Archive of Our Own ^beta

One of the first things Wooyoung learns, along with ‘sit up straight at the table’, ‘don’t interrupt your father when he’s in a meeting’ and ‘don’t bite your cousin’, is that the Kangs are the enemy.

The Kangs are what stand between the House of Jung and honour and power in the royal court, the Kangs are all that is wrong with the world, the Kangs are stupid and ugly and he should hate them. He should especially hate the Kangs’ heir, the person to whom Wooyoung will be constantly compared for his whole childhood, and quite possibly his whole life.

There’s a rumour that Wooyoung’s mother had been having trouble conceiving, but managed to do so purely out of spite when she heard that Lady Kang was with child. Wooyoung can’t say for sure but, knowing his mother, he thinks it’s probably true.

Either way, Kang Yeosang, treasure of the Kang family, is born on a bright morning in June and Jung Wooyoung, pride of the Jungs, follows him into the world a few short months later, on a cold November night. Two children, destined to be pitted against each other, created to be rivals.

However, what ends up happening is quite the opposite.

At first, Wooyoung is perfectly happy to hate Kang Yeosang. He’s never met the other boy, and all the information that filters back to him is about the other boy’s achievements, which are quickly used against Wooyoung by his parents.

Kang Yeosang never misbehaves. Kang Yeosang has beautiful handwriting. Kang Yeosang can hold a training sword already.

“You’re better than him,” they tell Wooyoung, “So prove it. Don’t give anyone reason to think otherwise.”

So, as Wooyoung grows, he hates Kang Yeosang, partly because of the endless comparisons, and partly because it’s what he’s been taught to do.

Then, when Wooyoung is ten, he actually meets the Kang heir for the first time.

The royal family typically spend the summer in Wooyoung’s home city, in the most southern of their main three palaces. The crown prince’s birthday happens to fall during this season, and this year all the local nobles and their families are invited to the festivities.

It’s Wooyoung’s first time at a court celebration, and he’s less than enthusiastic. Wrapped in a heavy silk tunic with long sleeves that immediately start getting in the way and irritating him, he’s stuffed into the carriage alongside his parents and sulks all the way to the palace while they repeat the long list of dos and don’ts and remind him not to spill any food on himself.

“I’m not a baby!” he protests at the last one.

“Then stop whinging like one!” his mother snaps.

By the time they’ve reached the palace, everyone has plastered smiles back on their faces, and Wooyoung’s father steps out of the carriage first, closely followed by his wife and son. Wooyoung has never seen the inside of the palace before and is amazed by the grandeur, too distracted by all the beautiful gilded statues and bright wall hangings to fully register their names being announced to the room.

Then they’re inside, and the celebrations have begun.

Everything is a whirl of colour, a sea of adults dressed in their finest clothes and servants scurrying round unobtrusively. Musicians play in the background, a lively tune than Wooyoung wishes he was allowed to dance to, and the room is lined with tables groaning under the weight of a vast array of dishes. Wooyoung samples as many as he can before his father ushers him away again, and finds them thoroughly delicious.

Unfortunately, there are only a few other children present, and none of them are allowed to stray from their parents’ sides to go and play. The little prince is there, straight-faced and serious and draped in so many layers of embroidered silk it’s a wonder he can even walk. There’s a long line of guests waiting to greet him and offer their gifts, and he nods solemnly and thanks each of them in turn, with no hint of the boredom he must surely be feeling. Wooyoung, however, has no such attention fixed on him, and he takes full advantage of this to slip away from his parents and hide under one of the tables at the first opportunity.

“Wooyoung!” he hears his mother calling, as he giggles to himself quietly. “Oh, goodness, where has that boy gone? Wooyoung!”

He waits until she’s moved away, and no one else is paying attention, then makes a break for the nearest door. It leads him out into a hallway, which he follows a short way before reaching another open door, this one advertising a beautifully maintained garden. Wooyoung skips out to explore without a second thought.

And it’s there in the shadows of the garden that he comes face to face with another boy, slowly straightening from where he’d been crouched beside the cobbled path, staring at the colourful fish in the pond.

The boy is pretty, with a serious face and dark, watchful eyes. He stares at Wooyoung, waiting for him to make the first move.

And make the first move Wooyoung does.

“Hi!” he says, breaking into a wide grin and waving. “Did you get bored too?”

The boy blinks, as if surprised, then nods slowly.

“How did you escape?” Wooyoung asks, shuffling a bit closer, skirting around the large rhododendron bush between them. “I hid under the table until everyone was looking the other way, then snuck out the closest door. Then suddenly I was in this big corridor and it led me here. What about you?”

“You waited until no one was watching?” the boy repeats. “Why? Just tell them you need some air to clear your thoughts and wish to take a quick turn about the garden, and will return in but a moment.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widen.

“Woah,” he says, “You sound so fancy! Like how my parents talk when we have guests.”

The boy shrugs, self-conscious.

“My parents like me to talk like that,” he says. “They agree more often if I ask for stuff nicely.”

“Ooh,” says Wooyoung, impressed. “So you didn’t even need to sneak away! That’s clever.”

He looks the boy up and down curiously, not bothering to be particularly subtle about it. He’s wearing nice robes, much like Wooyoung’s but in blue instead of purple, and there’s a jade pendant hanging around his neck, carved into the shape of a coiled dragon. Wooyoung once lost a jade charm his aunt gave him for his birthday, so he knows all too well from the resulting lectures that jade is very valuable. This boy must come from one of the other noble houses, Wooyoung surmises.

That’s good. It’s been a while since he’s made a friend his parents have actually approved of.

He plops himself down beside the pond, and leans over to stare into it.

“Were you watching the fish?” he asks.

The boy nods.

“They come up really close if you feed them,” he says.

“Feed them?” Wooyoung repeats. “Feed them what?”

The boy glances around quickly, checking that they’re still alone in the garden, before dipping into the pocket of his robe and retrieving a handful of sticky rice. Wooyoung’s eyes widen.

“Did you steal that from the banquet?” he laughs incredulously.

“Koi like rice,” says the boy defensively. “Here – watch.”

He scatters a little into the water just in front of them. For a second the grains just float on the surface, bobbing around in place. Then, seven or so fish are changing direction and making a beeline towards them, mouths already dropping open into perfect ‘O’ shapes. They gobble up the rice in record time, then mill around afterwards, searching for more.

Wooyoung claps delightedly.

“Let me try!”

The boy smiles at his obvious appreciation, and offers him some rice from his cupped hand.

“They like peas too,” he confides. “But I couldn’t find any at the table this time.”

Wooyoung scoops some up and sprinkles it down to the fish below, who immediately set about scoffing it down as quickly as possible.

“That one’s my favourite,” Wooyoung announces, pointing to the closest, a big fish with black and white mottled through its orange scales. “Which one’s yours?”

The boy puts his head on one side, considering the question seriously before leaning over and pointing to a fish a little further back, this one predominantly pearly white, with a single black spot in the centre of its back.

“That one’s pretty,” he says.

Wooyoung nods in agreement.

“Good choice!” he tells him.

A noise, the soft creak of a door opening, comes from across the garden then, startling them. Both boys duck down lower, peering cautiously over the bushes to see who has entered their hiding place. One of the servants, hurrying across the opposite corner of the courtyard with an armful of linen, probably busy preparing beds for all the royal family’s guests. Too busy to notice a couple of children by the fishpond.

Wooyoung relaxes as they leave by another door, and straightens, turning back to the boy.

“I’m Wooyoung, by the way,” he says. “Of House Jung. Nice to meet you!”

Unexpectedly, the smile drops from the boy’s face.

“Oh,” he says, suddenly uncertain once more.

“What?” says Wooyoung, perplexed. “Is something wrong?”

The boy glances over his shoulder again, hands coming up to fiddle with his pendant nervously.

“I… nothing,” he says haltingly. “Just… well… I’m a Kang.”

Wooyoung’s jaw drops.

“You’re a Kang?” he repeats. “You mean you’re… wait a minute, are you Kang Yeosang?”

The boy grimaces, but nods. And just like that, Wooyoung’s world gets upended.

This is Kang Yeosang, the one who’s supposed to be his enemy? That doesn’t seem right at all. Wooyoung was expecting someone mean, someone who refuses to share their things and walks around with their nose stuck in the air like they’re better than everyone else. Someone boring, more concerned with being good than having fun, like the children of his parents’ friends who Wooyoung is always expected to play with.

Not a pretty boy with a shy smile who leaves the party early with a handful of rice shoved into his pocket to come and feed the fish.

He stares at Yeosang now, still standing silent and unblinking. He looks wary, like he’s half expecting Wooyoung to start shouting at him or to run away in disgust.  

“…Huh,” says Wooyoung, “You’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”

Yeosang tilts his head.

“What did you think I was going to be like?” he asks.

Wooyoung puffs his cheeks and blows out a huff of air.

“Well,” he says, “I mean, my mother always says you’re so blank and boring the Kangs may as well have birthed a doll.”

Yeosang’s shoulders draw up defensively.

“Well, my mother always says you’re a rowdy little brat,” he says, a touch of haughtiness creeping into his tone.

“Oh, I am a brat,” Wooyoung assures him, puffing out his chest proudly. “Everyone says so. Even my cousin Yunho, even though he’s barely older than I am.”

This is very clearly not the response Yeosang was expecting. His face morphs from confusion to surprise, then he covers his mouth with his hand and giggles.

Wooyoung decides immediately that he likes the sound, and wants to hear more of it.

The tension which had suddenly risen between them is dispelled just as quickly, almost as if nothing has changed, as if they haven’t just discovered that they were born as political enemies.

Before they know it, they’re back to feeding the fish, trying to tempt Yeosang’s favourite black-and-white one closer to the edge of the pond to join Wooyoung’s, and complaining about how stuffy the party had been, with so few other children besides the prince.

“Bet he’s bored out of his mind too,” says Wooyoung, taking one last pinch of rice from Yeosang’s hand and flicking it out into the water.

“Too bad he can’t escape out here with us,” says Yeosang, picking the last few squashed grains from the inside of his soiled pocket. “His outfit had deeper sleeves, bet he could fit half a bowl of rice in there.”

Wooyoung lets out a delighted bubble of laughter at the idea, and Yeosang giggles along with him. Brushing his sticky hands carelessly on his robes as he watches Yeosang laugh, Wooyoung comes to a conclusion.

“I think we should be friends,” he announces.

Yeosang pauses and blinks at him, surprised.

“I’m… not sure if that’s smart,” he says cautiously.

“I didn’t say it was smart,” Wooyoung replies. “I said I think we should. You’re not actually boring at all – you’re really funny!”

He gives Yeosang his most winning smile, the one that always seems to get him out of trouble with his family and the household staff.

“It can be our secret!” he says. “No one else will know. Just us two.”

Yeosang hesitates, glancing over his shoulder again. The garden is still empty, their own little world away from disapproving parents or nagging nursemaids or anyone else who might step in to stop them.

“I suppose we can try,” he says.

“Yes!” Wooyoung jumps in glee, clapping his hands. “Fantastic! I’ve never had a secret friend before! This is going to be so much fun.”

And it is.

They don’t get much time together, and they have to be careful, but it’s worth it, and before long sneaking around is becoming a habit. Wooyoung looks forward to seeing Yeosang and starts seeking him out at parties and gatherings, waiting for a chance to take his hand and tug him away to play in the gardens or in shadowy corners where no one sees them.

Together they feed the fish in gardens with fishponds, and the birds in gardens without. While their parents are pointedly refusing to acknowledge each other’s existence, or trading thinly veiled barbs, Wooyoung and Yeosang complain about their lessons, compare stories about annoying cousins and strict grandparents, and teach each other new games they’ve learned.

Sometimes, when they can’t find a way to leave the room, they hide behind the folding silk screens together, standing on tip-toe so their feet don’t poke out from underneath and give away their hiding place, holding their breath when adults pass close by. It doesn’t matter that they can’t really play or even talk louder than a whisper, because hiding together is a game all by itself. It’s enough that they’re there with each other, and that they’re sharing a little secret no one else in the room knows.

Wooyoung is ten when he befriends the Kang heir, the child of his family’s enemies.

He’s fifteen when he first kisses him, sitting together in the shadows of the decorative bridge in the gardens of the Park family’s manor, Yeosang’s hair soft under his fingertips and noise from the nearby feast drifting above their heads, mingling with quickening breaths and the rustle of silk and the ripple of water beside them.

Seventeen when he first begs his cousin Yunho to cover for him while Yeosang convinces his manservant to turn a blind eye for the night, and Wooyoung sneaks over Yeosang’s balcony and into his bed. It was the first of many times.

Together they learn each other’s bodies, discover how to pleasure each other, memorise each other’s sensitivities and weaknesses until they know them better than their own.

It’s usually in Yeosang’s chamber rather than Wooyoung’s, simply because Wooyoung has built himself a bit of a reputation as a charmer, rumoured to be in and out of multiple beds. He encourages the rumours because it suits him to – a dashing rogue image gives him more freedom to vanish at nighttime and come sauntering home in the early hours of the morning without seeming suspicious. His father greets him with a laugh and a clap on the shoulder, and his mother shakes her head indulgently, and Wooyoung hides his grimace and smiles carelessly as though he really is just cycling through meaningless trysts to get some practice in and stave off the boredom while he waits for them to choose a more suitable match for him to charm.

It’s lucky that at least one of their families is so relaxed about pre-marital sex. The Kangs would never tolerate such behaviour from their precious son, whom they still believe is the epitome of purity and obedience. They sneer at Wooyoung’s behaviour, which just makes the fact that Yeosang is the only one Wooyoung actually sleeps with all the more ironic.

Sometimes the couple laugh about the way their parents talk about them, and sometimes they fume about it, and sometimes they cry, depending on the day. But throughout it all, their families’ hatred for one another remains as steady and constant as the passage of the sun through the sky.

It’s not a convenient relationship, and the way things are right now is in no way sustainable. There’s the unspoken knowledge, always in the backs of their heads at every clandestine meeting, that they can’t go on like this forever. Sooner or later, something has got to give, whether it be their families’ hold on them, or their love.

And the breaking point comes, as fate would have it, in the form of the crown prince’s 21^st birthday.

***

Yeosang stands in front of the full-length mirror in his chamber, staring at himself while a small army of servants hurry about him in organised silence, flowing around the box he stands on like water around a stone in a river. His mother stands a short distance behind him, overseeing them with piercing eyes.

“The pale blue,” she says, pointing imperiously, and one of the servants quickly steps forward with the indicated robes.

Another moves to join them, and together they drape the first layer around Yeosang, then the second, sliding it over his outstretched arms and tying it in place at the front. Yeosang quite likes this outfit. The silver embroidery around the edges is pretty, and it complements the darker blue ribbon they’ve tied his hair back with today. He thinks the pale, icy colour sets off the inky black of his hair nicely too. Still, what he thinks doesn’t matter. No one’s waiting for his opinion.

Instead, all eyes turn to Lady Kang, who looks Yeosang up and down calculatingly.

“Acceptable, but not for the first meeting,” she says decisively. “It’s not enough.”

Yeosang doesn’t groan out loud because he knows better, but internally he’s slumping to the ground in exasperation. This must be the twentieth outfit they’ve tried this morning. Of those, five have been approved and packed in his travel chest, but the outfit for tomorrow, the Big Day, has not yet been found.

The outfit he’ll wear when he joins the other noble suitors vying to be chosen by Prince San as the next royal consort.

It’s been a few generations since anyone from their province has joined the royal family, with favour leaning to the north of the kingdom as of late, so the Emperor has decided that his son’s consort will be selected from the south this time to maintain balance. The eligible sons and daughters of the highest ranking families in the region have all been invited to the summer palace for the next fortnight to join the festivities for the prince’s birthday. They’ll spend their days socialising with the prince, and at the end of the season, one of them will receive the greatest of honours, catapulting both themselves and their family into the height of courtly power and influence.

Naturally, both House Kang and House Jung have leapt at the chance.

Yeosang has spent the last few days in an exhausting flurry of preparation. Once settled in the guest quarters of the palace, he won’t have any outside help (or interference) from his family for the coming two weeks. As a result, his mother has taken it upon herself to organise as much as she can while still in control. All of Yeosang’s outfits and jewellery are being carefully curated with instructions on when and how to wear them, and he’s been subjected to a non-stop stream of advice and directions.

“Be shy, but not sullen,” she instructs him now, as the servants hurry to fetch more clothes from his wardrobe. “Your charm comes from your modesty and your dignity, but you must not let this be interpreted as being withdrawn or disinterested. You must be sweet, amenable. Be reserved, but responsive.”

Yeosang nods obediently whenever she pauses for affirmation, and otherwise lets his mind wander. He hopes the prince will set his sights on someone early in the festivities, so the rest of them can relax and stay out of the spotlight. He certainly has no intention of trying to win the prince’s affections for himself, not when he already has Wooyoung. He’ll be polite and agreeable, as he always is in high society gatherings, but no more than that.

“The Jungs will be pushing their brat forward, of course,” his mother continues distastefully, “And you know what he’s like.”

Yeosang steels himself for the unpleasant words he knows must be coming next. And, sure enough –

“How that family have the nerve to offer someone so wanton and indecorous to his royal highness, I don’t know. That boy brings nothing but shame to them all with his loose morals and unseemly behaviour. If the prince wanted his type, he could simply visit a brothel.”

He’s long schooled himself not to react when his family slanders Wooyoung, but it still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Some may not find that sort of conduct objectionable,” Lady Kang goes on, “But I’m sure the royal family will look more favourably on purity.”

She spares Yeosang an approving glance as she speaks. Yeosang says nothing, but his eyes wander across to his bed, where he’d tumbled with Wooyoung just two nights ago.

“What if the prince does choose one of us?” Yeosang had whispered as they lay together in the darkness afterward, staring up at the ceiling while Wooyoung made himself comfortable on Yeosang’s chest, his breath pleasantly warm against his collarbone.

Wooyoung had snorted.

“He won’t pick either of us if he has an ounce of sense. The peace in this city is always on a knife’s-edge as it is, because of this stupid feud. If the crown shows favour one way or another, that peace will be shattered. The other house would never forgive or forget.”

He nuzzled further into Yeosang’s neck.

“He’ll play it safe and go with the Parks,” he’d mumbled.

Yeosang shook his head.

“The Parks aren’t offering anyone,” he said. “They have no children left to put forward, not since Seonghwa-hyung got engaged to Minister Kim’s son.”  

“Oh,” said Wooyoung, blinking. Then he shrugged. “One of the Lees then. Or the Mins. Any of the other suitors would be a more sensible choice than either of us.”

“Yes, but who’s to say the prince is going to be sensible about it?” Yeosang pointed out.

Wooyoung grinned.

“Are you saying I’m alluring enough to make men abandon all logic just to be with me?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” grumbled Yeosang, and Wooyoung had laughed.

“I only meant that the prince may be the type to choose with his cock rather than his brain,” Yeosang continued after a moment. “Just because you’re thinking this through properly doesn’t mean that he will.”

“Then his parents will step in and steer him away,” Wooyoung said confidently. “Choosing one of us would cause far more trouble than it’s worth. They won’t allow it.”

Now, as the servants drape the next set of robes around him, Yeosang shuts his eyes, and prays to all the gods that Wooyoung is right.

Wooyoung stands in front of the mirror in his chambers, the room a flurry of activity and colour around him. Servants bustle this way and that, arms full of robes and trousers and sashes, busily laying them out on the bed, or folding them to pack into the large trunk sitting in the corner.

Wooyoung is currently in his underclothes, having just had to struggle out of a too-tight tunic with the help of a couple of servants.

“I told you that one would be too small now, mother,” he whines, rolling his shoulders and meeting her eye reproachfully in the mirror.

“Well, you never know unless you try!” exclaims Lady Jung self-righteously. “That was such a nice colour on you, darling, and the embroidery cost a fortune! It wouldn’t be right to throw it away without checking first.”

Wooyoung heaves a long-suffering sigh and holds out his hand for the next piece of clothing to try on. A servant steps forward, offering a dark orange robe, but his mother gets there first, plucking it from the servant’s hands and examining it briefly.

“Oh no, no, not that one,” says Lady Jung, tossing it over her shoulder, where it lands in a crumpled heap on the ground. The servant hurries over to pick it up.

“Where’s that one he wore for the New Year celebrations?” she demands, flapping her hands. “The blue one with the yellow embroidery. You know the one!”

She waits expectantly, and there’s a pause as a few of the servants blink, perplexed. Then one leans in to mutter to another and they hurry back to the wardrobe, returning a moment later with a new robe carried carefully between them.

It’s dark green with gold edging, and Wooyoung wore it for his father’s birthday a few months back.

“Exactly!” says Lady Jung, clapping her hands. “That’s it! Why was that so hard?”

Wooyoung catches the eye of the nearest servant and grins with silent laughter, and the servant quickly dips his head to keep a straight face.

“Now, Wooyoung,” his mother says, turning back to face him as the servants help him into the new robe, “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you what’s at stake this season. You know what you have to do.”

“Bag a royal husband in two weeks,” replies Wooyoung promptly, with a cheeky smile that he can’t quite make reach his eyes. Not that his mother notices.

“Exactly!” she says, clapping her hands again. “Two weeks to charm your way into our prince’s heart. If anyone can do it, it’s you, Wooyoungie. I know you’ve made a lot of little conquests over the years, but this will be your ultimate achievement.”

Yuck. Wooyoung’s smile fades as he fights to stop his discomfort from showing, but his mother’s off on another of her tangents now, too caught up in her own words to pay attention to anything else.

“Of course, your main competition is going to be that painted doll the Kangs try to pass off as a son,” she continues. “I can’t imagine anyone preferring that dull, lifeless statue over someone as brilliant and witty as you, darling, but just in case, don’t get complacent! He’s got at least part of a brain in there, even if he doesn’t act like it, and he’ll be plotting to win the prince over in his own vapid way.”

Wooyoung takes a steady breath in and holds it, counts to three. Flexes his hands and balls them into fists, then uncurls them again. No point arguing, he reminds himself firmly. It’d just get both of them in trouble.

“But other than that, I don’t imagine anyone else will have a hope of catching the prince’s eye when you’re there!” says his mother merrily. “No one can resist our charming Wooyoungie! I have every faith in you. You’ll bring honour and power to the House of Jung.”

Wooyoung gives a brittle smile. He only hopes this affection and goodwill will last when he returns at the end of the fortnight empty-handed.

The next afternoon finds twelve noble sons and daughters assembled in the main audience chamber of the royal family’s summer palace. Everyone is dressed and groomed to perfection in their finest clothes and accessories, a rainbow of silks and satins and jewels.

Yeosang has his best fan with him – the silk one with a blue and gold kingfisher painted on it – and is fanning himself gently just to have something to do with his hands which won’t be counted as fidgeting. They’ve been waiting a while – not because the prince is late, but because everyone else arrived early, terrified of appearing rude by running late to such an important meeting – and he’s starting to get antsy. He just wants this to be over – the meeting, the day, the whole fortnight – so he can go back home and forget the whole business.  

He glances around at the other suitors. The faces are familiar – they’re all from the same social circle, after all. Yeosang has mixed feelings about the group. A few are nice enough, but many of them are exactly the snobbish, power-hungry type that one would expect court life to produce. They won’t be doing anything to make the coming fortnight any more bearable.

Wooyoung is there too, of course, looking handsome as ever. He arrived last out of the guests, the closest he could get to fashionably late without possibly offending the crown. He’s wearing a predictably gaudy robe, rose-pink with purple embroidery and lots of gold trimming, and stands out even in this crowd. Yeosang wishes he could go up and greet him, but they’re in public, so instead he has to settle for shifting to the back of the group and trying to catch Wooyoung’s eye without appearing to look in his direction too much.

Luckily, they’re used to this, so Wooyoung catches on quickly. He meets Yeosang’s eye briefly and flicks his own fan closed, then taps it twice with his forefinger.

Hi.

A decade of attending the same gatherings and being unable to talk openly to each other has led to the formation of a little set of secret signals accumulated over the years. They first came up with the idea as children, and although they’ve since refined the system, much of it remains largely unchanged. Even if switching the fan from one hand to the other – I want to play with you – has taken on a new meaning in the more recent years.

Yeosang closes his fan and taps hi in return, then opens the fan and closes it again. I’m bored.

Wooyoung’s eyes scrunch with mirth before quickly regaining his composure. He lowers his fan and brushes his fingers across his lips briefly.

You look good.

Yeosang fights the urge to duck his head in bashfulness at the compliment, and moves to reply in kind, but before he can, there’s movement at the main door. Murmurs run around the group and everyone leans forward – and ah yes, the guards by the door are bowing now. Everyone else is quick to follow suit as a figure appears, flanked by more guards and servants.

The prince has arrived.

Everyone stares at the ground respectfully until they’re given permission to rise again. When they do, Yeosang cranes his neck subtly for a better look at the approaching prince. He feels the person beside him stiffen in surprise, hears Wooyoung’s sharp intake of breath nearby.

They haven’t seen Prince San in a few years – he’s been spending summers away with his tutors in the Capital, instead of going on progress with the rest of the royal family. Yeosang had been picturing the prince as they saw him last – fairly skinny, a little awkward, robes often hanging not-quite-right on his frame despite the attendants always fussing over him. Yeosang had neglected to account for the amount of time which has passed.

The prince has grown into a man now – and a stunningly handsome one at that. His eyes, jawline and cheekbones all look sharp enough to cut glass, and his build is athletic – broad shoulders tapering down into a slim waist. Yeosang’s heart gives a great thud at just the sight of him, before he scolds himself. He’s off-limits, you idiot.

The suitors line up, and Yeosang and Wooyoung put on their usual little display. Wooyoung takes his place in the line, then pretends to be only just noticing that he’s standing next to Yeosang. He makes an offended noise and wrinkles his nose in disgust, turning on his heel and flouncing off to stand all the way at the other end of the line. To think he almost existed in the same space as the Kang’s son! Yeosang watches over his fan, curling his lip in distaste, then rolls his eyes and looks away. He has better things to worry about than Jung Wooyoung’s childish antics.

He sees the prince’s eyes flit between them and knows that their little act has been observed. He hopes it serves as a good reminder.

You don’t want either of us. You don’t want any part in this. We’ll only cause you trouble.

One of the officials accompanying the prince rattles off their names, and the prince smiles and nods at each of them as they bow in turn. When they’re done, he spreads his hands.

“Welcome, all of you,” he says, smiling cheerfully. “It’s wonderful to have you all here. I’m looking forward to getting to know you all better over the coming weeks, and I hope that everyone enjoys their stay.”

That seems highly unlikely, given the pressure all of them are under from their respective families, but it’s nice of him to say all the same, Yeosang supposes.

Once the official welcome is over, the line disperses, so the prince can move among them and greet them more personally. Refreshments are laid out on the low tables nearby and they’re given permission to sit on the surrounding cushions if they wish, but it doesn’t make the atmosphere any less awkward.

A few people head for the tables, and Wooyoung looks to be striking up a conversation with another one of the guests he’s somewhat friendly with. Yeosang drifts over the nearest window and unfurls his fan again as he gazes out into the small courtyard garden beyond. There’s a pretty ginkgo tree in the centre, and the green is calming to look at.

It would be nice if he could just stay here, out of the way, so the prince can forget about him and pass over him. However, he can’t avoid a greeting forever, given that this is the whole purpose of today’s gathering. Before long, Prince San is making his way over to Yeosang, a pleased smile on his face.

“Yeosang, of House Kang,” the prince says as he reaches him. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Yeosang bows deeply.

“The pleasure is all mine, your highness,” he replies solemnly. “I am deeply honoured to be included among your guests for this season.”

“We are honoured to host you,” says San without hesitation. “I’ve heard rumours of your beauty, but I see now that they didn’t do you justice.”

Yeosang does what he always does in these situations, smiles shyly and averts his eyes. If the bashful behaviour comes a little more naturally this time, well, that’s not anyone else’s business. It’s not his fault the prince is even more handsome up close.

“You are too kind, your highness.”

He deliberately doesn’t give the prince anything more to work with, hoping he’ll lose interest quickly and move on, but San just keeps smiling at him.

“I hope you’ll enjoy the festivities while you’re here,” he says. “Be sure to let me know if you require anything during your stay, won’t you?”

Yeosang thanks him and bows again. Please leave.

Fortunately, it’s not too long before the prince bids him farewell for now and moves on to greet the next suitor. Yeosang breathes a sigh of relief and turns back to the window. He doesn’t pay much attention to the rest of the room for the next few minutes, until –  

“Wooyoung, of House Jung!”

He hears Prince San’s voice raised in greeting once more, and turns subtly, angling his fan so it’s not too obvious that he’s peeking over. He’s curious to see how Wooyoung will handle the prince.

While Yeosang prefers to keep out of the spotlight, Wooyoung likes attention. When Prince San greets him, he uses the same line as Yeosang, but the delivery is different as night and day.

“Oh, but the pleasure is all mine, your highness,” he breathes, not even bothering to hide the way his eyes travel over the prince with shameless appreciation as he rises from his bow.

The prince blinks, face going momentarily blank in surprise at Wooyoung’s forwardness, but it only lasts a second before his smile is back in place, eyes alight with new interest.

“Is it now?”

Wooyoung tucks his chin and smiles up at San through his lashes.

“Well, that does sound a bit unfair, now I think about it,” he says. “I suppose it could be your pleasure too, if you’d like, your highness.”

He raises his eyebrows suggestively, and Yeosang’s eyes widen a little behind his fan. He knows Wooyoung is bold, but all but propositioning the crown prince on the first meeting?

He holds his breath to see how Prince San will react, but before he can reply, one of the many Lim sons (Yeosang always gets them confused) decides to push forward and introduce himself with all the grace of a bull seal.

Yeosang sighs in relief as Wooyoung takes this as his chance to slip away, excusing himself with a neat bow and leaving the prince to deal with the new round of over-enthusiastic greetings. Knowing Wooyoung, he’ll be pleased with the interruption – leave them wanting, he always says, when he’s trying to butter someone up for a favour – but Yeosang sees the way the prince sends a briefly regretful glance after Wooyoung’s retreating figure, and feels a stab of discontent.  

After the initial greetings are finally over, the sun has begun to sit low on the horizon, and Prince San invites everyone to the banquet hall for their evening meal. Both Wooyoung and Yeosang are careful to hang back and let others rush in to snag the seats closest to the prince, and manage to avoid his attention and focus on the delicious food instead.

Or at least, Yeosang tries.

He can’t get San’s interested expression out of his mind, the way that slow smile had spread across his face and his eyes had focussed so intently while talking to Wooyoung.

“Is it really a good idea for you to be so… so inviting?” he asks Wooyoung afterwards, a little sulkily. “I know you said he probably isn’t going to pick either of us, but there’s no need to try and lead him astray like that.”

They’re in the corridor outside the audience room, lagging behind while the other guests are shown to their rooms. They don’t have long, but they’re used to snatching moments of conversation whenever they can.

“I have to flirt with him at least a little bit,” says Wooyoung. “I’m me. It would be suspicious if I didn’t.”

Yeosang has to concede that point. Wooyoung is known for flirting with everything that moves, it’s how he maintains his reputation as a charmer, despite the fact that the only bed he visits is Yeosang’s.

“Besides, he’s handsome, isn’t he?” Wooyoung continues, nudging Yeosang and winking playfully. “I almost wouldn’t mind becoming his consort if it weren’t for, well. Everything.”

Yeosang nods vaguely in agreement, but something about the statement doesn’t sit right with him, irritation flaring in his chest. Yeosang has never felt jealous before, watching Wooyoung slide into others’ personal space, brimming with charm and compliments. He’s always felt secure in the knowledge that it doesn’t mean anything. Why, then, is this incident affecting him so much?

Perhaps it’s because this time, the object of Wooyoung’s attentions is highly attractive. Perhaps it’s because of the way Wooyoung looked at Prince San with the sparkle in his eye usually reserved for Yeosang. Perhaps it’s because Yeosang wouldn’t mind the prince’s admiring gaze on himself instead.

Whatever the reason, he shakes it off and the two part ways again to turn in for the night.

The rooms they’ve been given are nice, smaller but more luxurious than Yeosang’s own in his parents’ manor. The sheets are made of silk and there are rich hangings on the walls, and a mirror in a beautifully carved blackwood frame. The real luxury, however, is privacy.

They were allowed to bring an attendant for their stay, and many have, but both Yeosang and Wooyoung managed to talk their parents out of sending a servant to accompany them – Yeosang by convincing his mother that it would make him appear more modest and capable, Wooyoung by heavily hinting that he might try to invite the prince to his bed, in which case a servant would only get in the way.

It might concern Yeosang, how good they both are at telling barefaced lies to get what they want, but at this point, being able to lie is a method of survival. If his parents wanted the truth, they shouldn’t have raised him by trying to control every facet of his life.

Now, blissfully free of scrutinising gazes, he changes into his night clothes and collapses on the soft bed. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.

The next day, the prince’s guests are invited to see the royal gardens.

This is, in theory, quite an honour in itself, since the inner gardens of the palace are usually kept for private use only. In reality, Yeosang and Wooyoung had played together here quite a few times in the early years of their friendship, before they were old enough to realise quite how serious an offence that was. These days Yeosang understands the severity of trespassing in a palace and, since he values his freedom and his neck, he widens his eyes and oohs and ahs along with the others as though he’s seeing everything for the first time, even though nothing much has changed.

Once given permission, everyone quickly disperses, ostensibly to appreciate the beauty of the garden, but with the clear goal of arranging themselves fetchingly in front of the nicest piece of shrubbery, hoping the prince will choose them to talk to first.

Yeosang keeps his eyeroll internal, and heads quietly for the nearest fishpond, more out of habit than anything else.

The lotus flowers are in bloom, and koi circle them. Yeosang crosses the little bridge, then sets off along with path which rings the largest pond, pausing at intervals to watch the fish.

He hears the crunch of gravel under shoes nearby and tenses, tilting his head to see who is approaching, then immediately relaxes again. Wooyoung has moved to stand not far from him, pretending to be engrossed by the scenery and oblivious to Yeosang’s presence.

“This is the spot where we first met,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Yeosang to overhear.

Yeosang raises his eyebrows, then glances over at the other two ponds, comparing. It takes him a moment to match up the place where they stand with the location in his memory, when he was significantly smaller and the only light was that of the moon and the distant lanterns, but he realises that Wooyoung is correct.

“So it is.”

He has to raise his fan to hide the involuntary smile tugging at his lips at the realisation. How long ago that first meeting seems now. How much it has changed both their lives.

“A shame I don’t have any rice with me today,” he adds quietly, watching for Wooyoung’s reaction out of the corner of his eye and being rewarded by a giggle which Wooyoung immediately smothers with a fist and turns into a cough.

Yeosang turns his head casually, taking another precautionary sweep of the garden, and stiffens.

“The prince is looking this way,” he murmurs, careful not to move his lips. “We’d better separate.”

Wooyoung sighs, then pretends to notice Yeosang properly and turns up his nose, flouncing pointedly away to stand on the other side of the pond. Yeosang schools his features to hide his regret and spares him a disdainful glance before continuing to examine the flowers.

Then he catches movement in his peripheral vision and curses softly.

The prince is walking this way. Yeosang can’t quite tell if San is looking at him or past him, but he turns his head away to lower the risk of eye contact and prays that it’s the latter. Staring intently down at the pond, he hears rather than sees the prince draw level with him.

Walk past, Yeosang begs him silently. Walk past, walk past, walk past…

“Admiring the lotuses?”

Dammit.

Steeling himself, Yeosang turns, then bows deeply.

“I was, your highness,” he says. “They are truly beautiful.”

When Yeosang rises from his bow, San is smiling at him.

“You and the lotuses have that in common,” he says.

To be honest, the line is cliché, and certainly nothing Yeosang hasn’t heard before, so really he has no excuse for the way the compliment makes his mind go blank. Isn’t he meant to be the one showering the prince in praises, not the other way around?

“Ah… you – you are too kind, your highness,” he stumbles out.

Great going, that’s exactly what you said last time.

Luckily, if the prince notices, he doesn’t comment. He just keeps smiling pleasantly, and gestures for Yeosang to walk with him. They continue on a slow progression around the lotus-filled pool.

“I used to spend a lot of time by this pond as a child,” he says. “I used to enjoy watching the fish.”

Yeosang bites back the instinctual ‘Oh, me too!’ which rises in his throat, and looks politely interested instead.

“Ah, really?” he says.

It’s so strange to think of the serious little prince in his many-layered robes sitting on the bank, staring down at the koi just like Yeosang and Wooyoung used to do.

“Did you have a favourite one?” he asks impulsively.

Perhaps Yeosang shouldn’t be encouraging conversation, but he’s suddenly curious to know just how much they all had in common.

“I did, actually!” says San, sounding surprised but pleased to be asked. “There was this pretty one, all white, with one dark spot on its back.”

Yeosang can’t help it – he laughs in delight. What are the chances of them having the same favourite fish? Trying to contain his laughter, Yeosang tilts his head back, bringing a hand to his mouth briefly.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to find San staring at him, mouth hanging slightly open. Yeosang tilts his head inquisitively, and the prince blinks, then shakes his head as if waking from a trance.

“I… ah, sorry,” he says. “Lost my train of thought.”

Yeosang waves away his apology politely, and they fall into silence again as they walk. Eventually, they’ve returned to where they started, and San takes his leave, with a polite – almost apologetic – nod to Yeosang, who bows in return.

Strangely, as he watches the prince walk away, Yeosang realises that he’s not as relieved as he thought he’d feel by his departure.

For the rest of the period, the prince roams around the gardens, stopping to chat with various other suitors. He pauses with Wooyoung the longest, and Yeosang can hear their shared laughter floating over from where they’re standing, knows that Wooyoung is entertaining the prince with his irrepressible charm and teasing humour.

The others cast bitter looks in their direction, jealous of the attention Wooyoung is receiving. Yeosang just fans himself gently and appreciates the way Wooyoung’s dark hair shines in the sun, the way his wide smile is visible even from this distance, the animated gestures he makes while talking.

Yeosang is a lucky man. Even luckier than San, although the prince doesn’t know it. The others should be jealous of San for being in Wooyoung’s presence, not the other way around.

After the evening meal, when everyone is filing out of the dining hall, Wooyoung hangs back and catches Yeosang’s arm as he passes, face hard and unfriendly.

“Kang,” he says shortly.

Yeosang hisses out an irritated noise through his teeth, and turns to face him.

“Is there something you need, Jung?”

They’d drifted toward the back of the group on purpose, hoping to avoid drawing too much attention, but a couple of the others around them still slow a little, watching with poorly-disguised anticipation to see what they’ll do next.

Wooyoung leans a little closer, in a way which might be taken as intimidating to an outsider, and Yeosang leans back enough to keep up appearances while remaining close enough to hear whatever Wooyoung wants to tell him.

“Tonight, eleven ‘til one,” Wooyoung says lowly. “The guards change every two hours.”

Yeosang catches his breath. They’d agreed that sleeping together while guests of the prince was risky, and they’d only do it if they were certain they wouldn’t be seen. Evidently, Wooyoung’s already done his research. Yeosang suppresses a little shiver of excitement and levels Wooyoung with a glare, remembering just in time to act as though he’s just been insulted.

“Mine or yours?” he asks quietly, letting his lip curl in feigned distaste.

Wooyoung smirks.

“I’ll come to you,” he murmurs, then pulls Yeosang closer to whisper directly in his ear, “Can’t wait to get you out of those robes. You look delectable.”

Yeosang narrows his eyes and shoulders Wooyoung away, straightening his clothes crossly afterward. Wooyoung steps back and grins smugly as though he just succeeded in riling Yeosang up, and he has, just not in the way the others will be imagining. Yeosang sends him a look of pure, icy hatred as he turns away, even while his heart rate kicks up in anticipation.

As he walks away with a spring in his step, mind buzzing with the excitement of seeing Wooyoung tonight, he barely notices the way the crown prince had paused along with the others to watch their supposed argument, face clouded with disappointment.

Ten minutes past eleven finds Yeosang braced against the mirror in his borrowed room, holding back moans as Wooyoung’s hands roam over his body. He twists his neck awkwardly so he can reach Wooyoung’s lips, and is rewarded with a rushed, sloppy kiss. Wooyoung presses himself eagerly up against Yeosang’s back, hungry for contact even through their clothes, and Yeosang melts into it.

“He wanted you,” says Wooyoung in between kisses. “I could tell.”

“No, no,” giggles Yeosang, turning to face the mirror again as Wooyoung moves down to kiss his neck. “He laughed at every single joke you made. I’m sure he liked you better.”

“I am pretty fantastic,” says Wooyoung, “But no, you didn’t see the way he was watching you, even when you two weren’t talking.”

“How was he watching me?” asks Yeosang with a little huff, as if he’s only humouring Wooyoung and not preening internally at the very idea.

“Like he was under a spell,” says Wooyoung dramatically, pulling back and spinning Yeosang around to face him. “Like if he stared hard enough, he’d be able to see right through your robes.”

He undoes the ties on Yeosang’s outer layer while he speaks, pulls the expensive fabric back roughly from his shoulders and tosses it away carelessly. He pushes Yeosang back onto the bed, manhandling him a little in his eagerness to rid his lover of his underclothes. Yeosang goes willingly, reaching up to untie Wooyoung’s robe as well, fingers clumsy with impatience. Wooyoung waits until his outer jacket is gone before diving in to kiss him again. He trails his lips down Yeosang’s body, kissing every inch of skin as he goes, then takes him in hand, working him slowly to full hardness then increasing his pace until Yeosang breaks the kiss to flop his head back onto the pillow and moan quietly.

“I bet our prince would love to know what you look like, without the fancy clothes and the perfect, demure façade,” Wooyoung continues, voice hushed and mischievous. “Bet he’s dying to know what the Kang’s pure little angel looks like when he’s being fucked, all flushed and breathless and pretty.”

“Wooyoung,” Yeosang whines in protest, face turning red at his words.

It’s too much – the combination of his handsome lover above him, touching him, along with the idea of the beautiful prince desiring Yeosang too. He’s not going to last long. He clutches at Wooyoung’s shoulders, breath coming in short gasps, but Wooyoung doesn’t let up.

“I bet he wants you so bad he can hardly stand it,” whispers Wooyoung. “Well, too bad.”

He’s panting now, breath hot against Yeosang’s hair, teeth bared in a triumphant grin as he speeds up his hand.

“You’re already mine.”

The words tip Yeosang over the edge and he has to cover his mouth to muffle his own shout.

Afterwards, when Yeosang has returned the favour and they’re both spent, Wooyoung pulls Yeosang into his arms and peppers his face with kisses.

“I love you,” he tells him. “More than anyone. More than anything.”

Yeosang giggles and bats him away half-heartedly, then pulls him down for a proper kiss, deep and loving.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispers when they part. “I love you. Always.”

“Always,” Wooyoung repeats firmly, and drops one last kiss on Yeosang’s forehead before reluctantly pulling away and climbing from the bed.

Yeosang props himself up on one elbow and watches sleepily as Wooyoung cleans himself up and gathers his clothes. The bed already feels too big and empty without him, and as always, Yeosang wishes he could experience the feeling of falling asleep together, and waking up in each other’s arms the next morning the way so many other couples do. Not for the first time, he wonders if he’ll ever know what it’s like.

“Well, I’m off,” says Wooyoung, having finished dressing.

His robe still hangs open, the sash draped loosely over one arm, and Yeosang moves to sit up.

“Do want help re-tying…?” he begins, but Wooyoung waves him off.

“It’ll be fine. I’m only going back across the corridor here, not across town.”

Yeosang nods, and sinks back into the blankets.

“Sleep well,” he offers instead.

Wooyoung smiles fondly at him.

“You too, Sangie,” he says, and then he’s turning to leave, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

The next day, the various suitors find themselves gathered in the prince’s receiving chamber once again, this time for refreshments and a musical performance.

It’s enjoyable – the palace employs only the most talented musicians, and the pieces they play are relaxing and beautiful, a skilful waterfall of precise, pretty notes. Yeosang closes his eyes as he listens, and feels his tension slip away.

…Only for it to abruptly return as soon as the performance is over, when he rises from his seat and turns to find Prince San making a beeline towards him.

“Yeosang!” he calls in greeting, and Yeosang bows dutifully, pretending not to notice the roomful of hostile eyes suddenly turned on him by the other suitors as the prince comes to stand beside him.

“How did you find that last performance?” San asks, smiling.

Yeosang thinks quickly. What’s the driest possible thing he can say while still being polite?

“The musicians showed good technique,” he settles on after a moment.

However, the statement seems to have the opposite of the intended effect – San leans forward with interest.

“Oh? Do you play, yourself?” he asks.

Yeosang curses internally.

“I am trained in the flute and the gayageum, your highness,” he replies reluctantly.

“Talented as well as lovely!” exclaims San in apparent delight. “And what drew you to choose those two in particular? Are they your favourites?”

Yeosang does his best not to grimace.

“My parents thought they were the most suitable,” he answers a little stiffly.

“Ah.” San moves back, looking crestfallen, then chuckles ruefully. “Of course. Why do any of us do anything?”

He looks away, downcast. For some reason, even though it had been his goal until a second ago, seeing the prince’s enthusiasm dimmed so suddenly makes Yeosang feel dissatisfied. He has the odd urge to bring San’s smile back again.

“I’d like to try the drums though,” he finds himself blurting out. “They look a lot more fun.”

Instantly San is alight once more.

“I’ve always thought so too!” he says at once, leaning in again. “Especially the massive ones from the festivals, the ones that stand higher than a man. But I’ve never been allowed.”

He finishes with a pout, theatrical and sulky and ridiculously endearing.

And the thing is, looking at San’s bright, expressive face, Yeosang nearly forgets where he is.

He nearly leans in conspiratorially to tell San I’ve hit a festival drum once, nearly launches into a retelling of the time he and Wooyoung, fourteen and headstrong, crept away from the festivities at the Parks’ manor and found the outside storehouse the drums were being kept in. Nearly tells San how he’d hitched up his best robes and nearly torn his trousers climbing a tree to keep watch while Wooyoung levered the window open to get them inside. They’d tumbled in and seized their chance, had beaten the great drums in a frenzy, rushed and rhythmless and haphazard for no more than eight counts. Then they’d dropped the sticks and fled back out the window and into the bushes like a demon was on their heels, breathless and giggly and so skittish with adrenaline that they both screamed when a cat jumped down in front of them on their way back.

Looking across at San, Yeosang somehow knows that he’d appreciate the story, that his eyes would crinkle closed again and he’d laugh in delight like he did with Wooyoung yesterday. It feels so natural to talk to San, who is so unexpectedly welcoming and responsive.

However, as always seems to be the case in Yeosang’s life, honesty and openness isn’t an option, and he’s forced to drag himself back to reality and tuck his story away, to remain a secret.

“Well, I hope you get to play the drums one day, your highness,” he says instead, hoping his internal disappointment doesn’t bleed through into his tone. “Perhaps when you take the throne? Surely no one could stop you then.”

He must be at least somewhat successful, because the prince’s smile widens and he laughs in delight at Yeosang’s suggestion.

“Ah, you’re right!” he exclaims. “And, oh, I know what I’ll do – I’ll make it an official court pastime. Then maybe you’ll get to try it too! You deserve to have fun as well.”

The return of that surprisingly fond smile being focussed so completely on him makes Yeosang feel suddenly overwhelmed. He looks away quickly, pretending to be looking out of the window, while he tried desperately to clear his thoughts.

However, that only gives rise to a new problem.

“Oh! You have – is that a birthmark?” asks San, gesturing to the skin beside his own eye.

Yeosang startles and looks back. His hand twitches to cover the mark on his cheek self-consciously, but he forces down the urge, gripping his closed fan tightly in both hands instead.

“Ah… yes, your highness,” he says warily.

He’s gotten mixed reactions to his birthmark over the years. His old nursemaid always said it was beautiful, while he knows that his parents would prefer it wasn’t there. Wooyoung adores it. Other noble children used to tease Yeosang about it and call it ugly when the adults weren’t paying attention. An old woman in the street once let out a shriek of joy at the sight and exclaimed that it was a sign he was blessed by the spirits.

Personally, Yeosang would prefer everyone just pretended it didn’t exist, but everyone seems incapable of doing that once they notice it, for some reason.

He braces himself for the prince’s reaction.

“How unique,” says San. “It’s pretty. I like it.”

Oh. That’s… not what Yeosang had been expecting. San doesn’t add anything after that or make a big deal about it either, just offers him another smile, simple and genuine.

Yeosang doesn’t know how to respond. Usually when he doesn’t know how to react to a compliment, he just feigns shyness and laughs modestly and they can move on. The things is, Yeosang doesn’t have to feign shyness when the prince compliments him so earnestly, and it’s unnerving to not have his reactions entirely under his own control when they’re usually just an act. Feeling a completely natural blush spread over his face, he lets out a real and very flustered chuckle and ducks behind his fan for a moment to regain his composure.

Luckily, San seems to find this panic endearing rather than off-putting.

…Luckily? Unluckily? Yeosang isn’t quite sure. He’s enjoying talking to San, but he doesn’t want to encourage him too much. After all, it’s not like he actually wants to end up being chosen.

“May I…?” asks San, raising a hand, and Yeosang’s eyes widen a little as he realises San means to brush Yeosang’s hair aside to examine his birthmark more closely.

Oh, when did he get so close? Yeosang’s breath speeds up, his heart thudding in his chest. He doesn’t know where to look – is he allowed to stare at the prince’s face? Does he want to? Should he just look at the ground instead? When did breathing get so hard?

“Your highness!”

San snatches his hand back, and both heads whip around to the source of the cry.

It’s Wooyoung. He’s striding towards them, ignoring Yeosang entirely in favour of smiling at the prince.

“Wooyoung!” says Prince San happily. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Wooyoung comes to a halt in front of them, then bounces on his heels and pouts in that borderline obnoxious way he only gets away with because he’s so uniquely likeable.

“Will the evening meal be soon?” he asks. “I’m starving!”

Yeosang frowns slightly. That’s a weak excuse to interrupt. What is he doing this for?

“Oh,” says San, looking a little taken aback. “Yes, I don’t believe it will be long. Any minute, in fact.”

“Oh, wonderful!” says Wooyoung happily.

Yeosang snaps his fan shut and taps it twice sharply against the palm of his other hand – what are you doing? – but Wooyoung doesn’t give him any reply, doesn’t even seem to notice. Yeosang opens his fan again with a quiet huff of annoyance, looking away as he fans himself lightly.

“Are you hungry too, Yeosang?” asks San, an obvious attempt to draw him back into the conversation.

Yeosang opens his mouth to reply, but Wooyoung cuts him off.

“Well, I’m sure everyone is looking forward to tonight’s meal, if it’s anything like the others which have been served so far,” he says loudly. “Everything here is so delicious. You’ve truly been spoiling us, your highness.”

Ok, with a suggestive line like that, Wooyoung’s definitely trying to distract the prince from Yeosang now. But why?

For appearance’s sake, Yeosang sends Wooyoung a poisonous look over his fan. Wooyoung doesn’t react, immune to it after all these years of pretending, but Prince San’s mouth turns down and his eyebrows draw together in distress.

He looks between the two of them and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, the main doors swing open, and the evening meal is being announced loudly by one of the stewards.

San hurriedly excuses himself and steps away with a regretful backwards glance to oversee the feast being laid out. Wooyoung doesn’t linger either, hurrying off to make his own way into the dining hall before Yeosang can ask him what the hell that was all about.

Neither of them end up sitting near the prince for that evening’s meal. Wooyoung sits all the way up one end and Yeosang sits at the other, still perplexed by Wooyoung’s behaviour.

Why had he felt the need to step in? Was he worried that the prince was getting too close? That Yeosang might be encouraging him too much? This sort of thing has happened occasionally at parties in the past – it seems like people are forever misinterpreting Yeosang’s smiles and his polite conversation as interest in something more, a phenomenon Wooyoung always blames on his pretty face when Yeosang complains about it. They want you to want them, so they convince themselves that you do, he always says. It's not that Yeosang doesn’t understand how flirting works – he’s not above batting his eyelashes to gain the odd favour, like the last honey cake at a party – but sometimes it happens even without him trying.

Coupled with the rather inconvenient fact that Prince San is both incredibly handsome and surprisingly sweet, there’s certainly a danger that Yeosang’s attraction might cause him to accidentally act in a more inviting way, and that the prince may get the wrong idea as a result.

Yeosang can admit readily enough that he’s probably being too receptive of the prince’s compliments. Indeed, even letting San close enough to look at his birthmark was probably a step too far, if he’s honest with himself. And Wooyoung did say that he’d caught the prince staring at Yeosang more than once yesterday.

Maybe it’s for the best that Wooyoung stepped in when he did.  

Watching his lover being courted all day has put Wooyoung in a mood.

He’s mean to Yeosang when they tumble into bed that night, pulls his hair and pinches his sides and nips harshly at his shoulders, savage glee filling his chest when Yeosang whines and twists away half-heartedly, too desperate for Wooyoung’s touch to truly protest.

He pulls back and looks down at Yeosang, who is panting lightly, mouth ajar and eyes hazy with desire as he squirms, torn between wanting to move away and wanting more, and he revels in the fact that Yeosang wouldn’t let anyone else do this to him. No one else gets to see him like this.

Not even stupidly handsome princes with kind smiles and no concept of personal space.

“Mine,” he says, to remind himself as much as Yeosang. “I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

Yeosang nods breathlessly, already reaching out for him, trying weakly to pull him back down and join their lips again.

“Yours,” he repeats. “Please – Woo, please!”

Wooyoung takes pity and kisses him, then sinks his teeth into Yeosang’s lower lip. Yeosang lets out a low moan – they’ve both trained themselves to be largely silent out of necessity, but the occasional noise does slip out involuntarily sometimes – and wraps his arms tightly around Wooyoung’s back, hips kicking up automatically.

“Want me to fuck you?” asks Wooyoung, and Yeosang nods frantically. Wooyoung allows a smug smile to spread across his face. “Yeah, ‘course you do.”

He sits up, pulling Yeosang up after him and kissing him roughly before he shoves him around to lie face-down. Yeosang lands with a grunt and then settles into the sheets with a shaky exhale as Wooyoung’s greedy hands roam over him, smoothing down his back and then sliding lower.

Wooyoung is prepared – he brought oil from home, slipped it into his trunk when his mother and servants weren’t looking. He’s gentle when he fingers Yeosang open, although he makes up for it by grabbing a fistful of Yeosang’s hair in his free hand and tugging his head back, so Wooyoung has room to lean forward and sink his teeth into Yeosang’s shoulder.

When he’s finally able to push inside, they gasp in unison and Wooyoung has to take a moment to come back to himself, head spinning as his hands dig into Yeosang’s hips tight enough to bruise. And then he’s moving, drawing back and thrusting in again, leaving Yeosang scrabbling for purchase on the sheets.

Once he’s found his rhythm, Wooyoung slumps forward and lets his forehead drop to rest between Yeosang’s shoulder blades.

“Mine,” he mumbles again, half-dazed. “No one else – hah – no one else can have you.”

“Uhuh,” Yeosang agrees vaguely, the noise more of a groan than anything else. “Fuck, you feel good.”

His words spur Wooyoung on to speed up, snapping his hips faster.

“Wish I could fuck you loud enough for the others to hear,” he continues, whispering directly into Yeosang’s ear now. “Wish I could mark you up so they all know you’re mine too.”

Yeosang moans again, as quietly as he can, although he grows louder when Wooyoung reaches around to jerk him off in time with his thrusts.

Once he’s come, it doesn’t take long for Wooyoung to follow him off the edge, going still and throwing his head back in a silent yell.

They’re both tired out by the end. Yeosang in particular is an exhausted mess of too-weak limbs, so Wooyoung takes the lead and cleans him up, helping him back into his night clothes and tucking him under the covers afterward. Yeosang drifts off to sleep before Wooyoung has even put his own clothes back on.

Wooyoung pauses by the door and glances back to snatch one last look at his lover before leaving. Yeosang’s face is relaxed and peaceful in sleep, inky black hair fanning out over the pillow, chest rising and falling slowly. He looks impossibly soft and sweet, so beautiful it’s hard to look away.

Wooyoung feels his resolve harden.

He’ll turn the prince’s hungry eyes away from Yeosang if it’s the last thing he does.

The next day when they gather, Wooyoung doesn’t appear. The prince arrives and greets everyone as usual, and still there’s no sign of him. Yeosang toys with his fan and tries not to look too openly worried.

Where is Wooyoung?

They’re invited through to the dining hall, where a wide spread of delicious-looking food has been set out, and everyone hovers politely and tries not make it too obvious that they’re waiting for the prince to take a seat before deciding on one themselves.

Yeosang, who has no such desire to be close to Prince San, picks out a seat at the far end, assuming that the prince will sit in the centre like last time, and stands behind it patiently.

He’s just beginning to wonder if he should try to formulate a passable excuse to slip away and check in on Wooyoung, when a ripple of surprised muttering starts to spread from the doors. Yeosang looks around curiously to see what the fuss is about.

It’s Wooyoung.

Yeosang’s fan slips through his fingers and hits the floor with a clatter. No one even notices.

Wooyoung is dressed in the sheerest, most revealing robe Yeosang’s ever seen. Whole sections are made of nothing but light gauze, clearly showing the skin underneath. Even the cut is more open than usual, showing off a deep slice of his chest below the ribbon choker which sits around his neck like a mockery of a conservative high collar.

There’s no way to describe it but downright scandalous.

Feigning obliviousness to the shocked silence he’s just caused, Wooyoung saunters over to Prince San and makes a low, elegant bow.

“I do apologise for my lateness, your highness. I’m afraid I overslept.”

Bowing causes his jacket to hang forward, giving the prince a clear view of his naked chest for a solid five seconds. He could have said he was late because he’d been writing poetry with the koi in the garden pond and gotten away with it – no one is listening to his words. They’re too busy staring.

A few seconds pass before the prince seems to realise that a response is required.

“Oh,” he says suddenly. “Ah. It’s – it’s no matter, Wooyoung. Not – don’t worry about it. No harm done. Um.”

Wooyoung gives him a dazzling smile, but doesn’t say anything else, leaving the prince to stutter until Wooyoung feels he’s made a satisfactory impression. Then he finally takes pity.

“You’re too kind, your highness,” he says, batting his eyelashes. “But please, don’t let me interrupt.”

He turns gracefully and walks away to choose a seat at the table. San watches him go, slack-jawed. Yeosang doesn’t blame him.

He does blame Wooyoung though, because what the hell? When and where did he get this outfit? How come Yeosang’s never seen it before? And what is he playing at, wearing it here of all places?

“Your highness,” prompts one of the stewards awkwardly. “The meal…”

The prince jerks to attention.

“Ah, yes,” he says immediately. “Everyone, let’s eat!”

He takes his usual seat in the centre, and, to his credit, only deflates a little when Wooyoung doesn’t sit beside him, settling on a place halfway down the table instead while the seats around the prince are quickly filled by others.

Yeosang can tell what Wooyoung’s doing – he’s keeping himself just out of reach, like a treat dangled in front of the Prince’s nose, close enough to see but not touch.

He’s too far away for the prince to initiate conversation with him unless he talks over the five people sitting between them, but he’s still within San’s line of sight, preventing him from focusing on the surrounding conversation anyway.

It’s clever. It’s concerning.

What is he doing?

They begin eating, and the food is delicious as always, but Yeosang can’t concentrate on it, too distracted by the scene unfolding further down the table.

Although attempting to listen to the others talking to him, San is clearly affected, gaze returning to Wooyoung again and again as though drawn by a magnet.

Yeosang watches as Wooyoung leans slightly too far over the table to reach a particular dish. His arm is outstretched in a way which could be natural, but the way it causes his robe to part even further, going so far as to almost bare a shoulder, tells Yeosang that the move is carefully calculated.

Wooyoung knows exactly what he’s doing, the smug bastard. And what he’s doing is hypnotising the crown prince with his stupid sexy collarbones.

What the hell happened to not inviting more attention than necessary?

The meal is uncomfortable with tension and intrigue. All eyes are on Wooyoung, a mix of desire and resentment and envy. Yeosang’s head is spinning with the ridiculousness of it all.

He’s watching his own lover attempt – quite successfully – to seduce the crown prince, in full view of himself and a crowded room, despite having no intention of actually acting on said attraction.

…Or does he? Yeosang hopes he doesn’t. Wooyoung wouldn’t actually pursue anything with the prince, would he? Surely he isn’t so foolhardy.

Yeosang shifts in his seat, buzzing with tenseness.  

It doesn’t help that Wooyoung truly does look unbelievably attractive in that sheer robe, with all that smooth skin on display. Yeosang is finding himself distracted from his thoughts almost as badly as San. Wooyoung always looks good, of course, but this is another level. Also, watching San eying Wooyoung with such obvious desire is making Yeosang feel hot and bothered in a way he doesn’t quite understand.

There’s a weird sort of pride in seeing the prince admiring his lover, and a strange sort of excitement on Wooyoung’s behalf for having the attention of someone as attractive as the prince.

None of it makes any sense.

Yeosang lays his utensils aside and reaches for his fan instead, fanning himself lightly and hoping his cheeks aren’t colouring.

Not that he really needs to worry – no one’s looking at him today, not when that would mean looking away from Wooyoung and San.

Towards the end of the meal Yeosang finally manages to catch Wooyoung’s eye and snap his fan closed, tapping it twice against his palm – what are you doing?! – but Wooyoung just looks away again and tucks his hair deliberately behind his ear – don’t worry.

Don’t worry? Yeosang huffs quietly in annoyance, flicking his fan open again and going back to fanning himself agitatedly. Don’t worry, when Wooyoung’s gone so far off script that Yeosang doesn’t even know what’s going on anymore?

When the meal is over, it’s almost comical to watch how quickly San in on his feet, hastening back to Wooyoung’s side.

Wooyoung isn’t even looking at him, preoccupied with fixing his dangling earrings and gazing in the opposite direction, out the nearest window. Yeosang almost feels embarrassed on the prince’s behalf, reduced to hovering awkwardly and waiting for Wooyoung to notice that he’s trying to catch his attention.

“Oh! Your highness,” says Wooyoung, finally deigning to acknowledge him. “I didn’t see you there. What can I do for you?”

The last words are made instantly suggestive by his outfit alone. Combined with the way Wooyoung tilts his head afterwards, eyes hooded and smiling expectantly, Yeosang is impressed the prince manages such a composed reply.

“You arrived late, I haven’t seen much of you today,” he says, smiling back. “How are you?”

A couple of people pass in front of Yeosang, and he misses Wooyoung’s reply, but he can see that Wooyoung has drawn even closer to the prince now, and San is gazing at him like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory.

Their voices have dropped lower now, can’t be heard over the general hum of conversation, and Yeosang tries not caring for a couple of minutes before giving in and wandering closer as casually as he can manage, burning with irritable curiosity.

“Oh, these are lovely,” San is saying now, gesturing to Wooyoung’s earrings.

Wooyoung decides to take this as an invitation to lean forward, tilting his head in a completely unnecessarily seductive way, under the guise of giving the prince a clearer view.

“You think so, your highness?” he says. “It’s one of my favourite pairs. The pearls were a gift for my last birthday.”

A gift from Yeosang, in fact, given in secret a week after the party Wooyoung wasn’t allowed to invite him to, but of course Wooyoung doesn’t add that part.

The prince looks a little flustered at Wooyoung’s sudden closeness, the expanse of his golden skin right there in front of him, but he gathers himself and reaches out to place a gentle finger behind one of the dangling pearls in its elaborate silver setting, balancing it so he can see it better.

“Stunning,” he says, clearly not quite talking about the earring anymore.

The prince’s fingers brush against Wooyoung’s cheek as he speaks, and Wooyoung melts into his touch like a goddamn cat, the shameless tart. Yeosang wouldn’t be surprised if he started purring next.

Glancing down, Yeosang realises that he has a fistful of his robe bunched tightly in one hand, and forces himself to let out a calming breath and unfurl his fingers. This is expensive silk, and crumples easily. He doesn’t want to spoil it.

Still, it’s difficult not to be on edge when Wooyoung and San are right there, their faces now so close together that they’d barely have to move if they wanted to kiss.

At that thought, an image of the pair kissing passionately springs unbidden into Yeosang’s mind, and sends a jolt of arousal through him, closely followed by a surge of jealousy.

…But which one is he jealous of? Whose place would he want to take in that scenario?

Yeosang doesn’t know anymore, and that bothers him more than he’d care to admit.

None of this makes any sense.

Wooyoung must feel Yeosang’s gaze burning into him, because he looks around and shoots him a cheeky wink, quick as a flash, before turning back to the prince and faking a yawn.

“Oh goodness, I’m sorry, your highness,” he says, giggling. “I’m afraid I’m still not quite awake.”

Then he stretches. Really stretches, fully pushes his arms out, pulling his jacket open to bare his chest again, head on one side to show off his entire neck, eyes closed, mouth half open. Even gives a little groan.

Unbelievable.

San lets out a strangled noise and immediately coughs to try and disguise it. Wooyoung pretends not to react, but Yeosang can see the satisfaction in his face, the glint in his eyes, the upward twitch of his lips.

He’s enjoying this.

Yeosang stares at Wooyoung over his fan and sets his jaw. So this is how it’s going to be.

Fine then.

Wooyoung is satisfied when he returns to his chambers that night. His plan was a resounding success – the prince had barely looked in Yeosang’s direction all day, and Wooyoung had taken no small pleasure in having San’s attention so focussed on himself instead. He sits in the chair in front of his mirror and takes his time removing his jewellery and letting down his hair.

Then, barely a minute after the gong sounds to mark the eleventh hour, there’s a quiet knock at the door.

“Come in,” Wooyoung calls cheerfully, not bothering to get up from his seat.

As expected, it’s Yeosang.

He has that intense look in his eyes, the one that feels like it will bore a hole if you let him stare at you for too long. Wooyoung can feel its heat even through the mirror. Yeosang locks the door behind him and marches over, and Wooyoung finds himself being tugged unceremoniously to his feet and spun around.

“Missed me that much?” teases Wooyoung, as Yeosang backs him up against the wall without blinking.

Yeosang doesn’t reply, just fists a hand in Wooyoung’s hair and kisses him roughly until he’s too out of breath to speak.

The thing is that Wooyoung forgets, sometimes, just how strong Yeosang is. It’s not something he utilises often, even when he’s the one on top, and while Wooyoung is obviously aware that Yeosang has great arms and spends a lot of time in the training yards at home, he doesn’t always think about the implications.  

He’s forcibly reminded now.

Reminded that Yeosang can pick him up and throw him onto the bed so hard he bounces, that Yeosang can pin his body down with his own without even seemingly having to put in any effort, that one of Yeosang’s hands around both his wrists is impossible to break free from even if he wanted to.

It’s exciting, thrilling, and Wooyoung loses himself entirely to the pleasure, giving into Yeosang’s whims and letting himself be manhandled onto his front. The flimsy robe is yanked away, baring him entirely, and Wooyoung keens as he feels warm lips attach to the sensitive junction between neck and shoulder.

Yeosang has brought his own vial of oil, too impatient to search for where Wooyoung has secreted his in the borrowed room. He works Wooyoung open with ruthless efficiency, the other hand planted firmly between his shoulder blades to keep him pinned down to the mattress.

Wooyoung has to muffle his groan into one of his pillows when Yeosang finally pushes inside, just barely aware enough to remember that the rooms on either side are occupied and he needs to stay quiet. It gets harder and harder to keep this in mind as Yeosang picks up the pace. Wooyoung finds himself on his side, then on his back and then onto his front once more, each change of position driving the air from his lungs once again and making his head spin with a giddy thrill.  

“I – ah – I like you like this,” he says breathlessly, after a few minutes. “Should I wear that robe more – ngh – more often?”

The noise Yeosang makes is animalistic, and Wooyoung sighs blissfully, satisfied that he’s riled Yeosang up enough to keep the momentum going.

Yeosang comes with a shudder not long afterwards, and barely gives himself time to recover before he’s pulling out and flipping Wooyoung over once last time, sliding down the bed to take Wooyoung’s cock in his mouth. Even now his pace is merciless, and he has Wooyoung spilling into his mouth in seconds. Wooyoung is left panting and quivering on the bed, mouth hanging open like a fish.

“Woah,” he says quietly, staring up at the ceiling.

Yeosang remains quiet in the aftermath, getting up wordlessly to find a cloth to clean them both off, and he’s gentle with Wooyoung when he returns, helping him sit up and smoothing down his hair, kissing his forehead and then his lips softly, smiling fondly when Wooyoung pouts and says “I wish you didn’t have to go.” He blows him a last kiss on his way out, shuts the door softly behind him.

It’s not until after Yeosang has left and Wooyoung turns to look at himself in the mirror that he realises what his lover has done.

Snapping out of his sleepy, sated haze, he jerks forward, eyes wide. On each of Wooyoung’s shoulders, right at the base of his neck and far too symmetrical to be by accident, are two huge red marks, the type that will definitely have bloomed into a dark purple bruise by morning. The type that mean he won’t be able to wear anything but high collars for the next three days at least.

Wooyoung can hardly believe his eyes.

“You little bitch!” he whispers in amazement.  

It would seem that he’s underestimated his lover.

However, as it turns out, the love bite on Wooyoung’s neck is just the beginning.

The next morning passes without incident – they’re shown more of the palace grounds, and entertained by some acrobats in the courtyard, before being ushered to a new hall for the midday meal.

It’s an impressive building, richly decorated with wall hangings depicting great battles from the royal family’s history, and life-sized statues of leaders and warriors past. The chefs serve up fish caught fresh from one of the nearby rivers, cooked to perfection in a flavourful sauce, and Wooyoung sits across from a cheerful, smiling San, who has been paying extra attention to Wooyoung all morning, even in the boring, stuffy high-collared robe he’s regrettably had to don after last night.

Overall, the day is going quite well.

…Until the meal finishes, and they all rise to head back outside.

Everyone makes their way slowly through the hall towards the exit, sluggish after the lavish meal, and when San pauses by one of the windows to point out some part of the landscape to the suitor he’s currently chatting with, everyone else comes to a halt as well, dawdling to look around more closely at the decoration. This suits Wooyoung, who has always had a keen interest in history, and is happy to have an excuse to examine the battle scenes in more detail.

After a couple of minutes, Wooyoung hears a clatter and glances around automatically. Yeosang has dropped his fan next to one of the warrior statues, and is ducking down to pick it up. Wooyoung chuckles and looks away again. As perfect as he presents himself, even Yeosang can be adorably clumsy sometimes. Barely a few seconds have passed, however, before a rustle of silk and a soft hiss of annoyance causes him to turn back.

The warrior statue is holding a spear in one hand, the shaft resting easily over one shoulder and the head pointed down, not far from the ground, and Yeosang has somehow managed to get his robe caught on the tip of the spear while bending down to retrieve his dropped fan. Grimacing slightly with embarrassment, he tries to straighten quickly, evidently hoping that a sharp tug will get him free.

Then his face drops in open horror as a loud tearing sound draws everyone’s attention.

Instead of coming free, his robe has completely split down his left side, from under his arm to well past his hip. He jerks away from the statue and there’s a brief glimpse of the side of Yeosang’s body before he drops back down into a crouch, pressing his back against the wall, hands scrabbling desperately to clutch the torn edges of his robe together so he doesn’t expose any more of himself to the room.

Wooyoung’s mind is working overtime – is anyone else going to help him? Can Wooyoung step in without rousing suspicion? Does this qualify as enough of an emergency that even a sworn rival might feasibly take pity and help him out?

But then Yeosang raises his head to look around, and instead of looking to Wooyoung for help, his eyes pass right over him as though he’s not even there.

Wooyoung has a moment of confusion before realisation sweeps over him.

Yeosang isn’t actually panicking. He did this on purpose.

Wooyoung has spent years watching Yeosang play his role in public, he knows the difference between Yeosang making himself look meek and bashful on purpose, compared to when he’s actually nervous or uncomfortable. Now he’s looking closer, all the tells are there.

And yeah, it makes more sense that this was deliberate, because Yeosang can be clumsy, but not usually that clumsy. And Yeosang’s wearing his set of robes with the dark green overlay his mother had had made without consulting him – he’s never liked that outfit, Wooyoung was surprised to see that he’d chosen it this morning.

…Except it makes no sense at all, because why would Yeosang choose to purposefully tear his own robe open on a statue in the middle of a crowded room?

Wooyoung watches in bewilderment as Yeosang huddles back against the wall, going all wide-eyed and pitiful like a frightened kitten. It’s fake as hell, but no one in the room except for Wooyoung knows Yeosang well enough to see it.

A couple of the nearby suitors are looking increasingly uncomfortable, some of them pointedly looking away from Yeosang’s distress, while others seem to be wondering if they should step in. Wooyoung sees one quickly patting down her own robes, frowning and clearly wondering if she can spare any layers without sacrificing her own dignity.

Then the sound of hurried footsteps makes Wooyoung turn, and everything clicks in to place with startling clarity.

San is striding over, brows drawn together in concern.

Yeosang looks up at him, then gasps and drops his head, hurriedly shuffling to a kneeling position – the closest he can get to a bow in his current predicament.

And oh, doesn’t he make a pretty picture like that.

Suddenly, everything makes a whole lot more sense. Now Wooyoung knows exactly what Yeosang is doing.

And now that he’s aware, the part of him which isn’t busy seething is grudgingly impressed that Yeosang managed to engineer this set-up – to get himself half-naked and kneeling in front of the prince in such a convincingly accidental way that, even now, no one could accuse him of indecency.

It’s a simple move, but oh so clever. See, it’s not just a classic damsel-in-distress situation, creating a little scenario where the prince will feel compelled to swoop in and save the day, one of the oldest tricks in the book. No, Yeosang had to go and put his own little spin on it. There’s the threat of indecent exposure involved.

It’s genius because it draws attention to his body just as effectively as Wooyoung’s borderline scandalous robes, but without the inevitable raised eyebrows and disapproval which comes along with doing it intentionally.

He’d shown just as much as Wooyoung had the day before, but only for a second, only a tantalising glimpse, and ostensibly only by accident. His modesty remains mostly intact, but there’s not a single person in the room not thinking about the body underneath his robes and imagining what it might looked like if they’d got to see more than that brief flash of pale skin.

Wooyoung would bet every coin in his family’s coffers that the prince will be picturing Yeosang on his knees for him like this tonight, gazing up at him with those wide, innocent eyes like a virgin begging to be corrupted.

Wooyoung has the illogical urge to speak out – Don’t let those eyes fool you, your highness, that man bent me in half and fucked me to within an inch of my life last night! – but he manages to grit his teeth and stay silent.

All he can do is watch along with everyone else to see what the prince will do.

“Are you alright?” asks San gently, looking down at Yeosang in concern.

Yeosang bites his lip and looks down at himself.

“I’m sorry, your highness,” he says quietly. “I… my robe…”

He trails off, voice fading into a whisper, shoulders hunching in a convincing display of mortification.

“It’s ok, don’t worry,” says San soothingly. “Here.”

With a flourish, the prince removes his own outer robe, leaving himself in just a sleeveless tunic and trousers, and stoops to drape it carefully around Yeosang’s shoulders.

Yeosang looks up at him in awe, as though he can’t believe anyone would ever be so good and kind. Wooyoung wants to scream. No one has any right to look that fucking adorable when they’re being so conniving. Wooyoung is torn between wanting to run forward and smother Yeosang in kisses or to pitch his own empty cup at the nearest wall in frustration, just to watch it shatter. Since neither is an option, he fumes silently.

With unsure hands, Yeosang pulls San’s robe a little more securely around his shoulders, glancing up timidly as if to ask the prince if he’s sure this is alright. The smile San gives him in response is so warm and reassuring that Wooyoung almost feels weak in the knees, and it’s not even directed at him. Then he offers his hand to help Yeosang get shakily to his feet.

And, just like that, Yeosang has established himself as first in the race.

In one fell swoop, he’s got the prince draping him in his royal colours and holding his hand in front of the whole gathering. He may as well have gotten San to shout ‘This one is my favourite!’ aloud for everyone to hear.

Angry mutterings erupt around the hall, but the prince doesn’t even seem to hear them.

“Let’s return to our lodgings,” says San, raising his voice to address the others as well, although his eyes never stray from Yeosang.

The group makes their way back across the courtyard, Yeosang and Prince San in the lead, and everyone else sulking along behind them, green with envy. Wooyoung is firmly among their ranks, glaring at the pairs’ backs.

It’s not fair. He wants to be the one walking beside Yeosang, wants to whisk him back to a private room and tear away the rest of that stupid robe and have Yeosang all to himself once more. He wants the prince to wrap him in his long coat and fawn over him like he’s something precious.

Wooyoung watches San hovering around Yeosang as though he’s injured or something, reaching out to steady him when he stumbles a little over a raised flagstone, putting a gentle hand under his elbow to help him up the front steps of the hall like he can’t manage by himself.

San barely even looks away to check where he’s walking himself, and Yeosang is lapping up the attention, fully embracing his role as the helpless damsel.

San isn’t much taller than Yeosang, but his shoulders are broader, and Yeosang has managed to arrange San’s slightly larger robe around himself in such a way that he’s practically swimming in it, making himself appear absolutely tiny. Something about the way he’s drawing into himself, the way he’s holding the robe clasped together with both hands just under his chin. He’s also doing that thing where he tucks his chin down and looks up with wide eyes, the look that always makes him look shy and guileless and so impossibly sweet. Wooyoung tries that look sometimes, but he can only manage to make it look seductive. He doesn’t understand how Yeosang can do it so well.

Yeosang uses that look in the bedroom sometimes, on days when he wants Wooyoung to take control and ruin him, because he knows it drives him crazy. Must know that it’s driving him crazy now, seeing Yeosang turn those eyes on San instead.

They pause at the entrance, waiting for the footmen to open the main double doors, and San reaches out, ever so gentle, and tucks some of Yeosang’s hair back behind his ear.

Wooyoung hears a snap and realises he’s just broken his fan. He tucks the broken pieces hurriedly into his sash and prays they’ll stay there for the rest of the afternoon.

The noise was only faint, but Yeosang glances back anyway and, as if Wooyoung needed any more of a reminder that their positions compared to yesterday have completely switched, Yeosang winks before turning away and letting the prince guide him inside.

Wooyoung glowers at Yeosang’s retreating back.

Just you wait until tonight.

However, as it turns out, they’re not able to see each other that night after all.

The nightly guard has just been doubled, a decision made by San’s parents following rumours that their winter palace has seen an attempted break-in in their absence. San scoffs quietly when the announcement is made, mutters that they’re simply overreacting like usual, and assures everyone that nothing ever comes of this sort of scare, and that the extra security will likely be lifted within a week or two.

That’s all very well for the others, but has stymied Wooyoung and Yeosang’s only chances of seeing each other in private, whether for intimacy or to simply talk freely. With more guards stationed through the corridors, scheduled to change over at different times, there will be no way to sneak past undetected without raising unwanted questions.

That night, Wooyoung undresses and flops onto his bed with a huff, frustrated and restless and unable to do anything about it, while his mind works overtime to replay and re-examine the day’s events.

He thinks of Yeosang. Thinks of the prince.

Thinks of the prince thinking of Yeosang.

Because that’s what he must be doing now, surely. Yeosang put on such a show today – Wooyoung would almost feel insulted on his behalf if San was able to think of anything else tonight. No, he’ll definitely be thinking of Yeosang, of holding him, of kissing him…

Fuck, now Wooyoung’s picturing it too, the prince holding and kissing Yeosang.

Even worse, they look good together.

Yeosang, beautiful and soft and sweet, and the prince, all sharp lines and fine angles and corded muscle, yet so gentle when he touched Yeosang earlier. So attentive, so reverent. He’d kiss Yeosang like he was made of glass, cradle his jaw and smile at him whenever they pulled apart. Lay him down carefully, remove the remains of that torn robe, take his time kissing the rest of Yeosang’s body too.

The mental image joins everything else churning around in Wooyoung’s head, the arousal and the jealousy and the frustration that he isn’t fucking Yeosang right now like he thought he’d be, and before he knows what he’s doing, Wooyoung’s hand has slid down his body and he’s touching himself.

Exhaling shakily, he imagines the two of them together, kissing, touching, stroking. Wonders if Yeosang would turn the tables once he had San in bed with him, would show him that just as he can be sweet and timid, he can also exert his own strength, could toss the prince around just like he did with Wooyoung the night before.

Or maybe San would be even stronger? They say he’s been trained as a formidable warrior since boyhood, that he’s mastered hand-to-hand combat both with and without weapons. Maybe he’d be a match for Yeosang. Now that would be a sight.

Wooyoung pictures them tussling, sweaty and panting and staring intently into each other’s eyes, both determined to be the one on top. Imagines that they both know that Wooyoung’s watching, both want to put on a good show for him, and has to cover his mouth with his hand to hold back a moan.

He lets the imaginary San in his mind’s eye win their little power struggle, thinking about the way Yeosang would submit and go pliant for him once he knew he wasn’t going to win. Imagines San driving into Yeosang, face set and eyes narrowed in concentration, and Yeosang, eyes hazy and mouth agape, looking back at Wooyoung as if seeking reassurance that he’s doing well, that Wooyoung’s enjoying the sight before him.

Wooyoung comes to the thought of Yeosang coming underneath San, then slumps back and stares up at the ceiling, mind swirling in confusion.

What the fuck was that?

But the ceiling offers no answers, so, eventually, Wooyoung gives in and falls asleep.

The next day is… strange.

Wooyoung dresses in a high-necked tunic again, prays that the marks Yeosang left will hurry up and fade quickly, because he only brought two robes without plunging necklines, and he’s going to have to resort to winding a silk scarf around his neck or something equally suspicious at this rate.

He feels on edge all throughout the day – unsure of where he stands with the prince, unsure of where he stands with Yeosang. Unsure of where Yeosang and the prince stand with each other.

San is clearly still trying to divide his attention fairly between his suitors, but it’s obvious that his heart isn’t in it, and he’s been drifting back to Yeosang’s side again and again as if pulled by a current. For his part, Yeosang is doing absolutely nothing to discourage the prince. He smiles sweetly at San whenever he approaches, keeps answering his questions and keeping the conversation flowing, keeps laughing bashfully as San showers him in compliments, in a way which can only encourage San to praise him even more.

This is dangerous.

Doesn’t Yeosang see what he’s doing? It’s one thing to appear attractive, but the prince is going to actually fall in love with Yeosang at this rate. He looks about one more pretty smile away from getting down on one knee right here in the garden.

Granted, San does still keep stealing glances at Wooyoung, and of all the others in the room, Wooyoung has been the least neglected today by far. San still beamed at him this morning and checked in that he was enjoying his stay and everything in his guest room was to his liking, even laughingly showed Wooyoung the elaborate earrings he’d decided to wear that day – “I haven’t worn these in ages, but I was inspired by your lovely pearls!” he’d said with almost childlike excitement.

Wooyoung had exclaimed over them in admiration, surprised and touched that San had taken notice of more than just his bared skin that day, but unease had still sat heavily in his chest as San returned to Yeosang’s side once more after the conversation was over.

The day passes at a snail’s pace. Wooyoung can’t focus on anything but way San and Yeosang are circling, drawing closer and closer together with each pass.

He tries to get Yeosang’s attention with his fan, going through all the signals he can think of – what are you doing? and be careful! and talk later? – but nothing seems to catch his eye. Is he ignoring Wooyoung on purpose? Wooyoung can’t tell, and it’s making him anxious.

They eventually part ways and head back to their rooms at the end of the afternoon – the prince’s birthday is tomorrow, and the festivities are officially beginning tonight, with a feast in the main courtyard for the suitors and a handful of other guests from high ranking families in the area, before the main celebration the following day.

Everyone takes their time changing into their nicest outfits and jewellery and styling their hair, but Wooyoung finds himself finished before the others. His heart really isn’t in it today, not in the mood to throw himself at the prince and try to entice him away from Yeosang when it probably wouldn’t even work at this stage. Instead, he simply throws on one of his nicer robes and ties his hair back loosely before restlessness drives him to leave his room again.

He paces a couple of restless laps of the corridor the guest rooms face into, stewing in agitation. He finds himself in front of Yeosang’s door, but doesn’t dare go inside, when other people might start emerging from their own rooms at any moment. Instead, he has to settle for glaring at the door as he remembers the prince’s fond smile when the two had parted ways earlier.

I’ll see you tonight.

Yeosang had looked so delighted at the idea. Even said he was looking forward it to. Since when does Yeosang look forward to parties? He hates parties. His and Wooyoung’s whole relationship is based around escaping from parties.

Wooyoung scowls at the door. It’s intricately carved, like everything else in the palace, and has a heavy bronze bolt on the outside, a relic from the era when the palace was built, when peace was less stable and the line between guest and prisoner fluctuated more readily as alliances shifted and changed. Wooyoung remembers reading about it in his parents’ library. He didn’t realise the bolts hadn’t been removed from the doors, had been kept apparently just for decorative purposes.

He wonders vaguely if they still function, if anyone’s ever been locked inside one of these rooms by accident recently.

And then an idea occurs to him.

It’s a probably not a good idea, really, Wooyoung knows that. Rash, likely unwise, and definitely rude. But the image of San and Yeosang giggling together, the unadulterated fondness in San’s smile, the sparkle in Yeosang’s eyes, is still floating in the forefront of Wooyoung’s thoughts, and driving him onwards.

And so, despite his better judgement, Wooyoung reaches out and slides the heavy bolt home.

The party has already begun by the time Wooyoung arrives – having gone for a brisk walk to one of the far gardens and back to get rid of his nervous energy and gather his thoughts before heading down to the courtyard.

It’s been beautifully decorated – strung with glowing lanterns and colourful ribbons, and lined with tables groaning under the weight of a hundred delicacies. Braziers keep the night chill away, and musicians are playing lively music from a raised platform at one end.

It’s easy to pick out Prince San – dressed in gorgeous red silk and surrounded by chattering guests, all pressing as close as they dare without touching him and smiling and simpering. San seems to be doing his best to engage with them, but even from where Wooyoung is standing, he can tell that the prince looks sad and distant.

Had he really been depending on seeing Yeosang that much?

Wooyoung hesitates on the edge of the crowd, trying to choose whether he wants to approach or keep his distance tonight, but just as he’s tentatively decides on the latter, San looks around and meets his eye.

And it’s not fair, really, it’s not fair or right or deserved how San’s face is suddenly transformed, lighting up in joy at the sight of Wooyoung.

Wooyoung doesn’t want to provoke that kind of reaction, and he certainly doesn’t want the way his heart skips a whole three beats at the sight of that smile. He doesn’t want this traitorous joy welling up inside him as San beckons him over excitedly, like Wooyoung is a friend he hasn’t seen in weeks.

“Wooyoung! It’s so good to see you!”

Realistically, Wooyoung knows he’s just the second choice at the moment compared to Yeosang, but you couldn’t tell that from the way San beams at him now.

“I was worried you weren’t coming,” he continues, “But of course, I should have realised you’d be fashionably late, as ever!”

Wooyoung laughs a little uncomfortably, wondering how long San has spent scouring the crowd hopefully, waiting for him or Yeosang to arrive. Wonders what Yeosang is doing now, trapped in his room. Has he figured out that it was Wooyoung’s doing yet? Will anyone notice the bolt before the party ends, or will Wooyoung have to let Yeosang out himself after it’s over? Or will Yeosang manage to find his own way out?

“Have you had a chance to eat yet?” asks San, gesturing to the tables.

Wooyoung shakes his head vacantly. The food looks incredible, but eating is the last thing on his mind right now.

“I… don’t have much of an appetite tonight I’m afraid, your highness,” he says. “But this looks like a wonderful party.”

That sounds lame even to him, but if San agrees, he’s too nice to say so.

“You think so? Oh, I’m glad,” says the prince, before leaning a little closer and lowering his voice. “I’ll confess, I was hoping for a smaller gathering tonight. Just some music and a picnic in the west garden. The water feature looks amazing lit up at night. But they wouldn’t allow it.”

Wooyoung tilts his head.

“The west garden?” he says. “I don’t think I’ve been to that one yet. Is it nice?”

San blinks.

“Oh!” he says. “I forgot we haven’t spent any time there this week. It’s the one near the guest quarters. Just through there.”

He leans back to point at an archway in the adjacent wall of the courtyard, back the way Wooyoung came.

“It has a fountain in the centre,” San continues. “I’ll have to show you sometime –”

“Your highness!”

A nasal voice calls out from across the courtyard. It’s one of the other suitors, waving and trying to entice San back to the main gathering. When the others see San looking, they all begin smiling and waving as well, elbowing each other in their efforts to be the most visible. San smiles back, but Wooyoung can feel the way his body has gone tense, can see the discomfort behind his eyes.

Wooyoung feels a sudden rush of sympathy for the prince, and impulsively grabs his arm.

“Hey – why don’t you show me the gardens now?” he asks. “Just a quick look, so I can see them at night. You said they light it up, is that right?”

He sees hope, then hesitancy flicker across San’s face, as he glances between Wooyoung and the waiting suitors. He’s keeping himself in check well, but it couldn’t be plainer to Wooyoung that the prince needs a breather from performing for the crowd.

“Just ten minutes,” he wheedles. “Please, your highness? It would make me so happy.”

He makes his best pleading face. San falters for a moment, then gives in.

“Ah, why not?” he says. “As long as we’re quick.”

San leads the way to the archway, stopping to murmur briefly to a guard that he’s stepping away to the garden and will return shortly. Then he beckons for Wooyoung, and together they head through the archway and into the west garden.

Just as San had said, it’s very pretty.

A collection of artificial pools are raised above a central pond, in sequence so water flows from the smallest at the top to the largest at the bottom. Elaborate torch brackets are set at intervals around the pond, and although not all of them are currently lit, the flames shining through on the streams of running water makes them almost look like they’re flickering gold.

“What do you think?” asks San.

Wooyoung walks closer, moving around the edge of the pond to better admire it from different angles.

“It’s gorgeous!” he says truthfully. “So pretty! I can absolutely see why you wanted to have a gathering here.”

He turns back to San to find the prince watching not the fountain, but Wooyoung, the look in his eyes approaching open awe. Wooyoung suppresses a smirk. The prince looks even more attractive in the firelight, bathed in gold and the angles of his face heavily shadowed. Wooyoung can safely assume that he is benefitting from the lighting himself, and must look very appealing indeed, standing surrounded by the pretty garden.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, tone as teasing as he dares with someone of higher rank.

He expects the little nudge to make San quickly look away, perhaps stumble over an apology or excuse. That’s what usually happens. Instead, San just meets his eye and smiles a little wider.

“You,” he replies simply.

And faced with such an open, honest response, it’s Wooyoung who finds himself stumbling.

“I… me?” he replied dumbly, before managing to make a slight recovery and laughing. “Well, whatever for? There’s a perfectly lovely fountain right there.”

“It is lovely,” San agrees, “But even the torches here don’t shine as brightly as you do.”

Wooyoung finds himself blindsided by the compliment. He stares at San, mind blank and heart racing.

“You are such a joy to be around,” the prince continues, tone almost reverent. “It’s like you light up every room you enter. Your laugh, your smile.”

For the first time in a long time, Wooyoung feels like he’s not in control, not just of the situation, but of himself. It’s like someone has hooked a fishing line into the back of his robes, hoisted him up to dangle helplessly in the air, feet hanging uselessly above the ground. All he can do is drift closer to San.

“I… how long did you tell that guard you’d be?” he asks weakly.

His initial intention is to remind San that they can’t stay here, to get them both back to the more public setting of the party before anything can go too far, but the way San’s face falls makes him instantly regret his words.

“I didn’t tell anyone a specific time, but they’ll notice if I’m gone for long,” he says, glancing back towards the main courtyard.

He looks tense and unhappy, looking back toward the party that’s meant to be all for him, and Wooyoung’s heart clenches at the sight.

He suddenly wishes that he could take San away from it all, the duties and the rules and the constant pressure to be everything everyone wants him to be. Wishes he could let San be free, even if only for a night.

Wooyoung feels compelled to tell him it’s ok, you can be yourself around me. I don’t mind if you’re not perfect. I’m not either.

“Oh, let them notice,” says Wooyoung. “Isn’t this what you’re supposed to be doing anyway? Becoming better acquainted with your suitors?”

He wiggles his eyebrows, laying the words with suggestion, and San laughs a little breathlessly.

“Ah, Wooyoung,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t play by the rules, do you? You don’t care what the others think. So daring, so different from anyone I’ve ever met.”

He turns back from the archway and the party beyond, moving over to one of the stone benches beside the pool instead.

“Very well. We can afford a little longer.”

He sits, and gestures for Wooyoung to do the same. It’s a rare privilege to be allowed to sit on the same seat as royalty, and Wooyoung’s eyes widen a little before he gathers himself and hurries forward to sit on the bench beside the prince.

They sit together in silence for a moment, watching the hypnotic sight of the torches flickering through the running water.

“I’ll confess, Wooyoung…” says San, “Being around you, it makes me feel alive. Like I’m a real person, not just a royal title.”

And Wooyoung realises then that he was wrong. He’d thought the prince just found him amusing, just paid attention to him because he was attractive and charming and wore revealing clothes, had thought that Yeosang was the one San was truly interested in now.

But now, looking at San’s soft, happy smile and the way he’s leaning closer to Wooyoung, almost like he isn’t even away he’s doing it, makes him realise that he’d miscalculated.

San is beginning to fall in love with Wooyoung too.

Wooyoung knows that his response to this realisation should not be joy, but he can’t help it – a giant wave of excitement and happiness is bubbling up inside him. Not the pitying, flattered amusement which comes from watching other nobles follow him around with puppy eyes at parties, or the triumph of watching someone powerful stumble over their words around him, because it means he can ask favours of them now. No, this is the real, pure happiness Wooyoung has come to associate only with Yeosang before now.

San, this beautiful, kind man, who happens to be the crown prince, no less, is falling in love with Wooyoung.

San, who is gazing at Wooyoung now with such tenderness, so much affection in his eyes. Who is shifting closer, tilting his head, eyes fluttering closed…

Reality crashes over Wooyoung like a bucket of cold water.

He jerks back with a noise of alarm, nearly slipping from the bench in his haste. San’s eyes fly open again and he lurches back as well, almost losing his balance in his surprise.

Wooyoung stares at him, shoulders heaving, mouth agape. How had he let that happen? How had they come so close to kissing without Wooyoung realising what San was about to do?

He can’t kiss the prince. Not here, not now, not ever. It doesn’t matter if San might love him – Wooyoung doesn’t need anyone else’s love, shouldn’t want anyone else’s love, not when he has Yeosang.

A sudden noise makes Wooyoung startle again – the sound of footsteps coming from the other side of the fountain, vanishing into the night.

Wooyoung turns and catches a flash of blue silk in his peripheral vision – a glimpse of someone hurrying away from the archway, back to the party. Doesn’t Yeosang have a set of formal robes that shade? Is that a coincidence, or has Yeosang managed to get out of his room after all? Oh gods, did he see them together?

“Wooyoung.”

The prince’s voice breaks through his thoughts and Wooyoung spins back to face him again.

“Did I offend you?” San asks, seeming confused. “I apologise. I meant no harm. I just thought that…”

“Why?” Wooyoung interrupts him. “Why would you think we can do this?”

“Do this?” San echoes uncertainly, “…Because I like you? I… thought you liked me too?”

Wooyoung stares.

“What? That’s not what I – you know that’s not what I meant.”

He jumps to his feet in agitation.

“Why are you acting like this when you won’t – you can’t choose me at the end of all this?”

San’s eyebrows draw together in apparent confusion.

“I can’t choose you? Wooyoung, everyone invited is a potential suitor,” he says. “That’s the whole point of this gathering.”

Wooyoung drags a hand down his face in frustration and begins to pace. He knows he’s speaking out of turn, breaching etiquette to a ridiculous degree now, and not in the fun, sexy way which is more easily forgiven, but he can’t help himself.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “You know who my family is. You know about the Jungs and the Kangs and our stupid feud. You know that choosing either of us will be an unforgivable insult to the other, that it will destroy whatever fragile peace this city is managing to cling to at the moment. So why…”

He stops pacing to look back at San desperately.

“Why are we the only two you’re looking at?”

San regards Wooyoung for a long moment, face unreadable. Then he sighs and looks down at his lap.

“Maybe I wanted to be selfish for once,” he says quietly, folding his hands, thumbing at one of his rings absently. “Everything is chosen for me – my clothes, my books, my lessons, where I go and when – nothing is my own choice. Maybe just this once, for this decision which is going to follow me as long as I live, I wanted to choose for myself, not for the realm.” He twists the ring halfway up his finger, then lets it slip down again. “Maybe I just wanted to set politics aside, if only for this fortnight, and marry the person I liked most.”

Wooyoung looks away, overwhelmed as his heart aches for the prince. Aches to gather San in his arms and tell him that of course he should choose a partner he can love, that he deserves happiness and should allow himself this one wish. That in another life, if everything was different, Wooyoung would happily be that for him.

But they’re not living another life. They’re here, now, and reality is cruel.

“It’s a nice thought,” says Wooyoung, equally quietly. “But we both know it’s not that simple.”

He looks back up at San.

“You said you like me because I don’t play by the rules,” he says, “And yeah, I do tend to do things my own way, but that’s just for the small stuff. Clothes. Etiquette. Showing up late to parties and smiling at people I shouldn’t. Things that don’t make any difference in the long run. But the big stuff – marriage and titles and all that shit? None of us have any choice when it comes to the that. We just do what’s expected of us until we die. It doesn’t matter what we want. You, me, Yeosang – we don’t get a say.”

It's all bubbling up now – the frustration, the helplessness, the fear that he and Yeosang have shared since day one, even if they never voice it out loud – the knowledge that they can never be properly together. That despite all their love, all their devotion and loyalty and determination, they’ll never be allowed to wed. That they can only hold out so long until their families marry them off to other people, and they’ll have to choose between dishonouring their partners with their infidelity, or stop seeing each other all together.

They’ll never share a home. They’ll never grow old together. They’ll never wake up side by side in the morning.

Wooyoung turns away, unshed tears burning his eyes. He’s just so tired of all of this.

“I can’t escape this stupid family,” he says heavily. “I can’t escape this stupid war. You don’t want to choose me, your highness. I’ll only bring you trouble.”

He bows low, even lower than he’s required to bow to the prince outside of court ceremonies.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

He makes the mistake of not looking away quickly enough when he rises and turns to leave, and the glimpse of San’s own tears feels like it’s branded on the backs of his eyelids as he hurries away.

Wooyoung all but hurls himself back through the archway and into the crowd, scanning left and right for a familiar face, maybe a blue robe. He doesn’t care if they’re seen together now, or that he wanted to keep Yeosang away from the party to avoid the same situation that Wooyoung just went ahead and caused – he just wants the comfort of being back in Yeosang’s arms.

He spots Yeosang on the far edge of the courtyard, staring out up at the lanterns above. Wooyoung makes a beeline for him, ignoring everyone else around him. He just needs to be with his love.

However, when Yeosang turns, one glance at robe and his stony face is enough to tell Wooyoung that it had been him in the west garden, that he saw how close Wooyoung just came to kissing the prince. And he’s not happy about it.

He’s looking slightly rumpled too, robe a little askew and a leaf caught in his hair, and Wooyoung realises that he must have climbed out his window and through the garden beyond to escape his room.

“Enjoying your little game?” Yeosang asks icily as Wooyoung comes to a halt in front of him. “Did you get what you wanted?”

Hurt flares through Wooyoung. He’s just been put in an awful situation and had to watch San’s face change and crumple as Wooyoung all but broke his heart and spat on his hopes, and Yeosang thinks he still views this as a game? He thinks Wooyoung’s enjoying this?

He’s used to Yeosang glaring hatefully at him in public, but this one doesn’t look as fake as usual, and Wooyoung feels defensive anger seeping in now, mingling with his distress. He gives a harsh laugh.

“Well, do excuse me for getting in the way of your own fun,” he says with a mock bow of apology. “What was on the agenda for tonight? Sitting in the prince’s lap and letting him feed you sweets?”

“You locked me in my room,” Yeosang hisses. “You weren’t even this childish when we were actually children.”

“And you haven’t been this encouraging to any suitor, ever,” retorts Wooyoung. “You had him wrapped around your goddamn finger after that stunt you pulled yesterday. If I hadn’t done something, he probably would have proposed to you tonight, and then what would you have done, huh?”

His words make Yeosang pause, face going blank as though he hadn’t considered this possibility. He struggles for a moment, caught between disorientation and self-righteousness.

“That’s not the point,” he settles on eventually. “Besides, you’re the one who started this, not me. You flirted with him first.”

Wooyoung stares at him.

“Really?” he asks. “That’s what you’re going with? You started it? And you were just accusing me of being childish!”

“Well it’s true!” says Yeosang defensively. “You’ve done nothing but encourage him since we arrived!”

“Me?” asks Wooyoung, raising his eyebrows. “I’m not the one letting him fawn over me all day.”

“No, you’re making him drool over you instead,” Yeosang retorts. “Much better.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes.

“Ah yes, silly of me. I forgot that I’m the only one at fault, ever,” he says. “Afterall, it’s not like you did you best to bare yourself for him in front of the whole gathering yesterday.”

Yeosang’s eyes narrow.

“You say that like you don’t remember what you did the day before,” he hisses. “Coming to the dining hall in that – that outfit! If you could even call it that. You may as well have shown up in your undergarments. What were you thinking?”

“Well, you weren’t meant to try and one-up me!” snaps Wooyoung defensively.

“Oh? What was I meant to do then? Sit back and watch while you do everything short of actually fucking him at the dining table?”

“I didn’t realise keeping your hands to yourself was going to be so much of an issue for you.”

Yeosang’s eyes flash angrily.

“Oh yes,” he says, “Because that’s my speciality, isn’t it? That’s what I always have to do. Sit quietly and be good while you go around throwing yourself at other people for attention.”

Wooyoung scowls, hurt. Yeosang knows that he doesn’t enjoy having a reputation as someone who sleeps around without a care for his partners, knows that he only perpetuated it to throw off his parents’ suspicions so he could spend more nights with Yeosang.

“You know why I act like I do,” he hisses, glancing over his shoulder.

“I thought I did,” agrees Yeosang. “But I’m wondering if it’s act at all this time.”

Wooyoung flinches.

“How could you say that?”

Yeosang scoffs incredulously.

“Oh, so coming to lunch half-naked, that was just to allay suspicion, was it? I’m sure you got no enjoyment out of that whatsoever. And jumping in and dragging me away from the prince whenever he was talking to me, that was just out of obligation?”

There’s more truth to Yeosang’s accusations than Wooyoung is comfortable admitting even to himself. Rather than face the fact that he selfishly enjoyed seducing San, he seizes on another lead instead.

“You’re upset that I split you up? Is that what this is about?” he jeers. “You wanted the pretty prince all to yourself? Couldn’t stand that he likes me too?”

Guilt flashes across Yeosang’s face, but just like Wooyoung, he’s quick to replace it with anger once more.

“You’re unbelievable!” he exclaims, forgetting to keep his voice low.

Heads turn their way at his outburst. Although anyone who glanced in their direction would have known they were arguing, they’d mostly managed to keep their voices down so far, but now they’re a spectacle once again.

“Ugh, here we go,” Wooyoung hears someone mutter.

“They’re at it again,” says someone else nearby. “As usual.”

Wooyoung wants to scream.

This is nothing like usual! It’s never been real before!

The two stare at each other for a moment, frustration radiating between them.

Then Yeosang turns on his heels and marches back inside, leaving Wooyoung alone in the courtyard.

Yeosang strides down the corridor, shaking back his long sleeves to scrub miserably at his burning eyes. He takes a left and then a right, not caring where the hallways lead him so long as it’s away.

“Yeosang!”

Wooyoung. He’s following.

“Leave me alone,” Yeosang calls thickly, refusing to look around.

He pushes through another door, finding himself in the antechamber to one of the dining halls. It’s a dead end, the only room beyond being the dining hall itself, which marks the end of this wing of the palace. He goes to turn around, to go a different way, but it’s too late – Wooyoung is already standing in the doorway.

Yeosang backs up, shoulders hunching defensively as he realises he can’t run away from this conversation anymore. Wooyoung looks him up and down, taking in his hostile stance, and sighs, running a hand over his face.

“Yeosang, come on,” he says, moving forward. “We need to talk about this. I don’t want to fight. I’m sorry, ok? I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

Yeosang just stares at him. Part of him wants to apologise too, but the other part is still too highly-strung, too worked up and insulted to give in just yet. So instead, he just huffs angrily and looks away.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” coaxes Wooyoung, moving closer.

He’s falling into the usual pattern they follow when they have little spats, the sort which can be smoothed over with some time to cool off, then a little bit of cajoling and a few kisses. Well, that’s not going to cut it this time.

Wooyoung moves in, tilting his head to bring their lips together, but Yeosang twists away before they connect, turning his back sharply.

“Sangie,” says Wooyoung softly, hurt.

He tries to coax Yeosang to turn back around, but Yeosang shrugs his hands off angrily.

“Why don’t you just go and kiss Prince San?” he hisses.

Wooyoung’s hands drop.

“That’s not fair and you know it,” he says, a little sharper now. “You can’t say that like you don’t want him too. I’ve seen the way you look at him, Sang. I know you.”

Yeosang faulters. How can he defend himself against that accusation? It’s true. That’s the worst part. That’s what’s making all of this so difficult.  

“Well… well you’re the one who nearly kissed him earlier,” he says pettily.

“Yes,” says Wooyoung, “And if it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been you!”

He steps back again, scowling.

“Would you have preferred that? If it was you poor San tried to kiss? Would you have preferred to be the one to tell him that just because you really like him and spent the week flirting with him doesn’t mean you can ever be together?”

“We both led him on,” Yeosang points out defensively.

“Exactly!” cries Wooyoung angrily, throwing his hands in the air. “Don’t you see?! That’s the whole problem. We both convinced ourselves it was fine because we were just acting, like normal, but it wasn’t, was it? Because we weren’t expecting him to be so…”

He breaks off, waving his hands frustratedly as he searches for the word.

“…I don’t know, so lovely. And we both let ourselves get caught up in having his attention, and then we both got stupidly jealous.”

He shakes his head and pushes a hand through his hair.

“And now we both like him, and he likes both of us, apparently, but at the end of the day none of us can be together, no matter what we want. None of this even matters, because none of us have any choice, and we’re always just going to have to do what our fucking families want, regardless of our feelings.”

There are tears in his eyes by the time he breaks off, and Yeosang can feel his own eyes welling again too, if they even stopped in the first place.

Silence falls, the two of them simply staring at each other, unmoving.

“Wooyoung-ah,” whispers Yeosang brokenly, “What are we doing?”

His words hang in the air for a moment, then like a dam wall crumbling down, they’re crashing against each other. Giving up any pretence of not crying, they cling together desperately as though they’re going to be torn apart at any moment.

Yeosang sobs and fists his hands into the back of Wooyoung’s robe, as Wooyoung buries his face in Yeosang’s neck with a whine.

“I’m sorry,” Yeosang says wetly, rocking them both gently back and forth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m sorry.”

“I was scared of losing you,” sniffs Wooyoung. “I still am. Whether it’s to the prince or whoever else comes along next. Whether anyone ever finds out or not, they’re going to tear us apart eventually. I just didn’t want it to happen so soon, if the prince decided he wanted you.”

Yeosang lets out a shaky sigh and presses his face against Wooyoung’s shoulder.

“I think some part of me was scared you were thinking about leaving,” he admits. “When I saw you with the prince earlier… I was scared that you’d finally realised that you really could have anyone – that if you just let me go, you could be a royal consort, live in luxury with a husband who you didn’t have to keep secret.”

Wooyoung’s arms tighten around him.

“Never,” he says fiercely. “I could never be happy without you, Yeosang. None of it would be worth anything if you weren’t with me. I love you with all my heart. You know that.”

Yeosang pulls back from their embrace for a moment to wipe the tears roughly from his eyes and whisper ‘I love you too’, before he pulls Wooyoung into a deep kiss. Wooyoung kisses back instantly with equal fervour, and finally, for the first time in days, Yeosang feels his mind go blissfully calm and blank.

Nothing else matters. There’s just Wooyoung’s lips on his, Wooyoung’s hands cupping his face, then sliding down to his shoulders to tug him closer. Yeosang lets his eyes flutter closed, and relaxes into the familiar kiss.

“Well, that explains a lot.”

The two of them flinch violently at the new voice, Wooyoung automatically tightening his hold on Yeosang defensively.

There in the doorway stands Prince San. He’s leaning back against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. His head is tilted back, one eyebrow raised. He doesn’t look impressed.

For a moment the pair are frozen, staring at him with wide eyes, still wrapped in each other’s arms. Then the spell breaks and they leap apart as though burned, both dropping to their knees at once.

Yeosang’s mind is reeling at this sudden turn of events, his breath locking up in his throat and his hands trembling. How much did the prince see? How long has he been there? Given that their route to this room was completely random, the fact that he’s found them probably means that he followed Wooyoung from the courtyard right from the outset.

This is bad, this is very bad.

San steps into the room, sliding the door closed slowly behind him. He walks towards them agonisingly slowly, his footsteps echoing off the walls, the only sound in the chamber besides Yeosang’s own shaky breathing and hammering heart.

The prince is angry – and no wonder. Together, Yeosang and Wooyoung have wasted his time and misled him, pretending to be available while already committed to each other. It’s disrespectful – an insult to the very authority of the royal family.

If they’re lucky, San will simply send them home early, claim that they’ve displeased him and he has no interest in them. It will be humiliating – their families will be furious at the public shame it will bring, but it’s still the kindest alternative.

Otherwise…

He could choose one of them out of spite. If he decided to ignore their wishes and take one of them as his consort anyway, they wouldn’t be able to refuse him. It seems too cruel for San’s gentle nature, but they’ve only known him a little over a week. If they’ve truly offended him but he still desires them after the stupidly tantalising way they’ve both been behaving, then he might feel that he’s owed that much.

Or – and unfortunately this seems most likely – he could simply reveal the truth of their relationship to the court and leave their fate up to the emperor and his ministers of justice. Yeosang doesn’t even want to think about the consequences of deceiving and disrespecting the crown prince. They could be punished, their families could be punished for offering unfit suitors, and their families will certainly punish them themselves once the external fuss has died down, for consorting with the enemy and causing them such public embarrassment.

Yeosang fights back a shiver of fear, trying to stay as still and small and sorry-looking as possible. Beside him, he sees Wooyoung’s hand trembling, and wishes he could reach out and hold it, but he knows that would only make things worse.

San comes to a stop in front of them, and looks down his nose at the pair.

“Well,” he says, “What should I do with you two?”

“Whatever you see fit, your highness,” says Yeosang miserably – the only answer anyone is allowed to give a member of the royal family in a situation like this.

San tilts his head.

“That’s right,” he says coolly. “Whatever I see fit. And as the crown prince, I have the power to do a lot of things.”

He looks between the two of them, calculating. Yeosang braces himself, bowing his head low, and feels Wooyoung tense beside him.

“Like take more than one consort.”

The prince’s words are met with a stunned silence.

Yeosang stares at the ground, uncomprehending, then slowly, cautiously, raises his head. He meets Wooyoung’s eyes briefly, just as wide and shocked as his own, then dares to look up at the prince.

San… doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look happy, he’s not smiling, but he doesn’t appear unhappy either. He’s just looking down at them seriously, head on one side, waiting for a response.

Yeosang swallows, and darts another lost look at Wooyoung before wetting his lips and finding his voice.

“Your… your highness?” he croaks.

San sighs and makes an impatient gesture.

“Rise,” he says shortly. “I won’t have this conversation while you’re kneeling on the ground.”

They scramble to their feet, Wooyoung nearly tripping in his haste and Yeosang almost overbalancing when he steps on the hem of his own robes.

“Well?” demands the prince, when they’re both standing once more.

They share yet another panicked glance. It seems so impossible, to be offered such a high honour after Yeosang was certain they’d just incurred the prince’s fury. And not just one, but both of them?!

“You… you want to take both of us as your…?” Yeosang trails off, unable to finish.

It feels insolent just to say it aloud, even if he’s repeating what the prince has already said.

“As my husbands, yes,” says San. “You would be of equal standing, both with the title of royal consort.”

“But…” says Wooyoung uncertainly, “Two consorts? Is that even allowed anymore?”

“Of course it’s allowed,” says San, raising his eyebrow again. “There’s no rule against it.”

Wooyoung stares at him, mouth moving silently for a moment as he processes.

“But surely – no one’s taken more than a single consort for centuries!” he says after a moment. “The last recorded Emperor with more than one wedded partner was in the Kim era!”

Yeosang isn’t surprised that Wooyoung knows this fact off the top of his head, given his love of history. He is surprised that the prince only nods calmly at the statement.

“It’s fallen out of practice,” agrees San. “But it was never outlawed. It’s simply not preferable to split favour like that, in most cases. Given the particular history of your houses though…” he glances between the two of them, “I think it might be appropriate.” His lips twitch upward, the first hint of a smile they’ve seen so far. “And if Emperor Kim Namjoon can have a successful rule with multiple husbands at his side, then why shouldn’t I?”

“You’d really want that?” says Wooyoung slowly. “Both of us, together?”

Yeosang can hear the quiet disbelief, the desperation masked in his tone, and knows he feels the same way Yeosang does. This can’t be real. It’s too good, too sudden, too perfect. The solution to all their problems on a gilded platter. He has to be misunderstanding somehow.

San folds his hands in front of himself and looks between them solemnly.

“Am I right in thinking that you two would marry each other if you could, but for your families’ rivalry?” he asks.

Yeosang and Wooyoung both nod immediately without any hesitation, not even needing to look at each other first to confirm. San smiles, seemingly pleased by this.

“And am I right in thinking that you’re both attracted to me, at least on some level?” he continues. “That you’ve both enjoyed spending time with me over this week as much as I have with you?”

Again in perfect synchronisation, the two nod, this time more hesitantly, then glance at each other and nod again with more certainty. San nods back, and spreads his hands.  

“Well then, it seems like this would be a happy solution for everyone involved. Unless either of you are particularly against the idea of being a royal consort?”

Yeosang lets out a shaky laugh at the very idea.

“Certainly not, your highness.”

Wooyoung is quick to shake his head as well.

San claps his hands, looking supremely satisfied.

“Well then,” he says cheerfully, “Dry your tears and follow me. We have much to discuss.”

San leads the way through the corridors, back the way they came, with Wooyoung and Yeosang scurrying along behind him like a pair of nervous mice. This is all so new and sudden, both find themselves jumpy and over-alert, as though one wrong word might cause the prince to change his mind.

“Will your parents take issue?” asks San, glancing back at them.

“Undoubtedly,” Wooyoung replies, “But they won’t dispute it. It’s an honour to have their bloodline on the throne, even if it’s shared with the enemy. They’ll keep their harsh words to themselves.”

“Perhaps this will go some way toward mending the feud between your houses, if they are to become in-laws,” muses San. “That will please my parents, if my match could help establish internal peace.”

“Why didn’t you just suggest this to start with then, if you liked both of us?” asks Yeosang curiously.

San scoffs loudly at the idea.

“I would have from the outset, but for the fact that you two were constantly at each other’s throats,” he says. “Was I supposed to like the idea of living with two husbands who acted like mortal enemies?”

Well, Yeosang has to concede that point. Their false swipes at each other had been fairly insufferable, even to himself.

“I thought you genuinely hated each other,” San continues in frustration. “How could I picture sharing a bed with the two of you when you couldn’t even share a corridor without growling at each other like a pair of angry tomcats?”

“Oh, so you tried to picture sharing a bed with the two of us, did you?” says Wooyoung at once, pulling up short and bringing the group to a halt, face suddenly lit by a wide grin.

San turns pink, leaving Yeosang to marvel once again at the skill with which Wooyoung can seemingly spin any situation to his favour.

“I… considered what it might be like to be with each of you, or to wed you both,” San says stiffly after a moment, recovering his dignity a little. “And yes, that did include the possibility of bedding you.”

Yeosang does his best to hide the shiver that courses through him at the confirmation that the prince has indeed fantasised about both of them. Wooyoung is better at hiding his reaction – Yeosang only catches the sharp intake of breath because he’s watching for it.

“I’m most flattered, your highness,” he giggles. “Honoured, even.”

San huffs again, shaking his head.

“You don’t get to tease, not after all the stress you two caused me,” he says grumpily. “Do you have any idea how much sleep I lost agonising over how I’d ever choose between you?”

Yeosang is a little surprised by how endearing that idea is, that the prince liked them both so much that it distressed him to have to pick one over the other.

Wooyoung, however, seems to be on a different train of thought.

“Well, if we’ve caused you such trouble, perhaps you’ll allow us to make it up to you, your highness?” he says coyly. “We could start now, if you’d like…”

He bites his lip, lets his eyes trail obviously down San’s body. San gulps, glances back down the corridor, towards the courtyard they were headed for.

“The party – I should at least return to say goodnight to everyone…” he says uncertainly.

Wooyoung’s eyes dart to Yeosang, and he knows instantly that they’re thinking the same thing. They’ve been presented with the opportunity of a lifetime, by someone they’ve both been harbouring feelings for, no less. No way are they letting this slip through their fingers. No way are they letting the prince return to the party, where other pretty faces are still competing for his hand, or to his own chambers alone, where he might have time to rethink his choice.

No, they’re keeping him in their company now. If the prince was susceptible to them individually, he won’t stand a chance if they work together.

“Oh, I’m sure your guests will survive,” says Wooyoung, shifting a little closer. “It’s late now anyway, people will already have started to leave.”

“They’ll realise where I am,” San warns. “People would have seen me follow after you when you left, they may guess that I’m with at least one of you…”

“Are you certain you want to marry the two of us, your highness?” asks Yeosang suddenly, eyes wide and expectant, in the way that he uses to drive Wooyoung wild.

San blinks.

“Wha – of course I am!”

“Then will you announce it tomorrow morning?” Yeosang presses, tilting his head sweetly. “Will you tell the court you’ve chosen us, officially, to be your consorts?”

San falters.

“I… the allotted time is still… I don’t have to announce my decision for three more days yet, but…” He trails off and looks between them. “Ah, I suppose there is no point in delaying. No one else here could possibly tempt me to change my mind now.”

Good. Yeosang gives San his sweetest, most angelic smile, knowing it will clash with his next words.

“Then it won’t matter if everyone knows who you spent the night with, will it?”

San’s eyes widen at the proposition, and Yeosang keeps smiling innocently as though he has not just smoothly upped the offer to not just some quick kissing, but the full night with both of them. Before San can formulate a reply, Yeosang leans closer conspiratorially.

“But we can keep it a secret if you really want,” he says, soft and low. “We’re good at keeping secrets, Wooyoungie and I.”

“We certainly are.”

Wooyoung moves forward now, rolling his shoulders back in a way which causes his robe to part a little wider at the front.

“Did you know we’ve been fucking this whole time?” he asks, dropping his voice low and sultry. “We’ve been sneaking past the guards almost every night, under this very roof.”

San’s eyes widen, then narrow at the confession, his gaze locking onto Wooyoung like a wolf focusing on a rabbit, and his lips part with a soft sigh of obvious desire.

“We weren’t going to take the risk,” Wooyoung continues, “But being around you was just leaving us too worked up. We couldn’t help it.”

He presses his body against San’s side, widening his eyes pitifully.

“Do you know what you were doing to us? A handsome man like you, watching us like that? We could hardly control ourselves.”

San’s hand comes up, seemingly unconsciously, to wrap around Wooyoung’s upper arm. He doesn’t pull him closer or push him away, just holds him firmly, grounding himself as Wooyoung leans close enough for San to feel his breath on his neck.

“We talked about you sometimes, you know,” he purrs. “While we were in bed together. While we touched each other.”

San’s eyes snap over to Yeosang at the admission, and Yeosang bites his lip and looks down in a show of bashful guilt, although it’s only for a second before his eyes flick back to San’s.

Wooyoung grins and leans in to whisper directly into San’s ear.

“I told Yeosangie that I’d seen you undressing him with your eyes,” he says. “Told him I could tell that you wanted to fuck him too. That was the hardest I’ve ever seen him come.”

Yeosang tenses – surely that’s too far! – but the protests die in his throat when he sees the look in San’s eyes.

Shock, wonder, arousal.

Yeosang closes his mouth with a click.

Wooyoung puts a finger under San’s chin and turns the prince’s head slowly to face him, bringing them nose to nose.

“What about you, my prince?” he asks slyly. “Did you dream of us too?”

And it seems that the question is the final push the prince needed to finally cave. He surges forward and connects their lips, one hand immediately coming to the back of Wooyoung’s head to keep him in place. Wooyoung lets out a pleased noise and is quick to kiss back, bringing his hands to rest on San’s chest and pressing himself even closer.

Yeosang hurries forward, entranced by the sight of them kissing, arousal stirring deep in his gut. It’s forbidden to touch a member of the royal family without permission, but Yeosang judges that they’re past that now. He slips a hand around San’s trim waist, moving in behind to press a kiss to the side of San’s neck.

San jolts and lets out a surprised moan as Yeosang begins making his way up his neck with little kisses and kitten licks, and he pulls back from his kiss with Wooyoung to look back at Yeosang with wide eyes. Yeosang blinks back innocently, then ducks back down to lick a long stripe up the side of San’s neck, smiling when he feels the prince’s knees buckle slightly. Wooyoung doesn’t allow San’s attention to stray for long, however, quickly grasping the prince’s face and turning him back to face him again. He wastes no time reconnecting their lips and kisses him soundly as Yeosang moves his attention around to the other side of San’s throat.

They lose track of time until San eventually pulls back, brow furrowed, panting lightly as he looks between the two of them.

“I know what you’re doing,” he accuses, although the amusement and the fog of arousal in his eyes takes away any bite his words may have held. “You’re making sure I won’t back out.”

Wooyoung shrugs, unapologetic.

“You just said you’d never want to anyway,” he says, “So why does it matter?”

San laughs breathlessly.

“I guess it doesn’t.”

“Then perhaps,” says Yeosang, hooking his chin over San’s shoulder and batting his eyelashes, “You’ll be so kind as to show us to your chambers.”

San’s rooms are, unsurprisingly, luxurious.

It’s obvious even from a quick glance that everything is of the highest quality, from the furniture and the decorations to the accessories and clothing scattered around. They’re extensive too – a whole three rooms, all bigger than Wooyoung’s own at home. There’s one for receiving guests, and one for dining in privacy.

For now, however, the only one Wooyoung cares about is the third one, which contains the massive bed.

Not bothering to wait for permission, Wooyoung and Yeosang tug the prince towards it, pulling him down to sit with them and working quickly to rid themselves and each other of their clothes. The prince laughs breathlessly when he sees the dark bruises on Wooyoung’s throat, reaches out to trace them gently, then looks down at Yeosang, who has busied himself untying the prince’s ornate jewelled belt.

“Are these marks your work?” he asks, and Yeosang shrugs modestly, earning another laugh.

“Don’t encourage him,” grumbles Wooyoung, tossing his outer robes aside. “Those bruises have been a nightmare to keep hidden these last few days.”

“Perhaps you should give him some in exchange,” suggests San cheekily.

Wooyoung huffs and, deciding to put a stop to this teasing before it goes any further, stands and lets the last of his underclothing fall to the floor, leaving himself completely bare. This proves very effective – San is instantly rendered speechless. Wooyoung preens under the prince’s entranced gaze, posing obligingly to give him the full experience of seeing his naked body for the first time, then pulls Yeosang up to stand beside him.

“Come on, Sangie,” he admonishes him. “Why are you clothes still on? We’re waiting.”

He quickly divests Yeosang of his robes, with a little eager help from San, and then Wooyoung takes great pleasure in shoving Yeosang down onto his knees in front of the prince, savouring the little grunt of surprise Yeosang makes, the shocked expression on San’s face.

“There you go,” Wooyoung says, grinning wickedly at the prince. “Been thinking about him like this, haven’t you? Well, now you can have him.”

It’s strange, how seeing San so turned on by the sight of Wooyoung’s lover rather than him still makes him run hot with pride and excitement, but Wooyoung decides that he loves it.

San fumbles to rid himself of the last of his underclothes, revealing that in addition to being incredibly handsome, funny and kind, he’s also very well endowed. Both Wooyoung and Yeosang are caught staring until San clears his throat pointedly, tipping his head back with a pleased smirk spreading across his lips.

“Enjoying the view?”

Wooyoung snaps out of it first, and smirks right back.

“Very much,” he says, then gives Yeosang’s head a playful push towards San’s cock.

“Go on then,” he says, “Why don’t you show what you can do with that mouth, while I find where his royal highness keeps his oils?”

The night turns out to be even better than Wooyoung’s wildest dreams.

San fucks Yeosang into the mattress first, and Wooyoung watches, urging them on with constant praise as he admires gorgeous they both look, the power of San’s hips, how well Yeosang is taking it.

He’s completely unable to keep his hands to himself, returns again and again to run his hands over San’s incredible back and shoulders, or to dive in and make out hungrily with Yeosang, swallowing the whimpers and gasps San is pushing out of him, and listening to San groan aloud at the sight instead.

After San comes, an even better sight than Wooyoung had imagined, he slumps down over Yeosang as the pair gasp to get their breath back. Since Yeosang hasn’t come yet, San reaches a hand down, but Wooyoung stops him short by announcing that he’s prepped himself while the other two were busy. Yeosang’s eyes snap open, and within seconds he’s pulled himself out from under the prince and has Wooyoung on his back instead.

Wooyoung quickly discovers that one of the only things better than getting railed by Yeosang is getting railed by Yeosang with another very hot man watching them. He can feel San’s dark, hungry gaze on them like a physical weight, the prince watching them unblinkingly like they might disappear if he looks away for even a second. Wooyoung revels in it, is happy to moan loudly and tell Yeosang just how good he feels, repositions them to give San a better view and smiles giddily at the quiet curse he hears in response.

By the time they’re done and Yeosang collapses over Wooyoung, truly worn out now, San is hard again, and asks – a little tentatively – if Wooyoung would like to fuck him. Once Wooyoung has picked his jaw back up off the ground, he’s more than happy to oblige.

It doesn’t seem that San has done this often, so preparation takes a little longer and they fuss around over positions at first, the prince a little flustered and unsure of what he wants until Wooyoung decides to take the lead. He directs San to prop himself on hands and knees over Yeosang, who after two rounds claims he no longer has the energy to move. However, he manages to perk up enough to reach up and kiss San heatedly while Wooyoung pushes into the prince from behind.

San is hemmed in between Wooyoung’s steady thrusts and the sight of Yeosang beneath him, fucked out with red bitten lips and dewy eyes, and he doesn’t last very long once Wooyoung decides to reach around and add his hand to the onslaught.

He drops his head onto Yeosang’s shoulder and comes with a cry, spilling over Yeosang’s stomach, and Wooyoung follows him over the edge just moments later.

The curl up afterward, all three of them together, a breathless, sticky, sweaty mess, with their heartbeats still racing in their ears.

“Well, your highness,” says Wooyoung eventually, “Have we succeeded in making it up to you? Was that worth the stress we caused?”

San huffs out a tired laugh.

“I do believe,” he says, rolling over to smile at Wooyoung, “that I’m the luckiest man in the whole kingdom.”

“Absolutely not,” says Wooyoung at once, tone imperious. “I believe that title goes to me. After all, I’m to marry the two most handsome men in all the land.”

San lets out a delighted bubble of laughter, and reaches over to push Wooyoung playfully.

“Oh, stop it!”

“You’re both wrong,” pipes up Yeosang suddenly from San’s other side, causing them both to turn to him.

He smiles up at them angelically.

“I’m the luckiest,” he says, “Because you’re going to let me sleep in the middle, right?”

And glancing back at San, Wooyoung knows that damn him, he’s right. Neither of them are powerful enough to resist those eyes.

They reluctant rouse themselves enough to clean up, and when they return to the bed, Yeosang slips in first, wriggling down happily under the covers. Wooyoung can’t find it in his heart to be anything but so incredibly fond of his lover, and admits defeat, turning to San instead.

“Well then,” he says, “Which side would you prefer to sleep on, your highness?”

San tears his eyes away from the sight of Yeosang in his bed (Wooyoung doesn’t blame him for the hesitation) and shakes his head at Wooyoung.

“Just… just call me San,” he says. “Please.”

Wooyoung catches his breath, then feels his smile widen, recognising the honour they’ve just been given, on top of everything else tonight.

“Alright San,” he says. “Left or right?”

San takes the left, taking the opportunity to press a little kiss to Yeosang’s birthmark as he snuggles down beside him. Yeosang blushes, and Wooyoung is quick to join them and kiss Yeosang’s other cheek as well.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he sing-songs, and feels his heart leap when Yeosang turns to him with starry eyes, because finally, finally, they’re allowed to spend the night together without fearing the consequences.

After all these years of hiding, an authority more powerful than their families has finally given them the permission they needed. Overflowing with gratefulness, both of them give San a very long goodnight kiss for good measure.

And then, with the party, proper etiquette, family feuds and politics all long forgotten, they drift off to sleep together.

Epilogue – Three years and two days later

Yeosang wakes slowly, to the feeling of someone shifting beside him. He feels his lips curl upward in an involuntary smile – even after all this time, the magic of spending the night in the same bed as Wooyoung and waking to find him still by his side has not yet worn off.

“Mm. Morning,” he mumbles, rolling over and wriggling a little closer.

The bed is truly massive, built for three people but easily big enough for five. It’s useful during heatwaves, when they can’t stand to share skin contact for long, but the rest of the time, like now, the three of them gravitate together to form a little huddle in the centre.

“Morning Yeosangie!” comes the cheerful reply, far too bright for this early in the day. “Rise and shine!”

One new thing Yeosang has learnt about his partner since their marriage is that Wooyoung is an insufferably early riser. This is all well and good on normal days, when all three of them are expected to be up and about for their various court duties, but today is meant to be a day of rest. It was San’s birthday yesterday, and the festivities ran late into the night.

Yeosang has let his eyes drift closed again, but Wooyoung is patting and prodding at Yeosang’s cheeks now, preventing him from falling back to sleep.

“Woo,” he groans, batting him away blindly. “Leave me alone.”

“No,” says Wooyoung happily. “C’mon, time to wake up!”

“It’s our day off,” protests Yeosang.

“Exactly, and I’ve got plans!” says Wooyoung. “I had a fun idea I want to try with both of you.”

Yeosang cracks his eyes open and squints up at him suspiciously.

“The last time you said that, you made me and San arm-wrestle for the privilege of fucking you.”

“Well, yes,” says Wooyoung, “But the time before that, I took us all for a picnic in the southern woods and fed you honey cakes I’d made with my own hands! No need to be so ungrateful.”

And… yeah, ok, Yeosang has to concede that point. Wooyoung can be incredibly romantic sometimes, to the point where he almost rivals San, who never seems to tire of showering them both in gifts and affection.

Wooyoung smirks.

“Beside, don’t act like you didn’t enjoy winning that arm wrestling match.”

“Not as much as you enjoyed watching,” Yeosang points out. “You were practically drooling the whole time.”

“It is my duty as a husband to appreciate the fine musculature of my wedded partners,” says Wooyoung with great dignity.

Yeosang lets out a huff and burrows back down under the covers, so Wooyoung doesn’t see the smile he can’t hide.

“Oh, go back to sleep.”

“I can’t,” Wooyoung whines, flopping down beside him.

“Sure you can,” says Yeosang, not bothering to open his eyes. “You just lie down, close your eyes, and wait quietly. It’s quite easy.”

“Well I don’t want to,” says Wooyoung. “If we’ve got free time, we should use it for something, shouldn’t we?”

Yeosang raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure that his highness our royal husband would be pleased to hear you say that.”

On Yeosang’s other side, San finally stirs, raising his head from the pillow and blinking sleepily. He’s pouting reproachfully at them and his hair is sticking in every direction, making Yeosang giggle at the sight.

“Why’re you awake?” slurs San groggily. “We’ve got the morning off. Go back t’ sleep.”

“But the sun is up!” says Wooyoung. “It’s time to start the day!”

“Hurgh,” says San. “No.”

Pushing himself up on his forearms, he proceeds to roll over the top of Yeosang, who lets out a dramatic, strangled groan as he’s briefly squashed into the mattress, then lets all his weight drop into the slight gap between Yeosang and Wooyoung. San wriggles down between them, ignoring their half-hearted protests, then shifts around until he’s got an arm firmly around each of his husbands. He tugs them down, until Yeosang finds himself with his cheek pressed to San’s bare chest, face to face with Wooyoung on the other side.

“There,” says San, radiating satisfaction like a cat basking in a patch of sunlight. “Much better. Now go back to sleep, both of you. That’s an order.”

Wooyoung meets Yeosang’s eye, his own already shining with mischief.

“Not one I intend to follow.”

Wooyoung abruptly lunges forward and drags his tongue over San’s nipple. San jolts upright with a yowl of surprise, knocking both of them from where they were resting on his chest. Quick as a flash, he’s flipped Wooyoung on his back and begins tickling him mercilessly, causing Wooyoung to shriek in protest and delight.

“Get him, San!” cheers Yeosang, pulling the covers around himself and settling a safe distance away to watch.

Gods, he reflects, as he watches Wooyoung kick out and claw at San in an effort to throw him off, screeching like a wild monkey, he loves both of them so much.

Eventually, the other two begin to tire and lose momentum, and predictably, San’s attack slows and Wooyoung’s shrieks morph into moans instead.

So, with a sigh and a fond smile, Yeosang heaves himself up to his knees, dropping the blanket from around his shoulders, and shuffles over to join in.