Chapter Text
“Dad…”
“You should go now.”
“How have you been?”
“We’ll talk later.”
“I missed you.”
“Charan, take him.”
“Your Royal Highness!”
“Watch out!”
The noise around Charan blended into a formless cacophony before finally culminating in a deafening, high-pitched whine that seemed to penetrate every nerve in his body. Even with the sudden chaos and confusion, it wasn’t that he didn’t know what he had done. This wasn’t a fairy tale or a television drama: he hadn’t moved without thinking or acted unconsciously. He had been trained far too well to rely on impulse. Everything he did was calculated, and this was no different.
This was what he had promised—what he had vowed as both a Phithakthewa and a…
And a…
It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt, either. On the contrary, just as Charan had moved with precision to block Khanin from harm, the pain radiating outward from a spot near the center of his back was excruciating. To some, calling it pain at all would be putting it too lightly—the word couldn’t do the sensation macabre justice.
There were worse things, though. Far worse things.
Worse than Khanin’s widening eyes staring at him in horror as he began to process what had happened. Worse than the hazy silhouettes of the speechless guards and Chakri around them, frozen in place. Worse than the echo of a second gunshot behind him, nearly indistinguishable from the first.
Still holding Khanin securely in his arms, Charan set his own pain aside to scan Khanin’s torso with a frantically discerning eye. He was almost certain the bullet hadn’t gone straight through him, but if it had, if throwing himself in front of Khanin had backfired…
“If I failed today and you ended up getting hurt, how am I supposed to go on?”
There were far worse things than the agony searing through the muscles of his back alongside hot metal and the chains that bound him to Assavadevathin for life.
Fortunately, it seemed that his fears hadn’t come to fruition: Khanin stood motionless within the protective circle of Charan’s embrace, but he didn’t appear to be in any pain. He was tense yet upright, breathing shallowly yet regularly.
Only his eyes reflected that there was anything wrong with this scene. Otherwise, they might have been back in the palace library that had become their safe haven, holding onto one another by the bookshelves and wondering where the future might lead.
“P’Ran…”
Oh, how Charan wished they were back in the palace library.
But that was foolish, and he knew it. His wishes hadn’t been answered in over twenty years. He’d long since given up on wishing altogether, dedicating himself to acting based on facts and pouring his whimsy into artwork that would never fade away. It only stood to reason that now, when he dared to dream of adding something more to the life he had built for himself in the palace and at Morpheus, it might be taken away in the blink of an eye.
Dreams were dreams for a reason. Beautiful, fleeting, ephemeral—like Castor’s life, they slipped through one’s fingers like so much sand amidst the receding tide.
But as long as Pollux remained, echoes of Castor would survive forever. Their dream would live on as a beautiful memory, gone but not forgotten.
That could be enough.
“P’Ran? P’Ran?!”
Charan wasn’t sure when or how, but he blinked only to find himself on his knees, his arms drooping in a limp loop around Khanin’s waist. Somehow, he was on the ground too, and it was his arms around Charan rather than the opposite.
It wasn’t proper in the slightest, but it was very Nin. Leave it to Khanin to shirk royal etiquette and chase after Charan instead. At least he was consistent. It was endearing, really: he’d been like that since they arrived in Emmaly. Acclimating to life in the palace, learning the games that royals played, and pursuing power for Prince Tharin hadn’t changed him. In some ways, it had only made Khanin even more unapologetically himself, if more mature in his expression. That was one of the many things Charan loved about him.
If he had to die, he was glad it would be for Nin.
Was this what you felt when you left home, Mother? Was this what you felt at the end?
“P’Ran, look at me!”
Familiar hands held either side of his face, forcing Charan’s heavy head up from where it had drooped at some point, and Khanin came into blurry focus. For the first time in a while, Charan would have preferred that he didn’t. He didn’t want to see the tears pooling in Nin’s eyes or the panic in his gaze. Khanin had done enough crying since Charan entered his life. He shouldn’t cry anymore.
It took a few tries—his throat was so dry, his tongue wouldn’t cooperate, his mouth tasted of copper—but Charan finally managed to murmur, “It’s okay.”
The answering flash of anger and disbelief behind Khanin’s unshed tears was gratifying. Nin was fire, and Charan was water. This was right.
And he was beautiful.
And Charan was suddenly so, so tired.
“Hey—no!”
Weightlessness. Leather under his chin. The scent of cologne and sweat.
“’S’okay…”
“P’Ran?! Hey!”
Quiet.
Pressure.
Darkness.
Did you feel loved at the end too?
***
Emergency rooms were all the same. It didn’t matter what country you were in, if it was a public hospital or private palace ward, or who worked there. They were all exactly the same.
Meenanagarin was no exception, so as beautiful as his environment was, it didn’t ease Khanin’s nerves or mind in the slightest. The ornate, plush chairs were no more comfortable than plain wooden benches; the chandeliers’ warm yellow lights couldn’t make the stark white walls and tile floor any less cold in the corridor where he sat. Nurses and doctors came and went from the reception desk at the opposite end of the hall, perfunctory and professional.
The bright red sign above the door that separated him from Charan was garish and unsightly by comparison, yet it was by no means out of place.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. The thought kept rattling around in his head as he sat there, leaning forward on his knees and staring at nothing in particular: it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Prince Wasin and Wirun should have been apprehended and arrested. His grandfather should have been forced to reconsider his stance on the mines now that he realized even his closest retainer had turned on him and his own health was apparently impacted by his negligence. Charan and Chakri should have escorted Khanin back to Davin City like the other heirs. Khanin should have had a chance to speak with his dad, to tell him everything that had happened and everything he wished he had said before they parted in London.
He could handle the archery tournament going awry—nothing in the royal competition had proceeded according to plan thus far. But this? This was beyond comprehension.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
For over three months, Charan had been his rock. The very first day they met, he had battered Khanin with backhanded advice and guidance that guaranteed his victory in the fencing finals, loath as he’d been to admit that at the time. Khanin had treated him like an invasive species in their home, yet Charan had still accompanied him to Samantha’s party to watch over him without complaint. He had risked his life over and over again to keep Khanin safe and, unbeknownst to him, protect his dad. Charan was his guard, his coach, and his love. He stood tall, using his strong back to lift Khanin when he fell and hold him up when he didn’t think he could keep going. Even at Charan’s lowest, when his past attacked him in the rain and it felt like he wasn’t standing at Khanin’s side at all, his first priority was protecting Khanin. Taking care of Khanin. Being loyal to Assavadevathin.
Duty and heart. Charan had—was—both.
So, the dissonance of that seemingly invulnerable rock crumbling merely amplified the wrongness of the situation. The same legs that had so often held back and thrown down Khanin’s attackers had buckled. The same strong back that had shielded him from innumerable dangers had bowed in pain. That stoic face that had reluctantly hidden so many secrets from him had gone slack and pale as Charan fell forward onto Khanin’s shoulder, still murmuring words of comfort while seeking none for himself.
Khanin wanted to be angry, and for a moment, he had been—at Charan, at himself, at his grandfather, at Emmaly, at the hierarchy that had brought them to this point. But that resentment had evaporated as soon as it arrived, replaced with resignation and understanding.
Duty and heart. That was indeed who Charan was. He had vowed to give his life to keep Khanin safe and whole if necessary, and Charan took his vows seriously. They were more than promises for him: they were his honor, his family’s honor. And if there was one thing Khanin truly understood about Charan, it was that his sense of honor ran deep. That was one of the many things Khanin loved about him.
It was also one of the many things Khanin hated to love about him. He’d be sure to tell Charan that if…
If…
“Your Royal Highness?”
A tentative voice pulled Khanin from his stupor, and he glanced up to see Chakri gesturing towards a man in scrubs that Khanin didn’t recognize. He must have been there for some time, though, because they were both staring at him sympathetically yet expectantly.
For an instant, time stood still and Khanin’s breath froze in his chest. They had already been informed that his grandfather was out of danger, and his father had gone to visit him. This doctor looking for Khanin could only mean…
“How is he?” Khanin asked, immediately on his feet.
“We have removed the bullet and stopped his internal bleeding, Your Royal Highness,” the doctor succinctly outlined. “Khun Charan is very fortunate. Had his injury been further in one direction or another…”
Khanin didn’t want to hear the rest and interjected, “Can I see him?”
“Of course, Your Royal Highness.”
It was the longest walk of Khanin’s life: down the corridor, through another set of doors, along another eerily white hallway until they finally approached a room a bit further from the others. By the time the doctor stepped aside with a bow to let him pass, Khanin was practically vibrating out of his skin, and his fingers were trembling minutely when he reached out to open the door.
Much as Khanin had no desire to live like royalty forever, in this moment he was struck with the vague, nonsensical thought that it had its perks. The room he entered looked nothing like what he’d expected: it was more similar to what he would find in a luxury hotel than a hospital. Couches and chairs fit for a palace, a television larger than what most people had in their living rooms, and a window facing the sea in the distance... If not for the medical equipment clustered around an unadorned, purely functional bed, he would have thought they’d taken a wrong turn and wound up somewhere else.
But they hadn’t, and the figure before him looked far from well enough to be anywhere else.
Khanin didn’t know where the doctor went or what Chakri was doing as he made a beeline for Charan’s side, immediately grabbing his hand and threading their fingers together. Unspeakable comfort and unfathomable sadness filled him when he felt Charan’s warm palm against his own, so at odds with Charan’s colorless face and the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. This wasn’t a fairy tale or a television drama: Charan didn’t look smaller or weaker in a hospital bed, and that was what hurt the most. Someone like him didn’t belong here, yet there he was—because he’d protected Khanin.
Because he’d protected a king who, if Prince Wasin was to be believed, was responsible for something that had left irreparable scars on Charan’s heart since he was six…
Save that for later.
Now wasn’t the time or place to be getting ahead of himself. They could have that conversation when Charan was awake and well and able to answer his questions. For now, Khanin could only reassure himself that Charan hadn’t seemed to place much stock in Prince Wasin’s sudden accusation, nor had his grandfather looked concerned that he would—that was enough. It had to be. Interrogations and investigations could wait.
Sighing, Khanin leaned against the side of the bed and gently caressed the hair curtaining Charan’s face. Even though logic dictated that this was always a possibility, even a probability given Charan’s job and Khanin’s experiences, he had never anticipated that their positions would one day be reversed. Was this how it had felt when he was poisoned and Charan sat by his side each night, knowing Khanin would be all right but worried nonetheless? Had he experienced the same sense of helplessness, as though he should be doing something—anything—only to discover that all he could do was wait?
Khanin didn’t have to wonder about the guilt. He finally understood why Charan took responsibility for things that weren’t his fault, from flying economy to a poisoning he couldn’t possibly have known about. The rational side of Khanin recognized that he had done nothing wrong and that the only person to blame for where they were now was Prince Wasin. Still, there was a heavy pain in his chest at the idea that if it weren’t for him, Charan wouldn’t have nearly died.
It was agonizing.
But it was okay. Everything was going to be okay, just as Charan had mumbled into his ear hours earlier. Charan would recover, and they would navigate what to do next in the royal competition and beyond together. This wouldn’t break them. Nothing ever had, and nothing ever could.
Khanin’s rueful chuckle was lost beneath the steadily beeping monitor and dripping IV line. Even as he lay bleeding out in Khanin’s arms, Charan had still been his voice of reason, a North Star to guide him. Typical.
What would Khanin do without him?
It was a question that he luckily wouldn’t have to ponder today. For now, the path was clear: whatever the truth about his grandfather and Charan’s mother might be, whatever fallout from Prince Wasin’s betrayal might transpire, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, but he wouldn’t let it steal what he’d worked so hard for.
He would support Charan like Charan had always supported him. He would win his father a position where change would finally be a real possibility. He would have that conversation with his dad, long overdue as it was.
None of this would break them. Khanin wouldn’t let it. If protecting him was Charan’s vow, that would be his.