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— Do you realize the magnitude of the nonsense you’re spouting, James Chao? — The king’s deep voice broke the silence of the place.
His eyes were deadly serious. He never addressed his son by his full name, so his indignation was unmistakable. His wife looked utterly shocked; after everything their son had said, the only words that escaped her lips were, "My God". Was this a nightmare? For them, it certainly had to be.
— I know exactly what I’m saying. I’m not a child, nor am I some adolescent boy who doesn't know what he's doing.
— But you’re acting like one... — the queen whispered, though her voice carried clearly enough.
— I’m simply realizing that I don’t have to live this way. A bit late, perhaps, but still.
The king shook his head slowly, while the queen rolled her eyes, adjusting the dazzling gold clip that adorned her coal-black hair.
James gazed at his parents, who were seated on the garden benches of the palace. After summoning them there for a talk, he had spent a long time admiring the pink peonies before speaking, as if the flowers might lend him some courage. By the time he began his speech, his eyes were already brimming with tears and his nose was red.
Telling his parents he was dissatisfied with that life and wanted to renounce his titles and the future throne took a great deal out of him, even though he had been certain about it for three or four years.
He was supposed to be the sole heir, which made simply walking away so complicated. In any case, abdicating for a reason like that was frowned upon. Yet, after researching the line of succession, he found that his cousin could step into the role, as he met all the necessary criteria: age, marital status, and even children to name as heirs. So why should he tie himself down there?
— I’ll ask one last time: are you sure?
— I’m quite sure of it, Dad. And for what it’s worth, I’m leaving this week.
— And where are you going? — his mother asked, looking a bit worried.
— Seoul. But you don’t need to know anything more than that.
The process involved more than just saying he didn't want the position anymore and walking away. There had to be an official announcement to inform the staff, the naming of the next heir, and a public announcement for the people—but after that, the former prince would no longer be involved. James would also need to sign some documents to make it official, especially since the decision was irreversible.
Before he left, Chaeng kissed his forehead. She had known him since he was in his mother’s womb. James had always seen her as a remarkably strong woman, unshaken by anything, but for the first time in twenty-eight years, he saw her cry. Watching him leave felt like watching a son move out after coming of age. She had seen him take his first steps, tended to the scrapes he got from falling while playing in the palace gardens, helped with his schoolwork, and listened to him pour his heart out about love... it felt as though a part of her was leaving, too. And a part of James. He didn't want to leave her behind.
— I promise I’ll write you letters. — he said, fighting back tears.
He kept his word. That very week, he headed to the airport, bound for the South Korean capital. He had plenty of money in his pocket and a medical degree, he had started medical school at nineteen.
Everything would work out. It had to work out.
As he flew, Lana Del Rey’s Margaret played through his headphones. He had spent so much time wondering if Martin still loved him the way he had two years ago, back when they first met on a beach in Paris and arranged to see each other in secret. He still sent messages asking if everything was okay; sometimes, he even sent handwritten letters. They spoke a little about himself, his new music, and things happening in his life—no matter how small or trivial they seemed. Sometimes, it was just poetry. But James liked receiving them.
He wondered if, over the past two years, someone had entered Martin's life, and if Martin had shown any interest in that person. Martin was handsome and becoming increasingly famous; was there someone special?
He wasn't going to Seoul just for Martin. He was going to start over, build a career. He was about to live an ordinary life.
Upon arriving in the country, he spent the entire day looking for a nice, well-located apartment. As he viewed each place, he realized that now there would be no one to cook his meals, clean his home, do his laundry, or take care of him when he was sick. He remembered seeing the array of pots and pans in the palace kitchen and wondering why there were so many different kinds. Now, he was on his own. Was that a good thing?
He found a place that really appealed to him. It was well-located and beautiful, with great furniture and a great price. The name of the city wasn't unfamiliar, and after racking his brain for a moment, he remembered that it was the city where Martin lived.
The thought crossed his mind the possibility that Martin might still be living in the house he’d mentioned—in that city, right nearby.
Would it be worth leaving the house at 6 PM just to check?
It wasn't a bad idea—just to satisfy his curiosity. Martin could be at a concert right now, or he might have moved away. He and Martin had never officially dated, but they were friends, right? They were close... There was no harm in wanting to visit, in wanting to know.
He walked to the location. By his calculations, it would take five minutes or so. Walking would also be a good way to get to know the city a bit. He’d never done that back when he was a royal, and it was actually quite pleasant—looking up at the sky as it deepened into a darker hue and began to sparkle with stars, and seeing the countless buildings with their little lights glowing.
Coming face-to-face with the large wooden door of what was supposed to be Martin’s house, James bit his lower lip hard and reached out to press the doorbell. He had never been to this house—only the one in Paris—so he added a new worry to his list: what if this wasn't Martin’s house at all? What if Martin had been joking when he gave his Seoul address?
Just before pressing the bell, he hesitated, thinking he should call first to see if a visit was okay. He’d always heard that dropping by unannounced was incredibly rude. He used to get annoyed himself when his uncles visited the palace without warning, catching him in his ugliest pajamas or with comically messy hair.
He moved his finger back and forth between the doorbell and his lower lip; he cracked his knuckle and bit his lip again. Finally, he squinted and pressed the button, hearing the shrill sound of the doorbell followed, a few seconds later, by the creaking of the door slowly opening.
James opened his eyes, standing still in the entryway and waiting for someone to appear in the doorway—a process that seemed to take hours, though in reality, it moved at a perfectly normal speed. On the other side, a tall, slender, and unmistakable silhouette emerged. His face was bare of makeup, making the former prince wonder if he had just woken up. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt. It was a simple, casual look, yet it didn't diminish his beauty; if anything, James found it even more attractive.
Upon realizing who was standing before him, Martin didn't wait for greetings or pleasantries; he swept James into his arms and pulled him inside, closing the door and immediately pinning him against it. James was slightly startled but appreciated the possessive way the Canadian grabbed his waist and hauled him indoors. Contrary to what the shorter man had expected, Martin didn't kiss him right away. Instead, he gazed at him in disbelief, as if trying to determine whether he was dreaming or experiencing reality.
— James...
Their eyes met, shining brighter than the lights radiating from the buildings outside. Martin’s hands moved from James’s waist to his cheek, then to the back of his neck, tracing his body as if still unable to believe he was seeing him there in the flesh.
James wanted to speak, but his body had lost the ability to form words. The only thing he could manage in that moment was to bite his lip and lean in toward the taller man’s mouth. He was longing for a kiss, for more intimate contact—for anything. Martin’s hands slid back down to his waist, pulling him closer and answering James’s silent plea. His lips were hot, almost burning. They felt softer and more comfortable than the first time. It was an awkward kiss—it almost seemed like they didn't know what they were doing—yet it was delicious, sensual, and heated. That kiss laid bare the very feelings they had been forced to endure for the past few years.
Reluctantly, they broke the kiss. Martin looked at James with an expression that showed he still couldn't quite believe he was there, even as the reality of it began to sink in.
— What are you doing here in Seoul? — he asked, gesturing for him to sit on the sofa.
— I’m living here.
The Canadian furrowed his brow, wondering at least three times if he’d heard correctly. Living here? What did he mean?
— I... abdicated.
At that moment, Martin’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Having finally accepted that James was standing right in front of him, he now refused to believe that James had abdicated.
— The title of Crown Prince?
— All the titles I held or might have gained. I stepped away from the royal family, from my position as prince, and from the possibility of becoming heir. I’m no longer Crown Prince James—just... James. James Chao. — He gave an awkward smile.
— But... why?
— Being part of the royal family is incredibly complicated. I’ve come to realize that I haven't truly been living, since my parents built an imaginary wall to protect me from everything. The first time I did something I considered cool was at twenty-one, when I dyed my hair. It wasn't even anything incredibly wild, you know? I just went blonde. I considered abdicating to live like a normal person for a long time, and I asked my parents to keep a low profile during the process. The news might hit the papers in a couple of days.
Since Martin clearly remained incredulous, James decided to explain a bit further:
— I didn't have freedom; I wasn't happy. And what good is so much power if I can't be happy? If I can't love the person I love? In my family, absolutely everything was about performance and appearances—I was tired of that.
— But why did you decide to move to a different country?
— I came here because I’d visited a few times before and really liked it. Living back home after abdicating the title of crown prince wouldn't have been very comfortable, either. I don't know if I mentioned this, but I have a medical degree; I think I can look for a job in that field. Oh... and I'm looking at apartments. I found one nearby, but if you have any recommendations, I'd love to hear them.
Martin never would have imagined something like this happening. The way James spoke about his family made it seem like they would complicate the process or do everything in their power to stop it from happening. He remembered James saying that love in that family only existed if you knew how to build it over time—and he wasn't willing to do that. James wanted freedom in every aspect of his life.
— I'm happy you're doing something you want to do, something you think will be good for you…
They stood there for a long moment, smiling at each other. Suddenly, they were wrapped in a tight embrace, and James’s hands clutched a handful of hair at the nape of his boyfriend's neck. Their lips met once more. It felt more intense, more filled with desire, yet it lacked the desperation of that first kiss; it was calmer, as if they had all the time in the world to simply be there, loving each other. They lost track of time entirely; it was late into the night, and they were showering after a long session of lovemaking—an encounter filled with energy, sweat, and the longing they’d felt for one another.
Martin finished his shower first and went to bed, telling James he could pick out whatever he liked from the walk-in closet to wear for the night. He browsed through the wardrobe and was impressed by the variety of colors, fabrics, and styles the Canadian kept there.
He made a mental note to buy some new clothes that week, realizing his own wardrobe followed a monotonous pattern of dull, neutral colors. He imagined himself in looser tees, band shirts, or perhaps even something more fitted that would flatter his physique...
Despite being charmed by the array of available clothing, he decided to stick to a basic dark gray T-shirt. Looking at himself in the large closet mirror, he saw how oversized it was on him, yet it looked great. It slipped off one of his shoulders, the sleeves hung past his elbows, and the hem reached halfway down his thighs—it was incredibly comfortable. The blond man briefly considered grabbing a pair of pants or shorts, but he loved the laid-back look the simple tee gave him so much that he chose to wear nothing else.
"I'm a mess" he thought, running his hand over the fabric covering his body. "A mess" was what Chaeng used to call him when he wasn't yet dressed for an important event. But this was a good kind of mess. Martin’s T-shirt, the light, affectionate marks left on his skin, his tousled hair, his flushed, swollen lips... He could live in this mess forever.
James snapped back to reality and headed back to the bedroom. Martin was wearing a navy blue T-shirt, leaning back against the headboard while chewing on a pencil and scribbling something in a small notebook with yellowed pages. As he got a little closer, James could tell from the layout of the text that it was likely song lyrics.
Martin looked up from the notebook and fixed his gaze on James, looking him up and down. He made a point of biting his lower lip and letting out a playful whistle, even though he genuinely loved how great the T-shirt looked on him.
— It looks better on you than it does on me.
James felt his cheeks heat up and flush. He sat down beside him and tried to read what Martin was working on so intently. There were only a few lines and some scribbles; it seemed Martin was struggling to come up with something new to add to the empty space.
— What is it? — James asked, pointing to the notebook in his lap.
— I'm writing something new. — He wrapped an arm around the young man and planted a kiss on his collarbone. — Maybe it’ll turn into a song for the band, or maybe I’ll just keep it as a memento for myself.
The Canadian turned the notebook around to show the things he had already written. The few entries there made it clear the lyrics were about James, even without explicitly mentioning his name. He glanced over at Martin and smiled. He seemed to be waiting for a response, some sign of approval, or something similar. James found it incredibly sweet, remembering the flight to South Korea when the first song he’d listened to was Lana Del Rey’s "Margaret"—which was also a declaration of sorts.
— When Juhoon, our band’s drummer, saw some of the lyrics I’d written, he thought it was really strange. He’s known me for a long time and said I’d never written about love before. And it’s true—I hadn’t, not until you left. — Martin looked down at his hands, which were holding the notebook and pencil, as if searching for the right words to express what he felt — I used to hear him say all the time, 'My God, who is taking up so much space in your heart and mind like that?'
Martin didn't say it out loud, but he had never loved anyone before, so he’d had no reason to write about love. The few times he had, it wasn't about his own desires, but rather about other people's romances. But James was the first and the only one. He had found himself writing about James even before they’d kissed, because James possessed a monumental, captivating beauty—the kind worthy of becoming art.
— You were already a muse to me back in Paris, but after that, I wrote so much about you; it was almost as if doing so might bring you back — he continued, scratching the back of his neck in a bashful way. — I kept some as personal mementos because they felt too intimate, too precious to me; for others, I just hadn't found the perfect melody yet.
James took the notebook from Martin’s lap, read the lyrics penned in very dark graphite and smiled at him again.
— I think this one will turn out great, even if you don't turn it into a song for everyone to hear.
— I can sing some of the ones I wrote just for you. You’ll get an exclusive show. Want to?
And James couldn't possibly refuse that offer. Martin grabbed the black guitar hanging on the nearby wall and, a bit awkwardly, began to sing the songs he had written for his beloved. Some were classic rock, others indie rock. Regardless of the style, James was captivated; they were the most beautiful musical declarations he had ever heard in his twenty-eight years of life.
At one point during the evening, James wondered if he was living out a Cinderella moment—where everything would be wonderful for a few hours, only for his life to return to the way it was after midnight. But it was already past midnight, and there he was, holding Martin, breathing in his scent, listening to his breathing, and stroking his hair.
He closed his eyes and wished that, if this really was magic with an expiration date, the fairy godmother would forget forever that he was supposed to go back to normal. He didn't want to. He didn't need to.