Archive of Our Own

Long before their engagement is announced to the general public, or even to Seungmin’s husband-to-be, he has a choice.

“You can say no,” his mom assures him, but the hard look in his father’s eyes, the tight skew of his twice-cracked lips, tells a different story altogether. The leaky faucet in the kitchen drips, yes...yes...yes. The creaks and groans of their basement dwelling, walls buckling inwards from mildew like a person holding in their breath, speak a similar tongue as well.

She grabs ahold of Seungmin’s hands, her own like baseball mitts leathered from years of hard labor, sunburnt but warm. She says with less conviction this time, “It’s okay to say no.”

“Do you want me to say no?” Seungmin asks, because he always asks, even though he already knows the answer.

It’s his father who speaks with a tone reminiscent of flint striking steel. “We would want for nothing, if you say yes.” The levity of the moment briefly clogs up his throat, gruff voice made gruffer trying to work through the heaviness.

Seungmin sits quietly and listens.

“Just think: no more struggling to make ends meet or scrounging for money to pay rent at the end of the month. Your mom could retire and get the treatment she needs for her knee, without having to worry about how we’ll afford to eat just so she can walk without a limp. No more second-hand clothes or haggling down prices at the market. We could get a nice house with a yard -- a place you would be proud to call home for once in your life. We could get that dog you’ve always wanted.”

Ha. Seungmin wants to laugh for some reason. He wonders if he could’ve gotten away with asking for a pony instead.

His dad continues, “We could have all that and more. The world, if you asked for it, Seungmin-ah. And all you have to do is say yes.”

His mom doesn’t interrupt this speech despite her earlier assurances that they’d support him no matter what; and the way she’s sitting stock-still, only moving to draw back her hands and twiddle nervously with her fingers, is answer enough.

Seungmin deflates, just a little. Shoulders falling, curling inwards. Like he could fold himself into nothing at all.

“I--”

His eyes flicker between both parents sitting across from him in the living room, feeling conflicted. A pit opens up in his stomach that he tries to bury with resolve.

Seungmin can’t fault either of them for falling victim to the temptation of wealth. For a family hovering in and out of poverty, this engagement is a lifeline; the only one they’ll be granted, coming in the form of a letter stamped with red wax and the Royal Seal, the contents of which contain a promise and an unlisted number at the bottom of the page.

Seungmin’s future, handwritten in ink. Permanent from the moment the pen touched the page.

His mom tells him gently, “You have until the weekend to decide.”

But the weekend feels forever away. Time is precious. Time is money . And Seungmin knows they have bills due tomorrow, plus three months of rent still left unpaid. Just earlier, he had to turn the volume up on his ancient relic of an iPod to drown out the sounds of their landlady pounding away at the door, chain lock hanging on by a sliver of wood as she pressed her face into the gap and searches for someone to yell at, to take her seriously when she threatens to evict them again -- Seungmin, usually. He swears the sound of her voice is more familiar to him than the Day6 album he’s constantly playing on loop.

Seungmin brings his hands into his lap, hidden beneath the table, and fists at the fabric of his pants. One breath in and one breath out.

“I don’t need the extra time,” he says, sounding tinny and far away to his own ears; an out of body experience, separating himself from the Seungmin who asks even though he already knows the answer and from the Seungmin who says with a sureness he doesn’t feel, “You can call them, Appa. You can tell them that I said yes.”

☼

If asked, Seungmin will say that he was given a choice.

In reality, it is not much of a choice at all.

☼

They are not quite strangers but not quite friends. Classmates technically, although Minho is two years ahead and a dance major. Royalty or not, Minho lives in an alternate reality compared to Seungmin who studies accounting, boring but practical, but also guarantees him a steady paycheck and a roof over his head after graduation. Minho doesn’t need either of those things, for obvious reasons. He simply dances because he loves it and because he’s good at it, even though he will eventually have to give it up, just like he has to give up Han Jisung.

The thought of it makes Seungmin wince.

He and Jisung are also not quite friends, but are closer due to their mutual connection through Hyunjin. Like a celestial being, the dancer pulls everyone into his orbit, and does just that with Seungmin and Jisung, who revolve around him in concentric circles that only occasionally overlap.

Hyunjin drags him along to locate Jisung on one such occasion, their collective friend group planning on celebrating the end of the semester at a nearby noraebang. Hyunjin simpers, “My treat Seungminnie!” after they submit their final exams and all but rips out the younger’s arm off as he embarks on a search and rescue mission with Seungmin as his reluctant accomplice.

The two of them wander around the Arts building next door, poking their heads into every studio and classroom looking for Jisung, who hasn’t responded to any of Hyunjin’s texts except for the one earlier agreeing to meet them out front at 6 PM. 25 minutes later, at nearly half past, Jisung is still nowhere to be found.

“He should be around here somewhere,” Hyunjin mumbles, bowing in apology after interrupting a string quartet in the middle of practice. They’re all wearing similar expressions of annoyance when they around, perfectly harmonized in their reactions, down to the timing too. Hyunjin quickly closes the door, grumbling, “That asshole probably got caught up with 3RACHA stuff and lost track of time again.”

“3RACHA?” Seungmin questions while getting pushed from behind, rounding the corner with so much momentum he nearly bowls over a group of freshmen girls with instruments strapped to their backs. The edge of a guitar case clips him on the shoulder while they’re barreling past.

Hyunjin only slows down when they reach a new and yet unexplored wing, although to Seungmin they all look pretty much the same. The blonde peers into the glass panel of the closest door. “Jisung’s group,” he explains. “They call themselves 3RACHA and their stuff is pretty amazing, actually. They’re starting to gain traction in the underground rap scene, although the three of them are also signed to JYPE.”

JYPE? “Jisung’s an idol?”

Hyunjin snorts. “He wants to be.”

Seungmin didn’t know that. Seungmin doesn’t know a lot of things about Jisung.

They continue to search for another few futile minutes before Hyunjin gets an idea, muttering, “I wonder if . . .” before once again taking off with Seungmin in hand. He feels a little like a ragdoll, being so easily yanked around.

“Where are we--”

“Dance studios. Upstairs.”

“Ah,” Seungmin says, still very much confused. One of the few things he does know is that Jisung is a music production major. The upper floors, where all the dance majors practically live, are more so Hyunjin’s stomping grounds. Why would Jisung be found upstairs?

After climbing three more flights, Hyunjin bypasses all of the practice rooms closest to the stairs and heads straight for a spot located at the end of a hall. The door sits slightly propped open while the closing notes of a song filter out through the crack -- he thinks it’s EDM? Or maybe House? -- easily discernible from a few meters away. The conversation that follows the end of the track is as well.

“Did you like it hyung? Did you like the song?”

“Yeah, I did Hannie. I liked it a lot.”

Seungmin startles upon recognizing the second voice, the echoes of it soft and low and laced with an affection he’s never heard before in Minho’s tone. The Crown Prince is usually so clinical when delivering speeches on TV or just the other day, while introducing himself over the phone.

“For the family meeting, let’s set the date for next week so I can get my affairs in order. Please.”

“That’s fine with me, your High -- um, Minho-ssi.”

Seungmin’s initial instinct is to either interrupt or leave, but Hyunjin stops him by circling a hand around his wrist and pressing a finger to his lips. “They’ll see us,” Hyunjin whispers, because Minho’s since turned around and is now facing the door. No matter what, it’ll look like the two of them are eavesdropping, so Hyunjin mutters something about how they might as well get something juicy out of it and creeps closer, out of sight. For the third time, Seungmin gets towed along behind.

He watches through the gap as Jisung excitedly waves his hands.

“The Suits are still ironing out some details behind the scenes, but Channie-hyung’s pretty confident that this is going to be our debut song. Can you believe it? We have a debut song!”

“Congratulations, Jisung-ah.”

“What’s up with your face? Is something wrong?”

There is a pause, a moment of tension stretched tight enough to snap, before he hears Minho release it with a sigh. “I’m getting married.”

Seungmin stiffens. He’s sure Hyunjin can feel it beneath his grasp and hopes it comes off as more of a general surprise. The engagement has yet to be officially announced. No one outside of his and Minho’s family is supposed to know about it.

“What?” Jisung whispers with one stilted breath.

“I’m getting married,” Minho repeats.

“You were seeing someone? Since when?”

“No. This whole thing was arranged by my grandfather, to thank a man who once saved his life. Everyone thought it was just lip service until he brought it up again on his death bed. Now my family is insisting.”

“An arranged marriage?” Jisung marvels. “To who?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Minho is flippant. He declares, “I want to get married to you.”

Jisung blinks his wide doe eyes, surprised; rounded cheeks flushed pink to match the peach ring of his lips. “What--what are you saying, hyung? Do you . . . to me?” He flushes harder.

“Yes,” Minho says with all of the authority instilled in him since birth, surer in this than he’s sounded about anything else. More than diplomatic missives and state of the nation addresses, Minho seems sure about Jisung. “Let's get married, Jisung-ah. Let’s elope and run away.”

Jisung blanches at the words. “Hyung, you can’t.”

“I can’t or you won’t?” Minho snarls. Seungmin peers over Hyunjin’s shoulder in time to see Jisung's full-body flinch, clearly not used to being on the receiving end of such hostility from Minho. Opposite of him, the Crown Prince seems more like a wounded animal lashing out than an apex predator going in for the kill.

Jisung stutters, “But I’m going to d-debut.”

“And I’m going to be King. Of Korea and of 52 million people. But Jisung-ah, I need you to know that I would give all of that up in a heartbeat for you.”

“I couldn’t.” Jisung blinks rapidly like he’s buffering, trying to process the thought. “I would never ask that of you.”

Minho is so raw in this moment, glass-brittle vulnerability clearly evident in the lines of his face, and Seungmin itches with the need to avert his gaze. He wants to run away. 

Minho laughs, wet with emotions he’s much too disciplined to release, but obvious in the tears, unshed, collecting like dewdrops in his eyes. “Can I expect anything from you, Jisung?” he asks. “Anything at all?”

Jisung doesn’t look like he’s faring any better, head hanging low. His voice is small and yet there is a vein of determination like iron running through its core. “You shouldn’t, hyung. I’m going to debut.”

A moment of silence follows. Seungmin doesn’t dare breathe.

It’s broken up by a resigned sigh before Minho concedes, “And I’m going to be King.”

Jisung adds in a quieter voice, “Good luck on your marriage, hyung. I wish you every happiness.”

Minho smiles sadly. “You were my happiness, Jisung-ah.”

Seungmin gets a text later that night as he’s preparing for bed.

Lee Minho

You can schedule the meeting for sooner. I settled everything I needed to today. 10:17 PM

Seungmin’s heart constricts upon reading it. He’s not entirely sure why.

☼

The following Monday, Seungmin and his family get escorted to the engagement meeting in a fancy car with tinted windows. Like everything else he’s come to expect from the Royal Family, it is ostentatious in an understated kind of way.

Sitting up front, his father makes forced conversation with the tight-lipped chauffeur while Seungmin’s mom nestles her hand within his own and the two of them watch in silence as the blurry streets of Seoul slip by. A security detail in a separate car follows them closely from behind.

Seungmin marvels at the restaurant they’ve “agreed” upon to be the secondary location. In reality, it would take Seungmin’s family an entire year’s worth of savings to afford one of the more simple meal sets with the standard three basic courses.

His future in-laws are probably operating under the assumption that meeting at this high-scale restaurant, one that circulates air smelling of wealth, constitutes as meeting on neutral ground. If anything, it’s only another reminder of the differences between their families, more than enough to fill the chasm between Heaven and Hell.

The Kims are escorted to a private room down a more hidden hallway, although by the looks of it the Royal Family has rented out the entire restaurant as well. The whole place is empty save for a pair of waitresses polishing silverware in the back, curious eyes casting glances at Seungmin and his family as they pass. It’s quiet enough that he can hear the gurgling of water fountains from the surrounding gardens outside.

Behind a set of sliding paper doors is a table laden with food and the Royal Family sitting along one side of it. They’re all perched atop silk cushions on the floor, backs straight, perfectly pert. Only Minho’s grandmother, the Queen Mother, is dressed in a hanbok. The King and Queen are donning more modern clothes with brand names Seungmin can’t even hope to pronounce, the kind that people below a certain tax bracket don’t even know exists. Minho is dressed similarly, every bit the Crown Prince he is in a silk dress shirt and slacks.

Seungmin’s family files in: first his mom and dad and then Seungmin, who carries with him the ghost of another wherever he goes.

His best shoes are a yellowing pair of Converse that have definitely seen better days. They look rather ridiculous lined up next to all of the polished loafers and red-bottomed pumps by the door. Seungmin’s socks are clean and don’t have any embarrassing holes in them at least.

At the start, everyone exchanges polite greetings and bows. Seungmin takes the seat across from Minho, who doesn’t spare him more than a cursory first glance. For most of the meal, his eyes are trained at some spot behind Seungmin’s head.

Seungmin takes this as an opportunity to stare.

The Crown Prince is both more and less handsome up close. There’s a mole on the side of his nose bridge that Seungmin’s never noticed before and a delicate curl to his plump upper lip. Mostly, he's surprised by how young Minho looks. Youthfulness doesn’t always translate well on camera given the gravitas affected during the circumstances in which Minho’s being filmed. But Seungmin also sees weariness folded into corners of Minho's smile, sees purple bruising, poorly hidden with CC cream, beneath Minho’s eyes.

He is handsome, still.

“Thank you for taking the time to attend this meeting today,” King Yeok says when everyone is seated and settled.

His parents, in tandem, begin vehemently shaking their heads. His mother says, “No. No. Of course! Thank you so much for arranging this. And for everything, um . . . and for everything else.” She wrings her hands beneath the table. His mom is referring to the fact that their landlady hasn’t swung by to bother them in days.

Seungmin flushes at the admission, burning hot beneath his collar. He sneaks a glance over at Minho, who doesn’t seem to react. He wonders if Minho knows about the dollar amount calculated when arranging this entire affair and how much of it Minho's family had to hand over upfront. Would Minho even care?

Probably not, Seungmin thinks. Everything after Jisung must feel like a wash.

Seungmin knows he is one of the 52 million people Minho would have given up for love.

The Queen Mother speaks. “My husband can rest peacefully, knowing his last wish is being fulfilled. This is a happy occasion and yet I am filled with unspeakable sadness that he did not live long enough to see this union through.”

Seungmin’s dad bows again. Seungmin tries not to stare at the bald spot that appears at the top of his head. “The late King was a great man and a good friend to my father. I can only hope that my own son grows up to be much the same for Prince Minho in time.”

“How old are you Seungmin?” Queen Chaekyung addresses him directly.

He can’t imagine someone with a reputation for being as sharp and shrewd as she is being so unprepared as to not have already memorized Seungmin's entire profile before entertaining the engagement for her one and only heir.

“Nineteen, your Majesty. I will be turning twenty in September.”

“Not a child but not yet an adult.” She smiles and clasps her hands together almost gleefully. “Okay, then. Let us hold the wedding in the fall!”

It’s currently June. Seungmin’s birthday is still a few months away, which is the amount of time they’ll need to get all of the planning and preparations in order anyway. In the meantime, they’ll need to get their stories straight.

“You and Seungmin attend the same university, correct?” The Queen acknowledges Minho for the first time this entire meeting.

Seungmin is surprised Minho answers in the affirmative and so promptly, too. He was operating under the impression that the older boy isn’t paying attention and has tuned everything out in favor of passively pushing around the salmon sashimi on his plate. “We even have a mutual friend.” Minho’s eyes lose their fog-like quality, sharpening down to a point like a knife. “Han Jisung."

Three syllables, deliberately said.

Shit, Seungmin thinks. Shitshitshit. He knows.

Minho wants him to know that he knows too, judging by how his gaze lingers with an intensity that is accusatory rather than searching.

Seungmin ducks his head and almost slams face-first into his food.

“Oh good.” Queen Chaekyung appears none the wiser to the sudden tension that crackles between him and Minho. “We can say that you two met at school.”

This is technically true, even if they never crossed paths, and the press will run a front-page story about how it was also love at first sight. The details of their relationship will be greatly sensationalized. History will be rewritten to spotlight a whirlwind romance between a civilian and his Prince, all the more touching when framed within the context of a promise made between their grandfathers before they were even a twinkle in their mothers’ eyes.

It is the stuff of fairy tales.

It is a bunch of lies.

Far from being the village idiot, Seungmin knows that this narrative serves a purpose. His marriage is less a union between two families than it is a political ploy. Among the people, there is a deep sense of dissatisfaction with the Royal Family and with the growing divide between them and the common man. Unemployment sits at an all time high.

The anti-monarchy sentiment is one that has been steadily on the rise. What was at first considered a radical stance has started gaining traction and is now a popular position to take whenever dips in the economy occur and the ripple effects are deeply felt.

Seungmin gets it. The people want someone to blame for their misfortunes, to grumble about and resent since whatever gods they worship are much too nebulous and far away. Newly appointed, Hell Joseon now has a recognizable figurehead instead of some nameless, faceless 1%.

Lee Yeok.

Someday soon, it will be Lee Minho.

Their union would be great publicity. The story of a commoner who rose to a throne; the illusion of rags-to-riches being possible for anyone, overnight.

Despite their parents’ insistence on growing a relationship based on mutual trust and respect, floral words scented like artificial rose, Seungmin can see the real meaning, masked. “For the sake of peace and prosperity, even if you grow to hate each other over the years, it’s imperative that you two always act like you’re in love.”

“How about you two take a stroll around the grounds together? Talk and get to know each other better,” King Yeok suggests after a quiet meal where nothing much except small talk is exchanged.

It’s rude to sell your sons over dinner, I guess.

Jovially, the Queen Mother interjects, “It’s also good for digestion!”

There is nothing except empty air inside of his gut. The mound of food Seungmin heaped onto his plate earlier was all for show. That first and only bite of scallops, while buttery-smooth going down, might as well have been cardboard and leather inside of Seungmin’s mouth.

Regardless, he knows a dismissal when he hears one. Not very subtle of them to send the young ones off while the grown ups stay behind to discuss the particulars of the wedding and, as Seungmin is acutely aware, of the payment details for his full cooperation and hand.

He laces up in the same pair of battered Converse from before, watching as Minho slips on his loafers and continues gracefully out the door. His back grows smaller in the distance. Minho doesn’t bother waiting for Seungmin.

“Hey! Hold on!” Seungmin jogs after the older boy.

Outside, the weather is mild. It is a perfect spring day: warm, with a slight breeze that grazes past Seungmin’s cheeks, the feeling of silk chiffon. The surrounding gardens are alive. Everything is green and in bloom. There is a menagerie of butterflies and bumble bees with fat bottoms shedding pollen mid-flight. It looks a little like fairy dust, how the specs glow amber beneath the sun when it catches the light.

Minho is just ahead, crossing a bridge that stretches like a yawn over a gurgling koi pond.

“Your Highness!” Seungmin calls out. He knows he needs to apologize and make amends. That way, they can go into this engagement on a clean/er slate.

Minho, without slowing down, seems determined not to give Seungmin the time of day.

Luckily, Seungmin’s legs are long enough to catch up to him regardless. “Your Highness, I’m sorry!”

Minho stops to look into Seungmin’s face. “There are a lot of things you should be sorry for. You’re going to have to be specific.” He sounds more matter of fact than filled with anger. If anything, Minho sounds almost resigned.

Seungmin pushes forward with his apology. “We should have left right away that day when we knew the conversation was turning serious, but it seemed like you were having a sneeze.”

“A what?”

“A sneeze. Something that you start but can’t stop until it’s done. That’s what my sister used to call them. Your conversation, to me, seemed like that.”

Minho blinks in partial confusion. “You have a sister? Why didn’t she come?” 

“I had a sister.” Seungmin breaks eye contact, gaze roaming over to some spot in the distance. He admires a decorative doltap stacked about 20 stones high and the swaying branches of a willow tree with gnarled roots that weave in and out of the ground. “Noona died after I graduated high school. She always joked about being a dropout since she got sick before she could finish her final year. I think she only held out for so long so she could see me walk the stage. Noona always did say the silliest things.”

Like how she used to say that dying was also like a sneeze. So don’t be too sad, Seungmin-ah. Sneezes feel the best when they’re over. At the end of this will be relief.

Noona flatlined in her sleep the very next day.

“I’m sorry,” Minho offers sincerely.

Seungmin swallows to try and dislodge the itch from his throat. “That makes two of us.” He laughs, much too brittle. “Look, we already have so much in common!”

“A match made in Heaven,” Minho deadpans and starts walking again. This time though, he waits half a beat for Seungmin to join him. Seungmin shuffles along eagerly to keep pace by Minho’s side. “That’s the story they’ll be spinning to the media anyways.”

Seungmin shrugs. The irony isn’t lost on him that if Noona hadn’t died and gone to Heaven, she would have been the one walking the aisle instead.

“You’re being awfully cavalier about all of this.”

“You never know. We could be. A match made in Heaven.”

“We won’t. We aren’t. ” Minho says this with finality, with a sureness that can only come from a decision not orchestrated by Fate, but determined through will. Through stubbornness. Through heartbreak. Minho doubles down on his conviction. “This is a marriage of convenience for you and an arranged one for me. If you came into this partnership hoping for true love or for something more than what it is, you will be sorely disappointed.”

He isn’t saying this to be cruel. In a way, Seungmin thinks he’s trying to be kind -- managing expectations before Seungmin can build them up too high, setting boundaries, and drawing that invisible line in the sand.

“I didn’t,” he replies without faltering. “I won’t.”

Seungmin is too egalitarian to love someone who doesn’t love him back the same amount.

Minho is the opposite. He will love someone and make them his home, even if they don't think of him enough to leave the lights on.

☼

They set the date for 31 October, the week after Minho’s 22nd birthday.

The months leading up to the wedding are predictably hectic. At his parents’ behest, Seungmin puts in his two weeks at the corner market he’s been working at since he was seventeen.

He’s not sad, but rather nostalgic about having to go. Seungmin’s spent so many years there doing homework under the counter in between stocking shelves and ringing up customers during the graveyard shifts, taking home whatever food he could the minute the expiration date passed, and playing little games to keep himself awake at night. When Seungmin closes his eyes to sleep, the lingering hum of the refrigerator section is a sound as familiar to him as a lullaby.

The world appears sepia-colored the day he collects his last paycheck and says his goodbyes.

A woman named Jamie knocks on their front door a week later. She introduces herself as an employee of the Royal Family and as Seungmin’s new personal secretary. “Unless, of course, you would rather hire someone else in my stead, in which case they would have to go through a vigorous interview and training process as mandated for all incoming palace personnel and until such time your candidate has been vetted and approved by an internal board, which could take up to two months at minimum, I will be serving as your secretary regardless.”

“That’s okay,” Seungmin says, waving both hands in surrender, impressed that she has the lung capacity to deliver such a speech in one simultaneous sentence and breath. “I don’t have anyone else in mind.”

“Good.” Jamie grins, pushing past him in the doorway. “Let’s go ahead and get started then.”

She doesn’t seem to mind that his family is in the process of moving out. Anything worth taking, pictures in frames and the ceramic bowls his sister used to make, are tucked away in boxes stacked up against the wall. There’s no system of organization except for his mom’s permanent-markered scrawl. What remains of the basement apartment is a stripped-down skeleton of Seungmin’s past: all of the furniture, well-cared for but aged and perpetually brown, appliances held together with duct tape and a prayer, memories that linger around every corner and in the dents and scratches and decaying surfaces holding everything up like a spine.

“The article announcing your engagement is running in a few days.” Jamie settles gracefully on the couch -- and promptly gets swallowed by its depths a second later. Acrylic fingernails dig into the fabric of the arm as she drags herself out. She takes a dramatic breath of fresh oxygen again. “Jesus Christ, is this a sinkhole or a couch?”

“It’s both.” Seungmin perches on the edge of a cushion and slides back until he’s comfortable but still sitting upright. “I think I’ll miss it when we leave. My mom wants to buy everything new.”

Brand new to match their brand new house. A house that serves as a representation of Seungmin’s worth, his property value in a literal sense.

Seungmin tries not to feel weird about it. He won’t be living there for long.

He’s not sure what expression his face is making but Jamie softens at the sight of it. She tells him “Good luck!” and doesn’t specify for what.

“Thanks, I guess.”

She brandishes an iPad from somewhere in her briefcase and lays out for Seungmin his schedule over the next four months. “First and foremost, we have to craft your image. You are the Royal Consort and therefore the Nation’s Son-in-Law. That kind of stuff polls well with the public, according to our research. It’s also easier than reinventing the wheel since you’ve already got the whole earnest and dependable look going for you naturally. It just needs a little polishing is all.”

'A little polishing' turns out to be the thorough process of scrubbing him clean, grit against gristle until the flesh wears away and Seungmin is a blank canvas over top of a collection of bones.

They paint him as charitable, packing Seungmin’s weekends with volunteer events and philanthropic endeavors that Minho sometimes joins. He steps into interviews with a list of preconceived lines. They teach Seungmin how to walk a certain way, how to hold himself taller, the angle his wrist must bend at to deliver a wave; customs and practices befitting of his new, elevated station. They teach him which side of his face looks better to be photographed from (his right).

The public loves him because they love Minho and Seungmin is but an extension of his betrothed.

“Do you ever get used to it?” Seungmin asks. “The constant attention and scrutiny?”

Minho answers, “There’s nothing to get used to. I’ve never known anything else.”

The relationship between them remains strained even with the rest of their lives on the horizon. Seungmin tries his best. He jokes around when they’re together and is genial as he can be around Minho, who is standoffish and is often annoyed by his attempts. Seungmin’s existence, in general, seems to annoy him.

But the moment they step out of the car, in front of flashing camera lights and to any passing stranger, Minho is the picture of warmth. He smiles like it’s love lifting the corners of his lips, that compels him to slip his tiny hand inside of Seungmin’s larger grasp. He makes small talk in quiet tones, opens up enough to share some of his inconsequential and spur of the moment thoughts; habitually links their arms together like daisies on a chain. He’ll call for him softly, “ Seungmin-ah! ” whenever they’re apart.

It gives Seungmin whiplash, being dragged along one end of the spectrum to the other.

Perhaps the most dangerous outcome of this behavior is that it gives Seungmin hope that their marriage could be a companionable one, at least. Only Minho is always thorough in dashing it afterwards when they’re alone. Whatever seeds Seungmin plants goes unwatered, untendered; crushed like the butt of the cigarettes that Minho sometimes indulges in, as an act of rebellion, beneath the heel of his shoe.

The nicer Minho is in these situations, the more Seungmin resents him later on. It’s a feeling that burns like indignation and cuts like disrespect. More than anything, Seungmin feels cheated to be given a taste, to stare into the face of a reality where it could be like this, like love, between them all the time, only Minho chooses to be unhappy instead.

Seungmin stops trying after a while. Nothing he does makes much of a difference when Minho persists in being miserable.

The public eats it up though. They clamor for moments when he and Minho are together, when Minho touches him a certain way or when Seungmin’s gaze gets caught on Minho’s face from across a room. Their acting must be convincing enough.

Sometimes, even Seungmin gets confused.

It’s why, even though he’s all but given up, he still does silly things sometimes. Inexplicable things, like pausing by a roadside stall selling trinkets and memorabilia for the upcoming wedding; fingers through the postcards and miniature figurines of him and Minho holding hands; laughs at the tea sets with their distorted faces printed onto the white, ceramic surfaces.

He buys a matching pair of keychains that catch his attention. Seungmin likes the art style. He caresses the tiny pair of cat ears atop Minho’s cartoonish rendition and grins at the floppy dog ones that graces Seungmin’s own.

He pockets the one of Minho. On the day of their wedding, Seungmin gifts the one of himself to his bemused husband-to-be.

“It’s ugly,” Minho says instead of thanks. Seungmin predicted this reaction. He’s come to predict a lot of Minho’s reactions by now, enough to not feel hurt by them anymore when his predictions come true.

“In comparison? Because I’m so much cuter in real life?”

He watches the steady progression of Minho’s scowl. “At least they got the mutt-like quality about you right.”

Seungmin placidly smiles back. “Meong meong!”

Minho’s lips twitch and then flatten into a straight line.

They hold a private ceremony in the morning before the televised procession and the wedding to follow at noon. Seungmin doesn’t think he’s worn a hanbok since his 100th-Day Celebration. Nineteen years later, he is dressed in one now, silk-spun and threaded through with delicate, gold embroidery. The blood-rich coloring stands out against the paleness of Seungmin’s skin.

Jamie pinches color into his cheeks and presses a kiss to both before ushering him into position at the gates of Changdeokgung. Minho is already there, in a matching hanbok, waiting for Seungmin.

Privacy is relative in this case. The Royal Family hires around a dozen or so reporters and their accompanying photographers to capture every second from every angle. They circle him and Minho, vultures around a corpse, buffered only by the ring of guards taking part in the march.

Everyone is walking slowly and with purpose, footsteps bearing the weight of tradition and echoes from the past. They march in a steady line towards the palace.

Sunlight beats down on them but the autumn wind blows cool against the sweat collecting at the nape of Seungmin’s neck.

Their families are waiting for them inside, sitting on either side of an altar with their grandfathers' pictures lined next to each other on the ledge. Incense smoke curls around the black and white images. There’s also, to Seungmin’s surprise, a picture of his sister as well.

She’s smiling in a sundress she bought for her 16th birthday, a month after the initial diagnosis. She still has all of her hair. It’s tied back with a ribbon that flutters when she turns around to tell Seungmin he should get a shot of the sunset. “It’s too beautiful not to, Seungmin-ah!”

Seungmin took the picture back when he thought photography was his passion. Really, it was just a roundabout way of trying to prolong Noona’s life, immortalizing her through the lens of his battered Canon EOS.

He cranes his neck over to Minho in question, breaking his pace for half a second before Minho reaches out a hand and brings Seungmin back up to speed. He doesn’t let go until they reach the end.

“She should be up there, too,” Minho whispers from the corner of his mouth. “She’s your family. We should make our vows to her, too.”

Seungmin swallows past the lump in his throat. Here is a kernel of kindness, unearthed. Seungmin waters it when he sheds a tear that dries in the shape of a darker colored starburst on the ground.

The ceremony moves on.

They take turns bowing, twice and a half for each side of the family, three times for the figureheads at the altar, and then four times to the open doors leading out into the courtyard. From there, they can see the open gates and beyond that, Seoul. In bowing, they make a promise to their people.

Afterwards, they kiss.

Seungmin leans in and their lips touch, briefly. It is human and warm, close-mouthed except for the breath that passes from Minho to him, before they finally pull apart.

Through layers of bitterness from both sides, Minho’s kiss tastes sweet on Seungmin’s tongue.

They are married on the 31st of October, the week after Minho’s 22nd birthday.

And they lived happily ever after.

☼

There is no wedding night and there is definitely no honeymoon. Tradition underlies a lot of the duties and expectations incumbent upon the Royal Family, but by necessity they’ve also had to evolve with the times. The act of confirming a couple’s consummation has long gone out of style. As for the honeymoon, the official excuse given to everyone outside of their inner circles is that now isn’t the right time. The Crown Couple are both still in school with finals right around the corner and Minho, in addition, has a world summit to prepare for.

When the day’s festivities are finally over, he and Minho head opposite ways to bed.

His husband informs him, body still twisted when he suddenly remembers, “All of your stuff should have arrived earlier this afternoon. Let me know if there’s anything missing or misplaced.”

Seungmin doubts it since he only packed up his dad’s old guitar and enough things to fill up half of a suitcase. His mom fills out the rest of the space with a couple of towels so that his belongings didn’t make so much noise rattling around during transport. Seungmin doesn’t own much to begin with and is reluctant to bring what little he does into his new life, not due to a low-lying sense of shame or an acute awareness of the glaring incongruity, but because Seungmin is far too sentimental to be reminded of a home that’s no longer his own or the home that was never really his to claim.

“And if everything’s perfectly in place? Can I come bother you anyways?” he asks cheekily. Sometimes, Seungmin flirts with Minho just for fun, to squeeze as much enjoyment out of their situation as he can. Sometimes, his lines come off sounding more genuine than Seungmin intends.

Minho’s ears burn bubblegum pink against the black material of his ceremonial headpiece. He’s easier to fluster nowadays when before, it was like getting a rock to bleed. Seungmin takes it as evidence of the prince steadily warming up to him. “Do what you want,” Minho says and then retreats. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Dream of me!” Seungmin calls after him.

“In my nightmares, maybe.”

Seungmin slips into his own quarters, waving off a pair of uniformed maids with offers to help draw him a bath. He hopes the refusal comes off as somewhat polite. He’s been surrounded by people all day and is itching for a quiet moment alone with his thoughts.

He stares longingly at his King-sized bed.

It would be so easy to flop over and slip listlessly off to sleep – and Seungmin is tired, so very tired -- except his rigid sense of routine does not allow him to deviate from a personal ritual of changing into his pajamas, washing up, and documenting the events of his day. As an inside joke with himself, he titles his brand new journal The Personal Annals of Kim Seungmin .

It’s strange to think that this last step in his routine is no longer necessary since there are official records being maintained by a team of actual historians. In a way, the Annals already serve as a documentation of his day, a record that is accessible to the public as is almost every other aspect of Seugmin’s life and relationship now.

Entry #1:

I was married today. I like my husband more than I should.

This, at least, Seungmin wants to keep for himself.

☼

His quiet moment alone extends itself over the following months.

One of the stipulations that Minho laid out for their marriage was that they would be granted the Eastern Palace as a separate area to call their own, large enough to house two bedroom suites conjoined by a common room in between. By design, there aren’t many doors, just a series of sliding glass panels which don't offer them much privacy from each other. It isn’t really a problem since Minho is determined to spend the least amount of time there, and with Seungmin by extension, as possible.

The most Seungmin sees of his husband is when they make their daily greetings to the Queen Mother and to the King and Queen. Seungmin is an early riser by nature but Minho wakes up with the sun. He waits for Seungmin in the foyer and they walk to the Main Palace together.

“How have you been?” Seungmin asks for the sake of making conversation. He thinks it should feel strange to ask this question of his husband, but all Seungmin really feels these days is numb.

“Fine,” Minho responds and leaves it at that.

The trek is made in silence, day in and day out. What is there to talk about when their lives so rarely intersect?

The greeting is held in a room outside of the Queen Mother’s chambers. Minho used to grab Seungmin’s hand before they rounded the last corner, before the guard stationed at the doors spots them and formally announces their arrival. A week into this routine, Seungmin takes the initiative to grab Minho's hand first. Every nerve ending in his body sings when their palms come together and touch. It shouldn’t make that much of a difference who reaches out and who relaxes into the other’s grasp, but it does.

Seungmin reaches out and Minho lets him.

The habit forms. Muscle memory sets in.

Gradually, Seungmin starts to grab Minho’s hand earlier, with two turns left to go, and then three, to the point where Seungmin instinctively intertwines their fingers after he trudges out of his room and before he can really open his eyes. Even then, Minho lets him.

Morning greetings are short and perfunctory. Amongst their family, there’s still the need to play pretend. He and Minho need to fake a passable familiarity, at least.

Afterwards, his husband leaves to attend to his duties for the day and doesn’t return until late at night. Seungmin grows accustomed to the solitude and wanders the palace grounds in his free time when he’s not held up with lessons.

Seungmin derives a small amount of joy from the supplementary classes he’s being forced to attend, intended to give him a well-rounded education apart from the accounting classes he’s still taking despite no longer needing the degree. Whatever he has with Minho feels tenuous at best, tethered by familial expectations, but without a solid foundation; so outside of his marriage, Seungmin wants to be able to stand on his own.

Painting and poetry and horseback riding, Chinese and English lessons, plus Korean history as well. Seungmin takes all of this and the people around him in stride, and attends tea with his in-laws on most afternoons. They dote on him as much as they can. He endures endless cheek pinches from Minho’s grandmother, followed by endless coos.

Seungmin flourishes in the margins of Minho’s attention, blooming all on his own because he refuses to rot.

Three meals a day Seungmin eats alone and, at the end of it, goes to bed alone too. Every thought or comment he has is said quietly to himself, or to whichever rotation of palace maids is on duty that day. When Seungmin cries, it’s on his own, feeling sorry for himself to a degree that he finds to be rather pathetic and so tries to seek his catharsis elsewhere. At Seungmin’s lowest point, he thinks about finding it in other people.

He is lonely and homesick.

But, as he sinks into his four-poster bed and snuggles beneath Egyptian cotton sheets, shedding his few allotted tears into a Mulberry silk pillowcase before going to sleep beneath a roof that isn’t liable to cave, Seungmin thinks he would rather be lonely than poor.

☼

It’s a part of their image-making to be seen volunteering together. Prior to their marriage, Minho’s docket of charitable endeavors was spread all over the place in terms of focus and groups. Now with Seungmin, it is almost exclusively centered around humanitarian efforts, and is being framed as a reinvestment in the people.

Today, they are spending the day at an orphanage outside of Seoul.

“When’s the last time you were here?” Seungmin asks as their car pulls up in front of a modest church with a single-story attachment.

Minho unbuckles his seatbelt. “Early spring. Sometime in March.” According to Jamie, this is one of Minho’s more frequent stops in his rotation. “The kids here are great.”

The property is well-kept and well-loved, white-steepled with a wrap-around mural painted using bold strokes and a multitude of colorful handprints. They make up the flower stalks and each individual petal, tiny handprints as butterfly wings and the rays of the sun. On the front steps, the handprint owners are arranged in neat lines in order of height. A young man in clerical clothing greets him and Minho warmly as they approach.

“Your Highness.”

“Father Brian.” Minho is promptly pulled into a hug, which he returns.

When they separate, Father Brian grants Seungmin a smile that emphasizes the aegyo sal beneath his eyes. “I see you’ve brought with you your handsome husband.”

Minho shakes his head. “Not at all. I’m technically his plus one, since Seungminnie’s the one who wanted to come.”

It’s a lie, although harmless. Seungmin wanted no such thing and is only half-scared that God might smite him for not denying it either, condemned as guilty by association.

Minho does it more and more often these days -- sets up this divide, emphasizing that they are two separate entities and not a conglomeration of one. In the long run, it helps to establish an identity outside of his husband. Seungmin appreciates it, although a small part of him can’t help but feel like he's being pushed away.

“It’s nice to meet you, Father Brian.”

He, thankfully, does not pull Seungmin into a similar hug.

They take a few press photos in front of the orphanage as is standard operating procedure. Charitable acts don’t count if nobody sees them being done. Seungmin just feels bad for all of the kids who were probably scrubbed clean within an inch of their life and stuck in clothes they are expressly forbidden to dirty up; faces to be plastered across news articles and press releases, identities erased, a monolith beneath the umbrella term of “underprivileged, underserved.”

Minho begs off going on a guided tour to head up a game of soccer with some of the kids out back. The field is grassy and overgrown, overtaken by wildflowers and dandelion seeds that scatter beneath feet thundering up and down the pitch. Safety cones with dented points serve as makeshift goal posts on either end.

Seungmin and his entourage watch for a few minutes as Minho dribbles a ball around, barely able to avoid getting routed by some of the older boys with peach fuzz on their upper lips. For a dancer with total control over every inch and muscle in his body, Minho is comically bad at sports. Seungmin shouldn’t be as endeared by this fact as he is.

“Come on,” Father Brian says, leading them inside through a backdoor to the kitchen. “I’ll show you around, your Highness.”

“Please call me Seungmin. Your Highness is Minho, not me.”

The young priest smiles and responds, "You are a very modest young man.”

“Not really.” Seungmin blushes. “It’s just embarrassing to be given a title like that. I’m no one special, really. I’m not used to hearing it.” In an undertone, he adds, “Truthfully, I’m not sure if I’ll get to a point where I ever will."

They pause outside a set of swinging doors leading into the mess hall. Father Brian places a palm against the wooden surface but doesn’t push through and says with sympathy saturated like a marinade in his tone, “It is a heavy title to bear, I’m sure. I can only imagine what it’s like to carry something like that your whole life, predating your birth and continuing on even after your death. Generations of men and women bearing that same title. How insignificant one must feel in the face of all that.”

Having to find who you are outside of it. Wanting to feel like your life is your own.

Seungmin understands his husband, even though he wishes he didn’t. It’d be much easier if he didn’t -- to resist the pull he feels like a string tied to his second rib, dragging Seungmin into an abyss. He can’t see the bottom. Falling, falling, falling.

“I was happy to hear the news of your engagement. The wedding was beautiful,” Father Brian says in an attempt to lighten the mood. He must sense the inner turmoil Seungmin is going through.

“Thank you,” Seungmin replies.

He pats Seungmin on the shoulders a couple times, transferring heat and a gentle comfort that seeps through the material of Seungmin’s shirt to settle inside of his marrow. “May your union be a good one. Long and prosperous and filled with joy. I’ll pray for it, Seungmin. I’ll pray for the both of you.”

Seungmin merely thanks him again. He doesn’t know what to say when everything he says feels like a lie.

He hopes that God listens to Father Brian’s prayers at least, even if his own go ignored.

Lunch is served around noon. Seungmin and Minho stand in an assembly line behind a couple of foldout tables teeming with food. Seungmin scoops rice into plastic bowls with hairline cracks near the base, Minho doles out ladles of braised short ribs and eggs. A little girl named Jiyoon with round, chubby cheeks manages to wheedle a portion and a half out of Minho. She looks a lot like Jisung with her heart-shaped smile and the way her eyes light up when her aegyo succeeds. 

Seungmin tries not to feel any type of way about it, watching the scene unfold. To everyone else, it’s just an innocuous and cute moment. Seungmin’s the one assigning meaning to it for no reason, looking for monsters that aren’t even there.

As the day goes on, he discovers more and more how good Minho is with kids. Minho is good with people in general, but there’s something instinctual to the way he interacts with the little ones that stick to him like a set of extra limbs; more patient and much less contrived.

This is just another instance in which the contrast between them is striking.

Seungmin does not have a natural affinity with kids. They’re cute and Seungmin likes them as a concept, but he has the grace to recognize how much better off either party would be if he kept mostly to himself. Seungmin is scrupulous when it comes to maintaining a distance as far away as possible while still being within the acceptable range to be considered ‘friendly and approachable’.

It wouldn’t do for the Royal Consort to be adverse to kids.

Seungmin forcibly squashes all notions of how different he and Minho would be as fathers, raising a family of their own.

After lunch, the two of them are elected to tag-team story time in the library. Father Brian sits between them, holding up and turning the pages for an illustrated version of The Little Prince. Minho and Seungmin sit on stools at the edge of a carpet made to look like a map of a cartoon town. A couple of teenagers are also in attendance, standing more towards the back as opposed to joining in with the sea of upturned, twinkling eyes before him. Seungmin resists the urge to squirm.

He glances over at Minho, who is the picture of calm: back straight and wearing a genial smile.

From the very first page, with the very first line, Minho is perfect -- wholly-immersed and committed. It makes sense, Seungmin thinks, when storytelling is his life; when every word or action is calculated to project a certain kind of image, to sell a very specific narrative.

Still, Seungmin’s surprised by how well Minho can act out the different voices and lines without cringing, how he puts his whole body into it without a second thought. His enthusiasm melts away any insecurities Seungmin has about looking dumb.

The show ends with uproarious applause. 

As they are saying their final goodbyes, Jamie snaps a couple pictures of the scene on Seungmin’s phone, a memory he isn’t obligated to upload but will be cajoled into doing so anyways because the people love candids!

“So make it look more candid!” Jamie says instead of “Cheese!”

A girl that has been following Seungmin around all day climbs into his lap and presses a sticky kiss to his cheek. “Will you be back soon?”

“As soon as I can.”

“Okay. Do you want to get married then?”

“Pardon?”

Jaehee splays out both of her hands. “I’ll be 10 in two weeks. I’m basically an adult.”

Seungmin starts to laugh but breaks out into a cough to cover it up. “Even if you asked me again in another 10 years, when you’re actually an adult, I don’t think I’d say yes.”

“Well why not?” Jaehee huffs.

He looks over at Minho, who is preoccupied with his own gaggle of admirers. The older boy meets his gaze. What? Minho seems to ask.

Seungmin shrugs back.

Only when Minho returns his attention onto the kids does Seungmin lean down to whisper, “I’m sorry, Jaehee-yah. I can’t marry you, because I’ve already found my rose.”

She protests loudly, “No! Minho-oppa is a prince, not a rose!”

Seungmin's heart stops.

Even without any context, the confession is damning.

Minho doesn’t give any indication of having overheard. He continues indulging the kids around him in some made up game while getting reprimanded for something he wasn’t supposed to do; “Hey! That’s cheating!”-finger wagging when asked if he was listening earlier when they went over the rules.

Seungmin stares at the red rim of his ears from a distance. He tries not to feel any type of way about that either.

In order to bypass the heaviest part of rush hour traffic, the drive back from the orphanage takes them past Seungmin’s old neighborhood. Seungmin is staring listlessly out the window when the sight of his former stomping grounds tugs at his consciousness; first, a flower shop with a floral bike display in the window, sitting squat beside a pharmacy with a pestle and mortar sign that flickers brighter than neon club lights in Hongdae. 

They pass by a familiar bus shelter. Once when he was 13, while deboarding the bus, Seungmin tripped and ate concrete so hard his bottom teeth nearly pierced through his upper lip. The pharmacist on duty at the time came running out and patched him up for free. Seungmin can still feel the indentations of a scar when he runs his tongue over the old wound.

He reaches out to grab Minho’s attention, excitedly slapping Minho’s thigh without tearing his eyes away from the view of all the stores flashing by. “Oh! Oh! There’s a restaurant up the next block that I love. The owner used to keep an eye on me after school sometimes. Can we drop in and have dinner there tonight?”

Minho asks, “What’s on the menu?”

“Kimchi stew!”

“Is that all?” There’s a hesitancy in his tone.

Seungmin panics. Fearing the possibility of being denied, he turns to give Minho a big pout and his biggest puppy-dog eyes. His lower lip quivers and everything! (Seungmin used to think of it as his Get Out of Jail Free look when he was younger, only it ever worked on his sister. His parents were all but immune. This is a last-ditch effort.) “Minho. Hyung , please?”

Minho folds, right as Seungmin is about to suggest getting dropped off on the corner and eating dinner by himself.

“Okay. Alright.” Minho instructs their driver to make a U-turn into a smaller side street as per Seungmin’s directions. He mumbles, “But never use that look on me again. I nearly lost my appetite.”

“Whatever you say.” Seungmin laughs.

The restaurant itself is situated in an alleyway at the bottom of a hill. Seungmin walks as fast as he can without losing his balance; without letting momentum get the best of him like that time he won a game of marbles at recess and watched as the loot that weighed too heavy in pocket burst past the threads of the lining and rolled all the way down the hill. 

Tracing such familiar steps, Seungmin is twelve again, backpack lifting with every step and then falling to slap against his butt, running because Mrs. Cho always had a Choco Pie waiting, unwrapped beside a carton of milk at his designated table in front, by the register, when he arrived.

“Slow down,” Minho warns him, lagging behind by a few short strides.

“How about you keep up?” Seungmin giddily shoots back.

He’s nostalgic to discover that the sliding door still catches in the exact same place. Seungmin puts the extra elbow grease in prying it open since he’s bigger now and can no longer squeeze through the initial gap like he could when he was younger.

“Mrs. Cho!”

The restaurant is empty. Traffic going into Seoul pushes them past regular dinner hours so the rush (or whatever fifteen customers over the span of two hours constitutes as in this little run-down corner of the city), is mostly over. Mrs. Cho is clearing off a table, one hand expertly stacking plates and utensils while the other wipes down the glass surface with a wet rag. The last time he saw her was at Noona’s funeral, over a year ago now. She looks much the same, just with more gray streaks and more prominent cheekbones.

Surprised is etched into the lines of her face before it morphs into something warmer upon recognition. “Seungminnie? Is that you?”

“It is,” he confirms. Minho hovers somewhere behind his shoulders, observing the interaction with interest. It is rare for Seungmin to be the one who takes the lead. It is rare for Seungmin to be somewhere on steady footing these days. As the Royal Consort, he always feels just a little out of his depth. “Table for two?”

Mrs. Cho doesn’t set them up by his old spot being that it is much too visible and out in the open for anyone on the streets to recognize them while passing by. Seungmin does, however, note the picture of his younger self on display, encased beneath the glass table top with the date the photo was taken, sometime back in January of 2014. He wore braces and the most unfashionable pair of glasses because Seungmin was obsessed with Detective Conan at that age. 

“You look like a dweeb,” Minho comments with glee.

“Not all of us had a small army of professional stylists growing up.”

“I bet you played Magic the Gathering unironically.”

“And I stand by that!”

“Dweeb.” There is something like affection in Minho’s voice.

They are tucked away in the back corner beneath a mounted fan, humming as it rotates from one lip of the wall to the next. It’s arguably too cold for the fan to still be on, but the whirring blades disperse the enticing smells emanating from the nearby kitchen throughout the rest of the restaurant. 

Seungmin breathes in deeply the aromas of bone broth and gochujang and fresh, steaming rice. He hopes the scent of it settles into his hair and skin and into the cable knit of his sweater. Something Seungmin can take back with him, however fleeting and intangible.

“What can I get for you?” Mrs. Cho asks.

He and Minho have a small back and forth while trying to decide. Seungmin figures it’s simpler to cook two portions of the same thing and tells Minho to choose because he likes everything on the menu anyway.

His husband frowns minutely. “Well, what’s your go-to order?”

“Kimchi stew with extra tofu,” Seungmin rattles off. “But you shou--”

Minho looks up at Mrs. Cho. “One kimchi stew with extra tofu. I’ll have a bowl of kalguksu.”

“It’s not too much trouble right?” Seungmin interjects.

She shakes her head. “No, of course not. No trouble at all, Seungminnie. Coming right up!”

The restaurant owner collects their menus and disappears into the kitchen with an extra pep in her step.

Minho grabs two sets of utensils from the wooden storage box on the table and cleans them off with a napkin. He peers at Seungmin with something unreadable in his expression and nonchalantly says, “You don’t have to settle for things all the time, you know.”

“It’s called being considerate. This restaurant closes in less than an hour.”

“And Mrs. Cho said it wasn’t an issue. You’re the one who decided on an answer without even asking.”

“I didn’t want to put her into a position where she would have to tell me no.”

“More like you didn’t want to be in a position where she could say no.”

Seungmin bites back, “I’m not sure you pay enough attention to me to warrant that kind of psychoanalysis, yeobo.”

Minho has enough awareness to avoid provoking him further. Seungmin can tell his husband wants to argue but is patiently biting his tongue. Today has been pretty pleasant thus far. It would be a shame to fall into their regular patterns.

Seungmin sighs and goes to pour Minho a cup of water as a peace offering. Minho neatly lays down Seungmin’s set of utensils beside him as a gesture of acceptance.

Rather than their usual silence, the two of them put in an effort to make small talk. What else is there to do when they’re seated across from each other in an empty restaurant? Well, Seungmin supposes that ignoring him in favor of scrolling through his phone is an option, albeit one that’s a touch too callous even for Minho. His husband was raised with manners and common courtesy (among other, more loftier things).

Thankfully, they have a lot to talk about given that kids are great fodder for conversation. Seungmin even manages to get Minho to smile, reenacting an argument he overheard about whether or not two people with Dorito-breath kissing can be factually referred to as 'a flavor blast'.

“Kids are so silly.”

“You were talking to the silliest one of them all,” Minho points out.

“Who?”

“Jaehee.”

Seungmin blushes. He’s unsure if this is supposed to be a segue into talking about his unwitting confession earlier about Minho being his rose; which is not an ill-fitting comparison when thinking about all of the time Seungmin’s wasted, all of the water he’s poured.

“Unfortunately, I think I might be even sillier than her,” Seungmin admits.

Their food comes out immediately after that. Seungmin finds diversion in seeing the thick fog of vapor rising from the porcelain bowls, white like a maiden’s veil.

“And some mandu, on the house.” Mrs. Cho winks.

She leaves them to their own devices after setting down the plates.

Seungmin rips open a few packets of soy sauce and empties the contents into a dipping dish between him and Minho. He absent-mindedly pockets the rest.

“Are we out of soy sauce at home?” Minho asks.

It takes a second for the meaning to take shape in Seungmin’s brain. When it clicks, a sheepishness seizes him as Seungmin fishes the packets out and places them back onto the table. “Force of habit, I guess.”

Minho points out, “You do that with cream and sugar when we go to cafes as well.”

“Oh?” Seungmin’s embarrassed to have been 1) caught in the act and 2) on multiple counts, too. Especially because he doesn’t even realize when he’s doing it, driven mostly by years of repetition alone. “I used to think it would save us money on buying condiments and stuff. Looking back, it probably didn’t. I just don’t think my mom had the heart to stop me from wanting to be helpful.”

He lets the admission settle uncomfortably.

Sensing Seungmin’s need for a change in subject, Minho shares, “I wasn’t allowed to eat out at restaurants until I was in middle school.”

“What? Why not?”

He stirs around his noodles to separate them better in the broth. “Palace rules. At school and other places, someone has to taste test my food before it ever gets put in front of me. Yours, too, in case you didn’t know. With restaurants, they finally lifted the ban when I was 12 but even now, eating out is frowned upon. I normally have to get permission ahead of time if I’m planning on taking any meals outside of Changdeokgung.”

Seungmin thinks back to Minho’s hesitance in the car. “Oh, shoot.” He stumbles over his words. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you had to, um. Shit. Have I gotten you into trouble?”

He’s surprised to find amusement in Minho’s normally placid expression. “What?” Seungmin asks.

“Nothing. It’s just funny to see you curse. The words don’t match up with your image.”

“My image?”

“A classic goody-two-shoes with fragile sensibilities.”

“Wow, you make me sound--”

“Someone who needs a lot of care.”

“Alright, okay, I get--”

“Boring, but dependable.”

“How long are you going to--”

“Cute.”

Minho tosses that last part out so casually. Seungmin wonders if he’s imagined it.

“Cute?”

Minho coughs. “According to public opinion polls, that is.”

His initial instinct is to ask Minho why he keeps track of Seungmin’s polling results before realizing, belatedly, that they don’t actually exist. Minho just doesn’t want to pay him a compliment outright. Right now, he can’t even look Seungmin in the eye.

Something blooms between them at that moment. He can sense it.

“You better be more careful when you say those kinds of things,” Seungmin warns. “Or one of these days I might end up getting the wrong idea.”

☼

They make a public outing every two or three weeks, if only to disabuse any notions about their relationship being fake or contrived. Seungmin wishes they could cop to having a good ole fashioned arranged marriage for once instead of having to act like they are together out of love. Unfortunately, the world might actually tilt and spin off its axis if the truth were to ever be revealed, universally beloved as he and Minho are.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Minho sniffs and gives Seungmin a disapproving once-over. Seungmin’s sporting his garish yellow Simpsons hoodie, a gag gift from Hyunjin that Seungmin unironically likes, imbued with a brightness that’s still fluorescent despite the number of wash cycles the hoodie’s since endured. Living in the palace, there’s a sense of decorum that needs to be maintained at all times, which means wearing stuffy but fashionable clothes. Today is a rare free pass to wear whatever he wants.

“What’s wrong with it?” The sleeves are long enough for Seungmin’s hands to be completely engulfed. He twirls them around like helicopter blades because he likes seeing the irritation on Minho’s face, second only to his smile. It’s just easier to inspire the former.

“You stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Isn’t that the whole point? To be seen? It’s a publicity stunt, after all.”

Minho is similarly dressed down in a bomber jacket and jeans but there’s a quality to him that makes everything appear elevated. Classy. “At least make it seem like we’re trying not to get caught.”

“Too late now. No time to change. Don’t wanna be late for the movie!”

Seungmin shuffles out the doors of his bedroom without waiting for Minho to respond. The guards stationed out front wait a few beats before following suit. They’ve narrowed down their security detail to just two people today and have instructed the pair to trail after them from a good distance behind. Seungmin thinks about how easy it would be to lose them in a crowd, especially at COEX on a Saturday, and further the illusion of a couple slipping out for a date.

Minho catches up to him within a few hurried strides.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“A little, yeah.”

It’s been warm enough to get away with light layers all week but the wind bites a little harsher, more insistently today. Seungmin was prepared to brave the elements because he’s committed to his outfit and doesn’t want to turn back to be bullied into changing by his husband.

Minho sighs, as if able to read Seungmin’s mind. He says, “If you’re going to dress like an idiot, at least dress like a weather appropriate one” and stops to wind a scarf around Seungmin’s neck. It’s the one Minho is currently wearing. The cashmere material smells like the lingering scent of his yuzu and verbena shampoo. There’s a lingering warmth there, too.

Seungmin says, “I kind of like it when you nag me, yeobo .”

Minho treats the pet name like a slur. He flinches, then glares. “Whatever reverse psychology tactic you’re going for, it won’t work. I’ll just be sure to nag you even more.”

They fall into step together. Seungmin shrugs. “Better than being ignored.”

He can feel Minho’s gaze burning a hole into the side of his face but Seungmin keeps his own trained resolutely ahead. He hopes his expression betrays nothing other than a casual sort of indifference. They continue for another few paces. Minho, just as intently as before, continues to stare.

“I’ve . . . been keeping busy.” It’s not an excuse. Minho doesn’t give excuses. The phrasing is deliberate; the purpose being to take ownership of his actions without explicitly admitting fault. It’s a particularly useful skill to possess as a future ruler. In moments like these, his political acumen really shines through. Seungmin recognizes this yet wants to read into the pause Minho takes between the first and second word, the way Minho clears his throat but doesn’t say anything else.

Resigned, Seungmin accepts it as the closest thing to an apology he's likely gonna get.

“I hope you’re taking care of yourself,” Seungmin offers. He’s moved past the need to feel perpetually wronged and is working towards accepting his marriage for what it is rather than what he wants it to be. He cannot tame Minho the way a person cannot tame the wind, but he can instead redirect -- if not love, then solidarity. Something like companionship. Seungmin questions, “Are you eating all of your meals on time?”

“Now who’s the one nagging?”

Minho unlocks his car, a modest Korean make and model in place of some expensive foreign import. Seungmin didn’t know Minho could even drive. For security purposes, they are almost always chauffeured.

He and Minho climb inside of the vehicle. Turning the key in the ignition, the car quietly hums to life. The first dial Minho adjusts is the one for the seat warmers and cranks it up -- HIGH.

He backs out of the grassy parking lot, gravel crunching as the wheels swivel and turn.

From the corner of Seungmin’s eye, he spots it: his wedding gift, nestled amongst a set of brass and silver keys, swinging in turn with the jostled movements of the car. He assumed Minho had thrown it out or buried it in some drawer in his room somewhere to collect dust. Instead, he’s kept it. Minho is actively using it. The paint has worn off in some places, no longer as cartoonishly bright. He pictures Minho absent-mindledly rubbing over the surface with his thumb.

How many times a day does Minho reach for his keys? He wonders if Minho thinks of him every time he looks down at the little figurine. He wonders if Minho thinks about him at all.

Seungmin hides his smile by turning to look out the window, playing it off as if he’s simply enjoying the view: tranquil and tree-lined, the last of autumn’s leaves hanging on by a prayer as the wind continues to blow. Minho navigates the winding road down to a security checkpoint separating this area from the rest of Seoul.

The drive is peaceful. Seungmin is no longer as haunted when there’s silence, but Minho fiddles with the radio and lets it rest on a station playing 24/7 Christmas tunes. Seungmin hums along to most of it, except for when Taeyeon’s This Christmas comes on, and then he can’t help but to croon: “I’m standing in front of winter, the season that has returned. I hope it greets you and you come with it.”

“You’re not half bad,” Minho comments.

Seungmin proceeds to sing along to every song that comes after that, one hand clenched into a fist around an imaginary mic he holds up to his mouth. During the chorus of All I Want for Christmas Is You, he passes the ‘mic’ over to Minho, who stares at Seungmin like he’s gone crazy at first only to give into Seungmin’s round, pleading eyes.

He rather likes the sound of his husband harmonizing with Mariah Carey. Minho’s got a lovely falsetto, Seungmin learns.

A quarter of the way into the movie, Seungmin asks, “Wait, so does that mean Yoojung is the mistress or is he actually sleeping with his cousin’s wife?”

Later, “I thought the money was buried? How did it end up with Ryujin?”

And then, “There’s no way they’ll get to the clocktower on time, right? Right? ”

“Kim Seungmin,” Minho snaps. “How would I know? We’re watching the same movie. I have the exact same amount of information as you do.”

“I’m just thinking aloud.”

“Well don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t think?”

“Or breathe.”

“Mission accomplished,” Seungmin simpers. “Because you take my breath away.”

Minho says, “Cool. I’ve always wanted to be a widow.”

“Ha ha. You’re not getting rid of me that easily, yeobo. ”

Saccharine sweet, “My dear, idiot husband. It’s like I can still hear his voice.”

“Actually,” a voice says from somewhere behind them. “We can hear both of your voices. We can hear everything you’re saying. So can the two of you stop flirting so that the rest of us enjoy the movie?”

Oh God.

“Look what you did,” Minho hisses. “You got us into trouble.”

Seungmin should be more embarrassed, but he’s too hyper focused on just one thing. He turns to face Minho in the dark. “Am I dear to you?”

“Do you want to stay with your parents for a few days after Christmas?”

It’s dusk outside, nearly dinner time. They’re heading back after the movie, a confusing arthaus affair that left Seungmin with more questions going out than he had going in -- and he had a lot of questions going in. At least Go Ah Sung was cute to look at.

“Sorry, what did you say? I was thinking about Go Ah Sung.”

“Your parents’ house. Did you want to stay with them for a few days after Christmas?”

Seungmin narrows his eyes suspiciously.

Christmas is only two weeks away and Jamie made it very clear that there would be very few breaks in his schedule since the holidays are considered one of the more opportune times to be seen giving back. Seungmin can’t imagine having more than the day itself off when there’s so much work to be done reinforcing their image and brand. Surely, Minho’s pulling his leg.

He asks, “Is this your punishment because I talked too much during the movie? Is that why you’re banishing me?”

Minho grips the steering wheel tighter. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I’m coming with you.”

“You say ‘Of course’ like it’s supposed to be obvious!”

“I’ll have you know that I’m an exemplary son-in-law. Your parents love me. Your mom texts me everyday.”

This is news to Seungmin. He cranes his neck to look over at the older boy. “About what?”

The shell of Minho’s ears turn pink even though his expression remains impassive. He nervously licks his lips. “You, mostly. How you’re doing, what you’re up to, if you’re eating well. Stuff like that.” Minho considers it briefly, before deciding to put in his two cents. “She worries about you a lot.”

This revelation doesn’t line up with his reality. Seungmin’s mom doesn’t contact him outside of Seungmin’s scheduled efforts to reach out at least once a week. Their phone calls are brief and text replies, sporadic. Why does Minho have more of a relationship with his mom when Seungmin needs her too? Why has she fallen silent at a time when Seungmin needs her the most?

“Why doesn’t she just ask me herself?” Seungmin gripes.

Minho chances a glance at him when they’re stopped at a red light. His lips skew back and forth like he’s chewing on something, a sentiment he’s trying to make more palatable before feeding it back. Minho speaks like he’s testing the words out on his tongue. “I get the impression that she thinks, even if you don’t say it, that you must resent her -- and she already misses you, but she doesn’t want to bother you, so she ends up missing you even more. Penance for pushing you away and into this life with me.”

“What kind of logic is that? Punishing herself for pushing me away by pushing me even further? When I’m the one who said yes?”

“Go easy on her,” Minho says, which only serves to annoy Seungmin more.

“Can’t you just sympathize with me for once?”

“Why else would I suggest staying with your parents, if I didn’t sympathize with you? If I didn’t want to help fix your relationship with your mom?”

“Oh?”

Minho’s ears turn even pinker. “I know I’m not winning any World’s Greatest Husband awards any time soon but I’m also not a monster. I care,” he pauses here to swallow, followed by a shaky inhale. “I care about you.” Exhale.

“Oh?”

Irritation breaks through Minho’s abject mortification from opening up and showing Seungmin a peek at his vulnerable underbelly. “Since when did your vocabulary become so limited? Can’t you say something else?”

“O-kay?”

“You’re insufferable.” Minho huffs. “Get out of the car. You can walk home, you stupid mutt.”

Seungmin feels a giggle bubbling up through his throat.

“Are you sure? That’s not very ‘caring’ of you, yeobo.” He sandwiches the word between exaggerated air quotes. Seungmin thinks Minho might actually pull over and dump him onto the side of the road. More than likely, Minho might kick him out without slowing down at all.

“I take it back.”

“Too late! I’ve already internalized it.” Seungmin grins, giddy. The admission is more than what he could have hoped for going into this marriage. “You care about me? You really, really care?”

“Less and less as the minutes go by.”

Seungmin wants to lace his fingers through the hand that’s resting on top of the gear shift. He refrains, but it's a close thing. “It’s okay. I’ll care about you more to make up for it.”

Minho mumbles curse words under his breath. Better and clearer than ever before, Seungmin is able to see past his husband’s grumpy façade.

☼

Seungmin and Minho stay with his parents during that hazy period between Christmas and New Years when time isn’t real and everything blends into each other, squid ink in water, one day bleeding into the next.

His mom greets them at the door when they arrive. “Welcome home,” she says and envelops Seungmin between the cradle of her arms. Minho goes for a handshake when Seungmin and his mom separate but she pulls him in for a quick hug as well. Despite his initial surprise, Minho soon melts into the embrace. She murmurs something into Minho’s ear, only Seungmin can’t make out the words.

“It was the least I could do,” he hears him murmuring back.

Seungmin tilts his head at Minho in question. His husband turns pink and retreats with both of their luggage into the house.

It’s strange -- despite the frequently used line of communication between Minho and his mom, the first few hours upon arriving are stilted as they figure out how to navigate the new space and each other’s presence within it. Seungmin is not immune to this strain either, tip-toeing around his parents as he quietly tries to configure his new life into the misshapen mold of his old one, reconciling the changes, and learning how to let go.

It starts by helping his dad take down the Christmas tree in the living room.

“You didn’t spring for a real one this year?” Seungmin asks. They’d only ever used a 5 foot 5 plastic one with built-in lights, bought on sale forever and a day ago, set up and taken down every December since Seungmin was 15 years old. At this point, half of the LED bulbs need to be replaced and there is a large patch that’s purposefully facing the wall where the branches are so tangled it creates a bald spot in the spread.

“Your mom and I aren’t big Christmas people. We only really celebrated it for you kids. Now that it's just the two of us in this house. . .”

“Ah.”

Laughter rings out from somewhere inside the kitchen. The house has a partially open floor plan so Seungmin can see the concentrated look on Minho’s face as he’s dicing up vegetables for a stir fry. After demonstrating an earnest interest in learning, his mom has taken it upon herself to teach Minho how to cook.

“How are things with you, Min-ah?” his dad asks. Seungmin hasn’t heard his childhood nickname in so long, it takes him by surprise. After hitting double digits in age, Seungmin insisted that he was too old to be called Min-ah anymore and banned his parents from its usage. Noona was the only one who continued, obnoxiously defying Seungmin’s wishes as was her birthright as the older sibling.

He answers, “I’m adjusting well, Appa. Everything’s fine.” Even to Seungmin’s ears, the sentences sound mildly robotic. The phrase has become a programmed response. A personal mantra as well, repeating on a loop in his head. He thinks it becomes a little bit truer every time. He hopes it becomes a little bit truer, this time.

“And you? Are you fine?” Now that the Christmas tree has been dismantled, individual parts being put back into a designated box, rough around the edges after being taped and retaped so many times throughout the years, there’s nothing standing in between Seungmin and his father’s discerning gaze. Kim Jaemoon has never been a particularly vocal man but communicates everything he needs to with the expression in his eyes. The brown of them, a dusky shade that Seungmin’s inherited, are ringed with concern.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Seungmin answers the question with a question. It’s a flimsy evasion tactic and one he won’t be getting away with when it's met with complete silence in turn. His father is no longer squatting but has settled himself, immovable as a mountain, onto the ground. His legs are folded beneath him. The crease between his eyebrows spell out, I don’t know, you tell me.

“Isn’t this the life you wanted for me?” Seungmin asks defensively. He feels heated beneath his sweater, fingers clenching into a fist. They say that when an animal experiences a stressful or traumatic event, they undergo a physiological response popularly known as fight or flight. “Money and influence? A royal title?”

“I only ever wanted you to be happy.”

There’s also the lesser-known third option.

Freeze.

Seungmin supposes that, in a way, he’s been frozen this whole time.

“Happy?” He repeats.

His father nods. “Are you happy, Min-ah?”

It is a simple yes or no question. Seungmin wishes he had a simple response.

“I’m not un happy,” he supplies eventually, after a moment of contemplation that borders on too long, too pointed; before it’s interrupted by another round of laughter drifting in from the kitchen. Minho’s rises above it, the loudest of the two. Not the refined chuckle he’s perfected, but the cackle he lets loose whenever he’s truly amused. Seungmin’s been working on drawing it out of him on purpose and not just as a byproduct of when he stumbles on camera or there’s a less than flattering picture of him floating around online. One time, he hears the echoes of it coming from Minho’s bedroom the night Seungmin had kissed a baby on his way to an event and it had thrown up across the frontside of his shirt. People made gifs of it. Minho had set it as his kakaotalk default pic for a month.

Seungmin shakes his head, bringing focus back to the conversation at hand. I’m not unhappy . It isn’t the whole truth, but it is true enough.

“But could you be?” His father asks. “Happy?”

Minho’s laughter, again.

“Yes.”

Dinner is delicious.

Seungmin can hardly remember the last time their family's dining table seated four. Nowadays, Seungmin has grown used to eating as one.

His parents retire early for the night.

“I’m surprised you didn’t accidentally poison all of us,” Seungmin muses as he washes the dishes. It’s his least favorite chore and one he hasn’t done in a while. He keeps spraying himself with water whenever the stream hits the spoon he’s rinsing the wrong way.

Minho plucks the clean utensils from his hands to dry them down with a cloth. He chuckles. “Don’t be ridiculous. I targeted and purposefully only poisoned you.”

“You and your widow agenda.”

“May it come true someday.”

Seungmin wishes he wasn’t wearing rubber gloves. Minho’s fingers brush against him during every exchange.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” Seungmin tells Minho that first night as they huddle inside of his bedroom and survey their options when it comes to sleeping arrangements for the rest of the week. Preemptively, Minho has flopped over and spread-eagled himself on top of Seungmin’s bed the minute he shouldered past Seungmin in the doorway to beat him inside. For all of his noble upbringing, Minho can be unbearably childish sometimes.

“I’m not either,” Minho resolutely replies.

“So we’re at an impasse.”

“So we share the bed.” The older boy rolls his eyes like Seungmin is being intentionally daft. “This isn’t quantum physics. Anyways, I call the left side.”

“But I also sleep on the left side!”

“That’s too bad. As the Royal Consort, one of your unofficial duties is to sleep on the side closest to the door. That way, if there’s an attempt on my life, you’ll be taken out first.”

“Not if I’m the one making the attempt,” Seungmin mutters.

“What’s that? Are you talking dirty to me, Kim Seungmin?”

“Shut up, or I’ll smother you with a pillow in your sleep.”

His husband rolls over onto his side to look up at Seungmin. He props his head on one hand and smirks. “Keep going, jagi. What else are you going to do to me tonight?”

Jagi?

It’s all too much. It’s a knockout from the start.

The innuendo, on its own, Seungmin could possibly handle. The pet name, even when laced with a lethal amount of sarcasm, is enough to short-circuit Seungmin’s brain.

He barely manages to tell Minho to “Shut up” again.

“Are you okay? Your vocabulary continues to deteriorate at an incredibly alarming rate.”

After much debate, Seungmin eventually (and predictably) gives in. Fine, whatever, Minho can take the left side of the bed. They take turns washing up and changing into more comfortable sleep clothes.

Minho slides in first, settling himself flush against the edge of the bed. Seungmin follows after, making sure to maintain the few inches of space the full-sized mattress permits between two fully grown men.

“Fair warning,” Minho says as Seungmin turns off the lamp and plunges the room into darkness. “I move around a lot in my sleep.”

“Do you actually? Or are you just saying that as an excuse to put an elbow in my spleen?”

Minho tugs the blanket away from Seungmin so that he’s hogging most of it. “I don’t need an excuse to do that.”

Seungmin presses his cold feet against Minho’s calves in retaliation. His husband slaps at his ankles until Seungmin relents.

Back to back, they bid each other goodnight.

Half an hour passes, maybe more.

Try as he might, Seungmin can’t drift off to sleep. He’s too hyper aware of the body to his left; swears he can feel Minho’s heat seeping into the space between them and intermingling with Seungmin’s own. Temperatures reaching equilibrium. Too hot. Uncomfortable.

Seungmin shucks off the corner of the blanket he’s permitted to keep.

His heartbeat pounds erratically inside of his ears. Insistent without maintaining a steady cadence. It stops beating altogether when Minho moves. One second, he’s lying completely still, and then the next he’s rolling over and curling his head so that his nose and upper lip hover above Seungmin’s shoulder. He’s as close as he can get without any part of them actually touching.

“Minho, are you awake?” He whispers up to the ceiling, afraid to turn his head and check.

The question is met with silence. Silence, and the sound of the world around him as it collapses, condensing itself into the space between two bodies laying side by side.

Minho remains motionless for a few more moments before he starts wiggling again, maneuvering himself minutely until he’s tucked into Seungmin’s side; chin resting in the crook of Seungmin’s neck, arms brushing, legs drawn and kneecaps pressed into his hip. Breath ghosting, moisture collecting in the depressions of Seungmin’s collarbone. The smell of Minho’s yuzu and verbena shampoo.

Seungmin, in what is perhaps a moment of temporary insanity, pulls him in. He takes refuge in the warmth of Minho’s smaller form. He wants to find purchase in the tenderness of Minho’s flesh, fingernails digging into sinew and bone, to trap him within the cages of Seungmin’s arms rather than let Minho drift away again when the sun comes up. He hugs him closer.

Unlike Minho, Seungmin doesn't have an excuse.

They sleep like that, deeply. Two bodies forming a question mark in the dark.

When they have to disentangle themselves in the morning, Minho doesn’t say a word and keeps his silence when it happens again and again. On the fourth night, Seungmin barely manages to resettle after turning off the lamplight before Minho is upon him and Seungmin’s arms act like the jaws of a Venus Fly Trap, ensnaring Minho around the middle.

“Minho, are you awake?” He asks this every time.

A break from routine, Minho replies with a whisper so quiet he doesn’t so much hear the words as he can feel the impression of them, soft lips tracing their meaning into the column of Seungmin’s neck. “No. You’re asleep. This is all just a dream.”

Seungmin feels brave in this moment, here when he can’t read into the expression on Minho’s face. When all he has to go off of is touch. He wants more of it, everywhere.

Seungmin plucks up his courage and asks, “Can I kiss you then?”

“It’s your dream,” Minho answers. “You can do what you want.”

He feels nervous even though they’ve technically kissed before. Seungmin’s not sure it counts. He’s not sure if the one waiting on Minho’s lips right now counts either.

In that case, maybe he should go all in.

Tentatively, Seungmin slides his fingers beneath the curve of Minho’s jaw, tilting his head up by the chin to get better access to his lips. They bump noses and it kind of hurts but their mouths eventually connect on Seungmin’s second attempt at closing the gap.

His first thought is that Minho tastes like spearmint toothpaste.

He doesn’t have another thought after that.

Seungmin fumbles through the first few seconds, having little to no experience outside of a few pecks from his middle school girlfriend and then one clumsy makeout session with a boy who smiled like sunshine in the haze of a summer’s afternoon. Felix moved back to Australia for college while Seungmin remained in Seoul.

For all the pressure Seungmin puts on himself for initiating a kiss, Minho ends up being the one who leads him through it.

The older boy shifts so that they’re fitted more comfortably against each other. This allows Minho to regain control over both of his hands, one of them cupping the jut of Seungmin’s hip while the other clutches at the patch of hair on the back of Seungmin’s neck.

Euphoria pushes everything out of Seungmin’s brain.

It’s chaste for a while.

He’s satisfied with just the simple pressure of all the places they connect, until Seungmin feels the heat of a tongue seeking entrance, gliding along the seam of his lips. He parts for Minho immediately; offers little to no resistance. Minho is somehow everywhere at once. The taste of spearmint toothpaste is stronger here -- spearmint toothpaste and something else.

He chases after it, addicted.

“Seungmin.” Minho moans.

Seungmin thinks he’s going to burst.

It’s mindless and unhurried, the way they come together; softening from the initial rush of discovery into an unhurried exploration of every corner of Minho’s mouth, pressing him deeper into the mattress, supple skin giving beneath Seungmin’s hungry touch. Until it’s just Seungmin puckering airy half-kisses to whichever parts of Minho he can reach.

Foreheads pressed together, they both drift off to sleep.

Minho shakes him awake the next day. “I have to go. There’s some business back at the Palace that requires my immediate attention.”

Groggily, Seungmin rubs the sand from his eyes. “Okay. Give me ten minutes to pack up and get ready.”

A hand to his chest prevents Seungmin from rising and following through with his promise. “No. Stay. Make the most of this time with your parents.”

The corners of his mouth crumple into a frown. “You don’t want me to come with you?”

“I want you to enjoy whatever freedom you have here, where you’re not tethered to the millions of other titles and responsibilities and identities you have to assume as my official consort.”

This sentiment reminds Seungmin of his conversation with Father Brian. Stubbornly, he insists, “My shoulders are wide for a reason. I'm strong enough to hold the weight of them all.”

“Your lower body strength begs to differ. I’ve seen your skinny chicken legs.”

Seungmin is about to dunk on Minho’s obvious set-up, some suggestive comment about “I’ll show you lower body strength!” that’s honestly beneath him, but his husband intercepts Seungmin before he can leap. “I’m too dignified to stand around and listen to whatever drivel is about to come out of your mouth, Kim Seungmin.”

Seungmin, accordingly, pouts.

Minho leans over to kiss it away, a peck that lingers even after they separate. Minho straightens up and the placid expression he’s wearing makes it seem as if nothing even happened.

“What the heck,” Seungmin whines. He uses both arms to shield his face from the air of his poorly-heated room, the chill of which makes the warmth in his cheeks feel even more pronounced. “You’re definitely awake.”

A chuckle, and then the rustling sounds of Minho retreating out the door. “I’ll send a car to pick you up tomorrow morning, jagi .”

Seungmin yells, “WHAT THE HECK!”

Minho’s laughter, again.

☼

Spring blooms early that year. The weather starts improving by late February, winter chills giving way to bird song and rain showers and the smell of cherry blossoms tickling at Seungmin’s nose. He watches new life growing in the sprout of the season’s first ephemerals.

“You should add climate change to your platform,” Seungmin says on their way back from morning greetings. They’re eating breakfast together. Minho joins him on most days and then later for dinner, too.

It’s nice to share space and to be breathing the same air. When Seungmin looks up across the table after slurping down a bowl of stew, he likes to see Minho’s face twisted in judgement; he likes the comfort of having someone sitting there.

“It would be hypocritical of me considering how big my husband’s carbon footprint is, ordering delivery for his disgusting green tea loaves every day.”

“They’re the only things getting me through philosophy lessons,” Seungmin claims. Unlike Minho, having shown more or less zero aptitude for cooking and being downright a safety hazard every time he steps foot inside of a kitchen, Seungmin’s curriculum has shifted to incorporate Confucian readings and abject boredom. Seungmin quietly loses his mind for an hour every other afternoon. “For every line of text I memorize and every minute I don’t fall asleep, I reward myself with a bite.”

Minho sighs. “You know you can tell my parents that you don’t want to take those lessons anymore, right?”

“I know. It’s just . . .”

“That you’re you,” Minho fills in the blank.

Seungmin wrinkles his nose in response. “Why the tone? What’s wrong with being me?”

“You want a list?” Minho snorts. “Because if so, then I definitely can’t add climate change to my official platform. I’d have to deforest all of Korea to produce enough paper to detail all the reasons why you’re the worst person I know.”

“Deforesting an entire nation because you’re unable to summarize your feelings for me? How sweet of you, yeobo .”

“I miss when we were barely on speaking terms.”

It brings a smile to Seungmin’s face. He’s been smiling a lot more these days.

It can’t be helped. Seungmin is in love. This feels like a honeymoon period, delayed.

He wishes he were a poet and could translate the way he feels with words; an artist who can make the buoyancy in his chest somehow visible to the naked eye; a botanist capable of transplanting the tendrils of tenderness growing like vines across his heart into a garden that photosynthesizes beneath the rays of Minho’s warmth.

Seungmin is tragically none of those things.

Minho knows it anyway.

“Walking down memory lane?” Seungmin beams. “Missing me even when I’m standing right here?”

“Why do I bother saying anything when all you do is put words in my mouth?” He doesn’t wait for a response and pushes forward with hurried strides.

Running is technically forbidden on Palace grounds, but Seungmin has a husband to catch. Minho is fast even though Seungmin’s legs are much longer. “What’s that you say? You love me, too?”

He confesses like this, indirectly, at least twice a day.

Minho accepts it, tacitly.

“Stay away from me Kim Seungmin!”

Seungmin hopes he’ll return the sentiment one day.

☼

Months pass like this between them in a teasing kind of bliss.

Piecemeal, Minho lowers his guard around Seungmin.

And then it is June, once more.

☼

On a car ride back from a diplomatic trip to Japan, Seungmin hears the notes of a song he hasn’t heard in almost a year.

It might be EDM? Or House? Except Seungmin doesn’t listen to either of those genres, his music library being comprised of almost exclusively Day6 and Taeyeon and Byun Baekhyun, so he’s really not sure why the tune sounds so familiar. It tickles like an itch at the back of his mind.

Sitting beside him, Minho grows progressively stiffer. He is white-knuckled and unresponsive when Seungmin questions, “Hey. What song is this?”

The ending notes, as they fade out, feel like an ice bucket over his head.

It clicks, suddenly. Minho’s body language. The drop in temperature in the car.

Han Jisung.

This must be his group’s debut track. It has to be. The one Seungmin caught at the tail-end of on the day he also caught Jisung turning Minho down. The day Seungmin became another duty, the same as making morning greetings and attending mind numbing council meetings, on top of being a shitty consolation prize.

“Minho?”

“Jaesuk,” his husband growls at their driver. “Turn off the radio, please. I’m developing a migraine.”

The estimated amount of time it takes to travel between Incheon Airport to Changdeokgung Palace is about an hour and a half. For the duration of it, neither of them exchange another word after that.

☼

Seungmin spends the next two days walking on eggshells, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He holds his breath in Minho’s company, overanalyzing every action and microexpression that flickers across his husband’s sculpted face.

He can’t decide on whether or not to be comforted by the fact that outwardly, nothing much has changed. Their routine remains more or less the same. Minho is quieter but infinitely better than the Minho he met during the first few fledgling months of their engagement. They still share meals together. Minho still lets Seungmin hold his hand.

He should feel comforted by this. It’s not an outright rejection. If anything, it only puts Seungmin further on edge.

The thing is, Seungmin is acutely aware -- more than most -- of the fact that he and Minho have poor compatibility stemming from their opposing personalities. They are two matchsticks set to flame. Friction, embodied. If not for the promise between their grandfathers all those years ago, Seungmin’s not sure if he and Minho would have ever crossed paths; if Seungmin would feel the same way about his husband if they weren’t legally and politically bound. They’d be cordial, of course, if not total strangers. But they wouldn’t be them .

This knowledge is what compels Seungmin to push when he should withdraw, to not allow Minho the space to process his emotions because what if his emotions end up convincing him to turn Seungmin away? How can he give Minho space when he’s fought tooth and nail for every inch of it that brings them that much closer? Twelve months worth of progress lost, in the blink of an eye. He’s terrified of distance. He doesn’t want to create anymore.

“Talk to me, Minho.” He begs.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Say something, Minho.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Can’t you just—”

“What?”

“Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

“Do you regret this?”

“...”

And then, at his wit’s end:

“Would you like me more if we got divorced? Would you love me if we had never gotten married?”

Minho looks mad enough to spit. He gets up from the dining table, thighs bumping against the edge in his haste to leave. China and silverware clatter and echo throughout the room. Seungmin’s heartbreak as well.

“Fuck you, Kim Seungmin.”

Foolishly, he follows Minho out.

“Minho, wait!”

His husband turns around. He is illuminated by the diffused light from their bedrooms and the misty moonlight filtering in.

A passing breeze whistles through Minho’s fringe.

There’s about a meter between them, a distance that might as well contain an ocean when it feels equally as vast. Seungmin is but a ship in that ocean, battling choppy waters and a starless expanse of sky, trying to navigate to safety without any sort of guide.

“Well?” Minho prompts.

“If given the choice, would you marry me again?”

Seungmin loves making Minho laugh. The one Minho lets out in response to the question is not the kind that Seungmin wants to hear.

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Minho says in a tone that is low and guttural; a wound that never quite heals, tearing open again. “I am never given a choice. Everything is decided for me, planned down to the minute, from the moment I open my eyes -- from the moment I opened my eyes for the first time. And before that too, when I was promised to be engaged before I was even a thought in my mother’s mind. So don’t stand there, Kim Seungmin, and talk to me about choice, having been in my shoes and seeing the world as I see it now, between the bars of a gilded cage. Whatever autonomy I have is what I fought with blood, sweat, and tears to carve out. Fighting for it while looking up at a ceiling I know I can never surpass.”

“If given the choice? ” Minho laughs. “Marrying you was never a matter of choice.”

His resentment is palpable. The waves of it knock Seungmin back.

He watches as Minho’s careful mask, the product of a lifetime’s worth of construction and reconstruction and repositioning depending on whatever the situation called for, crumbles completely to the ground.

He feels the shards of it digging into his skin. Whose hand it is that’s actually holding them there is unknown to him.

“What does that make me, if not a choice?” Seungmin asks. “A sentence? Someone you were condemned to for the rest of your life?” Bile raises somewhere in the back of his throat. His vision spins as a pinwheel does during a storm.

“A people pleaser.”

Seungmin bristles even though there isn’t any bite to the words; crueler still because Minho says it like he is merely stating a fact, the way one would comment on the shade of a dress or the temperature outside.

He denies it viciously. “What? No, I’m not. And what does that have anything to do with the conversation at hand?”

“You are,” Minho continues. He only pauses for a moment to gauge Seungmin’s reaction before deciding he doesn’t care. “You’re a people pleaser. You go along with things because you think it’s easier than asking for what you really want. Worse is when you convince yourself that what you want doesn’t matter at all. Ordering at restaurants, quitting those dumb philosophy lessons you’re always complaining about. Getting engaged to a stranger at 19 fucking years old. You couldn’t have possibly wanted that for yourself. Someone wanted it for you and you tricked yourself into thinking it was a choice.”

“Are you done?” The observation strikes a chord inside of Seungmin. He feels peeled apart like the rind of a tangerine and sucker punched through the core, words like a thumb pushing out the white pith of Seungmin’s heart.

He’s had enough.

Seungmin bridges the distance between them and puts the few inches of height he has to good use. He sneers down the tip of his nose at Minho, who predictably won’t back down.

“Are you done throwing yourself a pity party?” He asks.

“Should I feel better because at least I’m not you? At least I'm not some dumb, domesticated dog who’s deluded himself into thinking that this is what life is?”

Seungmin burns with indignation. He feels a pressure building inside of his chest, pushing his heart up against his ribcage to make room for the anger brewing within.

“You think of yourself as some caged little bird without any freedom of choice but it was you who chose to keep your distance in the beginning. You’re the one who chose to be unhappy. And this? All of this? The last few days? That was you making another choice.” His voice breaks. Seungmin feels himself shaking. “That was you choosing to hurt me again. You’re hurting me still. No one else, Minho. You.”

His husband explodes. “But this whole time, you said nothing -- you did nothing! Nothing until now. I could hate you Seungmin, and believe me, I have -- and still, you would let that be okay."

“Yes,” Seungmin confirms. An ugly truth unfurls itself from the tip of his tongue. “I’d rather you hate me and stay by my side, then not have even the shade of you at all.”

This time, Seungmin is the one who leaves.

Minho does not follow him out.

☼

Seungmin goes and gets plastered at a bar downtown.

It’s a rinky dink place that Jamie recommends after the guards on duty alert her to Seungmin’s obvious distress, her soft spot for him superseding her duties to the Crown.

“I know the owner there,” she tells him over the phone. Seungmin hears the sound of muted jazz and overlapping conversations in the background. Today is Jamie’s day off. She must be out somewhere. “They’ll be discreet, I swear, so you can get as drunk as you want tonight. Cry your heart out, Seungmin-ah. I will clear your schedule for tomorrow, but you should still get up and get out of bed. Survive the next day. Survive the day after that.”

“Thank you, Noona.”

Jamie bids him goodbye. “Take care of yourself, Seungmin-ah.”

Seungmin gets drunk yet somehow doesn’t cry. He suspects he’s all cried out, which is an infinitely better alternative than confronting the fact that, even while climbing to higher and higher levels of intoxication, he is unable and unwilling to let himself cry in front of anyone else.

Drunkenness can be excused as Seungmin cutting loose. Heartbreak makes front page news.

You’re doing it again .

He hates being conscious of the instances where he’s prioritizing other people over himself, so Seungmin knocks back a shot. He hears Minho’s voice in his head, comparing him to a domesticated dog, and knocks back another. His stomach gurgles unpleasantly. Seungmin asks the bartender to pour him a third shot for good measure.

Like any other sane human being, Seungmin hates the taste of whiskey but he likes the way it burns. It’s a welcome distraction from how much everything else hurts: Seungmin’s head from how hard he’s clenching his jaw, the dull ache in his joints from where his fingers clutch too forcefully around the glass, and finally the persistently throbbing epicenter in his chest.

Seungmin drinks to forget and yet is always forced to remember. Worse, he can’t bear not to.

Minho is everywhere, all the time. His face is plastered across TV screens and subway ads and in every corner online; appears again, at night, when Seungmin’s mind conjures images and slips them like arsenic into his sleep. Dreaming of Minho, of touching him and breathing him and loving him, is the closest he’ll get to a tasteless, colorless, and odorless death.

He takes a fourth shot. Vodka, this time. 

Eventually, the bartender cuts him off by sliding Seungmin a gin & tonic -- “easy on the gin. It’s basically carbonated water.” -- to nurse. He tells Seungmin to, “Slow down there, your Highness.”

After all , he thinks, being sad about boys is a marathon, not a sprint.

An hour passes, and then another, and then it’s closing time. Final call. Seungmin thinks about going home with someone else. He thinks about Minho. And then he realizes he’s too drunk to think.

He closes out of his tab and calls his chauffeur. Jaesuk has to physically help Seungmin into the car.

On the way home, Jisung’s song plays on the radio again.

Only then does Seungmin cry. He cries his heart out. He feels pathetic. Everything around him is wet. From tears, sweat, or bile? Seungmin doesn’t know. Seungmin’s not sure he cares.

He feels like he’s drowning, like he’s a sailor being lured into a watery grave. There’s a morbid sort of sweetness to be found in hanging onto his very last breath; sweetness in the relief when he occasionally breaks the surface to draw in gulps of air, gasping, filling up his lungs with all that he can get.

And when the car pulls into the driveway and his cheek is glued to the leather seat from the adhesion of long-dried tears, Seungmin peels himself off. Seungmin gets up. Seungmin lives.

☼

The door to Minho’s bedroom is open when he gets back, which he interprets as a silent invitation for Seungmin to come in.

Minho wants to see him. Why else would he be awake at 2 AM?

Seungmin doesn’t bother knocking before wedging himself through the crack in the door. His shadow appears inside of the triangle of light that casts itself onto the living room floor.

Minho is pretending to be asleep.

A peace offering .

“Were you waiting for me yeobo ?” He peels off his socks and shoes and every outer layer of clothes, until he’s down to a t-shirt and boxers, and climbs next to Minho in bed. The alcohol has mostly worked its way out of Seungmin’s system. He is back to being mostly in control of his faculties, even if it doesn’t translate in the articulation of his limbs, which retain a dulled edge of poor coordination. Seungmin swears he means to leave some semblance of space between them, but somehow ends up flushed against Minho’s back.

Well, since he’s already here—Seungmin presses a sloppy kiss to the nape of Minho’s neck.

“You smell like alcohol.”

Seungmin giggles. “I am alcohol.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“What are you? Four?”

“Yeah. Crazy four you.”

Minho flips himself over. He tilts his head back so that he can look his husband in the eye.

“You’re drunk,” he observes.

Seungmin smiles at him, lopsided. “I am.”

“You’re not supposed to be drunk. You’re supposed to be mad at me.”

“I am mad at you,” Seungmin confirms.

“Well you’re doing a bad job at it!”

“Maybe.” He giggles. “But this is a dream. And in my dreams, there’s nothing to be mad about.”

“You should hate me,” Minho insists. The levity is enough to sober Seungmin the rest of the way up. He curls against Minho instinctively. “Asleep or awake, for the rest of your life. We’re bound together for the rest of our lives . We can never divorce or be allowed to act like we’re less than in love. Why won’t you hold that against me?”

“Do you want me to?” Seungmin wraps his arms around Minho’s torso and pulls him in closer. “Because I will. I’ll hold you against me for the rest of my life.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth again.”

Seungmin waggles his eyebrows. It definitely comes off as a series of elongated blinks. “Would you rather I put something else there instead?”

“Kim Seungmin!”

“I forgive you,” he mumbles into the crook of Minho’s neck. He presses kisses there, too. “Because for me, there is nothing less than love. It’s just love. I love you, Lee Minho.”

Minho trembles in his arms. “I know. I’ve known for a while now.” His thumb traces patterns into the apple of Seungmin’s cheek, against the raised bump of his mole. “I’ve just never understood it. Why?”

“Because I want to. I’m choosing to. And because I’ll always choose you, again and again.” Even if loving him is the hardest thing Seungmin will ever do. Because love is hard. Love is work . “We don’t have to be soulmates or agree or even get along all of the time. Our jagged edges don’t have to match up and align. Wanting to hold you, and then reaching out and doing it. When you allow it. When you hold me back. That’s also a type of alignment. That is also a kind of love.”

He feels the fight leave Minho’s body in more ways than one. After so long, the war is over and Seungmin is waiting to welcome him home.

While staring into his husband’s eyes, Seungmin asks, “Minho, are you awake?”

“I am,” Minho whispers before leaning in. He seals their lips like a promise. Seungmin sighs into the kiss.

They can save the tough conversations for later, for when they’re both ready to be a little bit braver. As they’ve established, they have the rest of their lives. But for tonight, Seungmin thinks this is enough.

“Tell me you love me, Minho”

“I love you. I do.”

☼

It takes them another six months before they run into Jisung at an official event, at a leadership forum where Minho is an official sponsor and 3RACHA are invited to speak and perform a couple songs towards the end.

Truthfully, Seungmin was waiting for this. He actually thought the reunion would come sooner since it was only a matter of time given the interconnectedness of Seoul’s rich and famous and social elite. Sooner, because Bang Chan alone is somehow acquainted with everyone and anyone in every circle, even the ones in Hell. Seungmin’s seen him pictured with Nakamoto Yuta before.

Seungmin expects things to be awkward when they make eye contact. They are still not quite strangers, but not quite friends.

Jisung just seems to be grateful to see a familiar face in the crowd. He waves at Seungmin from a distance and walks over to greet him, halfway across the room. His hair is a sunset shade of orange now.

“Kim Seungmin!” Jisung greets him enthusiastically. “Oh shit, sorry. I mean, your Highness. Hello!”

His security guards regard Jisung’s approach with wary eyes. Seungmin has to discreetly wave them off.

He smiles when Jisung stops directly in front of him. The older boy has put on some muscle since the last time they met. His arms look like they’re about to burst out his shirt, the long sleeves constricting him like two blood pressure monitor cuffs. “Am I still saved in your phone as Boycrush Seungmin?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Okay. That remains my official title then.”

Jisung laughs.

They spend a couple of minutes catching up. It’s strangely easier now, talking. They no longer need Hyunjin there to act as a buffer. Seungmin finds that he likes talking to Jisung. He thinks they could potentially be friends.

3RACHA is gearing up for a comeback. Seungmin and Minho are finally going on their honeymoon in March.

“Where is Minho anyway?” Jisung asks.

Seungmin glances down at his watch. “Giving an interview backstage somewhere.”

“How is he doing these days?”

“As adorable as ever.”

“Haha. That’s good to hear.”

Briefly, there is a lull as both of them wonder who should speak to fill the gap, if they should talk more about Minho or move onto something else.

Seungmin can’t move on though. There’s a question he's been burning to ask.

Jisung looks like he was waiting for it when Seungmin finally works up the nerve.

“Do you regret it? Turning Minho down.”

The rapper downs the rest of his champagne flute and says, “No. I loved him, but I’ve always wanted this more.” Jisung gestures vaguely towards his surroundings in allusion to his career. “I’m gonna be honest. It took me a long time and a lot of angsty, cathartic songwriting to come to terms with the truth -- that it was never about me. Sure, Minho probably held a lot of genuine affection towards me. I’m loveable as fuck! But his proposal was never really about me. To hyung, I was the illusion of freedom. But you’re the real deal, Seungmin-ah.”

Later, when Minho joins them, he does so with a kiss on Seungmin’s cheek. Seungmin doesn’t need the extra reassurance, but doesn’t complain when Minho reaches out to gently hold his hand.

Jisung is eventually called away. He needs to go get mic’d up and perform. Chan and Changbin have just wrapped up their speaking portion on a panel, which Jisung declined because he hates public speaking.

“Have fun in Bora Bora,” he says with a grin. “I wish you two every happiness.”

Minho smiles. “Thank you, Jisung-ah.”