Work Text:
Prince Choi Seungcheol had spent half of his life promising the kingdom of Velmora that he would someday be a great king.
The other half, he spent loving Yoon Jeonghan in secret.
Every spring, the kingdom opened its gates to the public for the Blooming Lanterns Festival—a whimsical week wherein glowing flowers floated through the royal ponds and paper birds carried hand-written messages and wishes into the sky.
It was the only time of the year when the prince was allowed to walk freely among commoners without much ceremony.
The festival is where Cheol met Jeonghan years ago—a florist’s son with golden locks, dirt beneath his fingernails, and a face that screamed grace and beauty.
The first time Jeonghan met Prince Seungcheol, he wanted to push him into a palace pond; not because he knew the boy was royalty, but because he stepped directly onto his flower.
“Watch where you’re going!” Jeonghan screeched.
The blue hydrangeas Jeonghan spent all morning arranging now lay crushed beneath the soles of the prince’s polished boots.
Right in front of Jeonghan, Cheol blinked in alarm.
“I didn’t see them!” he replied.
“Well, clearly.”
The strange boy looked about Jeonghan’s age—perhaps ten or eleven—and was dressed in clothes that looked far too expensive for an ordinary child. The velvet cloak, which hung crookedly from his shoulders, was stained by grass and dirt as though he had escaped many servants on the way here.
Which, in hindsight, he had.
Around the two boys, the royal spring gardens were abuzz with preparations for the Blooming Lanterns Festival—palace workers scampering about, stringing paper lanterns on trees; while merchants filled the courtyards with flower stalls and sweets.
Jeonghan knelt in front of his damaged hydrangeas with a groan. “You crushed the best ones!”
The stranger promptly crouched beside him. “I can help.”
“You’ll probably make it worse.”
“Hey, that’s a little mean.”
“No. That’s a little accurate.”
The boy stared at Jeonghan for a second before bursting into startling laughter.
Jeonghan frowned suspiciously. “You laugh weird.”
The boy clutched his stomach as he fought against his bout of laughter. “You insult people immediately after meeting them?”
Jeonghan’s frown deepened. “Yes.”
“I kind of like that.”
Jeonghan decided, instantly, that this boy was strange.
Jeonghan, with the stranger’s unsolicited help, tried gathering the scattered flowers from the cobblestoned pathway. The stranger handed the flowers carefully, gently brushing dirt from their delicate petals.
“Do you work here?” the boy asked eventually.
“My mother does,” Jeonghan replied, holding up a bent hydrangea mournfully. “I help during festivals.”
The strange boy nodded thoughtfully. “Do you like flowers?”
“They’re easier than people.”
The boy nodded in understanding. “That’s probably true.”
Jeonghan glanced sideways at him. “You talk funny.”
“You talk rude.”
“Well, because you stepped on my flowers.”
“You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“No.”
The stranger guffawed—the sound bright and warm enough to make nearby birds scatter from the hedges.
That was when a shout erupted from somewhere behind them.
“Your Highness!”
Both boys froze.
Palace guards suddenly appeared around the two boys, looking utterly frantic.
The strange boy visibly winced, while Jeonghan—slowly, horrifically—realized who he was talking rudely to.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The guards looked moments away from collapsing in relief.
“Your Highness, the Queen has been searching everywhere—”
Jeonghan whipped his head toward the boy. “You’re the prince?”
Prince Cheol offered an awkward little smile. “Maybe?”
Jeonghan stared at him in disbelief, then down at the flowers beneath Cheol’s royal boots, then back at his face.
“You…you crushed my hydrangeas.”
One guard audibly gasped.
The prince, however, looked extremely delighted. “No one talks to me like that.”
“That’s because they want to keep their heads,” Jeonghan laughed nervously.
“But I don’t want them to.”
Before Jeonghan could ever respond, the prince suddenly removed a silver pin from his cloak—a tiny thing shaped like a crescent moon. He held the thing out to Jeonghan.
“For the flowers,” he said.
Jeonghan eyed the brooch warily. “Is this legal, Your Highness?”
The prince snorted. “Probably not.”
Jeonghan took the pin anyway.
Their fingers brushed for the briefest second. The contact was warm. Strangely familiar.
“What’s your name?” Cheol suddenly asked.
“Jeonghan.”
Cheol smiled, dimpled and radiant. “I’m Seungcheol.”
“I know.”
“Right.”
A grin slowly spread across Jeonghan’s face. “Well,” he said, standing with the ruined flowers in his arms, “Please try not to step on anything else, Your Highness.”
And for reasons he could not understand until many years later, Crown Prince Choi Seungcheol watched Yoon Jeonghan leave with the peculiar feeling that something important had just happened to them.
The entire kingdom watched as their friendship bloomed the same way people watched storms gather over oceans: beautifully and with growing concern.
In the beginning, everyone found the relationship amusing—the lonely crown prince sneaking away from his tutors to visit the town florist’s son in the lower palace gardens; him climbing walls in embroidered silk because using doors was apparently “too princely".
“You’re going to die one day,” Jeonghan informed him at age twelve while Cheol dangled halfway out a library window.
“You say that every week,” Cheol pointed out, a little out of breath.
“One day I’ll be correct.”
“You’d miss me terribly.”
Jeonghan rolled his eyes yet shifted closer anyway, steadying the prince by his sleeve.
The prince always noticed things like that: the way Jeonghan silently took care of people; the way the palace maids always smiled whenever he visited because he remembered all of their names; how flowers seemed to bloom brighter around him somehow.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Cheol, Jeonghan noticed things, too: the way Cheol’s smiles grew rarer after council meetings; how royal etiquette exhausted him; how the weight of the future crown already bent his shoulders before he was even old enough to wear it.
Sometimes, Jeonghan would sneak Cheol out of the palace kitchens to buy honey cakes in the market, while Cheol steals royal ribbons and ties them around the bouquets at the Yoons’ flower shop. Most times, though, they would spend nights sprawled across palace rooftops, counting stars while the prince whispered impossible things like, “When I become king one day, I’ll build you a greenhouse bigger than the royal chapel.”
Jeonghan always smiled sadly.
Because princes do not marry flower boys.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
When they were both thirteen, Prince Cheol confessed that he hated royal banquets.
“At least the food is delicious,” Jeonghan offered through a mouthful of stolen carrot cake.
Cheol rolled his eyes and groaned. “They spend the entire night discussing which noble family I’ll eventually marry.”
Jeonghan nearly choked. “Oh.”
Seungcheol glanced toward him, the lanterns’ light softening his face strangely now that they were older, less childish, sharper around the edges.
“I told them I’d rather marry someone I actually like,” he murmured.
Jeonghan looked down quickly. “And what did they say?”
“That kings rarely get what they want.”
For some unknown reason, the answer sat heavily inside Jeonghan’s chest long after that night ended.
At fifteen, they became all the more inseparable.
If Cheol vanished from lessons, he was definitely with Jeonghan. If Jeonghan disappeared from his father’s flower shop, he was undoubtedly somewhere inside the palace.
The kingdom began talking. Not cruelly yet…just curiously.
Everyone noticed how the prince only smiled around the florist’s son; how the commoner spoke fearlessly to royalty; how they stood too close together most of the time.
And, especially, how the prince always looked at Jeonghan.
Jeonghan noticed that one first—the prince’s gaze lingered on him too long whenever Jeonghan laughed.
Aside from that, the prince always instinctively reached for his hands in crowds.
Then there was the unbearable softness in Cheol’s voice whenever he called the florist’s son “Hannie”.
Suddenly, every touch felt too dangerous, every glance too intimate.
Until one autumn evening, as they lay atop the palace observatory roof, watching comet trails streak across the night sky, Cheol spoke.
“You know, Hannie…when I become king, I can technically order you to stay beside me forever.”
Jeonghan snorted playfully. “That’s deeply unethical.”
“I’d be a very benevolent tyrant.”
“You’d cry if you sentenced someone to prison.”
“Hey!” Cheol spat. “That is slander.”
Jeonghan laughed breathily while, beside him, Cheol turned his head slightly to watch him instead of the stars.
A long pause befell them before Cheol spoke again.
“I think,” he murmured softly, “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Jeonghan’s heart stuttered painfully in his chest.
Because he knew then…knew with terrifying clarity that one day this affection would hurt them both.
Kings belonged to kingdoms, not to boys with dirt-stained hands and flower petals in their pockets.
Still, when Cheol rested his head against Jeonghan’s shoulder, the florist let him.
Neither of them moved for a very long time.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
The palace library, with its vast collection of barely-touched volumes, soon became theirs.
It began when Cheol hid there simply to escape royal etiquette lessons. Then, Jeonghan discovered that the librarians kept candies inside the astronomy section’s drawers.
After that, they both decided that the library was theirs.
Soon, winter settled heavily across Velmora—snow gathering outside homes and shops and the towering stained-glass windows of the palace.
As the fireplace crackled in front of them at the library, Jeonghan sat curled on the carpet, reading an old mythology book while Cheol pretended to read a royal economics book.
“Pretended” being the operational word, because from time to time he would sneak glances at Jeonghan—the candlelight casting his hair aglow, his lashes resting against his soft cheeks, mouth moving slightly while reading.
Cheol realized that he liked looking at Jeonghan way too much.
“Cheol…you’ve been staring at me for ten whole minutes,” Jeonghan said without glancing up from his book.
Cheol nearly dropped his own book. “I have not.”
“You turned the same page three times.”
“That could mean anything.”
“It means you’re bad at lying.”
Jeonghan finally looked up, amusement dancing quietly in his dark-brown eyes.
Cheol’s chest flipped unexpectedly.
It happened way too often lately—his heart skipping or beating too fast whenever he was near Jeonghan or simply just looking at him.
It was warm. It was dangerous.
Jeonghan tilted his head slightly. “What?”
“Nothing,” Cheol said, trying to avert his eyes but failing.
“You’re staring again,” Jeonghan remarked as his smile widened.
Cheol groaned and threw a pillow at him, making Jeonghan laugh so merrily that nearby librarians hissed for them to keep quiet.
Neither of them stopped smiling afterward.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
At sixteen, the two had developed a dangerous habit of sharing parasols.
It was dangerous because it never worked properly: Jeonghan seemed to always drift too close, Cheol always seemed to tilt the parasol toward the florist instead of himself, and both of them inevitably seemed to always end up soaked anyway.
“This is your fault,” Jeonghan informed Cheol one rainy afternoon as they strolled around the marketplace—Cheol had once again escaped from the palace grounds.
“How?” the prince asked faux innocently.
“You’re too tall.”
“We’re the same height! Plus, that is biologically not my problem.”
Jeonghan frowned at him. “You’re also walking crooked.”
Cheol grinned like the Cheshire cat. “I’m trying not to shove you into puddles.”
Jeonghan snorted softly.
The lanterns around the marketplace gleamed gold against the rainwater around them while the merchants hurried to close their stalls before the storm worsened.
Cheol glanced sideways at Jeonghan whose sleeves were already damp.
The florist’s cheeks were pink from the cold, a tiny smile unconsciously tugging at his mouth.
Before his brain could process what he was doing, Cheol reached out and brushed rainwater from beneath Jeonghan’s eye with his thumb. The movement lasted for only mere seconds yet it plunged the entire world into silence.
Jeonghan froze.
Cheol did too.
Meanwhile, the rain continued on around them, drumming on their parasol.
People kept rushing around them, screaming and screeching, but neither Cheol nor Jeonghan moved.
Then, after long moments, Jeonghan lowered his gaze. “You missed some,” he murmured softly.
Cheol’s heart hammered violently against his ribcage because Jeonghan leaned closer after saying it. Just slightly, as though he wanted Cheol to do it again.
Instead, Cheol cleared his throat, swallowing the lump that had formed there. Then, awkwardly, he shoved the parasol toward Jeonghan harder.
The florist merely laughed under his breath the entire walk back to the palace.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Five years before the coronation…
The first time Jeonghan realized that Cheol might be serious about him was when they were sixteen and hiding beneath the royal greenhouse tables during a thunderstorm.
Rain rattled against the glass ceiling overhead while gardeners ran frantically outside trying to save the moon orchids from the wind.
Cheol, still gangly and awkward in princely silks, lay on his back beside Jeonghan with flower petals stuck in his hair.
“I hate it,” the prince muttered.
“The rain?” Jeonghan asked.
“The throne.”
Jeonghan turned to him, eyes wide and startled. “You can’t say that.”
Cheol frowned. “You asked me what I was thinking.”
“I didn’t think you’d commit treason about it.”
That earned Jeonghan a laugh that was loud and bright and terribly fond.
Cheol rolled onto his side, face suddenly serious. “When I become king…stay beside me.”
Jeonghan’s breath caught in his throat.
As children, they’ve said impossible things to each other before. Promises about stealing horses and running away to the sea. But this felt different somehow. Bigger. Dangerous.
So, Jeonghan flicked a flower petal at Cheol’s forehead and said lightly, “What would a king want with a florist?”
Cheol answered him without hesitation. “You.”
And, for one terrifying moment, Jeonghan believed him.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Three years before the coronation…
The palace tailor was taking Cheol’s measurements for new ceremonial robes when Jeonghan sauntered into the room carrying a fresh batch of peonies for the queen.
The tailor tsked. “Your HIghness, you must stand straighter. A future king must look imposing.”
Cheol deliberately slouched further, making Jeonghan snort into his sleeve.
The tailor left for a while to fetch more pins and needles, muttering under his breath as he did so. And Cheol immediately dropped himself onto a nearby chair with dramatic exhaustion.
“They’re trying to suffocate me with velvet,” he complained.
A smile bloomed across Jeonghan’s face. “You look handsome.”
The words slipped out accidentally and both of them froze.
Cheol slowly lifted his head. “What?”
Jeonghan busied himself by arranging the flowers in a vase. “Nothing.”
“You said I look handsome.”
“I said the robe looks expensive.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Jeonghan refused to turn around because he knew exactly what expression Cheol was wearing right then—soft-eyed and hopeful in a way that made his chest ache.
Then, the prince spoke again, , quieter this time. “If I asked for you…would you stay?”
Jeonghan gripped the peonies tighter. “You won’t ask.”
“Hannie—”
“You’re going to be king.”
“And?”
“And kingdoms are cruel things.”
When Jeonghan finally looked back, Cheol appeared wounded in a way that made the florist immediately regret his words.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
The palace garden looked so much different at night—softer, less regal.
The moonflowers bloomed silver beneath the starlight while lanterns scattered around the grounds glowed lazily.
Cheol found Jeonghan there after another taxing council dinner.
The florist sat barefoot beside the fountain, trousers rolled up to his knees while tiny fish brushed against his ankles.
“You vanished,” Cheol said once he was beside Jeonghan.
“So did you.”
Cheol dropped dramatically onto the grass below him. “I just listened to three ministers argue about grain taxes for two hours.”
Jeonghan turned to face him. “Sounds thrilling.”
“I considered drowning myself in soup midway through.”
That earned Cheol a quiet laugh.
God. That sound.
Cheol rested his head against Jeonghan’s side before thinking about it. The movement felt natural by now—familiar.
However, Jeonghan went still for only a second before relaxing beside the prince.
Neither commented on it.
The fountain reflected moonlight across their faces while distant palace music echoed faintly from the royal dinner hall.
Then softly, Jeonghan asked, “Are you scared?”
Cheol immediately knew what the prince meant.
The throne. The future. Everything was waiting for him.
“Yes,” Cheol admitted quietly.
Jeonghan placed a hand on Cheol’s head. “You’ll still be you,” he murmured.
Cheol closed his eyes as Jeonghan’s fingers brushed through his hair.
Most people spoke to him like a future king now—only Jeonghan still spoke to him like a person.
“You make things feel less awful,” Cheol confessed before he could stop himself.
There was silence; not the uncomfortable kind.
Jeonghan gazed back at the fountain. “So do you, Cheol.”
Something shifted between them then. It was invisible, fragile, life-changing.
Yet neither of them spoke about it aloud.
After that night, Cheol would always search for Jeonghan first in any crowd. And Jeonghan? He always let him.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
The Blooming Lanterns Festival came that year with more music, more glowing flowers, more floating lights drifting through Velmora’s capital.
As part of tradition, people wrote messages and wishes onto paper lanterns before releasing them into the night sky.
Jeonghan sat cross-legged atop the palace wall, scribbling carefully as Cheol watched beside him.
“You’re taking this very seriously,” the prince remarked.
“My wishes are important,” Jeonghan shot back.
“What did you wish for last year?”
Jeonghan smirked faintly. “Illegal things.”
Cheol snorted. “That explains a lot.”
The prince finished his own lantern quickly before tying the ribbon shut.
Jeonghan eyed him suspiciously. “You wrote suspiciously fast.”
Cheol shrugged, noncommittal. “I’m efficient.”
“You’re emotionally repressed.”
“That is slander.”
Jeonghan laughed again, softer this time.
The wind caught strands of blond hair across his face and, without thinking, Cheol reached over and tucked the strands gently behind Jeonghan’s ear.
Everything stopped—the laughter, the teasing, even breathing itself.
Jeonghan stared back at Cheol, wide-eyed.
Cheol’s hand lingered for a moment too long, enough to feel warmth bloom beneath pale skin. Enough to realize that neither of them were children anymore.
Slowly, almost too carefully, Jeonghan placed his hand on Cheol’s wrist, not to pull him away but to just…hold him there.
Their lanterns drifted forgotten beside them and, somewhere below, the kingdom celebrated beneath thousands of glowing lanterns while two boys sat impossibly still on a palace wall—silently realizing that they were already in love.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
As Cheol’s coronation day loomed over the entire kingdom, pressure mounted for the prince to choose a noble consort from one of the powerful noble houses in Velmora. Portraits of elegant lords and ladies were sent daily to the palace for Cheol’s perusal.
Ministers and counsels whispered while the queen reminded Cheol regularly that his duty must come before desire.
The first sign that something was wrong was when Jeonghan stopped coming to the observatory’s roof.
In the beginning, Cheol tried convincing himself that it meant nothing. He thought that the florist was perhaps busy preparing spring inventories from the markets. Besides, the Blooming Lanterns Festival was fast approaching—the capital always became chaotic during these times.
But then three days passed.
Then five.
Then an entire week.
And, suddenly, Cheol felt like the palace was strangling him.
The kitchens no longer hid honeyed pastries because Jeonghan wasn’t there to steal them. The librarians stopped pretending to scold him because no blond-haired troublemaker wandered the shelves anymore.
Even the servants whispered about it.
“The florist’s son hasn’t visited lately.”
“Did something happen between them?”
“He’s probably preparing for the prince’s consort selection.”
That last sentence lingered like poison.
The consort selection.
The words hung above Cheol recently like a dark storm cloud.
His days passed with council meetings, banquets, political dinners and more portraits of consort candidates.
Every sentence seemed to always begin and end with the same sentiment: “You must choose wisely, Your Highness”.
Everyone kept reminding him to strengthen the throne, strengthen alliances, strengthen the bloodline—all the while Jeonghan had begun slowly drifting away from him.
This made Cheol furious and moody in ways he could not fully explain.
Jeonghan had always stayed. Always.
Be it through un bearable lessons, royal pressure and nights when Cheol felt more like a future sacrifice than a person.
Jeonghan had always remained by his side.
Until now.
The confrontation happened on a stormy afternoon in early spring.
Cheol had escaped the palace once again and found Jeonghan in the lower city greenhouse.
The place was glowing warmly in spite of the gray weather outside, its glass walls fogged with humidity while silverbells swayed softly in the breeze. Rain tapped incessantly overhead.
Jeonghan stood with his back turned from the archway, arranging bundles of moon orchids across a wooden table.
He looked thinner and tired, Cheol observed and hated how relieved he felt by simply seeing the florist again.
“You’re difficult to find lately,” he said, voice bouncing against the walls of the greenhouse.
Jeonghan visibly stiffened. For a brief moment, he didn’t turn around.
Then, quietly, he uttered, “Your Highness.”
Cheol’s jaw tightened immediately.
There it was…the title, the distance.
Cheol shut the door behind him harder than he intended.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
Jeonghan kept carefully trimming flower stems like he did not just stab Cheol with just two words. “Do what?”
“Talk to me like I’m a stranger.”
“You’re the crown prince.”
“You’ve never cared about that before.”
Jeonghan inhaled sharply. “That was before.”
Before. The word echoed sharply in Cheol’s head.
Rain thundered harder overhead as Cheol stepped closer. “Before what?”
Jeonghan finally looked up at him, facing him head-on, albeit nervously.
And, suddenly, Cheol understood why everyone in the palace looked at him strangely these days.
Because Jeonghan looked heartbroken.
Not angry. Not cold.
Just…completely, utterly heartbroken.
It knocked the breath from Cheol’s lungs.
“You should not keep coming here,” Jeonghan said softly, shaky voice barely above a whisper.
Cheol stared at him in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“The palace is already talking.”
“Let them talk.”
“You don’t understand—”
“No,” Cheol snapped, frustration finally spilling loose. “I think I understand perfectly. I think you’ve spent weeks avoiding me without any explanation.”
Jeonghan looked away first, which somehow hurt worse. “You’re busy,” he murmured.
Cheol clenched his fists. “That’s not an explanation.”
“You’re preparing to choose a consort.”
The words landed between them like shattered glass. Beyond the glass walls of the greenhouse, thunder rolled across the city.
Cheol took another step forward. “Is that what this is about?”
Jeonghan laughed quietly then—a soft, miserable sound that Cheol had never heard from him before.
Jeonghan pursed his lips. “What else would it be about?”
“You tell me,” Cheol said, eyes never leaving Jeonghan’s pale face.
Jeonghan set the flower shears down carefully before speaking again. “You are about to become king.”
“Yes. I’m aware of that—”
“And kings do not belong to themselves.”
Something in Cheol’s chest twisted painfully. “Hannie—”
“You’ll marry someone important. Someone noble. Someone the kingdom will approve of.”
Jeonghan forced a smile that looked devastatingly fragile. “And you should.”
Cheol merely stared at him. Stared at the exhaustion in his eyes, at the tension in his shoulders, at the way his fingers trembled slightly against the worktable.
And, promptly, anger gave way to something much worse.
Realization.
Cheol heaved a heavy sigh. “You think I’m going to leave you.”
Jeonghan’s silence answered for him. Suddenly, the greenhouse felt too small for the both of them, too full of things that neither of them knew how to say out loud.
Cheol stepped even closer, a step after another, until only the table separated them.
“You idiot,” he whispered and Jeonghan blinked. “I’ve spent half my life looking for excuses to be near you.”
Cheol’s voice shook now, emotion slipping through despite himself. “I skip council meetings for you. I climb palace walls for you. Half the kingdom thinks I’ve lost my mind because of you.”
“Cheol—”
“And you think I would suddenly stop caring because some ministers handed me a stack of portraits of people I’m not interested in?”
Jeonghan’s composure cracked then. Pain flickered openly across his face. “That’s exactly why I’m leaving.”
The words hit like a slap and Cheol went still as a statue.
Jeonghan inhaled shakily and looked at him fully for the first time all afternoon.
“You love too openly,” he whispered. “You don’t even realize it.”
Silence.
Rain against glass.
Breathing.
Then Jeonghan continued softly, “The court watches the way you look at me.”
Cheol felt his pulse stumble.
Jeonghan continued, “The servants notice every time you search rooms for me first…and I…I can’t survive watching them take you away from me slowly.”
The confession hung raw and trembling between them. For a single, horrid moment, neither of them moved.
Until Cheol gathered the courage to walk around the worktable.
Jeonghan stepped backward. “Don’t,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because if you come closer right now,” Jeonghan said unsteadily, “I might forget all the reasons this is impossible.”
Cheol stopped only inches away, close enough to see rainlight reflected in Jeonghan’s eyes. Close enough to feel the warmth of him.
“You know what I think?” Cheol murmured.
Jeonghan shook his head once.
Cheol smiled, fragile little thing. “I think you decided my future for me before I ever got the chance to choose it myself.”
Jeonghan’s breathing faltered.
Cheol continued quietly, “You keep talking about duty like I don’t understand it…but you never once asked what I wanted.”
“And what do you want?”
The question came out broken, dangerously hopeful.
Cheol looked at Jeonghan for a very long time. Then, softly he said, “You.”
Jeonghan’s eyes shut immediately as though hearing so aloud physically hurt him. “Cheol—”
“I mean it.”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me,” Cheol said with a finality that almost made Jeonghan’s heart sing.
The florist gave a tiny, desperate laugh and covered his face briefly with his hands. “You are going to destroy both of us.”
Cheol reached up slowly, carefully, and pulled Jeonghan’s hands away from his beautiful face.
Their fingers tangled instinctively, like they had done a thousand times as children. Only now neither of them could pretend it meant nothing.
“You know what’s cruel?” Cheol whispered as he caressed Jeonghan’s hands in his.
Jeonghan looked at him helplessly.
Cheol continued, “That you keep trying to leave me before I’ve ever even had the chance to ask you to stay.”
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
That same night…
Prince Seungcheol did something wildly irresponsible for a future king.
He climbed through Jeonghan’s bedroom window at midnight, making Jeonghan nearly fall off his bed.
Jeonghan put a hand to his chest. “Cheol!? What in the world—”
“I just remembered how you called me ‘Your Highness’ earlier.”
“And?”
“I hated it,” Cheol replied, a smirk on his handsome face while he hauled himself inside the bedroom.
“You cannot sneak into commoners’ homes!”
“I’m literally the crown prince.”
“That makes it worse!”
Cheol paced the tiny room like an offended cat. “I spent the entire evening being introduced to noble consorts who discussed me like breeding stock.”
Despite himself, Jeonghan laughed weakly, making Cheol point at him accusingly.
“There. That sound,” the prince said. “I came for that.”
“Cheol…”
“I mean it, Hannie,” Cheol said, his voice turning softer. “Every room without you in it feels wrong lately.”
Jeonghan averted his eyes before Cheol could see how devastating those words were.
“You shouldn’t say things you cannot take back,” Jeonghan muttered, voice merely above a whisper.
“Good,” Cheol said. “Because I don’t want to.”
Silence settled between them. Then, quietly, Cheol asked, “If I choose you…would you still run?”
Jeonghan’s eyes stung unexpectedly. “You say that like choosing me would be easy.”
Cheol stalked closer until their knees nearly touched.
“No,” he murmured. “I think loving you has always been the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
And, for the first time in months, Jeonghan began to wonder if perhaps kingdoms could change after all.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Two months before the coronation…
The grand ballroom in the palace had never felt so cold.
There were nobles about—dressed in fine silver and gold, dancing beneath crystal chandeliers, waiting for the crown prince to formally announce which noble lord or lady he intended to marry.
Silk rustled across the marble floors, jewel-encrusted goblets gleamed beneath candlelight and, somewhere in the distance, musicians played soft ceremonial strings that sounded unbearably mournful to Jeonghan’s ears.
He was hidden behind the side curtains among the servants and performers as he gripped a tray of fine red wine so tightly that his hands ached.
He should not have come tonight, he knew so. But some pathetic, foolish part of him wanted to see Cheol one last time before everything between them changed.
He knew that, after tonight, the prince would belong to the kingdom wholly.
No more rooftop conversations, no more midnight gardens, no more friendship.
The royal herald struck his staff against the marble floor, catching everyone’s attention. Then he bellowed, “His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Choi Seungcheol.”
The hall erupted into applause…and there he was.
Cheol stepped into the hall draped in ceremonial royal blue with gold constellations, a royal mantle cascading from broad shoulders—the same shoulders Jeonghan used to shove playfully during childhood arguments.
The ancient king’s crown rested temporarily in his hands, not yet worn but already heavy with expectations.
Cheol looked beautiful, untouchable. And Jeonghan felt his chest cave inward just bby looking at him.
For one horrid moment, Cheol’s gaze swept across the ballroom and nearly found Jeonghan. Good thing the florist instinctively stepped further behind the curtains.
Coward, Jeonghan told himself.
The royal ministers smiled expectantly while several noble heirs straightened in anticipation.
This was it.
Cheol walked toward the throne but stopped.
He turned toward the silent hall and announced, “As future king…I have been advised repeatedly to choose a consort who strengthens the throne politically.”
Several noble families visibly brightened—some ladies adjusting the necklines of their gowns while the lords put their hands on their cravats, fixing them in place.
Jeonghan lowered his eyes.
Cheol continued, voice echoing across the ballroom, “But I have spent my life watching this kingdom divide people into worthy and unworthy.”
The room stilled, murmurs began spreading among the aristocracy. One minister frowned while another looked alarmed.
Jeonghan’s pulse began hammering in his veins.
The crown prince continued anyway. “And if I am to wear the crown, then I would rather become the kind of king who changes this kingdom than continue its cruelties.”
The queen went very still as the council looked horrified by each word that Cheol uttered.
Jeonghan felt suddenly dizzy while Cheol continued, “I have already chosen my future consort.”
A collective inhale swept through the hall. Cheol turned—not toward the waiting nobles, not toward the throne, but toward the curtains.
Toward him.
“Yoon Jeonghan,” Cheol said clearly. “The man I have loved for years.”
Silence. Utter, catastrophic silence.
A goblet shattered from somewhere in the crowd as Jeonghan’s entire body went numb.
Every noble in the kingdom turned toward the florist’s son hidden among the servants.
Someone brazen whispered, “A commoner?”
Another hissed, “Impossible!”
Jeonghan couldn’t move because Cheol was looking at him the same way he always had, like finding him in a crowd was pure instinct.
Then, to the absolute, complete horror of the royal court, Cheol stepped down from the throne and walked directly toward Jeonghan—past the mortified ministers, past the stunned nobility.
Past generations of royal expectations vanished as Cheol walked straight to the love of his life.
“Come here,” Cheol said gently when he was close enough to Jeonghan.
Jeonghan whispered immediately, panicked, “Cheol, don’t do this.”
“Too late,” Cheol said as he took Jeonghan’s hand before the entire kingdom’s eyes.
Gasps echoed everywhere and Jeonghan’s breath caught sharply because Cheol’s grip was warm and steady and familiar in spite of the chaos erupting around them.
“You once asked,” Cheol murmured softly enough for only Jeonghan to hear, “What a king could possibly want with a florist.”
Cheol’s thumb brushed across Jeonghan’s trembling knuckles. “The answer has always been everything.”
And, standing there beneath a thousand horrified stares, Jeonghan realized with sudden devastating clarity that Cheol truly meant to choose him.
Not privately. Not secretly. Not temporarily.
But for all eternity.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
That same night…
The kingdom descended into pure chaos: nobles stormed from the grand ballroom in outrage, ministers began emergency meetings, and rumors exploded through Velmora so quickly that they could no longer be contained within the palace.
The future king chose a commoner.
An ordinary man, a florist, of all people.
Traditional aristocrats called it disrespectful to the crown, while younger generations exploded in celebration because ordinary people remembered things nobles did not.
They remembered the crown prince sneaking into markets to help rebuild stalls after atrocious storms. They remembered him carrying injured children himself during winter floods. They remembered seeing the florist’s son beside him through every festival, every difficult year, every public celebration.
By midnight, people began hanging fresh flowers outside their windows and in front of their doors in support of Cheol and Jeonghan. By morning, flower stalls sold out completely. By afternoon, children began weaving flower crowns and calling them “consort crowns”.
And somewhere deep inside the palace, Cheol was laughing breathlessly while Jeonghan hid his burning face against his neck.
“This is entirely your fault,” Jeonghan muttered, his lips against Cheol’s skin.
“Is it really my fault that the people have excellent taste in my consort?”
“You publicly confessed your love for me before the entire kingdom!”
Cheol grinned against Jeonghan’s golden hair. “Yes,” he said proudly. “I did.”
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Two days later…
Jeonghan was absolutely certain (and mortified) that the queen summoned him to announce that he’ll be exiled from Velmora forever.
Instead, she poured him tea…which was somehow more terrifying.
Rain tapped incessantly against the palace windows while Jeonghan sat rigidly across from the most powerful woman in the kingdom.
He tried not to faint as the queen studied him silently.
“You love my son very much,” she said, matter-of-fact.
Jeonghan nearly choked on tea. “I…Your Majesty…I never intended—”
“You distance yourself whenever you think your presence will harm him,” she continued, voice calm and collected, very much unlike the storm brewing inside Jeonghan.
She continued, “You never once tried to use his affection for status.”
Jeonghan stared at her helplessly while the queen sighed softly.
“Do you know how rare that is in this palace?” she asked.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly. Jeonghan lowered his gaze. “I never wanted to cause disorder, Your Majesty.”
“You didn’t.” Her voice was unexpectedly gentle. “The disorder came from a kingdom that taught people like you that love must be earned through bloodlines.”
Emotion caught painfully in Jeonghan’s throat. Then, after a long moment, the queen smiled. It was small, tired at the edges but sincere.
“Cheol has loved you since he was a child,” she said quietly. “Frankly, the entire palace has been waiting for the two of you to stop suffering dramatically and confess already.”
Jeonghan stared in horror. The queen merely laughed at him. “You should have seen him at sixteen…He walked into pillars whenever you entered rooms.”
Jeonghan covered his face immediately. “Oh, dear gods.”
“It was unbearable,” the queen nodded as she recalled the memory with affection.
And, for the first time since the announcement, Jeonghan laughed without fear threatening to tangle inside it.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
A month before the coronation…
In spite of now being publicly promised to the future king, Jeonghan still snuck onto the palace rooftops whenever he felt overwhelmed.
That night, the stars spilled endlessly across the sky as birds drifted over the sleeping capital of Velmora.
Cheol found Jeonghan wrapped in blankets near the observatory tower, slightly shivering from the night air.
“You vanished from your own engagement banquet,” the prince said once he was close to his betrothed.
Jeonghan sighed softly, his breath fogging. “There were eleven dukes staring at me like I personally ruined their bloodlines.”
Cheol chuckled. “That does sound stressful.”
Jeonghan snorted softly while Cheol settled beside him until their shoulders touched beneath the blankets.
For a moment they simply sat together, listening to distant city music. It was peaceful, easy—the way it had always been between them.
Then quietly, Jeonghan broke the silence. “You really changed everything.”
Cheol leaned back against the roof tiles. “No,” he said after a moment. “I just got tired of pretending that the world made more sense than it actually does.”
Jeonghan turned toward him slowly. “You could’ve lost support for the throne.”
“I know.”
“You still could.”
Cheol finally looked at him with a soft, steady and certain look on his face.
“Hannie…my Hannie,” he murmured. “If becoming king required giving you up, then I would have never deserved the crown in the first place.”
Jeonghan leaned down and kissed him before fear could stop him. It was clumsy, tender from years of longing.
Cheol froze in complete shock for exactly a second before kissing Jeonghan back like he was a starving man, like he had been holding back for so many painful years.
Cheol’s hands cupped Jeonghan’s face carefully like he was made of porcelain. It was reverent, as though he still couldn’t believe that Jeonghan was his and that this was allowed.
When they finally pulled away, they were both breathless. Cheol rested his forehead against Jeonghan’s.
“You are going to ruin me,” Jeonghan murmured, voice shaky.
Cheol smiled softly then kissed the tip of his nose. “Good,” he whispered. “I plan on loving you for the rest of my life.”
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
The coronation day…
The whole of Velmora gathered around the palace beneath white banners and floating lantern blooms. Bells rung from across the city while red flower petals drift from tower balconies overhead. The palace steps disappeared underneath thousands of people stretching through the capital streets to witness the coronation of their new king.
Jeonghan stood beside the throne in ceremonial robes that were so beautiful he felt faint wearing them.
“You look more nervous than me,” Cheol whispered beside him.
“You’re becoming king in ten minutes,” Jeonghan hissed back.
“Yes,” Cheol said calmly. “But you’re the terrifying one.”
Jeonghan elbowed him on the sly.
Then, soon the ceremony began.
The ancient crown was lowered carefully onto Cheol’s head while the kingdom knelt reverently.
And when Cheol rose, his first act as king was not a decree, not a speech, not a show of power.
It was reaching for Jeonghan’s hand.
The court watched in stunned silence as the newly crowned king intertwined fingers with his consort and gently guided him up the palace steps to stand beside the throne itself—not behind it.
And at that moment, it dawned upon everyone that it was where Jeonghan exactly belonged.
King Seungcheol turned toward the kingdom. His voice was clear and pleasant when he announced, “This throne belongs not only to those born into power, but to those who choose kindness despite a cruel world.”
His fingers tightened around Jeonghan’s. “So let this kingdom remember today not as the day a commoner became royal—”
He looked at Jeonghan then, and suddenly the years fell away—the lonely prince in ruined boots, the florist’s son laughing beside a pond, shared parasols, rooftops and Blooming Lantern Festivals.
And now, a lifetime to be spent choosing each other aloud.
Cheol smiled at Jeonghan with unbearable tenderness.
“—but as the day love stopped being treated as something shameful,” Cheol continued.
Silence followed then, somewhere in the crowd, a single flower landed near the palace steps.
Then another.
Then a dozen.
Then a hundred.
Soon people began throwing red blossoms toward them until the marble steps disappeared beneath the flowers.
Jeonghan laughed through the tears while Cheol turned to him, visibly and helplessly in love.
“You’re crying,” he whispered fondly.
“You made the entire kingdom emotional,” Jeonghan replied with a smile.
“You started it by being beautiful.”
Jeonghan made a sound akin to offense while nearby nobles pretended not to witness their king flirting during his own coronation ceremony.
Then, Cheol did one final reckless thing before the entire kingdom, before the nobles and ministers, before history itself—
He lifted Jeonghan’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles devotedly—just like a vow, just like a prayer.
And beneath the falling flowers and golden sunlight illuminating through the stained glass windows, and with the kingdom cheering around them, Jeonghan realized something astonishing:
The throne never took Cheol away from him. It brought him home instead.