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It’s strange watching the dancing troupe instead of dancing with them, Minho thinks, idly swirling the flute of champagne in his gloved hand. With his other hand, he tugs at the stiff collar of his dress uniform. He’s not quite used to the formality of high-born nobility and even if he survives the war, he’s not sure he ever will be.
Nobles whirl around him in a flurry of coattails and skirts, tittering about certain victory and post-war politics. Young unmarried nobles giggle to each other, making eyes at the soldiers milling around the hall. The heads of houses laugh between themselves, toasting to the future and their plans for the future.
Minho hates it.
What do these people know of war? They sit in their mansions and villas drinking expensive wine made from grapes picked by people who won’t see even a fraction of the profit it turns. They feast on decadent, sugary desserts, fresh fruits and vegetables, and hearty meats, and then they let it all go to waste, claiming that they can’t possibly eat another bite, they have to watch their figure after all.
They let pounds of perfectly good food go to waste and then chase off their starving citizens when they try to rifle through their trash. And after that, they complain that their citizens refuse to pay their exorbitant taxes and nonsensical fees.
They have no one in their eyes except for themselves and those in their social circles. The nobles spare no thought for the ones they are supposedly responsible for, preferring to stay hidden away while the less fortunate fight every day for their survival.
It’s all too clear in the way Minho hears the voices of the young soldiers waver and the way he sees their arms tremble around each others’ shoulders, gripping each other as if each second together was worth their weight in gold. All too clear in the way the noblemen are already discussing how the outcome of the war will affect the economy, rather than focusing on how to compensate the people who fight their wars.
Scowling, Minho downs his champagne, unaware of the way some noblewomen fix eager eyes on his strong frame. They giggle amongst themselves, playfully pushing each other to make the first move. One brave girl opens her fan and glides over to Minho, but a loud voice calls out, “Captain Lee!”
Immediately, Minho’s anger dissipates in favor of a fond smile as he turns to face Jisung, inadvertently snubbing the lady about to ask him for a dance. Before Minho’s attention is fully on Jisung, the younger man catches the lady’s eyes and subtly shakes his head. She lets out an offended harrumph and whirls around on her heel, hissing furiously to her friends, hiding her crimson cheeks behind her fan.
Minho sighs as Jisung slings an arm around his waist and pulls him close. “I’m not a captain, Jisung. You can’t call me that in front of everyone.”
Jisung rolls his eyes, carefully steering them away from the thick of the ball and toward the edge of the hall. “With all the fighting you do? You’re practically a general. Might as well lead the damn footsoldier unit yourself, considering that General Jang just sits in his tent all day and ‘strategizes.’”
“I’m a commoner, he’s a duke’s son. There’s no way I’d be chosen to lead over him.”
“Yeah, well, I can tell you that the soldiers would one hundred percent listen to your orders on the battlefield over his.”
Minho shakes his head and takes another glass of champagne from a passing server, nodding his head in thanks before downing it in one gulp as well. “Jisung…”
“At this point, if you aren’t given a title after the war, I’ll eat my own boot and make His Highness eat his as well. He’s just waiting until after the war as a formality.”
“He’d be a fool if he did,” Minho grumbles, glaring at his empty glass.
Jisung squeezes tighter, all too familiar with Minho’s complaints to seriously argue with him. “Ah, well, you can’t stop love.”
Minho’s also too familiar with Jisung’s matchmaking tendencies and, without a sideways glance, jabs his elbow between his ribs, speedwalking away from the scene of the crime. Jisung’s whines start up for a second before abruptly cutting off and turning into a polite laugh. Minho laughs inwardly—he must’ve been caught unawares by a noble trying to curry favor with either the Crown Prince or Jisung’s noble father.
Snickering, Minho takes the opportunity to escape, handing his glass to a server. He slinks through the crowd and through the open doors, picking his way toward a quiet, out-of-the-way balcony. He immediately tears off his gloves and yanks a few buttons from his collar loose, heaving a deep sigh in relief as he stuffs his gloves into his vest pocket.
Minho leans heavily on the balcony, his head hanging low between his shoulders. A light, teasing voice floats over the faint music.
“I thought I’d find you here. Abandoning the young Lord Han, are we?”
Minho turns around, fixing an impassive expression on his face even as his heart skips a beat. His eyes fall on the strong, broad shoulders and smiling face of the Crown Prince of Levanter, Prince Christopher. He dips into a low bow befitting his station, bending nearly ninety degrees at his waist, crossing one arm across his front and the other behind his back.
“Your Highness, I did not hear you coming. Please accept this humble one’s most sincere apologies.” Minho murmurs.
The prince sighs. “Minho, come on. You do this every time.”
“Oh, how dare this lowly one raise his head without permission in the presence of royalty?”
“…Minho, please. ”
Minho remains silent, defiant and stubborn even in the face of royal authority.
Another deep, long-suffering sigh. Then a hand clasps his bicep and gloved fingers hook under his chin, gently leading him to stand up straight. The prince’s handsome face is mere inches away from his own. The prince’s eyes are curved into crescent moons and two dimples bracket his smile as he laughs, “You never have to bow before me, dearest.”
Minho scoffs but doesn’t move away, cursing the way his ears burn red at the pet name. “What would the lords say, Your Highness, if they heard you speak such honeyed words to a mere dancer?”
“They would say nothing, for I was speaking to a dancer and my army’s most respected swordmaster—my equal on the battlefield and in life.” The prince’s hand travels from under his chin to cup Minho’s face, his gloved thumb moving to rub slow, soft circles over his cheek. The hand wrapped around Minho’s bicep falls to his waist and the prince tugs Minho closer ever-so-slightly. “Won’t you drop the formalities tonight, my love?”
“…there are eyes everywhere, Highness.”
His grip tightens around Minho’s waist and the prince’s eyes narrow. “We go to war in the morning. There will be death. If anyone is to speak against me, they will have to survive. And even then, there will be more important things to deal with than who I have chosen to love.”
Minho’s cheeks burst into flames and he drops his head into his hands. “How can you say that so easily!” Minho wails, his mask completely broken in the face of the crown prince’s earnest adoration and sheer stubbornness.
The prince— Chan , Minho’s heart and soul, his wildest dreams come to life in the form of a man—throws his head back and laughs heartily as if Minho’s embarrassment was the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Face still covered, Minho feels himself being pulled into Chan’s embrace. He wiggles around into his preferred position: pressed tightly against Chan’s chest and his head nestled into the curve of his neck.
Minho sighs in relief, pressing the bridge of his nose against Chan’s pulse point. He smirks to himself when he feels Chan swallow and shiver as Minho’s breath fans against his skin.
But Minho is still Minho, ever cognizant of their surroundings, and he reluctantly pulls back to a more respectable distance. Chan pouts but allows Minho to settle with his back against the railing, though his eyes follow Minho’s every move with fond adoration.
He playfully shoves at Chan’s shoulder and turns around to gaze at the night sky, breathing a sigh of relief when Chan follows suit. With their backs to the crowds, Minho breathes a little easier knowing that no one can read their lips.
(There is an underlying current of fear, having their backs to a door, but Minho has faith in his brothers-in-arms to protect them while he and Chan share one last moment of peace before the sun rises on the war.)
They stand there in comfortable silence, watching the same stars that shone down on them the night they first met. The same moon that lit their eyes the night Minho taught Chan to waltz shines like a beacon in the clear night sky. Even the cool breeze reminds Minho of the night Chan first held his hand, pressed a shy, chaste kiss to his cheek, and ran away.
But it wasn’t a peaceful night, no matter what the nobles said, not with the very real threat of bloodshed and death looming over their heads.
Beside him, Chan shifts and whispers, “Can I ask you something?”
Minho hums in response, extending his index finger to softly scratch against Chan’s knuckles. The prince huffs out a chuckle and lets Minho do as he pleases. “...Minho, you know if I had my way, I would’ve asked you to marry me long ago.”
Minho’s breath catches in his throat: he does, in fact, know this. At least in his heart, he does. But it’s very different hearing it spoken out loud as opposed to hushed whispers in the dead of night, covered in the safety of shadows.
Chan says nothing until Minho gives him the tiniest of nods. Then he continues, “And in an ideal world, I think you would have said yes. But that’s not our world, not our reality.” Chan pauses, the muscles of his jaw jumping under his skin, visibly wrestling with his words. “I know what I’m going to do after all this is done. I know what I hope for you—for us —but relationships go both ways.”
Minho’s prince stares out across the horizon, his gaze fixed on the north star as he breathes, “Where will you go? After all this is done?”
Minho can feel the way Chan’s shoulders lift up and down as he breathes beside him. Chan’s fingers barely graze his own, faintly trembling. Minho’s breath is shaky as he allows himself to press against his shoulder. His eyes dart every which way, still looking for those who would use their intimacy as a weapon against Chan’s rule.
But they march to what will hopefully be their last battle tomorrow and the kingdom needs a ruler. Not even the most foolish people would try to undermine Chan’s authority tonight. Besides, on the eve of what may be their last night alive, everyone is looking for comfort in the ones they care for the most.
Even Minho.
Even their crown prince.
So Minho lets himself fully relax against Chan, breathing in his familiar scent and relishing in the way Chan turns his hand over, palm up. An invitation. Minho doesn’t think twice before placing his hand in Chan’s, smiling as Chan immediately interlocks their fingers.
“I don’t know. Find another troupe? Maybe do a couple more auditions. Go back to my old life, I guess,” Minho says, half-teasing, desperately pushing the heavy tension away. Chan’s fingers twitch around his and Minho fights back a smirk of unbridled glee. “Oh? Do you have something to say, Your Highness? Wanting the commoner to stay in the castle—whatever will the gossip-mongers say?”
“You know I don’t care about what they say.”
Minho’s smile softens. “I know. I know.” He pulls back just enough to make eye contact with Chan. He says, daringly, as loud as he can muster the courage to speak, “ My prince, the noblest and most honorable man in the kingdom.”
The implication of his words doesn’t go unnoticed by Chan, who flushes a pretty pink that reaches below his collar. Minho thinks he’s the most handsome when he’s like this. Chan gently squeezes Minho’s hand and murmurs, “Minho, you know you could join a troupe anytime you wanted to. I would never keep you from doing what you love.”
Beautiful, thoughtful, caring Chan. If their situations were different, Minho would’ve gotten down on one knee and proposed already.
Minho could be blunt and cruel and remind Chan of their clear differences, of the responsibility of the crown prince to forge diplomatic alliances. But when Chan’s looking at him like Minho’s the apple of his eye, how can he?
So Minho tilts his head and smiles cheekily. “But why would I want to go anywhere without you? Someone has to pay for my meals and the cats’ food.”
Chan knows exactly what Minho’s doing, but Minho can tell that Chan is willfully ignoring it. The prince chuckles and presses a soft kiss to the back of Minho’s hand. “Mm, that seems like the best use of the royal treasury.”
They fall back into familiar banter. “What else would you use all that money for?”
“Infrastructure? Education?”
“Psh. Don’t bring logic into my very obvious plot to get you to pledge your money entirely to the very noble cause of taking care of me for the rest of my life.”
“Good thing that’s exactly what I plan to do.”
Minho’s heart skips a beat even as it falls to his gut. It must show on his face because Chan’s smile fades and his entire being slumps. Ah, Minho’s slipped up.
“Chan-,” Minho starts, voice low and soothing, an apology on the tip of his tongue.
Chan shakes his head, squeezing Minho’s hand with a vice-like grip. “I don’t know what future lies before us. We may live, we may die, but please, Minho, don’t give up just yet. Maybe the war will drag on for a while—we can think of a plan, I can secure my position without a marriage-,”
Minho looks at Chan— really looks at him. Under the stiff set of his shoulders, Minho sees a bone-deep tiredness. Not even powder can disguise the dark circles lining Chan’s eyes. It’s not a tiredness that Minho can help ease, as it’s the result of countless nights strategizing and poring over war plans, all the while dealing with haggling with nobles for resources. Minho may be a force on the battlefield, but he would only be a liability to Chan in the war room.
So Minho reels Chan in, grips the nape of his neck, and, uncaring of those who may be watching, presses a soft kiss to Chan’s lips. Chan reacts on instinct, melting into Minho. His hands lock around Minho’s waist and kisses back insistently, a little desperately.
Their lips move together as one, Minho humming contentedly as Chan’s grip loosens and the tension in his shoulders fades away. The kiss slows and sweetens and eventually, Minho pulls away, but not until he lands one final kiss to the tip of Chan’s gorgeous nose, and even then, he doesn’t move too far.
“You’re right,” Minho soothes, brushing away a stray curl from Chan’s forehead, trailing his fingers over the planes of his face. “Tonight’s not the night to be sad, my prince.”
Chan breathes out shakily, his breath puffing over Minho’s skin, sending a delightful shiver down his spine. “Dance with me?” Chan whispers against Minho’s cheek. For what may be our last night together? The words are unspoken, yet Minho hears them all too well.
He can’t refuse Chan anything on a good day; Minho doesn’t stand a chance, nor does he want to. Minho drapes his arms over Chan’s shoulders and relishes in the way Chan’s hands move from his back to his waist, large palms bracketing his hips as they sway to the faint sounds of the orchestra in the banquet hall.
The song is a familiar one, a song often played in the city square during the night festivals. They fall into a simple step sequence, Minho reframing an old routine around Chan’s steps. One of his hands drops down to rest over Chan’s steadily beating heart, and one of Chan’s hands comes up to clasp it. “I love you, Minho,” Chan murmurs against his temple.
Minho wills himself not to cry, opting to press himself even closer to Chan’s body, as if he could bury himself under Chan’s skin so that no one could ever separate them. “I love you too, Chan.”