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As heir to the throne, Hyunjin’s world is vast.
It’s largest in the castle’s map room, discussing alliances and trade routes with his father and their advisors. It shrinks when studying the condition of their own cities and villages, and the laws within their borders. His world grows smaller still during family dinners, but at banquets in the great hall, it once again expands to encompass the lands of nobility and foreign ambassadors.
One of Hyunjin’s many worlds- one of the odds and ends of them- is the theater in the eastern quarter of the capital.
Since he was a child, Hyunjin had loved it there. Watching from above, in the box reserved for the royal family, he felt the way his ever-shifting world would shrink, brimming with the sounds and colors and movements splashing across the stage before him. The performers planted seeds of a story and watered them, until they bloomed into their finale. Mesmerized by these worlds- becoming his worlds as he witnessed them unfurl- Hyunjin would bloom and wilt along with them.
Though his parents since ceased to regularly attend shows, Hyunjin finds himself returning often to the dark gallery, sitting beyond the glow of the stage’s torches and gas lamps, studying the flickering figures carved along the proscenium arch until the opening notes ring out and he is spellbound once more.
For those few hours at a time, Hyunjin loses himself to the spinning threads of tales. Several guards accompany him, some posted beyond the heavy door and others shadowing him in the back corners of the box. Their protection gives Hyunjin this fleeting luxury, the chance to suck in the intoxicating theater air and let all else feather at the edges, until it dissolves and only the performance remains.
***
It happens in the early breaths of spring, when the world is beginning to thaw but has yet to swaddle itself in proper warmth. It happens in this theater, where the prince often loses himself, and where the new season’s sunlight, weak as it is, cannot reach. More specifically, it happens a dozen feet above the stage, above the rest of the audience, in the very royal gallery which had for so long opened gates to Hyunjin’s worlds, yet itself was only a perch from which to witness them.
Until this day.
In the shadows of this gilt balcony, Hyunjin’s world unexpectedly shrinks once more.
Many performances focus on an art form itself- dances with silks and sweet serenades. During these, Hyunjin sinks into the velvet cushions of his high-backed chair, eyes sharp but body relaxed, letting the beauty of it wash over him. But sometimes, this time, he leans precariously forward, a white-knuckled grip on his armrests as the pivotal moments of the play unfold. When the leading character delivers his climatic line, Hyunjin can’t help but emit a small, choked cry, his hands flying to just above his heart in near-distress.
But the next lines are stifled by urgent footsteps on carpet, his view blocked by a dark figure- which swiftly kneels before him.
“Your Highness, can you hear me?”
The voice is pressing, but low. Fingers pry Hyunjin’s own away from his body, and expertly sweep over the area, feeling for something.
It takes Hyunjin a moment to pull out of his daze and realize that his guard is checking for a wound. He’s thankful for the darkness to hide his flush. It deepens as the guard loosens the ties of his blouse and begins to feel along his bare skin underneath.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
If he lost his princely demeanor in his reaction to the play, at least he still knows how to maintain an even tone, unaffected by inappropriate emotions like the embarrassment gnawing at his stomach. When the guard shifts his scrutinizing gaze from Hyunjin’s chest to his face, Hyunjin is grateful for his ability to keep his expression neutral as well.
“I was perhaps a bit too...absorbed in the scene,” he offers. “Thank you for your swift and astute service…?”
“Changbin, Your Highness.” The man bows his head.
In the residual light from the stage alone, Hyunjin hadn’t been able to see much of his face, but what he had seen had been sturdy, handsome. Staring now at the faint halo on his brown hair, he longs for the guard- this Changbin- to look back up. To give him another glimpse of the angles of his features, to let Hyunjin map it with his gaze. To meet Hyunjin’s eyes with the same acuity he’d had in his study of Hyunjin’s...body.
As his shallow breaths even out, Hyunjin’s world wanes from the theater- spanning the hand painted scenery to rear entryways, from intricate, soaring ceilings to carpeted floor- down to that box, to the taut rope between himself and the man before him. It’s a small world, a new world, yet it’s bursting at the seams.
However, as is the nature of Hyunjin’s worlds, it waxes once more.
Within the theater, within that gallery, it’s confined to the shadows of the space, bound no longer by the magic of the stage, but by thoughts of the young guard sharing in proximity, if little else. Outside its walls, his world expands ten times, a hundred times. The box is left behind, a speck of dust in the corner of his mind, and Hyunjin accepts this, is grateful for it even. After all, it is the very reason he can allow himself to be absorbed in his small-world moments.
But in the confines of that gallery, floating above rivers of chiming percussion and dreamy woodwind melodies, he begins to want more.
He trusts Changbin, that’s what he tells himself. He also tells himself that the greatest threat would be beyond the gallery door, the box itself being too oddly distant and angled for an attack from within the room. In which case, the guards should be posted in the hall, with perhaps...one guard to remain at the prince’s side, as a necessary precaution.
At his next visit, he informs his entourage of the change.
Changbin remains behind him for the duration of the performance, but Hyunjin revels in the thrill of their solitude. That he’s now in his own world of shadows and secrets, suspended above earth and time with not a soul but him.
At the third instance of the new arrangement, Hyunjin orders him further forward. He arranges a chair for Changbin, who declines. He can sense his world growing smaller, closer- as close as the man beside him- relinquishing the box’s empty spaces to cocoon just the two of them.
The next performance, he commands Changbin to sit. He becomes more engrossed in Changbin’s expressions than the shows themselves, watching for a furrow in his brow or the slight quirk of a lip. Most often, Changbin seems only superficially aware of the performance. Tasked with protecting the prince, he spends his time surveying the room.
Yet Hyunjin could swear that the air between the two of them crackles within that box. Hyunjin studies Changbin, and Changbin studies their surroundings for Hyunjin’s sake.
For Hyunjin’s sake.
Outside this box, Hyunjin will admit it means nothing, or that it means nothing for him, and means only something for the security of the country. He’ll admit that it means no more than the other hundreds of royal guards.
Inside this box, he lets it mean something.
Changbin is here, for Hyunjin’s sake.
It’s enough for a while.
Until it isn’t.
Until Hyunjin realizes that in the deep shadows of this small world, he can want more.
Until he realizes he can have more.
Until his hand tentatively wanders beside him, fingernails dragging over Changbin's knee and fingers splaying across his thigh.
He can see Changbin's head snap towards him, can hear the sharp intake of breath. He meets the guard’s questioning gaze with an unspoken question of his own.
When Changbin swallows and turns back to the performance, it is answer enough for Hyunjin. His hand continues to explore Changbin's thigh- the muscles, the warmth, the creases where the fabric is pulled taut, and the inner seam where his rings catch just the slightest bit. Changbin doesn't stop him, until Hyunjin's palm drifts slightly too far, and his hand shoots out to grab Hyunjin's wrist. Hyunjin's heart leaps to his throat, and he remembers what Changbin is capable of.
For Hyunjin’s sake.
His heart doesn't stop thudding until after the play.
The following performance, he familiarizes himself with the coarse texture of Changbin's hair at the nape of his neck, and the way it's silkier at the crown of his head. Another time, he maps the outlines and ridges of Changbin's ear, the lobe and the shell of it, and he imagines whispering things- dirty things- into it, so close he can feel the warmth of his own breath reflect back onto his lips. In another case, he is bold enough to draw one of Changbin's hands into his lap, ghosting the pad of his thumb over each knuckle, committing the webs of creases and tendons to memory by touch alone.
Changbin, for his part, seems to ignore him. Hyunjin becomes intimately familiar with his profile, but can count the number of times he’s seen Changbin’s face properly. He has to remind himself that it’s…for his own sake.
But...he wants more.
***
The weather turns cold again, autumn snapping at the heels of summer. During a rainy spell, one troupe’s travels are delayed, and the theater sits quiet for a few lonely weeks. Hyunjin doesn’t allow himself to miss it, doesn’t allow his small world to exist even in his head while he must dwell in his larger ones.
When he returns, however, it’s like an inhale of the crisp, changing air, filling his lungs with a remedy he hadn’t known he needed.
Before he can unclasp his cloak, a pair of hands encircles him, opens it, and slides the heavy fabric off his shoulders, taking care not to touch him.
For all of Hyunjin’s explorations, Changbin has not touched him once since checking for a wound. Hyunjin finds in that moment, the weight of his cape is replaced with the unmistakable weight of desire. He burns for it, for Changbin’s touch, yearns for its warmth through his clothes and inside him, simmering from his core to his fingertips like molten gold.
Hyunjin forces it down with swallows of cool air.
Halfway through the performance, eyes and thoughts pinned helplessly to the man beside him, Hyunjin caves. His heartbeat stutters as he reaches over, two long fingers hooking gingerly under Changbin’s chin. He turns his face toward him until their eyes meet.
Changbin averts his gaze immediately. With a gentle nudge beneath the chin, Hyunjin tilts the guard’s head up, but his eyes remain deferentially lowered.
“Changbin,” the prince whispers.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Changbin responds.
Hyunjin watches the shallow rises of his chest, the slight flare of his nostrils. The muscles tense in his extended neck.
“Look at me.” A command.
Changbin raises his eyes to meet the prince’s. Hyunjin falls into the pools of obsidian, feels Changbin’s gaze steal the air from his lungs and lock it away, along with his desire to ever look elsewhere again.
Moments or minutes pass, Hyunjin cannot be sure, before he tears his eyes away to skim across the rest of Changbin’s face. He takes in the strong, set brows, the firm chin. The crests of his upper lip and the plush petal of his lower one.
What would it be like to feel those lips against his own?
Hyunjin’s gaze drifts slightly over, to a scratch reaching just beyond the right corner of his mouth down to his jaw. It had been on the side of Changbin’s face that was hidden from him.
How long had it been there?
Hyunjin skims a fingertip along it.
“Does it hurt?” he whispers.
“No, Your Highness,” Changbin breathes. It’s a rush of air, as though he’d been holding it all until that point.
Hyunjin wants to hear more, not just whispers, but his voice.
For a moment, he imagines the impossible: Changbin saying Hyunjin’s own name. Not Your Highness, not My Prince.
Hyunjin.
The faint tendrils of Changbin’s voice that he can remember curl around the name in his mind. It’s a nectar, low and alluring. A murmur in his ear, a call enticing him from across the room, a moan hovering between the canopy of Hyunjin’s bed and his own bare body upon it.
He notices his fingertip has not stopped moving along the thin wound.
Trace up.
Dangerously close to the corner of Changbin’s lips. He could touch them, tease them at the seam until he opens his mouth and Hyunjin can slip his finger past…
Trail down.
He can continue down, down to Changbin’s throat and linger there, wait to feel the swell of a swallow and wonder if he’s caused the guard’s thoughts to drift to unspoken territory, into the same small world as his own.
Trace up.
Trail down.
Hyunjin leans in, until his nose nearly brushes Changbin’s cheek. Chorus notes seep in from the background, a dozen voices humming in melded harmonies. Approaching their crescendo, the volume and reverberations off the high, domed ceiling nearly drown out Changbin’s weak protest.
Hyunjin touches his lips to the scar, hovering for the briefest moment before pressing further. His right hand drifts up to tangle in Changbin’s hair, at the back of his head where it’s neither coarsest nor softest, but where it gives him the perfect grip to keep the guard from pulling away out of his sense of responsibility.
The slightest crease, where the healing scratch lies, draws a puckered line into the kiss. The barest hint of stubble prickles at Hyunjin’s mouth, and he resists the urge to part his lips, drag them slightly along the plane of Changbin’s jowl so they can etch themselves into his memory, so that he can feel the warmth of Changbin’s skin along the inside of his lower lip.
Instead of this, he draws back, and bides his time.
***
It doesn’t take long until Hyunjin is again seduced by the promising, dark seclusion of the gallery, and the fierce presence beside him. This time he guides Changbin toward him with a palm on his jaw and certainty in his grasp.
"Can I?" he whispers into the shadowy centimeters between them. It isn’t the sort of question a prince should ask, and yet Hyunjin feels compelled to do so, to let Changbin kindle the flame with reciprocated desire.
"Your Highness, I…”
Say yes.
“I cannot recommend it in good conscience," the guard answers. His breaths stutter as the prince traces along his cheekbone, draws patterns across the side of his face.
"You don't need to recommend it, you..." Hyunjin tilts in further, until their warm breaths mingle, "you just need to want it."
"The…Prince's will is my will."
Hyunjin retracts slightly, meeting the guard’s half-lidded gaze in a silent plea. "And your will apart from mine?"
Changbin's eyes flicker down to Hyunjin's lips.
Hyunjin closes the space between them.
Changbin’s lips are softer than Hyunjin had imagined, full but firm as he matches Hyunjin’s insistent rhythm. Hyunjin threads a hand through his hair like the first time. He angles his head and presses them harder together, pulling Changbin deeper into the kiss. He removes his other hand from Changbin’s jaw, coasting it down his front, over his lap to the hand that’s gripping the edge of his seat. Hyunjin pries it away.
“You can touch me, Changbin,” he murmurs against his lips.
A low, guttural sound escapes from Changbin, and he startles back at his own response. Hyunjin’s hand still cradles the back of his head, connecting them. Hyunjin rubs a reassuring circle into Changbin’s hand and places it on his waist. Once there, Changbin’s hold tightens. His hand fits as though it belongs there, and as Hyunjin crashes their lips together once more, barriers of hesitation slipping away one by one, he wants to believe it does, at least in this little world.
Hyunjin blindly finds Changbin’s other hand, realizing that despite the explicit permission, he would not touch the prince further without guidance. He lays the warm palm on the side of his neck, and, like the one at Hyunjin’s waist, it settles there immediately, capturing the cadence of their joined movements.
Hyunjin doesn’t realize how sensitive the spot is until Changbin’s thumb strokes along the column of his neck and he hears himself whimper into Changbin’s mouth. Changbin swallows the sound and kisses him deeper.
***
If one were to inquire after the shows at the theater, Hyunjin could not name a single one. For weeks, months, he attends for little more than the privacy of the royal box and the company within.
It’s just kissing for a while, until Hyunjin can no longer handle even the small distance that lingers between them then.
Hyunjin wants, he needs, more.
As the heavy door thuds shut behind them one evening, dull but forceful like the erratic drumming in his chest, Hyunjin tugs Changbin away from their usual seats to an armless chair in the corner. He presses him into the plush velvet, straddles him. Melds their mouths together in the rolling currents of their familiar give-and-take, before even removing his cloak or gloves.
Changbin’s hands brush over his collarbones, curve along his shoulders until the warmth of the cape falls away, replaced by the heat rising to his skin from inside out.
Hyunjin draws back just enough to slip a gloved index finger between their lips, crooking over Changbin’s slight pout until he dips forward to snag the tip with his teeth. Their noses still brush; Changbin’s hot breath coasts over the beads of sweat gathered on Hyunjin’s upper lip.
Hyunjin doesn’t know where the glove ends up once his hand is free. Nor does he care, his bare skin sparking against Changbin’s like flint and steel.
They’re tight against each other in the small chair, and Hyunjin savors it, the feeling of every movement beneath him, all of Changbin’s soft and hard.
He needs Changbin’s pulse to thrum into his own body, Changbin’s heartbeat to pump his own blood. He needs Changbin’s groans to rumble in his voice box and wear away at his own aching throat. He needs to feel Changbin’s chest heave between them, needs his expanding lungs to breathe oxygen into Hyunjin’s own.
He needs all of him.
And he needs to know that everything Changbin gives, and everything Hyunjin receives, is because Hyunjin has unraveled him, because Changbin wants him, needs him, too.
***
Hyunjin’s world in these hours, stolen between the cosmos of his obligation, is the shape and size of the two of them, no more, no less. It’s bound by a skin-tight sheath of passion and framed by the illusory night and mercurial music of an unsuspecting hall.
Gilded and engraved beneath the prince’s skin, like the theater’s own interior, this stolen world is Hyunjin’s smallest, yet somehow the most expansive of them all.