Archive of Our Own

The waters of the Idran Isle are nothing short of hypnotizing. Bodiless sirens, almost. The Sun shimmers off its body at an angle that hits the eyes, and they’re so clear that everything beneath the surface is visible, even from this high in the air. The waves aren’t close, only below; the palace is carved off the edge of a limestone cliff, hanging out over the clear blue ocean, so the water beneath this balcony is calm and still, save for the ripples made by fish.

The waves come from the beach adjunct to the palace, and they carry to the islands in the distance. If Mark squints, he can see three on a good day, two on one cloudier than this. But the sky is clear and bright, and the etchings of treetops just barely scrape the edge of the horizon. 

A finger pokes his side. “You’re thinking awfully hard.”

Mark breathes in the air. It smells like sea salt and summer. “Do you think she’ll like it here?”

Yoonoh sighs beside him, his arms propped up against the railing of the balcony, bent down at an awkward angle to do so. He’s too tall, and so is Mark. “Mark, you’ve got months before any arrangements are made. Don’t worry too much about it.”

“The arrangements are made,” Mark says, still not turning to face Yoonoh but instead staring at the islands peppered along the horizon. “They’ve been made since she was born. You can’t expect me not to think about it as it gets closer to that day.”

“That day.” Yoonoh shakes his head. “You’ve been talking about that day since you came of ruling age. Which, last I checked, was nearly two years ago. I’m begging you to think about something else.”

“Mmh.”

“Anything else?”

“Mmh.”

Yoonoh sighs. In his peripheral vision, Mark sees his head turn back towards the inside of the palace. “I’m going to go bring some food to the guards. By the way, I think your sister was looking for you.”

“She was?”

“Something about sewing.”

“Enthralling,” Mark says, turning in step with Yoonoh to walk back inside. As he leaves the cover of the outdoors, a curtain falls over the carved entrance to the balcony, and something claps his shoulder loudly. 

“Mark,” says someone in his ear, voice hinging on a whine. “If Yoonoh feeds the guards, why doesn’t he feed me?”

“Because you get fed at my expense,” says Mark. “You eat at the royal table, Jeno, I’m really not sure what you’re complaining about. And the kitchen is open to you at all times.”

Jeno tilts his head and tries to fix Mark with a Look, but Mark doesn’t turn his head. “But I’m hungry and I don’t want to walk! And I’ve been standing by you all day, with no chair.”

“You’ve been doing that for years. What makes today different?”

Jeno stops walking. His heel clicks against the floor as his feet fall together and he stands straight like he’s just remembered something important. “Oh, Goddess.”

“What is it?” Mark asks, stopping and turning to him. Yoonoh keeps walking, snickering to himself about something that Mark probably shouldn’t want to hear.

“I completely forgot, Mark, I am so sorry—” Jeno pats down every inch of his clothing, seemingly feeling for something. Judging by the way his panicked face suddenly deflates, he doesn’t find it.

“Jeno,” Mark says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright. What did you forget?”

“I’ve got to go get it,” Jeno says, moving suddenly. Mark’s hand falls from his shoulder as he jolts forward and disappears ‘round the corner. “I’ll bring it to your sister’s room!” Jeno’s voice calls from the hall, echoing with the heavy sounds of his footsteps.

Left alone in this quadrant of the palace, Mark sighs, relaxes his shoulders for a few seconds, and then picks himself back up, standing tall with his shoulders pulled back and his head high. His footsteps aren’t too loud, but aren’t too soft, either, and his stride is precise, just like his mother taught him. He makes his way to Chaeryeong’s room in no time.

He knocks on the door twice. Behind the door there’s giggling, but when Mark knocks it stops abruptly. In the absence of the laughter, there’s shuffling and clicks along the limestone floor before the door swings open and Chaeryeong’s face peeks out. “Yes?”

“You called for me,” Mark says.

“Oh! Come in, it’s only me and Yeji right now,” Chaeryeong says, opening the door wider and beckoning Mark inside. “I was wondering if you could alter this dress for me?”

“We have tailors for a reason,” Mark says, tilting his head.

“Yes, but—” Chaeryeong pauses, almost flying to her wardrobe to find the dress in question. “They’re not as good as you.”

“You really think too highly of me,” Mark says, smiling a bit and waving hello to Yeji before he takes a seat at the foot of Chaeryeong’s bed. “If I were able to outdo one of our royal tailors, then we’d have to find a better one.”

“Nonsense.” Chaeryeong pulls a dress from her closet, holding it up for Mark to see. “There’s no one better than you and Mother.”

“There could be if you weren’t so stubborn and didn’t refuse her lessons.”

“I don’t refuse them!” Chaeryeong laughs a little, pushing the dress into Mark’s arms. “I’m just… not the best at it.”

“Not the best,” Yeji echoes. “You tried to fix a rip in my dress and ended up sewing your sleeve to mine.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” says Chaeryeong, wrinkling her nose. “Where’s Jeno? He’d defend me if I were here.”

“I’m not sure. He ran off to get something for me that he’d forgotten, but he didn’t tell me what it was.” Mark holds up the dress to examine it. It’s not something she’d normally wear.  “What’s this for?”

“My dress for the wedding,” Chaeryeong says. Her eyes are narrowed. “Do you know what you’re going to wear yet? I know you can’t decide on a headdress yet until afterwards, but—”

“What?” Mark slips the dress over his arm and lets it hang there. “Whose wedding? Headdress?”

Yeji’s staring at him like he’s grown a second head. She looks at Chaeryeong with wide eyes. “He doesn’t know.”

Chaeryeong’s hand touches her barely-open mouth like she’s had a revelation. “Oh, Goddess, he doesn’t know. You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

Three loud knocks sound on Chaeryeong’s door. Whoever’s there doesn’t wait for permission before pushing the door open. “Alright, I’ve got it,” Jeno says, one hand pressed against the doorway to steady himself, panting. His face is flushed. In his free hand is a letter, but Mark can’t tell where it’s from by the seal. “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to forget something as important as this.”

Mark tilts his head. “Jeno, it’s alright, just bring me the letter.”

Jeno takes a few steps forward, passing Yeji and Chaeryeong but stopping before he reaches the bed. His bottom lip looks like he’s bitten it raw since Mark last saw him, and Mark can’t say with certainty that the sweat on his brow is only from running.

“Jeno,” Mark says, standing. His voice is gentle, but still firm, commanding — just how he’d trained himself to sound. Chaeryeong backs away to give him room. “What is it?”

Jeno gulps and holds out the letter. “Once again, I really, really am sorry for—”

“Jeno.” Mark takes the letter between two fingers and turns it over in his hands to examine the seal. His eyes widen when he recognizes it. His breath leaves him, and his mouth hangs open, unable to form anything other than, “Oh, Jeno…”

“Correspondence from the Springs of Vyar, my Prince. The Princess has agreed to be wed in two weeks’ time.”

It’s a week and a half of Mark’s nerves confining him to his chambers before anyone thinks to actually check in on the groom-to-be. Of course, Jeno has tried, but Jeno doesn’t ever say the right things. Nor does Yoonoh, who barged into his room, found Mark standing at his balcony, and threatened to push him off. He’s sure his sister would try, but she’s not intimidating enough.

So he’s stuck here, sat at the end of his bed, one fist pressed into his temple, thinking. He’s already dealt with most of his own thoughts in the past few days, but a king is nothing if not thorough, so he’ll dredge them up again. 

His plan works for all of five minutes before his door quietly creaks open and shuts again. Mark doesn’t turn his head to see who’s there, but he can guess who it is from the gentle click of heels on the floor.

The bed dips beside him, and a hand rises to the small of his back.

 “Overthinking will be the death of you.”

“I’m only worried,” Mark says, but still doesn’t raise his head. He realizes that whatever mood he’s been in has been childish. He just isn’t sure how to snap out of it.

“About?”

“This isn’t a marriage that can be taken lightly. Everyone’s making it seem like that, but I know it’s not. I know that six months after we’re married we confirm the marriage. I know we can’t break it off like everyone else has the option to.” Mark dares to look up and sees his mother’s eyes, but can’t make out anything in them. He looks away. “This is political. My feelings in this don’t matter, I know, but what about hers? What if she doesn’t like it here, Mother? What if she wants to go back? Isn’t this marriage our last chance for long-lasting peace?”

“Mark.” Gently, his mother’s hand finds his jaw and turns his head to meet her eyes. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this because you’re not a child anymore. It’s exactly as you said: this is political, and your feelings don’t matter. Neither do hers. I wish it were different for you, I do, but this is how it has to be.”

That isn’t the answer he expects from her, and she laughs a bit at the expression on his face. “Close your mouth, dear, you’re going to catch gnats. Will you join us at dinner?”

“Not tonight,” Mark says, looking away again. “But I’ll try tomorrow. Is there anything you need me to help with for…” It feels strange to say. He doesn’t want to say it. “For the wedding?”

“Leave that to me. All I ask is that you keep a sound mind.” 

Mark nods.

“Worry all you want. I’ll be here for you always, and so is your cousin. Your sister is a good listener, too.” His mother stands and runs a hand through his hair gently. The feeling makes Mark feel like a child, like he’s just cut himself sparring and has run back crying for his mama to tend to the wound. It’s comforting. 

“Thank you,” Mark says, standing. She rests a hand on his jaw and leans up to kiss his cheek.

“You’ve grown so much,” she says, looking up at him with some kind of sad smile, and Mark wants to ask if he can stop, if he can go back to the norm of running to her when something bad happens. He wants to be a child again, doesn’t want this responsibility to shoulder.

He doesn’t. When she turns her back and leaves, he kicks his own ankle. For what, he’s not sure.

They stand like that again the afternoon of his wedding. The servants have insisted on bathing Mark like he’s not competent enough to do it himself. Chaeryeong tells him it’s tradition for marriage, but Mark still feels personally affronted.

(“You should,” Yoonoh tells him. “I agree with them. You need a bath.”)

They weave gold into his hair when it dries, and afterwards, his mother combs through it gently, careful not to displace the string. She anoints him with perfume and presses it into his cheekbones, then fixes his hair again, because he can’t stop fidgeting with it. When he’s finally ready, she steps back and cradles his face again.

“Are you going to embarrass me again?” Mark says lightly, smiling a bit. It eases the lump of anxiety dripping in his chest.

“I am,” she says. “My, how you’ve grown. My only son. My firstborn.”

“If Chaeryeong heard you, she’d skip the wedding,” Mark says, and his mother hits him lightly.

“Listen to me. I can’t tell you how this will go. I can’t promise you things will end up perfectly and that you’ll be the happiest couple in the Isles. But I will be here for you if you promise me you’ll treat her well. Don’t hurt her. Treat her like an equal.”

“Of course,” Mark says, nodding. He can’t imagine ever hurting her, even if he hasn’t met her. “I promise.”

“Then you’re already a better husband than most men ever will be,” she says. “You will make a fine king one day.”

Mark smiles at her. “Thank you.” 

“My Prince, your robes are ready,” a servant says, appearing at his side to tug at the sleeve of his tunic. “This way.”

“I should go as well,” his mother says. “I’m going to help the Princess. She doesn’t have a mother to help her on her special day, so I wanted to be there for her instead.”

“She doesn’t have a…?” Mark trails off, pausing before shaking the thought from his head and walking where the servant leads him. 

“The Captain of the Guard will see to dressing you, my Prince,” the servant says, showing him to his own room and leaving the hall before Mark has time to thank her.

Mark wastes no time in opening his door and finds Yoonoh already inside, standing by a mannequin at the foot of Mark’s bed, which is… scattered with underclothes and accessories.

“It’s not going to take any less time if you keep standing in the doorway,” Yoonoh says. “Come here, Mark, I’ve got to get you dressed before Uncle has my head.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Mark says, shutting the door behind him. “...Would he?”

Yoonoh shrugs. “Maybe, if you don’t hurry and let me dress you.”

Mark sighs and walks to the mannequin. Yoonoh takes a shirt from the bed and unbuttons it, then hands it to Mark alongside a long pair of pants. “Put these on.” 

“And after that?”

“You won’t like that part,” Yoonoh says, grimacing.

He’s right. After that comes the corset that Yoonoh buttons around his waist, and then the gold pushed up his arms to keep his sleeves from passing his wrist, and then comes the robe, at which point Mark is so tired of standing up that he can barely keep the heavy fabric around his shoulders. All that, and he’s still not sure what he looks like until Yoonoh turns him around and pushes him towards the mirror that runs along his wall. 

“What do you think?”

“I look…” Mark stares at himself for a few moments. The only thing visible on him is his robe, but that isn’t a problem because it looks breathtaking, even on him. “I look fine.”

“You look regal,” Yoonoh says, and Mark’s inclined to agree.

The robe itself isn’t as much of a robe as it is a loosely-named dress; it hugs his body and is buttoned to the waist, at which point it flares out. It’s cream-colored, but the skirt is detailed with blood red, and gold thread winds around most of the robe. The sleeves hang low to show Mark’s bracelets, which have long chains that dangle below his wrists. His shoulders are adorned with epaulets, but Mark finds it strange since he’s never served in the military. They’re stunning regardless.

His boots are laced up to his knee, which he would be self-conscious about if all but the toe wasn’t covered by his robe. He lifts the hem of it with one hand and sticks his leg out to examine the boot. It’s sturdy, well-crafted.

“Anything else, Your Highness?” 

“I told you not to call me that,” Mark says, shaking his head but smiling nonetheless. “Actually, there is something.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you think she’ll be wearing?”

Yoonoh stares at Mark through his reflection in the mirror for a few seconds before opening his mouth and closing it again. “...You really don’t know anything about Vyar, do you?”

“Of course I do. I know their capital, their geography, their main exports, their royal successors, their—”

“But not their wedding customs. You’ve literally been promised to her since birth and you never thought to learn their wedding traditions?”

“...No.”

 Yoonoh sighs. “The women wear dark veils. Which isn’t uncommon everywhere else, but these ones completely obscure their face. They don’t take it off until after the ceremony, so you won’t see her face until this evening when you retire to your room.”

“Room? Both of us?”

Yoonoh fixes him with another stare. “Mark. You’re going to get married.”

“But—”

“Married people sleep in the same bed.”

“But—”

“Do you have any more stupid questions, or can I bring you to the hall so you can wait for the ceremony to start?”

Mark opens his mouth to argue but decides against it. Yoonoh brings him into the hall smiling, and the teasing doesn’t leave him until the ceremony begins.

This must be the singular most nerve-wracking wedding in history.

“Are you ready?” Jeno says, rubbing his shoulders. The music playing faintly from inside the hall does nothing to calm Mark’s nerves, nor does the shoulder-rubbing, but both continue regardless.

“Does the answer matter?” Mark says. Hopes he’s ready. Knows he feels sick to his stomach. “I have to go out there either way.”

“I’m right beside you at the altar. It’ll be okay. If you want, you can hold my hand?”

Mark swats Jeno’s arm. “Stop.”

Jeno sighs. “Thought that would make you laugh. What else… Remember the time I misfired and shot Yoonoh in the thigh with a practice arrow?”

Mark smiles at the memory. “Maybe.”

“And when he got back at me by putting a dagger in my pillow?”

He laughs. Jeno smiles with him.

“Are you ready now?”

Mark looks down at his feet, then back up at the door. “Maybe.”

“Then let’s go.” Jeno steps out to Mark’s left and links arms with him, then uses his free hand to knock on the massive doors. As they swing open, heads turn to stare. Mark doesn’t feel any better about that, either.

The music is loud enough to cover their footsteps as they walk down the aisle, for which Mark is grateful. It’s also something to distract him from the eyes on him. Out of all six hundred of them, he can probably only recognize seventy. He can only say he truly knows four.

When they reach the altar, Jeno falls back behind him, placing a hand on Mark’s shoulder as a gesture of assurance. Mark tries to find comfort in the fact that Jeno’s been preparing for this, too, and has done everything he could to make this as smooth as possible for Mark’s sake, according to Chaeryeong. 

Jeno’s voice is loud when it booms over the music. It even startles Mark, but he hardly jumps at the sound. “I present, with all his grace and highness, Prince Ida of the Idran Isle!”

The crowd erupts into thundering applause that overtakes the orchestra completely. Mark takes the opportunity to finally scan the crowd before him. 

The seats are in rows of five. In the front row of the left aisle, Mark assumes the five faces belong to the Royal Vyari Family, but he knows there are only two daughters and a son, so he doesn’t recognize the young boy sitting to the left of Princess Nari. (If she is anything to go by, Mark thinks, her sister will be just as pretty as she is.) The son — Prince Anya — is glaring at him with the intensity of a hundred Suns. Mark chooses to ignore it.

On the right side sits his father and mother, Chaeryeong, and Yoonoh. The fifth seat is, unfortunately, filled by none other than Lee Donghyuck, who Mark isn’t sure he can consider a friend over an enemy. Nonetheless, it’s comforting to have so many familiar faces so close.

He smiles a little before turning away from the crowd to stare at the place where his fiancée will meet him. The doors open once again, and in his peripheral vision, he sees a figure moving. He tries to ignore the way all eyes are suddenly drawn from that figure to the two making their way down the aisle, and it helps that he’s not able to see them in full.

Mark’s first thought when he sees his bride is that, if he’s to stay by her for the rest of his life, he will give her the best life she could ever live. He’s not sure what brings this thought to the forefront of his mind, but it’s suddenly all he can think of. He’s barely conscious when the boy at her side puts a hand on her shoulder and announces, “I present, with all her fairness and power, Princess Aran of the Vyari Springs!”

She turns to face Mark, and the officiant begins his speech, but Mark can barely make out the words. He’s too enraptured by her dress, a gown of indigo chiffon that billows out past her feet and leaves a puddle of fabric around her. The shoulders are cut out, and the gap in the fabric is connected by a collar detailed with white gold that curls in vines around her torso and dips past the skirt. Her veil is made of several layers, just like Yoonoh told him it would be, and her face is completely obscured. But her dark hair is visible, pulled up in a coiffed bun from which the veil spreads out. 

Mark can’t even see her face, but he’s really not sure what he was worried about. He knows he’ll love her. Or, at least, hopes.

The officiant finishes the speech he’s begun and clears his throat. Mark tries not to flinch.

“We have gathered on this day in the Palace of the Great Kingdom of Idrea to unite two kingdoms torn apart by the sky. We are here in celebration of the marriage of Prince Ida of the Idran Isle and Princess Aran of the Vyari Springs. If anyone should have a reason that these two persons should not be joined together, do now confess it or forever hold your peace.”

Mark waits with bated breath. Thankfully, contrary to the fairy tales he was fed as a boy, there’s nothing.

“Then the ceremony will proceed.” The officiant takes Mark’s hand from his side and lays it in his own palm. “Prince Ida of Idrea. Will you have this girl to be your wife, united under the Goddesses and blessed by their Light? Will you love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her until death divides you? For your kingdom and country, do you agree to devote your soul to her?”

Mark’s eyes widen at the question of his devotion. He may be a prince, but he’s unsure of where his loyalties should later lie — his Queen, or his country. Regardless, he licks his lips, and weakly says, “I do.”

He’s not sure if he’s imagining the way the officiant squeezes his hand before he lets it drop back to his side and takes the Princess’s hand in the other.

“Princess Aran of Vyar. Will you have this man as your wedded husband, united under the Goddesses and blessed by their Light? Will you love him, comfort him, honor, and keep him until death divides you? Will you live in this kingdom as its citizen and not its guest? Will you rule alongside him in fairness and respect for your subjects? For your kingdom and country, do you agree to devote your soul to him?”

Her response comes instantly. “I do.”

She reaches out and grabs both of Mark’s hands, laying them with their palms facing up and resting hers on top of them. This isn’t a practice Mark is familiar with, but he finds he quickly grows used to the size of her hands. They’re small, fragile. Soft. There’s not a single callus on her fingertips.

The officiant lets out a small laugh. In the corner of his eye, Mark sees him grin. “With the observance of the Goddesses, Idrea, Vyar, and the world, I now pronounce you husband and wife, man and woman, and future king and queen.”

The crowd erupts into that same applause, only louder this time. Mark turns his head and watches them all stand, including his family. The Kings move from their seats and proceed to the center of the aisle, where they shake hands and bring each other in for a short embrace. Mark thought he’d never see his father hug anyone in his lifetime. Today, apparently, is one of many firsts.

“Esteemed guests and beloved family!” King Anet says. The music fades into a quiet lull. “If you would be so kind as to be escorted by the guard into the dining hall, we will hold a reception. Our betrothed will retire to their room for the evening, but will join us at their leisure for more festivities in the coming days.”

And that’s how Mark, Jeno, the Princess, and her guard end up alone in the hall, waiting until this wing of the palace is finally devoid of guests so that they can return to Mark’s room in peace. When they finally decide it’s safe, Jeno bats Mark forward and tells him he’ll be able to protect his bride if anything should come his way, and that he can find the way to his room all on his own.

(He has no right to make Mark blush in front of this girl. He’s ruining the evening.)

The Sun is orange through the windowpanes of the palace, but once Mark and Princess Aran climb the stairs and make it to the wing of bedrooms, the panes disappear, and there’s only the cutout of windows. Sunlight sprays on her face, and Mark thinks that if he concentrated a little harder, he may be able to see through her veil. But he respects her traditions and only stares ahead as they walk.

He breaks the silence just before they reach his room. “Your dress is beautiful,” he tells her. 

“Thank you,” comes her voice from behind the veil. It’s not nearly as strong and confident as it had been when she said ‘I do.’ Maybe she’s just as nervous about this as Mark is. 

Mark begins to pull open the door, but she puts a hand on his wrist. “Wait,” she says, and Mark freezes in place and looks at her. “I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” Mark says, only slightly embarrassed by how quick he is to answer.

“When the door closes behind us, I will show you my face,” she says, but she doesn’t sound happy about it at all. “We will tell each other our names. It’s not going to go how you expect. Please, please promise me you won’t tell anyone. I don’t care if you get angry or upset. All I ask is that you let me tell people on my own terms.”

“Alright,” Mark says, confused but still determined. “I won’t be angry or upset with you. I made a promise to treat you with respect, and I want to keep it.”

She’s silent for a few moments before she next speaks. “Thank you,” she says, more like a sigh of relief than thanks.

Mark nods and opens the door, beckoning her inside. The wind blows the curtains covering the balcony, and when the door shuts, a similar breeze touches the edges of the Princess’s veil.

“Alright,” she says and reaches up to pull the veil from her hair. In that same motion, she undoes her hair, which falls in auburn waves around her shoulders, curling at the ends. The veil drops to the floor, and Mark’s heart stops.

She’s looking up at him with wide eyes and lips barely parted, and Mark doesn’t know what to say to remedy the hint of worry on her face. She’s gorgeous, simply put; he can’t say anything more.

“Your…” She swallows, her eyes unwavering. She refuses to look away from him, and Mark commends it internally. “Your name. Please.”

“Mark,” he finds himself saying without a moment’s thought. “Prince Mark of the Idran Isle. And you?”

“Prince—” she cuts herself off. And then she looks away. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. It’s alright, you can tell me,” he says, bending down to match her height. It’s only an inch or two, but he wants to be equal with her eyes. He wants to be at her level.

“Alright.” She takes a deep breath and exhales it out, her eyes closed. When she opens them again, she meets Mark’s eyes once more and lets all the words out in one long breath.

“My name is Prince Jaemin of the Vyari Springs,” she says. “I am not your wife. I am your husband. And if you’ll have me, I will stay with you forever.”

Mark pauses. 

Of all things, he wasn’t expecting this, but what is there to be upset about? To be angry over? Who, if anyone, has hurt this boy enough over this that he’s afraid to tell his own husband?

“That’s okay,” Mark says, and for the first time today, his smile is not forced. “I suppose one day Idrea will have two kings. All the better for the Goddesses’ favor.”

Jaemin pauses for a few moments. He stares at Mark like he’s gone mad. “...You don’t mind? You really don’t mind it?”

“No, never,” Mark says. “I always wondered how to tell my father I wanted a husband over a wife, but now I can’t complain at all.”

“Thank you,” Jaemin whispers, and his voice is just so barely there that Mark feels his own heart speed up. His eyes are filled with tears as he rushes forward into Mark’s arms, and Mark can only lift him into the air and spin him once, twice, thrice, smiling as Jaemin’s heels fall off with a loud clack on the limestone and he laughs, “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

He lets Jaemin down, but Jaemin’s arms don’t leave the place where they’re joined around his neck. “Thank you,” he murmurs one last time, resting his head against Mark’s chest. “Mark,” he says like he’s trying to map out the name on his tongue. “Mark… My Prince, my husband, my King.”

They’re lying in bed the next morning when Mark finally realizes that the formalities and name complications don’t end here. Jaemin is still asleep in bed, while Mark is quietly going about the room getting himself ready for the day.

He’d be lying if he said Jaemin still sleeping didn’t concern him; did he not get enough sleep last night? Is he not adjusting well to the kingdom, or to the mattress? Is there anything on his mind?

He asks Jaemin as much when he wakes but doesn’t really receive a clear answer other than a tilt of his head. “Why were you awake so early?”

“Idreans rise with the Sun,” Mark says. “We wake in time to pray that she’ll travel safely.”

The Sunlight filters in through the sheer curtains hanging over the open balcony. The curtains themselves sweep along the floor gently, moving in towards the room as the wind blows in, then falling back towards the doorway just as softly as they’d first come. The Sunlight touches Jaemin’s face in fragments, little rays that light up patches of his face. Mark has never much thought of the word sunkissed, but he thinks now that there is no better definition of the word than the picture of Jaemin, eyes bleary from sleep and lit up some shade of honeyed gold. 

He runs a hand through his hair, which falls in waves around his bare shoulders. It’s seemingly tangled.

“I’m hardly ever awake to see the Sun this early,” Jaemin says. “Vyari wake late. We stay awake long enough to pray with the Moon when she’s highest in the sky.”

“It varies, doesn’t it?”

Jaemin hums. “The full Moon is highest at midnight, so we usually stay awake until then. But it’s usually not a full Moon.”

“I never got a chance to learn about the traditions there,” Mark says, pausing at his wardrobe to consider the day’s outfit. Indecisive as ever, he picks the same coat and sash, the same pants, and the same boots that he wears daily. “Would you teach me?”

Jaemin nods, rising from the bed and pulling the sheets from his legs. He stretches his arms and swings his feet over the edge of the bed, but jolts when he finally stands. A shiver wrings through his body. “The floor is so cold,” he says softly, hands lifting to hold his own arms for warmth. 

Mark quirks a smile. “Not if you stand in the doorway,” he says, leaving the wardrobe to take Jaemin’s hand and lead him to the balcony. He pulls the curtains aside and watches the Sun finally spill through the door in its entirety. The limestone begins to warm. “Better?”

Jaemin nudges the light with his foot. “Better,” he says, still not stepping into the light, “but I’m in my bedclothes.”

“This room overlooks the sea, and no one fishes this close to the shores of the palace anyways. I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“No,” Jaemin agrees, inclining his head and stepping into the light. He closes his eyes and basks in the warmth for a moment, and Mark watches, almost entranced, before he opens his eyes again and turns to Mark. “Thank you.”

Mark hums and nods. “The staff and guests won’t disturb us unless we seek them out,” he says, but Jaemin only tilts his head in confusion. “What I’m saying is that it’s noon, and if you want, we can have lunch with my family and yours. If not I can call on someone to bring us food.”

“I think I—” Jaemin reaches out and pulls the curtains closed. The light returns to peppering across his face. Like freckles, Mark thinks.

“Hm?”

“I think I want to stay here for now,” Jaemin says, a bit softly. “I don’t, ah. I don’t want to return to being a princess.”

“That’s alright,” Mark says. “Let me tell my guard to send for someone.”

“Your guard,” Jaemin echoes. “His name was…? I’m sorry, I can’t remember.”

Mark pauses from his walk to the doors. “Jeno,” he says. “He… Isn’t exactly my guard, per se, but I gave him this position so that I could spend more time with him. He’s my best friend and has been since we were children.”

Jaemin’s face lights up. “We’re the same, then!” he says, smiling. “He’s the same as my guard.”

Mark smiles softly, then turns to the doors and pulls one open, peeking his head out. “Jeno,” he says quietly. Jeno, whose back and head are pressed against the still door in an effort to rest, startles, turning to look at Mark with wide eyes.

“Mark?” he asks, breaking into a smile. “How is—”

Mark presses a finger against his lips, and it effectively silences Jeno. “Can you send for a servant and tell them to deliver us lunch?”

Jeno nods. “What do you want?”

“Anything,” Mark says. “Something filling. We haven’t eaten in a while.” 

 Jeno nods, and Mark closes the door. 

“You didn’t misgender me,” Jaemin observes, staring at him curiously. He’s moved, now; he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed. 

“I plan on avoiding gendered words until you’re comfortable with telling people,” Mark says, shrugging. Jaemin’s smile is bright; he looks so happy that Mark doesn’t want him to speak and break the quiet joy radiating from his face. “Tell me about the guard you mentioned,” he says, and the smile only widens.

“His name is Renjun,” Jaemin begins, then falls into his own memory trying to describe him. It takes him a minute or so, but Mark learns three things: he uprooted his life to live in Idrea with Jaemin, he is the only person who knows Jaemin as a man, and he is not so much of a guard as he is a scholar hopeful.

Jaemin is cut short halfway through a story by three knocks that sound on the door. 

“Sorry to bother,” Jeno says through the door, and Mark’s head turns to face his voice despite him not being visible. “The servants are all occupied with the festivities. I could bring you lunch if you’d like?”

“No,” Mark calls back, and his stomach lets out a low growl. He hasn’t eaten since noon yesterday, and he can only assume the same goes for Jaemin. “I can get it, you stay outside the door.”

Jeno doesn’t respond for a moment, so Mark can only assume he’s weighing his options in his head. Or weighing his own head, since he knows arguing with Mark will probably result in it coming off. “Okay, but don’t spill any food, or I’ll make you clean the floors.”

Mark smiles. “I’ll be back soon,” he tells Jaemin quietly so that Jeno can’t hear. The latter nods as Mark climbs out of the bed and makes his way to the door. 

The walk down the hall is strange if only for the lack of life. He’s used to seeing the floor shine with sticky fresh polish, used to greeting men and women on strolls and used to finding Yoonoh curled beneath windows at odd hours of the day, an old book from the library in his hands. Instead, there is only the sound of his footsteps echoing along the limestone and the quiet lull of the ocean.

The kitchen is bustling, but everything stops immediately when Mark appears in the doorway and requests some lunch. Yizhuo, the head cook’s daughter, brings two stools to the door and sits in one, offering the other to Mark while he waits. He accepts, and they talk only about Chaeryeong, as a formality. He suspects that there’s something more to their friendship just from the way that Yizhuo talks about her, but leaves the topic alone.

Some time later, Yizhuo’s mother bows to Mark and settles a heavy platter in his hands. It’s covered, so he can’t tell what’s inside, but it smells amazing. He thanks her, says goodbye to the cooks, and starts on his way back to his room.

That is, until someone steps out from behind one of the columns, stopping him in his tracks. Mark remembers him from the wedding. Specifically from the front row. Immediately, he recognizes the man as Prince Anya, Jaemin’s older brother, and heir to the Vyari throne.

He’s dressed the same way Mark is, but his clothes are pitch black and adorned with silver. Mark feels more like his subordinate than his brother-in-law. At the very least, they aren’t equals.

By the time Mark has finished his mental assessment of him, Prince Anya still hasn’t said anything. 

“Hello,” Mark says carefully, testing the waters. “Is there anything I can aid you in? Are you lost?”

Prince Anya shakes his head. “I wanted to speak with you,” he says. “Privately.”

“I’m sorry, I need to get back to my room. I have lunch for your…” Mark pauses. “For my, ah. For Aran.”

Anya stares at him, unimpressed. “I came here to tell you what I’m sure you’ve already been told.”

“And that is?”

“Hurt Aran in any way and you will regret being alive to meet the consequences,” the Prince says. “I understand that your marriage is to unite our kingdoms. As future king, there is nothing more that I want. But if it is at the cost of Aran’s wellbeing then prepare yourself and your men.”

Mark stares at him. “I have no intentions to hurt Aran. I don’t want to hurt anyone with this marriage. It’s only my duty.”

Prince Anya nods. “Good.”

“Is that…” Mark glances down at his tray of food. “Is that all?”

Again, the Prince nods. He turns and begins to walk towards the guest chambers, but pauses. Mark only knows this because he hears his footsteps pause. “Prince Ida,” he calls out, and Mark sets his jaw.

“Yes?”

“Take care of my brother,” Anya says, and Mark gapes. Didn’t Jaemin say that only one person knew of his identity? “He is young and naive, but there is something special in his heart. Nurture it.”

Mark, fumbling for words, wets his lips. “Y-yes,” he stammers out, and the Prince’s footsteps resume their slow stride away. Mark takes a deep breath for composure, straightens his back, and walks back to his room without another hindrance.

He doesn’t tell Jaemin what happened. Instead, he lets him resume his story. The smile that plays on his lips as he speaks is comforting enough that Mark hardly remembers the conversation to begin with.

There are parts of the day when Mark is free from his husband. When Jaemin bathes, when Mark meets with councils, when Yoonoh briefs him in the evenings, and when he walks to and from his chambers in the mornings and evenings  — he’s free to himself. He could walk a little faster, see Jaemin a little sooner. But he wants to think. And, frankly, he wants…

It’s strange. Mark isn’t sure how he got the idea or why he followed through with it. All he knows is that the evening after his talk with Prince Anya, he stayed up late but pretended to sleep until Jaemin’s breathing finally relaxed in the dead of night. And when Mark made sure he was truly asleep, he crept out of his room with waves of fabric slung over one arm, headed to the empty tailor’s office. 

He’s still not sure how he managed to mar his husband’s wedding dress as much as he did. But standing at an angle, looking at it on a mannequin, it’s… Mark thinks it’ll do, for now. It’s perhaps the best he could do.

When he climbs back into his bed (after securing the garment and making sure no one could find it even if they tried), he tries hard not to wake Jaemin. The Sun comes up so quickly that he doesn’t even get to close his eyes and rest, but he doesn’t regret anything. For once, he lets himself sleep in with Jaemin. They wake together, and Mark doesn’t even remember worrying about the dress. The only thing on his mind is, unsurprisingly, Jaemin.

“Guess what happens today?” Jaemin asks when he wakes one afternoon, arms outstretched and trembling slightly. 

“One week since we were married?” Mark asks.

“Right,” Jaemin says, grinning. “That means my family leaves today.”

“Soon?”

“I’m guessing so,” Jaemin says. He stretches one more time and then moves off the bed, making his way to the balcony to stand in the Sunlight just like he always does. “It can’t be too far away now. They’ll have just woken up.”

Mark tilts his head. He almost sounds excited. “Are you sad to see them go?”

“I always have letters to communicate with Yuta and Hina,” Jaemin shrugs. “I’m not close with my father.”

“Yuta and Hina? Are those their names?”

Jaemin hums, nodding. “Yuta is Prince Anya, Hina is Princess Nari.”

“Yuta is, ah,” Mark gestures around with his hands. “He’s made it very clear to me that he cares about you.”

“Made it clear through intimidation?” Jaemin asks, grinning. “I know he cares. I’m excited to finally tell him I’m his brother.”

Mark looks away. “So if your family is leaving, does that mean we’ll be joining the table at dinner tonight?”

Jaemin pauses as Mark looks back up at him. This time, he’s the one looking away. “We… I guess we could. I’m okay with that.”

“My family won’t bite,” Mark promises him. “You only need to worry about my father, but I’ll keep you from him. It’ll turn out okay.”

Jaemin nods but says nothing for a long time.

“What are you thinking?”

Jaemin turns away from him. Even from one side of his face, Mark can tell there’s something stirring in him. He looks conflicted. 

“If I meet your family tonight, then I’m going to tell them my name.”

They meet outside the palace gate. Mark is the only Idrean present.

Jaemin hugs his brother and sister goodbye with a sad smile. He bows respectfully to his father, and he jumps in surprise at the sudden hug that his brother gives him. He promises to correspond through letters soon. Mark knows he’s telling the truth; he had been plotting out letters all through their lunch together. But when the Vyari carriage leaves, Jaemin turns away and folds into Mark’s arm wordlessly, like he’s unaffected by today at all. Despite that, it’s clear to Mark that he’s burning up with worry.

Hours later, his suspicions are confirmed when he helps Jaemin lace into his dress for dinner, a greyish gown detailed like his wedding dress in the torso. When Mark tries to fasten the dress’s cloak around Jaemin’s neck, he feels the other’s pulse. His heart is beating so fast that Mark can barely keep count of the beats he hears in one breath.

“Jaemin,” he says, trying to take on a soothing tone as he guides Jaemin to the bed and sets him down. He notices the younger is trembling — faintly, but still trembling. “Hey, what’s this? Look at me, come on.”

Jaemin looks at him. His eyes are afraid. 

“It’s alright,” Mark tells him. “I promise it’s going to be alright. It will go just as smoothly as you and I want it to.”

“And…” Jaemin swallows. “And if it doesn’t? If everything goes wrong, and they try to wrench me away from this palace and send me back to the Springs? If I’m sent away in a carriage to follow my family?”

“I would never let that happen,” Mark says, putting an arm around him. He leans into the hold. “I promised to protect you. I intend to make good on that.”

Jaemin looks away. “Why are you so good to me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Growing up I… heard tales of the Idrean Prince. I heard that he was cold and remorseless. Not unfeeling, but… not necessarily caring for those around him, either. And I was afraid of you. I expected you to hate me, but you’ve only shown me…”

“I show you kindness because it’s what you deserve.”

Jaemin wipes one eye with the edge of his sleeve. “I’m so grateful it was you,” he says, his voice wet. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

Mark holds him closer, squeezes his shoulder. “I have something to give you after dinner.”

“A gift?”

“Mhm.” Mark stands and offers him a hand. He takes it. “It’s not much.”

“I’ll love it regardless. Are you ready?”

Mark nods. 

Hand-in-hand, they are escorted to the dining hall, where they sit in the two empty seats at the table. 

The table is mostly silent until drinks are served. Yizhuo flitters about the table, setting goblets to the left of plates and dropping ice into them with a ladle. She gives Chaeryeong less ice than everyone else, earning an indignant tug on her skirt, and she takes care to flick Mark on the wrist. Jaemin looks surprised by the quiet laugh that she pulls from Mark.

“I’m glad you two joined us,” Mark’s mother says with a warm smile directed at Jaemin. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Queen Eri, as you know.”

“King Anet,” Mark’s father says, bowing his head.

“Princess Ines, Mark’s little sister,” Chaeryeong says. “You can call me Chaeryeong.”

Beside Mark, Jeno clears his throat. “You’ve seen me a few times before. I’m Mark’s guard, Jeno.”

Yoonoh sets down his cup. “I’m Yoonoh, the King and Queen’s nephew and Captain of the Guard. I live in the palace.”

“He’s also Mark’s advisor,” Jeno says to Jaemin, “but Mark refuses to acknowledge it.”

“Because he gives bad advice,” Mark murmurs in Jaemin’s ear.

“I heard that.” Yoonoh picks up a utensil and readies it to throw at Mark’s head.

“Boys,” Queen Eri says. Yoonoh drops the utensil back onto the table. It clatters for a moment, then comes to a stop.

Mark turns to Jaemin. “You should introduce yourself now,” he whispers.

Jaemin takes a sip of his drink, swallows, and nods. He stands. “You know me as Princess, and perhaps daughter-in-law,” he says. “I am here to tell you I am neither of those things. I am your son-in-law if you will have me. My name is Prince Aran of the Vyari Springs. I am asking you to simply call me Jaemin.”

The room sits in silence for a few moments. At least, until King Anet speaks.

“And what of an heir?”

Mark clenches his fist but keeps his composure. His voice is calm when he speaks. “Should he want children, then we will have them. But no heir will be produced without his consent.”

“The royal line must be preserved, Ida,” his father says. 

“And I have no problem with preserving it. If I have a child with my husband then it will be with his consent. If I have no consent we will adopt, or I will take a surrogate.”

His father says nothing.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Jaemin,” Chaeryeong says, smiling. Mark feels a weight lift from his chest. “Welcome to the family.”

Jaemin breathes out a small sigh of relief. “Thank you, Chaeryeong,” he says, smiling. “I’m pleased to meet you, too.”

“A pleasure for me as well, Jaemin,” Queen Eri says with a smile. “I can make arrangements for a wardrobe change?”

Jaemin beams. “That would be nice, thank you,” he says.

Jeno and Yoonoh greet him kindly, too. As does Yizhuo, who bows and calls him ‘my Prince’ when he thanks her for bringing his food.

Mark can’t possibly think of a better outcome. He’d known his father would say something along this vein, so he never expected Anet to fully be behind it in the first place. But he’s not fully against it, and that’s enough for Mark to work with.

When dinner ends, Jeno escorts them to their chambers. Jaemin seems to skip the entire way back. “I’ve got to send letters to the Springs,” he’s saying as they reach their door. “I have them written out for my brother and sister, do you think you can help me with the last one?”

“Of course,” Mark says as Jeno stops outside the door and lets them go inside. He waves goodnight just before the door closes, and Jeno nods with a small smile.

“Is the wax red here? Or gold? Vyari wax is silver or dark blue. Almost navy. I brought my seal with me, but I don’t have any wax, so I—”

“Jaemin,” Mark says, laughing a little at the pace of his words. He’s stirred up.

“—Not sure how long it will take them to arrive,” Jaemin continues. He hasn’t paused at all. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

“I’m not sure,” Mark says, still smiling at him. He’s so endearing that Mark finds it frightening. “Jaemin.”

“But if it’s sent by b—”

“Jaemin,” Mark says one last time, exasperated but still so incredibly endeared. He puts his hands on Jaemin’s shoulder and looks him in the eye, and Jaemin finally stops stalking. His eyes are wide.

“Yes?”

“Your present,” Mark says quietly. “You’re ready for it now.”

“I’m ready?” Jaemin asks, his eyebrows furrowed and his head tilted. 

Mark nods and lets go of his shoulders, then moves around him and makes his way to his own side of the bed. He reaches under the edge of the mattress — the bottom half, since he wouldn’t have been able to sleep if it were placed anywhere else — and lets his hands close around the fabric. 

“Close your eyes.”

When he makes sure Jaemin’s eyes really are closed, he pulls the garment from underneath the bed and holds it out to inspect it again. It’s firm but soft. Mark hopes it’ll do.

He moves to his drawers and pulls one out, rummaging through it before he finds a roll of packaging parchment. “Keep them closed,” he calls to Jaemin before tearing off enough to wrap up the gift. Finally, he all but runs to the fireplace. His wax has been heating there since before they left for dinner, and Mark pulls it from the flames carefully. With one hand holding the parchment at an angle and the other holding his seal, he stamps the parchment at an intersection and then lifts the parcel with one hand. It dries quickly enough that it’s cool when Mark stands in front of Jaemin again.

“Alright, open your eyes,” Mark says, and Jaemin does. 

When they do open, they almost immediately focus on the parcel in Mark’s hands. “What is it?”

He gingerly puts the gift in Jaemin’s hands. The paper crinkles. “Open it and find out.”

Gently — almost hesitantly — Jaemin runs a thumb under one crease of the paper and breaks the seal, then does it again with the other three creases. What lies inside is a blue top.

“...Is this—”

“Your wedding dress,” Mark says. “I doctored it. I hope you don’t mind.”

Jaemin holds it up by the armholes and looks to Mark questioningly. “But what is it?”

Mark flushes. “You complained that you wanted something to bind your chest with,” he says quietly. “Something that wouldn’t hurt your body to wear. I hope that works well enough.”

One of Jaemin’s hands leaves the binder and rises shakily to cover his mouth. His eyes are full of tears. “You— you really…” he looks at Mark again. “Can you unlace my dress? Please.”

Mark hurries to unfasten the cloak, then moves to the back of the dress, which he carefully helps Jaemin out of. He’s only in undergarments now, but Mark isn’t embarrassed considering how many dresses he’s had to help Jaemin in and out of by now. “This is the last dress you will wear without a choice,” he tells him, and Jaemin sniffs. “Everything is different now. Things will be better.”

Jaemin hurriedly pulls his bandeau off and attempts to pull his binder over his head. He quickly finds he can’t do it alone and turns to Mark with some sort of helpless look in his wide eyes. 

“It’s adjustable,” Mark says softly. “Here.” He takes the binder from Jaemin, unclasps every notch, and slips it through his arms. When he clasps it again, he’s careful to only do so many notches, afraid of hurting Jaemin. “Is that okay? Does that feel right?”

Jaemin rushes to the mirror beside the wardrobe. His hand raises to his mouth once more, cupped around it, and hot tears begin to spill over it, tracking down his face and then rolling down the wrist pressed to his cheek.

“It’s good,” he says softly, voice shaking. “It’s so good, I can breathe.” His voice is more like a quiet cry than anything else, now. “Thank you,” he says, turning to Mark, who has one hand on his shoulder and is looking at him in the mirror. It worked; his chest is flatter now. He hopes it’s not too tight.

“Thank you,” Jaemin says again, throwing his arms around Mark and burying his face in the crook of his neck. When he lifts his head again, he takes Mark’s jaw in one hand, his touch gentle, and leans forward. 

His lips are warm, and they taste like salt. He still cries as they kiss, and Mark doesn’t mind all that much. He only combs his fingers through Jaemin’s hair, long and soft and pliant around his fingers, and lets Jaemin kiss him senseless.

 It’s his first kiss — it’s their first kiss — but if all kisses are like this, he thinks he’d like to practice it more, just to have the feeling of Jaemin’s warm breath ghost his lips again.

True to his words, Mark helps Jaemin write the final letter to Vyar the next morning. When they have all been addressed — their Highnesses: Princess Nari, Prince Anya, King Vya of the Vyari Springs — Jaemin takes his seal in a shaking hand, dips it in the wax (gold, a color of Idrea, for they had no blue or silver anywhere in the kingdom), and presses it to the lip of each envelope. He hands them to Mark, who hands them to Jeno, who takes them away and ensures with a deep bow that they’ll be delivered quickly.

Jaemin’s sigh of relief is immense. Mark reminds him that his familiars’ duties begin today and that he has yet to tell one of them his real name. Jaemin doesn’t seem fazed.

Mark calls for the boys to meet them in his mother’s garden. Though named for her, she rarely tends to it, so Mark prefers to more accurately call it Chaeryeong’s garden. But today it’s abandoned, and the Sun is out, so Mark figures it’s the best place for them to meet.

They’re sitting in the stone seats that line the garden, their backs turned to the entrance as they admire the flowers. Their dress is more Vyari than Jaemin’s has ever been, and it’s a bit shocking to see even their backs.

Mark and Jaemin stand at the entrance for a long while, silently watching before Jaemin finally gains the confidence to move inside. Mark stays in place, watching from behind the open doorway.

“Hey,” Jaemin says quietly. Mark hardly hears him over the fountain, but his voice seems to be loud enough for Chenle and Renjun, who turn to face him immediately. They don’t bow, which Mark finds odd. “So. I should tell you both something now that today is… Today marks…”

Renjun nods. There’s a small smile on his face.

Jaemin looks at Chenle when he says it. “Today marks the day that I am officially Prince of Idrea. I know you know me by another name, but I am a man, and my name is Jaemin. I hope you can accept that.”

Chenle and Renjun seem to speak at the same time, but Mark can’t hear what they’re saying. He can’t read their expressions, and he worries his bottom lip over what their reactions are until they both stand from their seats. Renjun envelops Jaemin in a hug that’s gladly returned, and when Renjun lets go, Chenle takes his place.

Mark moves away from the garden, glad that it turned out the way they’d hoped. They can figure out Renjun’s guarding duties on their own, and he’s sure Chenle has questions. It’s best if he leaves them alone.

“Letters sent to Vyar?” someone says as he’s walking back to his chambers. Mark doesn’t startle, just grins at his cousin and lets him continue. “I wonder who that was.”

“No idea,” Mark says. “Any idea when the replies should be back?”

“Probably tomorrow evening, at the latest. The carriers like to do transactions between Idrea and Vyar daily for the Royals’ convenience. After all, it’s not like the midpoint between us is too far away.”

Mark hums. “He told his father.”

“I’m not sure that’s any of my business,” Yoonoh says, shrugging. “But I’m glad he’s finally able to live comfortably.”

Mark smiles. “Me, too.”

-

The letters arrive exactly when Yoonoh said they would. They’ve just returned from dinner and learned someone has come into their room when it was empty. There’s a golden platter with three letters spread across it in a fan, all addressed to Jaemin. Two are in dark blue wax, one is in silver.

“Your family,” Mark tells him, straightening the letters in his hand and pressing them into Jaemin’s palm. 

“My father,” Jaemin says in clear distaste as Mark rushes to tend to the fire. Jaemin sits at the edge of the bed and shuffles the letters until he finds what he’s looking for. He picks out one of the envelopes with blue wax, examines the seal, and opens it. “From my brother,” he clarifies to Mark, who watches him closely.

“From the desk of Prince Anya, your brother, Yuta…” Jaemin pinches his nose. “He’s so dramatic. My dearest brother, I’m so glad you’ve finally decided to trust me with this. I can’t say I didn’t have any suspicions. Father isn’t pleased with the news, and I’ve done everything I could to calm him, but he insists on sending what he has sent regardless. I’m sorry for that, but know that…” Jaemin pauses. Swallows. “Know that your brother and sister will always welcome you with open arms, no matter what happens, and we are glad you have found a husband and family that are willing to know you for yourself. Tell Ida I am proud of him and that I thank him for doing the right thing. I look forward to ruling Vyar and Idrea as allies instead of enemies one day. Jaemin, keep your husband close and know who you trust. I love you dearly. Signed, Prince Anya.”

“That’s great!” Mark grins, and Jaemin looks up, nodding. His smile looks superficial; he’s still worried, and Mark can’t blame him. He feels like shaking just from the mention of King Vya’s letter. “Your sister’s letter next?”

“Yes,” Jaemin says weakly, setting Yuta’s letter and breaking the seal on Hina’s. He doesn’t read this one aloud, but he wipes tears from his lashes with the guard of his palm, and Mark figures that it’s too personal for his eyes. He respects that and doesn’t come any closer, instead leaning against the fireplace and watching closely.

When Jaemin sets his sister’s letter down and picks up the one sealed with silver, it’s with shaking hands. He breaks the seal and gingerly pulls the letter from the envelope, unfolds it, and begins to read, but he looks uneasy throughout all of it. Part of Mark wants to take the letter and toss it into the fireplace. Another part of him wants to read it for himself.

As he reads the letter, his expression hardens. His hands shake, but Mark isn’t sure they’re shaken by fear anymore. His fists are clenched, and the letter crinkles in his hands.

Finally, he looks up at Mark with his jaw set. His eyebrows are drawn. Mark has never seen him like this before, and it’s frightening to watch. But he swallows, meets Jaemin’s eyes, and asks, “What did it say?”

“He wants me to call off the marriage before our confirmation ceremony. I’m to return to Vyar immediately before you poison my mind with more of your sickening influence,” Jaemin says. His voice is low and his eyes are burning with hatred and Mark doesn’t know what to do, but Jaemin, with all his rage and energy, does.

He crosses the room, kisses Mark — all teeth, little tongue, and only fierceness, none of the tenderness he was shown with their first kiss. He lets his hand rest on Mark’s waist, and Mark doesn’t realize what’s happening until he hears the telltale hiss of metal against metal as his dagger is pulled from its sheath and something is severed with a soft noise, something like a tunic, or curtains, or— 

He pulls away.

Or hair.

Jaemin’s staring at him, his arms behind his head, one hand holding his severed locks of hair and the other poised in the air with Mark’s dagger. Mark is so shaken that he can hardly even think to remind Jaemin that consorts aren’t permitted to hold weapons.

His hair now barely falls past his ears and is messier than Mark has ever seen it. But as horrible as it looks, Mark can’t take his eyes away.

“You’re staring,” Jaemin says, a little breathless. He lowers his hands to his sides, then seems to remember what he’s holding; his mouth shapes into an ‘O’ and his eyes widen. “Oh, Goddess,” he says, voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Why are you apologizing?” Mark asks, gently reaching out and taking Jaemin’s wrist, the one with the hand holding his hair. He guides it towards the fire, but doesn’t let it touch the flames, nor does he let the hair get too close.

“You can keep going,” Jaemin breathes, eyes now fixed on the fire. Mark pushes his hand further towards the fire, then taps his hand to let him know it’s safe to drop it. The hair falls from Jaemin’s hand and lights so quickly that soon Mark can’t tell what’s hair and what’s flame.

“Your, um,” Jaemin pulls his wrist from Mark’s grip and presses Mark’s dagger in his hands. The edge of the metal is cool, but it doesn’t cut into his palm; Jaemin is sure to be gentle. “Your dagger. I’m sorry for taking it.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” Mark says, his eyes still fixed on the ragged edges of his hair. “You don’t need to apologize to me for anything. I promise.”

Jaemin swallows, and then he nods.

“Do you feel any better?”

Again, he nods. A few moments later, he finds the breath to speak, though it’s quiet beneath the crackle of the fire. “Bed?” he asks, delicate, and Mark smiles, pulling apart his overcoat and dropping it on the floor. 

“Bed,” he agrees. He takes Jaemin’s wrist again (and hopes it isn’t too much), leads him to bed, and lets him climb in before following him. He pulls the blanket over their bodies, and they say their goodnights without Jaemin even pausing to pray. 

But though Jaemin’s eyes have closed, his breathing still isn’t even. He’s awake for now. Still, Mark can’t help but stare at him and think about the night. It had been over so soon, but… there was so much to process.

Was it an act of defiance? A break in composure? Does that mean Jaemin wants to stay? Mark’s heart beats a little faster, but he’s not sure why. Of course he wants Jaemin to stay with him, but…

Mark swallows. He can’t pray to the Sun until dawn, but that’s too far away. He wants to know why his chest is tied in a knot. Wants to know why his head feels fuzzy when he thinks of Jaemin.

Slowly, careful not to disturb Jaemin whether he’s sleeping or not, Mark crawls out of bed and tiptoes to the balcony. He pulls aside the curtains, and the full Moon greets him, shining quietly on a clear night. The waves lap softly below, and when Mark looks out at the sea, he finds only the silvery reflection of the Moon atop the waves.

When he’s done taking in the sight before him, when he’s drunk up the light of the Moon to his heart’s content, he kneels against the floor, and then he bows, forehead pressed against the cold limestone. A shiver runs down his spine.

His tutors had taught him that this act was deemed a crime by the Sun, that this would earn him a special place in the afterlife full of suffering, and that the second he uttered a single word to the Moon, he would be struck down.

He isn’t. Instead, when he prays to the Moon, asks her what these feelings mean and why they make him feel like he’s being turned inside out, she answers. Not with words, but with something deep in his belly, something that furrows his eyebrows and forces him to reconsider his own person. He doesn’t feel the same afterwards. There’s some kind of clarity that’s washed over him. Something calm and peaceful, like the waves rolling gently beneath him.

This is his husband, after all. Perhaps this feeling is for the best.

He draws the curtains shut again and climbs back into bed. Jaemin mumbles something to him that he doesn’t answer, and when he shuts his eyes, he still sees Jaemin’s fiery eyes etched along the backs of his eyelids. With that image in his mind, Mark sleeps like a newborn.

There is absolutely no reason for Mark to feel jealous. And yet, he does.

This is normal, this is warranted, and it’s encouraged, even. Naturally, it’s encouraged for Jaemin to bond with the residency, but this… stings, to say the least.

It’s every time after he comes back from a meeting. They’re in the garden, in the reception, in his room, and they’re always just… Laughing. Talking. Far closer than Mark has ever been to her.

Presently, they’re in Mother’s garden, and Mark is once again watching from the mouth of the door. Jaemin tells her something that makes her laugh so freely that Mark turns away and stares at the ground. Why are they closer than siblings? Why isn’t Mark that close?

“He’s always been like that, you know,” someone says, close to his side but not quite beside him. Mark jumps and turns to his right. Sure enough, there’s Jaemin’s guard. 

He glances back at Jaemin and Chaeryeong. They haven’t noticed him. “Like that?”

“It’s impossible for someone to hate him. Always has been. He’s got too much in his heart.”

“Too much what?” Mark wonders aloud. If he has that much extra, Mark is willing to take it from him.

“Love, I suppose. Maybe affection? He’s just a good person to have with you, always.” Renjun ends with a shrug. He inspects Mark closely, almost like he’s looking for something, but he apparently finds that it isn’t there and sighs. “My Prince, forgive me if I’m out of line, but have you ever considered that maybe they’ve become close so quickly because Jaemin understands the duty and life of a princess in a way that a prince like you can’t understand?”

Mark nods, slowly, and frowns. “He has lived both.”

“From what I understand, Princess Ines has a few ladies close to her, but they aren’t royalty, are they?”

“No,” Mark says, shaking his head. “They’re the daughters of the staff, mainly. They were all playmates when they were young.”

“But they aren’t royalty. They don’t understand some things about royalty.”

“No.”

“Besides that, don’t you think Jaemin misses his own little sister? Princess Nari is quite different from Ines, but they do have their similarities.”

“What’s your aim in telling me all this?”

“Just something for you to ponder,” Renjun says, then turns back to Chaeryeong and Jaemin. Chaeryeong has just complimented Jaemin’s new hair, judging by the way Jaemin smooths his it with a flush on his face. “Have you ever wondered where Jaemin goes while you’re tending to your duties?”

He has, actually. But he doesn’t say anything, and his silence invites Renjun to continue.

“He spends his time in the library with Chenle. I guard him there.”

“Chenle,” Mark echoes. “The taller one?”

Renjun grimaces. “Yes, he’s taller. But younger than us. He’s Chaeryeong’s age, I believe. Has Jaemin told you the story of his second brother?”

“Second?” Mark tilts his head. “The Vyari throne only bore two sons, Anya and Aran.”

“And a third, an honorary one.” Renjun settles his back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. “Chenle was young when we found him. Jaemin and I were only ten. A family of bandits — a father, a mother, and two sons, one a man and the other a child — were stopped outside the Castle after attempting to steal from the guardsmen. The parents put up a fight and were slain after refusing to back down. One son, the older, ran without looking back. That left the younger alone.”

“And that…”

“That was Chenle, yes. An orphan, abandoned by his only surviving family. He was brought before the King as Jaemin and I played in the court. When the guards passed with him, we ran to meet King Vya, and Jaemin stopped him from tossing the child out. He begged his father to let the boy stay and be raised in the Castle with Jaemin. King Vya agreed, but only on the condition that his hands were washed of any duty regarding Chenle. Jaemin took Chenle in as his own brother and raised him right.”

Mark’s eyes widen. “All alone?”

“He had some help from Prince Anya and Princess Nari, but the brunt of the work fell on Jaemin. He’s proper now, but since he’s really got nowhere else to go, Jaemin brought him to Idrea to live with us.”

Mark thinks for a long few minutes. Renjun lets him, and they lapse into relative silence. The only sound is the quiet laughter that comes from the garden, but Mark doesn’t really mind it anymore. “Do you think I can treat him the way he deserves?”

Renjun stares at him for a moment, and Mark holds his breath. Then a smile spreads across his face, warm and knowing, and it’s much easier to breathe. “From how often I see his smile now, I think you already have.”

“Do you go swimming here?” Jaemin asks him one day as they’re strolling through the palace. It’s a lazy weekday, and there isn’t anything planned for either of them for the day. The summer heat is sweltering this afternoon, and they walk close to the windows in an effort to catch some of the sea breeze against their faces. 

“Fairly often, but I haven’t swum in a while,” Mark admits. “I don’t enjoy swimming alone, and Jeno never wants to swim with me.”

The footsteps trailing behind him come to a halt. “If you asked, I wouldn’t say no this time,” Jeno says quietly. “It’s so warm I think I might melt.”

“Swimming!” a voice calls. Mark feels like jumping out of his skin, or maybe the window. Burial at sea isn’t such a terrible idea, is it? “Prince Ida, are you going swimming without me?”

Mark sighs. “Hello, Donghyuck,” he says to the body that rounds the corner. “How was Kurar?”

“Boring, as ever. I have every inch of it mapped out already, I really don’t see the need to go again. It’s not like I’m going to go back.”

“It’s nice to know your homeland, Donghyuck,” Mark says. “One might even call it necessary.”

“Not if you’re a subject of Idrea!” Donghyuck sings. “Also, it was in very poor taste that I didn’t hear from you after the wedding. Shame.”

“Sorry, then,” Mark says, then holds out an arm to gesture to Jaemin. “Donghyuck, this is my husband, Prince Aran.”

“Call me Jaemin,” the other answers. Mark can see he’s uncomfortable, but he hides it well behind a smile. “You’re the infamous Lee Donghyuck of Kurar?”

“The one and only. Infamous, is that what Mark thinks of me?” Donghyuck’s smile is blinding. He’s awful, Mark thinks. Endearing, yes, but awful still. “I travel so much that I don’t get to see my beloved prince nearly as often as I want to, and now I’m kept from his husband, too. Horrible, if you ask me.”

Mark shakes his head. “I’ve known Donghyuck since I was small. He doesn’t get better.”

“Lee Jeno!” Donghyuck calls past Mark, and Mark turns quickly. He’s faced with the sight of Jeno making his way opposite of Mark, abandoning him. It’s despicable both as his guard and as his best friend. “Jeno, I just got here, why are you in such a hurry to leave?”

Jeno turns. His face is bright red, and suddenly Mark is given the unfortunate reminder of the time the two stayed up late in the library when they were fifteen and Jeno confessed that he had an awful, horrible crush that wouldn’t go away. “Sorry, Hyuck,” Jeno says. He looks like he wants to run. Mark wouldn’t blame him if he did. “It’s just, uh, Mark said we’re going swimming! So I have to go get dressed. Yeah.”

“Back to swimming,” Donghyuck says. He tilts his head and dons a pout. “Can I come? I missed you all so much.”

Mark opens his mouth to protest and come up with some excuse as to why he can’t go swimming anymore, but then Jaemin tugs his sleeve. “Um. If we’re going to swim, can Renjun and Chenle come, too?”

He falters. Immediately, Mark nods. “Of course,” he says, then glances at Donghyuck. “How about the place we used to play when we were little?”

“Oh, the pool under that balcony? Alright. Go get changed, I’ll be waiting.”

Mark takes Jaemin by the arm, and they return to their room out of breath. The heat seems to intensify the second they step in, but once they undress it’s more bearable. They both wear shorts, but Mark pulls a cloak over his bare chest to cover it until they reach the water, whereas Jaemin wears his binder and a thin shirt. It’s safe enough to swim in, and Mark hopes it’s comfortable enough, too.

They invite Renjun and Chenle on their way out, and after leaving the palace, they make their way down the cliff. It’s a fairly long and rough trip, one that probably shouldn’t be made by royals, but they hurry down nonetheless. When they reach the ground, Jaemin digs his toes into the sand and sighs contently. “I forgot how nice it is to be down this low.”

“Missed the sand?”

“Missed the water,” Jaemin says, looking wistfully at the pool of water before them. A balcony hangs over the water, and a shadow stretches far across the surface. “We’re in the right place?”

“We are. Donghyuck and Jeno knew where I meant, and I made sure Renjun and Chenle did too.”

“I’m gonna run up ahead!” Jeno’s voice calls distantly, followed by loud, heavy footsteps and panting. Mark turns to face the sound just in time for Jeno to crash into him, his breath heavy and stuttered. “Save me.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “From?”

“You know damn well. This is torture.”

“You have to see him without a shirt in a minute.”

Jeno’s face flushes. “Oh, Goddess.” He glances behind him in a panic, then turns back to Mark, eyes wide. “I’m not your only guard, right? Renjun is here! He can guard you and Jaemin at the same time, there’s no reason for me to be here—”

“Jeno!” Donghyuck calls out. He’s out of breath, too, and he’s running faster than Jeno had. His voice is wound up with a loud laugh. “You’re so mean! Why’d you leave me all alone?”

“Had to tell Mark something important,” Jeno lies, glancing back at Mark for a moment. His eyes plead help, but Mark enjoys this far more than he should. “You wanted to swim?”

“Yes! Come on!” Donghyuck pulls off his shirt in a hurry and grabs a very red Jeno by the wrist, pulling him to the edge of the pool. He lets go, then jumps into the water with a loud whoop. When he surfaces, his hair is plastered against his forehead, and water drips down his face.

Mark has literally never seen Jeno more embarrassed in his life. “Go on,” he tells Jeno, nudging him. “Weren’t you dying to get out of the heat?”

Jeno shoots him a glare. Mark is having too much fun. 

“Get in, it’s fine,” Mark continues, “Jaemin and I can wait for the others.”

Wordlessly, and very reluctantly, Jeno pulls off his shirt and tosses it aside. He lowers himself into the water, then shrieks as Donghyuck pulls him towards the deeper middle.

“Isn’t that cloak uncomfortable?” Jaemin asks, ignoring the antics in the pool. “It is awfully hot out.”

“I’m alright,” Mark says. “It’s just a formality.”

Chenle and Renjun eventually arrive, much to Jeno’s relief and Jaemin’s excitement. He introduces the two to Donghyuck, and Chenle is soon introduced to Mark. After the pleasantries, Chenle and Renjun pull off their shirts as well, folding them neatly near the edge of the water, and Mark unclasps his cloak. 

Chenle and Renjun jump into the water before him, but after that, Mark can’t wait any longer. He hurriedly lowers himself into the water, disappearing beneath the surface to cool his scalp. He breathes out a sigh of relief that comes out in a flurry of bubbles, and when he rises above the surface again, he brushes his hair off his forehead, sweeping it back. With a grin, he looks around for Jaemin, then realizes he isn’t in the water at all.

The others don’t notice when he swims to the edge of the pool and glances up at his husband. “Jaemin?” he asks softly. “Aren’t you coming?”

Jaemin shakes his head. He’s sitting cross-legged on the stone at the edge of the pool dipping his cupped hands into the water and watching it spill out as they rise into the air. He fills his hands again, and the water drains. “I really want to.”

“Why don’t you?”

“My chest,” he says simply, and Mark nods.

“You don’t have to take off your shirt. And everyone here understands.” Jaemin says nothing, though, so Mark continues: “But if you really don’t want to then I won’t push you.”

“Thank you,” Jaemin says, looking up at Mark. His eyes widen when he realizes Mark is lifting himself out of the water. “What are you doing!?”

“Sitting with you,” Mark says simply, settling down next to Jaemin and matching his posture. “I don’t want you to get lonely.”

“I won’t feel lonely,” Jaemin assures him, nudging him back towards the water. The others still haven’t noticed; it’s like the two are in their own little world. “Go. I know you wanted to cool down.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Jaemin says, frowning. “Will you go in if I go?”

“Of course,” Mark says, and Jaemin sighs.

“Then I’ll swim. I just… I don’t think it’s the best idea for everyone.”

Mark puts an arm around Jaemin’s waist and pushes off the edge, sinking into the water and gently bringing Jaemin in with him. “Do you want to know what I think?” he asks as Jaemin settles into the feeling of the water. He wraps his other arm around Jaemin’s waist. 

“What?” Jaemin asks. He’s embarrassed, clearly, but Mark doesn’t mind.

“I think,” he says, a smile playing on his lips, “that I have the most handsome husband in the world.”

Jaemin’s eyes widen, and then he turns red. “Mark,” he says, aghast. “You can’t just—”

“I can.”

Jaemin looks up. His bashful smile is blinding, and Mark wants to drown in it. 

“Hey, lovebirds! Goddess forbid you spend time with us!” Donghyuck calls out. When Mark turns, something immediately pulls him from Jaemin and dunks him into the water. Above the surface, shouts arise. 

“Goddess!” Mark shouts when he breaks the surface again. “Who did that?”

Four hands point at Jeno, and Mark attacks without another thought. The pool erupts into laughter, and Mark decides that he loves this little world that he suddenly has, even if it’s only for the evening.

When the Sun sets, they all make an exhausting trek back up the cliff, reach the palace, and retire to their rooms. Jaemin is shivering, so Mark is sure to have their dinner and warm towels sent to their room as soon as he finds someone to bring them. They’re waiting for the two when they reach their room, and Mark thanks the young girl before she leaves.

Mark and Jaemin are alone, now, and Jaemin is still shivering. He sets Jaemin on the bed, lets him change clothes, and then pulls the warm towels around Jaemin’s lithe frame. “Better?” he asks, then smiles when Jaemin nods slowly. “Can you wait here? I’ll be right back with something.”

Jaemin nods again, and Mark hurries out of the room. When he returns, he’s slow and careful not to spill from the mug cradled in his hands. Jaemin looks confused by it. “What’s that?”

“A drink my mother used to make me when I was little,” Mark says. “It’s to warm you up. Usually we drink it during the Solstice Festival or during the cold months, but I thought—”

Jaemin takes the mug from him. “Does it have a name?”

“Iolle,” Mark says.

“Why didn’t you get a mug for yourself?”

“I couldn’t carry two,” Mark says, taking a seat beside him with a towel in hand. He slowly starts to dry Jaemin, careful not to rock him back and forth out of fear of spilling the drink. 

“Then share,” Jaemin says. He raises the brim of the mug to his lips and takes a long, slow sip, then offers some to Mark, who takes a short sip gratefully. It warms him, and it tastes like home. 

“What do you think?” 

“It’s delicious,” Jaemin says, smiling at him. There’s that bright smile again, dangerous as ever. “Thank you.”

Mark finds himself worrying more about Jaemin than he’s worrying about himself. Or anyone else, for that matter. Strangely, though, he doesn’t mind. “Are you still cold?” 

“A little,” Jaemin says. When he next speaks, his voice is quieter. Mark has heard this timid tone of voice before. “...Do you think we could draw a bath?”

Mark softens and stands, pulling the towel off Jaemin’s head and folding it neatly next to him. “Of course,” he says. “Give me a few minutes.”

When he requests to have a bath drawn this late in the evening, Jeno looks at him like he’s grown a second head. He carries out the request regardless, and within a few minutes, the tub built into the corner of their room is slowly filled. Conveniently enough, the girl filling it is Jisu, one of Chaeryeong’s friends. She’s the quiet one, so she doesn’t say much until she’s decides the tub is filled enough.

“I’m sorry if it’s too hot for you, my Princes,” she says, then bows to Mark and Jaemin respectively. 

“That’s perfectly fine,” Mark says, standing from the fireplace he’s tending. Jaemin nods at her after draining the last of his iolle. “Thank you, Jisu. Have a good night.”

She bids them farewell and leaves, and after that, Mark locks the door. He helps Jaemin take off his shirt and binder, then guides him to the tub. He’s slow when he settles into the water, hissing a little at the temperature, but he finally relaxes after a few moments. Mark follows soon and makes sure to fold his legs close to himself so that Jaemin has space. The water is hot — scalding, even — and he doesn’t blame Jaemin for taking time to adjust.

He stretches out an arm to grab a cup from nearby, and then he fills it slowly with the water. “Can I wash the salt from your hair?”

Jaemin nods and wordlessly shifts to turn around. Now his back is to Mark, and all Mark can think of doing is running a hand up and down the extrusion of his spine, the line that stretches long and thin down the center. Maybe he could press his lips to the knot at the base of his neck. 

Instead, he lifts his free hand and gently tilts Jaemin’s head back, pouring the warm water onto his damp, frigid hair. The other lets out a small sigh.

“Good?” Mark asks him.

“Feels great,” Jaemin mumbles. His body is limp, barely held up by Mark’s hand, which presses against his back. “I’m out of shampoo, I think.”

“That’s alright,” Mark says, reaching for a familiar bottle and pouring some of its contents into his palm. “You can use mine for tonight.”

“Generous,” Jaemin says, voice still low and a bit slurred. This is the most relaxed Mark has ever seen him, and this is a delicate moment; he doesn’t want to break that fragility, that trust. He lathers the shampoo in his hands, and then, with as little force as he can manage, he massages it into Jaemin’s hair — slowly, at first, and then he works up a steady rhythm, watching as the brown, matted curls turn a foamy white.

“Still good?” Mark asks him as he finishes. He fills the cup up again and prepares to pour it along Jaemin’s hairline.

“Mmh,” Jaemin says concisely. “Can you do that again?”

“Do what?”

“When you worked it into my hair,” Jaemin says, and suddenly it’s like an unfortunate switch has been flipped. His eyes widen from the lazy, half-shut position they’d been in, and his voice doesn’t sound dazed anymore, only nervous. Mark hates it when Jaemin gets nervous asking for things. He shouldn’t have to feel nervous.

“You want me to massage your scalp again?”

Jaemin hums. Mark can see that his eyes are downcast, watching the suds drift along the surface of the water. 

“Alright. I’ll get the soap out of your hair first.”

He does, tilting the cup slowly to filter the soap from Jaemin’s hair. When it’s finally free of white, Mark drops the cup into the water and settles his fingers against Jaemin’s scalp, then slowly massages. Jaemin immediately relaxes and leans back, body melting against Mark’s.

“Has anyone ever done this for you before?”

“Never,” Jaemin answers him, eyes closed and mouth barely parted. “Why does it feel so nice?”

“It works out the stress in your body,” Mark says, smiling a little. He pulls his hands from Jaemin’s scalp and uses them to gently push Jaemin off him, setting him upright and taking one shoulder in each hand.

“What are—”

Mark kneads his shoulders, and Jaemin doesn’t speak anymore.

“Am I hurting you?” Mark asks, sure that he’s not but still feeling the need to check.

“No, it feels good,”  Jaemin sighs. His body pushes back on Mark’s hands in an attempt to relax against Mark’s chest again, but he holds Jaemin upright and keeps massaging. 

And then he can’t stop himself; he inches forward, eyes set on the knot at the top of Jaemin’s spine, and presses a kiss to it. It startles Jaemin for a moment, but he doesn’t seem to mind it. In fact, this time, when his body pushes against Mark’s grip in an effort to go limp against Mark, he lets it, and they settle against each other in a state that Mark has never felt himself enter before. His heart is… warm, and filled with adoration. He loves this feeling — this tenderness, maybe — and loves this water, and he never wants to leave.

After what feels like an eternity, Jaemin picks his head up from where it’s pressed against Mark’s shoulder and mumbles, “We should get out soon.”

“We should,” Mark says, but neither of them moves to do so. Jaemin’s head falls back against his shoulder, and Mark’s arms wrap around his waist, and they don’t say anything more for a long time.

They only leave the tub when the water begins to lose its heat, and Mark takes extra care to make sure Jaemin is dry enough before giving him a spare change of clothes. Then they sit on the goldspun rug in front of the fireplace, letting the heat fan their faces as Mark towels Jaemin’s hair with as much care as he can muster. Something smells familiar to him, and he can’t quite place it, not until Jaemin tugs the towel from his hair and drags Mark to bed by his wrist, curling up against the older like it’s an invitation to lie with him. 

It’s only when he drapes one timid arm around Jaemin’s half-unconscious body and closes his eyes that he recognizes the smell. It’s the scent of his own shampoo, of melon and honey, and it plays games with his mind.

Mark can’t help but press his lips to the top of Jaemin’s head as the other drifts to sleep. “Goodnight, my love,” he says, and there, he’s finally admitted it, if only to himself. He closes his eyes, listens to the crackling of the firewood, and lets himself fall under, too.

(They wake tangled in each other, but Mark rises quickly. As much as it pains Mark to let him, Jaemin wakes alone.)

The next time they’re outside the palace, it’s on a day when the Sun has decided on kindness. It isn’t sweltering, nor is it humid, and Jaemin finds the weather perfect for an ‘expedition.’

“Come on,” Jaemin says, pulling a very disgruntled Mark past the palace gates and bidding the guards farewell. “I promise we’ll have fun!”

“It’s not fun that I’m worried about,” Mark says to him as he’s dragged along, making a mental note of the Sun’s position. He has to speak with the Council of Commerce in two short hours, but surely Jaemin will bring him home by then. And he hasn’t had lunch, either, which is something to account for his mood at the very least.

They stumble down the cliffside path hand in hand, and Mark enjoys the time alone with Jaemin — at least, until a loud shout of their names from above halts them in their tracks.

Lee Jeno stands a ways behind them, hands braced on his knees, panting heavily. “I am never,” he says, the words all coming out in one long heave, “ never leaving your side again, Mark.”

“Missed us?” Jaemin asks him, grinning devilishly.

“Coax me into taking a well-deserved nap, sure,” Jeno grumbles as he makes their way down the cliffside to meet them. “I wake up and you’re both gone!”

“Maybe so, but you had a nice nap, didn’t you?” Mark asks. Jeno knocks his fist against Mark’s shoulder for that.

“You’re both horrible.” As if that’s a cue, they begin walking again, seemingly without aim. “Where are you two even going?”

Mark shrugs, and Jaemin throws out his arms. “We’re exploring,” he says, deadpan, in complete contrast to the extravagant waves his arms make in the air. 

“I have every inch of this kingdom mapped out in my mind,” Mark reminds him, to which Jaemin huffs.

“I do not,” Jaemin says, frustrated, taking Mark’s wrist and pulling him forward again. Their pace quickens by just a few shorter steps. Surprisingly, Mark doesn’t stumble; by now, he’s used to Jaemin dragging him throughout the palace at a pace even quicker than this one. “See that treeline?” he asks, stepping over the divide between sand and unkempt grass.

Mark hums.

“That’s where we’re going.”

“There’s not much there, really,” Mark says, glancing behind him to make sure Jeno is still following. “Just a field of flowers.”

Jaemin turns to look at him with an excited glint in his eyes. “Goddess. You’re kidding, right?”

Mark tilts his head in confusion and watches as Jaemin bolts towards the trees. Mark follows him, still walking, but intrigued by whatever’s piqued his interest.

When he pushes through the trees, he finds Jaemin lying in a pool of red.

“Look!” Jaemin laughs, arms stretched out from him. Crimson petals curl around his fingertips. 

Briefly, Mark worries that they’ll get into trouble for this. He hadn’t expected Jaemin to lie in the flowers, but they’re ceremonial, grown for the summer’s festival. If they’re crushed, there won’t be time to grow new ones — it’s only a month’s time away.

Worrying his lip, Mark looks at the bright smile on Jaemin’s face, then relaxes. When Jeno catches up to them, he puts a hand on Mark’s shoulder, as if to tell him no, he can’t do that, you know what these flowers are for, but Mark doesn’t move to stop Jaemin in the slightest.

“We don’t have these in Vyar,” Jaemin explains, plucking one from the ground and holding it beneath his nose. He breathes in for a moment, then sighs, smiling. “All of ours are blue and purple. I’ve never seen colors like this in nature.”

“Never?” Mark echoes, kneeling down beside Jaemin. He’s careful not to trample the flowers, but he leans forward, his fingers closing around the stem in Jaemin’s hand. He takes the flower, then guides it slowly to rest on Jaemin’s ear.

Jaemin stares at him wordlessly for a few long moments. Finally, a smile begins to play on his lips. “How do I look?”

“Lovely,” Mark tells him, offering a hand to him and pulling him up onto his feet. Jaemin wades through the flowers, making his way back to the treeline. 

Later, when Mark brings him back to the palace, the flower is still in his hair. The guards eye the three of them and the flower warily, but let them pass through the gates. Mark tells Jaemin goodbye, meets with his council, settles into his chair, and— 

“My Prince,” someone says, interrupting the current speaker. It’s another of Chaeryeong’s friends, Yuna, and she bows. “The King has sent for you. He says it’s urgent.”

Mark hasn’t spoken to his father since before the wedding. What could he possibly want now?

“Thank you,” he tells her, standing from his seat. He bows to the council, bids them goodbye, and then follows Yuna through the winding halls of the palace, towards his father’s chambers.

He’s fairly sure of what awaits him.

There were always times when Mark was reprimanded. He was a prince, yes, but first and foremost he was a child; the tutors and lessons couldn’t rid him of that, and so he acted like one until he had to grow up. By now, he’s familiar with his father’s court and with the pointedness of his gaze.

Mark bows, like always, and rises when his father asks. When he stands and looks behind him, Yuna isn’t there.

His father’s legs are crossed over one another, his back against the massive chair that protrudes from the floor. It’s been carved into the palace itself, and one day, Mark will have to sit there, too. Twelve pillars surround the room in a circle. Light filters in through an opening carved into the ceiling, and Mark worries not about the weather, but about the light in his father’s eyes.

He remembers being young and worrying over rain and of what would happen if it fell through the ceiling. Rain is something of a myth in Idrea, though; Mark has never seen it in his life.

“Do you know why I’ve called you?”

Mark stares at the foot of the throne. “No, Father.”

“My guards reported that the prince consort adorned his hair with a flower. More specifically, one from the clearing of sacred flowers.”

Mark says nothing.

“I am asking you if you had anything to do with this.”

“Yes, Father. But—”

“I fail to reason out a justification. Enlighten me.”

Mark flushes. “The flower made him happy.”

“It made him happy,” his father echoes, monotone. “And why did you let him steal a ceremonial flower to tangle in his hair like some common weed?”

Mark bristles. He straightens his back and looks his father in the eye. “Because I love him.”

“Then you will make a terrible king one day,” his father says. “Greedy and weak-willed and willing to cheat for your own desires.”

“There is no correlation between—”

“You are dismissed, Mark. Return to me after dinner and tell me the punishment that he will face for ruining the flowers.”

Mark turns wordlessly and leaves his father’s court. The walk back through the halls is long and gives him time to think, time to simmer in his own anger. His fists lie clenched at his sides.

When he finally returns to his own room, Jeno is nowhere to be found, which Mark finds strange. He closes his door behind him and makes his way to the sink, runs some water in it, and splashes it onto his face. There’s no telling when someone will next speak to him, and he needs to calm down before that happens.

His eyes look tired when he meets his own gaze in the mirror. He splashes the cool water onto his face again, but it does nothing to calm him.

He feels around for a towel to dry his face with, opening drawers and slamming them shut again with no rhyme or reason to it. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for; instead, he finds a small parcel bound with cloth. It’s not Mark’s, but he doesn’t think it’s Jaemin’s, either. 

He’s hesitant to unwrap the cloth. When he does, a diadem lies in his palm. It’s old, likely older than Mark, and he can’t place where it’s from. He wraps it up in the cloth and tucks it back into the drawer wordlessly. It’s not his place to wonder whose it is or where it came from.

Mark’s door creaks open suddenly, and Mark jumps, turning to face whoever’s there with one hand poised on the handle of his dagger. 

As it turns out, the dagger isn’t necessary. It’s only Chenle, bracing himself against the door with one arm as he pants out something incoherent to Mark.

“Speak clearly,” Mark says, crossing the room to hold his level stare. “What’s wrong.”

There’s clear panic set in his eyes, and for a few moments before he speaks, Mark worries something might’ve happened to Jaemin. “We found… Jaemin found a boy,” he manages, his voice breaking off and sending him into a fit of coughing. There’s no telling how fast he ran here, or from where. Chenle pulls his arm from his face and looks up at Mark with “He wants you there.”

“Take me,” Mark tells him, and then Chenle takes his wrist and pulls him along and they’re running with an urgency Mark has never felt before.

They wind through hallways and downstairs, down to a level that Mark rarely visits, and then hurry through a small corridor. Chenle pushes in on a door that gives way easily to a small room. Mark freezes.

This is one of the guards’ dorms, Mark realizes. The bed itself is small, surrounded by three chairs, only one of which is occupied. Lying in the bed, swaddled in blankets, is a boy around Chaeryeong’s age. His face is caked in dried blood and dirt, and his hair falls in strings around him, clumped together with mud. Jaemin sits at the edge of the bed, gently dabbing a wet sponge against his face to clean him.

“Where…” Mark’s mouth opens and closes periodically. His voice fails him. “How—”

“The guards found him on the path leading to the palace,” Jaemin says, his eyes downcast. “Two bodies beside him and an unhitched wagon found empty. He’s still alive, just unconscious.”

Bandits, Mark surmises. They’re not a common problem in Idrea — more prevalent in trading hubs like Kurar — but the worst of them seem to lurk here, near the palace, waiting for an easy job. 

Mark swallows. His mouth is dry. “Any idea of when he’ll wake?”

Jaemin looks back at him. The flower is gone from his hair, and his eyes are dull. This isn’t the same boy who lay in the flowers and basked in the Sun just hours before. This isn’t the same boy whose fiery eyes Mark fell for, either. This one’s bones are heavy with sleep, his eyes dark and settled, and Mark wants to hold him, wants to bring him away from this room and wrap him up in warmth. He doesn’t.

Instead, he crosses through the door, sits beside Jaemin, and eases the sponge out of his hands gently. Mark dabs the sponge along the boy’s sleeping face, wetting dirt and smearing blood. He looks back at Jaemin and tilts his head. When Jaemin nods, he has his unspoken answer. 

If Jaemin’s going to stay here until the boy wakes, then so will Mark. He will not leave his side.

The road to recovery isn’t really as long and winding as Mark had expected.

The boy wakes up in two days, and after Jaemin feeds him dinner and cares for him, he utters his name with a weak, hoarse voice — Jisung — and asks where his family is. Mark leaves the room before he has to endure that conversation.

Jisung gets his strength back slowly. Mark keeps his distance; the only one Jisung trusts right now is Jaemin, but he stops outside the room from time to time and watches through the crack in the door. He witnesses Jisung’s first steps out of bed, too — they’re shaky, like a fawn’s, but his arms brace against Jaemin’s shoulder and he makes his way around the room quickly enough.

When the head physician clears him, Mark asks his father if Jisung can be cared for by the Palace. He asks this, all the while hoping his father has already forgotten about the flowers and the punishment he was supposed to decide on for Jaemin. He hasn’t.

If Jisung is to be brought into Mark and Jaemin’s inner circle, Anet says, then a punishment for desecrating the ceremonial flowers will have to be enacted. There isn’t any way around it. Against his better judgement, Mark agrees to the terms. It’s for Jaemin, and that’s what matters.

Two days later Jisung is welcomed into the court of the kings-elect, and that same night, Mark climbs into Jaemin’s bed with bruises blossoming against his ribcage and shallow cuts scarring his skin, aching all over but filled with a sense of pride nonetheless. 

Somehow, Jaemin notices these in record time, and rather than telling him the truth — telling him, “I dueled unarmed for you because I love you and I couldn’t stand to see you punished. I won because I couldn’t let you get hurt,” and then letting Jaemin kiss him feather-light, just like he always does when he’s overcome with something he can’t express — he lies instead, tells Jaemin it was just a sparring match gone wrong. The lie falls on deaf ears, and Jaemin still worries, but the initial panic is quelled. That doesn’t mean he lets Mark out of his sight for the next few hours, though. 

Jisung’s room is nestled between Chenle and Renjun’s, which is a fact that Mark learns by way of Jaemin dragging him everywhere by the wrist until sundown. He also learns that, instead of spending his time in the library with Chenle alone, Jisung has begun to join them. Mark watches Jaemin ramble to him about geography and smiles at him over the spine of his own book, which he reads while pressed against one of the bookshelves to give the three space.

There’s something about the way Jaemin teaches that makes Mark feel warm. His voice is bright but distant, like he’s deep in his thoughts, but his gentle grin never leaves his face, and he always pauses to make sure Jisung and Chenle are following. This is rudimentary geography, and Mark is sure that Chenle already knows it inside and out, but he still plays along, nodding in understanding and asking an occasional question. It’s sweet, the lengths they’re going to just to make Jisung feel comfortable. With time, he’ll be able to treat this palace as a home, and Mark hopes to see the day when he isn’t this timid and withdrawn.

Jaemin seems to be happy with the progress made, too, if the gleam in his eyes when he’s asked about it is anything to judge by. And that’s good; if Jaemin is happy, Mark is happy. It seems like it might stay that way for a while.

The impact ripples through Mark like a shockwave, but he stands his ground, boots chafing against the ground in an effort to keep from faltering. The hiss of metal against metal is a sound that Mark has never quite grown used to, but it’s familiar enough that it sharpens his senses to match the ore in his hand. 

Not sharp enough, he supposes, because he finds himself flat on his back with his cousin’s boot planted proudly against his sternum.

“You’ve gotten worse at this,” Yoonoh says simply. Despite Mark pawing at his ankle, his foot stays pressed against his chest. “See what happens when you dote over your husband instead of training?”

“Again,” Mark demands, finally managing to push Yoonoh’s leg away. When he sits up, the air he breathes is frigid, but it only energizes him. His sword lies abandoned on the ground. 

He grabs it by the hilt and stands, holding it out towards Yoonoh, whose sword has returned to its sheath. “You won’t get a hit on me,” Yoonoh tells him, smiling gently at what he must interpret as determination in Mark’s eyes. “Come on, Mark. Back down.”

Mark makes all of two steps towards Yoonoh before his cousin’s sword meets his own, and they’re locked like that once more. This time, Yoonoh doesn’t play dirty, and he doesn’t kick Mark down as he had before. This time it’s only skill, something that Mark isn’t able to match Yoonoh in but could probably kill himself trying to.

Parry, and parry, and parry. The pattern is boring, and predictable, too. Mark knows this strategy. Yoonoh’s used it on him since he was young, but he’s never quite been ready for what comes next: in a few seconds, after they’re comfortable with the rhythm of countering they’ve created, Yoonoh will make a different move and shock Mark’s system, winning easily. 

“You’re still awful at this part,” Yoonoh says, a smile beginning to drag at the corner of his mouth. Mark knows what’s coming, can see it clear as day, and he steps back, hoping to be able to defend himself this time, but— 

But nothing. Nothing comes. 

His vision is obscured by broad shoulders cloaked in red and gold, and the telltale sound of sword against sword rings out through the air.

“Aran, you know consorts aren’t permitted to arm themselves,” Yoonoh says, but he doesn’t sound angry.

“No such law in Vyar,” Jaemin says, and Mark watches his shoulders draw into a shrug. He pretends not to stare at the muscles of his back, he really does, but Yoonoh shoots him a look that tells him he isn’t subtle. “And anyway, I’m only helping.”

“Defending,” Yoonoh corrects him.

“Defending what’s mine.”

Mark feels himself redden. Jaemin looks over his shoulder at Mark with a small smile, one that’s clear to tell Mark he’s enjoying every bit of this. “Mark, can we spar?”

Mark flushes impossibly deeper and nods slowly, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. It shouldn’t be a hard battle; he doubts Jaemin has ever had much experience with swords, given his childhood. But that doesn’t explain how he stopped Yoonoh’s strike with such ease.

There’s some kind of glint in his eyes that Mark hasn’t seen before. Briefly, he wonders how many sides of Jaemin have escaped him before now, but he doesn’t have time to think too deeply on it before he’s throwing up his own sword in a panic to stop Jaemin from hitting him.

What happens next is such a blur that Mark hardly processes it. There’s a noise, some kind of whistle-click-shing, and suddenly the point of Jaemin’s sword is beneath his chin, angled right at his throat.

Mark swallows. His Adam’s apple scrapes against the tip of the blade.

Quietly, Yoonoh sees himself out. Mark thinks maybe that’s for the best; humiliation is sinking deep into his stomach, but there’s something else, some kind of not-quite endearment that he can’t place.

The sword lifts away from his throat and drops to the ground with a dull thud. Mark’s own sword seems to fall from his hands without him even consciously letting it, and he draws closer to Jaemin, close enough that he can feel the soft puffs of Jaemin’s breath against his face.

“Sorry,” Jaemin says in a way that doesn’t sound sorry at all, draping his arms around Mark’s neck. “Sorry, I want—”

And he leans up and presses his lips against Mark’s, still gentle, still mindful, and Mark melts into his hold, into the warmth that surrounds him. It feels a lot like coming home.

They kiss for a long time, so long that they run out of breath and have to drag themselves away panting, but Mark returns soon enough. And when they’ve taken all they want, they stand there — Jaemin’s head resting against Mark’s shoulder, Mark’s arms circled around his back — until someone finds them.

“We should get back,” Mark says gently, watching a servant girl leave quickly, her face red. “No one should see your sword out in the open like this.”

“Just a little longer,” Jaemin says, exhales against Mark’s collar. Mark doesn’t have the will to go against it.

The envelope is light in his hands, but it weighs heavy on him.

A letter from Vyar was delivered early this morning. It was left on Mark’s pillow sometime between him leaving the palace grounds to spar with Yoonoh and coming back to eat lunch. There isn’t any clear reason for him to be this afraid of something as trivial as a piece of paper while safe in his own homeland, but the kernel of anxiety in his chest seeds deeper into him, taking firm roots.

The dark seal has long since cooled and taken shape, but it feels hot against his palm — scalding, even. There isn’t any way to tell who sent this unless he opens it, and he knows that, but he can’t bring himself to do it. And so he trembles against his bed, a hand curled over the envelope loosely, one finger dipped between the lip and the seal as if he’ll ever get the courage to break it.

A knock sounds against his door, and Mark flinches. His hand jerks into a fist, and the lip of the envelope rips in his hand, the seal breaking off whole with a dampened pop.

He stares at the open envelope and at the letter folded inside in mild shock, almost horror. 

Well. The most difficult part is over, at least.

“Mark?” Jeno’s voice calls from behind the bedroom door. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Mark assures him, lifting his head to the door as if Jeno can see him. His voice cracks weakly. He clears his throat to play it off. “Just reading.”

“You’re too quiet sometimes,” Jeno notes, but doesn’t question him any further.

Mark glances back down at the open envelope in his hands and the letter tucked inside. The ink bleeds heavily through the paper, and he can make out scrawled cursive, but can’t read it with the page folded this way.

He carefully pulls the letter out and unfolds it, sighing out in relief when he reads the first line. 

From the desk of Princess Nari of Vyar,

Dearest Prince Ida, I hope that this letter finds you in good health. Presently both our kingdoms are happy and well, and I am overjoyed by your marriage and that it has helped my brother to embrace himself. I hope that this prosperity lingers.

I will make this brief for you, as I am sure you have many duties to attend to as future King. I am writing for quite selfish reasons, and with a single request:

Take care of my brother. I know that my brother — Prince Anya — has already asked this of you, and I know by way of him that you take great care in providing for Aran. But I cannot be satisfied until I can confirm that he will thrive in your care. I do not agree with my father’s wishes for Aran to return to Vyar, but if he is not healthy and content in his marriage, then I will take measures to return him here, where I can care for him should you prove unable to do so yourself.

I ask that you do not take my warning lightly. I am far more capable than I may appear to you.

Warm regards,

Princess Nari

Mark tucks the letter back into its envelope and places it down gently beside his pillow, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. A knock sounds quietly at his door again

“Mark? Princess Ines wants to speak with you, she just sent word.”

Ah. 

Chaeryeong had spoken to him about this last night at dinner, but Mark was too caught up staring at Jaemin to listen as intently as he should have. But Yoonoh had made some stupid remark, and Jaemin was laughing, and his smile was brilliant, and—

“Mark,” Jeno says again, his voice muffled by the door.

Mark shakes his head to pull himself from his thoughts. “Right. I’ll visit shortly.”

He stands, but worry pricks at the back of his neck as he approaches the door. He turns with his brows furrowed and makes his way back to the bed, taking the envelope and tucking it inside of his pillowcase. He’s not sure why he’s so worried, or why he feels the need to hide it, but the sense of displacement pooling in his stomach seems to fade soon after.

Jeno steps aside easily when the door opens, his head tilting when he sees Mark. “Are you okay?”

Mark falters in his step and pauses, nodding. “Why?”

“You look tired.”

“That’s normal,” he says with a shrug, stepping forward again and waving goodbye to Jeno.

The halls to Chaeryeong’s room are empty once again, and Mark feels strange but waves off the feeling as he knocks on her door and pushes into the room. She’s sitting on her bed, her face slack with boredom and her eyes dull. But when Mark catches her eye, a smile grows wide across her face.

“There you are,” she says, simpering. “I thought you’d take longer.”

She pats the empty space on the bed next to her, and Mark obliges, shutting the door quietly behind him and sitting down next to her. “Did you need something?”

Chaeryeong’s small smile freezes, slackening for a moment before it’s replaced with the thin line of her mouth. “About that.”

Mark tilts his head but says nothing, waiting patiently for her to say something. It never comes, though, and he glances around the room as she sits in silence. His eyes fly from the shine of the floor to the curtains draped over the posts of the bed, to the notches scratched into the door to measure height, then back to the floor again. A clock against the wall idly ticks by, counting the seconds since she last spoke.

When she finally does take a breath to speak, Mark meets her eyes with relief, and she closes her mouth abruptly, flushing red. Mark’s eyebrows crease.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I need to,” Chaeryeong says, folding her hands in her lap. “I just don’t know how.”

Mark slips a hand between her wrists and takes her hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly. This isn’t something he’s ever done before; his aversion to touch is near stifling, and the act startles Chaeryeong, her eyes widening and then glancing at the same spot on the floor Mark had been eyeing earlier.

With her palm pressed against his, he can feel Chaeryeong’s heartbeat, faint but present. It’s rapid, and for the second time today, fear kernels in Mark’s chest; he’s unsure of what could worry her so much that she can’t even bring herself to tell him, and that scares him half to death. What if she’s in danger, or what if Father’s— 

“Mark,” she asks, her voice so quiet that it barely pulls Mark from his thoughts. “How do you feel about Jaemin?”

“How do I feel?” he echoes. “He’s my husband.”

“Yes, but—” she lifts a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear and swallows thickly. “What do you feel for him?”

Mark bites at his lip for a moment and looks away. “...I love him.”

Nothing happens right away like he’d expected; no one jumps out from behind the door, his heart doesn’t fail him, and Chaeryeong says nothing. He’d figured himself in danger for admitting it out loud, but… nothing hurts him, and it seems like nothing will, for now.

Chaeryeong, though, is incredulous. “You love him?” she asks, her eyes wide and her lips just barely parted. “You’ve fallen in love with him?”

Mark nods wordlessly.

“...Goddess,” Chaeryeong breathes, face stricken with something like amazement. She’s silent again for a few long moments, but finally, she gnaws at the inside of her cheek and decides to speak again. “Mark?”

“Hm?”

“How did you know?”

“How did I know,” Mark echoes mutely. “That I loved him?”

Chaeryeong nods.

Mark swallows, something building in his chest. He can’t recognize the emotion, but he knows he wants to keep it there. He takes a shallow breath. “The night Jaemin cut his hair, he received a letter from King Vya telling him he wouldn’t ever be a real boy, and that he was to return to Vyar at once.”

The hands resting in Chaeryeong’s lap curl into fists.

“He was so furious that he crossed the room and kissed me, as some sort of act of defiance. And during that, he took my dagger from its sheath and cut off his hair. We threw it into the fire, and then we went to bed.”

Chaeryeong peers at him curiously for a moment, her head tilting. “That’s how you knew?”

“The light in his eyes, that’s how I knew,” Mark says, closing his own to picture the moment in his head. “The fire reflected in his eyes. I’d never seen him like that before. He was so angry,” Mark breathes. “...So beautiful. I prayed to find words to describe how I felt, and the Moon told me it was love.”

“You prayed to the Moon?!”

“I did,” Mark nods. “It was strange, but in a nice way. She gave me clarity, I think. I’ve never gotten that from the Sun.”

“Mark,” Chaeryeong hisses, flicking his arm without any real intention to hurt him. “That can be counted as blasphemy.”

She makes the sign of the Sun with her hand — a circle drawn into the air, then pressed towards her chest by the pads of her fingertips.

Mark says nothing, and Chaeryeong shrugs her shoulders, letting out a long, deep sigh. “I called you here because I wanted to know how to ask Father to arrange a marriage with a girl instead of a boy.”

Mark’s eyes widen. “Oh,” he says in muted shock. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“We can pen him a letter if you’d like. Though it’s probably best to send a letter to that boy you’ve been arranged to and… Let him down gently, I guess. The Kurari have a daughter your age, I believe I’ve met her once or twice.”

Chaeryeong flushes red. “Mark,” she says, her voice choked. “You’re being embarrassing.”

“I’m helping,” Mark says with the most serious face he can manage, but his façade breaks in no time at all. He dissolves into light laughter that Chaeryeong joins him in, whacking her wrist against his chest like some sort of punishment.

When they calm themselves, Chaeryeong tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances at him with a smile on her face. Mark can’t make out the feeling behind it. “A year ago, we wouldn’t have laughed like this,” she says, her smile growing into something fonder. “I think you’ve changed a lot in the past few months.”

Mark stares again at the floor, his face warm. “...If I have, then there’s Jaemin to thank for it.”

“Jaemin,” he murmurs into the other’s neck. “Jaemin. Wake up.”

The heap on top of him is still.

“Jaemin,” he tries again, but doesn’t move to actualize his words.

Presently, Jaemin is sleeping soundly, his face pressed awkwardly against the side of Mark’s pillow and quiet snores escaping his mouth. Mark isn’t sure how Jaemin managed to roll on top of him in the first place, but what he does know is that his nose is pressed into the junction between Jaemin’s shoulder and neck and that the air that escapes him is warm as it fans back across his face. The weight of the body above him is unfamiliar but not unwelcome — it’s a sort of grounding presence, like he belongs there.

Mark’s arms lift to circle around Jaemin’s waist. “Jaemin,” he says again, voice muffled by the column of Jaemin’s throat. “The Solstice Festival is today. We need to be up by now.”

Jaemin stirs a little but doesn’t move. His breath puffs out against the pillow and tickles Mark’s ear.

“Jaeminnn,” Mark groans. “Please?”

Something presses against the side of his head. It’s Jaemin’s forehead, he realizes belatedly, his heart freezing in his chest. 

“I don’t wanna,” Jaemin murmurs into his ear, his eyelashes brushing against Mark’s cheek and his lips dangerously close to Mark’s jaw. 

Mark closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh, his breath hitting Jaemin’s neck. It’s definitely not a new sensation, but Jaemin flinches back regardless, lifting his head and drawing back. His fists are braced against the mattress as he hovers above Mark, and his face burns fuschia. 

Mark stares up at him, unimpressed, and Jaemin’s lip settles into a thin, puffed-out line. “You are so cruel to me,” Jaemin says with no bite, rolling away and landing on his back. Mark glances at him for a moment and sees the line of his mouth curve into a smile.

“Are you excited?” Mark asks, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“For the festival?” Jaemin asks. When Mark hums his confirmation, Jaemin’s mouth twists into a pout, and he seems to consider something for a few long moments. “I think so. I’m nervous about customs, though.”

“It’s your first Summer Festival, isn’t it?”

Jaemin hums. “In Vyar, we celebrate the winter solstice, not summer. I’m worried I’m going to look out of place.”

“You won’t look out of place,” Mark says. He combs through his hair with one hand and attempts to fasten the buttons of his shirt with the other. “I’m sure everyone will understand. And I’ll be there, so there’s not much to worry about.”

He glances at Jaemin, freezing when he notices there’s something uneasy spread across his face. Fighting back the urge to hold him and tell him everything it takes to make him believe it’ll be alright, Mark returns to the bed and sits on it with a small sigh.

“Tell me exactly what you’re worried about.”

Jaemin swallows. “Staring,” he says, his face and voice both colored with shame. He doesn’t make eye contact with Mark as he says it. 

“Staring,” Mark echoes, already delving deep into thought. Jaemin turns his head even further away, his face shading impossibly darker, face twisted like that single word has burnt him. 

“Our marriage was already taboo, Mark,” Jaemin says quietly. “I mean, two kingdoms who have been hostile towards each other for centuries — this is the first time something like this has happened in our corner of the world, isn’t it? It’s already something for people to gawk at. It was bad enough when I married you, but now I’m—” his voice breaks, like he’s choking back tears, and Mark is so quick to reach out for him that he surprises himself.

“Don’t,” Jaemin chokes. Mark freezes. “I just… I’m not like you, you know that. Of course people are going to stare. They’re going to say things, I know they will. I don’t know how to face that.” 

He bunches his knees up to his chest, resting his chin between the peaks of his knees before mumbling out, “...I don’t want to face that.”

There’s something so broken about his voice, so scared that Mark feels pulses of anger surging towards something that doesn’t even exist yet. It burns into him as he watches a tear slip down Jaemin’s cheek, unable to reach out and wipe it or hold him as he cries. 

“Jaemin,” Mark starts, but his words leave him in a breath the second Jaemin looks up at him with wide, teary eyes. The light catches in them — like stars, almost, and they gleam with an unfounded hope that whatever Mark says will take his problems away. 

He’s taken too long to speak, and Jaemin gives him a bittersweet smile before blinking away a few more tears and dropping his head against his knees. “Can you come here?” he asks weakly. The question is muffled, but Mark makes it out regardless, moving forward as fast as he can to sit beside Jaemin.

He doesn’t move beyond pressing himself against the other, a silent request for permission to touch him, hold him, envelop him. He receives no answer.

“I don’t think it’s very fair,” Jaemin sniffs. “To me or to you.”

Mark hums, tilting his head, and Jaemin’s body shudders with a wet laugh. It doesn’t sound as happy as Mark remembers.

“I don’t think it’s fair that I was born with this body, and that you expected to marry who I was instead of who I am now. I don’t think it’s fair to me that I had to throw away myself, and it’s not fair to you that you were stuck with me because of senseless politics. I’m sorry.”

Hurt seeds somewhere deep in Mark’s chest. “Is that what you think?” he asks softly. “That I’m stuck with you?”

“Seems so.”

“Jaemin,” he says. “Can I—”

Jaemin moves quicker than he can finish his sentence, falling against his chest with a loud noise that splinters Mark’s heart in two. Mark’s arms wrap around him and hold him close without him even meaning to, and he cranes his neck down as far as it can reach; his nose just barely brushes against the top of Jaemin’s hair, tousled from sleep, but he’s close enough to murmur lowly to the other, soft enough that it won’t startle him.

“I’m here because I want to be,” he tells Jaemin, running a hand up and down his back comfortingly. “I’m happy here, with you. I’m happy.”

Jaemin exhales against his chest. “Are you?”

“I promise,” Mark whispers. “I haven’t been this happy in a long time.”

He holds Jaemin for a while, refusing to loosen his grip until the crying tapers off into slow breaths. “Do we really have to go?” Jaemin asks.

Mark’s lips quirk into a smile, and he stares down fondly at Jaemin. “We do,” he says, lifting a hand to pet his hair. “I promise it won’t be as bad as you make it out to be.”

“I really hope so.”

Mark lets his hand fall to his side. “We don’t have to get up just yet if you really don’t want to. We can stay in bed.”

“Can…” Jaemin draws back from Mark’s hold and looks at him with a tilted head. His eyes are glassy, but he isn’t crying anymore, and Mark sighs in relief. “Can we go back to bed?”

“Of course,” Mark says, standing to pull back the blankets and nestle himself beneath them. He glances at Jaemin, then at the empty side of the mattress — an invitation, and one that Jaemin gladly accepts. 

He fits into Mark’s arms without even asking, and Mark doesn’t find any issue in it. He closes his eyes and listens to the quiet current of Jaemin’s breathing. They fall under soon enough, wrapped around each other, soft, silent.

There comes a time, though, when the streets are doused in color and fire, and when the Sun begins to stretch across the sky. That time marks when they can’t avoid rolling out of bed anymore. Strangely, Mark wakes alone, with nothing in his arms but his blanket bundled against his chest. He realizes it’s past noon and wonders where Jaemin has gone, but Jeno tells him his husband has been kidnapped, so to speak. 

From what he gathers, Chaeryeong snuck into his room earlier in the afternoon and stole Jaemin. Mark guesses it was to dress him; Idrean robes are often a custom hard-learned. It makes sense for him to need help.

Mark’s own robes are brought to him an hour before the festival starts, but they don’t look the same as the ones he’d worn every year prior. Those had been plain for a prince, off-white with no detailing, but these are crimson, lined with gold. Is it because of the marriage, of the ascension to the throne?

“You’re looking too much into it,” Jeno says, pulling the robe snug around his chest and tying a rope around his waist. “You look handsome, and it’s probably different this year because you’re married now.”

Jeno’s robes are plain the way Mark’s had been, but a hood hangs off his collar to denote that he’s a guard. Mark has never seen him wear the hood voluntarily. Donghyuck has tried many times to sneak up on him and pull the hood over his eyes, but Jeno’s impossibly good at detecting mischief and hardly any of his attempts have been successful.

“I wonder what Jaemin’s robes look like,” Mark says, fixing his hair in the mirror they’re standing in front of. Jeno rolls his eyes.

“You’re going to see soon enough. No need to think about it.”

“Yeah?” Mark asks, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing Jeno with a glare. “Wonder what Donghyuck would wear if he were here,” he says pointedly.

Jeno turns bright red in seconds. “That is none of your business.”

“You’re so painfully obvious that it’s funny,” Mark says, grinning. “Are you ready?” 

Jeno nods. They link arms and leave the room, making their way through the halls and down long stretches of stairs before coming out the mouth of the palace and into the courtyard. This is how it goes every year; Mark and Jeno are always the first to be ready to leave, then Chaeryeong, then their mother and father. Mark wonders how much extra time it’ll take to account for Jaemin.

“Miss me?” a voice comes from behind Mark just as he settles into a seat, and he jumps, turning with a yelp to face whoever’s snuck up on him. 

He frowns. “Donghyuck,” he says, but there’s no heat to it.

“Donghyuck!” Jeno says, eyes widening and a nervous smile already spreading on his face. “You’re back from Kurar?”

“In time for the Festival, even,” Donghyuck says, grinning as he drapes an arm around Jeno. “Wouldn’t miss this one for the world.”

“I didn’t take you for someone to practice,” Mark says, tilting his head.

Donghyuck shrugs. “I don’t. I’m here for the food, but I respect the Sun.”

Jeno laughs. “You want something from the food stalls?”

Donghyuck pats the coin pouch strapped to his belt. “Whatever they’re selling.”

He’s not dressed in robes, nor is he in formal clothes, but Mark doesn’t mind. Donghyuck travels enough that he only really has a few outfits to take with him. The rest are scattered through the lands, in drawers of guest rooms of castles that he’s most frequently seen at. Donghyuck even has his own room in the Idrean palace, a point of contention between Kurar and Idrea but one that has little meaning.

“How was Kurar this time around?” Mark asks with a fond smile, knowing the answer he’ll get.

Donghyuck tilts his head back and groans. “Still boring. I want out.”

“Did you see your family?”

Donghyuck tilts his head to the side — and his chin is still settled on Jeno’s shoulder, so his head nuzzles into Jeno’s like it’s no big deal — and sighs. “Mother’s fine, Father’s traveling as always, and my sisters only wanted the toys I brought them back.”

“Tell them I wish them well next time you see them. I haven’t seen them in a while.”

Donghyuck’s father controls banks and trade between the kingdoms, and it requires so much traveling that he’s hardly ever home with his family. Mark reckons he’s been in Donghyuck’s father’s company more than his own son has. He trained Donghyuck to take his place when he was young, starting when Mark had barely just begun to begin schooling and when Jeno first became his guard. He’s been traveling to and from different kingdoms ever since, but he stays in Idrea more than anywhere else.

“Have you been to the Springs recently?” Mark asks. He’s only keeping the conversation going so that Donghyuck doesn’t move off Jeno’s shoulder, a fact that Jeno has quickly figured out and will likely hang him for later. He’s shooting Mark a mix between a death glare and puppy dog eyes currently; a promise, and a cry for help.

“Three weeks or so ago,” Donghyuck says. “I was supposed to go back, but I haven’t gone since then. King Vya demanded that I bring your husband home to him.”

Mark shudders. “Or what?”

“I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. I would never, though. You know that.”

“Of course, Donghyuck,” Mark nods.

Footsteps press softly against the grass from the mouth of the palace. Mark turns his head quickly in anticipation.

Jaemin’s robes match his; crimson, flowing, detailed with gold that wisps around his waist. Mark stands immediately and walks briskly to his side, putting a hand around his waist and walking him towards Donghyuck and Jeno wordlessly. 

He doesn’t even notice Chaeryeong and company until he sits with Jaemin and turns back towards the entrance. Chaeryeong is laughing softly behind her hand, while Chenle whispers something in Jisung’s ear and steals glances at Mark. Renjun looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

Chaeryeong is dressed the same as she is every year; long, white robes, her hair falling around her shoulders, and her face framed with a golden chain pulling her hair back. Lovely, as always, and Donghyuck tells her as much when he sees her. 

Mark takes Jaemin’s hand in his as they sit and wait for the King and Queen. “You look lovely,” he says, eyes catching on the chain resting at the crown of Jaemin’s head. It’s identical to the one pulling back Chaeryeong’s hair. “Did it go okay?” 

“It was fine,” Jaemin says, smiling. “She’s such a sweet girl.”

Mark hums and tightens his grip on Jaemin’s hand. “Still nervous?”

“A bit. I think it’ll be alright, though.”

“Not with Donghyuck here,” Mark whispers with a small smile. As if on cue, Donghyuck turns his head and glares at Mark like he’d heard his name in the first place.

“May I remind you, Prince Ida, that—”

Jeno elbows Donghyuck in the side, and he stops talking immediately, eyes flying to the entrance of the courtyard. King Anet and Queen Eri stroll down the path arm-in-arm, dressed in robes more regal than Mark’s and surrounded by hooded guards. 

Reflexively, Mark reaches out to pull Jeno’s hood up, watches Renjun do the same, and then pulls Jaemin to stand with him. 

“What’s happening?” Jaemin asks him, voice barely above a whisper. Mark puts a finger to his lips.

“The royal family treks down the cliff to the mainland village each year. Since Idrea consists of islands, there’s no way for us to visit each village, so we only visit the one connected to the mainland. You have to be silent during the descent, but after we arrive we can speak.”

Jaemin furrows his eyebrows but lets Mark drag him behind the King and Queen as they make their way past the gates of the palace and towards the path leading down the cliff. The others are in tow, Chaeryeong and the guards close behind. Donghyuck takes Chenle and Jisung and follows from a distance, ensuring that they stay far from the family.

The walk is long and slow, and the feeling of the rough ground against the soles of his shoes is familiar enough that Mark smiles at it. The waves roll softly against the cliff from below, and the wind blows gently enough that his robes only rustle with the movement of his own footsteps.

When they’ve finally reached the bottom of the cliff, Mark’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest as he recognizes the faint smell of street food. There’s only one day a year when he’s able to eat something outside of the palace, and he’s glad he finally gets to have Jaemin with him today.

The moment they step past the threshold between trees and the village, the silence is broken; men and women lined up against lampposts set fire to lanterns hanging over the street, and the children surrounding the food stalls burst into cheers. Once the noise starts, it doesn’t die down; the crowd of royals disseminates, and Mark grabs Jaemin’s wrist. He pulls him quickly towards a stall without checking to see what’s inside.

They buy themselves roasted meat and walk through the streets, following the lanterns as they’re lighted and laughing at nothing in particular. At one point, they meet Mark’s mother, who offers them both iolle, but they turn her down and move along to find someone they know.

They finally find Donghyuck and Jeno leaning against the side of a house. Donghyuck has used his ten minutes of freedom to find whatever alcohol was in sight and obtain it, and he’s very clearly not in his right mind, so their reunion promptly turns into a rescue mission.

“You are insufferable,” Mark mutters, pulling Donghyuck back by his arms. 

“Excuse me,” Donghyuck hisses, writhing. “I am trying to speak with my betrothed!” 

“You haven’t proposed yet,” Mark reminds him, and Donghyuck lets out a loud sigh.

“Jeno,” he calls. “Can I propose at Mark’s confirmation ceremony?”

“I don’t have any way of stopping you,” Jeno chimes back, his ears red.

“Then it’s settled,” Donghyuck says. 

Mark rolls his eyes and lets go of Donghyuck, who keeps his distance this time.

“Where are Renjun and Jisung and Chenle?” Jaemin asks Donghyuck, tilting his head.

Donghyuck blinks. “Not sure, actually,” he says. “I told them they were allowed to go wherever, and then Jeno dragged me to go get beer.”

“So you did this to yourself,” Mark tells Jeno, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I did not.”

Mark laughs and turns to watch the Sun as it begins to disappear past the outline of the palace and cliff. The sky is changing from blue to summery pink, clouds tinted orange and cream as the shortest day begins to sink into the sea. Just as he turns back to face the others, he catches a face in the crowd and finds himself moving before he even realizes it, weaving through people and eventually catching a shoulder in his hand.

“Jisung,” Mark breathes out in a sigh of relief. “Jaemin was looking for you.”

Jisung is staring at him with wide eyes. He looks terrified. The people in the street move around them. “Prince Ida.”

It’s then that Mark realizes that even after helping to take care of him for as long as he did, he’s never actually spoken with Jisung. His heart drops. “You can call me Mark,” he says. “My name is Mark. I’m sorry, I just realized I haven’t had the chance to speak with you.”

Jisung swallows. “We could—”

“Jisung!” a loud voice calls, and something crashes into Jisung. A body, wrapping an arm around him with a loud laugh. Strangely, though, Jisung doesn’t falter. “Lost you back here. And with Mark!”

“Hi, Chenle,” Mark says fondly, smiling. He feels like he’s intruding on something, so he slides his hand off Jisung’s shoulder and lets it rest at its side, then takes a few steps back. “Is the festival going okay?”

Chenle grins. “Don’t tell Jaemin, but I like this one more than the one we throw at the Springs.”

“I’m glad,” Mark says. “Come find me if you need anything, alright?”

“‘Course,” Chenle says, then turns and pulls Jisung back into the crowd. 

Now alone, Mark makes his way through the streets and passes the stalls on his way to find Jaemin. He comes across a stand selling iolle, and this time, he ends up taking a cup for the two of them to share. He carefully walks it back to where he’d left Jaemin and holds it up with a smile, ready to watch Jaemin’s eyes light up when— 

“The Vyari prince, on my doorstep,” a voice says. Mark freezes just as he reaches Jaemin, who’s standing in front of the boy speaking to him, his eyes wide and his lips barely parted. “Are those your own robes?”

Jaemin opens his mouth to say something, but the words barely come out before the boy interrupts him.

“You make us look pathetic.”

“Pathetic?” Jaemin echoes weakly as Mark watches, frozen. In the distance, children gather in a circle and begin to chant traditional songs. 

“Do you even know why we celebrate the Festival? For the Sun goddess. You aren’t one of us, you’re from Vyar. The Kingdom of the Moon.” 

“But—”

“You insert yourself into this kingdom, into this marriage, into the Royal Family. You don’t belong here, Prince Aran. Do your subjects a favor and stay out of our religion.” He spits Jaemin’s name like it’s a curse, like the words are poison on his tongue.

For a moment, rage blinds Mark. He doesn’t even register reaching out, but suddenly his hand extends and catches the boy’s shoulder in his fist, turning him roughly to see his face. “That’s enough,” Mark says firmly. “You have no right to treat my husband so cruelly.”

The boy’s eyes widen. “Prince Ida,” he breathes, and for a split second, he looks more like a scared child than anything else. He’s shorter than Mark, and frail, too. He can’t be any older than Chenle. 

“Leave me while I still feel gracious,” Mark says, glaring daggers.

The boy backs away slowly, and when he realizes that Mark isn’t moving, he runs, disappearing into the crowd without another word. Mark lets out a sigh and turns back to Jaemin, who’s still frozen, staring at the spot where the boy had been standing.

“Jaemin,” Mark says, moving forward with one hand outstretched. “You know none of what he said was true, right? Are you okay?”

Jaemin moves back when Mark touches him, flinching away like he’s been burned. His wide eyes and furrowed brows cleave Mark’s heart in half; he looks caged, like he has nowhere to go. Like he’s walking the edge.

“Jaemin?” Mark asks gently.

Jaemin blinks at him. One tear runs down his cheek. “Please don’t,” he says, voice cracking. “Please.”

He pauses, and they stare at each other for a long moment before Jaemin finally moves. The cup in Mark’s hand prevents him from moving quickly enough to stop the other as he turns and sprints towards the forest, down the path cleared out that leads to the palace.

The cup drops to his feet and breaks into pieces that lie strewn across the street. Dust puffs out in a cloud around it, iolle seeping into the dirt, and Mark, frozen, only stares at the path Jaemin had taken, the cacophony of the streets roaring in his ears and the trees swaying gently as the Sun sinks into the ocean.

Mark doesn’t get back to the palace until late in the night, hours after the festivities have ended. The walk back up to the palace is even slower than it had been before, and Mark quietly seethes when he realizes no one has even noticed Jaemin is absent.

When they finally pass through the courtyard, Mark breaks off from them and all but runs to his room, hoping to find Jaemin there alone. Instead, he finds a note on his pillow, the handwriting unmistakably Jaemin’s.

“Mark,

If this note is still on your pillow by the time you return, then I’m in the library. Please don’t come find me. I want to be alone.”

Mark frowns, folding the note and holding it between his fingers. He looks around the room and at the balcony, then calls out, “Jaemin?” 

There isn’t a response, but he says it again anyways. “Jaemin?”

Mark sighs. The Moon filters through the sheer curtains separating the room from the balcony, and the wind sways them softly, bringing a chill through the room. Mark undresses quickly and carefully, changes into something to sleep in, and climbs into bed. He’ll stay awake for a few more hours at the very least, just to make sure Jaemin comes back safely.

This bed is much lonelier without Jaemin here to keep him warm.

Mark can’t help but wonder if Jaemin truly wants him to stay away, if that’s even the best thing to do right now. He wants to respect that wish, wants to give Jaemin the space he asked for, but something tells Mark that isn’t what Jaemin needs. 

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to think of a good reason to stay in bed.

For one, Jaemin asked him not to. Jaemin wants to be alone. Mark can guess as to what he really needs, but he can’t decide that for him, and if he says he needs space, then he deserves it. But guilt eats away at him, for letting him run off on his own and for letting those things be said to him in the first place, and Mark feels sick to his stomach. Sick at himself and at the village boy who taunted him.

He lasts all of half an hour before the uneasiness forces him out of bed. Still in his bedclothes, Mark pries his bedroom door open and steps out into the hall without even a candle to guide him. He uses the Moon’s light to walk, and each time he steps between open windows and feels the pale light hit his face, a strange sense of calm washes over him like the evening tide. 

He makes it to the library as fast as he can, but he doesn’t enter. He only stands in the open doorway and watches as Jaemin sits alone at a table, books stacked in piles around him and a small lamp flickering softly with flame. He’s scanning a page of the huge book in front of him, his finger tracing each line he reads.

Mark lets out a heavy breath. Jaemin looks tired, impossibly so, but the light of the lamp illuminates his face, and he looks as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly, though, his head lifts, and his eyes fly to the doorway. Mark flattens himself against the outside wall in an attempt to hide himself, his heart leaping to his throat and his jaw clenched. If he’s found out, he won’t have any way to explain himself, and he can’t bear seeing Jaemin upset again.

A hum comes from inside the library, and after a few seconds, a silence blankets the room. Mark peeks again at Jaemin, who’s returned to reading his book but looks absent. “Goddess,” he says aloud suddenly, closing his eyes. “Is this blasphemy? To read about a religion other than yours?”

When he’s met with no response, he continues: “I want to learn more about my new home. I can’t be their King one day without knowing their history and their culture. I have to know about their traditions and their Goddess. I ask again, is it blasphemous?”

Jaemin waits for a moment, then sighs. He turns the page of the book he’s reading, and after a moment, his eyes widen. He leans forward and begins to read, but after a minute or two, he pauses and gasps.

“Mark,” he breathes, voice colored with awe. He stands, his hands braced against the table. “I have to tell Mark.” 

Mark flattens himself against the outer wall once again and prays Jaemin won’t discover him. Whatever it is he needs to tell Mark, it can’t be now, not while an unfamiliar feeling pools in Mark’s stomach. He blankly recalls it to be dread, maybe fear, but can’t place it before Jaemin comes running out of the library and in the direction opposite of Mark, his footsteps echoing heavily on the limestone as he disappears into the hall.

Mark breathes out a sigh of relief as he falls out of sight, slumping against the wall as the tension in him lifts from his muscles. He dares to venture into the library to find the page that had shocked Jaemin so badly but finds that the book has disappeared from the table.

Sighing, Mark puts out Jaemin’s lamp and leaves the library. He can’t go back to his room, out of fear of meeting his husband there and having to explain why he’d left his room in the first place. So he makes the long walk to the barracks and presses inside an all-too-familiar room.

The boy on the bed ceases snoring when Mark pushes the door shut with a loud, drawn-out creak, but doesn’t fully wake until Mark pulls an unused pillow from the bed and drops it onto the floor.

He lays down just as the mattress creaks beside him. “Mmh,” a voice groans. “Mark?”

Mark closes his eyes and turns his cheek into the pillow, the cold floor digging uncomfortably into his shoulder blades. “Go back to sleep, Jeno.”

Jeno sighs. “Alright,” he mumbles sleepily, and the mattress creaks again. “Goodnight, Mark.”

“Goodnight, Jeno.”

Sleep doesn’t come to him for a very long time.

Mark is only awake for five minutes when Jeno pulls him up to his feet and hands him a change of clothes. His back aches and his eyes droop with exhaustion, but he changes anyways, thanking Jeno for the clothes and his floor.

“You slept through breakfast again,” Jeno tells him, patting his back. “It’s time for lunch.”

“Lunch? It’s noon?”

“It’s past noon, but the Queen told me to wake you up since you were still asleep. How late were you awake last night?”

“I’m not sure,” Mark says, sighing. “It was a rough night.”

“Rough night,” Jeno parrots. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Does it have something to do with Jaemin not coming back to the palace with us?” 

Mark doesn’t answer. Instead, he smooths his hair down and straightens his aching back, taking Jeno’s arm and leading him towards the door. “Let’s go eat,” he says, and Jeno follows him with no complaint.

The table is full in the dining hall — everyone who can fit at the table is already sitting, including Donghyuck and Jaemin’s circle. When he takes his seat next to Jaemin, Yoonoh snickers at him. “Sleep late?” he wonders aloud, and Mark glares at him.

He turns to Jaemin. “Morning,” he says with a smile, but Jaemin looks down at his plate.

“Morning.”

Ah.

He’s upset.

Yizhuo begins filling cups with water, and Mark reaches forward, taking a sip of his own just as Jaemin folds his hands in his lap and clears his throat. Mark notices a heavy book sitting in his lap, and his eyes widen as he drinks. 

“Majesties,” Jaemin says. The entire table’s attention turns to him. “Yesterday some upsetting things were said to me at the Festival. It’s come to my attention that I am intruding on your traditions and culture, so I spent hours in the library yesterday evening trying to educate myself further on this.”

“Jaemin,” Queen Eri says. “I’m thrilled you’re trying to immerse yourself in Idrean culture, but you were never intruding on it in the first place. You’re welcome here.”

“I know that, and I thank you for being so welcoming, but that isn’t why I’ve brought this up. While I was reading last night, I found something.”

“Found something,” Yoonoh echoes. “Of importance?”

“Somewhat, yes. One of the books I read was… strange. The histories of Idrea and Vyar depicted in the books in your library are different from the histories I was raised on. There are discrepancies between them, both in religious history and our origins.” 

King Anet crosses his arms over his chest. “And what are you implying? That our history is inaccurate?”

“Not just yours, my King,” Jaemin says. “I think the books in Vyar were incorrect, too. I suspect both sides might have gotten the story wrong in the first place.”

“Even if they are, Aran, how are you supposed to prove that?” 

Jaemin is silent for a moment. He glances down at the book in his lap and then looks back up at the King and Queen. “...Kurar has supposedly been around longer than both of our kingdoms, hasn’t it? We’re said to have factioned off from them hundreds of years ago.”

Donghyuck purses his lips. “Their records are more extensive than any kingdom I’ve ever visited — we have an entire region dedicated solely to written records and stories.”

“I propose that you let me travel to Kurar for research,” Jaemin says. “If this hunch of mine is wrong, I’ll never mention it again. But if I’m right we could uncover key parts of our histories that have been buried for centuries.”

King Anet narrows his eyes. “I will not send you alone. Word has it your father is planning to bring you back to Vyar by force, and I refuse to let that happen until my lineage is continued.”

Mark grimaces. He can’t discern which part of that was the worst. Still, though, he can’t let Jaemin go by himself. “I’ll go.”

“If Mark is going, so am I,” Jeno says. “I can protect both of them.”

Donghyuck sighs. “Even if you all go, none of you know how to navigate your way to Kurar. I’ll go with you.”

“You will?” Jeno asks, and Donghyuck nods firmly.

“What if something happens?” Yoonoh asks. “And what if Jeno can’t protect you from that? Mark, your confirmation ceremony is less than half a year away. If something happens to one of you, the confirmation doesn’t go through. Then your marriage isn’t valid, and relations between the Isles and the Springs will fall to pieces. Traveling like that isn’t a risk you can take.”

“But it’s one I’m willing to take for Jaemin.”

Yoonoh sighs. “You can go after your confirmation ceremony.”

“Why can’t you just spare extra guards to ensure nothing happens?!”

“Because, Mark,” Yoonoh says, glaring, “King Vya seems to no longer have any regard for his son, and doesn’t seem to think your marriage is valid. If he doesn’t recognize the marriage, that means he won’t honor our promise of good relations and could pull a coup at any time. I would send as many guards as I could if I had any to spare, but all I can offer is Jeno, and even he isn’t able to keep all three of you safe at once. As your advisor, I’m banning you from going. That’s final.”

Mark stands, his hands braced on the table as he stares his cousin down. “Yoonoh, what if we find something that salvages our relations? What if this marriage doesn’t have to be what bears the weight of our tension?”

“What are you talking about?”

“If we could find something disproving both our histories, then the tensions between us would be completely unfounded. Our countries have never warred before, Yoonoh, and this marriage is essentially the only thing stopping that from happening and has been for the last seventeen years. But if we somehow manage to find something to prove the hostility between Idrea and Vyar are pointless, then there’s no need for Jaemin and me.”

“No need,” Mark’s father mutters under his breath.

“Yoonoh,” Mark says. “We can’t let a repeat of Susinem and Urava happen. You were there for the aftermath. You saw the bloodshed.”

Yoonoh gets a faraway look in his eyes but shakes his head quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “Two days,” he says. “You stay for two days. You come straight home. You promise me you’ll be careful. Those are my conditions.”

Mark turns to his father. “Do you agree to those?”

King Anet nods. Mark gets the sense that he’s planning something, but doesn’t have enough time to think it through. “You have my blessing.”

Mark turns back to Yoonoh and nods. “Then we’ll go for two days like you asked. Can we leave tomorrow?”

“Is that enough time to send word to Kurar?” Chaeryeong asks.

Donghyuck shakes his head. “No, but the King and Queen won’t mind visitors. They’ll offer to have us stay with them in the castle.”

Mark takes his seat and reaches out to grab Jaemin’s hand under the table. Strangely, Jaemin doesn’t seem to mind, squeezing Mark’s hand as it slides into his own. “Then it’s settled,” Mark says, nodding. “We leave for Kurar tomorrow morning.”

Mark is half asleep that evening when a knock sounds on his door. Jaemin stirs beside him, and he quietly shushes him as he sits up and staggers to the door, still half-asleep.

He cracks the door open to see Jeno, looking just as tired and haggard as he is. It seems news of their travel is hitting him just as hard as it has Mark in the past few hours, but he’s still on his feet this late in the evening.

“Jeno?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. “It’s late.”

“Your father requests your audience.” 

Mark lets out a long sigh. “Why not in the morning? I’m in bedclothes.”

“He said it was urgent, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

Mark frowns. “I’ll go soon. Give me a moment.”

He closes the door quietly and makes his way back to the bed, where Jaemin is lying with his limbs splayed out. He must be uncomfortable like this, especially with the blanket pooled at his ankles, so Mark reaches out to pull the blanket up to Jaemin’s chest. He leans down and plants a feather-light kiss onto Jaemin’s forehead, then draws back, making his way towards the door again.

A soft noise comes from behind him. “Mark?” Jaemin asks, voice weighted with sleep.

“My father summoned me,” Mark explains shortly, softening his voice so that it doesn’t startle Jaemin. “I’ll be back to bed soon.”

“I want to talk when you come back,” Jaemin says.

“Alright. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Heart pounding, Mark slips through the doorway and closes the door behind him, leaving Jaemin alone in the room as he steps out into the hall.

Jeno pats his back. “It’s important enough for both of us to be woken up,” he says.

“Important enough for me to have to leave my husband alone in bed,” Mark frowns. “I haven’t talked to him about the Festival. I thought he wanted space, but it seems like we’re just ignoring it now.”

“Maybe it’s best to just forget it,” Jeno shrugs. “Either way, we can’t think about that now. We’re here.”

He leaves Mark at the door while the other walks on, silently wishing for Jeno to follow him inside but grateful he didn’t. His father doesn’t hold his tongue, and especially not for Mark’s circle. Jeno is right to stay behind.

The twelve pillars are just as intimidating as they’ve always been, but Mark stands tall before his father and asks aloud why he was summoned, unwavering even as he cowers internally. The Moon casts itself through the opening in the ceiling, illuminating the room in pale light, and Mark finds that the same sense of calm that had washed over him yesterday evening has taken hold of him again.

His father doesn’t answer him, only stares, so he asks again: “Why did you call me here?”

King Anet leans forward in his seat. “This trip you’re taking,” he says, and Mark’s stomach sinks with the realization that he’s been called here to take part in some backward plan. “There’s something for you to consider if you find something to unite our kingdom and Vyar. Something in both your best interest in mine.”

“What is it?”

“You said earlier if you were to find written records disproving our history that your marriage with Jaemin wouldn’t have to carry the weight of our tense relations on your back, did you not?”

Mark swallows. “Yes, Father.”

His father’s smile is devious, sickly. Mark feels his knees weaken. “So if you were to find something of such importance, there wouldn’t be any need for your marriage at all, would there?”

His heart drops into his stomach. “What?”

“Your marriage is for politics, and a divorce wouldn’t hurt our relations. It would improve them, really, seeing as Vya so desperately wants Prince Aran to return to Vyar. You could remarry, possibly to the young girl from Kurar, and continue the line.”

Mark scowls. “Is that all you want? A grandchild?”

“The blood of our predecessors has flown through this dynasty for three centuries, Mark. It is foolish of you to even consider letting it stop all so you can accommodate Aran.”

“You’re willing to drive the two of us apart so I can have a child in wedlock,” Mark seethes. “You think this is political, Father? You think I am here for politics?”

“You are my heir, the future King. Politics is your blood and breath. What else would you be here for, Mark?”

“Love!” Mark spits. “I love him! I love him more than life itself, and I will do anything for his benefit, even if it means defying you!”

His father stares at him for a few long moments. “There is no room in this world for love,” he says finally, face twisted into a scowl. “As future King, you would do well to remember that.” 

“Maybe I won’t be King,” Mark says, voice shaking — with rage, with nerves, with the weight of everything he’s ever wanted to scream in defiance but has been too cowardly for. “Maybe I’ll take my husband and run away somewhere you’d never find us. We would live alone and happy and I would never see you again. Who would your King be if that happened?”

“Mark.”

“You would do well to remember that I am your only option, Father. If you upset me, then I leave, and Idrea crumbles.”

“You would do that to your own kingdom, Ida? Your home of seventeen years? This is all you’ve ever known, and you would let it shatter without a second thought?”

Mark stares his father down. “I would ravish the Earth if it were for him. Where he goes I follow.”

Anet clenches the edge of his throne. “Say you throw your life away for him. What if he doesn’t feel the same for you? Would you still follow him so blindly? That boy is more trouble than he’s worth, Ida.” He turns his head towards the door and calls out, “Jeno!”

Jeno steps inside with wide eyes. “Yes, my King?”

“Watch over my son closely.”

“Of course, my King,” Jeno says, bowing his head. 

“You are dismissed, Ida. Remember your place.”

Mark turns without bidding him goodbye, knowing he won’t see his father for another three days at least. It feels good to leave him like that, feels good to seethe quietly as he closes the door to the court behind him. Jeno follows him timidly, almost like he’s afraid of Mark’s anger.

“You think I’m going to regret that,” Mark says to him as they climb a set of stairs.

“Maybe,” Jeno says. “It’s not like you to speak like that.”

“How much of it did you hear?”

“The entire conversation, Mark,” Jeno says, gesturing with his hands as they walk. “He was being rash, I agree, but—”

“But nothing, then,” Mark says. “I said what needed to be said. He can’t meddle with my marriage or he’ll sorely regret it.”

Jeno falls silent. Their footsteps echo loudly against the limestone floor, almost loud enough for Mark to worry about waking someone as they pass by wings of bedrooms. When they finally reach Mark’s room, Jeno stops him, wrapping a hand around his wrist and tugging him back. The door is ajar now, cracked just wide enough for Mark to hear Jaemin’s soft breaths. 

“Would you really run away?” Jeno asks, head tilted. “You’d leave me? And Chaeryeong? Yoonoh? Donghyuck? Your mother?”

Mark swallows thickly. He avoids looking Jeno in the eyes as he speaks, fixing his eyes to a chip in the wall and speaking to it instead. “I love him, Jeno.”

“So you would,” Jeno says, voice cracking. “Okay. Goodnight, Mark.”

Jeno turns to leave just as something suddenly snaps inside Mark, something that makes him reach out and grab him to wrap himself around the other in a hug, craning his neck past Jeno’s ear. “If I ever had to leave I would take you with me. Of course I would.”

Slowly, Jeno’s arms lift to lace his hands at the small of Mark’s back, and his head slowly drops onto Mark’s shoulder, and he sniffs wetly. The fabric beneath his face begins to dampen. “You are so cruel,” Jeno laughs. “You are mean and rude and cruel and I hate you and I would probably lose myself if you left without me.”

Mark hugs him tighter. “I love you too much to leave you by yourself, idiot.”

Jeno lets out a shaky breath and hugs him back, and for a few moments they stand there in silence, holding each other tightly before Jeno finally pulls away. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Mark breathes, not quite ready to go back to his room. Still, though, he watches Jeno’s figure disappear into the hall and then retreats into his room, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

Mark makes his way to the bed slowly, then climbs inside. “Jaemin,” he urges softly. “You wanted to talk?”

He’s answered with soft breaths. They aren’t even, though, and they sound heavier than when Jaemin usually sounds this deep into sleep, but Mark doesn’t question it. He falls back onto his pillow and closes his eyes, folding his hands over his belly.

Mark has nearly fallen under the current of sleep when suddenly something presses against his hand, and his arm stretches out without his consent. He doesn’t open his eyes, though; this is a familiar press, a warmth he knows. Jaemin’s hand slips into his with a sort of ease that he’s only heard of in fairytales. 

Mark smiles. Lets his head lull to its side. Sinks into the mattress, evens his breathing, and sleeps.

It seems Yoonoh wasn’t exaggerating when he said Idrea was stretched too thinly to accommodate them on their travels.

They pack the clothes on their back and a map — Donghyuck insists that they’ll only need the clothes and that he’ll be their personal chauffeur — because they can’t bring anything heavier with them, out of fear of sinking the boat.

The rowboat.

Donghyuck’s rowboat.

“It’s not that bad,” Donghyuck sighs, rolling his eyes as he steps off the dock and into the small boat. “It can fit all of you. You’re just upset that you don’t get special treatment, Mark.”

“I’m not!” Mark protests, stepping into the boat and offering a hand to Jaemin, who takes it and steps inside as well. They crouch down and make room for Jeno to sit with them. “Donghyuck, how long will this take?”

Donghyuck turns his head to look at Mark. “The trip? We can get to Kurar in no time. By noon at the earliest.”

“And from there?”

“Depending on where we dock, the walk to the castle varies in length. It should be short, though, I know what I’m doing.”

Mark hums.

“Are you excited to go back?” Jeno asks.

“To my home? I just left there a few days ago, so not really. But anything to prevent Idrea from becoming the new Susinem, I guess.”

“Susinem,” Jaemin echoes. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“Yoonoh mentioned it yesterday at the table,” Mark reminds him. “It was a kingdom far from here that warred with its ancient rival, Urava.”

Jaemin hums. “Both sides were left so broken after the war that the kingdoms fell into disarray and were annexed,” Jaemin nods. “I remember now. I learned of them when I was little.”

Donghyuck rows the boat forward. The Sun reflects off the clear water, but Mark doesn’t mind. He reaches down and trails his fingertips along the surface of the water as they move. “Yoonoh was there, actually,” he says, flexing his fingers. “At the final battle.”

“Your cousin was?” Donghyuck asks. 

“His parents died at sea when he was younger, so my family took him in and has been caring for him since then. But we sent him away at thirteen because he wanted to become a swordsman, so we sent him to the most skilled swordmaster in Idrea. When he mastered sword fighting he was sent to aid Susinem, but when he arrived at the battlefield he saw nothing but bodies. All the soldiers who were still alive had fled.”

Jaemin turns to him with furrowed eyebrows. “How old was he?” 

“Seventeen, I think. He isn’t much older than me. Two or three years at most.”

“Has he ever talked about it?”

“No, but he didn’t need to. He came back a different person. Then my father appointed him as Captain of the Guard and my advisor.”

“The other guards don’t think very highly of him,” Jeno says quietly. “Since he’s younger than most of them by at least a decade, they look down on him. I’m generally the only one he talks to nowadays.”

“Renjun says he’s nice,” Jaemin says. “I haven’t spoken with him enough to confirm that, but I think he’s harsher with Mark than he needs to be.”

“He’s only looking out for him,” Donghyuck says, waving a hand. 

Mark turns his attention back to the water just in time to realize how far out from the islands they are. “Donghyuck,” he says, watching the land become blurred specks in the distance. “How are we getting to Kurar?”

The boat takes a sharp turn towards what Mark expects to be shore, but when he looks ahead, he finds a river inland.

“You didn’t think we’d only travel along the coast, did you?” Donghyuck says, turning to him with a bright grin. “We go upstream, towards the Range. See where the trees start to thicken in size and closeness to each other? That’s where the Kingdom of Idrea ends.”

“I’ve never been outside Idrea in my life,” Mark mumbles to himself.

As they move past the coast and into the forest, Mark watches as the faint outlines of his home islands in the distance disappear completely. He thinks of his father’s words from earlier and begins to wonder if this is really a good idea, but Jaemin leans forward and takes his hand like it’s second nature. After that, his worry sinks into the riverbed.

They tie off the boat at a small dock a few hours later. Donghyuck tells them this is his hometown, and that the castle is only a short walk away, but Mark isn’t paying any attention to his words.

“Mark?” Jaemin asks, tugging on his sleeve as they step off the dock. 

The forest here isn’t like what he has in Idrea. Here, the forest is dark, and the trees tower above him six times over. They vary in thickness, from tall and skinny to so round that houses are nested around the trunks, and they obscure the Sun from even peeking through the tree branches. It’s almost as if they’ve created a canopy.

Donghyuck turns to look at Mark and laughs. “Yeah, it’s a bit dark here.”

“Reminds me of Vyar,” Jaemin says. “The trees are the same here as they are in the Springs.”

The clouds above are dark gray, something Mark has never seen before. He faintly remembers that the Range is famed for its mountains, but he sees nothing but trees and cottages before him. He opens his mouth to ask, but it seems Jeno is wondering the same thing.

“Donghyuck, where are the mountains?”

“The trees are covering it up. You aren’t able to see the mountains until we get closer to the castle.”

“And when will that be?” Mark asks.

Donghyuck turns and grabs Mark’s wrist, pulling him forward with a jolt. He tugs harder until they’re walking at a faster pace. “Whenever you shut your mouth and start walking, Mark.”

They make their way through the trees and houses, Donghyuck stopping to say hello to old family friends and acquaintances that he sees in passing. Mark wonders if anyone here is able to tell he’s a prince; he’s dressed down significantly, and he doesn’t have anything to identify him as such, but records of Idrean royalty have printed portraits of the family for as long as Mark can remember. Still, though, no one has recognized him so far.

Truth be told, he enjoys being able to walk like he doesn’t have the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. It’s a burden that’s been lifted from him for all of twenty minutes, but he’d give the world to have it stay like this.

They’ve diverged onto a path into the forest now, and Mark isn’t sure he trusts Donghyuck to navigate anymore but isn’t sure how to verbalize that. The path they’re taking is long and narrow, winding through and between trees. Their feet kick up dust with each step, and Mark has a bad feeling that they’re going to be lost very soon.

Donghyuck leads the group from far ahead, his figure small in the distance. He hasn’t looked behind himself to check that he’s still being followed, and the space between them keeps getting longer and longer. 

“Hyuck, can you slow down?” Jeno finally calls from beside Mark. Further ahead, Donghyuck looks behind him with his head cocked and freezes.

“Why are you so behind? Come on, we’re going to get rained on if you don’t walk faster!”

As if to prove a point, Donghyuck ups his pace even further, forcing Mark and Jaemin to break into a little run together with Jeno close behind.

“Rain?” Mark asks breathlessly as they close in on Donghyuck. “There’s rain here?”

“Why are you so surprised?” Jaemin asks with a smile. His chest heaves slightly with each step he takes, and Mark suddenly has the daunting realization that he’s still wearing his chest binder. He grabs Jaemin’s wrist and slows both their paces. 

“There isn’t rain in Idrea,” Mark huffs. “I’ve never seen it before.”

Jaemin glances up at the clouds rolling above them. They’ve darkened in the past few minutes into a dark gray, and Donghyuck shouts for them to hurry.

“Castle’s up ahead, Mark! We won’t get soaked if we run!” 

Mark considers it for a moment. But Jaemin’s chest is bound, and he isn’t going to put him through any exercise while he’s wearing the binder. “Jaemin and I are going to walk. You two go ahead.”

Jaemin glances at him with confusion written on his face, but Mark takes his hand and pulls him forward at a quicker pace, but not a run. Donghyuck looks back at him one last time before running forward. He and Jeno disappear along the curve of the path, the trees hiding them from sight.

“Why don’t we catch up?” Jaemin asks. It’s more of a suggestion than a question, but Mark only shrugs.

“I wanted to walk with you,” he says simply.

Something falls against the guard of his palm. It’s a pinprick, barely noticeable, but he brushes his free hand against his skin anyways and feels water slide against his fingertip. Strange.

The trees rustle slightly, a few of the skinnier ones swaying gently. Their limbs brush against one another, and just as Mark is about to point out the breeze sweeping through the forest floor, more of the pinpricks fall against him; his face, his arms, his collar, all of them covered in the sensation.

Jaemin lets out a laugh, and Mark flushes. “You look so confused,” he says, swinging Mark’s hand as they walk.

Mark lifts his free hand to inspect it. “What is it?!”

“Rain, you idiot,” Jaemin grins. “You’ve really never felt it before?”

“I’ve read of it, but I never dreamt it would feel the way it does,” Mark says. A grin spreads across his face, and he closes his eyes as he walks, feeling the rain drop onto his skin gently. 

“Most don’t like rain, actually,” Jaemin says. He squeezes Mark’s hand as they round a curve in the path. He can see the faint indents of footprints in the dirt and finds a bit of comfort in the fact that they haven’t lost their way yet. “Farmers are thankful for it, but everyone else sees it as a nuisance because it’s hard to work in. Anyway, it’s going to start falling heavier soon if we don’t hurry, and then you won’t like it as much.”

“I won’t?” Mark asks, tilting his head.

“I promise you won’t. So hurry.”

They make it a few more minutes in silence as the rain falls lightly, but suddenly the drops begin to sting, falling faster and harder than before. Mark’s shirt begins to soak through slowly with water as the rain begins to pelt him, and his hair plasters to his forehead wetly.

“Still like it?” Jaemin shouts over the roar of the rain as they break into a faster walk — not a run, Mark doesn’t allow that, but they move more quickly as the downpour begins to fall harder and harder.

“It’s incredible!” Mark lets out a loud laugh and squeezes Jaemin’s hand, water slipping between their palms. 

“Really? I thought that—”

“Hurry!” a voice says in the distance. Mark looks up to see Donghyuck, waving with two figures by his side, one of which Mark doesn’t recognize. A guard from the Kurarian castle, probably, but Mark doesn’t have time to think too deeply about it before he’s jolted forward by Jaemin’s hand. They break into a run, only this time, he isn’t able to stop Jaemin, and the distance between himself and Donghyuck isn’t far enough that it could cause any real damage. 

They run against the rain, passing through trees until they finally stop at the edge of the forest, at the base of a mountain. Mark pays no attention to Jaemin or the other three men in front of him anymore. The biting cold runs a shiver through his bones as he comes to a stop, but he can’t find it in himself to care as he stares up at the mountain.

Before him, the Castle of Kurar towers so tall that Mark feels like he’s a child again. This is a structure taller than his own palace perched on its cliff, more monstrous than the cliffside itself.

Donghyuck pats his back and grins. “Welcome to my home, Mark. Close your mouth.”

The King and Queen have already insisted they stay the night before Mark even sets foot in their court. That’s probably for the best, though, as he’s wet and exhausted and it’s strangely hard to breathe.

Donghyuck shows them to their room — he’s sneakily arranged for there to only be two rooms, one for Mark and Jaemin and the other for himself and Jeno — and they’re adjacent, for easy access. Though they haven’t spoken with the King and Queen yet, they’re still expected to join the Royal Family for dinner later. 

Donghyuck has explained to the family — the King, Azar, the Queen, Ranir, and their four children — that they’re here to look through records in the library, and they’ve since been given clearance to the highest level of security in their archives. 

Mark is tired, though, and that becomes more than evident as he scrubs himself down with the warm towels that guards have brought to his room. Something in him urges him to sink into the towels and sleep for so long that the chill in his bones evaporates into nothing but a memory, but he knows that isn’t right, and reluctantly, he changes out of his clothes.

“Excited for dinner?” Jaemin asks, drying his hair with his own towel.

Mark winces. His arms feel heavy as he folds his towel and sets it on the edge of the bed.  “I feel like I might fall asleep at the table, actually.”

His own voice surprises him; it’s turned gravelly since he last spoke, almost like he’s ill. He can’t afford to be sick during these two days, though; he clears his throat and tries to speak again, but soreness crackles in his throat, and nothing comes out but a raspy squeak.

Jaemin looks up at him, but once he does his eyes widen. “Do you feel okay? You look pale around the mouth.”

Mark frowns. “Tired,” he croaks.

“You were out in the rain for a while. Maybe you’re sick.” Jaemin moves behind him with his own towel and drapes it around Mark’s shoulders. “At least try to warm up before dinner, okay? You don’t have to go if you don’t feel like it. I can bring you back some food and we can go to sleep early.”

Mark says nothing.

“You look sick, Mark,” Jaemin says, his tone bordering on exasperation. “At least let me take care of you for now, even if you end up being healthy in the morning. Please?”

He stays silent, turning to Jaemin and swallowing. Jaemin presses his lips into a frown. “After everything you’ve done for me? Please?” he says again, and Mark sighs, averting his eyes. Jaemin breaks into a grin and leans up to kiss Mark square on the forehead. “Go lie down and get comfortable, I’ll go tell Donghyuck to have your dinner brought here. Does that sound alright?”

Mark hums and nods wordlessly, moving to pull back the bed’s blankets and climb inside. He settles into the mattress with Jaemin’s towel still around his shoulders, blanketing him in warmth. “Thank you,” he says, voice still edged with raspiness.

Jaemin disappears through a door, and Mark’s head sinks impossibly further into his pillow. Faintly, he hears talking behind the walls, but he doesn’t have the energy to listen. 

Mark doesn’t remember falling asleep. All he knows is that one moment he’s falling into softness and warmth, and the next his eyes are slowly blinking open to the dousing of a fireplace and the creak of a door.

Mark swallows. “Jaemin?” he asks quietly. His voice still hurts, so he lowers it to a whisper. “Is that you?”

The room is so dark that it’s hard to make out the figure as it crosses the room, but Mark is fairly sure that it’s Jaemin when the person makes their way to Mark’s side of the bed and leans down to kiss the side of his head. Mark flushes. “...Jaemin?” he whispers.

“Oh, Goddess, I’m so sorry,” Jaemin says, kneeling down beside the bed and grabbing Mark’s hand. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I thought you were asleep.”

“Do you kiss me while I’m asleep?” Mark asks, head fuzzy with sleep and sickness. His throat doesn’t hurt as much to talk through when he’s whispering, so he lets himself talk like this for now. Or, at least until his voice escapes him again. 

Jaemin doesn’t answer him. Instead, he stands and crosses the room to part the curtains over the window. Moonlight spills in, casting itself over the side of the bed where Jaemin proceeds to lie down.

Unsatisfied without any response, Mark pushes on, turning over to face Jaemin in bed. “How was dinner?” he asks.

“It went smoothly. King Azar and Queen Ranir were very kind when I told them you fell ill. That was hours ago, though. I’ve been in the library for some time.”

“You went to the library?” Mark asks, eyes widening. “How was it? Did you find anything?”

Jaemin smiles. His teeth shine in the light, and Mark wants to lean forward to kiss him, but he holds himself back.

“Tell me what you know about our religions.”

“Long ago the Sun and Moon were lovers.” Like us, his mind supplies, but he swallows and shakes the thought from his mind. 

“Go on.”

“They existed for one another and wed, but soon they had a child, the Earth. The Earth was shrouded in darkness, and the Goddesses knew they had to provide for their child, so the Sun brought light in the daytime, and the Moon brought light in the nighttime. This separated them. They split for the good of the Earth, and now they’re fated only to meet a few times a year.”

“And our kingdoms? Why do we hate each other?”

Mark sighs. “Neither of us can agree which civilization started first, and we hate each other for breaking apart the Sun and Moon, right? Because whichever civilization began first was the first one to be given light, which tore the Goddesses from each other.”

“Right,” Jaemin says. He reaches out and takes Mark’s hand with a wide grin. “But what if I told you everything was just like I thought it was, Mark?”

“You thought we were wrong,” Mark reminds him. “Are you telling me everything we’ve built our relations on is wrong?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Jaemin squeezes his hand. “The records we found in the library dated back to the very beginning of the first civilization, right when we established a writing system. Donghyuck found the book and brought it to me to translate. Do you know what it was written in? Vyari runes combined with Idrean runes. Not our common tongue today — ancient language from both of our civilizations.”

“And?”

“They were combined, Mark. We looked into it further and found records that said thousands of years ago there weren’t even factions of kingdoms. We were all one kingdom. One, Mark.”

Mark’s eyes widen. “So we were—”

“We were all the first civilization, Mark. We’re one. Vyar, Idrea, Kurar, all of us, one. There’s not a single reason in those pages as to why we should be fighting.”

“But how— why did we split in the first place if we were one kingdom?” 

“We split to conquer more territory. All of us under one roof, but with different factions. That sort of thing. Over the years it just… got lost in translation, and misunderstandings happened, and now Vyar and Idrea are enemies.” Jaemin squeezes his hand again. “But we don’t have to be.”

His father’s words ring in his ears. It feels wrong to hear them, and he feels sick to his stomach, but he doesn’t know how to rid himself of the feeling. “So it’s over, then,” Mark says. “We find more records of this in Kurar’s library, we bring it to both of our kingdoms, and— and then what?”

“Then our hostility towards each other ends!” Jaemin moves forward to remove his hand from Mark’s, extending it instead to wrap around his waist. Mark burns. “Our marriage doesn’t have to be a political pawn anymore, Mark. We can be—”

You are so, so selfish.

The sickness in your body is a poison to your mind as well. If you loved him properly you would give him a choice. 

“Jaemin,” Mark begins shakily, voice hinging on a crack. “Did you ever write your father back? When he demanded that you return to the Springs?”

Jaemin’s smile falls. “I did,” he says. “I told him the only way I would ever leave Idrea was with my body cold and blue.”

Mark’s heart drops.

“If you really wanted to leave Idrea,” Mark says, sitting up. His back hunches over, and he turns back to look at Jaemin, at the frozen look of near terror that lines his eyes. “If you really wanted to, no one would stop you. They don’t need us for politics now, we can call off the confirmation of the marriage if you don’t want to go through with it. You can leave if you aren’t happy here.”

Jaemin sits up, moving forward quickly to press himself against Mark’s side. “Mark,” he whispers. He repeats it softly, but Mark looks away. Dissatisfied, he drops his head against Mark’s shoulder and leans into him. “Isn’t it obvious that I’m yours, and yours only?”

“Did you think this wasn’t real?” Jaemin asks, his breath pressing against Mark’s bare arm. Mark pauses for a moment, letting out a breath of air he wasn’t sure he had in the first place. He turns his head to face Jaemin now, eyes blown wide with shock. 

“Jaemin…”

Jaemin looks up at him and reaches forward, fingers hooking beneath his chin and his thumb pressing against Mark’s bottom lip. “Mark,” he says, drawing nearer, turning Mark’s head closer. “I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I don’t think I can ever stop, Mark.”

He feels himself burn to ash in that moment. He blinks, reborn, and lets himself breathe new air. “Would you?”

Jaemin presses forward and kisses Mark, his thumb sliding out from between their lips, and for the first time, Mark feels at peace with this. With kissing Jaemin, with his marriage, with himself. “I love you,” Jaemin murmurs against his lips. He pulls away, hand still cupping Mark’s face.  “I love you, I love you, I love you. I loved you when we met, and I will love you when you rise, and when you’re old and gray I will love you when you fall. I don’t know how to make it any clearer to you.”

This is what he imagined love to be. This is what he asked the Moon for.

There are no politics, no arrangements, no ceremonies, no orders, no judgements. There is Mark, and Jaemin, and love, and that’s all. 

Mark reaches forward and wraps his arms around Jaemin,  pressing a light kiss to his nape. “I love you,” he murmurs against the skin. “I love you so much. Thank you.”

Through the window the Moon shines down on him, bright and silvery, and suddenly, Jaemin’s lips press into the arch of his shoulder. It feels like a benediction, like a blessing from the Moon herself. Mark looks up at her and smiles, mouths a thank you to the window before closing his eyes and holding Jaemin tighter.

Jaemin clambers on top of him and poises himself in Mark’s lap; his mouth moves faster than Mark can keep up, but he doesn’t mind at all, hands falling naturally to the small of his back to hold him there. He lets Jaemin kiss the breath from him and take as much as he wants, and when Jaemin tires, they both fall against the mattress with smiles on their faces.

“I love you,” Jaemin says again, the grin in his voice audible.

“I’m going to get you sick,” Mark croaks. His voice breaks with a laugh.

“And I still love you,” Jaemin whispers, pushing himself into Mark to be held. 

Mark wraps his arms around him just as he lifts his head to steal one last kiss. “As many lives as the Moon gives me, I will find you,” he murmurs. “I’ll love you more each time.”

Mark holds him closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I know,” he murmurs. “Sleep, we’ll talk more tomorrow. I love you, too.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Mark says. “I’ve never loved anything more than you.”

Jaemin sighs against him, finally falls silent, and sleeps. Mark follows soon after, the Moon casting itself across their bodies like a canopy as he sinks into Jaemin and sleeps.

“—Alright, but are you sure? I know we discussed it, and I know we’ve been planning this for months, but I want you to be sure, and—” 

“You are so needlessly worried,” Mark says, laughing.  He reaches out and takes the other’s hand, dragging him to the mirror. He makes Jaemin watch as he slips an arm around his waist and pulls him close. “I promise I’m sure, Jaemin. I’ve never been this sure about anything else I’ve ever done.”

Jaemin burns red. “But—”

“Jaemin,” Mark says, turning to the side to kiss the side of Jaemin’s head exasperatedly. “In an hour’s time we’ll be married. Officially this time. You think I’d back out now?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then stop being foolish.” Mark reaches out with his free hand to smooth Jaemin’s hair, which is sticking up in tufts. The clothes Chaeryeong has dressed him in are regal, but his hair… is not.

Jaemin is silent for a while, but after a while, he reaches up to kiss the side of Mark’s mouth and pulls away with a faint, watery smile. “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything,” Mark answers him.

He pulls himself from Mark’s arms and makes his way to the chest of drawers, pulling out one Mark has only ever opened once before. He lifts something from the drawer and returns to Mark.

Jaemin slowly unwraps the clothbound object. When the thin cloth falls away, he holds what’s inside — a beautiful circlet — up to the light. “My mother’s diadem,” he says, gingerly pressing it into Mark’s hands. “It was the only thing left to me before she died. I want you to be the one to put it on.”

Mark’s heart clenches. He takes the diadem with delicate fingers. “Of course,” he tells Jaemin, who closes his eyes and waits.

Mark settles it onto his head, and it fits perfectly, like it was made for Jaemin to wear in the first place. “You look incredible,” Mark says, leaning forward to kiss the top of his head again.

Jaemin flushes, but says nothing. 

“Are you ready?” Mark asks, holding an arm out to him.

“What if—”

“Jaemin,” Mark laughs. “Are you ready?” he asks again.

Jaemin sighs. Takes his arm. “I am.”

The ceremony itself is smaller than the original wedding, Mark notes as he peeks through the door. He recognizes a few people just from the backs of their heads, but the hall isn’t filled with guests the way it was half a year ago.

The door swings open, and Mark loses himself in his own thoughts as he walks Jaemin down the aisle.  

They come to a stop at the altar, and Mark turns his head slightly to survey who’s there. Jaemin’s siblings are there, but King Vya seems to be conveniently absent. Mark fights back a smile.

Jisung is waiting at the edge of the altar, but Mark isn’t sure what for. He doesn’t have time to wonder before his hand is taken by one that definitely doesn’t belong to Jaemin.

“Hello again, my Princes,” the officiant smiles at him, holding one hand from both boys. Mark recognizes him as the same man who married them in the first place. “I hope this year has treated you well.”

Mark smiles as the officiant clears his throat, and then he begins to speak.

“We have gathered on this day in the Palace of the Great Kingdom of Idrea to unite two kingdoms not torn apart by the sky, but united by it. We are here in celebration of the marriage of Prince Ida of the Idran Isle and Prince Aran of the Vyari Springs. If anyone should have a reason that these two persons should not be joined together, do now confess it or forever hold your peace.”

Mark holds his breath. Nothing comes.

“Six months ago to date the Princes were married under the guise of politics, but it is clear today that their love is real and good and strong. What was once a fated betrothal is now a loving, holy union. This is the work of the Goddesses, uniting our two kingdoms.”

Jaemin reaches out with his free hand and takes Mark’s in it, just like last time. Mark has since learned that he isn’t technically allowed to move of his own volition during the ceremony, but he doesn’t mind at all.

“We are here to confirm the marriage. After this point, nothing can break these two apart, not even a divorce of the highest order. They are joined together without escape. Prince Ida of the Idran Isle, do you accept these terms? Will you have this man to be your husband, united under the Goddesses and blessed by their Light? Will you love him, comfort him, honor him, and keep him until death divides you? For your kingdom and country, do you agree to devote your soul to him?”

“I do,” Mark says, squeezing Jaemin’s hand.

“And Prince Aran of the Vyari Springs, do you accept these terms? Will you have this man as your wedded husband, united under the Goddesses and blessed by their Light? Will you love him, comfort him, honor, and keep him until death divides you? Will you live in this kingdom as its citizen and not its guest? Will you rule alongside him in fairness and respect for your subjects? For your kingdom and country, do you agree to devote your soul to him?”

The response comes just as easily as it did the last time. “I do.”

“I will now have the ceremonial rings presented.”

Jisung stands from the side of the altar and approaches them timidly, offering a small cushion with rings sat atop it. The officiant reaches out and slides the rings onto Mark and Jaemin’s fingers. “With the observance of the Goddesses, Idrea, Vyar, and the world, I now pronounce you husbands, man and man, and future Kings.”

The room erupts into applause, and Mark can’t stop himself from leaning forward and kissing Jaemin softly. This isn’t permitted; anything further than holding hands during a wedding ceremony is risque, but Mark doesn’t care anymore. He pulls away with a smile, takes Jaemin’s hand, and lifts it into the air for everyone to see. From the front row, Jeno and Donghyuck and Renjun and Chenle cheer wildly.

Mark’s chest explodes into something warm and familiar. As the guests filter out of the room to move to the banquet hall, Mark notices that his friends stay in their seats, even when they become the only ones left in the room.

“Now that the boring part is over,” Donghyuck says, standing from his seat and getting down on one knee. “Jeno.”

Mark’s hand flies to his mouth. “Donghyuck, do not.”

Jaemin bursts into laughter.

Jeno turns red, grabbing Donghyuck’s collar and pulling him up to his feet. He leans forward and kisses him, then pulls away and shoves a shell-shocked Donghyuck away. “Yes, I will marry you, but only if you propose somewhere other than my best friend’s wedding.”

Donghyuck lets out a long sigh, recovering from his surprise almost immediately. “You are so boring, Lee Jeno. But I’ll do it for you.”

Jeno rolls his eyes and slips his hand into Donghyuck’s, face still flushed red.

“I told you,” Mark says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You said nothing of the sort,” Jeno says. 

Chenle tugs on Jeno’s sleeve. “Can we go eat now?”

Mark almost says yes, but something pricks up against the back of his neck, and he gets the impression that maybe eating in the banquet hall with everyone else isn’t the best idea. “...Let’s eat somewhere away from everyone else today, alright?”

A smile spreads over Donghyuck’s face. “I call eating on your bed and getting crumbs under your pillow!” 

He sprints towards the door before Mark has a chance to retaliate, and just like that, he’s gone, dragging a very confused Jeno along with him. Mark laughs and takes Jaemin’s hand in his, leading him down the aisle and calling for the others to follow him.

They laugh as they walk, making their way down long hallways and up flights of stairs as they retreat to Mark’s room. 

Someone steps out from the columns, and Mark jumps halfway out of his skin before realizing it’s only Yoonoh. “Enjoy the ceremony?” he asks, to which Yoonoh shrugs, pulling him wordlessly from his group. The others stop to wait for him, but their laughter doesn’t even falter.

“Mark,” Yoonoh says, putting a hand on his shoulder. His voice is low, probably so that the others won’t hear, and Mark figures this means he’s in for the reprimanding of a lifetime.

He winces. “Yes?”

Yoonoh doesn’t say anything, not for a long time. He just stares at Mark, eyebrows furrowed, head tilted. Mark reaches out and pokes his shoulder. “You’re thinking awfully hard.”

Yoonoh startles, eyes widening as he trains his focus on Mark again and smiles. “Are you happy?”

Mark pauses, considering for a moment if he is. He glances over at his friends, at Jaemin, doubled over in full-body laughter, and suddenly, it doesn’t even feel like he needs to say the answer out loud. “I am. I’m so happy with him, Yoonoh.”

Yoonoh squeezes his shoulder and then lets his hand fall away, pushing Mark back towards the others. “That’s all I needed to hear. Thanks.”

Mark nods and makes his way back, settling a hand around Jaemin’s waist and pulling him close.

“What was that about?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mark says, and Jaemin turns his face to kiss him softly.

“You are insufferable,” Renjun groans as they pull away, and Mark’s heart fills with a familiar warmth.

Nestled into Jaemin’s side, Mark leads them away, his own words ringing in his ears. He’s happy here in this place he’s created, with Jaemin and his friends and his family. This is his kingdom, these are his people, and everything is finally okay — he’s elated, he’s overjoyed, his heart so warm he can barely take it.

Mark is happy. He is so, so happy.

(He is home.)