Archive of Our Own

feels like we started our love

a long time ago

as if it was always you and me from the start

Everything that Minho knows about Han Jisung is from word of mouth, whether unwillingly or otherwise. That he has been named as the heir to the Phoenix Throne. That he has not taken a single consort in the three years since he has been named wangseja. That he is getting desperate for the throne to be passed down to him, the wang ageing but still prevailing upon the throne.

That last rumour, Minho does not believe in.

He has seen the wangseja in court. In the grounds where the guards train. In the stables with his steed. He does not seem like the type of person to become greedy because he cannot continue to wait. Still, this is none of his business – as none of his business as the new wang can be – and Minho is only the son of a red-robed official. This is his business as much as it is the wang’s.

The courts are always rife with rumours, and through the years Minho has learned not to trust any of the rumours until it no longer becomes hearsay. He has better things to do, like learning from his tutor and reading his books, keeping his nose down.

Even with his nose down, he still manages to attract attention somehow.

Maybe I should have become a court dancer, Minho had remarked to Hyunjin a few months ago, son of a first senior rank officer, robes as red as his. And then the court would have had their fill of looking at me.

It is with that mouth of yours that will finally get you into trouble, Hyunjin said then, amused but serious at the same time.

It is also with this same mouth that Father hopes will get me married, Minho said wryly. Is it not shameful? Twenty-three, and not married.

Do not let the court hear you say that, Hyunjin said, rolling his eyes. Goodness knows how many inks and other gifts you have already received.

All from flatterers, they are empty gifts. I might as well feed them to the birds at the lake. I shall never marry, but I could care less.

That was what he had said all those months ago, but then talk at the court suddenly turns to the wangseja – and him.

There are rumours that you have caught the eyes of the wangseja, Hyunjin says two days later.

Minho looks down at his books. Then I suppose the wangseja must have caught me committing some atrocious crime. Must have caught me folding down a page of the court books in the library the other day.

You met in the library? Hyunjin asks, quiet even though the court is noisy at this time of the day. His voice is still as clear as day.

Minho shuts his book, looks up at the ceiling of one of the many rooms and wishes the noise and clatter of the court was replaced by the running water of the river and the familiar quietness of Gimpo. It has been so long since he has been home. The palaces are beautiful but Gimpo…

We did, Minho murmurs quietly. I did not think the wangseja would have paid attention to me.

The library, just two days ago. Minho still remembers it. The warm of the sun of his skin as it streamed through the windows; the hardness of the wooden chair digging into his flesh as he sat curled up in it; the call of his title, sweeter than he’s ever heard it before only to find the wangseja in front of him, four-toed dragon blazing on dark blue silk.

He had not known what to do then. Caught unawares with his guard down, thinking he was safe in the library. He had cursed himself for hours after that, having forgotten that he must always have his guard up in the court.

The wangseja had smiled at him. Your hair is so very pretty, he had said. Minho scrambled to his feet, smoothed out his hanbok and bowed.

Years of books and tutors could not have prepared Minho for this comment. Thank you, Your Highness, he had eventually said after finding his words again, I… I am helped – to take care of my hair. The servants crush flowers into the water. Then stopped again, suddenly aware he was sharing too much.

What flowers do you use?

Peonies, and hibiscus, Your Highness.

Would you do the honour of letting me know where your residence is?

…Your Highness?

And your name, if I may be so daring.

I… I am Lee Minho, Your Highness, son of First Junior Rank Court Official Lee. I stay in the third block of the Western Palaces.

Thank you. I assure you I have no ill will. The wangseja had smiled at him again. Have a good day, Lord Lee.

No – it is my pleasure. Thank you, Your Highness.

I did not think he would have noticed me, Minho repeats softly. His hair that the wangseja had so admired is loose today, shiny against his back and glowing in the soft evening sun. He wishes for the sun to set a little faster so he can return to his rooms already.

When the sun does set, the moon is softer that night. The palaces have windows that don’t let him out so he cannot hear the moon. Back in Gimpo, he used to sing to the moon with the geomungo under his fingers. Here, his geomungo is too soft in the courts and too loud in his rooms.

He goes to sleep for yet another night without being able to listen to the moon.

When Minho wakes the next day, his servants are already running about.

What is the matter? He asks, stopping one of them.

The wangseja is visiting your rooms today, my Lord, The maid says. We have just been informed by a messenger thirty minutes ago. Does my Lord wish to prepare for the wangseja now?

Minho sighs at that. Outside the window, the sun has not even risen yet – and the wangseja is coming to visit his rooms. What other ridiculous thing is about to happen? Becoming the wangseja’s first consort?

There is far less time than usual for the servants to doll him up like his mother insist they do. He tells them it’s fine if his hair does not get put up, and instructs them to open the curtains to let as much light in as possible. He has heard that the wangseja likes sunlight – but how much of it is true?

The wangseja is dressed plainer than Minho has ever seen him. Not like he has seen much of him besides in court, but that is not the point.

I am sorry for calling upon you at such an hour, The wangseja starts. But I could not help myself.

Your Highness, what do you mean…

This is for you. Two royal servants appear out of nowhere, one carrying a covered basket and the other a stack of books. Gifts for you.

Minho cannot begin to fathom why the wangseja is giving him these gifts. He can barely open his mouth before both basket and books are placed on the table in front of the couches. In this small living area of his, it is filled by the presence of the wangseja, standing there and looking more radiant than Minho has ever seen him.

The rising sun has just started to stream in through the windows, and it makes the gold thread in the wangseja’s clothes even prettier, shine even brighter. He is so incredibly handsome.

Your Highness, these gifts…

I want to get to know you better, The wangseja says. If you would allow me to. One word from you, and I will not disturb you henceforth.

Minho feels a little faint. Him, the eldest and only son of a court official? With no real title to his name, no real blood to his veins? What does ‘I want to get to know you better’ mean?

I – you are the wangseja, Your Highness. I dare not.

Please, He says quietly, do not think of me as the wangseja right now. Right now I am just Han Jisung. And I am asking for permission to court you, would you let me?

There is not enough air in this room of his. I… Your Highness – I don’t understand –

I have always seen you in court, Han Jisung says, You never participated in the court dramas, I have noticed. The people who talk of you have nothing bad to say of you. And if you will forgive me, I have seen some of the inks and poems that courters have given to you, but their efforts are of no avail.

So am I just some thing for you to conquer? Minho asks, feels the heat rise in his veins. Your Highness, I must –

You are not. His voice is calm. Steady. Reminds Minho that this is the same man who rules the courts with ease and has fought battles in the name of the throne. You are not a thing to me. I want to know you as a person. I have seen you reading books most of the court will not, I have seen your hand at archery.

Han Jisung’s eyes are steady. I know that you are intelligent, that you have a voice. I want to see it, hear it. Please, forget that I am the wangseja. Right now, I am Han Jisung.

Minho pauses, does not know how to think. All his life, he has only known Han Jisung as the wangseja, and now…

Call me by my name, if that will help.

I am not your consort, Your Highness, the court will have my blood if they hear me.

The court must have my blood then. I am giving you permission.

Then… I cannot call you anything else than Your Highness, but… I would – would be very happy to get to know you.

The smile that the wangseja gives him – oh, Minho thinks he would die a thousand times to see that smile again.

The basket the wangseja had given him is full of fresh flowers. Peonies and hibiscus and chrysanthemum and jasmine of the most beautiful fragrance. Where he had procured these flowers in the middle of winter, Minho does not know but he does not ask. The servants had been delighted with it, crushed them of their essence and bathed him with it, oiled his hair with it.

Now he carries the scent that the wangseja had picked out for him. It is so hard for him to wear it like he hardly care, when he is so intrinsically aware of how he smells, how the court officials must look at him. He decides a day later that he does not care, starts to wear the scent like a badge of pride.

Your hair smells wonderful, Han Jisung says. He has complimented Minho on this already. It has also been more than a week since he came to Minho’s rooms, three days since they last met again. Minho pretends he does not count the days since their last meet. Today, they are in the library once more.

It is the flowers Your Highness gifted. He does not add the ‘for me’ behind. As of yet, it sounds too intimate.

You do not need to be so formal when it is just us.

Your Highness, we are never alone at the courts.

Han Jisung smiles at him. And you would be correct. Would this give me permission to invite you to my rooms? I assure you we will only be in the common rooms, where others are less likely to intrude.

I did not think Your Highness to be so forthcoming.

You jest now, my – you may jest now, but you will change your mind if you’ve so much as spent a day on that awful podium. Court jabbering over each other with no regard for the complainant, and objecting in the most ridiculous of manners.

You sound tired, your Highness, Minho murmurs. Perhaps we should indeed retire to your rooms?

You like the evening sun, do you not? We shall stay here for a while longer before I must take my leave.

Must you leave? Minho blurts this out before he can think, and shrinks in upon himself, embarrassed.

I am afraid so. Han Jisung’s voice is so gentle. It reminds Minho of the creeks flowing in the background of his house back in Gimpo, and he wonders if his voice would sound just as nice over the geomungo.

No – I apologise, Your Highness. I – I was not thinking.

Indeed, I do not want to leave, that is what I wish, but otherwise I would not be the wangseja and sitting here with you. As for your thinking - will you not tell me your thoughts? I am so eager to know what you are thinking. All day, you sit in the court – and you pretend you read your books, I know of this – while you observe the officials, the ministers. Tell me, my – tell me, what do you think of?

Your Highness could not begin to fathom what I think of. It is all nonsense, certainly none of the laws and business and treaties that your court deals with. I have not been raised to think of that.

Is that so?

Your Highness, I was raised on books and music. If you are so eager to know what I was thinking of today – I was thinking of Gimpo. The waters there make such a beautiful accompaniment to my geomungo, and I can listen to the moon there. Do you make any sense of my thoughts, Your Highness?

You have beautiful thoughts, that is what I think. Do you wish for a geomungo? Or perhaps do you want to visit Gimpo?

Your Highness, you certainly cannot make me choose between the two things I have so wanted since I have come here.

You are right, I am being a little cruel right now. Do remind me, how many years…?

Just five, your Highness.

Five too long to go without visiting home.

I know some who have gone most of their life not returning to their hometowns.

That would make the palace their home already, no?

This is the same tongue that wins the court over, yes? I must concede, then.

There is something in your eyes that tells me you have not conceded at all. But it is getting late, and you must tire of the seja bothering you. Will you allow me to accompany you back to your rooms?

You are not afraid of the court talking, my Prince?

Let them talk, it will keep their mouths occupied. Better harmless gossip than besmirching campaigns.

I would be delighted for my Prince to take me back to my rooms, in that case.

You have been using my gifts, Han Jisung suddenly says when they are walking back to his rooms. In the bright glow of the evening sun, they make quite a striking scene. Perhaps Han Jisung more so than him, the embroidery of the four-toed dragon stretching over his shoulders and catching the sunlight with each step he takes.

Yes, I have. How can I not have? Your Highness made the effort.

Do you like the flowers, and the books?

The flowers are exquisite, the servants say they have never smelled flowers with such fragrance. The books too, are incredible. How did you procure them?

You certainly have a knack for not answering questions directly. I must learn from you, but now – do answer me honestly. Did you like my gifts?

I… I am – I am not used to having my opinions asked for or taken to heart, you must excuse me, Your Highness. I love the flowers, their scent is wonderful. I have asked the servants not to crush some of them, and they are on display in my rooms. As for the books – it has been a long time since I have needed to find my tutor to help me with my reading! You have given me work, Your Highness, I could not be happier.

I please to hear that, Han Jisung murmurs. Happiness is like jewellery on you. If there is anything you need, do tell me.

Anything?

Within my power, certainly.

Then, can Your Highness tell me when he will next visit me? They are now standing outside Minho’s rooms. There are servants and lower ranking officials milling about in the corridor at this time of the day, but Minho only has eyes for Han Jisung.

If, by this time next week I have not sought you out, you have my word to go to the East Palaces and ask for the presence of this forgetful, clumsy Prince. I will visit you at my earliest leave once the finances of this winter are sorted.

Your Highness, I was in part jesting. Please attend to the courts and the people first, I am of much less importance.

You say that, but I have seen your shoulders slump. Fret not, my – Lord Lee. I always notice your presence in the court. And I will have your gifts sent to you in my absence, you will not miss me.

‘But I will,’ Minho thinks as Han Jisung departs with a soft touch to his hand. More than enough affection for a busy hallway in the evening. He turns to enter his rooms and leans against the door, breathing out.

‘Goodness, what is he doing to me…’

He looks up, catches sight of the arrangement of the flowers Han Jisung had brought for him. The flowers are still gorgeous, water droplets glowing in the set of the sun, and the petals are soft to the touch.

The gold outside is dazzling, and it reminds him of the gold embroided into Han Jisung’s clothes, the colour of his hair in the day, the shine of his eyes when they talk. Want settles deep in Minho’s chest, and he tries not to count how many minutes have already passed since he left.

You will not miss me, Han Jisung had said, but, oh – Minho has already missed him for a lifetime.

Days pass, and true to his word, Han Jisung has servants and messengers visit, all bearing gifts for him. Baskets of flowers of the most wonderful fragrance, books that the wangseja used to own with his handwriting in the margins, blank sheets of paper for writing music, essences and oils that come in crystal vials with silver stoppers.

He is spending a fortune on me, Minho says somewhat hysterically to Hyunjin in the courts a few days later. I cannot accept these gifts, I am not worth them! He no longer cares about being overheard – most of the court has already seen them together all those days ago, and he does not know enough people for them to come up and harass him with questions.

I have seen you give away gold necklaces from previous suitors, what is the difference?

That makes Minho pause. Well… he is the wangseja –

The wangseja that is richer than any of your previous suitors?

When you say it like it sounds terrible.

These are riches that you are not unfamiliar with. What is the difference?

And what was the difference indeed? Indeed, he had been gifted jewellery and paintings and poetry before – but this time it was the wangseja. It was Han Jisung. Who had asked permission to court him, who had paid attention to the things he liked and sought to bring him these things.

I think you are falling for the wangseja, Hyunjin observes the next day.

Today, Minho’s hair has been oiled with the essence of lilies and jasmine, and his servants had threaded ribbons through the hair that was left down. A beautiful jade and gold pin held up part of his hair, dotted with the most delicate pearls. All Han Jisung’s gifts.

Is that what the court thinks?

You know by now I could care less about what the court thinks. This is what I think. Am I right?

I – I don’t know what it is like to be in love.

So you could be?

Well… I suppose so.

That is answer enough for today, I think.

Enough fuel for Minho’s thoughts too. He has never felt like this before, not with any of the suitors that have approached him. Is it because he is the wangseja?

No – Minho does not think so. He is not that shallow, or he would have married one of the other Princes when he was only nineteen and had just moved into the Palaces. No – he feels like this, because Han Jisung pays attention to him. Despite his busy schedule, he makes time to visit him, brings him gifts that are useful and close to Minho’s heart, wants to know his thoughts and opinions.

Makes him feel valued as a person.

Perhaps – it also helps that the wangseja is undoubtedly handsome, deep eyes like the clouds of a thunderstorm but mouth like the petals of a freshly bloomed rose. The wangseja has undoubtedly moved many hearts… how is it that it is him that has moved the wangseja’s heart? He cannot begin to understand how he has caught Han Jisung’s eye, but it only makes him more curious, makes him want to know him more.

Already, the wangseja has become more than a stranger to him – and he knows Han Jisung wants more than that, he asked to court – and maybe, maybe, Minho is taking this seriously. He had been fearful to take these pursuers seriously for fear of having his heart broken, reputation ruined, family dishonoured but – but maybe, this time, he can trust Han Jisung.

I think I am in love, Minho whispers to Hyunjin one evening.

The messenger had delivered a handwritten letter to Minho that evening, six days after last meeting Han Jisung. It was simple, just a few lines that Jisung would meet him in the library again in the late afternoon and that he hoped he was well. And that he missed him. He had signed it with Your Prince, Han Jisung, and Minho thinks maybe he could get used to this name.

You wear love well, Hyunjin says, smiles and pulls him in for a hug, quick and fleeting for they are surrounded by people. I hope he makes you happy.

It does not make sense to fall in love so fast… but – but, oh Hyunjin –

Goodness, you sound lovestruck already. Keep this down, Minho, or the court will know you love the wangseja before he himself knows it.

Minho takes a deep breath, clutches the letter closer to his chest and tries to settle his heart. He bids Hyunjin goodbye and walks back to his rooms, unable to stop the smile blooming over his face. Even as busy as he was, he still made the time to send and arrange these gifts, handwrite a letter for him, arrange free time so they could meet up –

Minho wants this to work. He wants this to work out so, so bad.

He is so deep in his thoughts that he does not notice a figure standing outside his rooms, talking to his father until he rounds the corner and comes to an abrupt halt in front of his rooms, startled.

Oh, there you are, His father says.

Minho opens his mouth, wants to ask what is happening, but then his eyes land on the other person. It is the wangseja.

Thank you, Han Jisung says to his father, and then his father smiles and bows, leaves for his own rooms.

What – I do not… Your Highness? What are you doing here?

I could not wait, Han Jisung admits, I could not wait to see you again. I apologise, I know I told you in that letter that I would see you tomorrow, but I had finished my duties earlier than expected today, and –

Your Highness, Minho interrupts gently, feels affection swell in his chest like the high tide of the seas, would you like to take some tea with me? I expect you must be tired.

I was, but having you here with me… I feel refreshed already.

Surely, you jest, Your Highness. Minho calls for tea – jungno-cha, he murmurs, from Boseong. And the desserts the chef has prepared today. The servants bow, curtsey, and leave the room only to reappear with bronzeware filled with sikhye and sujeonggwa and tteok.

It is not much, Minho says, but I hope you can refresh yourself, Your Highness.

I am not here wanting golden tea, my… I just wanted to see you.

Your Highness, Minho starts, folds the letter in his hands and places it on the table, what is it that you want to call me? You always start to call me by some name or another, then stop.

And… oh, has he made Han Jisung flustered? The wangseja is laughing a little, but his cheeks are flushed. Minho – likes it. He wants to see more of it.

I am not sure if you want to hear it.

Is it bad?

I daresay it is not.

Then I will hear it, if Your Highness will please.

Well then, I suppose you know I have noticed you for months?

That is what you have told me.

And that I did not know your name?

Yes.

And when I did not know your name, I thought of you with different names to make up for it. At first, it was Lord Lee after I knew whose son you were, but it seemed cold.

You call me Lord Lee, Your Highness.

I do, because that is what etiquette calls for.

You asked me to call you by your name, Your Highness.

I did.

Then, will you tell me what my secret name is in your mind?

I called you… lovely things. Beautiful voice, pretty eyes. And then, quite lately, my sweet, my dear. I thought to keep this for a while longer till you showed some semblance of affection for me in return, but I suppose you will have known now that I have told you these things.

Your Highness…

Come now, tell me, do you like to be addressed this way?

It – when you call me like that, it sounds like you are courting me.

But I am, my sweet.

Your Highness! Well… I – I think… I like it. I – I know I have been less forthcoming about my affections but my Prince, I assure you – this is not one-sided.

Han Jisung pauses then, looks at him. Looks softer than he has all day from where Minho watched him. You have a new name for me, my sweet?

Please, I am not used to being addressed as such, Minho says, just to steer the conversation in a different direction. I am Your Highness’ subject, that is all.

Call me again, Han Jisung says, studiously ignoring Minho’s deflection.

… My Prince.

Han Jisung smiles. Oh – to think, that just a week or two ago Minho had never known his heart could beat so fast with one smile.

It is nice to hear you call me that.

I can keep this name, if my Prince wishes so.

I wish so.

Then I will.

Do you wish for me to continue calling you like this?

I – yes, I wish so.

You are too good to me, Han Jisung says softly. There is something warm burning in his eyes and Minho is yet too shy to look up, even though he knows the same fire is burning in his chest. No one has ever addressed him like this, and the name sets his nerves on wildfire, makes blood rise to his cheeks.

I am the one that is being treated too well. I cannot thank you enough for your gifts, my Prince.

The best thanks for me is for you to use them well, and that they make you happy. I saw you using the hairpin I gave you, and none else for this week.

Oh! Your – my Prince, you noticed?

My sweet, you should know by now that if you are within my vision, there will always be some measure of my attention that is devoted to you. I cannot help it, as it has become second nature for me to do so.

I do not mind.

Are you giving me leave to look at you throughout the day at court?

Ah, will you only look? What a shame, my Prince.

Would you offer me more? I would so love for you to sit by my side and whisper your thoughts on the particular grievances the court has to offer me. It gets so dull in the evenings.

My Prince, you know I cannot be by your side unless I am your consort. But when you are tired, my Prince, I will be in the library. You have found me twice already, you will certainly find me again.

Indeed, Han Jisung murmurs, you cannot sit beside me unless you are mine…

My Prince?

My sweet, having you for this half hour has already cured me of my fatigue, but I daresay I shall already miss you from now until I can see you again tomorrow.

Oh, are you taking your leave now?

Indeed, for the evening sura is arriving and I must be there for the meals. I apologise for making all the fuss by turning up unannounced, my sweet.

You will never be a fuss, Minho says, means every word that he says.

You are too sweet to me, Han Jisung murmurs, raises a hand and strokes over Minho’s cheek with the back of his hand. I must take my leave now, I shall see you tomorrow in the library. Do not miss me too much tonight, my sweet, because I shall be the one to miss you too much.

It is a little unfair for my Prince to say that. I have already missed you so, having you for so short a time now will only make my heart crave for your presence longer.

Tomorrow, Han Jisung says softly, tomorrow, I will be yours for the whole evening.

Han Jisung departs from his rooms after that, leaving just the scents of pine and jasmine behind in his rooms. He does not say – but, my Prince, I want you every day, I want your breath and your smile and your eyes on me. These thoughts are yet for himself, and when he sits down on the couch again, his eyes slide over to his geomungo.

He had never played the geomungo for anyone other than his family and his music tutor, and rightly so. It was used as an instrument by the scholars for enlightening the mind, improving themselves, and so personal – sacred, even.

Approaching his geomungo, he runs his fingers lightly over the strings and thinks of the waters back in Gimpo. Thinks of Han Jisung’s voice, soothing and sweet; that same voice, harsh and unyielding, demanding in court and makes people fall to their knees. Thinks if Han Jisung will understand the depth of his affection if he offers to play the geomungo for him.

Minho turns away from his geomungo. It is time for him to take his own evening meals – but somehow he cannot erase the thought of Han Jisung from his mind, and the thought rises unbidden to his mind – having all of his meals with Han Jisung, being by his side the whole time – and Minho ducks his head to hide his flushed face.

It will be impossible for me not to miss you.

In the end, Minho meets Han Jisung in the gardens. The weather had been warm enough for him to sit outside to read his books as he watched the guards train not too far away. It had been so long since he picked up his bow – perhaps he should ask his tutors to arrange a day for him to practice again.

Han Jisung appears to him just a half hour after he settles down in one of the many gazebos in the garden.

This time, there is silence between them. Companionship. Han Jisung is clearly tired from the day of working at the court, and he sits across from Minho, eyes closed. Affectionate and wanting to comfort, Minho sets his books down and sings softly, a melody that his mother had sung to often as a child.

Han Jisung smiles when he finishes, opens his eyes and takes his hand. There is nothing of words between them, but words are not needed. There is the quiet of the afternoon air in the garden, the fragrance of pansies and pine between them, and the swell of affection for each other in their chest.

There is nothing more that Minho wants, except to have this one long afternoon last into forever.

It is barely sun dawn, yet Minho rises to his mother’s voice ringing through their rooms.

Make my son even more beautiful, Minho’s mother tells the servants, What does the wangseja like to see on you?

Mother! Minho protests, heat rising to his cheeks. What – why are you asking?

There has been a messenger sent to us this morning, son. The wangseja is asking to spend the entirety of today in your presence, and you are to meet at the garden library. Would you not want to dress up for the wangseja? The weather is finally favourable today, the servants can flower your hair with the flowers your wangseja has gifted you.

He is not my wangseja! He tries not to think that it has been exactly five days since their little escapade in the palace gardens.

My dear son, denial will get you nowhere.

Mother, you are embarrassing.

And your mother wants to see her son happy. I have not seen anyone make you happy as the wangseja does.

I… he does. He makes me – incredibly happy. My hair… the wangseja likes jasmines, but he also likes it when I use the gifts he gives me.

Then, flower his hair with jasmine and lilies and let him choose from the jewellery the wangseja has given him.

Minho, who usually protests loudly at being dolled up because it can take hours on end, sits in front of the mirror without a word and refuses to look up the whole time he is being dressed, cheeks so rosy that there is no need to rub pigment into his cheeks. The servants help him into one of his prettier robes, the lighter ones that are meant for summer; his hair is brushed and oiled, then the smallest of the flowers are cut and threaded into his hair with ribbons.

By the time he has finished dressing, it is well into the morning and Minho is about to miss his music lessons.

You must be the prettiest in court today, His mother sighs.

Minho tries not to roll his eyes. I am sure the consorts are dressed much better, mother. I have to leave now, or I will be late to my lessons.

But his mother is right, to some degree. Acquaintances and friends stop him on the way to his lessons, praising the flowers in his hair and admiring the colour and embroidery of his robes.

Spring must have arrived, one of the more loose-mouthed acquaintances says, for there is a flower in full bloom in front of my eyes.

He is being courted by the wangseja, a friend hisses, leave him be, or be it your head that the wangseja descends his wrath upon.

Minho smiles at them faintly and hurries on. He has never paid attention to the words they say, and this time is no different – except that he cannot help but long for the day to be afternoon already, for his – the wangseja to come and visit him.

His lessons stretch unforgivably long. His fingers stumble over the strings of his geomungo, he skips over lines several times when he reads his books, he forgets what he is trying to explain to his tutor multiple times.

We might as well stop today, Minho’s tutor says with a hint of amusement in her voice. Is there something on your mind, my Lord? She takes one look at Minho’s robes and hair, and the way he does not meet her eyes, and then smiles. I will leave you be, my Lord, and send refreshments up after your afternoon meals.

Thank you, Minho says, voice small from shyness.

It is my pleasure, my Lord. I shall leave some books here for you to read to pass the time. You cannot possibly spend the next few hours fretting and doing nothing.

Thank you. I shall write about the books after I finish them.

His tutor leaves him be after that, and Minho does his best to focus on reading the books. The afternoon meals come and go, and Minho sinks back into the same chair that the wangseja had found him in weeks ago and picks up his books again, intent on trying to finish at least one book before the wangseja comes.

It is not difficult. Even with anticipation making his heart thrum, he loses himself easily in the words, fascinated by the theories that it spells out. Without his knowledge, the high of the midday sun slowly starts its compass move to the west, casting a more favourable orange glow on the palaces and its inhabitants.

So absorbed in his books, Minho does not notice the library door opening and the flurry of greetings and bows that follow the figure that enters. Nor does he notice the footsteps that walk to his direction in haste, then slow down thoughtfully, as if the owner is admiring him. He does not notice the intake of breath nor the softening of the eyes until –

My sweet, I have arrived.

With a jolt, the book tumbles from Minho’s hand onto the floor and he looks up in earnest, scrambling to his feet to bow to the wangseja even as he feels a smile split his face.

My Prince, forgive me, I did not notice, Minho utters as Han Jisung draws closer to him, picks the book up and places it on the table only to take his hands after that.

It did not matter. I had the opportunity to observe you as you were in your happiest moments. And I am sure you must have already received comments about your appearance, but I must tell this to you myself. You have had the whole court whispering about you today, my sweet.

I assure you, my Prince, I paid them no attention.

Yet you have drawn yourself to my attention wholly. I could not go a minute of the day without thinking of you, and how exactly you must have dressed to make even the consorts whisper about you with such admiration and envy.

What does my Prince think of my dress today, then? You have only relayed to me what the courts have said, and I have no interest in what the court says.

These are the flowers I gifted you?

All of them.

And this jewellery, the necklace and the bracelets, they are mine?

I am only wearing yours.

This robe then, who –

I am wearing this for – for you, my Prince. All of this has been for you. The flowers and the jewellery and the robes, they are for your eyes only. I care for no other opinion.

You know, my sweet, my tutors have made such an effort to teach me how to write poetry and beautiful things – yet when I see you, no poetry or ink will ever do you justice. There are not enough words, not enough colours for me to convince you that I think you beautiful. Now, you will distract me with one thing or another to refuse my compliments.

My Prince! You flatter me, I do not deserve such praise.

That is where you and I differ in our opinions, my sweet. I have spent all the hours of the morning listening to the court whisper in front of me about how beautiful you look today, and spent all the hours of the afternoon conjuring images of you in my mind, each one more stunning than the previous. Yet, as you are here in front of me, every single one of these images I have thought about compare not to this. What must I do for you to be convinced?

You flatter me too much, my Prince… but – but it is nice to hear that you like it. You… you do not need to convince me of anything, but to stay with me for a while would be the greatest reward I can gain for bringing you some loveliness today.

You have been the only source of loveliness for me today, and I suspect it has been that way for a while. Today, I am yours for the whole afternoon, and if you are not too shy, would you let me look at you for a while?

My Prince, you have strange requests.

Certainly, but I think I may be excused. I have been so tired thus, but looking at you is like stepping into the gardens.

Then… not for long, my Prince.

Just a minute passes, not long enough for Minho to become uneasy and start fidgeting, then Jisung is holding his hands tighter. When he looks up, Jisung is smiling.

I have had my fill of looking at you, and now I must have my fill of your voice. Would you tell your Prince about your day?

I – I have not completed much today, my Prince. The morning was… it was spent preparing for you, and then I took my lessons. My tutor has left me books to read, and they are so interesting! Having been given the opportunity, Minho spills into a monologue about the books and the theories they have introduced to him, excited and enthusiastic.

Throughout it all, Jisung listens to him with a soft smile on his face and nods along. He asks questions about it in places when Minho takes a breath, allowing Minho to start again with renewed enthusiasm, and when Minho finishes telling him about the books and music he’s discovered, the sun is much lower in the sky, and gold bedazzles the palaces.

Oh, I have talked for far too long, Minho says, realising how late it had become, forgive me, I did not realise I was talking so much.

There is no fault in speaking about what you love. I have enjoyed myself thoroughly listening to you. You talk so well, and your thoughts and opinions are incredibly coherent. My mind has become alert from listening to you… I think you would make an excellent example to some of the court on how to speak.

Now you are truly jesting. I am not that good enough to be a tutor to others, let alone be an example to the court. You are satisfied now, my Prince?

I will never have enough fill of you, my sweet. Now, tell me – would you like to walk through the gardens, or accompany me to me rooms? If not, you are free to go back, I would not wish to keep you for longer than you wish.

No, Minho says before he knows what he’s saying. I shall accompany you back to your rooms, My Prince. The gardens are full of eyes. Unless you want everyone to know our business, I suggest not to frequent the gardens.

Oh, is it our business now? Han Jisung asks, just teasing a little.

My Prince!

You blush so prettily, Han Jisung says, and offers his arm to Minho. Come. I know which corridors are most empty at this time of the day.

You have used these ways often, my Prince?

When I want quiet, certainly. You are free to talk to whomever you wish to, but I implore you to keep this way secret from the court. God only knows they will stalk me down to hound me about the battle of the lands in the South again.

My Prince has implored me, thus my mouth is quiet. May I know what has happened in the South?

It is business, my sweet. Do you really wish to listen to the troubles of the land at this time of the day? Surely you have spent enough of the hours working at your books and music.

I do not mind. If it would make my Prince feel more at ease, certainly.

Han Jisung does not start speaking until they arrive in his rooms. Minho had never set foot in a room in the East Palaces, but here he was, clad only in a simple blue hanbok while the room about him burst with gold and red. The room is gorgeous, with the casual air of luxury that Minho had dared not dream of before, yet he only looks at Han Jisung, dragon on dark robes.

Minho is invited to sit on the sofas, beside Han Jisung, and then servants appear with delicacies – exquisite teas and pretty biscuits on delicate porcelain that costs more than Minho's life. Yet, he is told to eat off them, that what is there is for him.

It is not until Han Jisung is sure that he is comfortable that he begins to talk. He talks of the lands in the South and the dukes there that are fighting over land boundaries. There are no scrolls that lay out where the boundaries end, no books that the advisors can find to help sort out this increasingly violent dispute.

There is little to do. Either they fight out for ownership of the land, or the children will have to marry. I will have to pay these dukes a visit to know what they want to do.

Is it not dangerous? Minho asks, alarmed. The South is especially vulnerable to pirate attacks, no?

Yes. That is why it is so very important for these headstrong dukes to sort out their land boundaries. They provide support if the pirates do attack, I – we cannot afford to have them exert their forces over each other for this kind of matter.

Then... will you be taking some of the guards with you?

Not too many. There may be people who want to take advantage of the double blessing that is the wangseja not being in the palace and an increasingly ageing wang. You will need all the protection the guards can afford you. Han Jisung looks at him then, and then opens his hand, palm out.

My Prince?

Will you not give me luck and protection before I go? I leave in only two days.

And you are spending time with me? My Prince, you should be preparing for this trip!

You are as important to me as the battles of these lands are. Do not forget, my sweet, that you have given me way to court you. I do not intend on backing out on what I have promised.

Minho has to look away even as he puts his hand into Han Jisung's palms. Do not... say it so easily, my Prince.

Has no one approached you before, asking to court?

There – yes, there has been, but...

But you were not taken by any of them?

Because they were not interested in my thoughts, or my person, Minho finally says, looking back at Han Jisung. I have given chances before, but their interest was in my face, or to bed me. I would rather have never married than to have a shallow person as my spouse.

Han Jisung threads their fingers together. Lifts his hand and presses a kiss to the back of his hand. His eyes never leave Minho; it makes blood rush to the back of his neck, the tips of his ears, the high of his cheeks. To Han Jisung, it is like watching spring blossom before his eyes.

I agree, you are beautiful. Your eyes and nose and mouth, they are all beautiful. But to me, your voice and your thoughts and the way you speak make you enthralling. If I had the time, my sweet, I would listen to you all day, like I have today, for all of the days.

My Prince... I – I have nothing. My thoughts and voice are not equal exchange for name and blood. I... I don’t know what you can gain from me.

If I was looking for name and blood, I would have married a long time ago. I first saw you in the training grounds, and your fire was better than the best archer the guards have. Then I saw you again and again, in the library and in the court. You have no idea, I have wanted to speak to you for so long.

My Prince –

Hush, my sweet, let me finish.

Minho holds his hand tighter and continues to listen.

I heard you speak a year ago, to Lord Hwang, son of Hwang-dae-gam. I hardly remember what you were talking about, but your voice captivated me. I made such an effort to find out who you were, I so longed to hear your voice again. I still remember – you had such a light in your eyes as you talked, just as the light I see now when you talk to me. And if you will listen a little longer, my sweet, I will finish my story and let you go.

I will stay if my Prince wants me to.

Oh, but I want you, my sweet. I want you, all of you. My advisors have been of greatest help to me, and I endured their teasing in return for finding out your title and which family you were from. I did not know your name – they would not tell me, they said it was my duty to find out. I had intended on approaching you on your last birth-day, but I had to leave –

To help defend the people against the pirates, Minho murmurs, I remember that, my Prince. My father had fought in that battle too. It had not been three months since that battle.

I know. I met your father then. I sought him out and asked him for permission to court you, and he said he dare not be in my way if it was your hand I wanted.

Did you tell him to call you by your name too, then? Teasing. Bright eyes, brighter smile.

No, I did not, but I did assure him that there would be no ill consequence befalling him if he did not consent. Your happiness – and so your family’s happiness – was of my utmost priority. I… did not want you to marry me out of fear. I would so detest for my dearest to fear me.

M – marry?

Marry, my sweet.

You… want to marry me?

Do you not want to marry me?

No! I mean – yes? My Prince! Stop teasing me!

I am sorry, sweet, but your blush makes you even lovelier.

Oh, you are incorrigible. Why did you not approach me after you returned from the battle? I have seen you so many times in court since then.

My sweet, surely you have heard of the court whispers? Hmm… maybe not. Perhaps it is for the best that you hear it from me. Well, there were rumours that I wanted my father to step down, that I was greedy for the crown. I needed to quell these rumours, ensure there was no rebellion besmirching the name of the throne. It took much longer than I had anticipated, and so delayed my plans in meeting you.

I have heard of those rumours, but I did not believe them. You… I may not have known you as well as I do now, but I did not believe you were capable of such malice. I have seen the way you treat the commoners, even the hooligans.

And what do you think of me then?

I think them fortunate for having such a wangseja. And… myself, fortunate. For – having caught you eye.

You are not the only fortunate one, Han Jisung whispers. When had they become so close? Minho can smell the smoke of the temples on his clothes, and beneath that, the expensive essences that only the royal family use. It makes his head spin a little, and his heart skips a beat.

Am I not?

I am most fortunate for having had a chance bestowed upon me, to try and have you love me. To let me have your hand.

My Prince…

Will you give me leave to call you not by your title, but by your name, by endearments? I want to give you everything, your geomungo, your Gimpo, your flowers and books. Name it, and it shall be yours. I have so craved for your hand and your voice for months, will you let me have it?

Minho takes a deep breath; it does not work for all he takes in is Han Jisung’s scent, powerful and dizzying. This is so much power, to have the wangseja holding his hand and promising him the world, attending on his every word like the whole country does to his words.

Then you must return to me, Minho breathes, looks into Jisung’s eyes as deeply as he does. You must promise me, my Prince, that you will not leave me behind here in the palaces. He does not say, ‘I do not know how you could have gone as long as you have without having me’, ‘I have only had you for weeks but my heart pains without you’, ‘I feared nothing but now I fear not having you by my side forever’.

Say it. Please, say it.

Yes. Yes, you can call me anything your heart desires, for it is mine too. Yes, I will let you love me and adorn me as you see fit, for you are sure to give me what I want. Yes, my hand, my voice, my love – this is all yours, as your robes and your colours and your smile are mine.

And then, my love, what would you say if I asked you to marry me?

You should ask me properly, perhaps.

“Marry me, Lee Minho,” Jisung says, and then he’s holding both of Minho’s hands, pressed so close to each other.

“I will marry you,” Minho murmurs, hopes his heart will not burst out of his throat. “Yes, I will marry you, my Prince.”

“Will you not call by my name even if we are betrothed?”

“I… it is a little hard,” Minho admits. “Perhaps – after we are married –“

“Then it is all the more reason for the wedding to be soon, no?”

“My Prince!”

“I jest in part, my love. But the spring is coming, and the flowers will be in full bloom soon. You love the flowers, and I love to see you adorned by flowers. Will my love not consider marrying in the late spring?”

“Perhaps, if nothing else of greater importance troubles you.”

“You shall never trouble me, and my love, if you have forgotten, you are marrying the wangseja. The people will consider this of greatest importance above anything else.”

“Then… I would love to marry you in the late spring,” Minho says, feels like his chest will burst from all the affection he holds there, precious. “You love the sun, do you not, my dearest Prince? We will marry in the warmth, and keep the warmth for the rest of our lives.”

“You speak so beautifully,” Jisung says in an undertone, and is completely blind and deaf to the servants standing in the corners of his room, head bowed. There is only Minho in his eyes, in his mind and within his heart. “I want to have the scribes write down your every word, have the painters draw your every move.”

“There is no point,” Minho says, smiles as he reaches up to gently cup the wangseja’s face. “To live is to be in the present, my dearest Prince. Do not chase to immortalise the present until it becomes the past and you can no longer see the future. I will always be by your side, in the present and in the future.”

“You are right,” Jisung says, whispers. They are close. So close.

Minho wants to close his eyes, breath in the pine and jasmine that Jisung exudes. He wants to rub oil into the callouses of Jisung’s palms and run his fingers through Jisung’s hair, bleached light by the sun and the salt.

“My love,” Jisung says, and Minho’s eyes move up just a fraction to look at his eyes, thunderstorm dark by birth but dawn light brought in from love and affection. “Would you let me kiss you?”

“I did not think my dearest would be so forthcoming,” Minho says, an echo of words long passed by.

“I would wait, but I fear my love will not let me.”

“Then do not,” Minho says, lets Jisung pull him closer until their noses are touching. “Kiss me, my Prince.”

Jisung is so soft with him. The touch of his hand to his face, the touch of their lips together, the stroke of his finger over the high of his cheek – they are all so gentle, like he is afraid of breaking Minho. Despite his earlier bravado about living in the present, Minho finds himself wanting to preserve this moment, crystallise it like the simple sugar sweets he made as a child, to be able to relive it again and again.

When Jisung parts from him, he feels Jisung’s smile right against his own mouth – and truly, there is nothing else that he needs.

A day before Jisung is due to depart to the south to act as a diplomat between the two feuding families, Minho receives a letter from him. The letter itself arrives before the sun has even risen, and the messenger himself looks half-asleep.

“Lord Lee, a letter from the wangseja,” The messenger says respectfully, hands over the letter and bows his head. Awaits Minho’s orders and with a startle, Minho realises Jisung must have informed his servants to treat him with the same deference they treat the wangseja with. This small action makes his heart warm, reminds him that he is truly betrothed.

“Thank you. You may return to your quarters. I shall send a message back with my own messenger if there is a need to.”

“It is my pleasure to serve you, my Lord.”

The door shuts and Minho takes the letter with him to his bedroom, curious. He unfolds it with careful fingers, intends on keeping this letter like he has kept the two other letters Jisung has given him.

My love, the letter starts, and even when he is not around he somehow is able to make Minho flustered so.

Last night I dreamed of you. Most nights I do, but perhaps I will tell you these things when I finally have you in my arms during the nights. You wore the most beautiful robes of pink and orange in my dream, like the sunrises in Jeju. I still remember the embroided dragon on your robes – they were as bright as the smile you had. I know you will berate me for thinking about these things when I am leaving tomorrow, but would you let me make you these robes?

Let me know your answer, my love, whenever you are free. This Prince can only ask for his love to spare any blessings and protection before he leaves. I promise that I will return to you again, Minho, dearest.

Your Prince,

Han Jisung

It takes so much in Minho to not just up and dress and find Jisung. He forces himself to sit on the small sofa in his bedroom and not go anywhere, fingers delicately tracing over the ink of Jisung’s words, and then goes to find ink and paper. It is difficult to start his letter because his thoughts are spilling over each other like paints on canvas, but he finally dips his brush into the ink.

My Prince,

You are right. I would have berated you for thinking about me when you have more important things to settle. Yet, I cannot find it in myself to do as I would have. Even though I have said it before, I must say it again; you are too good to me.

I remember promising you just a day ago that I would let you adorn me as you saw fit, and this time it is no different. My wish is yours, but please, my Prince, I hope that you leave these trivial thoughts for later. You have all of my blessings and protections as you travel to the south, and I will patiently wait for you to return to me.

You must keep your promise to have me in your arms every night.

Your love,

Lee Minho

The letter is folded and sealed, the messenger is called and dispatched, and he returns to his normal routine, bathed and dressed before he prepares to leave for his lessons. Today he is more plainly dressed than he usually is, for his wangseja is not to visit him today, and it becomes tiring to spend hours on his dress and hair even though he adores to use the gifts his wangseja gives him.

Which reminds him – had his parents been informed of his betrothal? He vaguely remembers his Prince saying that he would be informing their immediate family of their engagement, but did he have the time to do that?

His questions are answered as soon as he steps out into the common rooms his family shares.

“You are betrothed!” His mother exclaims as soon as he arrives.

“The wangseja asked for your hand?” His father asks, sounding disbelieving.

Minho bristles a little at the tone of their voices. “Yes, yes I am.”

With his confirmation however, both his parents melt into bright smiles and Minho lowers his defences again, smiling as they start to ask him about the courting, the proposal, the wedding.

“The wangseja said that there will be a celebration for the betrothal, but it is to be delayed to the next week for he is obliged by royal duties in the south. Oh, son, you are to be married! To the wangseja, no less.” His mother is overjoyed, and Minho laughs, lets her fondle his hair and cheeks and hands.

“Are you happy with the wangseja?” His father asks, eyes deep and searching. All-knowing and powerful, the general of the battlefields. Minho had grown up to be nothing like him, only a scholar with his books and music, but his father was always proud of him regardless.

“I am,” Minho says, looks down. He is still shy. “I am so happy. I love him, father, mother – I am truly happy.”

Jisung had been both dreading and wanting to announce his betrothal after his return from the south. He knows most of the court will be delighted to hear him finally marry, and moreover to someone this beautiful and knowledgeable, but he knows there are some who will whisper. Some who will look at Minho and not see his hard work and kindness but his lack of name, lack of blood, lack of status.

Thus, he seeks to quell these rumours before they spread.

 “If anyone questions my decision any further there will be consequences,” Jisung says to the buzzing court after his announcement. Amends his sentence two seconds later before anyone can add something. “To question me is to question my love, and Royal Noble Consort Lee-bin’s loyalty. Now, the feast is to be held in three days, and I expect everyone to attend, to be civil, and to be merry.”

The court breaks into chatter once again, and when he descends from the podium, there is much wrangling of hands and congratulatory messages directed towards him. It is so much more preferable to the staring and cold eyes, so Jisung takes it, even if it takes a while to get through the crowd.

When Jisung returns to his rooms, the load of royal duties lighter with the double blessing of celebrating his betrothal as well as his successful return from the south, he finds his betrothed already waiting for him in his rooms.

“My Prince!” Minho says when Jisung enters the room.

Jisung forgoes everything else, steps toward him and takes him in his arms, presses a kiss to his forehead. “My love.” He holds Minho like that for a while, breathes in the scent of lilies and honey, nectar-sweet and dew-fresh.

“You have done well,” Minho whispers into his ear. “I heard of the success in the south. The children of the dukes will marry, and their alliance will fortify the hold in the south against the pirates for generations to come.”

“Have I?” Jisung asks, laughing a little hollowly as he comes away from Minho’s arms to look him in the eyes. “There were people that were already injured, and some were already far from saving. I should not have delayed this matter, there were lives that could be saved.”

“That is true,” Minho says quietly, holds Jisung’s hands, calloused against his own soft. “But you did not put it off any longer. Not all deaths can be accountable upon your head, you are not controlling the savage will of these power-hungry nobilities. If you let the civilians starve during a drought while we feasted, or if you let a village be taken by packs of wolves when there were guards to help, then that is blood on your hands.

But you did not, my Prince. You arranged the earliest possible time to meet these dukes, sent a court order to prevent more deaths and injuries, and you arranged a marriage, the best possible outcome of your visit. You have done well, my Prince, I am so proud of you.”

Jisung is silent for a while, then he pulls Minho into his arms again, huffing a laugh against the skin behind his ear. “I do not know what I would do without you,” Jisung admits, deep and throaty from the depths of his chest, and it reverberates through Minho, settles warm in his gut.

“And I, you,” Minho says, voice thin like crystal. “I know not how I have lived so many years without you.” He does not tell Jisung about the deep longing in his chest when Jisung is not around; he does not mention the pain and anxiety and worry for Jisung when he left for the south; he does not know how to put I have spent more moons without you but somehow the moons that I have spent with you are more precious into words.

“Then you do not need to wonder anymore,” Jisung says. “I love you, and we are to be wed.” Jisung cannot say anything else for fear for actually bursting into tears; his throat is already thick with emotion, just from holding his beloved in his arms.

One day, he will tell Minho all these things.

That he wants Minho to be by his side not just during the nights, but during the days, during his trips. That when he looks at the sun and the sky, he thinks of Minho’s eyes and voice. That when he looks at the moon and the sea, he thinks of Minho’s music and love. That he would kill a thousand men for Minho but pardon a million if Minho made the request of him.

“I love you,” Minho murmurs, looks at Jisung. “I do not know how love feels like but with you, I think everything is love.”

Jisung smiles at him, a little watery. Leans into him and cups his face, marvels at the softness of his skin, the bright onyx of his eyes, the coral of his lips. “Can I…?”

“Yes.”

Minho is honey, raw, then burned, and it sets Jisung’s whole body alight with flame. To kiss Minho is to hold fire in his hands and have it embrace him. He would have it no other way, and not for the first time, there is want, there is a need, there is want and need to take Minho to bed and love him.

Jisung parts with him. They are not yet married.

“Jisung…” Minho breathes. So little, and already he is ruined, lips redder than the roses in the gardens.

“You called me by my name,” Jisung says, laughs a little. “It sounds wonderful from your lips. I am most sorry to distract you, but distract you I must. Would you like to see the robes I had the seamstress make for you?”

“I thought I had told my Prince to keep these trivial thoughts for after your return?”

“Well, I found an hour to spare before my departure, and the seamstress was most delighted by my request. Indeed, I think she had hinted to me that she was looking forward to the wedding. Here it is, my love, what do you think?”

Minho is – lost for words. The robes are exquisite. He cannot possibly allow this garment to touch even a square inch of his skin.

The robes are layers and layers of the finest silk, patterned with flowers and embroided with dragons on the shoulders and down the sides. Gold against the prettiest orange and pink, made to complement the wangseja’s own clothes, it must have cost a fortune to have made this – and in such a short amount of time. But there is more than just the robes – there is a green baetssi daenggi to accompany the robes, and Minho has to blush at the meaning of the colour.

“My love, what do you think?”

Minho cannot wear this. This is worth more than his life.

“I – it is exquisite. It is gorgeous, my dearest Prince, but… I cannot wear it. This – I am – I am not worthy of wearing these robes, I must not.”

“Who is telling you these things?” Jisung asks gently, pulls Minho away from the robes into his arms instead. “Whose words are you following that is not your own? I give you these robes because I think you deserve them, but I cannot compel you to wear them.”

“I… I am not used to such luxury,” Minho admits, gives the robes a lingering look. “I know I will marry you, but I am not marrying you for your wealth or the luxury that you can give me. I only want to marry you, and everything else is an afterthought. After all this time, I sometimes forget that you are not mine, you are our wangseja.”

“The wangseja belongs to the country, but I belong to you. Han Jisung is yours, even when my name no longer exists when I take the throne. I have told you to call me by my name since the first time we met, and I hope to always be known to you by that name.”

“I marry Han Jisung first,” Minho murmurs, “and I marry the wangseja next. Please let me get used to this, my dearest. I do not think I will even respond when people address me by my new title.”

“You will have all the time you need, my love. To me, you will always be the man I saw in the library, curled up in the chair and deaf to the rest of the court, so entranced by the worlds the inks parted to you. I love all of you, my sweet, and I will only find new things to love.”

And when Minho looks into Jisung’s eyes, he sees thousands of sunrises, millions of sunsets, and a sea that holds a forever within it only for them.

The wedding takes months to organise, not only because it is the wedding, the most anticipated wedding of the years, but also because of Jisung’s obligations to his royal duties. He is often pulled away from preparations because of court hearings, or to settle some duties in various parts of the country.

Away for days and weeks at a time, the separation taxes Minho sorely – but he does not wallow in it. He finally asks his tutors to resume his lessons in archery, knows that he will be useful in this way. It takes weeks for his wangseja to even agree to considering having Minho travel with him, but once he is reminded of how good Minho is at firing, he agrees.

The first time Minho travels with his Prince on some royal duties, he is astonished to find the commoners greeting him, looking at him with something close to reverence.

“It is because you are radiant,” Jisung says, every breath full of enamouring affection.

“It is because they know you are to be the Royal Noble Consort, Lee-bin,” Jisung’s head guard says, parts amused and respectful at the same time. He must have been used to Jisung talking about him when they are on the road for days.

“They are too kind,” Minho murmurs, “I have done nothing.”

“Lee-bin, forgive me,” Jisung’s head guard says, “but was it not you that suggested the palace’s stores of grains be distributed to the public for the floods have failed the harvests in the east? The commission of the building of more schools in the public districts, that was your doing as well, am I correct? Even though you have not officially assumed the title, you are already bringing more good to the people. They are more than happy to see you assume the role.”

Minho does not really know what to say. He had only tried to tackle what he thought were pressing issues. In Gimpo, he had gone out into the streets much more frequently than here, in Seoul. He was nobility and admittedly, could never understand the sufferings of the most poor, the struggle to survive – but he saw them. He could not stand to see them suffer so

He had always wanted to help, in one way or another. What riches his family could spare, he begged them to help the most needy; here, through friends and acquaintances and his father, he had made suggestions to the higher officials to consider. Now, as the future Royal Noble Consort, he is free to make his own suggestions. He had only done what he thought was right.

“I could not have had anyone better to rule with me,” Jisung murmurs low in his ear as they walk through the streets. They don fighting robes today, muted in colour, and it takes the pressure of Minho’s shoulders for a while, allows him to pretend they are just two people who are in love.

“Rule?”

Jisung smiles mysteriously. “Rule, my love. Not quite yet, but not too far either. It is a lot to ask of you, my sweet, but would you stay by my side even then?”

“I did not forget that I am marrying the wangseja,” Minho says, gives Jisung a smile. “I will always be by your side.”

The arranging of their wedding is left to the Queen Dowager and several other people, including Minho’s family. Minho had been most terrified to meet the Queen Dowager, but Jisung had clearly inherited her sunny and kind disposition. She had welcomed Minho, told him she had never seen Jisung as happy as he was now, and told him in no few words that she would help him when Jisung ascended the throne.

And there was so much to learn as well. He could not be more grateful for her help.

The winter had long melted into spring, and as the flowers continued to bloom, the date of their wedding grew closer and closer. As the date drew nearer, the load of royal duties they need to attend to are lessened, but they see much less of each other as both sides start their preparations. They are fitted for their wedding robes, their headpieces are tried and recrafted to suit them perfectly, and the menus for the feast is drawn up.

The morn of his wedding, Minho feels only happiness.

The servants rush about him, adorning his hair with flowers and his body with jewellery, but Minho does not complain, lets them do as they must. His mother is in the room with him, and she has to hold back her tears when he finally stands and lets them place the headpiece on him.

He is going to marry the love of his life.

Even with all the effort that has been put into the wedding, Minho must admit that he does not remember much of it. He only remembers seeing Jisung through the red of his veil, remembers tasting flowers on his tongue when they drink the wine, remembers hearing Jisung saying his vows, remembers smelling Jisung’s essences of pine and jasmine when they lean in close, remembers feeling Jisung’s palm in his and knowing it could not have gone any better.

Remembers Jisung’s heat next to his, and the whisper of I love you to the heavens, my sweet that is for his ears only.

It is something he will remember for the rest of his life.

“Say my name, my love. Please.”

“…Han – Han Jisung.” The wangseja.

“Again.”

“Han Jisung.” His prince.

“Again.”

“Jisung.” His husband.

Jisung smiles at that. They are alone in this room, this room that is red and bursting with flowers and gold and dragons, but somehow Jisung looks at him like he is light in a dark room.

“We do not need to continue if you are uncomfortable,” Jisung says softly. “I have you as mine, I am more than content.”

Minho swallows, wonders how to put his want into words. How does he say, no one has touched me before you, I have not let them; how can he say, the featureless faces morphed into yours in my dreams; how would he say, I have come more times with your name on my lips even when I knew no one else’s name.

“My love?”

“I want to have you, if you will have me,” Minho says. His wedding robes feel incredibly heavy, but the way into Jisung’s arms is exceptionally easy. “I have waited for this for so long, my Prince, will you not make me happier?”

Jisung’s eyes darken, and when he kisses Minho, there is little patience in his kiss. Minho has been kissed perhaps a handful of times in his life, and he is easy to succumb to it. He loses himself in the kiss, makes the sweetest little noises that causes Jisung hold him closer, and even through the layers and layers of clothing, the heat builds between them incessantly.

“You want this, my love?”

“I want you.”

The air of the room feels cold on his bare skin, but it warms when Jisung kisses a path over it. The oil smells different – it is not lilies but jasmine, and feels silkier on his thighs. Most of all, he does not need to imagine, to wonder how Jisung will take him –

Because Jisung is here, hovering on top of him and watching him mewl and pant and beg for it, dark eyes but soft smile.

His husband is so gentle with him. He does not move until Minho begs him too, asks if he can plant bruised along the column of Minho's neck, makes sure Minho feels good.

“Did you feel good, my love?” Jisung murmurs, brushing away Minho's bangs from his forehead.

“The best,” Minho says.

Jisung has to smile. Minho is still so shy even after this, cheeks red from sex and suffusing him with the prettiest glow. As he lies here, bare and sweaty and made to feel good by his own hands, Jisung begins to think want has a face and a name. 

“Let me get you something to clean,” Jisung says, starts to part from Minho's body, but then Minho is stopping him, hands on his shoulders and dark eyes bright. “Love?”

“You... you took care of me,” Minho begins, “let me take care of you too.”

“Oh, my love, I have already felt good. Seeing you come undone was better than anything else than I could have imagined.”

“I want to take care of my husband –“ Minho looks at Jisung from under his lashes, smiles as he hears Jisung take in a rapid breath, “- would my husband not let me?”

“And how would you take care of me?” Jisung murmurs, voice low and pressing down until they’re skin to skin again. The air between them smells like lilies and jasmine and the expensive essences and Minho wants it like he wants sikhye on the hottest summer days.

“I want you to do whatever you want to me,” Minho breathes, sweet and willing. “I am yours, make me yours.”

“My love...”

“I have promised you, yes? My voice and my thoughts and my love are yours... but this –“ Minho takes Jisung's hand, presses it to the bruises on his throat, reminds Jisung of what he’s done, “- this is all yours.” He cannot say, my body is yours because he is too shy; he cannot say, take me until I forget my own name because the words will not emerge; he cannot say, love me until the only thing I know is your name on my lips and you on my body.

He is still too shy.

But Jisung can tell. His dear, dearest husband, who leans down to kiss him and whisper dreams he has had in his ear, of lily skin and jasmine fragrance, knotted long hair and the sweetest whines.

It is heat and sweat and sex all over again, but tenfold – hundredfold.

Jisung is a little more cruel than Minho expected, but he finds that he loves it. When Jisung stops, refuses give in, does not give him what he wants, he suddenly gets the filthiest mouth, whines and whimpers for Jisung.

You drive me crazy, Jisung says, and then Minho cries, shuts his eyes.

Please, He says, voice broken and so bared to the room, to his husband, that he feels shy. Please… I need –

Say my name.

Ji – ah – Jisung.

Louder.

I… I – it is embarrassing, please...

I shall not force you if you do not want to.

Minho opens his eyes, struggles to find his breath again. Jisung looks beautiful over him, taking his pleasure freely, and Minho wants. Wants so badly that there is fire in his belly and light in his nerves. Takes a deep breath full of jasmine and pine and lilies.

“Jisung,” Minho says, clear voice ringing through their chambers.

“Minho,” Jisung returns, drives into him again to hear his voice.

“Will you – will you let me – please, Jisung, my – my husband –“

“I shall never tire of hearing you call me like that,” Jisung says, low in the skin of Minho's neck and shoulder. I will let you, my love.

It is perfect. All of his moments with Jisung are perfect – but this feels a little more perfect. Maybe it is because it has been months of wanting, months of pulling away when he has been kissed a little too hard, months of waking up hot because of his dreams and not knowing what to do.

It feels like playing the ending notes on his geomungo to a particularly favourite piece.

And when Jisung collapses next to him, exhausted but perfectly content, Minho knows he has found – his favourite. His favourite place to be, his favourite scent to breath, his favourite person to be with. All of his love, his affection, his voice and his words and his thoughts, none of them will be spared when it comes to his husband, and the spaces between their fingers fill perfectly when their hands slide together.

The wangseja may be the country’s, but Han Jisung is his.