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Here, dripped in fine gold and even finer silks, pulling tight around his frame and cascading down in a river of pure whites and golds, he can almost call himself another person.

A prince.

Here, dripped in small flowers and smaller stones, loose in his legs and exposing the smooth skin of his shoulders, Jaemin can almost convince himself that he’s at what is supposed to be the happiest moment of his life.

He lets out a shuddering breath when a small crown is placed on his hair, the small diamond falling on his forehead to signify someone who’s not yet of age, but will soon be taking a status higher than the one he’s currently sitting at.

As if a simple treaty wasn’t enough, a simple diplomatic meeting to discuss issues wasn’t enough, as if his whole life isn’t being taken and placed in the hands of someone else.

“Are you ready?”

Jaemin opens his eyes, meeting his mother’s gaze in the mirror. She’s beautiful, so impeccably beautiful. He wonders how she’s managed to retain her beauty throughout these years and if he’ll be able to retain his as he follows in her footsteps. 

He decides not to say a word, allowing her to come up to him. She takes another flower from the bowl, adding it to his hair and then she takes another one, and then she’s wrapping a thin gold chain from his wrists up to his collarbones. She stops when she connects them in the middle, taking a grounding breath herself before looking up at him. 

“You are ready,” she tells him in a steady voice, conviction so convincing Jaemin almost believes it himself. 

Jaemin looks past her, back to the mirror, and there he sees a prince ready to do his duty for his country. Beneath that, he sees a young prince that was ready to conquer, that was ready for everything made of gold and glory and he wonders how that prince was snuffed out so fast, doused with water that left him smoking.

Jeno, his advisor, or his would’ve been advisor had his brother kept with the decision he’d made to renounce the throne, is in the hallway when they exit the room. The moment he sees him, he holds out an arm for him to take and Jaemin has to keep himself from leaning into it too much. 

“I feel expensive,” Jaemin tells him, eyes meeting the maids that line the hall. 

“You look expensive,” Jeno says, looking over at him in amusement.

Jaemin doesn’t say anything to that, instead walking the distance to the hall they’re supposed to be in. Where thousands of people and cameras will be waiting to capture this moment, ready to show to the world two countries coming together in union and professing a bond that runs centuries deep through all the turmoil and peace. 

The orchestra is already playing by the time they get to the doors, music ringing out beautifully and demanding, and Jaemin comes to a stop, another shuddering breath coming out of him as he stares at those impending doors that lead to a future he is not ready for. 

“Jaemin?” Jeno asks, soft and careful, as if Jaemin is going to flee the moment he speaks too loudly. 

He doesn’t look over at his friend, and the music continues to ring out loudly, rubbing in his face everything he’s gained and everything he's lost.

“I can’t do this.”

The thing with being a prince, with being a crown prince, is that you learn the ways of your land until that land is part of you. 

And Jaemin did that. Even before the news had dropped, before it was released to the press, Jaemin spent his time in the palace library reading about the history of his kingdom when he wasn’t with his siblings or doing other things. He went to the large cities and the small towns, talked to the people, played with the kids, helped the workers until that skill became his skill, until everyone could say that they knew their prince, that he wasn’t merely a name spoken with promise and hope and confidence. 

His kingdom spoke his name with belief and Jaemin was ready to give them everything he was. 

He’s the second child of the family, so he wasn’t the crown prince until he was, and when he was, he worked even harder. He accompanied the king on a diplomatic meeting when he was seventeen, led the king’s advisers in another meeting when he was eighteen, opened a hospital at nineteen, and now, he’s marrying a crown prince of their neighboring kingdom to establish an alliance because tension is brewing on the borders and there’s not a word to say what will happen next at twenty. 

He was raised as a crown prince, bleeding of gold and glory and ambition and dripping ichor of conquest, and now he’s marrying a crown prince of the same statue. 

When the rings are handed out on a fine pillow, Jaemin reaches for it, hand trembling when he grabs it. He turns to the prince, the priest speaking in words that fly over his head because all he can do is stare at those dark eyes that hold uncertainty and trepidation and everything he once had in them. 

Still, his hand doesn’t falter when he opens his palm and places the ring on Jaemin’s finger. Jaemin musters everything he can, keeping his eyes from darting out to the crowd of people, the crowd of cameras, watching every move he makes, waiting for a slip up, waiting for something that shows this bond truly isn’t what it is. 

That it’s fragile and breakable, not meant to last, and it was foolish to rush two boys into a marriage. 

Jaemin wonders if there’s a secret part of himself, a selfish, deep part of himself that is almost glad he’s no longer a crown prince. 

Jaemin places the ring on the prince’s finger, eyes trained on that because it’s better than staring into eyes that make him want to surrender and challenge all in the same breath. 

His voice is deep when he says those two words, causing Jaemin to close his eyes and lose the grip he has on the prince’s hands, and when the priest asks for him to repeat the words, he takes a breath, staring hard at his shoes. His eyes dart out to the crowd unwillingly, skipping from his father to his brother to his younger sister and then finally his mother. But she’s shaking her head carefully, so miniscule it takes a familiar eye to catch it.

He turns to the prince, fear taking hold of his features the longer Jaemin lets this drag on and finally, finally Jaemin says in a voice barely above a whisper, “I do.”

The fear disappears the moment those words are spoken, as if they’re magic washing everything away, but then the prince's face hardens into something of weariness and in that weariness, there’s challenge and defeat and a helplessness Jaemin picks out so easily because he saw it in himself in the mirror upstairs. A helplessness from no longer having control, from losing control. 

They’re here for their countries, princes being handed to each other in marriage to bring a future their people can believe in. If Jaemin can’t go through with this, then his people can’t believe in him, and really, it brings the question of if he should’ve been a prince in the first place up. 

Jaemin controls his breathing. He schools his face and he stares at the prince, his husband, his prince, and he finds the control where he can, even if it’s only in the way he holds himself together. 

“With this, I pronounce Crown Prince Lee Minhyung of the Kingdom of Valia and Prince Na Jaemin of the Southern Insula husbands,” the priest calls loudly. “May your futures be filled with nothing but love, joy, and hope as you bring about a new era, a new beginning between two kingdoms as they merge into one under your bond.” 

Jaemin wants to laugh. He doesn’t because he’s a prince before anything else, but he doesn’t expect a love from this marriage. It is a treaty, a diplomatic strategy, and a duty that needs to be carried out. Every wish he had about what his love could have looked like is a simple dream now, something forgotten in the wind and a simple press of remembrance, but nothing more and nothing less.

“You may now kiss.”

The prince stares at Jaemin, eyes dark and he’s lined prettily in gold to match Jaemin, the same flowers and white and gold draped about him, tight around his form and loose in his legs. There’s less skin showing and he doesn’t have the chains Jaemin does because Jaemin is marrying into a country, so he’s meant to look more enticing, more attractive so as to be more desirable. 

The prince takes a step forward and Jaemin feels everything light on fire, fear finally taking hold of his eyes, and the need to run has never been more present. However, the prince simply grabs his wrist, gentle and delicate, and brings it up to his lips, pressing into the veins there, where his heartbeat is and where he can feel everything. The prince stares at Jaemin, lips soft where his eyes are hard, not from coldness but something Jaemin can’t place, and Jaemin almost wishes he would’ve kissed him. 

The lights are blinding when they turn to the crowd, flashes taking every point as they walk down the aisle and the hall gets loud with claps, but Jaemin knows this, he knows how the paparazzi and news is, so he smiles dutifully at the cameras until they make it out to the hallway. There, Jaemin is whisked away from the prince back to his room to be freshened up until the party later that night. 

“The Queen requests a presence with you,” Jeno tells him when he enters the room, shutting the door behind him. “Should I tell her you are not up to one yet?”

“Yes,” Jaemin says, eyes staring resolutely at his reflection in the mirror as the maids work around to fix him up. Jeno nods, slipping out of the room once more. 

“Does it have to be so tight?” He asks when the maids start fixing his dress shirt. 

“It does, I am sorry, Your Highness.”

Jaemin closes his eyes, the flowers being taken from his hair to be replaced and the gold being adjusted. There’s a burn pressing to his eyes and he tilts his head upwards, taking the time to let himself feel in the privacy of the room. 

When Jeno comes to get him, he’s put back together, held tighter together, and they make their way downstairs. When they enter the ballroom, people turn to him from every corner to speak, but he walks to the table where he’s meant to sit, taking one of the chairs, and soon the prince is joining him, handing him a glass of champagne. Jaemin accepts it, nodding to him, and looking out at the room as people speak and dance and enjoy a night Jaemin is finding difficult to enjoy himself.

“How are you doing?”

Jaemin turns to the prince, but he’s also watching the room with curious but familiar eyes. “I’m doing well,” he says, looking away. “Yourself?”

“I’m good.”

Jaemin hums, bringing the glass up to his lips. 

He wishes he could say something to dissolve the tension and awkwardness, but the prince is everything Jaemin is no longer and he can’t help that small bit of anger simmer along his skin, the pricks of jealousy that make him want to curl into shame.

“Should we dance?” 

Jaemin once again turns to the prince, takes in his well-dressed form, the way his hair curls below his ears and licks the nape of his neck, his well-placed eyes that aren't cold and aren’t warm, and the way his lips aren’t smiling or frowning. He is a Crown Prince through and through, and Jaemin wonders if he would still be able to find that in himself, if it hasn’t been put out like it should’ve been the moment his brother walked into the throne room. 

“I would enjoy it if we did,” he says, placid, perfect and polite. He takes the Crown Prince’s hand and allows himself to be led out to the dance floor where everyone can watch and scrutinize and whisper about. 

The Prince smiles, small and soft, and Jaemin allows for the tension in his shoulders to be released. 

The penthouse is quiet when they enter and the prince looks for the lights in the foyer to turn on before they have a chance to trip over things. Jaemin looks around the area, empty in the way a space is when someone is yet to move in, holding the promise of comfort and being lived in. Boxes line the walls, their names written on the fronts.

Jaemin steps further into the kitchen, looking at the floor to ceiling windows and the shine of the floors. They’ll need to go furniture shopping, which will definitely be turned into a PR stunt. Perhaps they can do online shopping. He steps out of the kitchen to follow the hallway down, peeking into the master suite before taking it further down to the other two bedrooms that lead out to a terrace. 

The place is large, almost too large despite Jaemin growing up in a castle. But there it was expected to be large, expected to have so many rooms one could get lost, and there were always people bustling about in some form. Plus, Jaemin spent a lot of time in the gardens as a kid. It was easy to not feel trapped. He walks back to the living room and takes a look at the prince who’s scrolling through his phone, fatigue evident in his face and the sag of his shoulders. He looks up when Jaemin walks in though, eyes watching as he takes another look around the room. 

“We could’ve stayed at your palace,” Jaemin said on their way to the complex. 

“Your mother suggested a place of our own,” the prince told him. “I agreed, I figured it would be easier there than having everyone breathing down our throats.”

“Do you like the place?” He asks now, genuine in a way Jaemin didn’t expect.

“I do,” he breathes, turning to look at him. “It’s…big. Too big, but I can grow to like it.”

The prince hums, the corners of his mouth pulling up slightly for a moment. “Would you like to take the master suite?”

“No, Your Highness, you should have it.”

“Mark.”

Jaemin hums, eyebrows drawing close in confusion. 

“Call me Mark,” the prince says. “We’re married, there’s no need for formalities now.”

“Right.” Jaemin takes a breath, looking away for a moment before he steels himself and looks back at the prince, Mark. “You should take the master suite.”

“We’ll split the suites,” Mark decides. “Take the one with the larger entrance to the terrace.”

Jaemin nods, deciding that that’ll work. He steps further into the kitchen, opening up the cabinets to see if there’s anything in there. “We should online shop,” he suggests, turning to face the prince and pulling at the chains around his neck. 

The prince’s eyes track the movement. He then looks up at Jaemin and he feels the same fear that took hold at the altar, the phantom lips that pressed to his veins, and he wishes the prince would stop looking at him so deeply, as if he’s trying to figure out if this is worth it. If Jaemin is worth it. 

“We should go to bed,” he suggests, hand dropping from his neck. He needs these clothes off of him as fast as he can get them and he needs to be far from the prince. He wonders if Jeno will let him crash at his apartment the floor below or if that’ll be too obvious. 

“Have a good night,” Mark says in a careful voice. 

“You as well, your Highness.”

Jaemin retreats from the kitchen, grabbing the duffle bag that was made for him and heading to the room at the farthest end of the hallway. He shuts the door behind him, taking a moment to look around before heading to the bathroom to change out of these constricting clothes and into something that’ll allow him to breathe. When he heads back to the room and climbs in bed, he can hear the sound of the shower on the other wall where the prince, his prince is at. Perhaps this is a sign that this isn’t expected to work. Perhaps the notion that husbands are sleeping in separate rooms when they should be consummating the marriage is a show that this isn’t as strong of a bond as it should be. Perhaps the Crown Prince should give up his time now before he can waste it longer. 

Jaemin’s never felt so cold lying down in bed before. 

The prince is gone when he wakes up, leaving a simple note that he’s out with his advisor, so Jaemin decides to start unpacking his boxes. He works on his room first, unpacking everything important to set up and then roams around the house until he finds an empty room to set up as his own space. He’s used to being alone in large spaces, that’s how a good part of his time back in the palace was, but here, it’s too quiet and cold and empty.

So empty. 

As reluctant to this marriage as he is, there is a part of him that wishes the prince would’ve at least spent the morning with him. They’re married and Jaemin feels too alone in this house, like he’s taking up too much space in his own home. 

He sighs, deciding to leave his spaces as they are for the moment to start rummaging through boxes for any dishes and other household goods. He sighs in relief when he sees Jeno’s handwriting on three boxes indicating dishes and cleaning supplies. He pulls them out, ready to start a deep clean on the whole place. Perhaps it’ll allow for the bad that’s accumulated over tonight to be flushed out. 

He spends hours doing work that a prince isn’t supposed to do, cleaning every ridge in the shower bathrooms and pulling apart the dishwasher to clean, but it passes the hours blissfully. Jaemin is allowed to throw himself into work for the first time in what feels like forever, where he’s allowed to control his pace and how he decides to go about everything. It brings him a peace of mind and when the sun has set, he sets out a sheet on the living room floor and orders a pizza from a nearby restaurant that one of the many bodyguards littering the building brings up to him. 

If this is to be his honeymoon time, then he’s allowed to spend it as he chooses. 

When the prince comes through the door, rolling out his neck and shrugging off his coat, he stops at the intense smell of disinfectant. 

“Did you clean?” He questions, dropping his stuff on the bar counter to walk into the living room. 

Jaemin doesn’t look away from the large wall that’s so empty, unbearably empty that it makes the place larger than what it should be. “I did,” he says. 

The crown prince steps further into the room, taking a look around. “I could’ve asked the maids to come do this for you. You shouldn’t have to clean.”

“I didn’t mind,” Jaemin tells him, trying to figure out if he’d like to mount a TV to the wall or some form of art piece. 

The prince doesn’t say anything, instead shuffling on his feet as he continues to stand at the edge of the sheet. Jaemin almost laughs from the image. He’s the Crown Prince, surely he doesn’t need permission to sit where he pleases.

Still, Jaemin holds back his words. 

“I can’t decide if a TV or art piece should go on this wall,” he eventually says, finally turning to look at the prince. 

The prince’s eyes widen, but he turns to look at the wall anyway, studying it carefully as if he’s actually putting effort and care into the answer he wants to give Jaemin. “I say a piece of art. We can mount a TV to the other wall if you choose to.” 

Jaemin hums, turning back to the wall and leaning back on his hands. “Did you eat, Your Highness?”

“Mark,” he corrects instantly. Jaemin doesn’t turn to him. “I did,” he eventually says. “It was a long day with my advisor.”

“I can draw a bath for you.”

“This is not the old times,” the prince says, a little amused. “Please do not act the way society did back then or like my mother. I’m married to you, I can draw my own bath.”

Jaemin stays silent, taking in those words and running them through his head. If he chooses, then so be it. Although, Jaemin is grateful that the prince isn’t expecting him to cater to his every whim and need. 

“Well, enjoy your night then,” he says, standing up and grabbing the pizza box. “I was thinking about going out tomorrow to buy some things for here.”

“I think the PR team wanted to have Friday designated to shopping for the place,” the prince tells him grimly. 

Of course. Jaemin takes in a breath, nodding at the words. 

“However, please treat yourself to a day out to buy yourself some things.”

“I will,” Jaemin says, staring at him in the lowlights. He wants the prince to say something, something to make this feel a little more real than what it’s been. 

The prince nods and eventually they turn away from each other, heading in opposite directions. Jaemin goes to the kitchen to put away his food and the prince heads to his room to sleep for the day. It’s lonely when he enters his room and he holds back a sigh when he closes the bathroom door behind himself. 

Husbands aren’t supposed to sleep in separate rooms nor are they supposed to spend their honeymoon time working. 

Jaemin almost wishes they would’ve moved to the palace. At least there it’s less quiet. 

The rest of the week plays out similar to how the first day went and Jaemin refuses to go furniture shopping, so their apartment is still furniture-less but filled with other things as Jaemin tries to make a home out of it. 

This is his role now and he has to do it correctly. 

The hours of online shopping and emptying boxes doesn’t make up for the quietness of the house. The prince is out and while he requested for maids to come through to clean every couple of days, it’s not enough to help the restlessness he’s feeling.

Neither is Jeno. 

Jeno, who’s his best friend and has known him since before they were born. Jeno, his would’ve been royal advisor who knows what he’s going to do before he does. 

Even he’s not enough to make up for this potent emptiness in the apartment. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks one day, sitting on the floor while Jaemin continues to stare at the wretched wall he’s yet to decide what to do with. 

“Do you know why the Prince has yet to spend one day here,” he questions, keeping his eyes on the wall.

“I don’t, but I’m sure I can find out,” Jeno tells him. 

Jaemin hums in agreement, taking a few steps back. “We should paint this wall.” 

“Is that necessary?” 

“Probably not, but this whole place should be painted,” he says, taking a look around. “This tan looks horrible.”

“I’m sure you’ll grow into it.” 

Jaemin shakes his head, walking over to his laptop. “Please run to the store to pick up some samples of white. Nothing too bright, but don’t lean towards gray. If you have to, lean towards a brown color, but I still want white.” 

“Would you like to go out yourself, Your Highness? Everyone’s been rather curious why you’ve been absent.” 

“No, I do not wish to do that,” Jaemin tells him, continuing to look at different couches online. 

Jeno doesn’t say anything, instead getting up from his spot on the floor to leave and do as his prince said to. Jaemin moves from the counter to the floor, sitting down on the sheet to continue this shopping. He refuses to buy anything big without the Crown Prince’s input. This is their place, so they should fill it how they desire to. 

It’s late when the prince comes home, as it normally is, except Jaemin’s not normally waiting for him. He stopped that after the third night. 

“What are you doing up?” 

Jaemin looks up, eyes hard as he takes in the prince’s state. He looks like he’s been run through the mud, a heavy set in his shoulders and dark eye bags. Jaemin’s almost shocked at the instant need to take care of the prince, but he instead stands up to make his way to the kitchen for water. 

“I’ve been looking at furniture online. We should pick some things soon, but I also think we should paint the place,” he tells him, leaning against the counter.

“Of course,” the prince agrees, setting his things down on the island. “We could go out this weekend if you’d like.”

“Not as a PR stunt.”

“Alright.” The prince stops, staring at him consideringly before he purses his lips and sighs. “My mother wishes for us to move into the palace.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow, his heart rate picking up with a newfound fear that he doesn’t know where it came from. “Do you wish for that, Your Highness?”

The prince opens his mouth as if to reject the formality again, but it’s been a week of Jaemin putting a distance between them with words and so he stops himself before he can waste his breath.

“I do not,” he says instead. “I wish for us to have this one thing away from all of that.”

Jaemin lets out a huff, pushing off from the counter. “Us? Since when was there an us?”

“Since we were married,” the prince says, staring at him in confusion and apprehension. 

“Your Highness—” 

“Mark.”

“Your Highness,” he emphasizes with a glare. “We are married and husbands, but there isn’t an us. I haven’t seen you all week, you’ve been off doing Lord knows what, so you don’t get to say ‘us’ when you haven’t been here to make that happen.”

“I apologize for my absence, but I figured you wanted time to sort through everything,” the prince says.

“I wanted to see my husband,” Jaemin tells him in a loud voice. He can hear the desperate edge in his words, the need to assert control, to take it back and use what he’s lost in those words. “I wanted to see what role I needed to fall into and what duties have now been entrusted with me, but I can’t do that when my husband makes himself absent.”

“We’re not husbands,” the prince tells him, knocking the breath from Jaemin’s lungs with those three words. 

“Pardon?”

“We are not husbands,” he repeats. “I refuse to be a husband out of duty. We can be the Crown Prince and the Crown Prince’s Consort, but not husbands until you want to be husbands and not because of duty.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Jaemin tells him in disbelief. 

“I’ve made myself clear. I will do everything in my power to give you everything you wish for, anything to make this all the more bearable,” the prince tells him firmly, stepping around the island to stand closer to him. The breath in Jaemin’s throat catches as the prince, his prince, stares at him intensely. “You will have all of me and everything I am the moment you decide to call me your husband because you want to and not because of duty.” 

“We are princes that are married,” Jaemin stresses, staring into the prince’s eyes. “We have a duty to our countries, both of our countries, and we have a duty to each other as husbands.”

“We have a commitment to each other,” the prince corrects. “A commitment to stand next to each other and rule together, and I will not let anyone outside of those doors infringe on that commitment and devotion. It’s there now and I apologize for my absence, I figured I was the last person you’d want to see, but we are not husbands until we both want to be that to each other. I will not have that taken from me, taken from us.” 

Jaemin takes a large breath, lungs expanding with the need to take in more air and burst from everything that is already there. He knew he was not ready for this, not ready to give everything up because his brother came back from a soul-searching trip and decided he didn’t like not having the responsibility, and now he’s married to a man asking for things Jaemin is incapable of giving.

“I do not desire to be your husband, Prince Lee,” he says in an even voice, not quiet and not loud, but it feels like a whisper meant to be said in the dark. “It’s a shame you cannot give all of that romance to someone looking for it.”

The prince’s eyes harden and he seems to take an answer in those words, resigning himself to what they’ve both knew was going to happen. What they should’ve expected to happen. 

It’s not known that the Crown Prince has a desire for a true love. He’s never been asked about it, nor has he ever spoken of it. It’s unprofessional for a royal to talk about what they desire for love and it’s cruel to themselves when they indulge in the idea. 

However, Jaemin saw it in the covered hope in the prince’s eyes as he was speaking those words, the silent fear as if he wished Jaemin would’ve told him the words he wanted to hear. But Jaemin never indulged in the thought of having a chance at love. He didn’t need to when he had a kingdom to run, when he was ready to take control and do what was best, to conquer and drip gold as he gave his kingdom everything he was. Love was never on the table and Jaemin never really minded that. 

Prince Lee wants a chance at love, a resemblance of it in the least, and Jaemin has no desire to give himself over to someone he’s now following instead of leading. 

“You refuse to call me by my name,” the prince says in an even voice. A voice suited for a Crown Prince, for a boy cusping the age of a man as he sets out to be a King. “And I refuse to call us husbands.”

Jaemin watches as the prince grabs his things, leaving the kitchen to the bedroom. He listens, staring at the spot the prince disappeared from, and the door locks with a click. 

He can hear the breath he takes and he’s once again reminded of how empty it is in this place. 

Jaemin’s not startled by the sound of the door opening as Jeno walks inside, two buckets of paint in his hands. It’s been a few days since he and the Crown Prince exchanged those words, and while he’s been trying to distract himself with mindless house tasks, the lack of presence of the prince is more apparent than ever. He’s out earlier in the morning and comes home later in the evenings. Jaemin hasn’t seen him since that night and all he can think of is the silent resignation in his eyes.

“Do you want to paint now?” Jeno asks, setting the buckets down next to the other supplies he’s bought. 

Jaemin squints at the wall. He should be doing this with his husband. 

“Let’s put a molding on this wall,” he decides. 

“A molding?”

“Yes, you know, the thin bars of wood people put on the wall to make a design,” he explains, finally looking away from the wall and at his friend. “I want to put one up.”

“Should we wait for the Crown Prince to come back and give his opinion?” Jeno asks, looking at the wall. 

“Frankly, I do not care what the Crown Prince has to say,” he responds snappishly. Jaemin sighs when Jeno looks at him with wide eyes, tucking his face into his hands. He can feel the desperation curling into the anger, the need to go home and the thought to stay warring with each other and turning into an unbridled anger he is not pleased with. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Jeno tells him earnestly. “You’re still adjusting to this all. So am I, if I’m being honest. It’s weird.”

“It is,” he agrees, looking over at the wall again. “I want to put a molding up. Today, preferably.”

“You don’t want to wait for the Crown Prince?” 

“I'm still…” Jaemin pauses, searching for what he exactly still is, what exactly he still has. “I’m still a prince. I still have power to make decisions.” 

Jeno smiles, slow and steady as he gazes at his prince, and when Jaemin meets his eyes, he can feel the slight shift in anger, growing in size and shaping into desire, ambition licking the bottom of the flames. 

Jaemin looks back at the wall. 

He’s still a prince. 

He’s a prince, a Crown Prince, a Crown Prince’s consort, and he’s all of the above, leaking with unfound power and because he’s married to someone does not make him any less powerful. It does not make him any weaker, any less human. He still bleeds and he still drips with gold, but he’ll have to give his all in a different way. The Prince is looking for a husband, but perhaps he can settle for a partner. 

“I’m going to get changed and then we can head to the department store for materials,” he tells Jeno, ignoring the wide grin he lets out. “Please ready a car.”

Jeno nods, leaving the apartment quickly and Jaemin goes to the bathroom to put himself together. To collect himself in what will be appropriate to go out. When he walks out of the door, there’s four bodyguards ready to escort him down to the lobby. 

“Your car, my prince,” the chauffeur says with a pleased smile, opening the door for him and Jeno. 

Jaemin gets in, settling back in the seat as the car then drives off. He pulls out his phone, looking for inspiration photos and consulting with Jeno because Jeno is his advisor and will always be his advisor whether it comes to foreign affairs and picking out trim for a wall. They spend more time researching how to put up a wall since they certainly have never put up something like this on their own. Still, they manage to map everything out on their own and get the trim up by the time the clock has struck eleven, and it feels amazing, like newfound energy running through Jaemin’s fingertips and spreading through his whole body. 

Jaemin steps back, taking in the work they’ve done, and for what feels like forever, a true smile crosses his face as he stares at the work he’s done. 

“Better?” Jeno asks quietly, looking over at him as Jaemin takes in the wall. 

“It’s certainly not done, but yes,” he breathes, eyes not straying for a moment. “It’s better.” 

It feels like a piece of control, a piece of his old self coming back and if that’s in the form of a wall with new trim, then so be it. He can’t allow himself to fall apart, but he can learn to love his new life. 

When Jaemin thinks about it, he decides being the Crown Prince’s Consort is not so bad. He has more leisure time than what he’s ever had, he’s allowed wherever he pleases, he can visit his family whenever he chooses, he can do whatever he chooses. 

And still, he hasn’t left the penthouse in almost a month. He stopped on the wall because finding paint is apparently harder than it looks and after the second time of going to the department store, he decided to go back to online shopping until his husband decides to start talking to him and stop avoiding him like the plague. People are wondering and he’s pacing with relentless energy, anger and frustration and fear and content swirling into a confusion pool that’s drowning him. People are starting to suspect where he is, what he’s up to, but people can fuck themselves because if Jaemin is stuck pacing dents into his floorboards, he can do that without the world peering in for knowledge they don’t need. Finally, and maybe this moment has been in the making since the moment those throne doors opened and he was faced with the bane of existence, he snaps. 

He snaps in the sense of getting a car to take him to the palace when he wakes up and decides he’s had enough of doing nothing. Jeno accompanies him to the palace, dressed in clothing fit for an advisor, and he fixes the collar of Jaemin’s shirt. It’s a simple outfit, different from what he’s used to because he’s the Crown Prince’s Consort so he hasn’t been granted rights to coating fit for a King. 

The prince has been listening to the Lords of the kingdom state what’s been happening in their areas and what they wish, what they demand, and Jaemin’s sure he’s tired of it. Jaemin grew tired after the third person demanding more and more without giving back what they took, but now he’s dying for some form of action, some type of conversation that can raise his annoyance and earn an emotion other than the confusion he’s been feeling for months. 

He doesn’t hesitate to open the doors to the hall, taking in with satisfaction as the room falls with silence and raises with whispers as he walks in with Jeno behind him. He keeps his eyes ahead, keeps them trained on his prince as he watches with curious eyes, sitting up straighter in his throne and finally having some life return to his eyes. Jaemin walks up the steps to stand next to the prince, placing a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up and offering his throne. A Crown Prince’s Consort is supposed to sit next to the Crown Prince, but he sits always and Jaemin refuses to take the power he has from that chair away. 

He looks at the Lord that spoke loud and with conviction, demands and frustration hidden behind polite words but loud enough to be heard from the doors. Jaemin’s surprised the prince sat there in silence, but maybe they’re more alike than he thought. 

“Lord Darwin, yes?” He asks, ignoring the way his husband looks up at him. The Lord nods, eyes widening and then squinting when Jaemin doesn’t say anything. “That’s down by the southern tip, am I right?”

“It is, Your Highness,” he says, smiling charmingly. Jaemin keeps his fingers from digging harder into the Crown Prince’s shoulder. “We’re known for having some of the best orchards in the country.”

“Yes, I recall hearing about your orchards, Lord Darwin.” 

“You should take a trip down when you’re next free and I’ll give you a personal tour,” the Lord tells him. 

“Perhaps I will,” Jaemin agrees. “However, I do recall there being an issue some of my merchants had with your stands about the prices of your fruits when they tried to buy from you to bring back to the Southern Insula. So, perhaps to counter the decrease you’ve had with sales recently as the seasons start to change and allow for there to be a higher abundance of fruits to sell, I would consider lowering your prices. I would hate for you to have any more issues added to your plate.”

The hall is silent as his words sink in and Jaemin can see the twitch in Lord Darwin’s neck, but he nods hastily anyway. The prince doesn’t look at him because that would be bad news for them to have the Crown Prince stare at him in amazement as if he’s never even seen his husband before. Their bond is unbreakable now, something that’s firm and written in stone, and one little slip up because they lost their mind for a mere second could be dangerous. 

The Crown Prince doesn’t look at him, simply finishes his talk with the Lord and sends in for the next one to demand and take and request, so Jaemin keeps his hand firm on the Prince’s shoulder and keeps his mouth shut in the silent support he needs to show. 

When Jaemin leaves the room, stepping down and away from his prince, he feels a great swell of satisfaction as he steps out of the room. It served him well to get out and to the palace, and perhaps this is the first step to the world seeing the new prince. A prince that is in a different position, now no longer leading but being led, but also having room to stand besides instead of behind, and this prince will still be kind and caring, and he’ll make his new people believe in him as he will continue to drop of gold and glory and give everything he is, but in different ways. 

Jaemin’s steps falter in the hallway when the door opens and closes. He glances at the stained glass windows that seem to only shine on him, framing him in colored lights that cast him with beauty and depth, and when he turns around, the prince is walking towards him, seeming to miss every chance of light from the windows, but it’s powerful and intimidating and beautiful. 

The prince stops before him, a hair’s breadth away, and Jaemin keeps his eyes neutral, into the practiced form he grew up on until he can determine what the prince desires by rushing from his meeting. 

His eyes are deep as they take Jaemin in and the longer he stares, the more Jaemin can feel the press of lips to his wrist and eyes to his skin. It makes him crawl, wanting nothing more than to run from that gaze and drown in the touch. If he closes his eyes, he can feel the way the prince presses his lips to his wrist, right above an artery that would be so easy to open, but still, the prince’s touch was soft. 

“Why did you come?” He eventually asks, seeming not to have found his answer in Jaemin’s silence. 

“I needed out,” Jaemin tells him, earning a perfectly raised eyebrow. “I missed that.”

“You missed a bunch of greedy Lords telling you what you should give them without any explanation as to why?”

Jaemin refuses the urge to roll his eyes. “I missed the feeling of turning someone down, of pointing out their wrongs and feeling the satisfaction that comes from the conversations. I missed the urge to get it all over with when they draw on too long and I miss the feeling of counting every time a Lord can say ‘Your Highness.’” 

The prince lets out a breath that Jaemin doesn’t know how to classify. His face remains still, hard and handsome and princely. He’s such a prince, Jaemin almost feels consumed from being in the same proximity of him, two dominating sides warring with each other on who should submit first and who should come out as victorious. 

“You’re astounding,” the prince eventually says, face softening out impossibly. 

Jaemin feels his breath catch in his throat and the urge to surround himself in those words take place, but there’s also the feeling of fleeing from the spot that takes a stronger hold. He can feel the lips pressed to his skin, warm and soft in ways the prince wasn’t.

“I’m afraid I can only offer you a partnership, Your Highness,” he tells him in a low voice, only for them and the light and shadows they’re shrouded in. 

“I wish you would call me by my name,” the prince whispers, eyes still staring at Jaemin’s, never once looking away or faltering.

How easy it would be if they were normal and not forced into this. How easy it would be to take his words and his voice and imprint them on his skin. Drown in his actions and live in his eyes. How easy it would be if Jaemin wasn’t desperately clinging to control and power, feeling as if he was tumbling down a bottomless pit with no stop, but maybe the prince is the one dragging him down into those chambers so they can climb out of this together. How easy it would be if this was natural and destined, and not something forced upon them where Jaemin had half of him taken. 

“I will see you when you come home, Your Highness,” he says, voice shaky under his stare and weak where Jaemin isn’t supposed to be. He takes a silent breath and turns before he can lose himself even more, grabbing his control and leaving with it. 

When he gets up the next morning, he’s shocked to find the prince standing in the living room staring at the wall. Jaemin stops in the hallway, taking in the prince in comfortable clothes as he holds a bagel in his hand. He steps closer, leaning against the wall and watching. 

The prince finally notices him after a moment, looking over with startled eyes, but really, it should be Jaemin that’s surprised. And he is. He hasn’t seen the prince in over a week and now he’s here, in sweats and holding a bagel, staring at Jaemin as if he’s the one that’s been out of the house for two weeks straight. 

“I see you found something to do with the wall,” he says, glancing over at it. 

“I did,” Jaemin agrees, taking careful steps into the room. 

“I like it,” the prince tells him, turning to face him. Jaemin hums, glancing at the wall.

“I was going to paint it today,” he mentions. 

“That’ll be nice,” the prince agrees timidly. “I should probably let you get to it if you wish to finish early.”

“Do you wish to paint it with me?” Jaemin asks, looking over at the prince carefully, watching brown eyes grow in shock. 

“I…” the prince trails off, mouth closing as he looks over at the wall. 

Jaemin steps away, pulling the prince’s attention back to him, and he heads to the buckets of paint by the window, grabbing the roller and assembling it. He hands it over to the prince who takes it gingerly, grabbing a paintbrush of his own. The prince looks at him closely, a little hesitant and on edge, which Jaemin isn’t surprised by. After all, the last words they exchanged involved Jaemin flat out rejecting anything the prince had to offer and now he’s giving the prince a chance to spend time with him. 

Still, the prince must find something there, because he finishes the last of his bagel in one bite and helps Jaemin drag the buckets over.

“I’ve never painted a wall before,” he admits. “Much less a wall with this many intricacies.”

“Neither have I,” Jaemin tells him. “It’ll be a learning experience.”

The prince offers him a small smile, something Jaemin can’t quite reciprocate but he hopes the sentiment is there. He can hear the breath the prince takes as he grabs the roller and moves to the wall. Jaemin watches him start painting the wall, taking in the way his shirt hangs from his frame with wrinkles and the mess of his hair from just waking up. If Jaemin looks hard enough, if he pushes back the titles and the formality and the words, he can picture the prince as a man of twenty. Too young to be grown, but too old to be a child—simply a man of twenty painting the walls of his new house. And if he looks even closer, he can see himself standing next to the prince as his husband, or even as his friend. Friends who share an apartment for college, or husbands who are recently married and still floating on the high from establishing a life-long bond that’ll last in better or worse with complete, willful devotion that doesn’t come from expectation or duty, but from the simple desire of wanting to. 

For a moment, it’s no longer Crown Prince Lee Minhyung of the Kingdom of Valia and Prince Na Jaemin of the Southern Insula; Princes bound together for the good of their kingdom to bring prosperity and peace. For a moment, it’s Mark and Jaemin, and Jaemin and Mark, and they’re simple and in love and it’s easy, and it feels like clarity. 

It feels like want and desire, and Jaemin can only dig his nails in deeper to the ledge he’s carefully holding onto. 

When Jaemin comes out from the bathroom, he finds Mark in the kitchen standing over a pan. He pauses, taking in how the prince is continuously turning over the rice in the pot, his other hand scrolling down the document that’s propped up on his iPad. They’ve finally finished the wall, a long day spent with something above small talk and even a few laughs, and Jaemin has to take a moment to take in how normal this all is. 

Mark’s hair is still scuffed in the back and his sweats hang loose on his frame, so very different from the form-fitting clothes he normally wears. He looks at ease in the kitchen, their kitchen, and when he hears Jaemin walk into the kitchen, he pauses, turning around to send Jaemin a small smile. Jaemin’s eyes widen at that and his hand curls around the doorframe from where he’s standing, but he finds himself finding a way to send one back, a little more hesitant and unsure, but it makes the prince’s smile widen as he turns back to the pan. 

“I found some fried rice in the fridge, so I was just heating it for dinner,” Mark tells him. “Are you alright with that?”

“That’s perfect, Your Highness,” Jaemin says, pausing at the words that escape from his mouth. Mark’s hand pauses from where he’s stirring the rice, but he picks it up soon afterwards. Jaemin walks quickly to the cabinet, not questioning why the prince doesn’t just stir it occasionally to make sure it doesn’t burn, and grabs out two bowls. He hands them over to Mark, heading to the fridge and pulling out two sodas to carry to their dining table.

“Do you want to invite Jeno up for dinner?” Mark asks, walking to the table with the two bowls. Jaemin looks back to see the iPad still sitting on the counter untouched. 

“I figured it could just be a day for us two,” he decides, taking the bowl from him. “You missed what was supposed to be the honeymoon period.”

“My apologies,” the prince says, taking a seat across from him. “That period was rather awkward anyway. I figured I was the last person you would’ve even wanted to see.”

“I wouldn’t put that reason so far into the left field,” Jaemin says in a low voice, keeping his eyes on his bowl. 

“I wanted to give you space,” the prince says. “To adjust.”

“I would’ve been fine. I’m not fragile, Your Highness,” Jaemin tells him, scrapping half of his rice to the side. 

“I know you’re not.”

Jaemin pauses, looking up to meet the prince’s eyes, and that dreadful feeling is back. The one that’s wrapping its hands around his wrists and neck to hold him in place, and there’s so much conviction to the prince’s words, so much truth held in his eyes, as if he truly believes Jaemin is not some weak prince that was shipped off to be married and bedded. 

“I heard about you when we were young,” Mark tells him, finally looking away from his food. Younger than what they are now is what he means, because they’re still young and they still had a life for them, but it was always meant to be planned out for them. “At some of the racing festivals or the archery festivals, or even when we got older and you started doing more things in your kingdom.”

Jaemin’s breath catches in his throat. He’s always known of Prince Lee Minhyung of the Kingdom of Valia, always heard of how well-behaved he was, how quiet and obedient the young prince was, so vastly different from Jaemin and so much of the same that he casted every thought of Prince Lee Minhyung of the Kingdom of Valia from his mind. He remembers Prince Lee Minhyung as being a figure on the outside of his childhood, someone always brought up in conversation and compared to him, and yet, it was never enough to truly cause him to seek out the young prince. 

“My father talked about you a lot,” the Crown Prince says. He looks up at Jaemin, hope rising in his eyes and quickly falling with defeat, fear and challenge and a sense of lost control laced within them. “Do you remember me?”

Jaemin remembers a lot. He remembers the time he and Jeno got dirty in the gardens as kids, and he remembers taking the blame for a broken vase so his sister didn’t get yelled at, and he remembers treacherous council meetings and training sessions that left his muscles brittle for days on end. He remembers how dominant his father looked sitting on his throne and how regal his mother looked draped in their home colors of gold and blue, the way he and his siblings sat together to bring hope to a kingdom that was always in need of it.

But he also remembers greetings passed between two young princes, and he remembers watching poised hands draw an arrow back during tournament, or how during one of the races, a young prince caught another tacking a horse up to sneak off and instead of saying anything, he merely went to one of the stallions and fed it a carrot. Jaemin remembers watching how loving the young prince was to the animal and when he was older, he remembers looking through news articles and seeing a solemn face, so princely and reserved, and he remembers staring at a wide smile through his phone screen that seemed to take over the whole picture. And he remembers dark hair and even darker eyes, an endless sea that’s so easy to get lost in if one doesn’t have the proper equipment, and he remembers the faint touch of lips to an artery, so easy to break and yet the touch was so gentle. 

“I don’t remember much, Your Highness,” he says in a placed voice, watching the subtle shift in the prince’s eyes as he doesn’t look away from Jaemin. His hand grips his fork harder and he moves to rub at his wrist, wipe the feeling away before his skin can crawl even more.

“You–...” The Crown Prince cuts himself off sharply, looking down at his bowl. Jaemin resists the urge to squirm in his seat, instead forcing himself to continue to look at the prince. “I wish you would stop doing that.”

“Doing what, Your Highness?”

“Holding yourself back,” Mark says, looking back up at him. “I can see it, you know? I see the hesitation and I see the fear, and I understand, but what I don’t understand is why you refuse to believe I am on your side in this?”

“This is not a matter of us, Your Highness,” Jaemin tells him. 

“Mark,” he corrects. 

“Your Highness,” Jaemin says again, all previous emotions slowly dissolving to anger. 

“Do not do that,” the prince says. “I don’t know if I’ve done something, or if this is the cause of something else that happened, but I wish you would stop putting this barrier between us.”

“If I recall, you were the one that said we were not husbands,” Jaemin fires back. 

“I said we were not husbands out of duty,” the prince corrects. “I refuse to be someone’s husband because of the crown. We were married under it, but I still wish to have a partner in this. I wish to build something from this, and as much as you’re trying to cling to your control, you absolutely refuse anything to do with taking back some of your control within this marriage.”

Jaemin sets his fork down, tongue hardening in his mouth, and he stands up from the table. The Crown Prince watches with trepidation, wariness evident from the words he just spoke, but there’s not an ounce of regret in the way he watches Jaemin. It makes his blood boil and not for the second time does he wish to be living in the palace so he could find a place to let out his anger in the comfort of being alone. 

“To think we were having such a good time,” he says snappishly, grabbing his bowl and carrying it into the kitchen without a second glance. He sets the dish in the sink, walking quickly out of the living area and to his room before frustration can build itself into tears and spill over. He slams his door as he hears the sound of chair feet scraping against the floor, crossing the wide room that’s still bare even after all this time, and steps out onto the balcony. The sun has fully set now, the city now casted in the moon’s light, and wind whips through the small balcony. Jaemin shivers, gripping the handrailing tightly, and instead of finding his breath, he only manages to lose it more. 

The sound of the door opening has him pausing, turning around sharply when the outside light is turned on, only offering so much lighting as the Crown Prince steps out on the balcony. 

“What are you doing?” He demands, watching the other cross the threshold, stopping right in front of him. Jaemin frowns, pressing further into the guardrail as he glares at him. 

“I apologize for my words offending you,” he says slowly, eyes taking in all of Jaemin. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“Then what was?”

“I wish you would try,” the prince says, quietly, words meant to be uttered in complete darkness, not here where there’s light to show the vulnerability and truth in them. Everything is so much easier to hide when it’s complete darkness and Jaemin doesn’t have to stare at the prince’s eyes swirling with lights and truth. “Why aren’t you willing to give this a go?”

“You married me for your country, as did I,” Jaemin tells him, squaring his shoulders and taking advantage of the few centimeters he has over Mark. “I fear, this won’t end well for me, if I do.”

“I am your husband,” the prince tells him, taking a step forward. “My kingdom is not married to you, I am, and at this point, I’m asking for a partnership.”

“I can give you a partnership,” Jaemin says. 

“But not a marriage.”

Jaemin stays silent. Forces the prince to find his answer in the lack of words. He does, and his lips slowly press into a firm line.

“You stare at me like you’re afraid,” the prince says in a low voice. Jaemin takes in a sharp breath, his hand curling around the railing at words that are meant to be covered by the dead of the night. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jaemin assures. It would be pointless to be because Jaemin holds equal weight in this marriage, and he holds even more weight in the kingdom if he were to truly think about it because there’s no possibility of this royal family thinking of even angering his, not when they forced a marriage to take the place of a treaty.

“I know you’re not, and so it makes me question why when I look at you, I see someone who is young and afraid,” the prince muses curiously. “If you have no reason to, why are you?”

Jaemin doesn’t say anything to that, instead watching as the prince takes another step towards him. He watches the prince take all of him in, forcing himself still as the prince slowly raises a hand to cup the side of his face. 

“You are extraordinary, my prince,” Mark says in a voice only meant for them. “I do not understand why you limit yourself here.”

“You speak dangerous things, my prince,” Jaemin tells him pointedly. 

“There is no one here to watch,” the prince points out. “No one to listen, so please, do not limit yourself. I wish to know you, to learn about you.”

“For what reason?” Jaemin questions. “Is it not enough to simply live with each other and continue on with life? Does it hurt your pride so much to know I do not like you?”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Do you not like me?”

“Do not go so beneath yourself to beg for my attention, Your Highness.”

“It is not beneath me to wish for your attention to be on me,” Mark tells him carefully, truthfulness held strong in his eyes. “You’re my husband. Of course I’m going to want your attention on me at every moment of the day.”

“I’m your husband now?”

“Do you want to be? Do you want me to be your husband?”

Jaemin’s tempted to tell him yes, tell him yes, there’s a part of me that’s begging to let go and fall into you. How easy and simple it would be to spend every day as the one today, how easy and simple it would be to fall in love with the prince. He makes it so easy and yet so hard. Jaemin’s tempted to tell him no out of pure spite. 

“You said that you would do everything in your power to give me what I wish for the moment I called you my husband,” Jaemin tells him. 

“Is that what it takes for you to try and call me your husband?” Mark questions. “Would you like it if I got to my knees and begged for you to take one look at me? Begged for you to want me as I do you, to want to know me in the same way I wish to know you? Does it make you feel powerful to know the control you could have over me if you so much as desire to call me the one thing I ask you to?”

There’s truth in the prince’s eyes and there’s truth in his words, and that’s dangerous. This prince speaks of dangerous things and could learn to hold his tongue, but the first spark of something other than poise and obedience flickers into Mark’s eyes. There’s something other than wariness and challenge because if Jaemin looks at the prince with fear, then he looks at Jaemin with apprehension. There’s desire and there’s want, and Jaemin can feel it reflected in him and if he were to look close enough, he could pick out the sparks within his own eyes, and it’s beautiful. 

“You have a way with your words, Your Highness,” Jaemin admits. “However, it’s late and we both have meetings in the morning.”

Jaemin pushes him away before he can see the uptick of his mouth, refusing to acknowledge the way his own heart starts up. He walks purposefully to the bathroom, shutting himself in with a lock of the door and releasing all of the air from his lungs before it boils over. 

“You’re hard on him,” Jeno notes a week later, lips pulling up in amusement as he watches Jaemin dirty the once clean kitchen with bowls and pans for the cake he’s making. 

“He can take it,” Jaemin assures. 

“I’m sure he can, however, I don’t think he wants to.”

“If Prince Lee wishes for a marriage then he can work for it,” Jaemin decides with a grimace. “Or something like that. I don’t know.”

Jeno laughs, picking at one of the raspberries in the cartoon he’s pulled out. “You like him.”

“I do not,” Jaemin replies sharply, looking up at his friend quickly. 

“No, you definitely do,” Jeno corrects. “It's cute. How adamant you are to hate him and everything to do with this marriage, I mean.”

“I cannot hate my husband,” Jaemin mutters. 

“But you definitely try to,” Jeno muses with another laugh. Jaemin doesn’t say anything, instead turning on the standing mixer while he makes the frosting and glaring over at Jeno, earning a bright smile in return. “At least he’s handsome. That makes this more bearable, yes?”

“Oh, yes, how fortunate I am to have married someone good-looking,” he deadpans. 

Jeno shrugs. “I’m simply saying it's not something bad to have.”

“Isn’t it time for you to be leaving?” He questions, looking over at the clock on the stove. “Isn’t that Duke waiting for you to meet him?” 

“I’m simply just saying to take a chance,” Jeno tells him. “I know you’re scared because this is new and you haven’t had this before, and I know you’re trying to take back your power, but you never lost it.”

Jaemin looks away from the mixer to stare at him, eyebrow raising just a little for Jeno to continue. 

“You’re going to be the King’s husband whenever he takes the throne,” Jeno tells him. “You never lost the power of being a King, even if you aren’t the Crown Prince. And you’re not going to be the one calling the main shots, but I’m sure Prince Lee will consult with you about decisions should you wish to be included, and you have the power of your husband. From what you tell me, he’s ready to do anything you ask. So, this is new, and it’s scary and you had a part of you taken from you, but I don’t think all's been lost.”

Jaemin sighs silently, turning back to the mixer. He’s thought of that plenty of times before and has come to the conclusion it’s less of a ‘losing control’ situation that’s making him act the way he is, and more of a ‘Mark’ situation.

He doesn’t know how to act around the prince. 

He simultaneously angers him from having everything he used to have, and makes him want to give up complete control and spend days painting walls and doing other things that are normal and easy. 

“I’m just saying I don’t think it would be bad if you decided to actually have a marriage and be happy,” Jeno tells him in a quiet, soothing voice. “You deserve everything, Nana, but especially happiness.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jaemin tells him truthfully, earning a full smile back from him. “Now get going. Go meet your Duke and send him my regards.” 

“You know he won’t like that,” Jeno says amusedly. 

“Well, Donghyuck can just deal with it.”

Jeno laughs fully, packing up his things and leaving. Jaemin takes the cakes out of the oven after seeing him out of the penthouse, putting them in the fridge and then moving to finish the frosting. There’s soft music playing from the speakers and it calms Jaemin’s soul while he waits for the prince to come home. It also gives him time to think. 

A lot of time, and when Mark does get home, his brain is tired, he’s ready for bed, and just looking to finish this cake. The sun hasn’t even set yet. 

“You bake?” Mark asks, poking his head into the kitchen as he takes off his shoes. 

“Your clothes for the ball arrived and are in your room,” Jaemin tells him instead, focusing intently on finishing the last of the frosting from where he’s piping.

“Have you eaten?” 

“I have not,” Jaemin tells him, pulling away when he finishes the piping on the cake. He stares at his finished work, his lips curling upwards with satisfaction at the results of the cake. 

Mark stays quiet and when Jaemin glances over at him, he’s scrolling through his phone. Jaemin holds back a sigh, turning back to his cake and starting to add some raspberries he pulled out earlier. He’s not entirely sure why he made this, but before the wedding happened, he started expanding his baking when he had a free chance. It definitely wasn’t princely, but the kitchen was free late at night and his sister and mother enjoyed the desserts. 

“That looks beautiful,” Mark says, coming up next to him with a bowl of cereal. Jaemin glances over, holding back a flinch, and hums silently. “How’d you learn?”

“Myself,” Jaemin tells him. “I just got curious with the cooks and so I picked it up when I had a free chance.”

“That’s really cool.”

Jaemin can’t help himself. He laughs a little, turning to look at the prince to see his eyes widen. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Jaemin assures. “Just…you have a way with words. It’s nothing.”

“Well,” Mark trails off, tilting his head to the side in confusion. Jaemin closes the container of raspberries, setting them off to the side and pushing the cake stand away before placing the glass lid on top. “Here, you eat, I’ll clean up.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” Jaemin says quickly, turning to look at the prince. “I’ll do it myself when I’m done. You’ve had a long day.”

“Take the bowl,” Mark insists. “I’ll clean.” 

Jaemin stares at him a little helplessly and after a moment, Mark pushes the bowl to him, knocking his hand gently. He sighs, taking it from him and moving to the table to start eating. Jaemin watches Mark move around the kitchen as he starts to clean up, the both of them silent, and occasionally, Mark turns to look at him only to have Jaemin quickly look down. 

This is stupid. It’s as if they’re grade schoolers playing a weird game of tag to see who will catch the other first with their eyes, but Jaemin doesn’t want to look away from what shouldn’t be as domestic of a scene as it is. But Mark—he makes it easy to always want to look at him. Whether he’s sitting on a throne donned in authority and a crown, or bathed in the shadows of colored lights, eyes dark and intimidating, or whether he’s dressed in white, dripping gold and apprehension and duty and glory, or pressed close to Jaemin where the breadth of his chest is merely a breath away and there’s truth in his words, in his eyes, in his touch, demanding, begging to pull Jaemin down into ruins where he’ll leave him with the want and desire to follow him wherever he may go, Jaemin never wants to look away from him. 

Mark could lead him wherever he wants, as long as he keeps his eyes on Jaemin and his touch gentle where he is not. 

“I’m going to retire for the night,” he decides after some time of swirling his spoon around in the leftover milk. 

Mark hums, turning to watch him walk over to the sink and hand the bowl over. 

“I’m going to be rather busy for the rest of the week,” the prince tells him, setting the bowl down and looking over at him. “I hope you do not mind.”

“I don’t,” Jaemin tells him. 

Mark looks away, hair falling in front of his eyes. “That’s a shame, I was hoping you would. Then it would give me a reason to leave my schedule.”

“Don’t let me interfere with your duties, my prince,” Jaemin reprimands. “You are the Crown Prince.”

“And yet I wish to only be Mark Lee,” the prince says, meeting Jaemin’s gaze once again. 

“I told you, Your Highness, you speak dangerous things.”

“There is no one here to listen,” Mark tells him again, voice dropping. 

Jaemin holds his gaze firmly. “You should head to bed before you get any more ideas and start spewing nonsense.” 

“Will you dance with me?” Mark asks when he turns around, eyes wide and hopeful and cautious. “If I ask, will you?”

“Now?”

“At the ball,” he clarifies. 

“I don’t see a reason as to why I wouldn’t,” Jaemin tells him in confusion. “It’s to be expected. I think it would be weird if we didn’t.”

Mark presses his lips together, taking a step so he’s back in Jaemin’s space and taking all of the oxygen from the air. When he looks up at Jaemin, there’s a heavy pressure pushing down on his chest. 

“If I ask, will you dance with me because you want to? Not because you’re expected to.”

Jaemin stares at him, takes in the set to his jaw, the way his hair has grown out since the wedding, and the pink to his lips that has desire curling low in his stomach. 

“You should head to bed, my prince,” he says carefully. 

A smirk pulls at Mark’s lips, as if there’s an answer in Jaemin’s words he’s unaware of, and he shakes his head slightly as Jaemin turns around and walks to his room, desperate to put as much space between them as he can.

Jaemin gets dressed in one of the rooms at the palace, next to the one Mark is in, and a level above where the ball is happening. This way, it’s easier for them to enter and present themselves, together as a couple on their first meeting. The clothes he’s donned in are beautiful, all hand-crafted with the utmost care for a Crown Prince’s Consort. Instead of a crown, something that’s essentially been abandoned for the last fifty years except when the occasion calls for such importance, his hair is done so it falls smoothly against his forehead with a small clip with the kingdom’s insignia pinned to the side. He’s the only mark of his kingdom, his body adorned in the finest from the Kingdom of Valia where he himself is the symbol of the Southern Insula. 

There’s a knock on the door before Jeno walks in, dressed in pressed clothes of the same colors. “The Crown Prince requests a visit before the two of you head downstairs,” he tells him after he’s shut the door. “Is that alright?”

“No, it is,” Jaemin tells him, allowing the maid to spray him with cologne. 

“You look beautiful, my prince,” Jeno tells him with a smile, coming to stand up next to him. Jaemin smiles at him through the mirror. 

“As do you,” he says, grabbing a necklace from the vanity and passing it to him. “Here, it’ll bring the Duke’s eyes downwards.” 

“That’s scandalous,” Jeno says with a laugh, but takes the necklace anyway. Whether he wishes to wear it or not, Jaemin will leave it up to him. “Are you finished?” 

Jaemin looks over at the maids, nodding when they give him nods, and Jeno walks away.

“I’ll send the Crown Prince in.” Jeno pauses at the door, turning around to look at him. “And my prince,” he starts, biting his lip when Jaemin looks over at him. “Allow yourself to let go, even if it’s just for tonight. I have a feeling there will be arms waiting to catch you.” 

Jaemin takes in a large breath as Jeno leaves, looking at himself in the mirror as the finishing touches are made. There’s truth in Jeno’s words and there’s a part of Jaemin that screams to finally let go, let go and drown in Mark, and yet there’s something holding him back. Perhaps it’s his own mind. He wonders if this is what it was like for his mother, if she had this much of a problem letting go of her control and trusting that things will turn out fine. 

Or perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps she realized there is power in a marriage and there is truth in a love, and perhaps she wishes Jaemin to have the same view. Perhaps Mark is right and there’s a way to turn something he was forced to into his own and he can carve out his own path with Mark, making their own way with the sculpt of their hands. Perhaps Jaemin can still bleed with glory and gold and give his kingdom everything he is while allowing himself something good, allowing himself want and desire and something good. 

Because when Mark walks into the room, the same white and deep green colors framing his body, medals pinned to his right side and an insignia on the other, dark eyes framed by darker hair, there’s want in Jaemin’s stomach that burns into desire and the need to take and take and take until there’s nothing left of Mark—because he’s greedy. He’s greedy and he bleeds of gold and glory and there’s a selfish part of him that wants to take truth in the words Mark speaks and please him, give him what he desires and take what he chooses. Give into that devotion the Crown Prince speaks so highly of. 

Mark stops when he looks at him, only a few feet away and the maids scurry away, leaving the room silently. Jaemin turns to face him, the first bout of self-consciousness taking hold. He realizes, standing in front of Mark with dark eyes on him, that he wants to look good for the Crown Prince. 

He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, eyes still trained on the prince, mostly from instinct of not backing down and partly to see his reaction to seeing Jaemin dressed in his colors. 

“You look…beautiful,” the prince decides, taking a step closer. And Jaemin’s heard those exact words numerous times, but hearing them from the prince’s mouth causes a new type of warmth to seep into him. 

“You as well,” he says in a careful voice, bringing hands up to smooth out the collar of Mark’s outfit, not because there’s something there but because he wants to feel the warmth of the prince. “You look very handsome.” 

“Is this a compliment I’m hearing?” Mark asks in a teasing tone. Jaemin rolls his eyes, taking his hands away. 

“Be careful with your words, my prince, I don’t give compliments out lightly.”

“Then how lucky am I to receive such praise.”

And he says it like he means it, like he truly relishes whatever attention Jaemin gives him. It’s powerful and intoxicating and it makes Jaemin’s head dizzy as his cheeks heat up. 

“We should head down before people start wondering,” he says, looking over at the clock on the stand. “It’s almost time for us to make our presence.” 

“We have time,” Mark says in a low voice, eyes taking in all of Jaemin. He brings a hand up slowly to push the hair that’s fallen from his eyes, fingers trailing down the side of his face afterward, and Jaemin allows him, forces himself to keep from leaning into the touch. “Let me admire you in this light, when it’s just us and things aren’t as harsh.” 

Jaemin sucks in a breath. “How is it you’re able to say such things in times like this and such nonsense at other times?”

“Is it getting to you?” Mark asks with a smirk, taking his hand away. It infuriates Jaemin with how attractive he looks here with arrogance shining bright on his face. “Are my words finally affecting you? If I were to tell you I’m trying to get you to fall for me, would you believe it? Are my efforts futile, or have I managed to start capturing your heart?”

“I think you need to try harder if you wish for me to fall for you,” Jaemin tells him. “I told you, you should’ve found someone else to give your romance to.” 

“My husband is so cruel,” Mark says with a click of a tongue. “What does a man have to do to earn your affection?” 

“I’m sure you’re on the right track,” Jaemin tells him. Jeno’s right; He needs to let go, if not just for tonight. There are arms waiting to catch him and how miserable it would be to not fall into them. 

Mark laughs, full and bright and disbelieving, and Jaemin is helpless to stop the smile that breaks out on his face. “You truly are extraordinary, my prince.” 

“We should leave now,” Jaemin says, leaving the prince to watch as he makes his way to the door. He stops, turns around, and holds out an arm for him to take. 

When they get to the doors, the music is loud enough to be heard from the other side and Jaemin is hit with a major sense of deja vu, except last time he was faced with a situation he didn’t have a choice in and now he has a decision he can choose to make. He turns to Mark, takes in the set of his face, the princely manner at which he stares at the doors, waiting to face his people, and he decides then. He decides and it feels freeing and terrifying, but he lets go of Mark’s arm and decides. 

The Crown Prince turns to him in confusion, but Jaemin nods towards his hand and sends him a hopeful look, nerves running wild as he stares at the prince and hopes he gets the message. Slowly, he moves his hand to touch Mark’s and something lights up in Mark’s eyes as he holds out his hand, fingers splayed and ready to grab whatever Jaemin offers him. Jaemin takes the hand, intertwines their fingers, and it’s so untraditional, bound to leave the tabloids and elders talking about the lack of tradition, but Jaemin decides and this is what he decides. 

Mark squeezes his hand, running his thumb over the back of his hand, and the doors open for them. Lights flash in every possible direction, blinding as the music goes silent for them to walk in as they’re presented. Jaemin walks side-by-side with Mark, never behind him, and they make their way to the end of the walkway that’s been made for them, the last of the guests now present. Mark stops, turns to him, and in a low voice only for him, he asks, “Do you care to dance, my prince?”

And Jaemin is helpless to say no, so all he does is nod, and allows Mark to lead him out to the dance floor. Where he was once following Mark to the center in front of everyone out of obligation, now he’s doing it because he wants to, because he wants to have this dance with Mark and he only wants Mark’s eyes to ever be on him and his hands only on him in a delicate hold because Jaemin can be delicate and he can place his trust in someone else and he can be beautiful. 

“I lied,” Mark says when their hands meet, the two of them walking in one full circle before turning and connecting their opposite hands to walk in another circle. “You’re impossibly beautiful out here. There is no harshness, not when your eyes swirl with thousands of lights and when you smile at me like you want to. How lucky was I to get such a beautiful husband?” 

“How did I get stuck with such a consistent husband?” Jaemin asks, placing his hands on the prince’s shoulder and clasping his other hand. “Do you ever give up?”

“A prince never gives up on what he wants,” Mark tells him, dipping him carefully. Jaemin extends an arm out, looking off to the side, and then Mark brings him up carefully. “Even we are greedy, my prince.”

“We most definitely are,” he agrees, the two of them starting to move. 

Mark’s hands are heavy on him, impossibly warm and impossibly secure, and Jaemin never lets his eyes stray from him, nor does Mark’s ever from his. He watches and watches and watches, and at some point, a large smile breaks out on Jaemin’s face the longer they dance and the same gets mirrored on Mark’s. 

When history books are written, when all of this has been captured and documented, there will be a section to this one night where devotion shows deeply in both of their eyes. Where it can be confirmed that the two princes are helplessly fond of each other, and some would even say helplessly in love. Because Mark is consistent and he’s greedy when he chooses to be, and Jaemin bleeds of gold and glory and he desires and he wants, and Mark has such a way with words, and watching the two of them dance is watching the first signs of love blossom. It’s two people overcoming fear and apprehension, taking a chance together and carving a new path of glory and peace. Where a marriage takes the form of a treaty, a new love blooms and grows and it’s seen in the way the two look at each other as they move, stopping anyone from joining them on the floor for the sheer devotion that overcomes them both.