Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Doyoung watches Yuta step and slide from across the ballroom, a faint hint of something simmering under his skin. Something like malice or hunger, jealousy or spite—he can never tell the difference these days.

Even from this distance, he can make out the glint of several silver earrings adorning Yuta’s left ear, catching the glaring lights of the chandeliers overhead whenever he turns. His dark hair is teased back, revealing sharp eyebrows that are normally obscured by his wayward fringe. A (ridiculous) dark navy cloak is pinned at his shoulders, almost sweeping the floor as he glides gracefully across it, leading his partner in an elegant waltz.

He looks every bit the royalty that he is, and it makes Doyoung’s heart clench for a few wildly different reasons. He leans back against the wall and clutches his glass of champagne tighter, almost daring it to break under his fingers.

Step, slide. Yuta catches him staring and looks straight to his eyes from several feet away. Doyoung meets his lopsided smirk with a clenched jaw and a challenge in his eyes, but Yuta turns before Doyoung’s glare can reach his end of the room.

His waltz partner then comes into view—a young woman wearing a powder blue ball gown, the skirt swish-swishing across the floor for her every step. She has a delicate face framed by loose dark curls falling down her shoulders and almost to her waist. Doyoung supposes she’s beautiful, if he has to be unbiased about it.

The whole ballroom is mesmerized by the pair of them. Doyoung can see it in how almost every gaze in the room wanders to them every now and then, like planets pulled by the sun. He’s thankful that this at least allows him to stare, too, in this open and shameless way that he can’t pull off any other time. Here in his corner, he’s just another bored aristocrat, eyes drawn to the couple dancing in the middle of the floor—the crown prince and, dare he even think it? His princess.

‘Maybe she’s the one.'

‘The prince certainly looks smitten.'

Hushed conversation reach Doyoung’s ears as his lips curl in equal parts amusement and resentment. Yuta does look like he’s having a good time, but smitten? Doyoung scoffs. That’ll be the day.

The ancient round clock hanging on the mezzanine balcony above sounds a resounding gong, signaling midnight and taking Doyoung’s eyes off of Yuta. When he returns his gaze to the center of the ballroom, he finds the prince missing from his spot just a few seconds ago. Doyoung looks around—there’s a sudden blur of light blue in his vision as someone darts past him and runs toward the great double doors to his right.

“Wait!” 

A frantic shout behind him, then it’s Yuta himself running past Doyoung, following the figure through the doors and into the night beyond.

Doyoung stares after him for a long second, then with a curse under his breath, he turns to follow.

He finds Yuta bent over and leaning against a banister, panting. “How does she… run… so fast,” he gasps in between breaths then looks up at Doyoung. The smile is instantaneous—it breaks through his face like the first ray of sun in the morning.

“What happened?” Doyoung says in a measured tone, not letting his voice betray the erratic beating of his heart that’s probably as fast as Yuta’s, even though he didn’t run.

“She just left,” Yuta explains with a shake of his head. “Got all panicked when the clock struck midnight, I don’t know. She left this, though,” he holds up a dainty glass slipper.

Doyoung looks at it with narrowed eyes. “Is that… glass?”

Yuta shrugs.

“Who the fuck wears glass slippers?”

“Well, her, apparently,” Yuta says matter-of-factly, turning to look at the nearly pitch black grounds beyond the palace. “Anyway,” he says as he turns to face Doyoung again. “How’s the party? Enjoying yourself?”

“Not as much as you were.”

Yuta chuckles, the sound echoing in the cold night air. “Jealous?”

Doyoung levels a stare at him, tries to channel as much mirth in his eyes as he can muster. “Not in the way you’d like me to be.”

“What do you know about what I like?” Yuta challenges, tongue in cheek.

Doyoung rolls his eyes. “I’m going up to my room.” He doesn’t know why he says it. Probably just to elicit something, anything, from Yuta. And he doesn’t disappoint.

“You’re staying the night at the palace?” Yuta asks him, eyes widening slightly.

“I already have the room prepared for me, haven’t I? I can’t very well deny the crown’s hospitality,” Doyoung replies with a sarcastic smile. He turns back to the double doors again, but Yuta, fucking Yuta, always has to have the last word.

“Well, don’t lock your door.”

👑

Doyoung hates staying at the palace, hates staying at the lavish room that has always been his since childhood, knowing that no matter how grandiose it might be, it’s still nothing compared to Yuta’s own in the floor above him. And he hates the sense of desperate yearning that would always burrow under his skin whenever he would walk down these halls, reminding him that no matter how welcome he is here, all these—the palace, the power, and the throne, are not and will never be his.

Yuta enters his room without knocking—he never does, not out of familiarity but out of a deep sense of entitlement; everything in this damn kingdom is his, after all—and Doyoung doesn’t bother to pretend that he was not waiting up. They’re four years past that.

“Your majesty,” he says as Yuta closes the door behind him.

“Fuck off.”

He turns and puts something down on the oak table by the door. Doyoung squints to see what it is—the glass slipper from earlier. “The fuck is that doing in my room?”

Yuta ignores his question, closes the distance between them in quick strides instead and before Doyoung can form his next thought, Yuta’s lips are on his own. Doyoung lets out a quiet sigh—curses himself for doing so—as his hands reach up to tangle with Yuta’s dark mess of infuriatingly soft hair.

There’s something sinister with this kind of pleasure, Doyoung thinks to himself, as they stumble together and Yuta pulls away just enough to run both hands across his chest, and gently push him down to the bed.

Doyoung has always coveted everything about his prince, cursed him with his whole being for no other reason than being the one born with royal blood.

He can’t remember how or why, but somewhere along the way, his lust for the throne started spilling over into the boy destined for it.

👑

His family is the closest to royalty one can be without royal blood, but Doyoung has never been one to settle for ‘close enough’. 

He has always wanted to rule the kingdom, yearned for power like a lovesick little boy. His parents just thought it was cute, and even the King and Queen just cooed at him with delight in their eyes the one time he asked them if he could be the heir to the throne instead. Yuta was the only one who ever saw through him.

It would have been easier, Doyoung thinks now, if Yuta was completely useless. But Doyoung knows him well enough by now to objectively say that he makes a good prince, and that he’ll make an even better king. He’s seen it in him the moment they were both old enough to get invited to council meetings—when the usual mischief would leave his eyes as he listened intently to everything everyone was saying, not daring to miss a word. And later, when he’d go back to smirking and pestering Doyoung, the way he always did since they were little kids running wild through the palace hallways.

He’ll be the kind of king that would be greatly adored by his people, Doyoung thought then with a strange mixture of bitterness and fondness. With Yuta, it’s always a contradiction.

And Doyoung sees it now too, when he bites Yuta’s bottom lip hard enough and he barely even winces, just smiles against Doyoung’s own lips because he knows—knows Doyoung half-means for it to hurt and enjoys it, enjoys the knowledge that Doyoung wants what he has, more than anything in the world, but at the end of the day, Yuta is still untouchable. 

It’s during these moments that Doyoung sees the flip side of the coin—the ruthless ruler that he knows Yuta can be, striking down any other opposing kingdoms that would dare get in his way.

Doyoung throws his head back, baring his throat, then realizes—he no longer just wants what Yuta has. He still believes he’ll make a good king himself as much as Yuta, but together? They’d be unstoppable.

👑

Yuta looks ridiculously beautiful, sprawled out in Doyoung’s bed. His hair’s all fanned out across the pillow, face flushed and breathing ragged. Doyoung feels so off-balance looking at him, but he does so anyway, tracing the lines of Yuta’s face, lingering on his long lashes that touch his cheeks when he closes his eyes.

“Come with me tomorrow,” Yuta says once his breath evens out.

“Where?”

“The villages, I don’t know. I have to look for the girl I danced with earlier.”

Doyoung stills, his fingers pausing on walking a trail down Yuta’s arm.

“Do you like her?” Doyoung asks. Careful.

Yuta shrugs. “She was nice enough.”

“Nice enough to be queen?”

“Probably,” Yuta mutters under his breath.

Stupid royalty and their desire to pass down the royal blood through generations, Doyoung thinks. Stupid, impractical glass slippers.

“You’re really going for nice?”

“Well, it’s an important trait for a queen to have, isn’t it?”

“She wears glass slippers.”

Yuta turns to him, chuckles as he buries his face in Doyoung’s shoulder. “Don’t be bashing her footwear choice, she really could be your queen.”

Doyoung holds his breath. What’s the point of being fucking nobility if he can never get at least one thing out of the short list of things he wants in this world?

“What do you plan to do, then? Visit every maiden in this damn kingdom, see if the shoe fits?” he gestures to the glass slipper still sitting innocuously in his table.

Yuta looks at it then laughs. “Maybe. But I mean, I remember her face, too.”

“I don’t understand why I have to come, though.”

“You’re a trusted advisor of the crown,” Yuta says quietly, one hand reaching up to caress Doyoung’s cheek. Doyoung scoffs and flicks it away.

“My father is your father’s trusted advisor.”

“Well, you’re mine,” Yuta clarifies and it makes Doyoung close his eyes as he wills himself not to commit the words to memory, taken out of context. Even though it is true. Everything in this godforsaken kingdom is Yuta’s, after all.

“I just…” Yuta trails off. “I just want you to come with me.”

“For what?” Doyoung stares hard at him. “So I can fist bump you once you finally find the woman you’re going to marry?”

“No,” Yuta says with a faint sigh. “To tell me if I’m making the right decision.”

He looks at him, really looks at him then. Doyoung wants to hate him so desperately, so he can cling to that animosity, like he has done all those years ago, instead of this… this flipping flutter in his chest.

“And if I tell you no?”

"No?"

"If I tell you that it's not the right decision?" Doyoung clarifies.

“Would you?”

Doyoung runs a hand down his face, releasing a frustrated groan. “Don’t answer me with another question!”

“Would you, though?” Yuta persists.

Doyoung sighs. “You know I would.”

“Okay, then.” Yuta nods.

Doyoung stares at him, but doesn’t push it. For now, maybe that’s enough.

Chapter Text

The High Council is composed of seven men in varying degrees of graying facial hair—faces that Doyoung wouldn’t be able to tell apart if it wasn’t for the fact that he practically spent his whole childhood looking up at them.

Now he’s old enough to be able to stare at each of them in the eye, but still he stands with his back rigid, eyes trained at the far end of the room, trying to ignore the raised eyebrows and curling lips thrown in his direction.

These men don’t have any power, he reminds himself. Not enough to hold weight, anyway. Individually, they each represent the seven provinces of the kingdom. Collectively, they serve to advise the King in making decisions and be a pain in Doyoung’s ass.

Despite everything, being in their presence always makes Doyoung feel like he’s still a child, desperate to prove himself as everyone around him decides that he will never measure up. He swallows the thought bitterly, fists clenching at his sides. 

But then a gentle hand is suddenly on his shoulder, and Doyoung instinctively relaxes at the touch.

“Your Majesty,” the men in the room declare together as they bow. 

Doyoung turns his head and sees Yuta, lips pulled up in one corner, the thin vertical cut along his raised brow seeming to taunt Doyoung.

“What did I miss?” Yuta whispers as he sits down on the King’s throne, the words still loud enough to echo across the chamber. 

Doyoung rolls his eyes as he takes the seat to his right, the Royal Advisor’s — his father’s — place at the table. Yuta damn well knows the meeting cannot start without him. Just a lot of barely contained huffs and side-eyes, he thinks to himself. That’s all.

“Alright,” Yuta says with a commanding tone once he’s settled, his palm sliding across Doyoung’s thigh under the table at the same time.

Doyoung inhales sharply but doesn't dare turn his head.

“As you know, my dear father and the Duke have decided to extend their stay at Ellmere, so for the next two weeks, I will be presiding over these council meetings.”

“Pardon me, Your Highness, but what is the boy doing here?” one of the council members interrupts, inclining his head at Doyoung’s seat.

Doyoung clenches his jaw.

“What do you mean, Minister Han? Doyoung has been joining these meetings since we turned eighteen,” Yuta replies diplomatically, while his thumb is rubbing a lazy circle just above Doyoung’s knee. 

“But that was when his father was present in these meetings. I don’t see why he should be here now just on account of his father’s position when he himself has no official place in the court.”

Doyoung scoffs, and Yuta’s fingers stop their movement as everyone turns to look at him. 

“Say, Minister,” Doyoung quips, the words sounding steady despite his accelerating heartbeat. “It seems like you’re questioning the very principle of the monarchy.”

From his peripheral view, Doyoung gets a glimpse of Yuta’s amused stare but he keeps his eyes straight ahead.

“That’s different—” Minister Han starts to say, and Doyoung knows it is, god knows he’s reminded of the fact every day, but the words irk him and his patience has run out, so he’s deciding to be difficult today. 

He tilts his head innocently, “What? Hereditary succession?”

Minister Han opens his mouth to reply, but Yuta clears his throat and puts his hands up, interrupting him. The sudden absence of his touch makes Doyoung’s head spin for a moment. Goddamn it, Yuta.

“That’s enough,” Yuta says lightly. “Minister, if I may be a bit informal, Doyoung is my best friend and I want him by my side,” he says casually.

Doyoung purses his lips. I’m not your best friend, he wants to say, but the words get caught in his tongue as Yuta turns to look at him briefly before addressing the room again.

“Besides, he’s got a point. I think you’re forgetting sometimes, just because we let you have this little taste of democracy,” he continues with a smirk, just enough bite in his words that makes the old minister blush to the tips of his ears. Doyoung resists the urge to snort.

“Asshole,” he mutters under his breath to Yuta.

Yuta faces him with a devilish grin. “Your asshole.”

“It is, tonight,” he whispers back because he’s a little shit. Yuta chokes out a laugh that raises concerned looks from the men in the room.

“Any other concerns before we move on?” Yuta says after a beat, immediately composing himself.

“As a matter of fact, I do, Your Majesty,” one of the other ministers speaks up from the far end of the table. “I understand that Sir Doyoung is your, uh, best friend, but if I may be so blunt, I don’t like how you are when you are with him.”

“Goodness,” Yuta sighs out as Doyoung can’t help but roll his eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re not my father, then, isn’t it, Minister Yoon?”

Minister Yoon presses his lips together, his eyes screaming disapproval. 

Yuta smiles, then waves a nonchalant hand. “I merely jest,” he says, a subtle mocking undertone in his words that only Doyoung can detect. “I apologize if my behavior offends you. It seems like Doyoung does have the tendency to lead me astray,” Yuta continues, turning to Doyoung with a smirk as his wayward hand finds its way to his thigh again.

“More like corrupt you,” someone murmurs but it’s immediately covered up with a cough.

Doyoung’s lips curl in annoyance. “Trust me, Minister,” he starts to say as he places his own hand on Yuta’s thigh, fingertips trailing higher and higher than Yuta himself dares. “When I’m corrupting your prince, you’ll know.” 

Yuta’s breath hitches as he turns to him with dark eyes. Doyoung just smiles.

If anyone else in the room notices, no one dares say a thing.

👑

“Does it bother you?” Yuta asks him in between kisses. Doyoung lets out a distracted ‘mhmm’, busy fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. “Minister Han?” Yuta tries again and Doyoung groans, this time out of annoyance.

“Why the fuck are you talking about him right now?” he exclaims as he pulls away, glaring at Yuta.

Yuta rolls his eyes then leans forward, hooking a finger under Doyoung’s chin to draw him closer. “I was just making conversation,” he murmurs against Doyoung lips.

Doyoung backs away again.

“Fuck, Doyoung—”

“Does this look like a time for conversation to you?” he huffs.

“You tell me! You’re the one still talking,” Yuta grunts back.

Doyoung scoffs. “You started it!” He flops down on the bed, much too annoyed now, while Yuta leans back on his headboard with crossed arms. He’s quite a vision as usual—even with his dark hair that’s sticking up every which way and his swollen lips and the beginnings of a bruise on his exposed collarbone. Doyoung gulps and turns his gaze to the high ceiling instead.

For a moment, Doyoung gets distracted by the grand chandelier hanging above him and the ornate swirling gold patterns surrounding it. Then Yuta clears his throat, breaking the silence that has settled between them.

“I’m just—” he starts, and Doyoung props himself by one elbow to look at him more clearly.

“I’m just worried,” Yuta murmurs so quietly that Doyoung has to scoot closer to hear him.

“What?”

“I’m worried, okay? I don’t want them getting to your head,” he says, louder this time and with a hint of annoyance in his tone. But Doyoung knows him - frustratingly so - and he knows that despite the tone, Yuta’s being genuine. Which is exactly what makes him sit back up and roll his eyes.

“You don’t need to. I can fight my own battles,” he says dismissively.

“You sound offended.”

He fixes Yuta with a hard stare. “Damn right I am. You think I’m so weak that I can’t handle lazy, underhanded remarks from those fools?”

Yuta breathes out a deep sigh. “I didn’t say that.”

“You said you’re worried.”

“Because I am.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be if you thought I’m strong enough.”

“I’m not trying to—” Yuta stops midway, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He’s starting to get mad now, Doyoung can tell. Which is good. That’s more familiar territory for him. Not this—whatever this is that has Yuta looking at him like he wants to say something but he can’t, like he’s biting his tongue to crush the words down.

They never had to hold back from saying anything to each other before.

“I’m not trying to fight your battles for you,” Yuta finally continues, arms still raised and hands clasped together behind him.

Doyoung clenches his jaw.

His mind takes him back to his coming of age ceremony in the palace when he was eighteen, kneeling down at the grand ballroom floors along with the other children of the kingdom, swearing fealty to the crown and the King who wears it.

He remembers looking up then, and meeting Yuta’s eyes from across the room, hundreds of bowed heads in between them.

Yuta, who never had to be down on his knees for anyone until Doyoung.

Yuta, who has always been a dais higher, who has always had everything Doyoung yearned to gain, who was everything Doyoung had come to fear losing.

Doyoung leans forward and kisses him now, trying to ignore the pinprick on his chest that’s slowly digging its way into a deeper cut. Yuta meets him halfway, hands untangling behind him and twisting around Doyoung’s waist instead.

“Good,” Doyoung says when he pulls back just enough to stare at him, breath ghosting against Yuta’s lips. It curves into a smile—not a smirk, not a half-meant curl at the corner that Doyoung has gotten too familiar with.

For the first time that he could remember, it’s just a smile. Doyoung doesn’t like it one bit.

“I’m not trying to fight them for you,” Yuta repeats, and Doyoung sighs because he thought they were done with this conversation. “I’m just saying,” Yuta continues, pressing his forehead against Doyoung, one hand coming up to rest on the back of his head. “I don’t know… maybe I can just be right there with you in the battlefield, holding your hand as you fight.”

Doyoung lets out a surprised chuckle, despite everything. He leans back, catching his breath that he didn’t notice had slipped away from him in that moment.

“That would be too impractical,” he says simply.

Yuta just shrugs. “Maybe, but not for the two of us.”

Maybe it’s telling—that Yuta’s eyes were the first thing he saw when he looked up that day of the ceremony. Doyoung remembers only half-listening to the oath being read by his own father then, his thoughts straying instead to a daydream where he’s on the other side of the room, standing behind the throne and not in front of it. 

When he raised his head, all he could really think of was ‘you’re going to be mine someday,’ looking straight at the throne but meeting Yuta’s gaze instead.

Maybe that was the real oath he swore that day.

Silly him, to think he could ever have both, when holding on to one is a battle on its own. 

But maybe—

He takes a deep breath and meets Yuta's questioning stare. Doyoung lets himself smile, just a little.

Maybe it’s really not as impractical as he thought. Not for the two of them.