Chapter Text
Alberu Crossman is a busy man. A crown prince. A politician. A chessmaster of words. The man with so many responsibilities. So many things that requires his attentions.
He does not have time to worry about the... atrocious culinary sins his soulmate keeps committing.
Today, it was burnt instant noodles. Again. With cheese. And canned tuna. And something that tasted suspiciously like guilt.
He almost spat out his milk when the flavor hit. Intensifying.
He tries to send a message.
[Why]
…Nothing.
He tries again.
[WHY]
Still nothing. The connection is quiet. Which means one of three things:
1. The message is too long (unlikely),
2. They’re sleeping (probably not with that kind of sodium intake),
3. Or...
He narrows his eyes and sets down the royal goblet.
"They're ignoring me."
Meanwhile, across dimensions and worlds, in a dark, blood-slicked alley, Kim Rok Soo is gnawing on half a protein bar he found in a broken vending machine. Monsters are still circling the ruined city. His limbs ache. He can’t remember the last time he slept properly. Well, this is what apocalypse do to a man. Kim Rok Soo didn't say that going back to adapt the cave man's hunting-for-food lifestyle is fun. And neither did the rest of surviving humanity. That's probably why he only have half a protein bar that he fought nails and toes with a rabid man that tried to kill him earlier.
Still, when he chews, he gets the faintest taste of sweet milk, fresh strawberries, and something suspiciously decadent.
“...Filthy rich bastard, how can they eat so good?” he mutters.
He sends a poke. Then a word.
[I'm]
Alberu blinks as his soul jolts.
[Hungry]
“You’re what?”
He sits down hard on the edge of his bed. His dark elves family pause outside the door, alarmed. Bless their heart, not knowing how hard is it to taste something that reminiscent of rat's ass crawled inside their tastebuds on random times a day.
Another message trickles in after a long pause.
[Sorry]
And then nothing.
Alberu stares. Then mutters to no one, "What kind of life are you living over there..."
Then his plate of roasted duck tastes like rusty coins and crushed aspirin. With an undertone of regret.
“...What the hell are you eating now?”
Can't Alberu start eating for two again starting now?
Some soulmates send flowers. Love letters. Sweet little emotions like warm candlelight and laughter.
Alberu Crossman, Crown Prince of the Roan Kingdom, gets... burnt canned sausages.
At first, he thought it was sabotage. A strange taste that ruined a royal banquet. Groups of royal chefs playing in favour to the other princes. Work of spiteful, vengeful, evil step mother; as Alberu was better than her skirt chasing, toe sucking, underwear stealing, good for nothing sonㅡ the newspaper featuring the scandal still lovingly preserved and hidden inside Alberu's room to this very day. A cursed dish. But the sensation came again the next day. And the next. Always during meals.
Always followed by a strange warmth in his chest that was not his own.
A soulbond.
Of all people, he had one.
He wasn’t sure if he should be grateful… or offended.
Today, he sits in the palace’s private dining chamber, ignoring the golden goblet beside him. Nobles chatter outside the door about politics, but all he can focus on is the aftertaste of iron and old noodles.
Not even hot. Just... soggy.
Yes, Alberu can taste textures.
He jabs the bond again with his thoughts.
[Seriously?]
[Delicious.]
[You have no palate.]
[You have no standards.]
Alberu picks up his spoon again, only to immediately gag when a new taste hits—spicy canned mackerel, uncooked. He nearly flings the silverware across the room.
He chokes down a sip of his own soup to cleanse his mouth. The bond pulses like a heartbeat.
[Okay maybe not delicious]
[But I’m alive]
Alberu closes his eyes and leans back in his chair.
Alive. There’s weight behind the word that clings to him like smoke. It always lingers—the edges of something heavier. A hunger that isn’t just physical.
It’s been weeks now. The bond is constant. The taste always unwanted. But when it goes quiet—those rare hours when there’s no lingering flavor on his tongue—he notices.
And he hates that he notices.
Still. Rules are rules. He can’t ask for a name. A face. A location. The soulbond doesn’t allow personal identifiers. He has tried.
[Where are you from?]
[----] (nothing)
[What’s your name?]
[////] (Cue another garbled void)
Just silence.
He’s tried more creative messages. They come back empty too.
So, he fills in the blanks.
Someone with no table manners. No access to a stove. Someone who’s never had fresh fruit.
Alberu assumes, naturally, that his soulmate is from somewhere in the slums of his own kingdom. Maybe even hiding in the mountains or cursed regions, poor and alone.
He can’t imagine another world.
Somewhere Else.
Kim Rok Soo crunches on a stale biscuit looted from a collapsed pharmacy.
It tastes like nothing.
But through the bond, he suddenly gets the sensation of something else—cloves, honey, roasted poultry. A warm hearth and wine.
He rolls his eyes.
[Are you a noble or something?]
[What if I am?]
[Then I’ll steal your wallet first chance I get.]
He doesn’t mean it.
Not really.
Probably.
But as he sits in a cracked subway tunnel, using a crumpled newspaper as a blanket, it’s easy to imagine. Someone rich. Someone safe. Someone living in a world where bread is soft.
He can’t imagine a world without monsters.
And whoever’s on the other end?
Clearly delusional.
[Must be city side]
[You guys still have fresh water?]
[What’s that like…]
[Tragic. I just cried into my truffle risotto. Have the taste of my salty tears.]
Kim Rok Soo snorts. The warmth that travels through the bond is small but real.
Still. He tries sending something back. Something real.
[I’m...]
It doesn’t arrive.
The bond swallows it.
He tries again.
[My name is…]
[----]
Gone.
Of course. No identities. No details. No truth.
Just flavor.
Back in the Palace
Alberu taps the edge of his wine glass.
The bond has gone quiet again.
He tastes only silence.
It’s always worst when it’s silent.
Like he’s forgotten again.
Like the world that keeps feeding him these strange tastes might blink out and never return.
He doesn’t know why he cares.
He shouldn’t.
But he finds himself sending a message, careful, slow.
[Sleep well, rat.]
A pause.
[Dream of moldy rice, you golden asshole]
He chuckles.
It’s not... affection. He doesn't even know them.
But it’s something. A pulse in the dark. A noise to remind him he's not the only one awake at this hour with a bruised heart and a silver spoon.
Somewhere, someone is alive.
Even if they eat like death itself.
Being Crown Prince came with many burdens: political expectations, backstabbing nobles, and an exhausting amount of formal banquets that made Alberu want to slap someone with a roasted goose.
But none of that compared to the agony—no, the violation—of tasting cold canned beans and something that might’ve once been bread, or pickles. Or salami, Alberu had no ideaㅡ through his soulbond connection.
Again.
He slams his spoon down and glares at the table.
"Your Highness?" one of the the dark elves in disguise stutters.
"I'm fine," Alberu says with a smile that would make a grown man weep. "Just thinking about treason."
The moment the servants retreat, most likely to gossip about him with his aunt, tsk.
He mentally jabs at the soulbond like someone angrily poking a dying communication ball magical signal.
[WHY]
[AGAIN]
He doesn’t expect a reply.
Then, five seconds later, it comes:
[Free food]
[Free]
[Warm(ish)]
[Don’t judge]
Alberu closes his eyes. Counts to ten. Tastes wet cat fur, cheap vinegar, and shame.
He opens them again.
[Stop.]
[Please.]
Another message arrives ten seconds later.
[No 💸]
Blinking, Alberu didn't understand why there's an image of bundle of green papers with wings flashed through his head.
[You, send caviar]
[Again, no more]
Alberu's gremlin of a soulmate, addicted to the taste of fish, fish eggs, fish organs and seaweed.
Alberu snorts.
He hadn’t meant to. But the noise escapes before he can stop it. One of the knights patrolling outside the room peers in through the open door.
“Everything alright, Your Highness?”
Alberu schools his expression back to bored royalty mode. “Everything is just delightful,” he drawls, twirling his spoon like a villain with nothing to lose.
Meanwhile, Kim Rok Soo is crouching under a collapsed stairwell, spooning out the last bits of expired canned peach slices. He’s using the can lid as a utensil. It tastes like aluminum and hope.
He gets another poke.
[...You're not eating again, are you]
Kim Rok Soo continue to eat his precious peaces. “What's wrong now? Tsk, this peaches is a luxury find.”
He taps the reply into the soulbond.
[Jealous?]
Silence. For a long time.
Then, faintly:
[Of canned rotten stone fruit]
Seems like his soulmate can't exercise the same authority as Kim Rok Soo to materialise the all powerful question marks and emoticons. Huh, it's indeed true that some people are indeed blessed with more talents than others.
He can sense that his rich bastard tried so hard to put a judgemental (?) at the end of the message.
Kim Rok Soo snorts.
[Of my ✨culinary creativity✨]
[Of your poor life choices.]
Kim Rok Soo laughs for the first time in days. A quiet, low huff in the dark.
He bites into the last peach and immediately gets the taste of fresh herb-buttered lamb chops and warm spiced cider through the link.
[You suck]
[You're welcome]
[Peasant.]
[Go choke on your gold-plated grapes]
Alberu is still grinning when his Aunt walks in unannounced and starts lecturing him about the Council. But the taste of faint peach syrup lingers
in his mouth. Sweet. Warm.
He doesn’t tell anyone he prefers it to the lamb.
Alberu can’t sleep.
He blames his soulmate.
He blames them entirely.
Because who the hell eats cold, somewhat dusty spam and pickles at 2:34 in the morning?
His mouth tastes like salt, disgustingly wet spam, and betrayal.
(Actually, Kim Rok Soo had just nibbled a plant like monster his team had just slayed, but it'd be best if Alberu didn't know)
[Stop] he sends.
[STOP]
[What are you eating.]
The response comes after five seconds.
[protein?]
[a meat?]
[don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.]
Alberu gags. “Is this... canned animal? Is this feral cuisine?”
He groans and pours himself water. The sad, wet, and moist (in all things unholy) aftertaste still lingers.
[You liked the peaches.]
[I tolerated the peaches.]
[You licked your lips.]
He nearly drops the glass. “You FELT that?!”
[You patted your stomach.]
“I did not.”
[You whispered ‘thank you.’]
Alberu stares at the ceiling.
He definitely did that.
…He did whisper thank you.
He was alone and tired and hadn’t had a taste that sweet in days.
He sends back:
[Lies. You hallucinated.]
[Sure, Princess Peach.]
Alberu didn't know what does his soulmate meant by princess peach, but he felt it seems like an inside joke he didn't know about.
[I will spit in your next meal.]
[You already do. With love.]
Alberu’s lips twitch.
He wants to say more. Something smart. Something biting.
But the bond pulses suddenly—not with sass this time—but something dull. Drifting. A kind of silence that hums with fatigue.
He’s felt it before.
A pause.
[Still awake?] he finally asks.
No answer.
But the next moment, he tastes it.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Just bitter wind, and the dry tang of cracked lips.
It tastes
like someone forgetting what food is supposed to be.
He swallows it anyway.
