Chapter Text
Beomgyu and Soobin’s relationship begins with a rose.
More specifically, it begins with the tall, ivy-covered hedges that make up the palace gardens, and the polished stepping stones that Beomgyu smears with muddy footprints as he dashes through the overgrown labyrinth. Warm summer wind tousles his hair and snatches the laughter from his mouth, fresh with honeysuckle and lavender. It’s a beautiful day, one that saps all of the fear out of being chased, leaving only pure adrenaline behind.
Beomgyu knows he’s safe, anyways; behind him, the sound of footsteps grows ever distant, meaning that the gardener is running out of steam. Even when furious, he’s getting on in years, and no match for a spry eleven year-old prince.
To be fair, said eleven year-old prince hadn’t meant to trample anyone’s beloved marigolds. It just so happened that, sitting obliviously amongst the bursts of blazing petals, was the most perfect little frog he’d ever seen, and Beomgyu has never been known for doing things the rational way. As one last angry shout fades into the background, and he cracks his cupped hands open to see two beady black eyes staring back at him, it all feels perfectly worth it. Maybe this time he’ll actually convince his mother to let him keep it.
Sadly, before he even has time to come up with a name for his new pet, two gloved hands seize his shoulders from behind. Beomgyu scowls, clutching his frog to his chest as he’s steered around and promptly marched back in the other direction.
“I was already on my way out.”
“Apologies, Your Highness,” comes the brisk voice of a caretaker. “Your mother sent for you.”
“I can walk by myself,” Beomgyu grumbles. Still, he doesn’t fight it; after countless disputes with every last royal attendant and scullery maid, they’ve all learned to be as agreeable as possible. Avoiding the queen’s wrath overrules any past grudges over spoiled dinners or shattered vases.
The journey out of the gardens is always Beomgyu’s least favorite part—watching all the unkempt willow trees and sprawling snapdragons straighten out into iron fences and pristine roses. All traces of magic seem to melt away the closer he gets to the palace. The final courtyard, serving as the gateway between freedom and responsibility, is the worst of all, with its perfectly trimmed shrubbery and marble busts that frown down at him as he passes by.
Standing underneath one of these busts is his mother, ethereal as always, speaking with two strangers. Whoever they are, they must be important—she’s in her best afternoon dress, decorating the grass with swaths of blue and yellow. Beomgyu squints at the pair; unlike the usual nobles and town officials that come for tea, they’re exceptionally well-dressed, clad in royal blue waistcoats and tall, buckled boots. Stitched on the back of these waistcoats is what looks to be some kind of seashell, embellished with golden embroidery. Beomgyu’s eyes widen. It’s a crest he’s never seen before. Could they be from across the sea?
One of them is distinctly older, middle-aged with a neatly trimmed beard and fingers laden with rings. He’s doing most of the talking, giving a booming laugh at something Beomgyu’s mother says and clapping her on the shoulder as if they’ve been friends for years. As strange as that is, Beomgyu’s attention quickly strays from the man to the younger boy—his son, most likely. He’s tall, already well past his father’s shoulder, but soft, round cheeks and plump lips give his face a babyish look. Dark hair ruffles in the breeze as he looks over, meeting Beomgyu’s gaze.
Beomgyu freezes. Suddenly, he’s all too conscious of the mud on his shoes and the grass stains on his trousers—the way his own waistcoat is unbuttoned and his shirt only half-tucked in.
His mother’s voice spares him from the boy’s searching eyes. “Oh, Beomgyu, there you are. I was wondering where you’d—” Her voice pinches off at the end, something strained entering it as her eyes sweep his appearance. “What have you been doing, love?”
“Playing,” Beomgyu mumbles, hot embarrassment washing out the enthusiasm. He gets the impression that whatever conversation he’s stumbled upon is far from prime time to propose a pet frog, so he crouches down and opens his hands, watching mournfully as his friend hops away. The man lets out a surprised chuckle, and the boy’s eyes curiously follow the creature’s journey to safety in a nearby hedge.
Seeming to think better of reprimanding him, his mother merely smiles, dismissing the escort and holding out a hand. “Well, come join us. There are some special guests I’d like you to meet.”
Rising to his feet, Beomgyu is sure to keep his chin up and his shoulders straight as he marches across the courtyard to plant himself at his mother’s side. She squeezes his hand reassuringly; even covered in dirt, he can still manage to be proper.
“This is King Choi,” she introduces the bejeweled man with a nod. “Our neighbor and friend.”
Neighbor. So they aren’t from across the sea, then. How disappointing. Beomgyu’s face screws up in confusion as he studies the stranger. “King Choi? But that’s Father.”
It’s impolite and he knows it. His mother’s comforting grip becomes a sharp squeeze of reproof. But the man just lets out another low laugh, giving a sweeping bow. “Our surnames aren’t the only thing we have in common. Your father and I have a long history.”
“He rules the kingdom of Ora,” his mother supplies quickly, as if worried Beomgyu will say more. “On the coast.”
Beomgyu has heard of Ora, in official letters read to his father by messengers or whispered exchanges between his parents not meant for his ears. He knows it’s the second largest city in the land, built on the edge of the Great Sea, and the reason they get fresh fish for dinner twice a month. But otherwise, the kingdom is a mystery to him. He isn’t even sure of how far away it is.
“Three days’ travel by carriage,” Choi declares with a grin, seeming to read his mind. “Though we would have journeyed leagues farther to meet you, Your Highness. I haven’t set foot in Mella since before you were born. A visit has been long overdue.” He turns to the boy, who has been shyly rolling a pebble underneath the sole of his boot for most of the conversation. “Come on, now. Your turn.”
Tentatively, the boy steps forward. This time, he doesn’t make eye contact, staring at the ground instead.
“This is Prince Soobin,” Beomgyu’s mother says. She puts special emphasis on the next two words, the way she does when she’s trying to drill something important into his head. “Your promised.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Soobin mumbles. Still avoiding eye contact, he produces a scarlet-petaled rose from behind his back and thrusts it straight outward like a weapon.
Beomgyu doesn’t know what his “promised” is supposed to be, but so far, he’s not very impressed. His eyes flit to his mother for help.
“Go on. Take it.”
Being careful not to prick himself, Beomgyu reaches out to disentangle the flower from Soobin’s hands. They’re much bigger than his own, and littered with scars; he must have gotten scratched while retrieving it. Beomgyu’s nose scrunches. Weird. Everyone knows to be careful when picking roses.
Having successfully accepted the gift, he looks to his mother for further instruction. She inclines her head towards Soobin, expecting a “thank you.”
Beomgyu does not say “thank you.” Instead, he tucks the rose into his pocket and stares at the boy (who seems very intent on not staring back). Then, after a moment, he speaks. “Your hair looks stupid.”
This finally gets Soobin to look up, his eyes wide with surprise. Beomgyu grins.
“Beomgyu—”
But he’s gone, tearing away from his mother’s shrill voice, across the dismal courtyard, and back into the welcoming arms of the gardens. Sun-dappled wind rushes past his ears, deafening him from any frantic apologies his mother may be giving the king, and he can’t help but laugh again. Throwing one last glance over his shoulder, he spots Soobin staring after him, his clumsy hands still frozen in the air.
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
That’s the last they see of each other for some time. The Chois’ visit lasts only a day—most of which Beomgyu spends hiding from his inevitable punishment. Even the garden itself seems to scold him, sending no more frogs nor opportunities to annoy the gardener his way. When he finally trudges back to the palace, defeated, it’s well past supper time. Moonlight illuminates the stone steps as he hurries inside.
They’d eaten without him. Beomgyu creeps into the dining room only to find maids clearing off the last of dinner, scraping chicken bones and leftover grapes into waste baskets. His meal, they inform him, is waiting on his bedside table.
As Beomgyu slinks down the dark hall towards his bedroom, his limbs feel heavy and his stomach tight. His earlier mischief doesn’t seem so funny anymore. He may not know what was so important about this visit, but there clearly was something special about it. After all, his mother hasn’t called any of his other playmates his “promised” — not that he’s had many.
His legs slow of their own volition as he approaches his parents’ quarters. The door is ajar and, timidly, he peeks inside.
He’s met with the familiar scent of citrus. It’s his mother’s favorite incense, imported specially from a family friend in southern Solis; as she likes to say, “It keeps my spirits high and my wits higher.” Two long sticks burn atop the mantle of the hearth, filling the air with pungent orange and lemongrass. The fire lazily sends licks of heat through the room, casting the furniture in an orange light.
Both of them are in bed already, his father a still heap beneath the crimson covers while his mother reads from a thick book, propped up against a stack of pillows. Even at the creak of the door, she doesn’t look up.
“You didn’t send anyone for me,” Beomgyu says. His voice, small as it may be, echoes off the walls.
His father, apparently awake, gives a grumbling reply. “You’ve had time to learn your lesson, I suppose?”
“We knew you were safe,” his mother adds gently, her frustration lessened from hours of separation. “Besides, we needed to entertain our guests.”
“Where are they now?”
“On the way home. It was only a day’s visit.”
This revelation makes the guilty pit in Beomgyu’s stomach deepen. Three days of travel to meet him, and they’re already gone. “I shouldn’t have said that about that boy’s hair,” he admits.
His mother’s eyes soften. She beckons for him to come closer. Peeling off his grimy shoes, Beomgyu meekly crosses the room, kneeling at her side. Smoothing his hair down, she murmurs, “Soobin may be a little shy, but it’s important that you two get along.”
“Because he’s my . . . promised?” The word falls awkwardly off his tongue, carrying a weight he’s still not certain of.
She nods in approval. “Do you know what that means, darling?”
He shakes his head.
A brief silence follows, and she continues to stroke his hair, running her fingers soothingly through the tangles. The gesture is more than welcome—after a long day of play, all of the energy has slowly seeped out of him, leaving him exhausted. More than once, his eyes begin to droop, and he forces them open again, determined to hear what his mother has to say.
When she finally replies, she chooses each word carefully, as if plucking them from a sampler platter. “It means you two will rule the kingdom one day, just like your father and I do. When you’re older, you and Soobin are going to be married.”
All sleepiness disappears in an instant. Beomgyu’s head shoots up, his mouth falling open in horror. “What?”
“I told you you should have waited to tell him,” his father yawns, before rolling over.
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
Beomgyu hates the idea just as much at fifteen years old as he did at eleven.
“I don’t want to get married,” he says, for what must be the third time since they started breakfast and the hundredth time since his mother told him of his betrothal four years ago.
“You aren’t getting married,” his father replies simply, cutting a fingerling potato in half. Four years of Beomgyu’s groaning have not made him any more helpful regarding the matter. “Not until you’re of age, anyways.”
Beomgyu takes a violent stab at his own breakfast. “I don’t want to get married when I’m of age, either.”
That’s not entirely true. When he was younger, he would sometimes dream about marrying a woman as beautiful as his own mother—someone kind, patient, and lovely, who knew how to cook and pick roses without getting pricked (okay, maybe he’d added that last bit recently). But that had all been wistful daydreaming. Then, out of nowhere, came an arrangement to crush all his romantic ideals.
It’s not even Soobin being a boy that upsets him. Though the idea had been strange at first, one of his father’s closest male courtiers has a husband, and they’re two of the happiest, most beautiful people Beomgyu has ever seen. Also worth mentioning is the brief fascination he’d harbored towards one of the stable boys when he was thirteen; as he’s grown older, both genders have become equally appealing.
No, it’s not Soobin being a boy—it’s Soobin being a boy who doesn’t know how to pick flowers or hold a conversation or even manage to send a letter every now and then. It’s Soobin being assigned to him in a passionless deal struck only to strengthen alliances. It’s the fact that Soobin probably doesn’t want this any more than Beomgyu does.
“You don’t need to worry about marriage right now.” His mother’s voice takes on a familiar, mediating tone. “We’re hosting this ball in the name of friendship. Right now, Soobin is just your friend from the coast. The least you could do is try to talk to him. You can do that, can’t you?”
Beomgyu frowns at his plate. Morning sunlight filters through one of the glass windows, warming his shoulders. Outside, birds twitter excitedly to each other, and the wind weaves music through the pines; even nature seems to be celebrating today. Usually, the Spring Ball is an exciting affair—an annual party hosted by the royal family in honor of making it through another winter. It’s meant to thread the scattered people of the land together, but tonight its purpose is to thread Beomgyu and Soobin together, specifically. What once was going to be Beomgyu’s first ball is now just another step in their royal courting ritual. His parents sure know how to take the fun out of things.
“Beomgyu.” His mother’s voice is still level, but there’s a warning edge to it. “You can do that, can’t you?”
“ Yes, mother.”
His father lifts an eyebrow. “Watch your tone.”
“You act like everything’s so easy,” Beomgyu mutters. “Like we’ll just fall in love overnight and wake up ready to run a country.”
“We aren’t asking you to love him. Just act your age, for once. Be civil.”
“It’s not fair. You two love each other. You two got to choose.”
His father’s mouth presses into a hard line. “Sometimes being a ruler is about doing what’s best for your country, not yourself.”
“Well, that sounds like a pretty crummy job to me.”
“ Enough, ” his mother’s sharp voice cuts through their glares. Beomgyu’s cheeks warm with shame as he turns to look back at her. “I know you’re nervous, love. And that’s okay. But please try to have fun tonight, okay? For me.”
And of course, when she pulls out the for me, Beomgyu can never find it in himself to disagree.
Preparations for the ball do allow him to skip out on his tutoring for the day, which is a silver lining he can get behind. As soon as he finishes breakfast, he’s whisked away to be scrubbed within an inch of his life, doused in all sorts of flowery soaps and perfumes to eradicate the very idea of dirt from his skin. Then, after being toweled off, he’s surrounded by an entire team of attendants to be fitted. This, he has to admit, is something he’s been looking forward to. He’s always envied the extravagant outfits his parents wore to past events, bedecked in rainbows of color and every jewel imaginable. When he’d begged them for a sparkly suit of his own, his mother had simply smiled and told him he would receive fine clothing the day he stopped romping around in the mud. Needless to say, this had put it off for another couple of years.
But now, he stands still as a statue while a silk white tunic is slipped onto him, stitched with gleaming golds and sky blues. As the stylists add piece after piece to his entourage—from a glossy black belt to glimmering earrings that brush his shoulders—they chatter in adoration, providing “ooh’s” and “ah’s” that help Beomgyu feel a little less self-conscious. After wrapping a sprawling white cloak around his shoulders, one of the older women informs him with glistening eyes that his mother had worn the same colors at her wedding.
His parents’ wedding. A historic event, as the stories go. He’s heard countless tales of how the celebrations lasted all day, how fireworks lit up the night sky and guests danced until they dropped (“We let them sleep in the ballroom,” his father had told him once, with an uncommon laugh). As everyone partied the night away, his parents had stolen away to some secluded balcony and, bathed in starlight, shared their first real kiss. His mother always gets a faraway look on her face when she recounts that part—half-fond, half-wistful.
Beomgyu wonders if he and Soobin will ever kiss. He supposes, eventually, it’ll have to happen. In a marriage, that sort of thing is inevitable. Trying to picture it, he wrinkles his nose so much that the young man applying powder to his face scolds him. The thought is just so strange.
If he’s being perfectly honest, he hardly remembers what Soobin even looks like. It’s been four years since they last met face-to-face, and in that time, Soobin has only sent him one letter. It had been brief, full of substanceless formalities and a flourishing (if not illegible) signature preceded with I hope all is well on your end. Beomgyu had sent an equally dry reply, and hasn’t received a letter since. All they have to go off of tonight is the fact that Beomgyu had called his hair “stupid” when he was eleven. How promising.
Once his makeup has been finished—shimmering but subtle layers of gold to match his tunic—they get to work on his hair. The stylists mutter in discontent as they disentangle the glossy black strands, still damp from his bath. They’re not the first; his parents have been begging him for weeks on end to cut it, but it’s the one thing he remains immovable about. His last shred of agency as the prince.
“Too long,” tuts one stylist.
“Too shaggy,” complains another.
“We’ll make it work,” says a third.
And they do. Using a blue satin ribbon, they tie it back into a neat ponytail, sweeping any extra strands behind his ear. Beomgyu squints at his reflection for a moment, trying to find some element of himself under layers of clothing and makeup.
“You look stunning,” a handmaid offers shyly.
“Thank you,” Beomgyu replies absently, offering her a quick smile. She’s right, of course—only because his stylists had put far too much work in for him to look anything but. Lifting the hem of his cloak, he admires the way it catches the light, sparkles leaping off of the fabric.
He wonders if Soobin will like it. Then he wonders if that was the purpose.
Outside, a stream of carriages steadily wheel through the palace gates, stuffed with frivolously dressed people the size of ants. But Beomgyu doesn’t need to look out the window to know the ball is beginning soon; he can feel it in the air, in the excited buzz of the servants as they polish the furniture and wipe the windows, all clothed in their finest attire. As he wanders the bustling halls, Beomgyu overhears the footman stationed by the ballroom doors rehearsing his greetings under his breath.
Most tantalizing of all are the clattering of pans and conflicting aromas that waft from the kitchen—sweet and savory, salty and spicy, but all equally mouth-watering. Beomgyu tries his luck at sneaking in for a snack, but is immediately shooed out by the cooks. Even Seokjin, who usually smuggles Beomgyu pastries whenever he comes begging, swats him with a towel on the way out.
“You’ll have plenty to eat in the ballroom,” he says, a smile betraying his scolding tone. “No samples tonight, so scram.”
When the sun kisses the mountain peaks, orange blazing against the melting snow, the guests are finally permitted inside. The sound of them crowding into the ballroom fills the palace with even more unfamiliar noise— laughter, greetings, and gossip, all muffled behind closed doors.
Following tradition, Beomgyu’s father is the first to enter, being received with thunderous applause as he walks into the ballroom to greet the guests. Beomgyu watches him, his back broad and taut, until the doors close again. He’s the picture of royalty, all marks of age melting away as he crosses the polished floors.
He and his mother linger behind, waiting in the dimness of the hallway for his father to finish his remarks. Once he’s done, he’ll invite them in, and the ball will officially begin.
“I’m doing this for you,” Beomgyu reminds her, dutifully entwining their hands together. “Not because I want to get married.”
Squeezing his hand, she plants a kiss on his hair. “You look so handsome tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if Soobin has competition.”
“Mother.”
She laughs, and despite himself, Beomgyu finds his lips twitching too. The sound is musical, always managing to loosen the knots in his stomach a little. “One night. That’s all I ask. Then you can return to your life as a devout bachelor.”
Before Beomgyu has time to muster a response, the doors crack open, casting golden light onto the carpet and revealing the sea of heads beyond. Giving his hand another squeeze for good measure, his mother leads him into the ballroom.
Everything seems to still as they enter. Voices go silent, and everyone’s head inclines in a reverent bow. Beomgyu can practically feel the eyes following his every move, hear the whispers floating on the air—which, all of a sudden, feels strangely thin. His mouth goes dry. He’s never been around this many people before, and never once had it occurred to him that he might not like it. But now his heart hammers against his ribcage, his legs growing fragile and flimsy beneath him as his mother guides him towards the room’s center. There, at his father’s side, he miraculously manages not to fall over as the two of them bow to the guests. Releasing his hand, his mother claps twice, and an assembly of musicians in the corner launch into an upbeat jig.
Gasps of delight fill the air, and arms flail to grab whoever’s nearest to dance. Those remaining without a partner shamefully retreat to the banquet table, or join one of the uptight clusters allegedly too refined to participate. And just like that, the eyes are gone. For the first time since they entered the room, Beomgyu can breathe.
Not everyone takes to dancing or eating, however; it’s incredible how quickly an assembly line forms to greet the king and queen. The guests are a lot less intimidating up close, Beomgyu finds, when they’re individuals and not a giant entity. A man in an emerald green suit kisses his mother on both cheeks and calls him a “strong young prince.” Two girls who can’t be over twelve follow, offering him gifts wrapped with lace and tittering to each other when he thanks them.
“Noble’s daughters,” his father explains. He watches the girls scamper off, an exasperated curve to his lips. “They’re far too young to be attending, really. Their parents should have known better.”
“At least they brought gifts.” Beomgyu’s mother gives one of the boxes a little shake before flashing him a glowing smile. She always seems happier among guests, flooded with youth by the music and dancing. “We’ll have to open those later.”
They don’t dance. Beomgyu does a lot of watching people dance, however, as they go through the seemingly endless line of guests. Some, like the girls, offer presents, while others are too petrified to give anything more than a bow. Some call his father by name—city officials with their clean-pressed suits and pipes dangling from their mouths—and sneak in a complaint or two from whatever town they represent before the conversation is over. With each grievance, Beomgyu begins to better understand the dark crescents that constantly sag beneath his father’s eyes.
It’s dull work, and though some guests congratulate him on attending his first ball or coo over his outfit, they have little to do with him otherwise. While his parents masterfully entertain their company, Beomgyu lingers off to one side, awkwardly staring up at the light fixtures and playing with an earring. His eyes wander to the large banquet table on the other side of the room. The very sight of the neatly arranged plates, decked out with every meat, vegetable, and sweet imaginable, makes his stomach groan. Getting fitted was a several hour affair—he hadn’t had time for lunch.
Maybe, he thinks, if he’s quiet enough, he can sneak over to grab a plate. If he hurried, he could be there and back before his parents even noticed.
No such luck. Just as he’s seriously entertaining making a break for it, their current occupation leaves, giving his mother an opening to tug on his sleeve. “Look,” she whispers in his ear.
She doesn’t even need to point. The moment she says it, Beomgyu sees him. Across the waves of decorated heads, Soobin sticks out like a sore thumb. He’s older now, his shoulders a bit broader and his face a bit leaner, but he still has that same stricken expression to him—like a frightened animal. His hair is notably neater this time, swept out of his eyes and decidedly non-insultable. Clothed in folds of black and gold, with his shirt buttoned straight up to the neck, he keeps his hands nervously clasped in front of him as he talks with a pair of lords.
He’s good-looking. Beomgyu is old enough to see that now. And old enough to resent him for it.
“He looks so handsome,” his mother croons, and he frowns.
“Not that handsome.”
She chooses to ignore this remark. “Go talk to him.”
“He’s already talking to people.”
As if on cue, the pair talking to Soobin bow before walking away, leaving him as alone as can be. How terribly inconvenient. Worse yet, he seems to sense he’s being watched. Almost instantly, his eyes flicker upwards, meeting Beomgyu’s gaze dead on. His lips part in recognition.
Oh, God.
Beomgyu turns to give his mother the most pleading look he can muster.
Unimpressed, she plucks a hair off his sleeve and pats his shoulder. “You aren’t a child anymore. Say hi to your guest.”
Your guest. It stings a little to hear, because at the end of the day, Soobin really is just here for him, isn’t he? That’s the reason his parents no doubt forced his antisocial self into a three-day carriage ride to a ball—all to make uncomfortable small talk with his fiance-to-be. The one who had emerged from the gardens, covered in dirt, only to insult him and leave.
Suddenly, Beomgyu’s legs feel like lead weights.
So, yeah, maybe he was a jerk. But he had just been a stupid kid back then. Soobin surely hasn’t held that against him all these years, right? That couldn’t possibly be the reason he hasn’t written, is it? He doesn’t think Beomgyu’s just some royal brat who gets his life handed to him on a silver platter—does he?
Well, if he does, he’s dead wrong. And Beomgyu is going to prove him wrong. Or, at least, that’s what’s going to get him to actually move instead of standing and staring like an idiot.
So, departing from the safety of his mother’s side, he descends into the jungle of unfamiliar faces on the dance floor. It’s a little terrifying—crowded, hot, and noisy. He can’t see five feet in front of him, much less across the room, so he focuses on where he thinks Soobin was standing and heads blindly in that direction.
Turns out, trying to go places when you’re a prince at his first ball is no easy feat. He’s stopped several times, as couples fragment apart mid-waltz to either greet him or barrage him with uncomfortable questions. The music is so loud and the murmur of the crowd so overbearing that he can only stomach a nod or two before abandoning the conversation.
There’s no room to move. There’s no room to think . He trips over a few people’s feet, and in his haste to apologize nearly backs into one of the noble’s daughters. She graciously forgives him, and actually seems refreshingly tolerable right up to the point where she asks him if he’s in the market for a princess.
After blinking at her for a moment too long, Beomgyu manages a weak, “Sorry . . . I’m, uh, betrothed to someone already.” The girl’s face dulls, and he leaves soon afterwards, feeling ironically grateful for the excuse.
What feels like an eternal loop of the same three scenarios follows, all equally disastrous and all equally exhausting. Finally escaping a group of curious nobles inquiring about his future plans for the kingdom’s agriculture, Beomgyu whirls around and polishes it all off by knocking some poor soul’s plate right out of their hands. He freezes as a honey-slathered slice of ham makes a sticky splat against the stranger’s tunic, and wide brown eyes look down at him, and—
And he knows those eyes.
“Oh,” Soobin says.
“Oh my God,” Beomgyu says back.
It’s more instinctive than anything—a placeholder for the many unsavory words hovering on the tip of his tongue. Because, really, out of all the ways he could have screwed things up tonight, decorating his betrothed with gravy blows everything else out of the water.
Soobin doesn’t even bother to pick the ham off of his shirt. He just stares down at Beomgyu—how is he this tall, Beomgyu doesn’t remember him being this tall—like he’s some sort of alien anomaly. Beomgyu stares back, mostly because he can’t look anywhere else. He’d rather face Soobin than the surrounding onlookers, whose shocked murmurs send heat flushing into his cheeks.
For a moment, they just stand there silently. Then Soobin finds it in him to utter a single sentence. “It’s, uh, good to see you.”
Beomgyu wonders if princes are allowed to take the death penalty.
“Sorry,” he manages, giving a strained laugh. “I didn’t see you. But I don’t know how I didn’t because you’re, uh, really tall, and . . .”
He really, really wishes Soobin would jump in with a joke, or an “it’s okay” right about now. Anything to spare him from having to wrap up this disaster of a sentence would be lovely. But as the silence drags on, Soobin just watches him blankly, the piece of ham slowly beginning to slide down his shirt. God, he looks idiotic. And his clothes are going to stain.
There really is no way to get out of this, is there?
“Come with me,” Beomgyu huffs. Without a thought for how proper it is, he seizes Soobin by the wrist and drags him towards the nearest exit. Soobin follows without complaint, and this time the crowd parts for them. Intrigued whispers follow them all the way out the door.
They don’t talk, even once they’re in the safety of the halls. It’s only when they reach their destination that Beomgyu lets go. This leg of the kitchens, thankfully, is completely devoid of people; except for Seokjin, that is, who pauses scrubbing down a copper pot to eyeball the two of them. He opens his mouth and Beomgyu stops him with a look.
“We need a rag,” he says dully, throwing out a hand to gesture at Soobin.
“All right, then.” Seokjin doesn’t bow to Soobin. Then again, he doesn’t bow for anyone—not even the king. Beomgyu once heard that he came from overseas, where the style of government was entirely different. Retrieving a sopping rag from a nearby basin, he all but flings it at Beomgyu. “Go crazy.” Then he heads deeper into the kitchens, taking his pot with him.
Beomgyu almost calls out for him to stay, to not leave the two of them alone, because currently there is nothing in this world he wants less. But Seokjin’s whistling fades away, and he’s forced to face the problem at hand.
When he turns around, Soobin is watching him curiously. He perks up at the attention, almost like a dog, and Beomgyu’s brow furrows.
“Hold still,” he mutters, stepping forward. Soobin obeys, going stiff as a board as Beomgyu begins mopping the gravy off of his shirt. He smells like cheap perfume—really, Beomgyu thinks snobbishly, is there really nothing better in Ora?
“Thank you.” Soobin’s voice is soft, even in a quiet place like this.
Beomgyu scoffs. “For what? Me spilling food all over you?”
“For cleaning me up.”
“You should watch where you’re going next time.” It’s a little rude, and totally unwarranted, given Beomgyu had been the one who bumped into him , not vice versa. But he can’t help it. The two of them have hardly said more than a few sentences to each other, and now here they are, contractually obligated to bond. Soobin is clearly trying to be friendly, trying to reach out, and it’s so irrationally irritating . It’s because there’s a liability to it—formality feigning sincerity. Beomgyu wouldn’t be surprised if Soobin practiced his responses on cue cards on the way over.
Soobin doesn’t even have the spine to defend himself. Instead, he clears his throat nervously. “You—you look really nice tonight. The outfit is . . . it’s nice.”
Beomgyu abandons the cue cards theory. Three days would be plenty of time to work on a better delivery.
Scowling, he begins scrubbing harder. Why won’t this stupid honey stain come out already?
Soobin continues rambling in the meantime, filling up empty space. “Your hair is longer than it was last time we saw each other.”
He hums.
“But I like it. It’s kind of—”
“Can you cut it out?”
Soobin’s sentence comes to a screeching halt. “What?”
“Being so nice to me,” Beomgyu says curtly, glancing up. “Cut it out.”
Soobin blinks, completely and utterly bewildered. Beomgyu hadn’t noticed it until just now, but his hair is dusted with glitter—flecks of gold jumping out from a sea of wavy black. “You want me . . . to stop being nice to you? Why?”
“You don’t know me.”
“I’m trying to, though.”
“Yeah. So we can get married someday.” Giving up on the stain, Beomgyu slams the rag down on a nearby counter. “Doesn’t it bother you at all? Not having a say in any of it?”
“I wanted to do this for my kingdom.” Indignancy rises in Soobin’s voice. “This was my choice.”
“Well, it wasn’t mine,” Beomgyu snaps.
It comes out vicious—more than he means it to. But the damage has been done. The sliver of hurt that flickers across Soobin’s face before being replaced with the usual guarded timidness is unmistakable. Pressing his lips shut and lowering his gaze, he says nothing in reply. Something in Beomgyu’s chest squeezes uncomfortably. Fire races under his skin.
There’s a long pause. Distant cheers and the popping of a bottle echo down the hallway.
“If you really want to know me,” Beomgyu’s voice quavers slightly as he continues, “you could bother sending a letter once in a while.” And before he can think better of it, his legs are carrying him away, past Soobin and out the door. They carry him past the servants, past the ballroom, and past a pair of drunk guests, leaning heavily against an open balcony. Even with blood thrumming in his ears, it’s impossible not to overhear them.
“—and of course, Ora’s going under with the way Choi’s running things.”
“Can’t you just vote in someone new? It’s not like that succession nonsense they’ve got going on over here.”
“That’s the thing. I hear Choi’s been going around, buying support in any way he can.” The man’s voice slows, importance weighing his slurred words. “Some say he’s even gotten his son hitched with Mella’s crown prince.”
Beomgyu stops walking.
“Are you being serious?”
“Dead serious. Choi and Mella’s king are real close. And get this—the wedding date is right when Choi’s term ends.”
“Stop making things up,” the other man groans. “There’s no way they’ve announced a date. They haven’t even announced a betrothal. The boy’s hardly fifteen.”
“But it adds up, doesn’t it? With the royal family in his pocket, Choi’s practically guaranteed himself another term. He even brought the kid tonight, to meet Prince Beomgyu. Saw the two of ‘em sneaking off not thirty minutes ago.”
A halfhearted noise. “Eh, I don’t know. Prince Soobin is many things, but a king? The kid’s scared of his own shadow.”
And despite all the resentment he feels for Soobin, for this arrangement and the implications behind it, something defensive flares up in Beomgyu. Who is this man to disrespect royalty, no matter what his status is? To talk about his own prince in such a way?
But his companion doesn’t seem to care, snorting at the remark. “Hey, with their other boy out playing with pirates, he’s the best they’ve got.” A pause. “My drink’s all gone. Let’s go back in.”
The two of them leave the balcony, and Beomgyu quickly ducks into the shade of a nearby curtain to avoid being seen. He watches the men stumble back towards the ballroom, holding onto each other for support, but doesn’t follow them. His mind is running a mile a minute, stuffed full of questions. Soobin has a brother? Ora is struggling? And, most outrageous of all, the betrothal that’s ruining his life is all for some stupid election campaign?
He has half a mind to storm back into the ballroom and shake King Choi down for answers himself. But then he remembers Soobin, standing dejectedly in the kitchens, and all of his anger melts into exhaustion. So he continues down the hallway, past the party and the people, to his bedroom. After everything that’s happened in the past thirty minutes, he isn’t in much of a mood for dancing, anyways.
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
“You told me it was about uniting the kingdoms.”
Beomgyu’s mother takes her time in responding, disentangling a ribbon from a box. They’re halfway through last night’s gifts, now, and a sizable pile of empty packages and containers sits at the foot of the bed. Rain splatters against the windows. “It is, in a way,” she says at last. “The marriage will strengthen our relationship with Ora.”
“But King Choi and Father are friends. Can’t they just help each other out, anyways?”
“It doesn’t work like that, love.” With a bemused hum, she pulls a polished wooden comb from the box. “Oh, I already have so many. You can keep this one, if you’d like.”
“Mother,” Beomgyu says impatiently. “What do you mean ‘it doesn’t work like that’?”
“Well, Ora isn’t like Mella. They don’t do things the same way we do them here. You’re aware of why their kings are elected, aren’t you?”
Frowning, Beomgyu racks his brain. It’s been so long since he and his tutor covered the Coastlands. “Because they split off from us. They settled the coast and created their own system.”
“That’s right.” She picks up another box wrapped in shimmering golden paper. “The coastal kingdoms face a great deal of pressure from the people. Ora, especially, has been difficult. They’re . . .”
“They’re going under?” he asks, thinking of what he’d heard last night.
She doesn’t answer the question directly. “King Choi has done many things for our family and for Mella. We owe him a great deal. Joining our families will not only link the kingdoms, but allow us to make each other stronger.”
“Linking the kingdoms? Is that even possible?” As far as Beomgyu can remember, Ora and the other mythical cities on the sea have been a faraway image—entirely separate from the jagged mountains and lush green forests of home. Almost a fairy tale. A union between them would be unheard of. Historic.
Setting her latest gift—an intricate silver necklace—to the side, she gives him a smile both wise and somber. “If we were once one kingdom, we can be one again. We are blessed to live in an era where a prince of the coast and a prince of the mountains can dance together.”
But Beomgyu and Soobin hadn’t danced together. They had argued in the kitchens. Beomgyu had left him behind to clean food off his shirt. He wonders if his mother knows about that.
“But if Ora joins with Mella, won’t King Choi lose his job?” After all, there can only be one king; he hears the palace guard proclaim it in their pledge each morning.
“Ora will still need a leader, just as any other town, city, or village does,” she replies softly. “He will simply receive the support your father and I can give.”
Beomgyu’s stomach churns. He understands now. This wedding is more than a political act—it’s an olive branch extended to Soobin’s family. A favor from his father to a friend. How is he supposed to contest that?
“I know it’s a lot to think about,” his mother murmurs. Wrapping an arm around him, she pulls his head to her chest. “How about you open this next present? It’s for you.”
Numbly, Beomgyu receives the navy box. Wrapped around it is a clumsily tied ribbon, which he untangles before slowly removing the lid. Shining pink glints up at him, and his eyes widen.
“It’s a shell.”
“It’s a conch,” his mother adds appreciatively.
Carefully, his fingers run over it, exploring the gradual transition from sharpness to smoothness. It’s heavy in his hands as he lifts it, and the catching light of a bedside candle reveals a myriad of hidden colors on its glossy surface. He’s only seen such a thing in picture books; only heard tales of the golden beaches where millions like it reside.
It’s beautiful.
There’s a note in the box, too, and though he already has a sinking feeling of who it's from, Beomgyu picks it up. There are only two short sentences on the parchment, written in shaky script.
My father tells me you’ve never seen the ocean. Sometimes, if you put this shell to your ear, you can hear the waves.
-Soobin
The message is brief, yet thoughtful. Everything about it is so sincerely Soobin, and reading it brings that unpleasant squeezing feeling back to Beomgyu’s chest. Are they always doomed to leave things on a sour note? Is he always doomed to make it that way?
But, as sour as his words were, they seem to have left an impression. Months pass, and as spring slips away into summer, Soobin’s first letter arrives. It’s awkward, impersonal, but certainly an effort. There’s far more life to it than his past writing. Rather than talking about himself, Soobin talks about Ora. How fishing season is in full swing, and men bring their catches into town by the boatful. How he’s befriended a seagull who perches on his windowsill every morning. How the sunsets on the beach are beautiful this time of year, and that Beomgyu’s family really ought to come see them sometime.
When he reads the letter, Beomgyu can almost forget about the marriage, and about their argument, and about the increasingly worrying news his father’s courtiers bring him about Ora. For a few euphoric minutes, he leaves the marble floors of the palace, being enveloped by salty sea breezes and standing barefoot on warm sand.
He may not know Soobin, and Soobin may not know him, but he falls asleep each night with the conch clutched to his ear anyways.
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
The winter before Beomgyu turns eighteen, his wedding date is set.
It’s planned to be a social affair, held on the brink of summer when the sun will be vibrant, not harsh. The people of both kingdoms will be invited, and no expense will be spared for the reception. Already, the cooks are abuzz about what sort of meals they’ll have to prepare, and the gardener loops the courtyards musing about what kinds of flowers to grow for the arrangements. Even the royal stylists get an early start on assembling Beomgyu’s outfit, but this is the one thing his mother strictly forbids him from seeing.
“It’s bad luck,” she says firmly. “And besides, isn’t the surprise more fun?”
Beomgyu doesn’t mind. He thinks the sight of it would make him rather nauseous, anyways.
He spends the next few days pacing, making a list of all of the things he’d like to do in his last season of freedom. While he’s set to complete his studies mid-spring, he still has final exams to pass, and he wouldn’t mind improving his fencing skills while he’s at it. His horseback riding could be better, and there are a few books from the library he’s still itching to read. He has to make the most of these next couple months—after all, his life could be completely different come summertime.
As usual, a letter from Ora foils his plans. Midway through dinner one blustery evening, a shivering messenger is escorted into the dining room, clutching a scroll addressed to the king. After insisting the poor boy warm up by the fire with a goblet of cider, Beomgyu’s father reads the message. With each word, Beomgyu’s stomach sinks.
“ . . . in light of the upcoming marriage, we will be making an extended visit to Mella following the new moon. This, we hope, will allow Prince Beomgyu and Soobin to further acquaint themselves before their union. Sumi and myself will be staying as well, with a regent to rule in our place. We hope this visit will allow us to grow closer, not only as two kingdoms, but two families. Kind regards, King Choi of Ora. ”
“The new moon,” Beomgyu’s mother breathes out, elated. “That’s so soon. Hyun, we need to prepare their rooms immediately.”
“And we shall.” His father sets down the scroll. Though unsmiling, he’s clearly satisfied with the news. “It will be a pleasure to see Juwon for more than a few hours.”
“And Sumi, dear, we haven’t seen her since our wedding.”
“With the rate you two write each other, you’ll have nothing left to talk about by the time she gets here.” His eyes, glittering with humor, turn to Beomgyu. “Well, that solves your complaints about marrying a stranger. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know Soobin with him living just down the hall.”
Beomgyu, lacking the energy to argue, simply shrugs and continues eating. He’s not even angry this time around—just resigned. Of course Soobin would find a way to ruin the few months he had left to himself. He always seems to show up at the most inconvenient of times. And now Beomgyu has to pass his exams, polish his fencing, and read the last of his books with the shadow of his future quite literally looming over his shoulder.
He can’t even resent Soobin for it anymore. Not as much as he used to. It’s not his fault he wants to help his family. To keep Ora from crumbling. He speaks so fondly of the curling waves of the sea whenever he writes; Beomgyu wonders if he’ll ever love the jagged peaks of Mella nearly as much.
They exchange letters often enough. Since the episode at the Spring Ball, it’s become an unspoken agreement to write at least every two months, and though the stiffness hasn’t completely disappeared Beomgyu can no longer say Soobin isn’t trying. He’s perfectly pleasant in his writing, politely answering questions and asking Beomgyu questions of his own. It’s nothing earth-shaking, but maybe, just possibly, they’re getting closer to being friends.
They’re still leagues away from the functional, affectionate unit Beomgyu’s parents are. A part of him doubts they’ll ever get there.
As the palace comes alive with preparation once again, Beomgyu trudges through the next days in a sort of mournful lethargy. Though his checklist of goals for the spring still lies on his dresser, he doesn’t have the motivation for any of it anymore. Even in tutoring he comes up short, leading to a failed arithmetic test and an exasperated tut from his instructor.
“You are not all there, Your Highness,” she says with a shake of her head. “A proper king must be present at all times, no matter what is on his mind.”
A proper king. That’s all he hears these days. The attendants and tutors all act as if his father is at death’s door, and Beomgyu will need to take command the moment he recites his vows. It’s like they’re wringing the youth out of him.
He can hardly stand being around anyone anymore. Instead of exploring the palace looking for mischief, he turns up at the kitchen every afternoon, peeking meekly through the door. At the sight of him, Seokjin rolls his eyes before handing a morsel of food over.
“Fine,” he says. “But only because you look like a sad dog.”
“You have it so easy,” Beomgyu complains between bites.
“Marriage isn’t the end of the world.” Seokjin leans forward to brush some sugar off of his shirt. “You could stand to learn a thing or two about cooperation.”
“I could have you fired, you know.”
“But then who would feed you?”
This, as it usually does, ends their argument.
The day the Choi’s arrive begins like any other. Beomgyu rolls out of bed well past eleven, draws the curtains open, and looks over the snow-blanketed courtyards outside. The sun is out today, bringing a glittering life to the sea of white. One of the large icicles hanging just outside Beomgyu’s window slowly drips onto the ledge below—it must be getting warmer.
Any normalcy is brought to an end, however, as a troupe of stylists burst into his room without so much as knocking. They’re already holding armfuls of different outfits to try on, and Beomgyu groans.
“What’s all this about?”
“Orders from Her Majesty the Queen, Your Highness,” one of the younger girls pipes up. “We’re to style you for the royal family’s arrival today!”
“Did you tell her I can dress myself?”
“It’ll just be a quick fitting,” an older stylist says, patting his shoulder consolingly. “And, of course, there’s your hair to be seen to.”
Beomgyu’s hand shoots defensively to the dark locks curling at the nape of his neck. “What about it?”
“Just a quick trim, Your Highness! Nothing to be concerned about!”
Said “quick trim” takes off a generous couple inches—far more than he would have preferred—and Beomgyu sulks all the way down to the entrance hall. His mother beams at the sight of him.
“Oh, you look wonderful!” Eagerly, she turns to his father. “Hyun, doesn’t he look wonderful?”
Glancing at Beomgyu, he lets out a short laugh. “He looks like he’s being punished.”
She sighs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Beomgyu’s ear. “You’ll get used to it, love. It really does look good short. After this, you can let it grow out as long as you want.”
Beomgyu manages a half-hearted nod, but his thoughts have moved past his lost hair and to the people slowly rolling through the gate outside. As they step through the palace doors, bitter winter air envelops them, and after what feels like an eternity, the dark carriage comes to a halt at the edge of the steps. The entire palace, it seems, goes still as a footman rushes forward to get the door. Even Beomgyu catches himself holding his breath.
After getting some help from one of the horsemen—the carriage door seems to have frozen shut—the footman finally pries it open with a shuddering creak. What looks to be a large yellow flower emerges first, rushing forward and enveloping Beomgyu in a perfume-scented embrace. It takes him a few terrifying moments to realize that said yellow flower is actually an extravagant dress, and in it is a woman, with thick hair knotted at the top of her head and a blinding smile.
“Queen—Queen Choi?” Beomgyu manages. He feels like the air is being squeezed out of him.
Laughing, she releases him. “I’m so sorry, dear, I got ahead of myself. You can call me Sumi. We are family, after all. Now,” she cranes her neck, grinning, “where is Areum?”
As Beomgyu’s mother welcomes her with extended arms, King Choi comes next. Unlike his wife, he’s far less jubilant after the long ride, but still manages a smile and a handshake for Beomgyu as he passes. Beomgyu smiles back, but his eyes remain locked on the carriage.
When Soobin ducks his head, nearly missing the top of the door on his way out, Beomgyu’s heart skips a beat. If he had been tall and handsome at the Spring Ball three years ago, he’s even more so now. Rumpled black hair, with cheeks flushed from the cold and broad shoulders clothed in silk. He looks . . . old. It’s strange, but even though they’ve been writing each other all this time, Beomgyu never pictured Soobin as aging along with him. In his mind, he’s always looked like the nervous fifteen year-old prince in the kitchens. But now, as he exchanges a polite bow with the footman, Soobin is grown. Mature. Everything Beomgyu feels like he isn’t.
Then Soobin’s head turns, and they make eye contact, and some of that timidness returns. His shoulders straighten and his gaze wavers, flitting to a nearby bush instead. Maybe some things truly never change.
Still, Beomgyu isn’t going to let this be another Spring Ball. Taking a deep breath, he strides forward and sticks out his hand. “Prince Soobin,” he greets, in his most pleasant voice.
Soobin smiles shyly. He reaches out, but instead of clasping Beomgyu’s hand for a handshake, he lifts it gently by the wrist, pressing a kiss against his knuckles. Despite the cold, his touch is warm. Slowly, his eyes rise to meet Beomgyu’s.
“Prince Beomgyu,” he says. “You look radiant as always.”
Beomgyu’s eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead. What the hell. He didn’t know they were supposed to be practicing.
“Oh,” he stammers, far less smooth in his delivery. “Uh, you too. Looking great.”
So much for formalities.
Thankfully, his parents are too preoccupied with their guests to comment. As he and Soobin turn to join them, King Choi speaks, jubilant as ever. “It is an honor to be in your company once again. It’s a shame, truly, that we could not have returned sooner.” He nudges his wife good-naturedly. “I see Sumi has already ambushed Beomgyu.”
Chuckling along with the others, she turns penitently to Beomgyu. “I really do apologize. I didn’t mean to be overwhelming. I’ve just heard so much about you. Oh, if you could only hear half the things Soobinie says—”
“ Mother, ” Soobin groans, fog puffing from his lips as his cheeks go even pinker. Everyone laughs at this, even Beomgyu, though it’s coupled with a curious sideways glance that Soobin stoically refuses to return. Does he really talk about him? Beomgyu always figured his letters were far too bland to be worthy of conversation.
“Yes, well we can better acquaint ourselves inside.” Beomgyu’s father clears his throat. Out of the three of them, he’s always been the worst at weathering the cold, and even beneath his layers of fur anyone could see him shivering. “Let us show you to your rooms.”
As they travel through the palace doors, across sprawling marble and up carpeted stairs, Soobin stays faithfully at Beomgyu’s side, carefully matching his pace. But while the adults chatter endlessly to each other up ahead, he doesn’t breathe a single word, much less look in Beomgyu’s direction. Each of his motions are stiff—rehearsed, even. A little irked by this, Beomgyu attempts to break the ice.
“Your room overlooks the courtyards,” he offers, as they reach the second floor. “It faces east, too, so you can watch the sunrise.”
“Ah.” Soobin startles a little. Looking over, he gives Beomgyu the briefest of smiles. “Good. Thank you.”
More silence follows.
Beomgyu chews his lip. Conversation had been so much easier when it traveled weeks over letter, and covered only the things he wanted to hear. It makes him realize that, though he now knows what merchants sell in Ora, and what types of fish live in its waters, he doesn’t know the first thing about Soobin. Now, their interactions need to be more personal than that. He needs to make them more personal than that.
It doesn’t get better. Once the family’s luggage is transported to their rooms, they all reunite in the dining hall for a welcoming feast. Dinner is an enthusiastic affair for the parents, who have plenty to talk about, good and bad. As for Beomgyu and Soobin, they sit across from each other at the table’s end and experiment with just how many times they can avoid eye contact. Every so often, someone will acknowledge his existence—a question about his studies from King Choi or praise on his appearance from Sumi—to which he offers a polite, five-word response before lapsing back into silence.
It’s agony. In the two hours he spends at that table, Soobin speaks to him exactly twice—once to offer another glass of water, and once to compliment his earrings. Beomgyu didn’t even remember he was wearing earrings. One of the stylists had probably tacked them on at the last moment.
Starting a conversation is pointless; Beomgyu has nothing he wants to say to Soobin. Nothing polite. Nothing interesting. Nothing personal.
When the servants begin bringing out trays of dessert, he decides he’s had enough. Making the age-old excuse of feeling tired, Beomgyu excuses himself from the table, bows to each of their guests, and retires to his room. Soobin offers to walk him, but he refuses, as graciously as he can under the sharp eyes of his parents.
After hours of discomfort, the sight of his empty bedroom is like a pair of welcoming arms. Even though the sky is scarce of stars, still tinged with yellow and green, he collapses back onto his bed, pressing his palms to his eyes. One day down, months more to go. And that’s just until the wedding. After that, he’s going to have to live with Soobin for every miserable day of his life. To wake up and see him lying on the other side of the bed. To eat breakfast across the table from him and try to come up with things to say. Maybe, he thinks bitterly, on their fifth anniversary they’ll actually have an exchange that lasts more than two sentences.
Five minutes of sulking pass, then ten. Finally, just as he’s considering getting up to light a candle, there’s a rap on the door.
“I’m sleeping,” he calls out irritably, hoping to deter whatever servant lies on the other side.
There’s a pause, and for a moment, he thinks they’ve left. But then the knock comes again—this time more of a tentative tap. Beomgyu frowns. That would have sent any staff member scattering. He wonders if it’s his mother, here to chastise him for leaving dinner early.
Lifting himself off the bed, he tramps across his room to yank the door open. “What?”
“Oh.” Towering over him, Soobin's eyes widen. “Hi.”
Of course.
He’s not in the mood to feign friendliness at this hour, but Beomgyu drops his glare—mostly because Soobin looks a little intimidated. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Yeah. Sorry if I . . . woke you up.”
“It’s all right. I—” He gestures to himself, still fully dressed. “I wasn’t really sleeping.”
“Oh,” Soobin says again. “Right.”
God, Beomgyu wishes this conversation was over. He has a whole night of sleeping alone to get to—a luxury he can only enjoy for so much longer. Unless Soobin was planning on crawling into bed with him. At this point, he wouldn’t even be surprised.
“Well,” Soobin breathes, rocking back and forth on his heels, “I won’t keep you long. I just had something for you. A gift.”
Oh. Now Beomgyu just feels like a jerk.
“I don’t have anything to give back,” he replies warily.
“That’s all right. It’s not much, anyways.” Clearing his throat, Soobin pulls out a rose. Its crimson petals are wrinkled, but stark against his pale hands—which, Beomgyu notes, are covered in fresh scratches. The realization that, after all these years, Soobin still doesn’t know how to handle roses should be further grim confirmation of their relationship’s inevitable doom. Instead, it has a strange lump forming in his throat.
“Everything else was frozen, but they’re still alive somehow, and I . . . Yeah.” Soobin extends the flower forward. “For you.”
Beomgyu takes it from him, carefully maneuvering his fingers around the thorns. Though the gesture is sweet, he isn’t sure where to even put a rose—it’s not like he has a vase. “Thank you,” he says, eyes lifting upwards.
“My pleasure.”
The conversation is stuttering, awkward—so unlike the silky smooth one they’d exchanged on the front steps. It’s because this is the real Soobin, and this is the real Beomgyu. And without the monitoring eyes of their parents, they have no clue what to talk about.
Soobin, seeming to realize this, speaks again. “The, uh, haircut is nice. I wanted to say it earlier.”
Beomgyu hates the haircut almost as much as he hates the fact that they’re still grasping at straws. “Oh, yeah. It’s fine.”
“It looked better long, though.”
And just like that, he’s ruined the conversation.
Beomgyu scowls. “You don’t think I know that?”
“Oh. Oh no, I didn’t mean it like—” Soobin’s eyes are wide again, his mouth falling open in startled realization. “It looks good now, too. I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“Thank you for the rose,” Beomgyu interrupts. “Now, goodnight.” And before Soobin can dig himself into a deeper hole, he shuts the door.
Storming back over to his bed, he tosses the rose onto his dresser, where it lands, bouncing across the wood, against the conch shell. He hopes Soobin hadn’t seen it from the doorway—he doesn’t want him getting a big head.
All the bitterness resurfaces as he undresses, shrugging off his layers and kicking them lazily into the corner. He collapses onto his pillows feeling hot-faced and irritated. In the heat of it all, he makes a firm decision: he may have to marry Soobin, but he isn't going to like it. If his parents wanted him to fall hopelessly in love with his suitor, they should have picked someone else.
Something about the vow brings a strange sense of comfort over him—an assurance that he’s not going to lose himself to the conditions of this arrangement. It’s this sense of petty security that lulls him to sleep, even with the scent of roses and the mental image of Soobin’s scarred hands hanging over him like a shroud.