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By Seonghwa’s estimation, it started around the time Yunho blocked a wooden sword strike during the duel on the southern lawn, with his bare arm, mind you, to protect Wooyoung from a very clumsy visiting noble’s very poorly timed flourish.
The afternoon sun caught the sweat glistening on Yunho’s skin, making it shimmer like molten silver for a brief, heart-stopping moment, and Seonghwa had very deliberately noticed. He remembered the way the light traced every contour of Yunho’s forearm, highlighting the tension in his muscles and the precision in the flick of his wrist. The breeze carried the faint scent of grass and warm earth, but all Seonghwa could focus on was the silent declaration in Yunho’s stance. He would take the hit for him, no hesitation, no thought.
Wooyoung, of course, had stared at Yunho for the next twelve minutes. His chest rose and fell a little too quickly, the rhythm erratic and uneven, betraying his attempts to appear nonchalant. The corners of his mouth twitched as if resisting a smile, but every so often it broke, just a little, a flash of pure, unguarded amusement that made his eyes sparkle. Seonghwa noted the way Wooyoung’s fingers fidgeted at the hem of his sleeve, curling and uncurling like tiny springs, betraying his inner tension.
And Yunho, of course, had pretended not to notice. His jaw remained tight, posture impeccable, eyes focused on the distant treeline as though a forest full of dragons required his vigilance. But even the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when Wooyoung laughed, subtle and fleeting, quickly hidden behind the rigid control of his expression.
But Seonghwa had.
Oh, he’d absolutely noticed.
He noticed the way Wooyoung laughed just a little louder when Yunho was in the room, the notes of his chuckle carrying a warmth that made the air seem heavier, sweeter, as if the very sunlight lingered a little longer in the space between them. He noticed the way Yunho stood a fraction closer to Wooyoung than he did with anyone else, a subtle shift in weight, a lean that could have been accidental but wasn’t. a silent choreography perfected over years of proximity. He noticed the small ways they mirrored each other, from the tilt of a head to the shift of a boot on stone, movements so subtle that only someone like Seonghwa, trained in observation, could detect them. He noticed the way neither of them ever touched, despite standing shoulder to shoulder every single day, the invisible tension stretching across the small space like a taut string, vibrating with unspoken energy.
They were obvious.
So obvious, in fact, that by now even the kitchen staff had started making jokes.
“When are they finally going to touch?” The head maid asked, folding linens with a sigh, the soft rustle of the fabric punctuating her curiosity. Her eyes darted toward the courtyard every time someone mentioned them, hopeful for the slightest hint.
“My money’s on the Harvest Ball,” The baker said, elbow deep in dough, flour dusting his sleeves like snow, sticking to his fingers and the nape of his neck. “They’ll probably fall into each other during a dance or something tragic and romantic. I can see it now. Dramatic candlelight, one misstep, and-- bam!”
“I’ve got a week’s wages riding on the Winter Hunt,” One of the junior guards grumbled, adjusting the straps of his armor. The leather squeaked under his hands, echoing his frustration. “Someone’s going to fall off a horse and land right on top of someone else. And I’m calling it-- Duke Wooyoung.”
Even Seonghwa’s advisors were whispering about it during court.
“They haven’t touched once?” One asked in disbelief, eyebrows knitting together above a parchment of notes, ink smudged where his hands had trembled slightly.
“Not even a brush of the hand,” Seonghwa replied, drinking his tea and trying not to scream. Steam curled lazily from the cup, carrying the faint aroma of jasmine and chamomile, yet it offered no comfort. His fingers lingered over the porcelain, warm from the liquid inside, as though the cup could anchor him to sanity amid the chaos of unspoken longing.
The truth was, Seonghwa didn’t mind the soulmate tradition. He’d seen the way the mark glowed when the bond was real, when two people finally touched. He’d been in awe when he and Hongjoong finally got over themselves and touched each other. It was beautiful. Gentle and sacred. The glow seemed to ripple softly across the skin, warm like sunlight trapped in a droplet of water, delicate enough to make him gasp quietly the first time he’d seen it.
But in Wooyoung’s case, it was starting to drive him insane.
Because everyone knew.
Everyone except Wooyoung and Yunho.
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
“You have a mark, don’t you?” Seonghwa asked one morning as they walked through the garden. Sunlight flickered through the leaves, dappling the cobblestones and the hem of Wooyoung’s tunic in shifting patterns, and the air smelled of early spring blooms and freshly turned soil.
Wooyoung blinked. “Of course I do. Everyone does.” He kicked at a stray pebble, sending it skittering across the path.
“I meant a soulmate mark. Active, waiting.”
Wooyoung flushed and glanced away, the faint pink rising along his ears almost visible in the morning light. His fingers twisted the strap of his satchel, a nervous habit he’d never managed to hide. “Maybe.”
Seonghwa arched his brow, tilting his head just enough to convey the weight of his suspicion. The sunlight caught in his dark eyes, making them sharper, piercing. “Left shoulder?”
“...Maybe.”
“Shaped like a hand?”
Silence. The only sound was the soft clatter of birdsong, a sparrow hopping along the low garden wall.
Seonghwa sighed, long and deep, the sound mingling with the soft rustle of wind through the flowers. “You do realize Yunho’s been wearing one glove since you were seventeen, right?”
Wooyoung sputtered, cheeks hot. “That doesn’t mean anything!” His words stumbled out, breath uneven, as though the air itself was too thick to speak clearly.
“Oh please,” Seonghwa muttered, sipping his tea again, steam curling around his fingers. “It means everything.”
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
Later that week, Seonghwa walked into the sparring yard just in time to see Yunho dodge one of Wooyoung’s kicks, barely, and catch him by the waist to steady him. The sound of leather boots scuffing the ground was punctuated by the faint jingle of Wooyoung’s training gear, a metallic reminder of movement and effort.
They froze.
Yunho’s hand hovered near Wooyoung’s shoulder.
Just near.
Seonghwa waited, breath held, the air around him thick with anticipation and a hint of mint from the nearby herb garden. The faint rustle of leaves overhead mixed with the soft thud of distant training swords, forming a fragile symphony of suspense.
Nothing happened.
Yunho stepped back.
Wooyoung laughed too loudly and turned away, cheeks tinged pink and hair mussed from exertion, droplets of sweat clinging to his forehead like tiny crystals.
Seonghwa dragged his hand down his face with a silent groan, the gesture lost among the distant clang of swords and the occasional bark of a dog.
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
It happened three days later.
No dramatic duel. No tragic fall. Just a rainstorm and a runaway cat. The sky opened in heavy sheets, water cascading over the courtyard like tiny silver rivers, and the smell of wet stone and fresh earth filled the air, sharp and intoxicating. Rain splashed against the tiled roofs, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to pulse with tension.
Yunho chased after the cat that Wooyoung adored, slipped on the stones, and instinctively grabbed Wooyoung’s shoulder as he caught his balance. The air lit up around them.
A quiet glow, soft as candlelight, bloomed across Wooyoung’s shoulder and down Yunho’s hand, scattering faint rainbow sparks that shimmered like tiny droplets of captured sunlight, reflecting in the puddles at their feet. The scent of rain mixed with their shared warmth, subtle but undeniable, filling the space with something electric.
Everyone in the courtyard froze. Even the sparring swords clattered to the ground unnoticed, their owners forgotten in the sudden miracle.
Wooyoung stared, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder, chest rising and falling too quickly.
Yunho stared, jaw slack, as if the world had suddenly slowed just for this one fleeting miracle, his usual composure shattered by a beauty he hadn’t anticipated.
Seonghwa, watching from the balcony with his cup of tea halfway to his mouth, just said, “Finally.” The steam curled around him, mingling with the fresh scent of rain and the earthy aroma of wet cobblestone, and for the first time in days, he felt entirely at peace.
Down in the yard, someone whispered, “Who won the pool?”