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In truth, if there were a time when Kim Seungmin did not love Lee Minho, he cannot recall it.
Seungmin loved Minho when he was a simple kitchen brat, peering out from behind his mother's skirts, the elder boy holding out his hand as though it never occurred to him Seungmin might refuse it. Minho, firstborn prince, was young enough that no-one truly cared he was running around with a servant child; there would be time enough for manners and etiquette to be beaten into him when he grew older, for palace decorum to domesticate his wild temperament.
(Let it be known their attempts met with limited success - in the end, only the advent of Jisung would tame him.)
Seungmin loved Minho when they were teenagers and Minho was hurling whatever unfortunate volume of learning happened to be on hand across chambers in petulant fits of temper, demanding Seungmin sneak out of the palace with him at night, in order to swim in the pixie-infested lake.
Seungmin loved Minho when he realised they were soulmates. Especially then.
And Seungmin loved Minho when he met and married the second prince of a neighbouring realm; the two of them radiant, so buoyantly happy, on their wedding day. An alliance to secure peace and prosperity, and a love match, all in one.
Then there was Jisung, a welcome addition to their lives, with his brown curls and tanned skin and soulful eyes, his round cheeks and his deep voice, hoarse in the mornings, his pouting, rosebud lips - and he was Seungmin’s soulmate, too, and Seungmin loved him, too.
There was Minho, the King, and Jisung, the Prince Consort, and Seungmin, their manservant, devoted to them always, loving them silently, without a word or touch to betray the secret of his ardour, contenting himself with service where affection could not be claimed.
And for how many years could Seungmin conceal the truth?
…As many as the Gods, in their generosity, would permit him.
It is a warm evening, under the protection of the Summer Twins, when Seungmin’s luck fails.
The windows to the palace gardens stand open, the scent of jasmine suffuses the sticky air, and beyond the high garden walls, city temples are smoking with incense, to appease the Twins.
Perhaps Chan and Yongbok have wearied of Seungmin’s prayers.
Or perhaps they act according to their nature - the Twins are said, after all, to favour abundance and courage, to bless flourishing crops and reckless hearts alike, to abhor caution and cowardice.
On the other hand, it could be mercy they mean to grant him. Relief of the burden he carries.
Or they might merely look for entertainment in mortal affairs?
…Perhaps their intentions matter not. Seungmin, of course, will never know their reasoning.
Unaware of his fate, this night, Seungmin waits to be allowed leave of Minho and Jisung’s bedchamber.
“Seungmin-ah,” Jisung calls, beckoning to him, and the smirk on his face is mischievous. Seungmin raises an unimpressed eyebrow, safe in the knowledge that neither he nor Minho have ever truly chastised Seungmin for his manner, and seem to take inexplicable enjoyment from his trivial acts of insubordination, besides. “Will you help me change into my nightclothes?”
Seungmin blinks. Jisung may be a somewhat pampered second prince, but he is more than capable of dressing himself without assistance.
“Sire?” Seungmin asks, a hint of judgement in tone, caustic to avoid betraying his uneasiness. To place himself within arm’s reach of Jisung is - a risk Seungmin can little afford.
“Do as he wills, Seungmin,” says Minho, sounding weary. Likely wishing for Seungmin to withdraw, and for Jisung to retire to his bed, within the hour at least.
Bracing himself, Seungmin walks to Jisung’s side.
So close, Jisung ceases to resemble a prince cherished by the kingdom, and becomes only a man - his sun-browned skin blemished and imperfect, smelling of the spicy sandalwood scent he favours, and of summer sweat.
Perhaps Seungmin has grown complacent, lulled into a false sense of security, all these years without discovery, for when Seungmin unbuttons Jisung’s outer shirt, helps him shrug it off, and Jisung gasps, slapping a hand to his shoulder -
Seungmin does not quite comprehend the severity of the situation.
Until Jisung turns on him, wide-eyed, mouth parted in shock, and Seungmin realises - the tingling in his fingers - he must have brushed against Jisung, by accident -
Jisung knows.
“What is wrong, my love?” Minho asks, frowning, glancing up from where he lounges on his and Jisung’s marital bed, reading, as ever, one of his military histories.
“Come here?” Jisung says, quiet, strangled, and Minho is on his feet before Jisung finishes speaking, cat-like, slinking towards them.
Seungmin’s terror is so acute, a knife may as well have been plunged into his gut. “No,” Seungmin whispers, taking a step backwards, Jisung’s shirt, a fashionable garment of ruffles and embroidery, limp in his hands. “No, please -”
An expression of concern furrowing his brow, Minho looks to Jisung. Without a word, Jisung catches Minho’s wrist, and places his hand on the nape of Seungmin’s neck.
Minho grips the sensitive skin, scruffing him as a house cat might chastise her unruly kitten, and the touch of a soulmate is - unlike anything Seungmin has ever felt. Overwhelming. Utter bliss, beyond words. The shirt floats from his trembling fingers, forgotten.
Minho releases him, and Seungmin stumbles without the tether of his hold, his knees weak and legs unsteady, coltish. He stares fixedly at the plush rug beneath their feet.
“Look at me,” Minho says harshly.
Seungmin does, his body responding without thought and against his will to the command. Minho’s gaze is so severe, he wishes he had not.
“You knew,” Minho says, glaring at Seungmin with the flint-hard eyes of Seungmin's oldest friend, and Seungmin’s King, all at once. “The mark of our union has been circulated in scrolls across every corner of the kingdom. You must have known.”
“Forgive me,” Seungmin says, and he falls to his knees with little grace, a collapsing of wooden limbs, pressing his forehead clumsily to the floor. “Your Highness, forgive me.”
“I cannot understand why you did not tell us,” Jisung says, and although Seungmin cannot see his face, from this position, he can hear the bewildered hurt splintering Jisung’s voice.
Why would Seungmin tell them, when he can well imagine the horror scrawled across their faces, at someone daring to interfere with their bond? Or worse, their pity? Disgust? When Jisung and Minho’s relationship is so perfect, reminiscent of age-old tales, beloved across the kingdom - why would they ever need him?
“You would deny me knowledge of my soulmate,” Minho says, and the fury snapping at the heels of his icy tone strains at its leash. “Keeping a secret of this magnitude from your King - I could have you lashed for this.”
Seungmin’s eyes flutter closed. He imagines the humiliation of kneeling in the palace courtyard, for all servants to see, shirt stripped of him, whip cracking down on the soft flesh of his back, red welts forming.
And the gossip would spread - how could it not? Before long, the whole kingdom would know, would titter, would curse at the lowly servant who dared carry the same mark as royalty.
Could Seungmin bear it? For Minho, for Jisung - if it would mean their forgiveness - yes. And even if it would not. If he knew it was their will, Seungmin could suffer much worse than a flogging. His love for them would survive it. His love for them would survive even Minho snatching a poker from the fire and scorching the soulmark from his unworthy skin.
But let him not be parted from them. Let them not order him banished. He could bear anything but that.
“That would be your right,” Seungmin says, shoulders rigid, afraid, so very afraid.
“Look at me,” Jisung says, repeating Minho’s earlier order, more gently. Seungmin sits back slowly on his heels, lest Minho contest his rising. He meets Jisung’s eyes, as lovely and earnest as ever. “You know we would not order you hurt, Seungmin. You must.”
But Jisung is only Prince Consort, after all, and would not have the final say.
Minho would.
And Minho is looking at Seungmin like he is nothing more than the dirt on Minho’s boots after a long day’s hunting; usually Seungmin’s task to clean.
In all honesty, Seungmin agrees with the implied assessment. He is a servant of common blood. Who is he, to bear the same soulmark as Minho’s adored husband? What mistake have the Gods made, in binding them together?
“How long have you known?” Jisung asks, plaintive, eyebrows drawn together in question.
For those blessed with soulmate tattoos, the Winter Gods strike in the months of extremest cold and frost.
Grandmothers say that of the three, Hyunjin paints the marks, Changbin brands them into unsuspecting flesh, and Jeongin knots the red threads between human souls.
The timing is an act of benevolence on their part - true love to be found in the darkest of times.
Hope for spring.
It was midwinter, then, and Seungmin was sixteen, shivering beneath rough cotton blankets, when he awoke at night to a sensation of burning. He gasped and writhed and clutched his thigh in a futile attempt to soothe the agony - and when at last the pain ebbed, he had a tattoo to thank for his suffering; a circular brand of swirling black lines. It reminded Seungmin, a little, of the World Tree, the mortal realm as created by the five Gods together in their arrogant wisdom - and he loved it on sight; the intersection of his soul with another’s, stark against his skin.
“I showed you my mark the day it was bestowed upon me,” Minho says brusquely.
He had. The very next morning, he drew up his sleeve to show Seungmin the soulmark on his forearm, face alive, flushed pink with excitement.
Look, he said. Look.
And Seungmin did. One glance at the intricate design, the exact match of his own, and Seungmin understood he could never let Minho touch him again.
“I knew then,” Seungmin says, miserably, and hangs his head. Let Minho punish his years of deceit any way he sees fit. Seungmin would deserve any discipline he decided to mete out.
“Can we see?” Jisung asks, and there is only one possible meaning to his question.
Humiliation coils as a knot in Seungmin’s chest, sickening his stomach. He parts his legs, slightly, slipping a hand in between them, placing it on his upper left thigh.
“It is here,” he says, and tries not to flinch beneath their scrutiny as Minho and Jisung’s gazes both, predictably, fall.
A moment of silence.
“Stand,” Minho says, and Seungmin obeys, shakily.
Jisung’s hands settle on Seungmin’s arms, guiding him towards their bed, and then Jisung drops to the floor, unlacing Seungmin’s boots with deft fingers, and once Seungmin recovers from the wrongness of their position, he understands -
They would see the mark, no matter where it is.
Seungmin could not deny them anything. He will not deny them this.
When Seungmin’s boots have been discarded, Jisung tugs at the waistband of Seungmin’s trousers. Seungmin shifts, allowing Jisung to pull them down, and they are cast aside in turn -
Seungmin sits before his King and Prince Consort, in their bedchamber, upon their marriage bed, in nothing but his shirt and drawers. The white cloth falls to mid-thigh - only the barest hint of Seungmin’s tattoo peeks out.
His cheeks must be flaming scarlet, the red crawling up to his ears.
Seungmin leans back on his hands as Jisung pushes up the flimsy fabric, and there, there is the mark that binds them.
Jisung’s fingers trace over the tattoo on Seungmin’s inner thigh, singeing his skin, and Seungmin shudders. His every hair stands on end. His every nerve is alight with the touch of his soulmate, and the pleasure is, once more - indescribable. Painful in its intensity. Perfect. Seungmin’s heart slows to a languid beat, calmed by the touch of one the Gods deemed meant for him.
“Why - would you keep this from us. Why,” Jisung says, almost begging.
How does Seungmin explain his years of terror? The crushing certainty of rejection? Where should Seungmin begin?
“Fear,” says Minho abruptly. He stands behind Jisung, arms folded, watchful as a predator, and he cocks an eyebrow. “Am I wrong? Fear that we would look at you and say - we do not want you. You are not enough, for us.”
His voice is soft, mocking, and Seungmin can’t breathe, air choking his lungs. Minho is speaking the words he most dreaded to hear, and he is nauseous, dizzy -
But he has heard them, they are spoken, and perhaps it will soon be over. Perhaps this will be the worst of it, and Seungmin can dress, take his leave to lick his wounds and weep.
And he will return early on the morrow to relight the fire in the grate and lay out their neatly folded clothes for the day and strip their bedsheets and never speak of this again and love them, love them, love them.
“Enough,” Jisung says sharply. “Minho, enough.”
He cups Seungmin’s face with both his hands, dragging his thumbs across Seungmin’s cheeks and - oh, Seungmin is crying. When did he begin to cry?
“Gods, Seungmin,” Minho says, a groan, and Seungmin could not begin to decipher his tone.
“My love,” says Jisung, talking over Minho. “Listen to me. You need not cry. You are ours, darling. You always were, but - we know now. We know now.”
Jisung may as well be speaking one of the many other languages he has studied, for all the sense his words are making to Seungmin. Perhaps Jisung understands Seungmin’s disbelief, for his grip tightens, on Seungmin’s face, and Seungmin can hardly see him, vision blurry with tears, chest stuttering with small sobs he is attempting to suppress, so as not to heighten his King’s displeasure.
But then Minho is by his side, wrapping an arm around Seungmin’s shoulders, drawing Seungmin into the warmth of his embrace. Retracting his claws, at long last.
“I am angry with you,” Minho murmurs, into his hair, stroking Seungmin’s back soothingly. “I admit that. But it is only because of my love for you. And I should not have been so cruel. I am accustomed to your defiance - that is not an excuse. I am sorry.”
The phrase my love for you rings in Seungmin’s head, the great clanging of a bell.
My love for you. My love for you.
But Minho does not love Seungmin in the same manner Seungmin loves him. He cannot.
“You need not apologise to me,” Seungmin manages, dazedly, because he is unable to address Minho’s confession, whatever it might mean.
“Mm,” says Minho. “Well, I will ask a further apology of you, but -” he pauses, as Seungmin’s breath hitches in another sob, and he tucks Seungmin’s head under his chin. “In the morning, perhaps.”
Seungmin nods and nods, his tears staining Minho’s nightclothes, knowing Minho deserves an apology from him and more. He will fall to his knees, again, and beg Minho’s forgiveness - he swears, to whichever Gods are listening.
(They all are, although Seungmin will never know it; even the Winter Gods in their yearly slumber. Ancient, inhuman hearts may still yet be melted, with a tale of love. Perhaps it will be a different world, when they are not.)
When his weeping, somewhat, abates, Minho and Jisung manoeuver Seungmin until he is lying down, his body helpless against the firm, decisive movements of their hands. They are stronger than him, the both of them. They were born princes who had the leisure time to train; to hone their talent and muscle.
How long Seungmin has wished to be held down, to be at the heart of their attention, at the mercy of their whims?
The fire crackles low, and yet Seungmin is overheating. Let him blame the warm night. The Summer Twins.
“Oh, Seungmin,” Jisung whispers, kissing his sweat-soaked brow, the press of his lips light. Seungmin burns, and burns. “Our Seungminnie. How I wish you felt able to tell us.”
Seungmin does not understand. Perhaps this is nothing more than a dream. Perhaps he will wake in his own bed in the morn, and not between the two men he loves more than his life. Perhaps.
But for now, for tonight, he will let himself sleep, with Minho curled around his back, arm slung over his side, with Jisung pressing kiss after kiss into his hair.
Tonight, Seungmin will thank the Gods. He will let himself indulge in everything he ever dreamed of.
Tonight, at last, Seungmin will let himself be loved.