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Chan was summoned to the royal throne room first thing in the morning.
Which means either one of two things:
One, that the King has another mission for the captain of his most elite knight force to venture out on.
Or two, that the crank of the drawbridge is stuck again, and Chan will have to employ his sword-wielding muscles to get the gears working.
Given the rough sparring practice he endured yesterday, Chan really hopes it’s the former. He’s still nursing a sore ankle after Changbin, one of the newest knight recruits, lobbed a blunt practice javelin right into Chan’s foot. Ouch. That hurt more than the prick of an enchanted spindle, Chan will tell you what. He would know—he made the mistake of poking the pad of his thumb on one of those damned things last year. Took him weeks to shake that stupid clumsiness curse off.
“Lord Chan,” the King greeted, respectfully dipping his head at the sight of his favorite, most trusted knight padding into the throne room. He’s an older man, wisened and wrinkled but with a spritely twinkle still in his sunken eyes. He sits comfortably in his golden throne, hands resting on armrests ending in decorative lion-head finials.
Chan fell to a reverent knee at the stairs leading to his opulent throne, bowing his head until his mop of curls tickled the bridge of his nose. “My liege,” Chan responded, as always.
Despite ruling one of the most sprawling cities in the continent, the King is surprisingly benevolent. Rather than warmongering and bloodthirsty, the King is kind and tender to both his people and the denizens of the imposing castle grounds. Their city is one of peace and prosperity, all thanks to the King and his just rule. Rather than unforgiving iron, their King’s fist may as well be sprouted in daisies. Chan can wholeheartedly say he’s proud to serve the King. To wear the banner of his kingdom from his armor’s breast, to sling a long sword and spill some blood in the name of keeping his King and their people safe.
It’s not easy to gain the trust of a royal, let alone the King, but Chan has managed to do just that. He worked his way from a stable boy, to a lanceman, to a trainee in the knight corps, and so on. And now? Now, Chan is the captain of the most paramount, well-trained force in the entire kingdom. And the King wouldn’t designate the title to anyone else.
While the King has a son of his own, the much adored prince Hyunjin, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say he considers Chan as a second child. Not bonded by blood, but by years of trust and mutual guardianship.
“Rise, my knight.” The King’s voice is appropriately loud and booming and shakes the velvet trimmings in the corners of the marble throne room, but his demand is not an unkind one. Not a threatening one. Not at all.
Not needing to be told twice, Chan unbent his knee and straightened at the waist, but kept his hands respectfully laced behind his back. He’s still in his training clothes; a pair of ruddy brown linen pants and a loose cotton blouse, so what he lacks in noble attire he attempts to make up in formal body language.
“I have a new quest for you, Chan.”
Ah, there it is. Chan knew it! There’s no other reason he’d be summoned like this first thing in the morning. Even the stubborn ironwork of the drawbridge can at least wait till noon.
Chan nodded, his lips flattened into a serious line.
“Are the mountain trolls giving our border guards trouble again?” Lord, Chan certainly hopes not. Those beasts are the worst. They dented his favorite breastplate because of their stupid meaty paws, and the smell! Don't even get Chan started. He had to ask the court magicians for assistance last time, when his mail harbored the rank stench of troll blood for days after their battle.
The King shook his head, “Thankfully not.”
That’s a relief.
“Is any army encroaching?” They aren’t in any active battles or border disputes, but Chan is always on guard. He has to be, when he’s in such an important position.
The King shook his head again. “No, once again.”
“Rogue enchanters?”
“No, Chan.”
“A herd of unicorns are ravaging up the farmlands?”
“No,”
“Merfolk in the reservoir!”
“No, Cha—”
“Oh, I know! The wolf shapeshifters are meddling with the livestock again! I told Seungmin that pack of hooligans were gonna cause trouble—”
“Chan, please!”
The knight instantly clammed up at the King’s—half exasperated, half amused—bellow. Chan zipped his lips shut, and stood ramrod straight in a frenzied display of respect.
The King quickly placated him with a wave of a wrinkled hand. “We received a request letter from a neighboring kingdom in the West, about their prince. They suspect he’s been cursed, as he hasn’t left his woodland tower in weeks—some manner of sleeping spell.”
Chan soaked in the information. Let it ruminate.
“So…” the knight began, treading lightly. “You just want me to...try and wake him up?”
The King chuckled, but it was not malicious. “It is not so simple. You see, his court suspects the enchantment is... dependent. On something.”
“On what?” An herb? A flower? Chan is sure that the court gardner, Jeongin, can help with whatever floral qualm they could have—
“A kiss.”
Chan slapped a calloused palm to his chest, as he spluttered. He coughed and hacked as his brain tried to unpack such a deceptively benign statement.
A kiss?
From Chan?!
“M-my liege,” Chan muttured, once his throat felt adequate enough to speak. “Why me? Why doesn't one of his kingdom’s people try to... wake him? I’m sure there’d be a line outside his tower—”
Chan was cut off by the gruff cackling of the King.
“Because, my son,” the King drawled, words loose and easy as if he’s enjoying seeing Chan squirm. “His people don’t know what else could be lurking in there. If whatever sorcerer who cursed him is still prowling about, they’d be finished! They need someone strong and powerful! Someone who could easily defeat whatever evil has enchanted their prince! They need,”
“You.”
“Me?”
They spoke in perfect unison, but Chan still heard the King loud and clear.
Lord. He’s serious! This is serious! A prince and his kingdom are dependent on Chan and...and his ability to kiss?! Sure, there could be no shortage of unspeakable dangers guarding his quest, but still.
What kind of sorcerer makes their spell breakable by a kiss, of all things?! That’s fairy tale BS that shouldn’t happen in the real world! So cliche! Can't they be a little more creative with their curse-breakers?! It’s not very villainous, if you ask Chan. If you ignore the serious consent issues raised, of course. Which are pretty villainous, now that Chan thinks about it.
Ok, so Chan is dealing with a consent-disrespecting wizard here. Alright.
He can deal with that. He'll gladly teach that sorcerer a lesson or two.
All he has to do is get in, defeat whatever baddies are skulking about the prince’s tower, kiss him, hopefully he'll wake up, Chan will apologize profusely, and then go the heck home. Simple!
Except, as Chan will soon learn, not so simple.
But in that very moment, the knight was none the wiser.
“I understand, my King.” Chan said, after the contemplative silence grew brittle.
The King gave a sagely nod, but the twinkle in his eyes is still apparent. The divots of his crows feet still greet Chan from the corners of his eyes, despite the King’s lips pressed into a relatively serious line.
“I trust you, Chan.” The King mused, as if an afterthought.
Chan couldn't help but gulp, under the invisible weight of his new mission. People are depending on him. A prince and his people! And now the King . Now his people! If he... kisses wrong or something, he’ll become a laughing stock!
He can see it now; how the mighty have fallen. Chan flubs the kiss and the prince turns into a toad, or something. That’ll be just great.
Lord. He can’t mess this up! His reputation depends on it!
The King sent him a knowing glance through hooded eyes.
“I know you won’t fail us.”
To Chan, those sound like famous last words.
👑
Thanks to the startlingly detailed map whipped up by Jisung, the royal cartographer, Chan made it to the Western prince’s tower before the sun began to wane. Seriously, how did he get those directions so picture perfect?! He even drew the waterfall in the spring down past the tower!
Chan will have to ask Jisung for his secrets when he returns.
Hopefully he’ll return, after this.
Hopefully his embarrassment won’t force him into hiding.
The forest the spire was erected in is quite lovely, he has to admit. Songbirds chirp and flutter between spring blossoms. Wild rabbits munch in a nearby patch of wild flowers and shrubs. If Chan strains over the rustle of the leaves and the hoof beats of his steed, he'd be able to hear the rush of the nearby waterfall so expertly depicted on the map. It's idyllic, in every sense of the word.
Chan doesn't blame the prince for wanting to hole up in such a perfect woodsy retreat.
The tower itself, however, is as Chan expected; around seven stories high, spindly and made of intricately laid brick. Ancient brick, if the lichen and moss creeping between the fissures mean anything. Atop the tower is a cottage-like “house”, the pointed thatched roof a striking dichotomy to the unforgiving edges of the layered bricks.
Yup. It’s a tower alright.
Chan sighed, as he gazed up at it.
May as well get this over with.
He slung his legs off his horse’s etched leather saddled, the calm forest air distorted with the din of his plate armor clanking and banging. Chan landed on the grassy floor with a dull, metallic thud.
And to think, this is his lightest, most inconspicuous set of armor he wore today. Perfect. How will he sneak up on enemies like this?! They’ll hear him coming a mile away, what with how his broadsword keeps clanging against his mailed thighs whenever he takes a step.
Chan secured his steed’s reins to a nearby low slung sapling, so the mare has ample room to graze while Chan is venturing up the tower. There's an unknown knot in Chan’s stomach, as he patted the muscular flank of his beloved horse, all in the name of stalling for time.
He's nervous. Chan is never nervous. Not even when fighting feisty mountain trolls or putting dual wielding magicians in their place. Not even when riding into battle.
Why is he so damn apprehensive?!
Maybe it's the fear of the unknown. The looming possibility of anything and everything hiding in the shadows of that tower, waiting and eager to pounce on Chan. At least with other quests he knew exactly what he was getting himself stuck into.
Maybe it's the equally looming prospect of him kissing a random prince.
Yeah. Maybe it's because of that.
Chan will blame it on the plethora of enemies that are undoubtedly scuttering about in the mile-high tower.
But as Chan cautiously stalked up to said tower door and nudged it open, as he crept inside and hugged a stone wall for secrecy, as he crouched down for the lowest-profile possible, he realized something.
He sat there, crumpled up to an armored heap at the base of a winding stone staircase, and listened.
And what does he hear?
Nothing.
No beastly hissing. No predatory cackling of prey cornered. No grumbling or groaning or hulking footsteps made themselves known.
Chan scrunched up his brows, as he felt the minutes of nothingness begin to bleed into one another.
Is there really nothing in here?
No sorcerer? No evil henchmen? Nothing?!
Chan can’t believe it! Partly because this means anyone else could have done this, and partly because his armor is heavy as all get out, and he would have jumped at the chance to wear his linen underclothes on a quest. Just once! Ugh .
This sucks.
Chan grumbled as he rose to his feet. His stupid clunky armor jangled and clamored as he did so, as if each sheet of tempered metal is laughing at him personally.
Chan growled, and in a fit of sheer petulance he unstrapped his breastplate, fashioned of a thick sheet of polished silver with swooping gold filigree in the center. He gently placed it on the stone floor, silently. He did the same with his wolf-headed shoulder pauldrons, and his engraved ankle and wrist bracers.
He stripped off his armor plating until all he’s left in are his thin linen underclothes, a chainmail tunic that comes to his hips, and his trusty broadsword hilted at his waist. There. That’s better; more comfortable, and more suited for stealth missions such as this. Well, it would’ve been a stealth mission, if there were...you know... enemies for the slaying.
Chan stretched, reveling in the newfound ease of mobility. He won’t complain about the lack of beasts in desperate need of a blade through the chest, yet.
Now he can do some much needed prince-saving.
Hopefully.
Now that Chan thinks about it, his biggest issue is ahead of him.
Slaying evildoers and rapscallions is, well, kinda Chan’s thing. It’s just what he does. That’s what he’s most comfortable doing on quests. Swinging his broadsword and parrying blows is like second nature to him. Kissing random, sleep-cursed princes on the order of two kingdoms? Yeah, that’s out of his knight-captain job description.
Disappointed that the only thing about to be slayed is his own ego, Chan’s shoulders slumped as he rounded the staircase. He looked up, and damn is that thing tall. And winding. Tall and winding and currently giving Chan both a severe case of vertigo, as well as a mighty crink in the neck.
Yeah, he definitely made the right choice in shedding his armor. He’d be swimming in sweat and muscle pain if he tried walking up all those flights in all that metal! Stupid towers and their stupid staircases.
Maybe being captain of the knights isn’t as great as Chan previously thought.
So with that in mind and doing little to motivate him up, up, up, Chan hopped onto the first step. And then the second. And then the third, fourth, firth, onward.
He climbed those flights for what felt like hours. Years!
No wonder there’s no one else in here! No wonder no other knight or civilian tried to save the prince first. The prospect of traveling these never ending stairs is reason enough for both people and beasts alike to stay away.
Chan began panting, as he climbed onto the final flight.
His lungs are burning and his pale skin is reddened and dappled in sweat, as he forced his leather boots up, and up, and up some more. Lord. He needs to add some more cardio into his training regimen, after this.
Just a little more!
He’s so close, he can taste it!
There!
Chan stumbled off the final step, and onto the same stonework he found on the floor-level of the tower. He doubled over, leaning his palms on his knees as he sucked in greedy gulps of oxygen.
Once his lungs are sufficiently sated with breath, Chan righted himself. Before him is a wooden door. Shut tight, but Chan can still see a thin bar of sunlight streaming under.
At least it’s still daylight. That must count for something, when it comes to Chan’s athletic prowess.
Not wanting to waste another moment, Chan strutted forward and took the wrought iron door knob in his hand, and twisted.
The door squeaked open with no rebuttal. It wasn't locked, or barred, or even remotely bound from entry. It was just...open. For anyone to come in. And Chan did exactly that.
Chan walked into a room.
A bedroom.
Well, mostly a bedroom. In the corner is a quaint little stove, the angular chimney leading right out the open window. There’s a washbasin in the opposite corner, next to a floor length mirror and a claw-foot wardrobe. Paintings and etchings hang on the stone walls, dried flower wreaths droop above accent tables and tasseled tapestries.
Rather than a bedroom, it’s more so a miniature house than anything. It’s quite well put together as well, for being atop a tower.
At least this prince knows how to interior decorate. If only that could combat the sear in Chan’s thighs.
Speaking of which;
Chan’s roaming gaze found the farest corner of the makeshift dwelling.
There, pressed against the river-rock wall, is a large bed. A diaphanous white canopy sags from the bed posts, catching the evening sunlight like diamond droplets in a spider’s web. Like a hovering veil, the canopy drew Chan’s attention down, to what lies on the bed itself.
Laying on the crisp white sheets, is a man.
The prince.
Chan couldn't help how his breath hitched in his throat, as he noiselessly crept closer. On silent footfalls, the prince’s body came more and more into view.
He’s laying on his back, with his arms crossed gently over his chest. Like a corpse, in total peace and stillness in death.
And Chan would have believed just that, had it not been for the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest, bringing his crossed arms gently up and gently down in even time.
Chan walked up to his bedside, and looked. Really looked at the prince. At his face.
And lord, what a face it is.
He’s beautiful, in every possible way.
His brown hair is artfully mussed, and feathery across his forehead. His nose is a perfectly steep slope, with a cute little birthmark on the curve of a nostril. His cheek bones are just as sculpted, and beautifully contrast with his pink, pouty lips. Even in the throes of unbreakable slumber, the prince’s plush lips appear to curl up at the corners. Almost like he’s smiling.
His body is lean yet toned, especially apparent in the musculature of his thighs. Probably thanks to going up and down all those stairs, Chan can only assume. And he has to admit, the prince doesn’t look terribly... cursed. Body wise, he means. He doesn’t look emaciated or atrophied, or unhealthy in the slightest. He doesn't look like he’s been asleep for weeks on end, Chan should say.
He's wearing a simple lace-up blouse, and equally unassuming wool slacks. Said laces are very much undone, exposing the milky planes of his collarbones and chest. He certainly isn't dressed like a prince, that's for sure. There's no royal circlet atop his head. No crest pinned to his breast. No anything that would give any clue he is of noble blood. But Chan couldn't even bother trying to unpack that right now.
His heart started racing, even harder and faster than after his trek up the never ending stairs. His vision is swaying, his chest is heaving, his palms are clammy, all because of the gorgeous prince snoozing below him.
Chan gulped, as the details of his quest came stampeding back to him.
This is the prince. The prince Chan has to kiss.
The prince he has to kiss!
Damnit. Damnit! Why does the prince have to be so beautiful?! As if Chan didn’t feel enough pressure already!
Chan clenched his fists, as he bit into his bottom lip. The weight of his broadsword suddenly feels oppressively heavy at his hip. The mail tunic over his undershirt suddenly feels like it’s fashioned of molten lead.
But he has a job to do. He has an obligation to save this man from the clutches of forced slumber. He promised the King—and by virtue of that, the Western kingdom’s ruler—that he would do this. So he has to.
He has to kiss him.
Which, admittedly, shouldn’t be terribly hard, now that Chan may or may not have a totally small and professional crush on the noble boy he was tasked to save.
So Chan steadied his breath after letting loose a shuddering sigh. He wiggled his fingers, to breathe some life into the digits after clenching them so tightly.
He spurred himself forward. Both literally and figuratively.
Chan leaned down, down, down. He bent at the waist until he’s hovering right above the prince’s face. Chan can feel his gentle breaths ghosting from his lightly parted lips, and onto Chan’s own mouth. He smells sweet. Like lavender and peony and summer cyprus.
His eyes are shut so softly, with such tranquility, Chan almost feels guilty to have to wake him. But this is a curse! A nefarious enchantment that must be broken.
This is Chan’s duty. His job, as captain of the knights, is to kiss this prince awake.
And by his King’s name, he will do just that!
Chan leaned down even more, and closed whatever distance was separating them. One breath, two breaths. One more, just for Chan to collect his thoughts.
It's now or never, that much he realizes.
And then, he darted forward, and locked his lips with the prince’s.
His lips are incredibly soft and supple, and verge on hypnotizing. Chan’s eyes fluttered as he seamed their lips in a chaste kiss, reveling in the silkiness of the prince’s mouth.
Everything was going so well.
Until, the prince began to cough and sputter under Chan’s smooch. His lips which were once tender and limp instantly pursed, puckering under Chan’s as the prince roared to life below him.
And Chan means roars quite literally.
“Wha–what the,” the prince squawked, as he flailed his arms and bucked his knees. His eyes flew open, widening in shock at the sight of Chan still smooching his lips. The prince pressed splayed palms to Chan’s chest and pushed, sending the knight stumbling. Chan yelped and tumbled back a few paces, almost slamming right into the door he came in from. His heart is beginning to thud in his ears at the sight before him, like unending claps of thunder.
It worked! The prince woke from his kiss! He did it! He can return to the kingdom and be hailed as a hero—
“Dude?! What the heck?!” The prince shrieked, jolting up in his bed and scuttling a safe distance away from Chan. “Do you just go around kissing random people?!”
While, yes, that is exactly what he was tasked to do, Chan is extremely confused.
To put it nicely.
He must not know he was cursed, right? That’s gotta be it...right?
“U-uh,” Chan began, tripping over his words as he tripped over his feet mere seconds prior. “Y-you we’re cursed, my prince! Enchanted for eternal sleep, until I, Knight Chan of the Southern Kingdom, valiantly broke your spell with a kiss, saving you from undying slumber!”
Chan always sounds so dumb when he puts on his “regal” knight-voice. He felt his cheeks going scarlet under the prince’s fiery gaze.
The prince’s brows furrowed, mellowed, furrowed again. Chan can see the gears turning in his head, as he unwound the contents of what the knight just revealed to him.
The prince sent him a palpably unimpressed glower. “Look, Chan. I wasn’t cursed. I’m not cursed. Your kiss didn’t do shit, except wake me from a really nice nap.”
The prince’s handsome features are flat and deadpan, like the unamused timbre of his melodic voice.
Chan’s eyes shot wide open, as what he just said fully meandered up to his brain and busted the metaphoric door down.
He...wasn’t cursed?
How?!
“B-but!” Chan wailed in disbelief, “Your kingdom said you were under a sleeping enchantment! They sent my King a letter of request for my services, to wake you up with a kiss! They said you haven’t left your tower in weeks .”
The prince sighed, heavy and knowing, and raked a palm down his beautiful features. “My stupid kingdom is so annoying. They always think I’m cursed when I don’t leave my tower for a while!” And of course, any good curse is broken with a kiss.
Chan still does not fully understand. The prince must have taken notice of his confusion.
“Newsflash, knight,” the prince continued, at the sight of Chan’s severe stupefaction. “I’m not under a spell. I’m just lazy.”
“And I love taking nice, long naps.”
Chan blinked. Chan gulped. Chan blinked while gulping.
Oh.
Well...he did not plan for this. Definitely did not plan for this.
A lazy prince not leaving his tower on his own volition? Not cursed in the slightest? Just likes taking naps?! And Chan just kissed said not-cursed, nap-loving prince, in order to break a “spell” that doesn't even exist?
That settles it. Being the captain of the knights is so not all it’s cracked up to be.
“I...I’m so sorry,” Chan mumbled, because he couldn't think of anything better to say. He wants to tap into the whole profusely apologize part of his plan, but he never expected it to go down like this. Sure, Chan is just as embarrassed as he suspected he'd feel, but now he feels guilty and ashamed and just...overall not like the best knight of the best.
Well, at least his cheeks were already bright ruby from his foray up those stairs. Helps hide the furious blush dying his skin all over again.
“I-I was just following orders, honest! Everyone thought you were super duper cursed and that...I could help? I’m really sorry for...kissing you, your highness.”
Chan swallowed hard, making his Adam’s apple bob. He’s blushing from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears, and he just hopes the prince can forgive him.
He heard a chuckle. Light and airy, like wind chimes.
Chan’s gaze flew up from where he’d been staring at his scuffed boots on the stonework, only to see the prince staring at him through lidded-eyes. He’s giggling, into a surprisingly tiny fist, as he glances at Chan through thick lashes.
He’s smiling. That’s got to be a good sign, right?
“Chan,” said the prince, and the knight doesn’t think his name has ever sounded so musical to his ears. “I never said the kiss was bad.”
Chan squeaked again, as an electric zip ran down his spine.
“It was just... unexpected, to say the least.” Mused the prince, with a good natured shake of his head. “It’s not your fault. It’s my kingdom . They can’t accept that I don’t want any part of the throne! They just can’t deal with the fact that I want to just...be me, alone. Away from all the fanfare of the court, and trade treaties, and battle strategy.” The prince finished with a full-body shudder, and a scowl of disgust. He spat the words out as if they're drops of poison on his tongue.
“They begrudgingly allowed me to stay in this old-ass tower, but my parents think it's just a whim. A phase. That I'll come to my senses soon and return to the kingdom, begging to be back in the center of the court. They just don't get that this is who I am! ” The prince huffed while crossing his arms tight over his chest, his nose scrunching in distaste.
“They just...don't want to listen to me. To hear me for what I'm actually saying. They think I'm just being moody. Dramatic. Lazy. Which, granted, I probably am. Definitely am.” At least that coaxed a genuine chuckle from both Chan and the royal boy. “But they don't get it. Get me.”
Chan hummed, and took a tentative step closer to the prince’s bed again. He didn’t shoo the knight away. He’ll take that as a good sign.
“I understand. Being in the court can be so overwhelming sometimes. More often than not, actually.” Chan said, even though he, objectively, does not understand at all. He may be a court official in his own right, but being a prince and being a knight are two vastly different titles. Chan couldn't even begin to try and understand the burden of nobility placed on the prince’s shoulders.
The prince sent Chan a smile, genuine and curling the corners of his lips. When he grins like that, he almost appears cat-like.
Chan thinks he might be in love.
With a prince. A prince he kissed-but-should-not-have, to boot. Great.
Said prince patted the empty side of his bed, gesturing for Chan to join him on the mattress.
Chan didn’t need to be told twice; his knees were beginning to lock from standing awkwardly in place for so long.
He scampered over and flopped down, making his chain mail tunic jingle and jangle with the movement.
The prince’s mattress is plush and soft, but not as plush and soft as his lips. Chan can say that with surety.
The prince extended a tiny little hand towards Chan. A bit random given what they were just talking about. A bit random given the fact Chan just kissed him, but he won't complain. He’s still smiling that feline grin, which Chan will still take as a good sign. “Minho. Prince of the Western kingdom. Even though I’d rather sleep all day, alone in my tower.”
Chan allowed himself to giggle, now that he and the prince— Minho— understand each other. Chan gets Minho. His parents may not, but he does. Maybe the prince can sense that.
Chan stuck out a hand of his own, and clasped the prince’s. Soft and warm, like everything else about him. Minho’s hand is so small, but it looks especially petite when smothered with Chan’s impressive digits. Neither of them let go just yet, even though the optimal handshake time has long since elapsed.
“Lovely to meet you, prince Minho. Knight Chan of the Southern Kingdom, but you knew that already.”
Minho’s smile is so beautiful. Just like his face, and his heart. Chan hasn’t known the latter very long, but he can say wholeheartedly that the beauty of his heart puts his impeccable features to shame.
They eventually released their hands, and Chan felt a pang in his chest. He could've sworn he felt the pained beat shift his mail, making the links of iron rattle over his heart.
“So, ‘O valiant knight in...not-shining-armor,” Minho drawled, gesturing at Chan’s linen shirt and chain mail tunic, “Is it well within your royal orders for me to ask for another kiss?”
Oh. He wasn’t expecting it, but that’s a good sign. Definitely a good sign.
Chan scooted forward on the bed, ignoring how the duvet caught around the hilt of his sword sheathed at his thighs, and met Minho. He raised up a hand to cup his jaw, stroking the sharp angle of bone with his thumb. Minho’s skin is so soft. Like his lips.
They looked into each other’s eyes; with how the sun is setting through the window, pillars of orange light reflected off their irises, as if they’ve been bejeweled with individual topaz.
Chan leaned in, in tandem with Minho.
“I think I can handle such a... simple quest, your highness.”
👑
“Chan, can I ask you something else?” Minho asked, once he and Chan pulled away from the umpteenth smooch of the night. A thin string of spit connects their kiss-bruised lips, until it is severed with a swipe of Chan’s tongue over his own bottom lip.
They’re illuminated only by the myriad of candelabras in Minho’s tower room and the pale moonlight through the window, as night has long since fallen. They spent the evening in each other’s arms; Chan’s broadsword lays forgotten on the stone floor, after Minho asked him to remove it after one too many pin-pricks while cuddling. Their eyes are dark and heavy, glittering in the murk as if giving off their own source of light. Their lips are bright ruby, from the endless assault of kisses.
Chan's been in Minho’s tower, in his bed with him, for hours. But it's not like the King is expecting him back at the castle anytime soon; quests take hours. Some take days. Killing monsters and saving princes takes time, and the King understands that. And while Chan may not have spent the hours as he imagined, while his sword is clean and unused and his armor is left unattended at the base of the tower, there's nothing else he would rather be doing. Nowhere else he’d rather be.
He's in no rush to mount his horse and ride back to the castle gates. At least, not without someone else on the saddle behind him.
They spent the evening talking; actually getting to know each other, in between kisses. In between many, many kisses. As Chan suspected, Minho is just as beautiful inside as he is on the outside. Suffice it to say, he isn't terribly shocked by that revelation. Minho is funny, and witty, and sweet like honey. Chan was falling at first, and now he's plummeted through the air.
He landed in a Minho-shaped pit. The same one that is now carved into the center of Chan's heart.
He's in love, with a not-cursed prince.
“Of course,” the knight readily gave him permission.
Minho suddenly looks rather pensive. Contemplative, as he put the right words on his tongue in the perfect order. He pursed his glossed lips together as he thought, and Chan fought down the urge to coo.
“Would you...let me come back to your kingdom with you?”
Chan startled at the request. He blinked so rapidly, soon he could barely see Minho through the dizzying combination of his lids and lashes.
Minho giggled at Chan’s visceral reaction, and took that as his cue to elaborate.
“I don’t think I want to be cooped up in this tower anymore. I think...I wanted to be out there,” Minho hooked his thumb over his shoulder, at the night sky through his open window. “With you.”
Chan heaved a loaded, shuddering breath.
“Can you?” Leave your kingdom? Your people? Your tower?
Minho nodded, and crawled into Chan’s arms. He fits so perfectly there, on Chan’s chest. Like that’s where he’s meant to be.
“My parents would be happier knowing I’m out and about with someone, rather than sleeping my life away to the point where they think I’m cursed.”
And when Minho puts it that way, Chan can’t blame him for such logic. It makes perfect sense to him.
“I wouldn't be the perfect prince they wanted, but they'd be happy knowing I'm happy. And Chan, I'd be so happy with you.” Minho's eyes are so big and bright. So wide and sparkling, like the night itself is unfurled in his pupils.
Chan felt his heart quiver, as Minho’s words and the physicality of their impact left him dizzy. Chan would be happy with him at his side, too. He knows it, as if it's been ingrained into the very core of his being. As if it's always been there. Some fairy tale BS that simply shouldn't happen in real life.
But there's just one small problem eager to snuff out the reverie smoldering in Chan's heart.
Can he take Minho back with him? Is Chan allowed to strut back into the castle with a prince on his arm? Sure, it's the very prince he was tasked with saving. And sure, it's never been done before, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's wrong...right?
His mission was to wake the sleeping prince. Chan can safely say he did exactly that. There was nothing in his quest about not falling in love with him. There was nothing about not bringing him back to the castle, to live out the rest of their days in blissful companionship. That definitely wasn't in the fine print of the letter sent by Minho's kingdom.
Chan has a feeling the King won't mind in the slightest when faced with a (surprise) new castle resident. They have more than enough spare bedrooms, anyways. In fact, there's an empty suite right next to Chan’s, on the third floor of the castle. Overlooking the training grounds and the stables to the east. It would be perfect.
Plus, coming back with a prince is way better than returning empty handed, right? Right. Trade deals, and stuff like that...as far as where the King is concerned.
“Please, Chan?” He must have stayed silent for too long, while thinking. Stupid thinking. Chan vows to never do it again, if it means Minho won't look at him with eyes glassy from sadness and desperation and longing ever again.
“I don’t want you to leave me.” He balled up two fists of Chan’s chain mail tunic, the metal links crunching under the tightness of Minho's white-knuckle grip. He's holding onto Chan like if he lets go he will be cursed. That he will be thrust into everlasting sleep if Chan is wrenched from him.
Minho sounds like he’s on the cusp of pleading, and it’s taking Chan’s heart and cleaving it in two with more power than any war hammer or battle ax.
Minho’s voice is quiet for the first time since they met. Not quiet volume wise but fundamentally quiet. Quiet from within. He’s scared.
Chan thought about it until he simply couldn't anymore. He doesn't care if it's allowed or not. He doesn't care if the King will care or not.
If Minho wants to return to his kingdom with him, who is Chan to say no?
It simply would not be the knightly thing to do, the thought of rejecting Minho’s offer. Especially when it comes to someone as important as a prince. Blah blah blah trade deals blah blah blah. Gotta keep their kingdoms on good terms, yaddah yaddah.
He knows what he has to do.
Chan scooped Minho even tighter in his arms. Brought him even flusher to his chest, until their hearts beat in perfect time and flow right into each other’s chests.
“I’d love to take you back with me, Minho.”
He felt the prince’s taut muscles instantly relax in his comforting hold. Tightened sinew mellowing into softness, all because of a few simple words. And Chan’s arms around his waist—Minho can’t deny that as a factor as well.
“Take me home, Chan?” Asked the prince, through a lovestruck grin.
Chan smiled into the prince’s neck, until he darted up to place a chaste peck on his temple. He’s in love with a prince. Who would have thought?
And now that Chan thinks about it, maybe being the captain of the knights is all it’s cracked up to be. Maybe there’s no title he’d rather have.
Except for “prince Minho’s boyfriend”. Yeah. Maybe he’d prefer that title. But he’ll work on that one. And he has a sneaking suspicion he won't have to work terribly hard to earn it.
Chan hummed into Minho’s hair, and fully picked him up into his arms. Now Chan stands with Minho safely cradled bridal-style against his mailed chest, secure under the grip of Chan’s calloused fingers. Minho threw his arms around Chan’s neck, nestling his head into the crook of the knight’s shoulder.
Chan fumbled to pick up his broadsword; it was awkward, now that Minho is also in his arms. But he made it work. Like knights always do.
He made his way to the door, now with some very precious cargo with him. Minho looked over Chan's shoulder, soaking up a final view of his tower bedroom. He didn't look melancholy when he turned back to Chan. He didn't look wistful, or regretful. He looks happy. Hopeful.
Maybe even in love.
Chan nudged the door open. Minho smiled up at him.
The world is perfect, for a few wonderful seconds.
“Let’s go home, your highness.”