping out of his trousers before diving into the water. The glassy surface stilling for a moment as he swam beneath it, before he emerged. Standing and shaking his raven hair, pushing it off his forehead with the stroke of his muscled arms. He looked up at the Prince, cheeks like that ripened fruit when he smiled so lovely. “Come.”

Mark felt his chest double in size. The desperations he’d been carrying, to revisit Jinyoung’s words, giving way to new desperations. He pulled off his clothes, running into the water. Casting himself from the rocky shore and into Jinyoung’s open arms. Dissolving into contagious giggles.

Jinyoung’s chilled, dripping fingers came up, combing the curls of Mark’s hair away from his eyes. “My Prince,” he whispered. “My Doe Eyed Muse.”

The Prince smiled, feeling the sweep of a hot blush cross his cheeks. Thankful for the cover of cool toned moonlight to hide it. “Don’t address me like that,” he scoffed. “Please. My name is just fine.”

“Mmmm,” Jinyoung hummed, drawing his face close. “My Mark.”

And the Prince could have sworn it was the frigidness of the water that made it hard to breathe, but it wouldn’t have made it anymore true.

Jinyoung kissed him. The languid movement of his mouth tasting like the coppery lakewater. Cool against Mark’s feverish skin. The swell of his tongue against the serrated edge of Mark’s teeth, drawing a whine from his fragile, quivering chest. Breaking only to rest their damp foreheads together. To catch their shaking breaths.

Mark tried to deflect. As a means to quell the quivering. “Is the lake the same?” he asked. “Is it like the ocean?”

Jinyoung shook his head, the slide of wet skin against Mark’s. “No,” he sighed, diving back in to steal another kiss. “But it will have to do.”

A countless number of midnights passed before the issue arose. And not even at midnight at all but, instead, over dinner. Mark’s father making conversation absentmindedly as they trimmed away at their food.

“The Duke’s daughter will be coming to the knighting ceremony tomorrow. I hear she’s a wonderful dancer. Auburn hair and olive eyes. A sight to behold.”

“Mmmm,” Mark hummed. “I think I sprained my ankle today sparing with Jackson. I suppose it would be irresponsible for me to dance on it.”

His father sighed, dropping his utensils onto his plate with a clatter. Jolting Mark’s shoulders. “Son, you know what I am asking of you. You know you must marry and settle down one day soon.”

“I know, father,” Mark sighed, cutting into his food, eyes on his plate. “I’ve been made aware. Many times before.”

His father groaned, galled by his son’s passivity. “There are plenty of fine noblewomen, Mark. I don’t understand. Surely one of them has caught your eye.”

Mark licked his lips. He pushed his plate away. The topic of conversation inducing nausea. He dropped his napkin onto the table. “I’ll make you a deal, father,” the Prince looked up at him. “A treaty, so to speak. Maybe that's a format you’ll best understand.”

His father looked back, skepticism in his eyes. “Go on,” he sipped his wine.

“I will marry when Jinyoung marries.”

The King nearly choked on the wine, laughing suddenly. Putting the glass down and covering his mouth to stifle the sound. “Very clever, Mark,” he dotted his napkin to the corners of his mouth.

“I’m serious,” the Prince nodded. “I think that’s fair. We are both like sons to you. We are of similar age. We are both going to lead the country together-”

“But that is impossible,” his father cut him off.

“Why?”

His father looked at him incredulously. “As the King’s advisor,” he enunciated clearly. “Jinyoung is not permitted to marry.”

Mark’s face went pale. Everything in him freezing for a moment. But then he stood up, pushing away from the dinner table. He stalked like a storm cloud, through the palace halls, firmly setting his sights on the library. When he opened the door, a tutor looked up from his book and his maps, sitting across from Jinyoung.

“Leave,” Mark commanded the tutor.

The wrinkled man blinked behind the thickness of his glasses. “Your grace, I-”

“I said leave!” Mark seethed. “The ward’s lessons are over today.”

The man gaped, shuffling to grab his books and file out of the room.

Mark waited for the door to shut, turning to Jinyoung in his chair. The golden hour filtering in and warming his face in a way the moonlight never did. Making Mark ache to his core.

Jinyoung blinked, face soft and beautiful. Eyebrows drawn up in concern. “What’s wrong?” his voice came out smooth and warm.

But it couldn’t calm the fire that raged within the young Prince. “You never told me,” he choked out, his voice steeped in hurt. “Why did you never tell me?”

“Mark,” Jinyoung stood up, hands going to his face. “What’s going on?”

The ward’s touch only added to the flames underneath Mark’s fragile surface. He pushed him away, forcefully. Going to the window and looking across the fields. Feeling the quivering of his chest. The uptake of his breaths. Trying to breathe. Trying to calm himself. Fingers untying the laced ruffles around his neck, feeling like everything was too tight, constricting him. “You cannot marry,” he whispered out, throat coated. “If you become my advisor, you have to stay alone forever. Trapped.”

He heard Jinyoung’s slow footsteps approach from behind. “It wasn’t a secret, Mark,” Jinyoung spoke, putting a tentative hand to his shoulder. “I’ve known since I came here.”

“How are you okay with that?” Mark reeled, whirling to face him. “A lifetime alone, Jinyoung,” he articulated.

“I won’t be alone,” Jinyoung argued. “I’ll have you. My king to serve. And that’s all I need.”

“But you won’t,” Mark shook his head. “Because I have to marry. I have a duty. And I can’t be yours, Jinyoung.”

Jinyoung’s face twisted into a grimace. “What did you think would happen, Mark?”

“I don’t know,” he cried. “I thought that we’d both marry. We’d settle down and accept the lives we were meant to live. We’d grow up and move on as king and advisor. Find our own versions of fulfillment, however complacent they may be. But knowing that you won’t have that? God damn it, Jinyoung. I can’t ask you to sacrifice your chance at happiness for me. When I have nothing to offer you in return. Nothing but a palace that feels more like a prison. And a duty that shackles you to it. Can’t you see that?”

“I know, I know,” Jinyong kept repeating. He reached out, arms wrapping around Mark’s torso and embracing him. Speaking into his hair with whispered words. “But I don’t care, Mark. I just… I just want to be there for you. And I know what that means. I know I won’t be able to have you. Not really. But it’s close enough. And it will have to do.”

Mark felt the tears pricking along the line of his eyes. Breathing deep and pulling his face away just enough to start pressing kisses into Jinyoung’s soft mouth. Blinking the threat of tears away. “Jinyoung,” he whispered, hands sliding at the nape of his neck. “We should go.”

Jinyoung’s arms held him close, “Go where?”

“Anywhere,” Mark murmured into his mouth. “Anywhere but here. We can use the tunnel. Escape.”

Jinyoung pulled away, looking into his eyes. “You know we can’t do that,” he said, voice just soft enough for him to hear. “You have people to serve.”

“I don’t care,” Mark shook his head, the tears threatening to prick again. “I don’t want to serve them. I want to serve you.”

“Mark,” Jinyoung breathed.

The tears worked their way back up Mark’s throat. He tried to swallow them down as he spoke, but the words still came out, choked and sharp. “We could go to the ocean, Jinyoung,” the Prince begged, hands on splayed against the ward’s neck. His thumb rubbing over his soft cheeks and his firm jaw, memorizing the feelings. “We could stay there forever. Just us.”

“But it’s not just us,” Jinyoung shook his head. “What about your valet? And the boy who tends to the garden? What about the young lord you like to spar with or the knight you always dance with? What about the young composer who is traveling the world because of you? What about all of them? The people who need you here. Because there’s no one else like you here.”

Mark felt himself crumble, the tears breaking down his cheeks, eyes transfixed on Jinyoung’s face. “But it’s not fair,” he cried. “I want to be more than just my duty. More than just what the history books will remember. More than my conquests and my alliances. More than my knights and my council. I want to be all the small things in between,” his face so flooded with tears that every word was coming out drenched and choked.

“I want to be the hours I don’t spend in court. The words I say when speaking to someone I love. The faces I make when no one is looking. The places I dream of going when I fall asleep. I want to be more, Jinyoung,” Mark sobbed. “I want to be so much more.”

“You are, Mark,” Jinyoung’s brows furrowed in stunning distress. “You are. And we can see it. We can all see it. Even if the history books never do.”

“That’s not enough,” the Prince bawled. His body fell to the floor, curling up on itself. His chest rattled out his heaving breaths, hyperventilating. His face swamped with salt. “It’s not enough.”

Jinyoung fell to his knees, arms coming back around him. His embrace forcefully securing around the Prince, drawing him between his legs. “I know, Mark,” he whispered into his hair. Holding him tight enough to shatter him. “I know. But it will have to do.”

It was some midnight at a much later date. Jinyoung was lying in the Prince’s bed. Mark poised over him, trailing his fingertips in spiraling circles across his bare chest. Humming lightly as he tried to lull the ward to sleep. But in the quiet drowsiness of the moment, the words pushed out of him. “You should have been king, Jinyoungie,” Mark murmured. “Not me.”

Jinyoung looked at him. Brows furrowing. “What do you mean?” he whispered.

“You’re the smart one. The one with the plan. Blooming wherever you are planted. Those are the qualities a king should have.”

Jinyoung’s hand curled under Mark’s chin. “But I can’t light up a room,” he laughed, softly. “Or persuade people with a smile. Or charm even the saltiest of characters. Those qualities, the ones a king really needs, those are all yours.”

Mark sighed, eyes loosely rolling in his head. “I don’t know.”

Jinyoung nodded. “You’ll grow into it,” he said, smiling with firm assurance. “And I’ll be there when you do.”

And Mark looked at him. Imagining a Jinyoung who would stand by his side till the end of his reign, the end of his life. Thinking of the creases of his eyes deepening, the warmth in his voice roughening, the golden hue of his skin paling. Aching when he remembered that Jinyoung wouldn’t be his. Wouldn’t be pressed into his bed or whispering into his hair. And the sudden compulsion to purge the thought from his mind made the anxiety rise up his exposed spine. So he rushed to soothe it. “Tell me again,” he urged. “Tell me what the ocean is like.”

Jinyoung’s eyes flicked up and down Mark’s face, as if noting the subtle change in his disposition. His smile fell. Pausing for a moment. “Shall I read to you about it?”

“Please,” Mark nodded, forcing a smile upon his face. “I’d like nothing more.”

Jinyoung’s arms reached around Mark, settling the Prince against his chest. He reached for his book on the bedside table. Flipping open the pages and leaning the book’s edge against Mark’s lower back. He cleared his throat, preparing to read.

"He’s like the ocean.
Reflecting all the light,
Whether by moon or by sun,
Blind to his own opulent radiance.

He’s like the tides.
People plan their days around his ins and outs,
All living things, man or woman or celestial being, drawn into him,
Hoping to be one of the privileged few that’s drawn over him.

He’s like the waves.
The sound of his crashing like music,
Trying to fill the silence of his days with the falling,
Into love, into boys, but never in line.

He’s like the current.
Sometimes aloof and petulant,
Other times wild and unpredictable,
But always being narrowly dragged below the surface of his deepest fears.

He’s like the pearl of an oyster,
Beautifully trapped in the confines of an antiquated husk,
Plucked free only when he’s called to a duty he never asked for,
But despite it, he is the most free creature I’ve ever seen.

He’s like the ocean.
Because even miles away,
From the place that bears my name and crest,
I’ve never felt more at home than in him."

Mark smiled up at him. “I like that one,” he remarked. “Who wrote it?”

Jinyoung closed the book, putting it to the side. “Me,” he smirked.

Mark’s pointed smile and bright eyes widened across his face. He rushed in, kissing Jinyoung’s soft lips. Entangling himself into his dewy limbs. Thrusting into him in a way that had his gilded headboard knocking against the wall. And after they both eclipsed, Mark whimpering behind Jinyoung’s palm and Jinyoung biting into Mark’s shoulder to keep from crying out each other’s names, Mark lay curled onto Jinyoung’s chest.

“Jinyoung,” Mark whispered, his heavy eyes betraying him. “I lo-”

“Shh,” Jinyoung dragged his thumb against Mark’s lips, halting his words. “Go to sleep, my King,” he hummed, fingers combing through his overgrown curls. “Dream of places far away from here. Places where these days will never end.”