And to Gather Lilies

by tyvnflower

Summary:

Yeonjun's husband, Prince Taehyun, comes back from his father's court with a present neither of them asked for, and Yeonjun has to adjust to their new reality.

Notes:

NOTES ABOUT THE SETTING:

 

all married omegas are referred to as "wives" and "mothers" no matter their other gender characteristics, and all alphas are "husbands/fathers".

 

omegas have vaginas bc pregnancy/lineage is going to be a major theme and we don't do butt babies here.

 

I think that's about it.

Chapter 1

Yeonjun is in the gardens with all his ladies-in-waiting when a servant rushes out of the palace to announce the Prince’s return. It is a young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years of age, and by the expression on his face when Yeonjun looks his way, he has not been given this job before. It is flattering, surely, to be gazed at with the awe the little one regards him with, but he knows by now that even the sight of nobility gets old quickly the longer one works in the palace. Outside the walls of the Prince’s home, in the village or in the Imperial City, Yeonjun is a jewel – a trophy carried on his husband’s arm, a rare beauty, a name spoken with reverence. The most beautiful omega in all of the Empire, promised to the son of the Emperor himself.

Within his home, however, he is just the Prince’s wife. In theory, he is the one in charge of the household most of the time, overseeing repairs, renovations, expansions, the staff, making all the day-to-day decisions tradition deems not important enough for the Prince to deal with himself, although Yeonjun has to admit he is blessed with a husband who does not see his wife’s job as dispensable, or less honorable, and is just as willing to assist with running his household as he is to assist his father with ruling over the Empire. Still, to his own staff and attendants, his face has long since lost its luster. Only in the faces of children and outsiders does what used to be his greatest asset back at the Imperial Court hold any weight anymore.

It is nice to be reminded of it – there are nights when he misses it, misses the opulence and the glamor and the lies and the intrigue of the court, and laments letting himself be snatched up so soon, being married off so young. Despite all his misgivings, though, he knows that he and his mother made the right decision. He was being offered the hand of the prince – he was young when they were promised to each other, but he was regarded well by the imperial courtiers. Intelligent, diligent, courteous, serious, handsome. Seventeen-year-old Yeonjun wasn’t very impressed by his match’s looks when they met the first time, having seen a thousand faces more mature and masculine trying to woo him wherever he went, but by the time they married, he could see the makings of the man his husband was destined to grow into. Smart, hard-working, with a knack for keeping his finger on the pulse of the Court – and yes, he did mature into being quite handsome. Marrying him was a good, sensible decision; and while the Palace is no t quite as illustrious as the Imperial Court – can no t afford to be, even if Yeonjun wanted it to be so – it is comfortable, and Yeonjun puts all his hard work into making it worthy of both his and his husband’s pride. They sponsor musicians and painters, jewelers and poets, keep lavish gardens that Yeonjun loves to walk through in the mornings, and serve only the finest of foods. A palace worthy of the Emperor’s firstborn son.

The news of his husband’s return took him by surprise – he was no t expected for another half a moon at the very least, and Yeonjun has made no arrangements to welcome him back anytime soon, much less today. He left for the Imperial Court only days ago, on special summons from his father, and visits like those usually took many days to resolve. Is this a reason to worry? No other urgent news reached them from the Imperial City – and th at surely would arrive before the prince. Why the early return, then? Is he sick? Did he get into an argument with the Emperor?

Yeonjun can barely stand the thought of them falling into disfavor at the Court, so he forces himself not to linger on it, instead addressing the servant boy directly. It might be more appropriate for him to ask a lady-in-waiting to speak to the servant for him, but the intricacies of courtly etiquette hardly matter in the prince’s home. Yeonjun is the person in charge while his husband is away and he is a mated omega – he is not yet a mother, but it is clear to everyone that addressing a twelve-year-old boy directly is hardly a scandalous thing for him to do. It is simpler; and in his own house, Yeonjun can afford simple.

“When is he expected to arrive?”

His voice startles the servant boy, and he quickly averts his eyes politely. “Before sunset, Your Grace.”

He presses his lips together – that gives them some time to prepare, at least. Although he doubts his husband will be bothered by the lack of a proper, lavish welcome, especially if whatever brings him home so soon is some unfortunate circumstance.

“Start preparing the refreshments, then – not a feast, the prince will want to retire as soon as possible, but his entourage will surely be hungry. And prepare his rooms. Change the bedding, air it out. His personal servant will know what to do. We will gather everyone as soon as we see the first horse from the watchtower. Go, run along, tell the steward and the rest of them.”

The boy nods and runs off, and Yeonjun rests the tips of his fingers on his temples to temper his own worry. He was blessed with a pretty face, but cursed with a mind that is always all too eager to wrap around itself in knots whenever a piece he places down gets knocked out of place. He is not fond of surprises; of unexpected circumstances.

His ladies-in-waiting look at him with worry in their faces, and he shakes his head to wipe the momentary weakness away. “We will continue our walk; there is still time until the prince’s return.” He tries to smile at them reassuringly, but from their faces he can tell they still worry; it is sweet, but humiliating – he should know better than to appear weak before them like this.

They start slowly moving through the garden again, the head gardener following along with them and pointing out the changes they have made, and the maintenance they have done to keep everything up to Yeonjun’s high standards. He lets the sweet smell of blossoms in full bloom soothe him a little as they walk, and mostly occupies his mind with all the tasks he will do once they get back inside so as to not let his mind slip towards any black thoughts.

He will have a bath drawn for his husband as soon as he arrives – he will give the order before he steps out to greet him; maybe have one drawn for himself as well, one with sweet-smelling oils that will soothe his frayed nerves. He will wear something simple, in case the prince arrives in a foul mood and seeing Yeonjun in full splendor would irritate him. He will not attempt to kiss his husband today; he will offer him his hand only, and when the refreshments are served, he will insist on serving him, so he can question him about what happened at the Court.

Yes – that seems to be the perfect strategy to dealing with this.

 

.

 

The prince does arrive in a foul mood. He climbs out of his carriage without anyone’s assistance, scowling, glancing around at the household gathered around to greet him with what Yeonjun recognizes as barely restrained frustration. His husband is too polite to actually look annoyed by the welcome, but he might as well be to anyone who actually knows him. After six years of being mated, Yeonjun would like to claim that he does know him.

He steps forward towards the doors to the main building, offering terse nods to the few people in the household he cares for, and Yeonjun readies himself for a proper welcome, refolding his arms so the one he will offer to his husband is on top, to just be delicately lifted for his husband to take and scent as tradition dictates.

Then, to the clear surprise of everyone gathered in the courtyard, the carriage that the prince arrived in shakes a little, and the soldier standing next to it helps someone exit by offering them a hand to hold onto. A murmur goes through the crowd as the sound of a ringing chain fills the courtyard. The prince stiffens visibly.

The figure that emerges from the carriage is tall, but not imposing – delicately built, with a dainty, pretty face, glossy hair, and flow ing clothes the color of a setting sky. An omega, then, most likely. An omega in chains. Yeonjun can tell they are for show, and has an inkling he knows what that means. Whoever this is, it is someone of high birth that has been taken prisoner. What reason could there possibly be for the prince to come back from his father’s court with a valuable prisoner, however, Yeonjun has no idea.

For a moment, the whole courtyard holds its breath as the prince pauses in his march to the main building and his awaiting wife. Then he turns around and nods to the soldier still standing by the omega’s side, not touching, but clearly keeping guard.

“Take him to the lavender room. Bring him food. Lock the door. If my wife protests, ignore him.”

Yeonjun bristles. The lavender room is for valuable guests, not prisoners – what is his husband thinking?

He is thinking that Yeonjun will not like this, given the orders he gave – they do know each other too well at this point. Their eyes meet when the prince turns back around, and neither flinches even for a second. His husband never asked Yeonjun to be servile, or to submit to him in any capacity but what his wifely duty and standing required of him, and he has no interest in starting now. The prince will answer for this.

When the prince reaches him, Yeonjun offers him his hand, eyes still fixed on the prince’s own. There is a challenge in them – he does not want to be questioned; not now. But Yeonjun wants to question him.

The prince takes his wrist with both hands, like it is something delicate, and presses it to his own cheek, breathing him in, pressing his nose into the skin. It is a little daring, but still appropriate. A little thrill goes through Yeonjun at the thought that his husband, his alpha, is using his scent to calm himself down; as something grounding, no matter how stone-faced he is trying to look. Some days, Yeonjun looks at him and still can only see a child. One he cannot help but adore.

Yeonjun’s wrist presses into the juncture of the prince’s neck and shoulder, and then his hand is released, the greeting ritual complete. On happier days, sometimes Yeonjun uses this moment to ask his husband for a kiss. Today, he gestures towards the open doors behind himself. “We prepared refreshments for you and your suite. If you would follow me to the dining ha—”

“I will pass on those today – but my companions are free to join you. I will be retiring to my rooms immediately. Thank you, my wife.”

Very well then. Yeonjun can adjust to this circumstance as well. “You are most welcome, my prince. I hope you are blessed with good rest.”

His husband looks him up and down, as if looking to read ahead to his next move, then shakes his head and passes by him into the main building, followed by his bodyguards and servants.

Yeonjun sighs and snaps his fingers once his royal husband is out of earshot. “Someone make sure they bring the best of the food into the lavender room. The rest of you, if you may join me for refreshments in the dining hall, it would be most kind of you.”

 

.

 

The guard at the door barely manages to get out a, “Your most honorable wife—” out before Yeonjun forces his way past him into Taehyun's bed room. He knows he can get away with it; he has in the past, and that confidence is only reinforced when the prince sighs instead of shouting at him to get out immediately.

“You refuse to let yourself be announced again.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together. “Is there a need for that between a husband and his wife?”

The prince scoffs in amusement, then nods at the guard who is still lingering in the open door unsurely. “It is okay, Sunwoo. My most honorable wife may stay.”

Finally, the guard nods and shuts the door, and then it is just Yeonjun, his husband and his closest attendant, an aging man who has been in his service ever since his youth at the Imperial Court. Yeonjun exchanges glances with him: the man seems amused by Yeonjun's boldness. The prince dismisses him too with a wave of his hand.

“Minhyuk, you can retire as well. I do not want to see or hear of you until dawn tomorrow, you understand? Just have someone prepare me a bath and go rest.”

“I have arranged for that,” Yeonjun intrudes, and he cannot help but feel pride at the surprise in Taehyun's expression. If there is something Yeonjun does well, it is his wifely duties – taking care of the household; predicting his husband's whims and needs before even he himself figures out what he needs. He will not allow his husband to doubt, even for a second, that he has mated anyone but the finest omega the Imperial Court had to offer. “I assumed you would appreciate it after your journey.”

The prince stares at him, calculating, while Minhyuk slowly starts putting things away and moving towards the smaller servant's door at the back to leave the prince to his own devices for the night. “I would. Thank you.”

Yeonjun suppresses the urge to curtsy mockingly, and just bows his head in acknowledgment. He still needs his husband in a good mood for this to go the way he wants it to.

With the click of a door, they are alone, and Yeonjun finally registers the full extent of their situation. He had caught his husband in the middle of undressing – he is shirtless, with more of him on display than Yeonjun is used to seeing. His lithe body is almost too slender for an alpha, but muscular enough to give him some of the imposing nature he would otherwise be missing. Yeonjun knows from personal experience how deceptively strong it is; how firm it can hold. It almost makes him shiver – he wonders if Taehyun can smell a shift in the air as Yeonjun takes him in, if he can smell anything past the bitterness he is exuding himself.

On some other day, maybe Yeonjun would react differently – maybe he would drape himself over Taehyun's bed; offer himself up to his alpha, in exchange for information pulled out of him in a sleepy, sated state or just for his own satisfaction – today, he takes his husband's body in, then crosses his arms and asks, “What happened at the Court?”

The prince huffs and moves away from his bed to a basin to wash the grime of the road off of himself. “I had an audience with Father.” He splashes his face with water, then holds his palms against his own skin for a moment before letting go. “He said he wanted to honor me, as his son, who has been a source of pride for him and our family name. So he gifted me a prisoner, who was brought back from conquest. A foreign noble, captured during the siege of a city paved with gold.” There is a pause, and then their eyes meet again – had Yeonjun not known better, he would think the prince sounds hesitant; apologetic. “To take into my bed.”

So that is it. His father gifted him a concubine. It is not unheard of at the Court – it is customary, even; noble alphas use every chance they get to keep their noble bloodline going strong, including taking more than one omega into their beds – marriages are political, but bonds between alphas and their concubines are purely practical; utilitarian. In theory. Everyone knows that taking a pretty courtier as your concubine is preferable to dishonoring your wife when the two of you can barely stand the thought of laying together – it takes care of problems. If there is a problem.

Yeonjun would like to think there is no problem in their home to take care of, certainly not any that could be solved by taking in another omega, but the evidence to the contrary is too stark for him to ignore.

They have no children; six years into their marriage, Yeonjun has not been pregnant once – has not bore his husband a single child. It is a stain on their otherwise pristine reputation, but on most occasions it is easy enough to pretend that it is simply an unfortunate twist of luck – the other wives of the court pet Yeonjun's shoulders and rub their swollen bellies with sympathetic faces and promise him that his time will come. They recommend teas and ointments and foods that will make him more fertile, or heighten his husband's desire. They are helpful and understanding and incredibly misguided.

“This is an insult.”

The prince shakes his head – he was expecting this reaction, clearly. Instead of coming over to comfort his wife, however, he just continues to wash himself calmly. “I do not think my father meant any disrespect to you – the omega has been a valued prisoner at the Court for a long time, and nobody has come to offer ransom for his return. Something had to be done with him – and because of his looks and origin, it only made sense for him to be a valuable gift to give a boost to someone's reputation. Father chose to bestow that gift upon me. That is all.”

Yeonjun wants that to be true – wants it to be that simple; but is anything ever that simple at the Imperial Court? “Because of our failure to conceive.”

His husband sets a washcloth down a little harder than strictly necessary – he is controlled, but he is frustrated. At least neither of them seems to be enjoying this turn of events. “Because it is customary. The concubine's quarters at the palace have been empty for six years now – that is what is unusual. Not us not yet producing an heir.”

He is trying to mitigate Yeonjun's temper, and Yeonjun should appreciate that, but there is an uncomfortable itch burning under his skin. “Has the ceremony been done – is he yours already?”

With a tight expression, the prince nods. “I marked him as mine in front of the court, then I requested to be dismissed.” He straightens his back and meets Yeonjun's piercing gaze again. “I told father you are sick, and that I wish to return home at once to make sure you are tended to properly.”

Yeonjun shifts on his feet – it is a break in composure, but so is the prince admitting to lying to the Emperor himself. “You wanted to avoid the whole Imperial Court listening in as you broke in your new toy.”

“I have no interest in bedding omegas for their amusement in general.”

If Yeonjun had not been there under him on his wedding night, he would be doubting whether his husband has any interest in bedding omegas at all. The memory of being bathed in his scent, of being marked up and devoured and taken over and over again as the skies changed color outside their window is still there, hazy as it is through the herb-induced heat he was in. Many times after that, Yeonjun thought that if they had not conceived that night, they had no chance of ever succeeding. He was thoroughly broken at the end of it, bed-ridden and bruised and sated. If his husband had been faking his desire the entire time, then he deserves all the concubines the court can offer.

He crosses his arms. “If he is your concubine, why did you have him put in a guest room, instead of the concubines' quarters? You said it yourself – they are unoccupied.”

“I thought it would be disrespectful to you to announce to everyone that he will be sharing my bed now without telling you privately, first. I planned to do it first thing in the morning.” The prince crosses his arms, mirroring Yeonjun's posture. “I should have known you would not be willing to wait until then.”

It is thoughtful – it would have been humiliating, to have to keep a straight face while he and all the staff receive the news at the same time. This is much more dignified. Once again, his husband shows himself to be a blessing of an alpha to have as his mate. Yeonjun has mixed feelings about it.

“Why the lavender room?”

“It is a fine place to stay – the windows face my favorite part of the gardens. I want him to get a good first impression of the palace, at the very least. Besides, he is a noble – he deserves to be treated as such.”

Yeonjun can see the logic of it; it settles him a little. “When will the rest of the household be made aware?”

“At breakfast tomorrow.”

The prince is not even blinking – he has a plan, as he usually does. Yeonjun sees no harm in going along with it.

“Very well. We will have to prepare the quarters for him – he might have to stay in the lavender room for a while.”

His husband nods. “I will leave that to your discretion.”

Good. That leaves only one question still open – two, technically. Yeonjun feels strong enough tonight to ask both.

“Do you plan on actually having him carry out his duties?” He knows the prince might not answer; but even his reluctance to respond could say a lot about what he is thinking.

As expected, the answer takes a long time to arrive – his husband sizes him up, the tasteful jewelry he is wearing, the simple but expensive clothes he has picked out for the occasion of the prince returning from his father's court. Whatever he is looking for, he seems to be satisfied with the sight enough to say, “I do not know. Not at the moment.”

Yeonjun relaxes – the thought of the new omega sharing a bed with his husband does not make him jealous, really, but the nagging voice in his head suggesting that them indulging in each other's bodies more often than he and Yeonjun do would mean that Yeonjun is a faulty omega in some respect would not quiet down. This helps; hearing these words helps. The prince is as reluctant to bed his new omega as he is to bed his wife.

That leaves the only remaining question hanging.

“Do you have need of your wife tonight, my prince?”

His husband stares at him intently. How long has it been since they have kept each other company through the night? Many full moons? A year? Yeonjun remembers he was not even asked to take his husband that night – he got to indulge in his mouth and his hands, but they did not even attempt to conceive a child, as unlikely as doing so is outside of the peaks of their mating cycles. His husband surely desires him, his touches too heated to imply otherwise; but it is an aimless desire. He is a strange man; an odd alpha. But a good husband.

“You would share my bed tonight?” He seems genuinely surprised; it makes Yeonjun smile.

He reaches for the sash that is keeping the clothes tightly on his body, unfastening it just enough for the silvery fabric to slip down his shoulder, exposing more of his chest. “I am yours, Taehyun. Under the laws of the Empire and nature. You can have me whenever you want.”

If he were a worse husband, one with more lust and less regard, he could be taking Yeonjun every day. He could take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Yeonjun is a noble, but his face brought him more prestige than his name – his lineage would not be enough to protect him from his husband's hands. He would be helpless – but like this, with a husband like Taehyun, he feels powerful; his body is a weapon he himself gets to wield, against his husband or for his benefit. Yeonjun knows he is desirable; and he keeps himself that way with the same attention he gives to the household. At this point, he cannot fathom being afraid to be wanted by his husband.

The prisoner is lucky to have been sent to the prince's court. He is such a courteous jailer to his omegas.

What was originally a bitter scent of the prince's frustration in the air turns spiced and sharp, and Yeonjun can almost feel his body relaxing, his pupils widening, eyes going unfocused. Taehyun is controlled and courteous, but he is still an alpha and Yeonjun knew well what effect his words would have. There is a possessiveness inherent to his husband's kind that is all too easy to play into – a desire for control, even if the omega is tugging at the leash from the other side just as hard as they are.

Something about this feels right tonight. Tonight, Taehyun should have him, with his new, unbroken concubine resting in the lavender room. So they can both be reminded who his mate is.

“You want this.” It is not a real question; they can smell each other – the heavy, heated air in the room. The prince says it, anyway.

“I want you.” Yeonjun smiles wider than he would allow himself to, were they not alone. “I want you to fail to give me a child again.”

His husband growls – his eyes blaze, and the smell in the air makes Yeonjun shiver; all his instincts tell him to shed his clothes before they are torn off his body. It is thrilling. Playing with fire has never felt so sweet.

“You would disrespect your prince.” He can see his husband’s muscles tightening – preparing to pounce; to claim and devour, like he should. Like is his right.

“No,” he undoes the sash further. The embroidered fabric falls down off his shoulder altogether, gathering by his wrist. His breast is not swollen, at this time in his cycle – does not entice with the promise of fertility, but the prince breathes harder afterwards anyways. “I would disrespect my husband, until he shows me why I should call him my alpha.”

Every taunt makes him smell better – there is something about it, about being challenged, about being mocked like this, that makes the smoldering fire his husband keeps hidden burst into a bright flame. He crosses the room, lays a hand possessively on Yeonjun’s exposed waist. This close, his husband needs to look up into his face. He is not small in stature, but Yeonjun is surprisingly statuesque for an omega. It does not make the prince any less imposing – it is his aura, his scent, that makes Yeonjun feel overpowered despite the height difference; makes him throb in anticipation.

He expects to be tugged, to be dragged, but Taehyun pulls him into a surprisingly gentle kiss instead. Yeonjun still kisses back – even clouded by lust, he is not above showing fondness for his husband.

“Your position is not threatened by him,” Taehyun whispers then, right against Yeonjun’s lips, and he cannot help but wonder – his position where? At the court? In the palace? In Taehyun’s heart or in his bed?

The prince does not specify; and Yeonjun does not ask, choosing to kiss his husband again instead.

“I am not afraid.” It is not true – but it could be, he thinks, if Taehyun claims him thoroughly enough tonight. If he leaves this room bruised and unraveled, open and aching, maybe he can rest in peace. Maybe he can let himself even hope for the blessing of a child.

“Good.” Taehyun kisses his mouth, then the top of his breast, reaching up to hold the unimpressive swell of it. He flicks his nipple almost thoughtfully. He could be thinking the same thing Yeonjun is – they will not conceive tonight; whatever they are about to do will be purely a reassertion of their bond; of their desire for each other.

They are not doing this for duty, but for pleasure.

“I missed your body.”

Liar. Yeonjun does not reply. Taehyun lets go of him, then pulls the sash of his dress undone completely; he makes no move to shield his bare chest from view. His husband licks his lips, and reaches for the fastening of his own pants.

“Finish undressing and lay down.”

“No.”

Another flare. The prince’s desire is a strange beast; fed by the oddest of treats.

“Why? You offered yourself up to me.”

He did; and he did not plan on making demands – but something in Taehyun’s eyes makes him want to be daring; to push. To earn the inevitable ruin that is coming for him now.

“I want you to take me against the door.”

“The guards will hear everything.”

“Yes.” He is so wet it is uncomfortable – the prince has to be able to smell it on him; the guards outside the door must smell it too. The mixed scents of their desire, like a dish of crushed fruit and spices.

“Why?” Taehyun is not against it; he sounds curious.

Because fancy struck him; because he enjoys the thought of being claimed before an audience, especially now that he feels contested as the perfect omega. Because he wants to moan his husband’s name into someone else’s ear while being taken by his alpha. That is the truthful answer.

“To please your wife,” he says instead, pushing his clothes off of his body completely.

Taehyun smiles. It is fond, if not loving. His eyes are devouring him alive.

“Very well… wife.”

Yeonjun smiles back. There is an understanding between them that feels almost more valuable than love.

 

.

 

Yeonjun is in pain. Between his legs, pulsing through the bruises on his wrists; the love bites littering his body.

He is at peace.

His husband is at his side, sitting on his elevated throne – he does not look nearly as worn out as he should, given how late they both managed to fall asleep, and Yeonjun admires it. Somehow he looks twice as handsome today, after having unleashed all his frustrations on his wife last night. He looks composed; regal; in control. Everything Yeonjun strives to be every day, that the sweet aches in his body make difficult to achieve. He knows that he looks and smells like a sated, purring, mindless omega this morning, but just for today, he does not mind it – let everyone see the prince takes good care of his wife. That he took him so thoroughly that every glance they share makes heat flash through Yeonjun’s body all the way to his aching core with the memory of what it was like to be spread open, filled to the brim, trapped under his precious alpha’s body.

Every time his mind wanders too far, he has to remind himself not to get too ambitious – his body is begging to be taken again tonight, or after breakfast, or on the floor in front of everybody right now, but that is not something Taehyun will give him. It is not something he can allow himself to want. He can touch himself, once they are done here, in the privacy of his room, with his husband’s name on his lips – that will have to suffice. At least until the next time Taehyun succumbs to his instincts.

For now, he will watch his husband be the pillar of their household; be the firstborn of an emperor others stand in awe of.

“Soobin.” The prince waves his hand towards the captain of his personal guard, who is at his side in a flash. “Have someone bring our guest in.”

“The prisoner?” Soobin glances around the room. “Now?”

Yeonjun’s husband smiles good-naturedly. “Do not question me.”

The captain looks displeased, but nods and walks away to carry out his orders. Yeonjun knows the two of them are close personal friends, and Taehyun’s retort was just as much him asking a friend to trust his judgment as a prince asserting his right to have his orders carried out, but there is still something incredibly attractive about it. Taehyun is shining today; like he stands in line to inherit all of the Empire. And why? Because he got to mount his wife for the night?

It is another one of the prince’s oddities – one Yeonjun cannot bring himself to dislike.

Soobin comes back quickly, announcing that the prisoner is on his way to the dining hall. The prince thanks him, then brings the attention of the room to himself. It’s a straightforward announcement – during his stay at the Imperial Court, the prince was gifted, by the grace of his father, the One Emperor, a concubine, for his personal use. He uses the same words he used with Yeonjun, and he understands that he is quoting the same words that were told to him. A prisoner brought back from conquest, a noble from a city paved with gold. Yeonjun imagines it is impressive to the other members of the household, especially to those who have never been to the Imperial C ourt, where everyone is used to the pretty words used to dress up every little thing to make it seem more illustrious. At the end of the day, Taehyun was given a pretty omega, to spend a night with when he is bored, or to use if his wife refuses him in his bed. To bear him strong, equally pretty children, heirs to his name.

But the courtiers and the staff seem sufficiently awed, even doubly so when two of the guards bring the omega in and make him kneel in front of the royal couple. Yeonjun does not blame them for the latter. His husband’s new bedmate makes for an impressive sight, despite the ugly, flimsy manacles still on his delicate wrists. He is tall, although not taller than Yeonjun, smooth-faced with lovely features, plump with what Yeonjun recognizes immediately as the symptoms of a quickly approaching heat. His chest is swollen, and his scent, perhaps akin to a sweet citrus on a normal day, has distinct notes of warm sugar in it, like a freshly baked lemon cake. He is not acting defiant, either – his eyes are down-turned, as is his pink, inviting mouth.

Taehyun did say he had been a prisoner for quite some time – and that nobody rushed to reclaim him. He must have accepted his fate at this point.

“State your name, omega.”

The prisoner’s face twitches, and his scent shifts a little. He is taken aback; Yeonjun figures he will soon, just like him, learn not to question the prince’s demands too much. Taehyun is strange, but honest. Hardly ever is there a hidden agenda behind what he does.

“Beom-gyu. Of the Choi. Regent of the sacked Golden City.”

The words shake Yeonjun out of his sweet stupor. What comes out of the omega’s mouth is a familiar affect; an accent Yeonjun has heard many a time, out of the mouths of his own relatives – the ones who did not grow up at the Imperial Court like Yeonjun did, but spent their lives in their ancestral holding at the southern border. Is this where the omega comes from? From just across the lake that marked the border of Yeonjun’s family’s claim?

Taehyun nods his head firmly, accepting the introduction despite the clearly moot claim on a city the Empire has long since claimed for itself. It is a magnanimous gesture, in a way – but it does not surprise Yeonjun that Taehyun grants it even to someone who has no leverage in this house. That too, is Taehyun’s nature as a nobleman. “Very well. Welcome to my household, Beom-gyu of the Choi.” He imitates the prisoner’s affect, the clipped way he spoke. Yeonjun wonders how much of the language of the Empire the omega even understands. “I apologize for your treatment yesterday. Our unexpected departure from the court and our late arrival made making arrangements quite difficult. From now on, you will be allowed to walk the halls of this household freely. You are, however, not free to leave the palace without express permission from me or my wife, and without a companion. I am sure you understand.”

Beomgyu still does not make eye contact, but nods at the floor mutely.

“You will be treated as my companion, with all the associated respect and honors. If anyone dishonors you, in any way, I will treat it as a personal insult.” The prince regards the room briefly, and nobody dares to look anything but deathly serious. Taehyun’s subjects are not scared of him, but his family does have a reputation for valuing utility over humanity. They cannot be blamed for being cautious. “My most honorable wife,” Taehyun gestures towards Yeonjun, who has to suppress a smile at the overly formal address. “Will introduce you to the household, and your duties as its member. He acts as an extension of me – please take whatever he says as if the words came from my own mouth.”

This time, Beomgyu’s eyes travel a little, curious, but do not dare actually look up. He will have enough time to look at Yeonjun later – but he is flattered by the interest. Once again, Yeonjun wonders if the omega understands. He hopes they will not have to hire a tutor. Yeonjun remembers all of those employed at the Imperial Court being incredibly stuffy, condescending people.

“I will be expecting you in my rooms after we eat,” he says, careful to speak slowly, oddly conscious of his own pronunciation now. In theory, he knows he sounds like an imperial courtier – he barely knows anything else but the life there and here at the palace, where many people hail from the Imperial Court anyway, but there is a piece of him that is afraid to expose that tenuous connection he feels to the other omega in front of everyone.

“For now, please join us and eat. You may take your place with my courtiers.” Taehyun  pauses, then smiles a little. “Do make sure to eat something.” It is spoken warmly, honestly – to reassure the other. Yeonjun is not sure if it works on Beomgyu, but he himself cannot help but gaze at his husband fondly. “Someone please remove those shackles.”

To Yeonjun’s surprise, it is Soobin who steps forward to undo the lock – and Beomgyu meets his eyes the entire time he lingers in his personal space, the two of them clearly engaging in a silent conversation. At his side, Taehyun does not seem to notice or mind, gazing off towards a window thoughtfully instead. Perhaps he is right not to worry too much – or be overly distrustful of the omega in general. While he does not seem very interested in any of the food served at the courtiers’ tables, he also does not seem to be looking for escape routes, or much bothered by his situation at all. He sits at the table stiffly, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor, lost in his own thoughts.

Yeonjun is not sure if he should pity him – or how to feel about him at all. With his body still burning from last night, and Taehyun’s mind clearly already drifted away towards imperial matters, he truly does not feel threatened; but he also cannot really imagine what the omega’s place will be in the household now, with Taehyun reluctant to have him perform the only duty Beomgyu was given to him to do.

They discussed it a little, last night and this morning, wrapped up in each other’s arms, in low voices with their hands intertwined. Taehyun said the omega is his, if he wants him. If Yeonjun pleases, and Taehyun does not change his mind, he can be just another member of Yeonjun's entourage, advising him, delivering messages through the palace, joining in when they dedicate an evening to music or poetry. Beomgyu said he was a regent; does he know much about dealing with money, handling witty businessmen who try to scam an omega out of their money because they think they are weak enough, feeble-minded enough to fall for their tricks? He could use someone like that by his side – if Beomgyu was willing to cooperate.

He will have to wait and see; and prepare himself to face what Taehyun's father may have intended to be his competition.

 

.

 

Yeonjun ends up leaving Beomgyu waiting. He retired to his rooms after breakfast, intending to just freshen up and check on his bruises, giving up on his foolish, childish daydreams of stealing enough time to bring himself to completion at least once before he has to attend to his duties before he even stands up from his seat.

Today, Taehyun kissed him without being asked to before allowing him to leave the dining hall, on the lips, and on the inside of his wrist that still smells heavily of their combined scents – in front of everyone: the courtiers, the staff, even Beomgyu, who was for some reason looking up from his favorite spot on the floor at just the right time. It made him feel guilty for even thinking about pleasuring himself to the thoughts of him, like he was still a sixteen year old courtier spending his mornings with his fingers buried inside himself daydreaming about being snatched up by a handsome, wealthy, passionate noble alpha who would sweep him off his feet, throw him onto a bed and have his way with him all throughout the night until the break of dawn. He got his wish; he got to marry and mate the prince – a handsome, wealthy man and a consuming lover; a good husband. What Taehyun needs is a strong, capable wife who will run his household well and carry out the wifely duties with dedication, not a daydreaming, lustful child. It is what he deserves as well, for the respect he treats Yeonjun with. Love and lust only bring a fleeting sort of satisfaction, anyway.

Still, when he arrived in his room and started tending to himself, his ladies handing him tools, brushes and ointments, a haze came over his mind anyways, the tighter he pressed the brush against his lip, bruised with a reckless bite, the more he rubbed the ointment into his marked wrists and the love bites at the top of his breast, the more he felt the throb of being used until exhaustion between his thighs.

The ladies tending to him blushed and looked away the more he filled the room with the smell of warm crushed fruit and the lingering tone of spice, stepping back to give him more space, but he could not bring himself to feel ashamed. News traveled quickly throughout the palace – everyone knew where he had spent the night, and Yeonjun refused to feel shame for bearing the marks of his husband's desire. Everyone knows they spent the night together; that he is wanted, needed, that he can take being well-used just like a good wife should.

His position is not threatened; certainly not by a pretty omega from the south.

The thoughts kept him so occupied that by the time he called for one of his ladies to bring him his favorite shawl – one of the first courting gifts his husband had given him – Beomgyu had already been in the waiting room for quite a while. Yeonjun did not mean to assert his dominance by making today's schedule run according to his own whims – he is usually punctual, respectful of all the courtiers – but maybe it will serve him well, in the end. Giving the other omega time to adjust before he assaults him with all the goings-on of the prince's household.

He wraps himself in another proof of his husband's favor, hiding all remnants of last night from view again, and steps out from his dressing room into the small waiting room. Beomgyu sits on the embroidered cushion properly, hands carefully folded together in his lap, palms up and exposed politely. There is a steaming cup of tea on the table in front of him that Yeonjun does not doubt has remained perfectly untouched since it was placed there. The other omega does not look up when Yeonjun enters.

As Beomgyu does not rush to show Yeonjun excessive respect and deference, so does Yeonjun not waste either of their time with pleasantries.

“How well do you speak the imperial language? Are you in need of a tutor?” He asks without even sitting down, staying on his feet by the door. Once again, he makes sure to speak slowly to make sure he is understood.

When he speaks up, Beomgyu finally regards him, his doe eyes surprisingly sharp – he does not avert them demurely; he looks at Yeonjun as one would at an equal. Nothing like his behavior at breakfast, in front of the prince.

“I understand enough,” he responds, tone measured but clipped. His accent is still heavy, the words clearly unnatural in the omega's mouth, but he makes himself understood nonetheless. “I know the Empire considers us backwards and uncultured, but our noble families do provide their children with education. Even omegas.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together. That takes care of that issue – and raises another. He has no interest in squabbling with his husband's concubine. For the moment, he chooses to ignore the jab altogether and sit down across from him with as much aloof dignity as his years as the prince's wife have taught him to exude. Two of his ladies spill into the room to wait on them while the rest stays in the dressing room. They take their places behind him, but stay silent. They know better than to be outraged on Yeonjun's behalf.

“You come from the south then.”

Beomgyu's mouth twists. “I come from a sovereign principality on an island far away from here. But if you are talking about my way of speaking then yes – while we considered ourselves northerners, the Golden City does lie south of the Empire's border.”

He is a foreigner then – to his old country as well as to the Empire. Interesting. Yeonjun nods slightly. “I am somewhat familiar with that part of the world myself – my ancestral home lies on the southern border.”

The other omega’s eyes narrow at him. “You do not sound like a southerner.”

“I was educated and raised at the Imperial Court since I was a child.” Yeonjun was ten years old when he got the summons – his aunt, the wife of an imperial courtier, pulled all the strings she could to have her brother’s only child educated at the Imperial Court. His mother cried tears of equal parts sadness and joy when sending him on his journey north to the Imperial City.

Beomgyu nods. “We have very little in common, then.”

Yeonjun suppresses the urge to huff in displeasure. Is it truly such a bother for the omega, that Yeonjun has found something about him he found pleasantly familiar? They do not have to be friendly with each other, if Beomgyu does not wish for them to be; but Yeonjun is doing his best to make it clear that the prince’s household does not intend to be as hostile to him as the Imperial Court might have been, and all he is doing is displaying hostility of his own instead.

He will not let this sway him, though – he thinks of his husband, sitting with his back straight, regal, powerful. Yeonjun has to be someone who deserves to sit by his side as his devoted wife, and the prince’s devoted wife does not let himself be shaken by a concubine’s sharp tongue. He is better than this.

With steady hands, he reaches for a kettle to pour himself a cup of tea. “My husband agreed to have you join my entourage.” A safe topic – practical; maybe this will go over better than trying to make himself familiar with the other. “You will assist me in taking care of the household, keep me company. I will be expecting you every morning in my rooms, and you will accompany me until you are dismissed. When I have no need of you, you are free to do as you please. My quarters, the prince’s and the other courtier’s rooms are understandably off-limits to you unless you are expressly permitted to enter them, and you are not allowed to leave the walls of the palace, but you are free to browse the palace’s library, or the music room, the gardens or the kitchens. I have made arrangements for the concubines’ quarters to be prepared, but until we have made them comfortable for you, you are to stay in the guest room that the price assigned you. Is everything clear?”

He can feel Beomgyu’s eyes boring holes into him, but he ignores it, lightly touching the side of the cup with the tip of his finger instead. It is boiling hot, still.

The omega nods. “Is it customary in the Empire for concubines to be treated this way?” Yeonjun looks up at the question, and his expression must be confused enough for Beomgyu to know he did not understand, because he continues. “The stories I have heard of the imperial noblemen said that all concubines are expected to sit pretty in their quarters, amuse themselves with arts, away from hungry eyes of any alpha who is not their master, keeping themselves plump, pretty and open for their alpha to take whenever he pleases.”

There is a smugness to Beomgyu’s tone – maybe he has seen it for himself; been taken past or into one of those, or been threatened with being sent to live out the rest of his life in one. The latter is more likely – somebody told him what his fate would most likely be, sitting around doing nothing all day unless he is being taken violently according to some noble alpha’s whims, and now that he is hearing that his fate at the prince’s court is to be much more merciful and free, he has taken to mocking their household. Yeonjun’s hands tighten minutely in his own lap.

“It is the prince’s wish for you to be treated this way.” Custom is custom. The prince’s word is law.

“His wish or your wish, most honorable wife?” Taunting. There is amusement in Beomgyu’s pretty doe eyes, a tangy bite to his citrusy scent, under the molten sugar of a brewing heat.

“In this household, the prince’s wish is my wish and my wish is the prince’s wish.” Yeonjun lifts his head, staring straight back, hard as stone. He will not be challenged like this. “I act as the head of this household in his name; I am an extension of him, as far as you, or anyone staying under our roof, is concerned. It will serve you well to keep that in mind for the future.”

Beomgyu’s eyes do not leave his for a moment, the two of them sizing each other up. Yeonjun has not been challenged like this for years now – most courtiers know better than to treat the prince’s wife with any amount of disrespect. The way Beomgyu approaches him reminds him of his teenage years at the Imperial Court, where other omegas, full of contempt at his privileged position as the famed beauty of the Court, would go into jealous fits over their courting partners or childish crushes paying attention to him – but he doubts that what Beomgyu wants is the prince’s favor, or his attention. He was afraid to act up in front of the prince himself, but the same defiance has probably been brewing within him since the start – since he was captured, maybe; and he thinks that Yeonjun is the right person to take it out on – because he is an omega too, probably. Beomgyu thinks he is weak; that he can mess with him without consequences.

When Beomgyu’s eyes finally leave Yeonjun’s, they drop down to Yeonjun’s wrist, where his sleeve has slid down his arm enough to expose the edge of one of the bruises – Beomgyu’s mouth twists.

“Certainly. You are his equal, and are to be treated as such. Most honorable wife.”

Yeonjun withdraws his hand further into his sleeve at the scrutiny – he wanted to wear his marks proudly, but something about the way Beomgyu looks at them makes Yeonjun want to hide them away. “Your Grace should suffice.”

Beomgyu purses his lips and meets Yeonjun’s eyes again. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

He lost some kind of small battle there – he can feel it, although he does not quite understand what happened, or where he lost the ground. Beomgyu was supposed to be intimidated by how close he and the prince were; how united they were, and understand that he is being given mercy by being allowed to live as a courtier, yet Yeonjun is almost sure they now have as little of Beomgyu’s respect as they ever have.

Breathing through the anxiety that threatens to well up in him, raising his cup for a sip of tea to hide his expression away, Yeonjun resists the urge to press into his own bruises; to press his nose into the traces of the prince’s scent to calm himself down. Beomgyu’s opinion of them does not matter; as long as he does not threaten them or their household, his thoughts can be his own. He matters so little, in the grand scheme of things. The prince has never begged for anyone’s respect, and neither will Yeonjun.

“You said you were the regent of the Golden City,” he says as he sets the cup down, shifting the topic again. Beomgyu still has not even touched his.

“I was,” Beomgyu nods with eyebrows raised curiously. “After my husband’s death, the only heir to the title was his younger brother, but he was still a child. I was pronounced regent by the city council until the young one became of age.”

Yeonjun’s eyelids flutter in surprise. “You were married.”

“Yes.” Something strange passes through Beomgyu’s face, then he reaches for the neck of his sunset-colored robes to pull the fabric to the side to reveal a faded, blackened mating bite. It looks nasty even now that it has clearly started to heal over after Beomgyu’s mate’s death, like someone tried to tear a piece of him out. Yeonjun has to fight not to press a hand against his own pristine, neat one. “My husband passed four years ago, two years before the imperial troops invaded the city. To your husband’s luck, I am widowed.”

“What happened to your husband?” Some part of Yeonjun does not want to know; worries about the image of the same happening to the prince haunting his dreams.

But Beomgyu just shrugs and covers himself again, folding his hands in his lap. “He fell very ill during the spring, was bedridden all the way until summer, when he choked to death on his own vomit in the middle of the night.” His delicate hands clench and unclench. “Ill-spirited whispers in the city said he was poisoned. Superstitious ones that he was hexed.”

Yeonjun studies his face, but he cannot read it. It is still soft, plump and sweet, but there is a shadow over it that makes Yeonjun want to avert his eyes. “What do you believe?”

“That it is a shame that I was not there when he choked.” Beomgyu finally lifts his tea, takes a sip, tilts his head as if assessing the taste. “I was robbed of watching him suffer one last time.”

It makes Yeonjun’s blood run cold – Beomgyu is not the first unhappy wife he has ever known; there were more of those than the happy ones at the Court, but most wives were satisfied enough with affairs, seeking comfort in the understanding of their omega friends. Complaining about their husbands behind closed doors. Beomgyu was not unhappy – he was hateful. Did he fight back while being mated? Tried to get away? Is that why his bite is as messy as it is?

Beomgyu peacefully swirls his tea, and his sleeve shifts enough to reveal a bandage around his wrist, where the prince had to make a mark of his own to claim him as his concubine. Not quite a mating bite, but a claiming bite nonetheless. There to burn and itch to remind the omega who they are supposed to want and need during their heat.

A new thought crosses Yeonjun’s mind. “Do you have any children?” Beomgyu was married – and seems old enough to be a mother; he cannot be more than a few years younger than himself. Certainly of age, if he was married for over two years at least.

“No.” The cup hits the table too loudly – improper; impolite. Yeonjun does not draw attention to it. Beomgyu’s hands twitch towards his belly before they fold once more. “Do you?”

Beomgyu’s eyes narrow again as he looks over Yeonjun’s body, and he is almost glad most of it is covered by the shawl. He still has a youthful figure, surely – there is nothing to hide; except for the blatant signs that he has never bore a child, and will not anytime soon.

They are not in a rush to conceive; they are young – Yeonjun’s aunt had three of her five children when she was older than him. A single heir to the family name is all they need. Taehyun is capable – Yeonjun surely is, too. It will happen. In due time.

“Not yet.”

This time, Beomgyu’s eyes are a little softer when they meet Yeonjun’s; there is a shred of sympathy, of understanding in them that Yeonjun despises more than the contempt. “Are you barren? Is that why I was given to your husband?”

Yeonjun breathes. This is invasive; it is none of Beomgyu’s business. Surely, the answer is no – but Yeonjun cannot be sure, can he? They had not conceived after their wedding night; after hours and hours of making love, knot after knot, Yeonjun’s body tricked into a premature heat and Taehyun’s inhibitions broken by a rut. If anything they did were to produce a child…

He closes his eyes. Lets himself feel the throbs and aches in his body again. Taehyun is always firmly in control of his own fate – and he has never seemed worried or afraid. He never demanded an heir, always made love to him like nothing else mattered but their own pleasure. Yeonjun can put his faith in him, and Taehyun is putting his faith in Yeonjun. Taehyun seems to believe that they will produce an heir eventually – so Yeonjun will do the same.

Still, he succumbs to a restless urge, and at the same time he opens his eyes, he reaches for his own wrist to rub at the bruises. Beomgyu’s eyes catch the motion immediately – but they might as well. “Do you know when your next heat is?”

Beomgyu’s lips tighten again, the same hardness returning to his eyes. “Soon. Should I prepare myself to keep the prince company?”

“No,” Yeonjun lets go of his wrist again and picks up his cup. “You will not be seeing the prince at all during your heat – but I will send our court physician to check up on you and one of my ladies will be present to tend to you. We will make you as comfortable as possible – it would be helpful to know when we should expect it to come.”

The omega frowns. “Within seven days’ time. Probably less.”

Yeonjun nods. “You will probably be spending them safely in the concubine’s quarters, then. Nobody should bother you there.”

“How am I supposed to bear your husband’s children if he will not spend my heat with me? Surely you both know it is not easy to conceive outside of it. Even if I was to tend to him during his rut.”

All of Beomgyu’s apprehension is melted by clear confusion. Yeonjun struggles not to look at the ladies behind him. They know how this household is run already, they know everything about how he and his husband live, when they lay together and when they lay separately, but it is a mostly unspoken truth throughout the palace – especially in the royal couple’s vicinity. Speaking about it out loud is uncomfortable and makes Yeonjun’s skin itch.

“You will not be tending to him during his rut, either. The prince chooses to spend that time alone.” Locked up in his rooms, with Yeonjun expressly prohibited from entering. Sometimes Taehyun sends for his clothes, to comfort himself with his mate’s scent, sometimes his ladies mention when they are having tea in the evenings that the staff have been talking of a horrible, bitter smell coming from under the door to his quarters, or distressed noises – but Taehyun has never sent for Yeonjun himself in the six years they have been mated for, and after the first time he offered and Taehyun refused his company, Yeonjun never offered again.

Beomgyu’s eyes are narrowed. “Does he spend your heat with you?”

His first two heats, Yeonjun sent for him repeatedly, at least once every single day, distressed by his absence, dejected, in pain. The second time around, he lost all dignity by the end, telling his closest attendant to beg on his behalf for just a few minutes of the prince’s time. Just to ease the ache, to soothe his frayed nerves. In return, he received a letter – soothing words, reassurances, drenched in his mate’s scent. It barely helped, but it got the prince’s message across. The third and fourth time, the prince made sure to be away from the household altogether when his heat hit. By the fifth time, Yeonjun learned his lesson.

“He does not.” One of the ladies behind him shifts. He knows they talk, behind his back, gossip about what could possibly be behind the prince’s oddities. Yeonjun has learned not to wonder, but he does not fault them for their curiosity – or Beomgyu for his.

“But he fucks you.” It is the crudeness of the statement that finally makes Yeonjun flinch, taken aback. “You reeked of him this morning, you still do.”

He purses his mouth. “You will speak to me in a courtly manner or you will not speak to me at all.”

Beomgyu’s guarded face opens up, suddenly looking much more youthful than before, the same mocking in it as before. “He doesn’t even want your heat, and he still has you purring for his cock in front of his entire court.”

One of the ladies gasps, and the other shushes her. Yeonjun nods sharply, definitively. “Miyeon, please alert the guard. I will have our guest escorted to his room now.”

The lady scrambles to stand up and walk to the door. Beomgyu does not even flinch.

“Do you think I’m afraid of being sequestered in my room? I’ve been a prisoner for almost two years now, Your Grace.”

Miyeon relays Yeonjun’s request to one of the guards at the door, who steps inside and steps up behind Beomgyu, who still does not move.

“I think I tire of your company, Beom-Gyu of the Choi. You are excused from your duties for today, but I will be expecting you tomorrow morning in my quarters. I will send a lady over with a change of clothes for you. Now leave.”

Beomgyu studies Yeonjun’s face, then his lavish earrings, then the shawl in the colors of his husband’s house, with a stylized fox embroidered on it. Then he stands up without a word, hands still folded politely in front of himself, and bows deeply.

“I will see you in the morning then, Your Grace.”

Both Yeonjun and his ladies watch him leave without another word, the door closing much too loudly in the silent room. The lady still sitting behind him lays a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off.

“Let us be on our way. We have much to attend to today.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun is in the middle of disrobing at the end of his day, right after he ate dinner with his ladies in his private rooms, when one of the ladies enters, her face a little red and eyes wide. He pauses with the fabric bunched by his elbows, startled by her appearance. She seems to notice his surprise, and visibly works to compose herself before speaking up.

“Your husband is here, Your Grace,” she announces. “In the waiting room – he wishes to see you. I told him you were getting ready to retire for the night, and he said he is willing to wait until you are ready to receive him. He said not to rush on his behalf, but that he does insist on seeing you tonight.”

He insists. Could he not have done that during the day? Could he not call for Yeonjun to join him for dinner? His ladies are exchanging looks; they are thinking the same. A day after the wife goes to see his husband in the evening and spends the night, the husband visits him late at night in return. It is all so scandalous for a couple that has been mated for years now – but it is a departure from them simply sharing a household without paying each other much mind at all unless it was necessary. A new omega arrived at court, a pretty one with the prince's bite mark on his wrist, and suddenly the husband and wife have much to discuss with each other during late nights.

Ridiculous.

Yeonjun sighs and pulls the heavy fabrics back up over his shoulders, letting one of the ladies rush in to help him fasten it back in place. He thinks of asking them to fetch the shawl again, just to show Taehyun that he was putting his courting gift on display, but he thinks better of it. The prince is not here to flirt; he is probably here to ask about how Beomgyu did today, here to have the disappointment delivered to him straight from his wife’s mouth. He is not looking forward to admitting he lost control – and does not plan on telling his husband the entire reason why. Taehyun does not need to know everything, and Yeonjun does not have to admit to the inner doubts that had him so shaken by Beomgyu’s insolent words.

As soon as he steps towards the doors of the waiting room, he understands what exactly it was that had Dayeon looking misty-eyed and red in the face. The prince’s scent is so potent it is spilling from under the door, heady, sharp, with a peppery note that Yeonjun has not gotten to smell on him in a long time. It stings Yeonjun’s nose, tingles its way across his skin, and he can feel his entire body heat up, readying itself, his pupils dilating, blush rising to his own face as well.

Taehyun is going into a rut – that is why Yeonjun found him so enchanting this morning, so much more alpha-like and capable and attractive. His body was responding to his mate’s pheromones signaling him to prepare to roll over and hand all of himself over to the alpha’s needs. It makes sense, although a part of Yeonjun is sad to find an explanation for it that is so mundane, so strictly biological.

When he dismisses the ladies for the night and pushes the door open, Taehyun is standing by Yeonjun’s favorite painting, a vast landscape of a sea dotted with beautiful fishes and tentacled monsters, holding a cup in his hand – the clothes covering his torso are undone, leaving his neck, chest and part of his stomach uncovered, the low light of the last lamp left undimmed making his bare skin gleam with bright gold.

Now that Yeonjun knows the reason just standing near Taehyun has his breath hitching and quickening, it i s easier to brush away – to ignore the need to kneel at his feet, to touch all the skin that he is putting on display, to make himself useful. The throb between his legs gets worse again, reminding him that he is still too sore to be used again tonight.

The prince takes infrequently, but completely.

“You are scandalizing my ladies, my prince.”

Taehyun does not turn around to face him, but he smiles. “This is my household – and tonight I feel too warm to wear my robe properly. Their manners will keep their eyes off of what belongs to you.”

Yeonjun huffs – it is such a trite thing to say, if his husband has no plans of seducing him into sharing his bed again tonight. Unnecessary. “Your body is readying itself for a rut,” he notes carefully, trying to see if Taehyun is aware of his own predicament.

The prince hums, his smile leveling out into a more neutral expression. “It is coming prematurely – I was taken aback by it myself when I noticed today.” He looks down at his own body, as if accusing it of betraying him, then sips whatever he has in his cup. “I suspect the claiming ritual has something to do with it. Beomgyu is…”

“Almost in heat,” Yeonjun fills in with a nod. To mark him as his, Taehyun had to put his face directly into that smell, of an omega he was claiming begging to be taken, filled and satisfied. It would make sense for the alpha inside him to be woken up by that, for his rut to rush to meet his new omega’s need. “I noticed it this morning.”

His husband nods tensely. “My body is expecting me to consummate the new bond.”

“Will you?”

Taehyun snorts as if offended – it is not an offensive question to be asked. “Soobin said that Beomgyu has spent today locked up in his room again.”

Of course – when one of their head guards is his husband’s close friend, there is no keeping secrets from him. “Yes, I had him escorted there this morning.”

Taehyun nods and puts the cup down, folding his hands behind his back instead. He is still not looking at Yeonjun, and he cannot help but wonder why. “What was his transgression?”

He has you purring for his cock in front of the whole court.

He doesn’t even want your heat.

Speaking the truth, perhaps.

“He disrespected me multiple times.” It sounds so childish when he says it like this. His fists clench tightly. “I will admit I eventually simply lost my patience with him.”

The prince’s eyes narrow, and he tilts his head. “He seemed remarkably calm and accepting of his fate throughout our journey here – and this morning at breakfast.”

Yes – and Yeonjun is still not sure what that means, although he does have a few ideas in mind. “Certainly.”

Taehyun sighs and hangs his head. “Do not withdraw your thoughts from me. Say what you want to say.”

It is comforting, in a way, to know that his husband can sense the gears turning in Yeonjun’s head. He crosses his arms tightly. “I think he is scared of you – but he is not scared of me, and he wants me to know that, so he jumps at every weakness to show me that he will not allow me more power over him than what you dictate me to have.”

There is a pause, and then Taehyun finally looks over at Yeonjun – briefly, his eyes dropping from Yeonjun’s down his body and then back to the painting. “I gave him no reason to fear me.”

“I believe you.” His husband is not the type to do that – but chances are Beomgyu’s apprehension has nothing to do with him personally at all. “Did you know he had been mated before?”

“Yes.” The prince gives another terse nod. “They stripped him naked before me, during the claiming ceremony. I saw the mating bite.”

Yeonjun’s skin crawls with the thought of Beomgyu, in all his honeyed, delicate beauty, standing naked in front of his husband, all his to hold and own. It feels wrong that it happened at all, made much worse by the fact that it happened away from his own eyes, completely detached from him as if his husband claiming more omegas had nothing to do with his wife. He knows Taehyun had no choice but to accept – the Emperor’s boons are not to be refused – but the thought still bothers him.

The expression on his husband’s face shifts. “Do you think his previous marriage is making him fear me?”

He thinks Beomgyu’s late husband must have given him a reason to take sick enjoyment from his death – whether Beomgyu had been the cause of it or not. “Most omegas are taught to fear their husbands’ anger.”

Taehyun looks at Yeonjun again, and this time his eyes do not stray away immediately. “Were you taught the same?”

On the day of his wedding, his mother and his aunt both hugged him tighter than they ever had before, and implored him to do everything his husband tells him to that night, no matter what, and to find them if he hurts him. The prince was well-loved at the court and seemed like a good man throughout their courtship – but nobody could ever know what an alpha would be like behind closed doors, once his prize was claimed and bound to him for life. Yeonjun was lucky; he could have been given to anyone, and despite him recklessly taking the chance to aim way beyond his station, the worst price he has paid so far were painful, lonely heats. Taehyun has never given him a single bruise he did not want, never raised his voice.

“I was taught never to give my husband a reason to be angry in the first place.”

The answer seems to upset the prince – his face tightens, and the sharp smell of his clinging to every corner of the room bitters slightly. Yeonjun would be sympathetic, if Taehyun assuming that their situation was any different from other couples was not outright naive.

“You are straightforward with me – you mock me, even,” he argues with a frown, and Yeonjun holds back from rolling his eyes – yet another concession he makes not to provoke his husband’s anger.

“We have been married for six years – I know what I can and cannot say and still keep your favor.”

“You will always have my favor.”

This time, Yeonjun has to close his eyes to avoid rolling them. Empty princely promises are not something he is interested in. “Is there anything else you need, my prince?”

Bitterness still lingers in the air. Taehyun shakes his head, and focuses on the painting once more. “Do you still want Beomgyu to join your entourage?”

Yeonjun breathes out deeply and loosens his arms a little where he pressed them tightly against his own body. “I will give him a few more chances.”

The prince’s eyes lower to the cabinet he put his cup down onto. “Was he informed of our arrangements regarding our mating cycles?”

He doesn’t even want your heat.

“I told him not to expect you, and that he was not expected to attend to you either.”

“Good.” Taehyun nods, then swallows – it seems difficult, like his throat struggles to constrict properly.

Be a good wife, Yeonjun.

“You can always change your mind, my prince. Call for him, if you need him.”

Yeonjun can grit his teeth and take it – the humiliation of knowing there is someone Taehyun would rather have in his bed during his rut than his own wife. That maybe Beomgyu’s heat is sweeter on Taehyun’s tongue, irresistible, unlike Yeonjun’s.

“I have no desire to do so,” his husband says tersely, and it is that sharpness that convinces Yeonjun that he does not mean what he is saying. “But I can tell this rut will not be as easy as the others.”

He should be understanding – Taehyun and Beomgyu have a fresh bond, and while they are not fully mated, both of their instincts will be screaming for them to seal the sanctity of it by joining their bodies – but he cannot bring himself to, not tonight. “I will make sure to ask the staff to care for you to the best of their ability.”

Taehyun’s eyes meet his – he can hear the slight hint of contempt in Yeonjun’s tone, surely. Can smell the rotten hint in his fruity scent. “Thank you, wife.”

A polite nod. A slight bow. Proper; distant. “You are welcome, my prince. Now – will you have need of me tonight, or am I free to retire alone?”

His eyes wander to Taehyun’s exposed chest. Neither of them has made any advances, but the prince’s oncoming rut makes the room smell like sex, anyway. Yeonjun is wet from instinct alone. If his husband asked, he would not dream of saying no.

Some strange humor crosses Taehyun’s face, and he folds his arms in front of his chest, standing a little wider. “You must be in pain from last night.”

It is not a no – somehow, against all odds, it is not a no. Yeonjun shrugs lightly.

“There is no need for concern for me, my prince.”

“Then allow me the want for concern for you, my wife.”

“There are ways to numb the pain – ointments, and the like. There are other ways I can serve you as well, if you do not find that satisfying enough.” He does not have much experience with his mouth and his hands, as rarely as he and his husband spend their nights together, but he is nothing if not a diligent and attentive learner.

The prince raises his eyebrows, visibly unimpressed. “Serve me?”

“Please you, then.” There is a strange tension in the room Yeonjun did not mean to create; it is setting his teeth on edge.

His husband’s eyes are strange as they roam all over him, study him, then zero in on where the prize is hidden under his layers of clothes, letting off the tell-tale scent of arousal. “I will not be needing you tonight.” There is a disconnect between his hungry eyes on Yeonjun’s body and the calm, collected tone of his voice. “Do get some rest tonight.” He unfolds his arms, then seems to hesitate. “And please, join me for dinner tomorrow – in my quarters. Bring Beomgyu with you.”

The question tingles at the tip of his tongue, but Yeonjun just bows his head again. “I will do so.”

“Good.” Another moment of hesitation, then: “May I kiss you before I leave?”

Taehyun’s request is met with silence – Yeonjun is usually the one asking to be kissed, with a teasing lilt to his voice more often than not, playful about their lack of physical affection. His husband just sounds earnest, not a hint of jest in his voice. He feels a shred of the same power he felt last night, when offering himself up; his body a weapon aimed at the prince, whose hormones betrayed him, leaving him open and at his mercy.

He wants Yeonjun tonight as well, but will not take him, out of whatever strange sense of duty he feels towards his wife. Or maybe he is just afraid to take him this close to his rut; too afraid to find out if their lack of heirs could be either of their fault.

“You may.”

With a small nod, the prince approaches him – he does not rush, but does not dawdle, and does not hesitate to pull Yeonjun in, touch his waist or open up his mouth for a kiss much less chaste than the ones they usually share. Taehyun kisses his wife like he intends to stay the night, like he wants to stamp all of his desire into his awaiting mouth, force it past his lips until he swallows it all down, keeps it in his burning insides for safekeeping.

Yeonjun is powerful and so small at the same time, molten under the prince’s hand but still gripping him in place without having to so much as reach out a hand.

“Stay,” he breathes out when Taehyun tries to pull away – grips at his sleeve, then shifts his hold to Taehyun’s hand, guides it into the folds of his dress, between his own thighs, forces his fingers to brush through the wetness gathered there. “Take me again tonight.” With his free hand, he grips Taehyun’s jaw insistently. “Give me a child. Let us show your father who we are. Let us show everyone.”

His husband looks at him as if he is searching for something – hesitation, maybe; sincerity. Whatever he finds, it makes him press his fingers tighter against Yeonjun where he is keeping them trapped, kiss his mouth firmly but more chaste than before. “I will never take you in the name of my father.”

The tone he says it in is strange, and Yeonjun cannot for the life of him comprehend it, but he chooses to smile in response; push closer – scratch his nails down the side of his husband’s neck. “Then take me in your own – I promise not to say any other. To think about anyone else but you. Please.”

A strange mix of doubt and desire takes over the prince’s face, even as he moves his hand in gentle, pleasurable circles, making Yeonjun’s eyes drift almost shut and a sigh escape his mouth. “You have never asked this of me.”

That much is true – he considered it beneath him to ask for an heir; to be taken with purpose. Until today, with the insult to his dignity occupying the Lavender room, his body aching from the prince’s attention and his warm, spiced scent spiked with pepper in the air.

“Yes, but I have never wanted it more.”

“You are afraid.”

Yeonjun stills. His husband’s eyes, dark and reflecting the light of the single lamp illuminating the room, look heavy with conviction. A shudder goes through him that has nothing to do with him being touched intimately, still, while Taehyun watches his composure crumble. There is a shred of truth in those words that Yeonjun cannot force himself to open his mouth to deny. It is a creeping feeling, the same that comes when the bridge you are crossing creaks ominously. The knowledge that you are safe now, but at any time, the water might rise, your safety might be taken from right under your feet, and you will be left to the mercy of the waves.

Taehyun does not pull away; instead, his fingers slip inside, all too easily, the heel of his palm providing welcome pressure as he draws a choked gasp from his wife’s mouth. Yeonjun all but collapses into his husband’s arms, held up by an arm around his waist, the hand between his thighs, the strong shoulder he buries his face into.

He feels his husband’s nose nuzzling into his hair, even as he keeps up a steady, merciless pace with his hand. “The first night we spent together,” he whispers into his hair, deep and wistful, “I could not believe my luck. I could hardly believe it was real. It felt like being allowed to hold the moon itself in my arms.” The prince lets out a huff, and there is the edge of a smile to what he says next. “My first inexperienced, childish tumbling, and it was with the jewel of the court – the most precious being I have ever laid my eyes on.”

Yeonjun can hardly comprehend his words, and he feels guilty for that, for being so hazy while Taehyun speaks a fantasy of a romance they have never had into existence. He catches his breath when Taehyun slows down a little to run a soothing hand through the mess he has made of his wife, and gathers his wits enough to speak up.

“You did well enough.”

Well enough for Yeonjun to still cradle those memories in his mind while relieving himself during his heats. They are precious to him in their own right, and maybe his husband is honest enough when he says he treasures them as well.

“My instincts guided me well.” The prince’s hips twitch obviously, but he does not move to do anything else but continue to rush Yeonjun to the edge. “That much I can thank them for.” He curls closer to Yeonjun, pressing his face against him further. Breathing in his scent; fingers at his waist digging in. “Though they were so hard to temper.”

Yeonjun lets his head drop lower, so he can mouth at his husband’s exposed clavicle – his smell and his touch create a headrush that he cannot shake off, his eyes fully closing, voice slurred. “Must you?”

“I must,” the prince insists. “See what they made me do? Disrespect your body like this,” he crooks his fingers differently, in a way that makes Yeonjun see stars and whine against his husband's heated bare skin. “You don't deserve to be taken like this – you are the prince's wife; you are too precious to be pleased this messily. You should always be made love to; on the finest of sheets. Unless you ask to be taken otherwise.”

The words are making his head swim – Taehyun does not usually speak to him like this. He calls him beautiful, yes, is possessive, sometimes confesses into the folds of Yeonjun's body how hard he finds resisting him – but he has never been this reverent; never made himself seem so helpless, subservient, in the face of Yeonjun and the power of his body.

“I asked for this,” he argues in a barely coherent mumble.

“No.” Taehyun's tone leaves no room for argument, so Yeonjun does not try. “You asked for a child.”

Together with the overwhelming pleasure, the reminder almost makes Yeonjun burst into tears. He was desperate enough to try to seduce his husband, even though pre-rut was barely a guarantee when it came to conception. Like a cheap whore, he tried to use his wet cunt to get what he wanted, and he still failed. Taehyun said that the frenzied thrusting of his fingers was a sign of disrespect, but Yeonjun could not help but think he deserved it. A whore getting fucked the way a whore should, standing up, drooling on his alpha. Not even worth pulling his cock out for.

He fucks you, Beomgyu said and maybe he saw something Yeonjun had yet not by then. He hears it now from Taehyun's panted breaths, can feel it as his palm grinds in harder. However he may feel about it, Yeonjun is getting fucked right now, right here.

“What are you afraid of, Yeonjun?”

Taehyun only says his name when they are sharing a bed. When they are intertwined – it makes its sound precious, when it is the prince's voice lilting around it. Today, it feels like a stab directly in Yeonjun's back.

This; he is afraid of all of this. He is afraid of the bridge collapsing around him – being carried off by the waves. Having to tread water to keep his head above the surface after so many years of basking in the sun. He is afraid of this break in routine, cracks in the decorum. Taehyun says things, does things he never has before. Beomgyu speaks to him like nobody has since he was mated to the prince. Yeonjun cannot stop thinking about bearing children now, when he has never felt like it was something he should worry about. That has to mean something. He is losing daylight; the water is rising. Something is coming.

He comes on his husband’s fingers, with his face buried in Taehyun’s chest, the prince's gentle shushing and warm words of praise guiding him through the sweet shocks and trembles of it. When Yeonjun goes limp he does not let up, and Yeonjun pulls back to look at him through tear-filled eyes, whining in protest, too paralyzed by the overstimulation, the unrelenting buzz of lingering pleasure and his husband’s scent to use words, much less to push him away. Taehyun’s eyes are dark, consuming the sight of him hungrily, but there is a thoughtful layer to the way he regards his wife that worries Yeonjun even through the onslaught of sensation setting all of his mind aflame.

When Taehyun leans down to kiss him, he pushes against his lips anyway, sighing shakily when his husband’s mouth brushes to the side, over the corner of Yeonjun’s, then across his cheek, trailing through the tear tracks.

“Are you sated, my wife?” The words are muffled by Yeonjun’s skin, but he understands them well enough.

No; yes – he has had too much, and not enough, wants to keep crying, to gather the strength to beg, collapse into Taehyun’s arms and let his alpha take over, take care of him, use him to his heart’s content. That is not the omega the prince wants, however, is it? He does not want a whore, he does not want a crying, pathetic, malleable wet mess of a wife. He wants an equal – the jewel of the court, of his house. The prince’s wife. Not Yeonjun, the scared, needy omega.

Gathering all the strength left in his body, he reaches for Taehyun’s wrist and pushes his hand away from between his thighs – it is so wet, smelling sharply of overripe fruit; Yeonjun goes dizzy and nauseous at the same time at the sight of it – at the evidence of how much of a mess he allowed himself to become. There is a dull throb inside him, a fire under his skin. He pushes it all down – down and away.

Taehyun rubs his fingers together as if he is rubbing the scent into his own skin. Yeonjun shudders and pulls away, his husband’s arm falling from around his waist. Standing on his own two feet is hard when his legs feel like they are about to give out on him, but he fights through it with his years and years of courtly education. No matter how dizzy, numb or nauseous he feels, he cannot let it show. He cannot let this affect him.

“Yes, my prince.” Swallowing back the tears, he cocks his chin as if there is no crimson flush on his face, no shiny tracks on his cheek. “Thank you for granting me your favor.”

Still with the same thoughtful glint in his wanting eyes, his husband lowers his head politely. “Anything for you, my wife.”

He adjusts his robes, taking a deep breath, willing the shakiness in his limbs to subside. “I will now retire for the night, if you have no more need of me.”

Taehyun’s lips are pressed together when he looks up, but he nods. “You are free to do so. Please do rest well.”

“Thank you, my prince.”

Their gazes collide, both stony and steadfast, as they both expect the other to leave first. It is the prince who backs down this time, bowing deeply before turning around to leave, hand lingering on the door for just a moment.

“I will see you tomorrow. At dinner.”

Yeonjun should bow himself, but he knows his weak body will not allow him to. “Certainly, my prince.”

“Good night.”

He does not return Taehyun’s farewell – he watches the door close behind him, and then collapses into a heap of mauve fabric on the floor. The prince’s scent lingers, warm but stinging, pricking at every inch of exposed skin; more overwhelmed tears stream down Yeonjun’s face. He slides a hand between his own thighs, to chase the phantom sensation of his husband’s fingers. Cold and hot flashes run through his body, making him shiver as he crumples further and further in on himself.

Empty. Satisfied. Miserable. Thrilled. Wanting. Horrified. Lonely.

He cries until the lantern in the room dims, and then gets up, extinguishes it and leaves to shed his robes in the dressing room. Tonight, he will sleep undressed, and dream of cool hands and pepper.

 

Chapter 2

Notes:

thanks to everyone who commented, I've read every single one of them and appreciate it a lot. sorry it took so long <3

Yeonjun’s mind is carefully blank as he pushes pieces of fruit between his own lips. This morning, he is clad in a golden dressing robe, not yet fully prepared for the day, sharing a humble breakfast with his ladies in the tea room of his personal quarters. It is small, but large enough for them to sit together in a semicircle with Yeonjun in the center of it, with all of his ladies within his sight.

Beomgyu is not yet present, and Yeonjun chooses not to feel any particular way about it; he requested the other omega’s presence in the morning – it is still morning. Perhaps the prince had breakfast sent into the Lavender room, not expecting Yeonjun to want to eat with him after the unfortunate events of yesterday. He has not sent a guard to check, or to fetch the other, and he will not do so until he is dressed and ready to leave his quarters. They can enjoy the peace while it lasts.

Even without Beomgyu’s presence, though, the peace in the tea room is a fragile beast – from the corner of his eye, Yeonjun can see Dayeon and Soojin watching him. Most of his ladies are betas, as tradition dictates, but the etiquette of the Imperial Court allows noble wives to take in other omegas as well, mostly members of their own or their husband’s families. Dayeon is Yeonjun’s cousin, while Soojin is loosely related to the prince, and it’s clear that both of their noses have caught what all of their beta fellows have missed – his and the prince’s combined arousal still hanging in the air of the waiting room, the bitter tinge in Yeonjun’s own scent that clashes with the warm traces of Taehyun on him. They can tell he is upset, and that something happened in the waiting room but not in the bedroom. As much as he ignores their curious looks, Soojin’s scrutiny and Dayeon’s wide-eyed concern, he cannot stop them from coming to their own conclusions - and he is sure none of them are particularly favorable to him.

He tries to focus on the fruit he is eating, the sweet cream he dips his bites into every now and then, but it all tastes bland in his mouth – he is not craving sweetness; he craves pepper and sweat, dreads the inevitable zest of candied citrus that he will not be able to avoid today. Every bite of food is simply a reminder of a day he wishes he did not have to have.

“I spoke to the cook this morning,” Eunbi says, light and conversational. “He said the prince ordered a breakfast that would feed an entire regiment today.” She giggles, high-pitched and sweet. “It seems the frequent travel between his household and the Court is taking a toll on him – I would watch him carefully if it were me, Your Grace, before all of his clothes are in need of adjusting.”

Taehyun is bracing for his rut – making sure he is strong enough to endure it when it hits. Not all alphas are known to have an insatiable appetite around the peak of their mating cycles, but the prince has a tendency to overindulge. Dayeon covers her mouth with a hand, blushing, and Soojin’s eyes meet Yeonjun’s briefly. They know as well – if the prince had not been so close to his rut, the waiting room would not still be drenched in the reminder of his presence hours later.

“According to our elders, a generous waist is a sign of a generous man,” Yeonjun jokes, trying to sound as calm as he can while giving Eunbi a small smile. “Maybe a more bountiful appearance would reflect our prince’s fortune more precisely?”

“At the Court, the prince has always been known as quite a narrow man,” Chaeyoung responds with a laugh hidden behind a rose-pink sleeve at her own wordplay.

Surely – Taehyun was proper, much more proper than most other alphas, his education as a member of the royal family stricter, the expectations on his shoulders much higher. Many omegas thought he was too proper , preferring his more rambunctious cousins, or the nobles who kept him company. Yeonjun did, too – he barely gave the reserved, if handsome son of the Emperor a second look when there were alphas much more daring and playful chasing after him. Not until his aunt approached him with the prince’s offer of courtship, until Taehyun showed up to his home with gifts and quiet promises of the lavish life he would be able to provide him with.

He had not said a single lie back then, and for that, Yeonjun still admires him. Marrying Taehyun gave him a place of honor at a court that was partially his own, it gave him the respect of all imperial courtiers, it gave him the means to live a life as comfortable and fanciful as he pleased – the finest clothes, exotic foods, art, jewelry. Everything Taehyun had promised him. Not every alpha could boast about being able to provide for his omega so thoroughly – Yeonjun had made the right decision for himself, by not letting Taehyun’s reticent reputation sway him.

“I am afraid the prince will remain narrow until the end of his days,” he sighs with playful wistfulness, and the ladies laugh politely.

“Your Grace.”

Yeonjun looks up, startled, to see Miyeon standing at the door. “Yes?”

“Your husband’s omega has arrived - do you want me to show him in, or would you prefer to have him remain in the waiting room?”

In truth, Yeonjun does not want to see Beomgyu’s face at all – not now, and not later, but the thought of him lingering in that room, taking in his and Taehyun’s mixed scents, itching at the bite mark on his wrist from the potency of the smell of the prince’s pre-rut makes his skin crawl.

“Have him join us, please. And take a few cakes of your own – I saw you barely brought anything to eat with you.”

Miyeon smiles a little and bows deeply. “Certainly, Your Grace. I appreciate your concern.”

Beomgyu looks beautiful this morning. The clothes the servants have found for him are a deep blue, a shimmery thread woven through the collar making it look like it is covered with silvery scales. His hair is shiny, framing his face delicately, his eyes are bright and awake, and he still smells like a warm, lemon-filled pastry, like a fresh, sweet delicacy. Yeonjun is sure he smells as bitter as he feels – the omega is hard to look away from; hard to ignore. There is a pinched expression on his face, his nose is scrunched and there is a tell-tale tang of arousal that wafts towards Yeonjun as he steps further into his room and his robes shift.

He smelled the mess in the waiting room, clearly, and given the sharp look he gives Yeonjun before kneeling before him, he smells his bitterness as well.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

His eyes are lowered respectfully, hands folded politely, head demurely tilted away. He is playing nice this morning, making a show of his deference again.

“Good morning, Omega Beomgyu.” Yeonjun does not mock his accent this time. He is above that childishness now. “I trust you have spent the night well.”

Beomgyu bites his lip visibly. He could mouth off, and the way he takes too long to answer tells Yeonjun that he wants to. When he speaks up, however, it is with the same low, quiet voice as before.

“Certainly. Thank you, Your Grace.”

A voice somewhere at the back of Yeonjun's mind raises in alarm: can't help but wonder what made Beomgyu decide to treat him this way, so differently than yesterday. Did Taehyun visit him yesterday, after leaving Yeonjun's chambers to scold him? Or was his seclusion a much more effective way to correct his behavior than he let on?

“Now – will you join us for breakfast, or have you eaten already?”

He watches Beomgyu's graceful throat jump as he swallows. “I have not eaten, Your Grace.”

“Take a seat with the others and help yourself to some food, then – wherever you would like; I insist on no seating order here.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Beomgyu bows deeply, then gets up to join the ladies. He sits to the side of them, not in any of the empty spaces in between them, clearly much too aware of his outsider status among them.

Just as quickly as Yeonjun thinks that, Dayeon leans over with a plate of cakes and a smile, offering them to him, introducing herself when he accepts despite his obvious reluctance. Dasom, who sits between them, joins in the conversation, complimenting Beomgyu’s clothes, offering him tea. Yeonjun can’t stop staring at them as they talk, even after he gets caught by Beomgyu’s dark eyes. He hardly eats anything after Beomgyu’s arrival. Around him, the conversation carries on, talking about food, about their court painter’s drunken philosopher’s speeches, about their physician’s wife’s pregnancy. About food and pretty jewelry they saw down in the market the other day; the servant girl who keeps eyeing Soojin with interest.

Yeonjun watches Beomgyu take it all in with bright, focused eyes, clearly taking stock of what Yeonjun’s entourage is like behind closed doors. Tittering and lighthearted, informal. Poking fun at important nobles and each other. Friendly.

Usually, Yeonjun is part of that, gossiping and joking around, but today he’s stuck observing them as much as Beomgyu is, and the ladies clearly catch on to the fact that he does not want to be bothered this morning, never addressing him directly. It is hardly the first time he is not in the mood to join the conversation, and the others adjust well enough, so naturally Yeonjun would not blame Beomgyu for assuming it is like this every morning. Aside from the looks Dayeon and Soojin keep sending him, nothing really seems out of the ordinary – and that is acceptable as well.

After breakfast, Beomgyu follows him and the ladies into the dressing room, where Yeonjun’s personal servants have prepared the clothes he asked for earlier, laying them out for him. A few of his ladies flock to them to compliment them and suggest jewelry he should wear with it, while some follow him to the large round mirror under the window, helping him with his hair, handing him tools for him to paint his face with. Ever since he was a young courtier, Yeonjun has painted his own face himself, and refused to shake the habit once he married, even though customarily, he should have delegated that duty to either a servant or his ladies.

There is something peaceful about it – despite all of the people flitting about the room, talking and laughing, once he picks up a brush, it’s like he’s alone with his own reflection, encased in a cocoon of concentration. It is just him, his brushes and the little pots of color in front of him. Dragging over familiar curves, dipping into features he has been seeing his entire life, painting over well-known imperfections. Moles; scars; reddened bumps; flaws in complexion. Everything that makes Yeonjun Yeonjun, painted over to create the prince’s wife. The perfect omega. Something more imposing, more awe-inspiring, something flawless.

His brush is running over the outline of his own lips, leaving ruby red traces behind, when he glances up and sees Beomgyu in the reflection of the mirror. He’s standing near the door on his own, and he’s looking directly at Yeonjun, licking at his own, unpainted lip. Beomgyu’s own face seems flawless even without any paint – his lips are a healthy petal pink, his skin smooth and honeyed, eyes perfectly shaped and dark, framed with long, dark eyelashes. His hair is plain, without a single pin, yet it doesn’t take away from his beauty.

Yeonjun is jealous; a pit grows in his stomach the longer he looks at that lovely face. Beomgyu’s eyes lower from his face and Yeonjun finally tears his own away to finish applying the paint to his lips. Soojin offers him a golden headpiece that resembles a leaping tiger with eyes made out of ruby to go with the blood-red robes he chose for today, and he accepts it, the two of them affixing it to Yeonjun’s hair together, successfully occupying his attention enough for him to finally forget about Beomgyu again.

Soojin helps him stand, and when he turns around, Beomgyu comes rushing back into his mind, standing in the middle of the room now by Dayeon’s side while she holds a tray with a pair of long, ruby earrings that the ladies have picked out for him. Yeonjun pointedly doesn’t look at him, locking eyes with Dayeon instead and inspecting the earrings before nodding approvingly and picking them up to affix them to his ears. A few of the ladies offer compliments and he smiles at them gratefully; Beomgyu stares.

He continues staring even after Dayeon ducks away to put the tray where it belongs, as Yeonjun undoes the fastening of his morning robes and starts undressing. Beomgyu’s eyes catch on his collar bones; the mating bite sitting above his heart as per imperial tradition; his flat tits; his equally as flat stomach; his hips; the bite marks on his skin; the bruises still on his wrists; his bare intimacy, further exposed when he bends over to pick the first layer of his robes up. Yeonjun’s skin itches.

For years, he has been changing in front of his ladies – they have seen him fully bare, covered in bite marks, sickly and covered in hives, red and flushed with an oncoming heat, permanently so wet that he had to wear an extra layer of cloth between his thighs to allow him to attend to his duties comfortably. They have seen him at his best and at his worst, and he has never felt shy in front of their gazes.

Beomgyu’s gaze makes him want to curl up, to cover up and flush from the top of his head to the tips of his toes – it is not the gaze of an omega envious of his shapes, of his long legs and thin waist; it is not the curious gaze of a courtier who wants to know what exactly it is that made the Emperor’s son decide to marry an omega from an insignificant house from the south. There is something heavy about the way Beomgyu looks at him – something intentional.

As Dasom rushes close to help Yeonjun put the first layer on, his mind goes back to last night, when Taehyun looked at him so intensely, like he could see right through his clothes to what he wanted; what his hormone-clouded mind was begging him to take. Beomgyu’s eyes were… not unlike Taehyun’s. Must be his heat, then, confusing his mind; making him stare at another omega with something close to want.

He is probably imagining what it would be like, if the prince marked him the same way he did Yeonjun. If he bit and sucked and claimed his way across Beomgyu’s body, used him until he was red and sore and aching.

Yeonjun struggles not to imagine it himself – Taehyun, his husband, his prince, crawling over Beomgyu’s sun-kissed skin, claiming those petal pink lips, tangling his fingers in the dark hair, pushing soft thighs apart and slotting between them. Would Beomgyu act demure in front of him? Pretend to be shy and submissive, to be a purring, needy omega, or would he talk back? Would he fight, and mock, elicit that fire in Taehyun’s eyes that only comes when Yeonjun provokes him, when he pushes back? He would be the oil poured in Taehyun’s smoldering flame. He would make Taehyun shine so bright, as his husband would take the fight out of the omega one pleasured sigh at a time.

They are staring at each other; Dasom and Eunbi are helping Yeonjun into his golden robe, Soojin picking up the blood-red embroidered overcoat, and Yeonjun’s eyes are solely on Beomgyu’s, while the other omega has not moved an inch, completely focused on him. A tangy, lemony smell lingers in the room, and when Yeonjun shifts to tie his robes, it mixes with a hint of crushed fruit.

Suddenly, a waft of a nutty, gentler smell brings him out of his haze as Dayeon reaches up to disentangle one of his earrings from the folds of his robes. He looks at her, startled by her sudden presence by his side, and she meets his eyes, still looking as worried as she did earlier at breakfast. Her cheeks are pink.

“Your Grace, Master Hwang was informed you’d see him in his workshop right after breakfast,” she reminds mildly, and as embarrassed as Yeonjun feels by her gentle reminder to focus on his responsibilities rather than the scattered mess of mental images and emotions Beomgyu elicits in him, he is also grateful for it.

“I am aware, Dayeon, thank you.” He smiles at her, and she smiles back. “We are almost done here.”

Beomgyu’s eyes shift to her as well, curiosity emanating from him like a scent of its own.

“Shall I fetch your slippers, Your Grace? The gold ones?”

“Please.” He touches her forearm briefly to express his gratitude, and her face relaxes a little. Then he lets his eyes travel back to Beomgyu. “You will accompany me to a meeting with our court painter. The prince wishes to have a painting commissioned of us to celebrate the anniversary of our union.”

The omega blinks as if waking up from a daydream. “Will the prince be present?”

“No,” and right now, Yeonjun is grateful for that. “He is much too busy with imperial matters – and he won’t be needed for this meeting. No painting will be done today, we will simply make sure Master Hwang knows exactly what his task will be, so he can get everything ready for when the prince has the time to model for him.”

“Is the prince usually too busy with imperial matters to tend to his own household?”

There it is – the sharpness, the same lack of decorum as yesterday. Beomgyu is looking him in the eye – asking questions that have the other ladies exchanging looks.

“Yes,” Yeonjun replies, simply and honestly. In this, there is no shame to be felt. “He is a courtier of the Imperial Court first and head of this household second. His main duty lies with the Empire. Matters of this household are mainly my concern. I carry out his duties in his stead. Thus, as I have informed you yesterday – my word is the prince’s word and vice versa. That is my duty and my privilege as his wife.”

“I see.” Beomgyu nods, then looks down at his own hands. “Things truly are done differently here than in the Golden City. My husband would have never allowed the disgrace of having me do his job for him. He would sooner die… and I suppose he did.”

An expression of mild, dry amusement crosses Beomgyu's face, and Yeonjun is stunned into silence. From the corner of his eye, he sees Dayeon cover her mouth with a sleeve, but cannot tell if it is to mask a laugh or a shocked expression. Beomgyu does not seem sheepish or regretful of his own words at all, and somehow it is that unshakeable confidence that helps Yeonjun regain his composure somehow.

“Welcome to the Empire, then, Omega Beomgyu,” he replies with a steadier voice that he had expected himself to muster. “This is the way of our land.”

The omega tilts his head, then finally lowers it a little respectfully. “So it is, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun cannot tell how Beomgyu really feels about it – his face is so full, so expressive, yet so hard to figure out completely.

Dayeon hands him his slippers, and Soojin assists him in putting them on. Yeonjun brushes the entire exchange off – he has so much to attend to. Beomgyu is not the only important thing going on in the household. Arguably, he is not important at all.

.

Beomgyu spends most of the day staring his pretty dark eyes out, always studying one thing or another whenever Yeonjun feels brave enough to look over at him. He touches tapestries, rubs the fabric of curtains between his fingers, brushes the tips of them over decorations, vases and the statues looming in their gardens. He sniffs at flowers, at the tea and snacks he’s offered throughout the day, at his fellow courtesans, albeit more discreetly; he watches Yeonjun as he goes about his day, as he speaks to people, as he jokes around with his ladies, as he pores over the household budget and addresses his courtesans’ concerns.

His behavior reminds Yeonjun of a child, one which is much too curious about the world to keep still. For the most part, he plays his role among his ladies well; he stands at the back with them when needed, joins in the conversation when they aim to fill the room with their chatter, or when they are just taking a walk through the gardens, he helps pour tea and hand Yeonjun things before he even asks for them. It makes Yeonjun wonder if at the Golden City, Beomgyu had an entourage of his own – if, only a few years ago, it was Beomgyu who only needed to reach out for someone to press whatever he needed into his hand with a bow.

He does not attempt to speak to Yeonjun again throughout the day. Even when Yeonjun joins in on his ladies’ conversation at lunch, feeling much more refreshed and ready to face the world than he did during breakfast, Beomgyu aims his own words at the other ladies, mostly at Dayeon, who seems to be making a concentrated effort to make him feel welcome. Yeonjun is grateful for her and her tact, every step of the way.

There is another small thing he notices, while he watches Beomgyu observe his new home. Most of the things he takes in, he takes in with an air of neutral curiosity, even showing signs of finding a genuine liking in some of the decorations he notices; he seems a little wary of the courtesans, but with most of them, he relaxes as soon as it becomes clear that they either have no desire to ogle him, or will not dare in the presence of the prince’s wife.

But it is different when they visit Master Hwang. Beomgyu stands with the other ladies at the door while Yeonjun sits on the single hastily cleared out empty seat in the painter’s work room, while the artist himself sits at his enormous desk covered in half-finished sketches, scribbling down the notes Yeonjun gives him about their expectations for the painting. As always, the entire room smells strongly of the alpha’s mild, mossy scent, because he does not allow the servants to clean his room up as often as he should. Yeonjun himself is used to it by now, finding it quite easy to ignore, but when he looks over at Beomgyu, he sees his jaw tightly clenched, and his hands fisted in the sleeves of his robe. The entire time Yeonjun speaks with their court painter, Beomgyu does not raise his eyes from the floor.

The same thing happens when the steward of the household comes into Yeonjun’s rooms to discuss the budget with him, the alpha joining him at his desk while his ladies keep themselves busy with their own conversations, scattered around the room. Beomgyu is engaged in conversation with Eunbi and Dayeon, but as soon as the steward enters the room, bowing deeply first to Yeonjun and then to the ladies, who return his bows with polite tilts of their heads, he goes completely silent, body tense, eyes always warily lingering on the two of them while Dayeon attempts to coax him back into their gossip.

She fails, and the saddened, confused frown she sends Yeonjun, who simply shakes his head slightly in response, confirms to him that he is not simply overreacting because he’s hypersensitive to Beomgyu’s presence in his vicinity today. There is something strange about his reaction to the two men – to the two alphas, and Yeonjun can’t help but be curious about Beomgyu’s obvious issue.

The rational part of him reminds him that Beomgyu is an omega quickly approaching his heat, one strengthened by a recent bonding no less, and it would make sense for an alpha’s scent to affect him deeply in this state. On the other hand, there is the side of him that keeps insisting that he saw what Beomgyu looks like when he’s aroused – this morning, when he was left to stew in the remainders of Taehyun’s pre-rut scent in the waiting room; and it was nothing like this. He could simply be more careful about not letting arousal get a hold of him when there is an actual alpha present in the room, but Yeonjun doubts it. For no logical reason at all, he is convinced otherwise.

Then, as the sun begins to set, he dismisses most of his ladies to their barely concealed excitement, with the exception of Eunbi, Dasom and Beomgyu. The three of them help him refresh himself before he goes to see the prince, adding a new layer of red tint to his mouth, fixing his headpiece and retying his robes. To his surprise, Beomgyu seems almost nervous, spending most of his time by the bed, eyes fixed on the mirror instead of flitting around the room, touching and inspecting everything as he did when they did the same thing after lunch. As if he worries about being brought before the prince.

Something in Yeonjun feels for him. He taps the back of Eunbi’s hand where she stands next to him at the mirror, then whispers into her ear when she leans down to receive her orders. She smiles and nods, and Dasom rushes close to help him stand as Eunbi walks away to follow his request.

He looks at Beomgyu, who seems lost in his mind completely, and reaches out a hand towards the seat in front of the mirror. “Beomgyu.” It takes the other omega a moment to blink his way back into reality, and Yeonjun waits patiently for his eyes to clear before he adds, “Sit.”

“Me?” Beomgyu’s eyes narrow slightly; suspiciously. “Why?”

For once, Yeonjun allows Beomgyu his suspicion – his request does come out of the blue. “I did not think of providing you with paints and jewelry when making arrangements for your accommodation – and I apologize for that. I’ll have something brought to your room before tomorrow. For today, please allow me to share my own with you.”

Something in the other omega’s face sets in an unpleasant way. “Now? Why not this morning? I would appreciate it if Your Grace were straightforward with me – you wish your husband to see his trophy at its best and shiniest.”

Dasom freezes next to him. Yeonjun sighs. “You wish me to be straightforward with you.”

Beomgyu takes too long to answer, almost like he regrets saying it immediately. He averts his eyes politely again before replying, going back to his more submissive posture. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You seemed nervous.” Beomgyu twitches bodily in response, and Yeonjun can see his eyes struggle not to pin Yeonjun down again. It only now occurs to him that he might not be used to avoiding the eyes of other omegas – he’s a noble, the wife of the head of his own city. He’s probably used to being deferred to, or at the very least treated like an equal by his fellow omegas. “I realize that you are not very familiar with the prince yet. I thought perhaps you could use the comfort paint and jewelry provide – to me and my ladies, anyways. If you yourself feel otherwise, you are free to join me and the prince for dinner as you are.”

Eunbi appears with a sparkly silver pin in her hands, realizing quickly that this isn’t the time for her to intrude and hanging back. Yeonjun asked her to pick an accessory out for Beomgyu to wear, something small but pretty. The pin she’s holding seems perfect – it looks like it’s covered in silvery scales, complimenting the collar of Beomgyu’s robes. It’s delicate, but the way it catches light attracts attention nonetheless. Yeonjun could easily imagine sliding it into Beomgyu’s hair himself, letting it draw people’s eyes to the omega’s silky hair and his lovely face. Letting it draw Taehyun’s eyes.

Beomgyu swallows. “I do not wish to paint myself for the prince, Your Highness.”

Yeonjun reaches out and Eunbi hurries over at the cue, handing over the pin. “Will you at least accept this, then? As a token of my favor – not to impress my husband.”

He does not doubt that Taehyun will be impressed, whether Beomgyu wears the pin or not; he would have to be blind to not notice all the displays of Beomgyu’s natural beauty.

Beomgyu tilts his head to the side, eyes coming up halfway Yeonjun’s body but not meeting his eyes, a little cautious, and a little coy. “Do I have your favor, Your Grace?”

“I have done nothing but my best to accommodate for your presence in my household, Beomgyu. I do not know what you considered hospitality in the Golden City, but I assure you I intend to treat you with all the imperial hospitality I am capable of.”

The answer does not seem to please Beomgyu very much, but he nods, shoulders loosening, something like resignation in his eyes. “Very well. I will accept your gift, Your Grace – and I will wear it proudly.”

He bows slightly and reaches out his hands for Yeonjun to lay the pin in them, and he almost does, before he stops himself in the middle of the motion. Something stirs in him.

“Allow me.”

Beomgyu glances up in confusion, his eyes briefly meeting Yeonjun’s before he lowers them again. “Excuse me, Your Grace?”

Yeonjun is the one to swallow this time, past a sudden tightness in his throat. “Allow me to fix the pin myself – please,” he tacks on almost awkwardly; it feels unnatural in his mouth in this situation. Almost too deferential, instead of polite. It feels like he is laying a part of himself bare, at Beomgyu’s mercy.

Thankfully, tonight, Beomgyu does not feel predatory enough to strike. He nods again and straightens back up, folding his hands politely, head bowed and eyes lowered. Yeonjun steps up to him, barely breathing, every small intake of breath flooding his senses with sweet citrus. He brushes a part of Beomgyu’s hair back, his fingers pale in contrast with the dark strands. It feels just as silky against his skin as it looked from afar. Yeonjun is close enough for their difference in heights to become more pronounced; close enough to count Beomgyu’s long, feathery lashes; close enough for him to taste lemon sugar on his tongue.

He fixes the pin in place. Beomgyu looks up as it settles into his hair. From far away, his eyes looked dark and infinite. Now, Yeonjun can pick out the flecks of color in them; point out every silvery glint in them that the pin brings out.

“Thank you, Omega Beomgyu.”

He thinks he can see the slightest hint of softness in those perfect doe eyes as they look up at him – but that must be a trick of the light. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun has Beomgyu stand by his side while Eunbi stands behind them when they enter the prince’s rooms. Taehyun extended the invitation to him and Beomgyu, so Yeonjun decides that they will enter like equals. To his delight, when the prince himself comes in to welcome them, not long at all after their arrival, he seems to be of the same mind.

He greets Yeonjun first, of course, because it would be an insult for him not to, taking his hand and rubbing his own scent all over Yeonjun’s wrist. Today, he does not nuzzle into it, does not indulge in Yeonjun’s scent any more than necessary. Then he bows deeply to Beomgyu, the way he would to a well-respected courtesan. He does not take his hand, although he could; Beomgyu does not offer it.

“Good evening, Beomgyu. Thank you for joining me and my wife for dinner.”

Beomgyu barely reacts at all. Once again, his body seems frozen, and he dips his head in recognition jerkily, not saying a word. Taehyun seems a little shaken by his reaction, his eyes studying Beomgyu’s posture that has visibly gone tense all over. Yeonjun wants so badly to reach out and snap Beomgyu out of this state somehow, but he does not know if he has the ability to.

Before an awkward silence has an opportunity to stretch, Taehyun nods his head at the beta behind them. “Eunbi – it is a pleasure to see you as well.”

Eunbi quickly says her thanks and bows as deeply as she can. Yeonjun’s husband seems to take a bracing breath, and then steps backwards, giving them more space, perhaps hoping to make Beomgyu more comfortable.

“They have brought the food already, so we do not have to wait. Please follow me.”

Taehyun turns away from them to lead them further into his quarters, and Yeonjun, desperate to rectify the situation, reaches out for Beomgyu’s hand, finding it through his sleeve and squeezing it. Beomgyu jolts away in the first second, but once his wide eyes meet Yeonjun’s, he relaxes minutely into his hold. He throws an unreadable glance at Taehyun’s back, then squeezes Yeonjun’s hand. He does not let it go, so Yeonjun does not let go, either. They follow Taehyun to his much more spacious and lavish tea room than the one in Yeonjun’s own quarters, decorated with statues of lying tigers on either side of the door. Beomgyu's eyes are drawn to them immediately, and Yeonjun wishes he had a way of encouraging him to touch them without anyone noticing.

Taehyun takes his seat at the center of the table, then looks up at them placidly. Yeonjun finally takes a moment to take his husband in, his plain black robes – worn properly tonight, but clearly intended for weather much warmer than this in a compromise with his overheating body – his clenched jaw and tired eyes; the faintness of his scent.

As his mate, Yeonjun can still smell him, but the sharp spicy note is almost undetectable when compared to how overwhelming it was last night. He must have done something to push his scent down until it was barely a hint of pepper in the air – slathered his scent glands in ointments, most likely, to the screaming protests of his body that needed to take up space with its scent now more than ever. Yeonjun has had to mute his own scent before as well, to attend important events without being improper and disruptive with the smell of his own pre-heats, and all he remembers of those experiences is an overwhelming dizziness, and a burn under his skin as his body rejected the very notion of not being able to smell itself. Taehyun has to be in so much discomfort, but all he is showing is a hint of tension and fatigue on his face.

Sometimes, Yeonjun admires his husband's dedication to his office; his willingness to put his duty first.

He must have done it to make Beomgyu more comfortable, to ensure he does not have to spend the entire dinner fighting with his instincts that tell him to crawl to his new alpha's feet and present – if that were the case, though, wouldn't Taehyun have had the foresight to ask that Beomgyu's sweet pre-heat smell was covered up as well? There is no good reason for Taehyun to put himself through the grueling task of having to resist his own urge to claim. All he had to do was send a single servant to notify them.

Unless he is not covering his scent up because of Beomgyu at all – maybe he did it because of Yeonjun, because he recognized that in his current, oddly fragile state, Yeonjun cannot be trusted not to throw himself onto his husband's cock at the slightest whiff of pepper. It is an indirect way of telling Yeonjun that he will not tolerate the whorish behavior he had been letting himself display any longer. Tonight, Taehyun has no intention of fucking him to sleep, and if Yeonjun is honest with himself, he knows that the two previous nights, the prince did not really desire him, either. He let himself be seduced, out of pity, perhaps, but certainly not out of any conscious desire that did not come from the rush of pre-rut hormones. In a way, Yeonjun took advantage of his husband's inner alpha's desire for Beomgyu's body, and claimed it for himself.

It is Beomgyu's beautiful eyes that finally tear his mind away from his quickly blackening thoughts. As is Yeonjun's nature, he once again reacted to the unexpected with paranoia he did not know how to tame. Shameful.

But Beomgyu looks almost desperate when his eyes meet Yeonjun's urgently, and his hand squeezes at Yeonjun's tightly, and he realizes that they are all waiting for him to take his seat. Beomgyu is waiting for guidance, suddenly all too happy to defer to Yeonjun if there is an alpha present in the room. The thought itches and scratches at Yeonjun's mind.

He could take the more intimate spot at his husband's side, he could even offer to serve him like a good omega wife, but instead he takes the seat opposite the prince – the guest's seat; the outsider's seat. Beomgyu lowers himself next to him, their hands finally detaching from each other as they fold their hands in their laps politely. If the prince notices, he is polite enough not to linger on it – or maybe, on some level, he understands without having to be told.

“Eunbi, my dear – will you serve my husband in my stead tonight?”

The young woman's mouth opens slightly in shock, and she rushes to bow and nod her head eagerly. It is adorable – but Yeonjun understands. Feeding the prince is a great honor; Yeonjun remembers getting to serve him for the first time on their wedding day, in front of the entire court, so out of his mind with nerves that somehow his hands stopped shaking and went perfectly still. Taehyun gave off the sweetest scent of warm spices the entire time, deep and comforting, and he would not stop looking directly at Yeonjun's face, even as he was fed colorful fruits and delicately decorated cakes, the finest cuts of meat and foods Yeonjun had never even heard of before. He looked at Yeonjun like he was the most important thing at the table and he kissed his wrist with the faintest brush of his lips once he was sated.

For Yeonjun, it is a precious memory, and these days he regrets from time to time that serving his husband became a way to corner him when he did not seem willing to make the time to have a conversation with his wife, and showing the other courtesans respect by delegating the duty to them instead. In Taehyun's usual fashion, he never asks to be served by him, most of the time content to serve himself even when they are dining with the rest of the household. Disregarding shows of status in favor of practicality; just as narrow as he has always been accused of being.

When Yeonjun's eyes meet his husband's, he is met with the slightest show of disappointment. Was he expecting to have Beomgyu serving him? Or Yeonjun himself? Or would he prefer not to be served tonight at all? Under these circumstances, Yeonjun finds his husband's whims hard to discern. Either way, the prince is too polite to not accept, once again bowing deeply with almost undue respect as the lady-in-waiting approaches him.

“It will be an honor to have you at my service, Eunbi.”

Eunbi smiles at the ground bashfully, nodding as she takes her seat by the prince's side, immediately reaching out to prepare a plate for him to enjoy. Taehyun looks at Beomgyu, whose eyes are firmly on his own knees, body tense and citrusy scent bitter, and waves a hand at the spread of various foods in front of them.

“Unfortunately, I have been quite busy today, otherwise I would have sent someone to inquire about your favorites. I asked the cook to make our dinner as varied as possible today – I hope you find something to your liking, Omega Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu only nods silently. Nobody moves except for Eunbi, who carries on with her task with a pursed mouth and remarkable composure. Yeonjun wants to make a move and reach for a bite for himself to break the stalemate, but even he feels frozen by the uncomfortable atmosphere.

Taehyun looks at Yeonjun, who has no comfort to offer him, and then to Eunbi, who lays a prepared plate in front of him politely just as he does so. “How is your father, Eunbi? I have not gotten the chance to speak with him the last time I visited the Court. Has he written you?”

As startled as she looks by being addressed directly, Eunbi does not hesitate to reply. “Yes, Your Highness. He has sent me a letter through the envoy that brought the Emperor's summons. He is well, and he is healthy, and he relayed to me the good news of my cousin's recent marriage.”

“Has her family found a good match?”

Yeonjun can detect genuine happiness on Eunbi's face in response, and his heart hurts a little with the knowledge that her responsibilities to him are the reason she could not attend her cousin's wedding herself. “Yes, Your Highness. She married one of His Imperial Majesty's provincial officials. From what I have heard, the region he helps supervise is quite beautiful.”

Taehyun's own eyes soften a little. Yeonjun does not know if his husband genuinely cares, but he seems endeared by the news nonetheless. “I wish nothing but good fortune to their union, then.”

Eunbi smiles shyly, bowing deeply in her seat. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Yeonjun's eyes wander towards Beomgyu, who is staring intently at the prince's cheek now. Somehow, his posture is a little looser, as if his curiosity overrode the discomfort towards the prince's presence. When Taehyun looks in their direction again, however, Beomgyu's eyes drop back down to his own knees. It is clear that Taehyun noticed him watching, and it seems that the sight emboldens him as he addresses Yeonjun next.

“I trust you have had a successful day?”

“Quite,” Yeonjun nods, finally reaching out to serve food for himself. There is a part of him that wants to prepare a plate for Beomgyu, like he is his own child, especially when Beomgyu visibly shows no interest in the spread in front of him, but he fights against it — it is not his duty to bail Beomgyu out of this situation; while he does want to show the other omega that he is on his side, lowering himself in front of him enough to serve him would simply be inappropriate. “I met with Master Hwang this morning, about the painting you requested.”

Taehyun nods and takes the first bite of his food, finally allowing Eunbi to reach for a bite of her own. “And how did it go?”

“Well, I think.” Yeonjun glances at Eunbi and Beomgyu, who are both looking down, leaving them to their conversation without trying to engage in it themselves. He allows himself a little smile. “He seemed quite excited to be able to paint a portrait of you again, although he did not seem to agree with your choice to not include any imperial insignia.”

The prince hums around a mouthful of food, face thoughtful for a moment before he is able to speak up again. “I think I understand – if I were an artist myself, I would also despise politics getting in the way of me creating the works I wish to make.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together. This is probably not the most proper place to bring this up, but maybe Beomgyu would be more comfortable if the conversation shifted entirely from him, and could maybe even bring himself to eat something. “There is a chance that he thinks that you are making this decision too early, my prince – it seems to be a sentiment shared among the members of our household.”

To his surprise, Taehyun’s response is a weary sigh. “With all due respect, my dear wife, our court may be adjacent to the imperial one, but people here hardly know what the goings-on are in the Imperial City. In the eyes of people here, my father may still be sitting firmly on his throne, but—” He shakes his head sharply. “Never mind. I did not invite you here to place my own burdens onto your shoulders. All I ask of you is that you trust my best judgment.” When the prince pauses, making direct, pointed eye contact, Yeonjun gives him the nod that he is waiting for before he continues. “I invited you to give Omega Beomgyu the warm welcome that I was not able to provide just yet.”

The look he throws Beomgyu’s way could be disarming to an omega more vulnerable to an alpha’s charm, but Beomgyu himself hardly acknowledges it.

“I do hope you find your appetite, Beomgyu.”

The prince says it softly, but Beomgyu flinches nonetheless like he was sharply rebuked, and lifts his eyes to the table, reaching for a plate jerkily. Both Yeonjun and Taehyun fall silent as they watch him mindlessly pick bits of food up and drop them on his plate, seemingly without regard for what they were or how much he is taking. He prepares his plate, then takes a bite and chews it slowly and thoroughly, eyes flicking side to side as he visibly fights the urge to look up.

When Yeonjun looks over at Taehyun, his mouth is hanging open slightly, visibly stricken by the effect of his own words. After a moment, he notices Yeonjun’s eyes on him, shuts his mouth and looks away, over their shoulders at the doorway behind them. His expression shutters and closes. Yeonjun isn’t sure what to do, whose side to rush to first to reassure and comfort.

His eyes find Eunbi’s, who visibly struggles to not look away in discomfort. She gives him a sympathetic look, and then politely looks down.

Yeonjun takes a deep breath. This is his household. He is in control.

“I will soon be taking Beomgyu outside the palace,” he says calmly, and picks up a mouthful of food.

Both Taehyun and Beomgyu twitch, and he sees both of their eyes shift towards himself; they’re both still half-lost in their own heads, but at least the tea room isn’t deathly quiet anymore.

“I am sure you agree, my prince, that hardly having a change of clothes is not becoming of a prince’s omega. We will be buying fabrics and jewelry, to rectify the matter. I am sure our court tailor will be happy to get to work with new measurements, for once.”

He watches Taehyun intently as he pieces himself back together, pulling back from wherever his mind went to nod his head. “Certainly.” the prince presses his lips together, then adds, “I hope you were not waiting for my approval to carry out your plan. You know that I rely on you completely on household matters.”

The part of Yeonjun that takes immense pride in that fact preens this time as well, and some of the apprehension melts off his body immediately at the reassurance. He is trusted, because he is capable. This is his home. “Of course not, my prince. I am simply making conversation – unless you’d like to join us?”

Beomgyu’s hand twitches towards Yeonjun’s thigh, but he controls it at the last second and reaches for another bite of food instead. Taehyun either notices, or he is smart enough to understand nonetheless, because he shakes his head in response.

“No, thank you,” once again, he looks worn out; perhaps Yeonjun should make this dinner as brief as possible for everyone’s sake. “I am quite busy with administrative matters as it is.”

“Of course, my prince. I am well aware. Thank you for taking the time to dine with us tonight; it's an honor.”

They are empty platitudes, and Yeonjun suspects that Taehyun is well aware when he lowers his head stiffly. “It is always a pleasure to dine with you, my wife.”

This time, the prince reaches out for his plate, and finally, the fineries spread out before them seem to be enough of a distraction for them to finish their dinner in peace, even as a hesitant silence lingers around them for most of it.

.

Yeonjun sheds the shawl covering his shoulders as soon as they step through the doors of the waiting room. The room is dark, and Eunbi rushes past him to turn on a lamp. It paints the room in warm light, and Yeonjun can finally see again the uncomfortable tightness on the face of his lady-in-waiting. He expected as much, but when he looks over at Beomgyu, what he sees has him pressing his lips together to mask his surprise.

The omega's cheeks are ruddy, his eyes swollen, reddened and wet. There is no corresponding wetness on his face, but when Yeonjun glances down, he can see darkened splotches on his sleeves where his tears soaked through the fabric he wiped at them with. His scent is bitter, and the worst part of it is that the sweetness of his heat makes even the sting of his distress smell mouthwatering, like a treat with an initial bite that only makes the eventual sweetness of it even better.

In contrast, Beomgyu's expression and posture are severe; his face is stony and cold, his back perfectly straight, hands politely folded, his chin up and eyes down like Yeonjun remembers being hammered into him at the imperial court by a dead-eyed beta tutor, one strict whip of a thin switch to his back or hands at a time. For once, he does not meet Yeonjun's eyes when Yeonjun looks at him; he stares at the floor like he is seeing nothing at all.

Yeonjun takes a stuttering breath; he took control of the situation at dinner, just to have it ripped right out of his hands again. He has half a mind to step closer to Beomgyu and embrace him, if only because his tired and frayed mind screams at him to comfort a fellow omega whose scent is begging for help, when Beomgyu speaks up and takes the reins away from him altogether.

“Your Grace, do you have further need of me, or may I retire to my room for the night?”

His voice is remarkably steady, only a hint of a tightness to it betraying how difficult it must be for him to keep his composure. Yeonjun aches for him, something about that desperately maintained façade of peace painfully familiar.

“No, Beomgyu, you are free to go.” Yeonjun’s own voice is just as steady. As much as Beomgyu seemed to despise the notion, they aren’t all that different. “You too, Eunbi. Thank you for tending to me today, and sharing a table with me and my husband. I appreciate your service immensely.”

He makes eye contact with Eunbi, and she smiles in acknowledgement, even as she bows politely. Beomgyu does not react at all.

“It was an honor, Your Grace. Should I have them call for your personal servant to assist you with undressing?”

The very thought of having to hold himself together for someone for any longer than this makes an ache settle behind Yeonjun’s eyes. It has been a long day; he has no interest in prolonging it any further.

“No, my dear, I will help myself tonight. Thank you.”

Eunbi bows again, this time even deeper. “Good night then, Your Grace.”

“Good night Eunbi, I will see you in the morning.”

With one more small bow of her head, Eunbi leaves, and then the waiting room is vacant except for Yeonjun and Beomgyu, who is keeping his lips pressed together so tight that their petal pink has gone pale.

“Omega Beomgyu—” he starts, but Beomgyu interrupts him, the rudeness of it startling Yeonjun into silence.

“Am I allowed to return to my room unaccompanied?”

Yeonjun blinks, further confused by the question. “Of course; according to the prince’s word, you are free to walk the halls of this house freely, as any other courtier.”

Beomgyu nods stiffly. “I will take my leave now, then.” He turns around before Yeonjun can even nod his assent.

“Good night, Beomgyu.”

His farewell goes unanswered. Yeonjun closes his eyes, and breathes in the bitter citrus lingering in the air. It clings to the fabrics of his robes as he takes them off, he smells it in his hair when he brushes it out; it surrounds him when he slips into bed, and all he wishes is that there was a hint of spice in the air as well, to soothe his mind.

 

.

 

The next day, Beomgyu is already there when Yeonjun wakes and joins his ladies for breakfast in his tea room. Today, he is dressed in gentle petal pinks that make his cheeks look rosy and his mouth more ripe and inviting than ever, and Yeonjun has to force himself to look away the first time he lays eyes on him, still foggy from his sleep. He still cannot stop himself from looking over to where he sits next to Dayeon again and watching as he barely sips at his tea, not more than three bites of food pushed past his lips.

He seems strangely faded today. Where the day before he was sharp and curious, now he is muted, shrunken into himself. He has barely said a word to Dayeon, and his eyes are cloudy and unfocused most of the time. Yeonjun tries to not let it affect him; Beomgyu’s moods should not be his responsibility – just as his ladies can handle themselves, so can Beomgyu. He has enough to worry about as is. Beomgyu’s happiness is not crucial to the running of the household; it is just Yeonjun’s curiosity, and the novelty of Beomgyu being around, that makes it seem so important; so worthy of his attention.

That, and the bitter citrus that stings Yeonjun’s nose as if Beomgyu is not sitting half the room away. To him, it smells just as strong as if they were sitting side by side. His mouth waters with the sweetness, and his chest aches with the bitterness. He forces himself to eat generously despite the tightness in his stomach; it will be a long day.

At least all the other ladies seem excited, their trips into the city beyond the walls of the palace rare enough for them to feel like an adventure every time. Most of the ladies are dressed in their best clothes, to make as much of an impression as they can, their necks and wrists dripping with jewels, hair glittering with pins and subtle headpieces, carefully chosen so as not to overshadow Yeonjun himself. Dasom’s robes glisten with every move she makes while the fish embroidered into them with silver thread ripple as if they were alive and squirming, Eunbi’s hair his held back by pins adorned with jewels of the same color as her eyes, and Miyeon’s paint makes her look like a beautiful doll carved out of ivory. Yeonjun makes sure to compliment each of them as they move from the tea room to Yeonjun’s dressing room so he can get ready, and takes pleasure in their flattered smiles and blushes.

He does not compliment Beomgyu, who is both unpainted and devoid of jewelry today as well. To Yeonjun, he looks the most beautiful out of all of them regardless. His gut stirs at the realization, and a strange fear sinks into his limbs.

It makes him pause as they enter the dressing room, even as his ladies spread out around it as always, chatting away about which color they should recommend Yeonjun to wear today. He cannot stop looking at Beomgyu, who stands awkwardly to the side just like Yeonjun himself. The simple perfection of his face makes Yeonjun burn with shame with every breath he draws in as he observes it.

Chaeyoung looks up from the jewelry she and two of the others are sorting through, giving Yeonjun a curious glance, and it is that that forces Yeonjun’s mouth open, as reluctant as he is to do so.

“Beomgyu.” The omega in question flinches, but does not look up or turn towards him in the slightest. Yeonjun fights himself to not feel insulted. “Sit before the mirror, please. I will paint you today.”

Beomgyu’s eyelashes flutter, and his eyes finally snap to Yeonjun in apparent surprise. His chest swells with a deep, steadying breath.

“I cannot afford to have an unpainted courtier follow me into town; much less an omega. It would be unbecoming of my entourage.”

All his ladies in their fineries, and Beomgyu, only with his natural beauty to show off the splendor of his prince’s court? It would be unacceptable; and Yeonjun does not feel inclined to let it happen.

And it will allow him to look at Beomgyu’s delicate face a little longer.

For a long moment, Beomgyu does not move, and all the ladies watch the interaction as it feels like the whole room is holding its breath. As the moment stretches, Yeonjun gets ready for Beomgyu to defy him again. Question him, or say that he will paint himself instead.

Once again, however, Beomgyu takes him by surprise, obeying without a word of complaint, crossing the room to Yeonjun’s mirror, and sitting down as requested. He meets his own eyes in the reflection before they fall on Yeonjun’s, who looks away immediately.

“I want to wear my husband’s colors today – please find me something suitable to wear, my dears. I trust your taste.”

He smiles at his ladies as they bow in acknowledgement, then follows Beomgyu to the mirror, feeling his own hand shake as the scent of bitter citrus gets even stronger than before. Beomgyu is staring straight ahead and biting his lips. Yeonjun reaches for a brush with a carved ebony handle.

Beomgyu will have to look up at him, or Yeonjun will have to lower himself for this to work. Both options have that kernel of shame in him burning even brighter.

He opens a jar of paint, and tries to summon the same tranquil peace that he feels when he does this for himself. Beomgyu’s eyes flicker up towards him nervously, and somehow, it soothes Yeonjun just a little.

He swirls the brush in paint. Beomgyu’s skin is more golden than Yeonjun’s; it’s glowing and rosy in anticipation of his heat. It will almost be a shame to cover it up.

“Do noble omegas go in public unpainted in the Golden City?” He finds himself asking while he reaches out to tilt Beomgyu’s face towards himself.

Beomgyu blinks hazy eyes up at him, clearly bemused by the question. Maybe his mind is just clouded by the heat – if Beomgyu smelled any less bitter, Yeonjun could convince himself of that easily. “Sometimes. Married ones can afford to.”

His eyes close at the first touch of Yeonjun’s brush; his cheek is flushed, and it reddens even more as Yeonjun starts to paint, as confidently as he can make himself be. He has painted others before, his cousins and friends, even his aunt when she was too sick to do so herself. It still feels brand new when it is Beomgyu’s delicate face under his hand.

“Is that what you did?”

“Never.” It is clear that there is more Beomgyu wants to say, but it takes him a long time to continue, and when he does, it is with his eyes open, boring into Yeonjun’s own bare face. “My husband would never allow it.”

This time it’s Yeonjun who is taken aback, and Beomgyu barrels forward in a hushed voice as Yeonjun’s brush pauses halfway to his face, as if it is incredibly important to him that Yeonjun hears this.

“His omega exists to be beautiful and bear him children, what good is he if he doesn’t do either. Every imperfection on his omega’s face is a shame on his name. It would be an insult to him, and no insult to his honor can go unpunished.”

Yeonjun breathes heavily; deliberately. His hand trembles slightly, even as memory reminds him that this sort of thinking is far from uncommon. His own freedoms, and the ones he strives to maintain in his household, are more of an exception than the rule, even in the Empire. Yeonjun maintains traditional decorum out of his own sense of obligation, but not everyone feels the way he does. Not everyone gets a choice.

He bites into his own lip until it stings, staring down into Beomgyu’s half-painted face. The untouched parts of it are flushed and bright with passion, while the paint gives the impression of a pale, expressionless mask, and Yeonjun is torn between wiping all of it off to allow Beomgyu the freedom he seems so desperate for and rushing to finish his work just so he would not have to look at his emotion directly like this.

Frozen between the two actions, Yeonjun stays motionless until Beomgyu breaks eye contact and looks away, seemingly staring off into space unseeingly. “Such was the way of life in the Golden City,” he murmurs quietly, as if to signal that he is done speaking.

“The prince…” Yeonjun starts, but Beomgyu cuts him off.

“Does not force you to conduct yourself in any way, I presume.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together. “Correct.” He takes hold of Beomgyu’s face again, and resumes his work.

“Why do you paint then? Is your natural beauty not enough, Your Grace? Do you wish to catch the eye of another?”

It’s insolent, but in this moment it feels almost petty, like a jab thrown more out of a feeling of insecurity, of vulnerability, than any actual malice, or true suspicion, and Yeonjun dismisses it with a shaky breath.

“Here, in the Empire, it is customary to wear paint even for married omegas. It is what is proper. And I enjoy it. Besides,” he pauses, switching his brush for a different, thinner one, more suited for painting Beomgyu’s lips with. When he finally presses his brush into the softness of them, he can feel Beomgyu’s eyes flicker back to his face as warm breath fans over his fingers, and he keeps his own eyes pinned on his work, as to not have to face them. “Some cages can protect as well as restrain us. As I’ve said before – me and many of my ladies find it comforting.”

“You find pleasure in being restrained,” Beomgyu says as soon as his lips are free to move again.

Yeonjun bites his lips as he switches his tools once again. “There is a safety that decorum provides us,” he finally looks into Beomgyu’s curious eyes, trying to look reproachful without seeming hostile. “But I can see you do not care for its protection.”

“It is not decorum that protects you, Your Grace. It is the belief of those in power in the importance of that decorum. What is there to save you, should they choose to abandon it?”

“As long as there are those who would break the law, there are also those who would enforce it.”

“Maybe – but what good is that to you while a crime is being committed against you? The thought of revenge, of justice may seem comforting in the moment, but revenge will not heal your scars – it will not erase the memories.”

Yeonjun narrows his eyes. “So you would rather abandon it altogether?”

“I would rather abandon naïve hope than be taken advantage of.”

“You kept decorum well enough in front of my husband last night.”

It feels wrong as soon as Yeonjun says it, but he does not get to regret it, not when Beomgyu’s beautiful eyes are narrowing at him already, his nostrils flaring as he takes a deep breath before shrugging slightly, his face twitching with some repressed emotion.

“He seems to be a man of decorum himself, from what I’ve seen,” Beomgyu says carefully, before his eyes drop to the bruises still visible inside the sleeve of Yeonjun’s robe. “In public, anyway.”

“I think by know you've heard enough stories of our prince's old-fashioned nature to know better than to imply what you are implying.” A sense of outrage swells in Yeonjun, an he's not sure who he is even offended for – the prince, whose integrity Beomgyu keeps questioning, or himself, who, if Beomgyu was correct in his suspicions, would be reduced to nothing but a victim of yet another tyrannical alpha husband, disgracing himself by scrambling to his defense over and over again?

“I think you alone would know of the prince's conduct in private – unless there are rumours that are yet to make their way to my ears.” Beomgyu cocks an eyebrow, and the provocation feels more probing than insulting – Yeonjun can tell that he will take Yeonjun's response as the most honest answer when it comes to the prince's fidelity, so he makes a show out of not making a sound or moving a muscle in his husband's defense – Prince Taehyun's honesty is his own best defense. Beomgyu's prods and needles are clever, but Yeonjun knows better. Today he does, anyway. “I may yet find out for myself – the prince may be an honorable man by nature, but he is still just an alpha – and he seems just as aware of it as you and I are. Holding back on an old indulgence is one thing, but there's nothing sweeter than a new, exotic flavor.”

Yeonjun tries to keep his own face from screwing up. Beomgyu has a point; and lately, Taehyun has been struggling with his restraint more than ever. It's understandable, and so far, he has found effective ways to mitigate it, but that does not mean that Yeonjun is free of worry. If anything was to upheave the delicate equilibrium of the prince's restraint and desire, it would be this. A second mate, unclaimed, fertile, right here under his roof.

“The prince will not call on you.”

“What if he does?”

Yeonjun's fingers tighten on the brush he's holding. He thinks about his wedding night, the dizzying pleasure, the hazy fog over his mind, his husband's hands and lips and cock, the warmth, the stickiness, all of the dull aches that came the next day, soothed by the comfort of his husband's arms. And he thinks about the pale, small thing Beomgyu was yesterday in his presence. And he knows the answer, as clear as day. He paints the inside of Beomgyu's mouth a bright red, a caricature of what it will surely look like in just a few days – reddened with blood, enticing the world to violate it, to rain love and abuse on it until it bruises blue.

“Then I will ensure your safety.”

Beomgyu blinks his big, dark eyes. “How?”

Yeonjun turns away from him to put his brush away, letting his hair obscure his face from the view of the mirror. “By any means necessary.”

 

.

 

A royal excursion into the city is a common enough occurrence for all the local merchants and craftsmen to be familiar with Yeonjun and his entourage, but just rare enough for people along the road to stop and bow as the procession passes through. People don't gather in crowds to watch them like they do in the Imperial capital whenever the Emperor and his entourage leave the palace, but more than a couple people stop still along their way to gawk at the Prince's wife and his ladies. It's warm enough for Yeonjun and his chosen few to travel in an open carriage, but instead of taking the opportunity to marvel at the prospering city his husband governs, Yeonjun takes the chance to watch Beomgyu observe the lands he's found himself in with his painted-on mask of red and white indifference. If he's impressed, he does not show it, although the familiar curious glint in Beomgyu's eyes reappears as they pass the fancy villas of local elites and the dirt road slowly gives way to a stone-paved road. The streets don't shine with the same brilliant whites and bold colored façades that the Imperial capital offers, but it's still far from the provincial simplicity of towns Yeonjun vaguely remembered from his early youth. In his native south, the urban citizenry rarely had the means to keep their houses as well-kept as people here do, with most of the wealth in the region kept in the hands of minor local nobles like Yeonjun's own family, who preferred to pour their wealth into lavish country estates rather than urban development. For all his old-fashioned tendencies when it came to courtly behavior, the prince has always been unwilling to be left behind by his father when it came to modern administration. The only provincial thing about the princedom was the prince's own wife.

And yet, as they near the merchant's quarter, if anything, Beomgyu seems vaguely dismayed by the sight before him, unmoved by the marble parapets of the town hall, the life-sized statue of the prince himself looking down solemnly from its courtyard at anyone approaching it, a statue which the local rich gifted the prince with to gain his favor, only for Taehyun to immediately have it placed in front of his offices where he wouldn't have to look at it in his own home, or the intricately decorated fountain with a sculpture depicting a great Imperial victory. Yeonjun, for once, can't help his own curiosity.

“Omega Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu flinches slightly, but quickly composes himself, giving a demure nod to indicate he's listening without lifting his eyes. “Yes, your Grace.”

“They say that the city you hail from was one paved with gold – is there any truth to it? Or are those just empty words?”

Something like a suppressed smile crosses Beomgyu's mouth. “I think that if it were possible to pave a street with gold, you would know sooner than I would, because it would have become the new imperial trend, surely.” Then he shakes his head, the smile appearing more visibly this time. “No, our streets were not paved with gold, although they might as well have been paved with every single piece of jewelry I had owned. My husband's father had every street paved with a precious kind of sturdy stone after he gained the quarries it came from by conquest. To show off his wealth, he wasted the stone he could have sold on a pointless vanity project. It won him the prestige, if nothing else, when emissaries from other lands came into the city and saw our strange, yellow-tinted roads unlike any other, they called him "the man who paved a city with gold" for the rest of his life.”

Yeonjun is not sure how to feel; or rather, he was not sure how Beomgyu felt. He always seemed so proud, proclaiming his affiliation with the city, yet he told a story of its splendor as a story of a vain man's folly. The city didn't come to ruin because of this if it was still worth conquering and parading around its nobility; it was just a silly story of pride and excess.

“It must have looked splendid, in any case.”

“It certainly did.” Beogmyu looks down, adjusting his robes. Sweet citrus wafts over from where he sits, carries by the chilly wind. “It was enough to catch the wanting eye of the Empire.” A stiffer smile wedges itself onto Beomgyu's beautiful face. “It is really quite poetic. The imperial armies rape my city and then hand over its lady regent to the Emperor's son so he can–”

“Omega Beomgyu.”

The carriage, all its occupants deathly silent, slowly comes to a stop. The driver was supposed to announce to Yeonjun their arrival moments before, but Yeonjun does not begrudge him the hesitation to intrude. He is taught to keep his ears shut as to the royal family's business, but this is far from the common gossip and idle chatter that usually governs trips like these. Beomgyu does not respond, but he does not stop smiling at his own lap.

Yeonjun breathes deeply, fighting with himself to keep his cool. Beomgyu will learn to accept his station. With time. Taehyun will show himself to be a man who can be trusted, because he is, and Beomgyu will finally, understand what happened to him to be an empty political gesture with little consequence, because it is. Yeonjun will give birth to a strong and healthy heir, they'll name them after the Emperor to show their gratitude for the boons they have received by Taehyun's father's royal mercy, and one day their child will inherit Taehyun's lands and with some luck and skill also his place among the next emperor's advisors, and Yeonjun will live out the rest of his days as one of the gossiping old crones who make it their lives' mission to instruct and school young omegas at the Imperial court, or reading poetry out loud on a boat rowed by a herd of young noble children like his grandmother used to. All in due time.

“You simply must tell me what your favorite color is,” he says as casually as he can, and gestures outside the carriage for the doors to be open so his retinue can disembark. The merchant they're visiting, Yeonjun's favorite source of fine fabrics, is already on his knees, ready to receive them. Everything moves, except for Beomgyu, who picks at his robes some more. “As much as I trust my servants' taste, I'm sure it must have been torturous to not get a say in such matters.”

He wonders what they had Beomgyu wear when he was a prisoner – he was still treated well as a noble, certainly, but Yeonjun still had very little idea what that entailed – he himself has never been held prisoner, nor been in danger of it. Most of the omegas he knew spent their whole lives in the comfort and peace of the heart of the empire, far from wars and conquests and strife.

Beomgyu seems to consider his words, maybe questioning their motivation. Does Yeonjun mean to just shut him up, is he offering yet another olive branch? Or maybe he just struggles against his own pride to give any answer at all.

“I have found myself quite fond of green, your grace.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun has also found himself to be quite fond of green, especially when it was reflected in Beomgyu's lovely dark eyes, and came together with lungfuls of citrus. Every fabric whether glossy or matte, light and flowing or heavy and draping, seemed to hug Beomgyu's slender neck and smooth arms with loving grace. Everything beautiful clung to him like kin, brocade and silk, laces and furs.

He once again spied Beogmyu laying his hands on everything within sight, like he was eager to feel the world with his own hands, petting furs and letting fine silk flow through his fingers like water. He snuck in sniffs of the perfumes the merchant sprayed his wares with to make them more appealing, but his whole face seemed to curl at the scent of them, his nose probably too sensitive in this part of his cycle to be able to withstand artificial scents like these.

It made Yeonjun smile to see, despite everything, as he chatted with the merchant, letting the man talk his ear off about the exotic origins of some of the materials he offered. As far as Yeonjun's education told him, at least half of his stories were hardly plausible, but Yeonjun's ladies always found his stories entertaining, so they indulged the man when they could. Yeonjun took the opportunity of the distraction to gauge Beomgyu's reactions, both to the stories and the fine materials they were meant to advertise, and watched on with pride as Beomgyu's eyes widened while he picked out all of Beomgyu's favorites for them to purchase. The Omega's eyes visibly avoided Yeonjun's as they made their way out of the shop, having left part of the entourage behind to make sure their order is fulfilled, but Yeonjun did not let it deter him. Earning Beomgyu's trust will take more than just a few boughs of fancy fabrics, but he made an impression, and that's what matters.

They proceed to visits local artisans to make arrangements for jewelry – Beomgyu seems clearly less taken by long discussions of gem cutting and the latest fashion of painted brooches, and he fades into the background somewhat and Yeonjun dives headfirst into his pride and passion of keeping his household in step with imperial fashion. He inspects the brooch with an intricate painting of the Imperial palace on it that the local metalworker bought off his friend in the capital, and leaves the shop with plans to try and enthuse Master Hwang's apprentice into decorating one for him. The young man was clearly infatuated either with Yeonjun or one of his ladies, and would be more eager to spend hours bent over a tiny piece of wood just because of his prince's wife's whim than his master would. He makes sure to have Beomgyu join the few ladies he sends to pay his regard and deliver a gift to a local council member who has been very helpful to the prince in pushing his ideas past the council without losing its support, just so he can avoid having Beomgyu in one room with his favorite alpha metalworker, and keep up what seemed to be improving humor on Beomgyu's part ever since that morning.

Feeding Beomgyu's voracious curiosity seems to be a good way to keep him calm and in good spirits, and Yeonjun makes a careful note of that as Beomgyu lets himself be pulled into a discussion of all the gossip about the town council as their carriage starts to make its way back towards the palace. He seems the most interested in the salacious rumors of the prince's greatest ally on the council having an interest in Yeonjun's husband of a nature much more romantic than political. Yeonjun himself dismisses the stories with a shake of his head; he himself has seen what others have, the barely concealed adoration of the older beta towards the young prince, but the interest never seemed terribly consequential to Yeonjun. While the prince took full advantage of the councilman's favor to make decision after decision, he never went past what is expected from a political ally in showing his appreciation in return – if anything, it reminded Yeonjun of the polite dance he'd have to do with older affluent alphas who were looking for fresh-faced young omega mistresses back at the Imperial court. Just polite enough to not make a powerful enemy; hiding his disinterest behind a veil of propriety; just flattering enough to be able to lean on this interest should the need arise; a delicate balance of a tragically unfulfillable courtship. And, of course, Yeonjun played his own part by making sure his gratitude for the continued support of his husband made it clear to the man that the prince's wife is well aware of the goings-on outside of the palace walls as well – just in case.

Beomgyu seems both intrigued by Yeonjun's lighthearted reaction and slightly disappointed – although Yeonjun is not sure why. Even if Taehyun did return the man's affections, being the last person at court to know wouldn't exactly provide Beomgyu with much leverage. Maybe he just seeks the satisfaction of being justified in his mistrust of Taehyun, or perhaps alphas in general.

Either way, his hopes are unfulfilled by this particular piece of gossip, and he lets the conversation veer away towards a councilman who seems to spend more time with his finely bred horses than with his equally finely bred wife, and his spirits seem to remain quite high.

Yeonjun, feeling accomplished with every amused twitch of Beomgyu's mouth, keeps his head high proudly the whole journey home.

Chapter 3

Notes:

someone asked for this in the comments and i was just working on this yesterday (i've been working on this bit by bit the whole time) so i was like well. might as well show my work or smth. thank you to everyone who commented, again. i'm glad you are enjoying the... choices i've made with the way this is written :) and i see your theories about the characters >.> ... no comment though :)

On the day Beomgyu's heat starts, Yeonjun wakes with an unpleasant feeling in his gut, sitting up sluggishly as his personal servant wakes him before rushing off to open the curtains and fetch his robe. Knowing better than to ignore his own intuition, he clears his throat as soon as the robe is sat on his shoulders, and asks:

“Is there any news I am to be informed of?”

Clearly taken aback by the question, the servant glances nervously towards the door before responding. “... yes, one of Captain Soobin's men was here earlier. Lady Dayeon insisted she would personally relay the news as soon as you were ready to sit for breakfast.”

Yeonjun sighs in exasperation. If the news is so bad Dayeon thinks it has to be delivered by a friend, then why wait until Yeonjun was done with his morning routine to do so? “Bring her here immediately. She may be willing to wait but I am not.”

He sits down to brush his hair while the servant leaves, just to surrender the brush to her again as soon as Dayeon steps through the door to the bedroom, letting her do her duties while Yeonjun deals with a hesitant-seeming Dayeon.

“What is it? Talk.”

Dayeon shakes her head. “Nothing we have not expected, Your Grace. Omega Beomgyu's heat has started maybe an hour ago. From what the messenger said, the General had his men follow your orders exactly – he sent for Eunbi and a physician and made sure no alphas stand guard in front of his quarters.”

Yeonjun chews on his lips; his skin crawls with the thought of Beomgyu, writhing on a bed in the concubines’ quarters in the throes of heat. “And the prince?”

“I am sure he has been informed as well, Your Grace.”

“No I mean – are the prince's rooms still open? Has his rut started as well?”

“There have been no news from the prince yet.”

Yeonjun feels his own shoulders sag in relief – Taehyun always makes sure to inform them ahead of time if his rooms are to be sealed, and the lack of synchronicity in his and Beomgyu's cycles brings some relief to Yeonjun's worrying mind. Thoughts of romantic tales of true mates, always perfectly in sync even if worlds apart, can leave his mind for the time being. All he has to hope for now is that Beomgyu's heat can pass peacefully.

 

.

 

They are halfway through breakfast when a servant arrives with news from the concubines’ quarters – Eunbi says Beomgyu is half-mad with his heat, so fiercely territorial he will not even allow a beta like Eunbi into his bed room which he seems to have claimed as his nest in its entirety, and will not let the physician see him beyond letting them hand him ointments and tea to ease his pain. Eunbi asks to be relieved of her duty to spend the day at the concubines’ quarters, given that her presence seems more upsetting to Beomgyu than anything else. There are no details in the message the servant relays, but Yeonjun can imagine the situation – Eunbi and their physician sitting in the tea room of the concubines' quarters, trying to make conversation as court etiquette dictates while pitiful whines and sobs of pain echo through the halls, or even worse, gasps of pleasure, of ecstatic relief as Beomgyu scratches at the itch his heat ignited under his skin.

Yeonjun allows her to leave Beomgyu and join them for the day, but asks the servant to take her place instead and update him should Beomgyu's condition change.

 

.

 

Sometime before lunch, Yeonjun is informed that Beomgyu seems to have fallen asleep, and after having water and fresh towels brought into Beomgyu's room and checking his temperature, the physician excused himself, leaving behind more tea and medicine the guards or the servant present are to give to Beomgyu if asked. Still, no news from the prince. 

 

.

 

The steward of the household is having an afternoon tea with Yeonjun and complaining heartily about the prince's exorbitant travel expenses as he stubbornly divides his time between his own home and the Imperial court, when Dasom peeks into the tea room and announces that a messenger is here with “urgent news”. Yeonjun asks Dasom to let the messenger in, but the messenger insists to be heard in the waiting room, privately.

Sensing the worst, Yeonjun excuses himself, bracing for the news while he gathers himself to move to the other room. The messenger seems harassed, standing with his head bowed and hands behind his back in supplication, apparently as unready to deliver his message as Yeonjun is to receive it.

Dasom leaves to join the others in the tea room, and Yeonjun takes a deep breath.

“Speak.”

“Your Grace… I. I do not know where to start. I was following Your Grace's orders, staying with the guards assigned to the concubines' quarters, checking in on the concubine to see if he was asleep or needed anything. He was asleep until about an hour ago, when we… we heard this terrible noise, so we rushed into the building, when we realized he was crying, he was wailing inconsolably. I kept asking him if he wanted any medicine, but he wouldn't reply, then we heard him throw himself at the door of his bedroom, and he asked us to—”

“Bring the prince.” Biologically inevitable, as much as they all would have loved to deny it. Beomgyu is strong-willed, but the instincts of a freshly mated Omega in heat are stronger.

“No, your Grace,” the servant responds, sounding like he himself cannot believe what he is saying. “He asked for the Captain.”

Yeonjun's heart skips a beat. “Soobin?”

With a vigorous nod, the man continues. “I wanted to go and inform Your Grace at once, but the guards stopped me by force. They were afraid the Captain would suffer just because of the ramblings of a crazed omega. They said he's just calling out to the one virile unmated alpha he knows, that it doesn’t mean anything. But the omega kept begging, he was making such a racket, we couldn't even bear to come near the door, and kept asking us to call for the Captain. Eventually, one of the guards, he's a young boy, Your Grace, he's a good man with a good heart, he couldn't bear the crying, he decided to go report it to the Captain anyway, just to get away, and I rushed here to tell you what happened. I don't know if the Captain is coming but—”

Yeonjun closes his eyes. Whenever he regains control, another thing shows itself to be outside of his grasp. Another surprise he could not have possibly accounted for, another fire to put out as soon and as quietly as possible. “Go back. If the Captain comes, tell him I order him to visit me immediately. If he has something to answer for, he will answer to me. If he is innocent, he can exonerate himself in person.”

The servant bows deeply. “Yes, Your Grace. I will return immediately.”

Before he can leave, Yeonjun raises a hand, making him pause halfway through a step backwards, so as not to show his back to Yeonjun impolitely. “Thank you, for bringing this to my attention.”

If it was even possible, the man bows even more deeply. “Of course, Your Grace.”

When he is gone, Yeonjun takes a deep, bracing breath and returns to his tea room, to the curious eyes of both the steward and his ladies. He forces a jovial smile onto his own face, and glides over to the table as gracefully as he can manage, while his mind races with catastrophic thoughts of scandal and dishonor – Soobin is the closest friend Taehyun has in his own household; how could he handle Soobin’s indiscretion without dishonoring himself in turn?

“Omega business is so terribly gruesome sometimes,” he says to the steward lightheartedly, shaking his head. “You are blessed to not have been born with the burdens of it, my dear Lord Steward.”

The steward must have heard about the concubine’s indisposition, or guessed given his absence in Yeonjun’s entourage today, and understanding blooms on his face immediately. He bows his head slightly. “I am grateful for it every day – although I have never seen anyone handle these burdens with quite as much skill as Your Grace.”

Yeonjun accepts the empty compliment with a pleasant smile, and sips his tea. With any luck, Soobin will do the smart thing, ignore Beomgyu’s summons, and Yeonjun will not hear of the matter ever again.

 

.

 

Soobin is a man of both impressive stature and status for his age, and although he owes one of these to the simple virtue of having grown up by the prince’s side and being lifted to the position of the head of the palace guard because of the prince’s friendship, Yeonjun has always had much respect for the man. Similarly to Taehyun, he was never one of the more rambunctious alphas at the Imperial court, rarely getting in trouble for getting up to mischief or mingling inappropriately with the young omegas. At the same time, he was less straight-laced than the prince, his interactions with Yeonjun himself always much less courtly and much more friendly, but if anything, it improved his reputation at the Court as opposed to the reticent prince. Soobin was respectful but warm, a little slow and less decisive than Taehyun, but also much less stubborn and abrasive. It was easy to love and respect the man.

Yeonjun considers that while the man stands before him in his office – as Soobin is an alpha, they cannot have this conversation in private, especially since Soobin is unmated, but he tries to ignore Miyeon and Dasom as they sit off to the side, well aware that they are present only to maintain decorum and would do well to not be seen or heard while the two of them discuss their business.

To his credit, Soobin looks slightly chastised, if not outright ashamed. Back at the Imperial court, many questions have been raised during their youth as to why Soobin never courted an omega, even after he came of age. His family had the money to have him marry – and his favor with the prince was sure to bring even more wealth once the prince took over the administration of his princedom. Rumors and jokes formed around the man, just as they had around the prince – he is mated to the prince’s shadow, he is a kept man of a married omega, he is impotent; Yeonjun has heard them all, but believed none of them. To him, Soobin has always simply seemed to lack interest in courtship and progeny, and as a younger son, he had no obligation to marry and conceive like Taehyun did.

Now, he questions his own assumptions, although this predicament could be more of an exception that proves the rule than anything else – if any omega could awaken an apathetic alpha’s instincts, it would be an omega as beautiful as Beomgyu is. Still, while Yeonjun stares the young captain down coldly, he cannot help but feel disappointed in the man.

“You are aware of why I called for you,” he opens, keeping his voice sharp but steady. They will take care of this like adults – they will discuss the reality of the situation, address the problem, and make it go away.

“I am aware of what this situation must look like in your eyes, Your Grace.”

Soobin seems remarkably calm, even though it is obvious to Yeonjun that he does not even dare attempt to leverage their friendly relationship to get out of this. Reluctantly, Yeonjun appreciates it.

“Then you must also be aware that this is not something I can allow to continue under my roof. You are a dear friend to my husband, Soobin, and I appreciate all the support you have given both of us in your service to our household – in any other circumstances, I would do my best to allow for your freedom to court whoever you wish to, but—”

“Your Grace.”

Yeonjun is so shocked by Soobin interrupting him that his jaw snaps shut immediately, and while Soobin looks apologetic for his blatant show of disrespect, he rushes to take advantage of the pause anyway.

“With all due respect, I fear you have misunderstood, Your Grace. The relationship between Omega Beomgyu and I – there is and has been nothing untoward in my intentions or actions towards him. This, I swear to you. The bond between us is not unlike the one between you and I – one of mutual respect. Friendship, perhaps, for the lack of a better word.”

The word itself is almost as shocking to Yeonjun as Soobin's interruption. “Friendship?”

Soobin nods firmly. He does not seem hesitant and all his precious desperation to explain himself seems to dissipate as soon as the initial confession leaves his mouth. “Yes. One of circumstance, maybe, but a friendship nonetheless. His Highness put Omega Beomgyu into my care immediately after His Imperial Majesty handed him over, and he was housed in my quarters for the duration of our stay. I felt… obliged, by both his status and mine, to treat him as an honored guest, and we have shared a table many times. We have developed a certain… respect for each other, in that time. I believe the reason Omega Beomgyu called for me today is that he simply thought I was a courtier he could depend on, since he has known me the longest.”

Yeonjun’s brow furrows. It all certainly seems a very neat and tidy explanation, and he truly wishes he could simply accept it and move on, but… “That is impossible.”

The captain blinks, his face dropping into a face of very convincing, if not sincere, confusion. “Excuse me, Your Grace?”

“You are an alpha. Omega Beomgyu would never befriend an alpha.” Not when their presence alone makes him pale and cower. Not when he insists on how dangerous trust is when given to their kind. No. It is impossible.

The alpha’s head hangs, as if he feels chastised all over again just because his gender was pointed out. His impressive shoulders curl inwards, and he lowers himself, if not into a bow, then into a semblance of a submissive posture. “I… am aware of Omega Beomgyu’s… disposition, and I understand why you would think so, Your Grace, however… there are certain… aspects, as you well may be aware, of my own nature which, when Omega Beomgyu became familiar with them, made him… more inclined to see me… as a friend.”

The captain stumbles over his words as he tiptoes around all the things he cannot say in the presence of other courtiers, and Yeonjun’s mind races over all the traits of Soobin’s which could make him more likely to be deemed trustworthy even by someone as paranoid as Beomgyu. Mild-mannered; quiet; far from pompous – the last man Yeonjun could imagine flying into a bout of rage over anything, much less in polite company. So unassuming for an alpha he would be easy to underestimate.

And tragically uninterested in marriage, courting, or omegas in general.

Yeonjun slowly lets his shoulders drop. Was that it? Is it virility that scares Beomgyu? Is Taehyun an enemy because he takes his wife every once in a blue moon out of some sense of obligation?

Soobin’s cock is limp enough to not pose a threat. How disgraceful. Yeonjun feels sick thinking about it, about what those dinners they shared must have been like.

His jaw works, but no sound comes out. Soobin stands like he is expecting to be scolded, like he is a young boy in front of a strict tutor. Yeonjun looks down at the mosaic covering the floor of the room, the swirling spirals of it. “He considers you an ally of his, then.”

Soobin does not straighten up. “I suppose so, Your Grace.”

A million answers run through Yeonjun’s mind. Disparaging words and words of gratitude, pleas for help in handling the situation that Beomgyu’s very existence in his household keeps posing. Pleas that Soobin would take Beomgyu as a lover and put Yeonjun’s worries to sleep for good. How can I become his ally as well? Do you think he will ever trust the prince? Do you think he could ever trust me?

Yeonjun grabs his own forearms, clutching the smooth silver fabric of his robes. “Your loyalties still lie with the prince, regardless.”

Somehow, Soobin seems to relax instead of tensing. “Of course. My service to His Highness comes before everything else.”

Yeonjun chews the inside of his lip. “What did Omega Beomgyu want? Was it only comfort?”

The captain shakes his head slowly. “He did not ask me to comfort him, Your Grace.”

“What did he want, then?”

With his head still respectfully lowered, the captain finally stands up straighter. “He… is aware that I consider both you and the prince to be my friends, and that… to some extent, my sentiments are returned, and—”

“Captain.” Yeonjun cuts him off, softly, both because his speech has devolved into a ramble, and to get the satisfaction of petty revenge for being cut off himself earlier. “You are a friend to both me and my husband. Now please get to the point.”

Soobin nods, then opens his mouth, then closes it, then raises his eyes all the way to Yeonjun’s chin, the closest he can get to looking him in the eyes without being overly familial. “He wishes to see you. He told me he believed you would not answer his summons, but that you might listen to a friend, so he asked me to make his request for him.”

Yeonjun feels his jaw dropping for a second time. He glances towards his ladies, who have their heads bent in a way that makes it clear that they are trying their best to pretend they are not present at all. Whether he goes or not, this piece of gossip will spread – it is simply too enticing in its ambiguity. What could Beomgyu want? From a fellow omega? From an omega mated to the same alpha? Attack him? Scent him? Beg him to be allowed to see the prince?

“He seemed quite indisposed by his heat, Your Grace, I would not… he was not himself.”

The words finally give Yeonjun enough space in his chest to breathe. “Did he seem to be in pain?”

“I only spoke to him through the door of his room, Your Grace. I dare not say, but… his voice was not the voice I was used to hearing. He seemed quite desperate.”

Slowly, Yeonjun raises his chin. “Do you think I should visit him?”

Soobin visibly swallows. “As the captain of the palace guard or as your friend?”

His mouth twitches in amusement. “Both.”

“As a man responsible for your safety, Your Grace, no, I would never advise you to enter an unfamiliar situation under any circumstances, much less where an almost feral omega is involved. As your friend, and as a friend of Omega Beomgyu, I think no harm can come from trying to ease a suffering man’s pain, even if the method makes little sense to us.”

Yeonjun nods and looks away, but this time, instead of at his ladies he looks at the tapestry hanging on the wall opposite them. It shows Yeonjun’s lineage, going from a fisherman king all the way to a member of the Imperial family. It serves a dual purpose – both to remind him of how far he has come and the legacy he is to protect. He will not be a black mark on this tapestry. He will not allow it.

“What of the prince? I have not heard any news from him today.”

“I visited him in his chambers earlier today, when I received the news… about Omega Beomgyu. He is in his study, has been since daybreak and judging by the way he spoke, he intends to stay there as long as his bullheadedness allows him. He is… close to his rut, and was quite unhappy with my presence as a consequence, but as usual, he handles it the best way he knows how – by writing stacks of strongly-worded letters to his ministers.”

This time, Yeonjun cannot suppress a smile, and he finally faces Soobin again. “Do you think it will come soon, then?”

“From the smell of him, tomorrow, or the day after that.”

Yeonjun nods. That is acceptable. Both remote from and close enough to Beomgyu’s heat to not cause any rumors. Now all he has to do is not pull at any strings that could make the whole delicate machine of this household fall down.

“Very well. Thank you, Captain.”

Soobin nods firmly. Yeonjun breathes in deeply, the faintest notes of Soobin’s scent hitting his nose as he does. He has always smelled a little too… sweet, for an alpha. Maybe Beomgyu found that fact comforting as well.

“For taking care of my husband’s concubine, too. You are invaluable to this household.”

“I swore an oath to your husband that I take very seriously, Your Grace.”

“As have I, and yet I recognize the difference between duty to and love for the man we have both bound our lives to.”

“When we are lucky, then one comes hand in hand with the other.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together. “So it may be… Captain.” In private, when it’s just them and Taehyun dining or having tea, Yeonjun dares to call Soobin my friend. My dear Soobin. Without the prince present, it feels too intimate.

“If that may be all, Your Grace, there is a matter I should attend to as soon as possible.”

He nods, uncurling his hands from his own sleeves to wave his arm lightly, still a little stiff. “You may go. Thank you again for your candor, Soobin.”

Soobin bows deeply before him. “It was my pleasure, Your Grace.”

 

.

 

The concubines' quarters are a low, but beautifully decorated building in the northwest corner of the palace complex, nestled close to the high palace walls. One has to cross the whole of the gardens to reach it, making it almost impossible to simply stumble upon by chance. When the prince was gifted this palace, in some ways as a wedding gift that had come almost a year before the ceremony itself, this building was already part of the complex left behind by its previous occupants, and Taehyun always ordered it maintained with an air of reluctant dutifulness. Over the years, he floated multiple ideas of how to repurpose the building for other uses, from housing important guests to dedicating it to the artists and artisans of his court to spend their days working in, but none of them turned into direct requests or orders to have any changes made. Maybe he knew, deep down, that should he himself not take any concubines by choice, the choice would eventually be made for him by his father, and he would have to find a place to house his concubines anyway.

Yeonjun himself was always happy enough to follow his husband’s example and only acknowledge its existence inasmuch as ordering their servants to keep it from coming into disarray, so as he crosses the bridge over an artificial pond and it comes to view through the cover of carefully planted trees, in all its gilded glory, he realizes that he had never really stepped foot inside it – he never had a reason to. He had taken walks that led him past it in his eagerness to explore the gardens, had admired the fish decorating the front façade, the gold-tipped arch of the entrance and the elaborate flower-shaped door knocker, but he never even peeked past the door.

Now, Dayeon and Soojin shadow him as he follows the path to the soldiers stationed by the door, as they snap to attention before one of them, the younger one, rushes to push the door open for him while the servant who is still there with them, ready to report to him, throws himself to the ground to bow. Yeonjun pities them a little, knowing that they are probably assuming they are all in trouble, but he does not waste time comforting them as he steps inside along with his ladies.

The first room of the concubines' quarters is really no different from the waiting room of Yeonjun’s own chambers – decorated with paintings, with a table and cushions, a cabinet with a statuette of a snake on it. The whole place smells of citrus, and Yeonjun immediately feels his throat clog with the sweetness of it. Directly ahead of them, a set of doors lead into the inner courtyard, a small garden of its own for the concubines to spend time in the fresh air without having to mingle with the other courtiers. To the right of them, there is the tea room, with the medicine left behind by the physician sitting on the table. To their left, the smell gets stronger, sharper, richer, and a low whine carries through a long, bare corridor.

Yeonjun has Dayeon and Soojin stay behind. They brought food with them, and Yeonjun carries the tray himself as he follows his nose down the corridor past the other bedrooms to where he knows for a fact Beomgyu’s nest is.

Before he can reach it, a loud thud resounds through the hall, startling Yeonjun into stopping in his tracks. Citrus assaults his nose, sharp and stinging. A shiver runs through his spine.

“Wife!”

The word startles him more than the noise that preceded it; the tone of it – the gravel of thirst in it, and of restrained lust, demanding and begging at the same time. Instinct-driven, stripped bare. Calling him wife.

But where the desire-laced voice of his mate, of his alpha, speaking the word makes him hold his breath in anticipation, hearing it on the tongue of a fellow omega, one whose scent makes his mouth water even through a closed door, who makes him tremble where he stands… it does not sound right. To Taehyun, he used to be Omega Yeonjun, then he was his bride and now his wife. To Beomgyu, he should be…

“Yeonjun.”

Beomgyu's confused whine fills him with confidence once more, and he steps up to the door, laying a hand on it as if to make his next words more intimate, even though they remain separated. “My name. Not ‘wife’ – Yeonjun.”

He can hear Beomgyu panting through the door – from up close, there is a sharp hint to all the citrus, almost ginger-like in nature. The prince's faintest hint on his marked omega, there to tell him, should he come close, that the omega writhing in the throes of a heat behind that door is his. That this heat is his to claim – Yeonjun can smell a similar faint note on himself when it is his time, and the constant reminder of a mate who is not coming drives him mad every time, unless he drowns it out with something more potent, or drinks enough medicine to slip away into a numb stupor, where the spice clinging to his scent glands almost feels like his husband's embrace.

Slowly, Beomgyu's breathing levels out behind the door. “Is he coming?”

Yeonjun's hackles raise in helpless jealousy at the same time as a tingle of sympathy cuts through his chest. Is there hope behind the fear? What Beomgyu seems to fear the most is also the only thing that could bring him true relief. Did he call for Yeonjun just to beg him to be able to see the Prince? Just like he himself used to, pushing through the pain and humiliation with the single-minded thought of mate; mate will make everything okay.

“He is not.”

A choked sound – a sob, perhaps – tears through Beomgyu. Yeonjun's heart breaks for him – he too is condemned to pain and solitude.

“Do you promise?”

Or perhaps the fear is stronger than any desire. And Yeonjun said he would protect him, did he not? “I swear.”

Silence follows his words; the scent of Beomgyu continues to assault his senses.

“Is that why you called for me? To affirm yourself that you have my protection?”

“No,” Beomgyu says simply. “Why did you come?”

“For the same reason that I gave you my word – however you may feel about my husband or me, I have no interest in exacerbating your suffering. The Captain seemed convinced that visiting you would be helpful.”

Beomgyu huffs, and Yeonjun feels himself relaxing. “You are being quite helpful… Yeonjun.”

It feels like a balm, soothing all the raw things inside him. His shoulders drop, and the pearls on his headpiece rustle as his head lowers as well. “I brought you food, should you be well enough to have some.”

For a moment, Beomgyu is silent, and then, after some shuffling on the other side, the door is pulled open. It swings wide, and Yeonjun has to hold his breath as his senses are assaulted with the full force of another omega’s nest.

The room is small, but each piece of furniture in it is fine and expensive. Beomgyu’s bed is narrow, but his sheets are as soft and warm as Yeonjun’s own. The chest under a high, small window on the other side of the room is delicately painted with sprawling vines covered in tiny white blossoms; the frame of the mirror in the corner is carved to resemble a wreath of leaves and tinted with silver, and the jewelry box in front of it, filled with all the trinkets Yeonjun himself chose for Beomgyu, is laced with gold. Their guest rooms are more spacious, and yet these accommodations are so much more splendid in their presentation. Yeonjun wonders if Beomgyu prefers this room to the Lavender room – he never got to ask.

Beomgyu himself remains sprawled out on the bare floor – behind him, a stretch of thick fur covers the floor, strewn with shawls: an almost pitiful-looking little nest. He does not scramble to return to it, though, looking up at Yeonjun instead with dark, glassy eyes. His face is ruby red from the fever, his beautiful hair matted and messy. He is in his underclothes, with only thin white fabric shielding his body from view, and in his lap, the clothes stick to him with the wetness that has seeped through. Yeonjun forces himself to look away, to protect Beomgyu’s dignity, even though the omega himself makes no attempt to shield himself from view.

He extends the tray of food towards Beomgyu. Neither of them move.

“Come in,” Beomgyu rasps then, and Yeonjun sees from the corner of his eye as he uses his hands to push himself further into the center of the room, closer to the furs he must have been resting on.

Yeonjun frowns. “Shall I? They told me you are territorial; that you could barely stand the physician seeing you.”

Beomgyu pauses in his crawl. “You sent betas.”

“Yes? I did not want any foreign smells to aggravate your condition.” Unable to keep his eyes away, he looks at Beomgyu, but he is looking down, at his own fingers tangling in the silver fur. “But you seem to tolerate mine.”

For the longest time, he thinks Beomgyu might not react at all, then he takes a deep breath and meets Yeonjun’s eyes again. “My whole life, there were only two people allowed to see me during my heat – my husband, and my attendant. Anyone else who would try to approach me would be severely punished.”

Ah. “Was your attendant an omega, then?”

Beomgyu drops his eyes, seeing somewhere through Yeonjun, into a memory. “He was.” Then his face crumbles in on itself, and for a moment, Yeonjun cannot tell if it is contorting in pain or grief, until the fresh wave of sweet citrus and ginger, with an oddly bitter tone underneath it hits his nose, and Beomgyu curls up on himself, hands pressed to his own abdomen. Yeonjun has never been in the room with a fellow omega in heat who was not a friend of his before, and he freezes on the spot, unsure of whether any soothing on his part would be warranted, or rather met with territorial violence. Beomgyu seems comfortable enough now, with Yeonjun in the doorway, but he is very close to his nest now – he might perceive him approaching as a threat, instinctively at least.

“Do you… would you…” Yeonjun bites his tongue. He sounds undignified. “Would you be more comfortable if I asked Dayeon or Soojin to keep you company?”

Still trembling with a painful wave of cramps, Beomgyu squints at him, then shakes his head faintly. As the pain seems to pass, his eyes close, and he shakes his head again. “I think… it’s you. Your scent.”

His scent? Yeonjun blinks. He has never been told that his scent is particularly comforting. He was complimented on it by countless alphas who wanted to earn the permission to drink it straight from his neck with flattery, of course, and his husband took advantage of their bond every now and then to find comfort in it in a more… primal sense, but…

Beomgyu shakes with another cramp, then adds, just as quietly as before, “Mate. Is safe.”

Right. Strangers or not, they were claimed by the same alpha – although Beomgyu referring to Taehyun as his mate makes Yeonjun’s jaw tighten in displeasure. His mate. Beomgyu’s…. owner? Master? He’s never had to think about it this way, and now that he is, he thinks he sees Beomgyu’s apparent disgust for his own situation on a philosophical level. If Taehyun had a claim on him but he had no claim on Taehyun, how could he ever find peace? This way, at least, they are helpless to each other. Equals, in a way. Beomgyu is not afforded that luxury.

But… if their shared alpha causes Beomgyu to respond to Yeonjun’s scent in a unique way, is that the reason for the strange stirs in Yeonjun’s own body this whole time? Why he felt arousal in response to Beomgyu’s, in his rooms. Why even now, the scent of him is pricking at his skin, making Yeonjun tremble? Is it just sympathy with Taehyun’s other omega?

Why would slick drip out of him in response, though, while Beomgyu’s eyes burn a hole through his own robes? So they can share their alpha? It is only Beomgyu who needs him, who needs to be… sated.

Knotted. Bitten. Savaged. Until he’s placid and peaceful again.

“Will you stay?”

Yeonjun is helpless to the image. Beomgyu’s honey skin and Taehyun’s hot lips; their hands, intertwined – the slender legs peeking out from under Beomgyu’s soaked-through chemise, wrapped around familiar narrow hips. That same ritual, with the kisses and the caresses Taehyun bestows upon his wife’s body, replicated along the sweet expanse of Beomgyu. Painful and comforting at the same time.

His body itches with the need to rub his thighs together, to do something to ease the pressure. Ask his mate for a frivolous kiss, to dispel his own wild imagination with the mundanity of his reality. Leave. Run to his rooms to pleasure himself in private. Anything.

Instead, he lifts his chin. “Why?”

Beomgyu rolls himself over the rest of the way and sprawls out on the fur, his legs falling open. With the fabric sticky and see-through, barely anything is left to the imagination. They are the same down there and yet, Yeonjun’s fingers tingle at the sight of it. Of the prize; of the issue they are dancing around.

“Your scent helps. ‘m calmer.”

One of Beomgyu’s hands skims down his own body. Yeonjun’s sense of decorum yells at him to close the door, but none of him is strong enough to look away. It stops on Beomgyu's soft belly, running teasing circles below his navel. Plates clatter on the tray he is holding as his hand trembles.

Beomgyu twitches, pressing his legs together, grasping at the skin he caressed before. That is not right, is it? He should be opening them wider instead, wide enough to let an alpha slot between them.

“I brought. Dayeon. Soojin. They are waiting.”

Unsurprisingly, Beomgyu shakes his head. “Not them. Not the same.”

“Because they don't smell like—” alpha. Taehyun. Yeonjun so rarely feels the need to call him that; he is so much more than an alpha, referring to him as such almost feels like disrespect. Unless he is buried deep within his mate's body, he is Yeonjun's husband and a prince. 

Before he can reconcile his own thoughts, Beomgyu starts shaking his head vigorously again, growling in disagreement. “You’re sweeter.”

Yeonjun's free hand clutches at his robes. “Omega Beomgyu.”

“Yeonjun.” Beomgyu clearly meant for the word to come off teasing, but in the clutches of his heat, it sounds more like a lustful sigh. Yeonjun licks his lips, and they taste like ginger and citrus.

The hand that Beomgyu kept splayed on his own stomach slips lower, and the eyes he could barely keep open fall shut. The last bits of Yeonjun's reason fall away on a wave of zesty sugar.

As if in a trance, he sets the tray down near the mirror, and walks out of the room again, the door shutting behind him with the sound of Beomgyu's growl that shifts into a pitiful whine that follows him down the hallway into the waiting room. His steps drag along the way, but he arrives eventually, to two pallid, worried faces.

At first, he is not sure which one of them the two omegas are worried for, until Dayeon speaks up, almost like she could barely hold her words back anymore.

“How is he?”

He hesitates with the answer. “Better than I expected, given the reports. If he truly seemed feral this morning, he… has calmed down significantly. Our master physician has done a remarkable job. He was lucid, and spoke to me.”

Dayeon’s slender shoulders drop in obvious relief, but Soojin’s brow stays furrowed.

“Has he asked for—”

Yeonjun cuts him off before he can finish; he cannot talk about the prince right now. “He failed to inform me that a beta's presence is unwelcome due to his customs. It seems, however inadvertently, I have upset him during a vulnerable time. We will make sure this never happens again, and I will only allow a physician and other omegas to enter this house during his heats. Understood?”

Both of his ladies nod, then Dayeon takes a tentative step forward. “Your Grace, if omega company is what he needs, I will happily—”

“That will not be necessary, my dear.” Yeonjun tacks on the affectionate address at the end, to make his interruption feel less severe. Less desperate than it is. “I have decided that I will repent for my mistake by tending to him myself today. I know you both understand how important it is to me that he feels welcomed and respected in my household.” They both nod again, and Yeonjun takes a deep breath. “I will need you to go see Madam Seo and apologize profusely on my behalf. Please tell her that the matter was urgent and unexpected, and I will be honored if she joins me for dinner on another day.” With another nod from them, he braces himself for the last request he has to make. “And if possible… I would appreciate if you stayed vague with her. And if the news of this was kept away from my husband as long as possible.”

Dayeon bites her lip. “Should we… talk to the Captain? Or the guards?”

“No need.” If there is something Yeonjun hates the most in the world, it is uncertainty. The tension of a coin flip. His restless mind does not handle those too well. But then again, at the end of the day… “This is no conspiracy; the prince deserves to be informed about the status of his concubine. I would simply rather not trouble him with this so close to his rut. I hope you understand.”

This time, they both bow, and Yeonjun gives them a nod. “You are dismissed. If there is an urgent matter, come yourselves or find an omega servant. Tell the guards that much – no betas or alphas past the front door.”

“What about the Captain?” Soojin asks, curiously.

Yeonjun presses his lips together, the tension in his back loosening slightly. “If the Captain comes, the guards will disregard my orders in his favor anyway. Let us not make this any easier on him than we have to.” Both of his ladies smile, and he returns it faintly. “Thank you for your company today. Feel free to dismiss the others as well and enjoy your afternoon, my dears.”

They bow again, and Yeonjun walks back towards the hallway. Somehow, he does not like the idea of the guards watching him as his ladies leave without him. The rumors will spread, will they not? But what could they possibly say? That Yeonjun has come to enjoy the company of the apparent affront to his name? Is that really disgraceful, or is it the prince’s family skillfully avoiding scandal like it always has? Handling every precarious situation with grace and tact, as they should as imperial courtiers.

Dignified.

Beomgyu smells him from afar again, as the whine peters off into a relieved moan before he can even open the door to the room. The omega is still a pile of gold-touched skin, messy hair and too-thin fabric on the stretch of silver fur, both of his hands between his clenched thighs, hips kicking, body undulating as he rides the wave of what Yeonjun assumes is pain.

His eyes are closed, but as Yeonjun steps inside and closes the door behind him, Beomgyu’s face relaxes and something resembling a smile twists his mouth before it falls open slightly.

“Yeonjun.” Again, a pleased sigh. His voice is so deep when he says it, deeper than Taehyun’s. But Taehyun’s is rough, while Beomgyu sounds… smooth. Silky. Seductive. Captivating in a different way.

“I believe I will regret having told you my name if you will carry on like this,” Yeonjun says, clipped, his back pressed into the door. He feels frozen with how badly he wants to be moving.

Beomgyu squirms and breathes out a laugh. “Shall I call you… wife. Omega.”

“You forget your manners rather quickly.” It is as if the fear makes him bold; like when he plays with his husband’s pride, kindling that fire that he likes to see.

The other omega’s face twitches. “Not the game I want to play today.”

Yeonjun clicks his tongue, feels the sugar in the air coat it as soon as he opens his mouth again. Beomgyu rolls over onto his side to watch him through half-lidded eyes. He is so flushed, down his throat and under the collar, eyes cloudy. He is feverish and lustful, in pain and restless, and Yeonjun is here to… what? To watch?

“You will eat now. Drink some water.”

Beomgyu shakes his head, then adds a sweet little, “No.”

It is the same blatant, joyful disrespect he is used to from Beomgyu at this point, but it has been so long since he had been told no that it almost renders him speechless. Almost. “If you want my company, Omega Beomgyu, you will do as I say.”

But the omega just flips back over onto his back, seeming to melt into the fur comfortably, and with a smile on his mouth says, “Make me.”

And Yeonjun knows now, what Beomgyu would be like, under Taehyun’s lithe body. He can hear it, can smell it, can…

He moves. Towards the mirror, where he left the tray of food. Cool porridge and fruit. Filling and easy to stomach for an omega in heat. Slick drips down his thigh, and he ignores it. He thinks he hears Beomgyu tasting the air behind his back, and he ignores that, too. 

Taking the tray into his carefully steady hands, he kneels next to the furs. Beomgyu’s eyes stay shut and mouth open, the tip of a pink tongue coming out to wet bright red, dry lips. From up close, it feels like Yeonjun sank his body into a hot bath filled with slices of lemon and drizzled with honey. The air feels hazy between them, even though Yeonjun knows, rationally, that it is not. It is almost as if he cannot see through the scent overwhelming his nose, lighting his own scent glands on fire.

He picks a piece of fruit up off the tray, and pushes past all the fear and uncertainty locking his limbs until he presses it against the plush of Beomgyu’s lips, slotting it in the gap between them. Beomgyu does not fight him, does not protest, but as soon as his jaw closes around the slice of orange, he moves with the swiftness of a predator, pushing his nose into Yeonjun’s wrist.

He jerks away immediately, but Beomgyu does not seem to mind, sighing in satisfaction even when the source of his scent is gone. He stays lying down where he was, chewing slowly on the slice of orange, one hand sneaking up from between his thighs to rub at his own stomach. Everything about him screams indulgence, despite the circumstances.

Yeonjun knows exactly when he swallows, because his throat jumps with it, so pronounced that the motion of it is crystal clear. He opens his mouth again, this time a bit wider. His lips must be so warm from the blood, from the fever. The inside of it sweltering. His tongue…

Mechanically, he picks up another piece of fruit, but he hesitates with it halfway to Beomgyu’s waiting mouth. “I thought I would have to force you to eat.”

“I do feel compelled by you, Your Grace.”

Now. Now he is addressed properly? Yeonjun’s hand trembles, and he himself is not sure what emotion he has to fight to repress so strongly. “Do you feel compelled to sit up and feed yourself?”

The corners of Beomgyu’s mouth rise in a smile. “Not yet; perhaps a few more bites. I feel so weak right now, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun’s lips press together tightly in displeasure; he wedges the next slice of orange between Beomgyu’s lips with a bit more force. “I am not your plaything, Omega Beomgyu.”

His eyes are helplessly drawn to Beomgyu's tongue as he chases drops of moisture off his lips. “Is that an honor you reserve only for your husband? Does no other get to play with you, Your Grace?”

Perhaps to his own credit, the notion seems so ridiculous to Yeonjun that he does not even think to be offended by it, his hand freezing on top of the plate of fruit as he stares at Beomgyu. “Do you accuse me of being unfaithful to my husband now, Beomgyu?”

To his even greater surprise, Beomgyu snorts dismissively, turning his dark eye towards the ceiling as he squirms in discomfort, a grimace twisting his pretty mouth. “Unfaithful. Disloyal? Is that how you see it, Yeonjun? Do you really believe it? Do you not think you've fulfilled your bond to him to his satisfaction? You let him have you when he wants you; you care for his house, you maintain his status. You'd bear his children if you had to. And what do you get in return?” Beomgyu looks over at him, eyes glossy and sharp with his nagging question. “If he does not desire your company, why should you be asked not to seek company of your own? If he does not want your heat, do you not have the right to relieve it? In whichever way you desire. If it is not his, then it is your own. To do with as you see fit. You are a noble omega; not some servant chasing himself to completion with his own hands, undesired by anyone. You deserve to be taken, to be satisfied. To be pleasured. By whomever you please. If the prince chooses to be blind to this, you are not obliged to follow him in his folly. Don't let a weak alpha lead you to believe you should restrain yourself at his will. If he chooses to squander his right, then right his wrong.”

“I would never betray my husband that way—”

To his shock, Beomgyu grabs at his wrist, swift as a snake striking, his grip crushing on Yeonjun's delicate bones. “That is what I am telling you, ” he says insistently, even as his voice remains hushed. “It is not a betrayal to him, if he chooses to neglect you. He has betrayed you first, Yeonjun. You would only be acting in your own best interest.”

“And do what?” Yeonjun snaps back, louder than he intended. “Bed other alphas in his absence? Have them tend to my heat so that I may bear their children instead of my husband's, and be an embarrassment to both of our families? I understand you are delirious with you affliction, Omega Beomgyu, but I—”

Beomgyu sits up, and Yeonjun flinches backwards, the plate of fruit jostling between them, only barely not spilling onto Yeonjun's gown. “If it is children you worry about, Yeonjun, then take a lover more suited to your needs.” Yeonjun stares at him with his mouth dropped open, and Beomgyu tilts his head slightly, sweaty hair swaying with the motion. “The touch of an alpha may be the most soothing when you're afflicted with heat, but another's touch may suffice. It is still incredibly more gratifying than solitude.”

Slowly, Yeonjun closes his mouth and purses his lips. He is not naïve enough to not understand what Beomgyu is implying, distasteful as it is. He has spent his boyhood at a lively court, one full of gossip – wives seeking out other wives’ company. Older omegas taking younger omegas under their care and guidance, granting them touches and favors that turned heads in public and sparked salacious gossip. Betas who made their living warming beds without the risk of accidental conception. Wanton omegas being physical with each other just to catch the wanting eye of an alpha. He has heard of it; he witnessed it. His aunt used to turn a disdainful eye towards all these displays, the rumors and indecencies. She would always tell him to pay no mind to those who engage in them – he would gain nothing out of disparaging a deviant whose status allows for such an abhorrent display; he can only lose if he speaks up. 

At the same time, it was not as if he himself was one that could allow himself to indulge in any of it. His family had little property and only a meager amount of political influence – his uncle was the only one holding any imperial office at all. Yeonjun only had his beautiful face and his reputation to rely on, so he took extreme care to maintain both. He has never even dreamed of touching another omega, or a beta for that matter, only for his own pleasure.

And here Beomgyu is, seemingly a former privileged, powerful and rich wife. Exalting the benefits of infidelity.

Something about it throws Yeonjun off-balance, and as he tears his wrist out of Beomgyu's grip, he does so not as the wife of a prince, but as a simple courtier. A provincial noble.

“You are being preposterous and indecent. Control yourself, Omega.”

Seemingly unbothered by Yeonjun's outburst, Beomgyu uses his newly freed hand to lean forward, closer to him. “Is it indecent to speak of seeking pleasure? You seem to have little such qualms about discussing lying with your husband – is his pleasure different from yours? Is it any cleaner than the desire of a wife? Or do you mean to tell me that letting your husband have you is somehow different from seeking pleasure – do you think he lies with you for any other reason? If His Highness is as reluctant to conceive with you as everyone seems to suggest, does he fuck you out of some pure courtly love?”

Yeonjun's breath shakes as he sets the plate down with a muted thud. “You will not use such language in my presence ever again.”

“Do you think being well-mannered changes anything about it?” Beomgyu's other hand reaches out for Yeonjun's face, and Yeonjun bats it away. “Do you think he puts his cock in you because he admires you? Because he respects you? Or does he just desire you. Does you body, at times, overcome whatever restraint he tries to have with you?” Instead of touching him, Beomgyu then leans close to his own face. “It would tempt a lesser man into insanity.”

Yeonjun’s skin crawls with pins and needles, only exacerbated by the mix of citrus and ginger in the air that mock him and his romantic, childish view of his husband as a powerful, level-headed man who is moved so rarely but so deeply by his wife to succumb to fits of passion. It is so easy, in this rosy view, to look away from the reality of it – that it is Yeonjun's body and Taehyun's need of release that moves him, rather than any tenderness of the heart. He does not doubt that Taehyun adores him, in a way – that he respects him as a capable and reliable wife when it comes to household matters, but they are both too old to think of love as anything more than a pleasant fantasy. Maybe once Yeonjun's children are grown, and Taehyun has established his eldest alpha as a rightful, strong heir, maybe then Yeonjun can, with his waning looks, seduce his husband into the kind of romance he imagined as a child. He has to know better for now, and he does, yet the reminder still stings the last vestiges of the child he used to be.

He stands up abruptly, and steps away from Beomgyu, unwisely not towards the door but further away and into a corner. Beomgyu watches him with the eyes of a predator, and Yeonjun cannot help but find that disconcerting on an Omega’s face.

He breathes until he feels strong enough to lift his chin defiantly. The ginger stings his nostrils.

“Do not take advantage of my and my husband's kindness.” His hands ball into fists, shaky. “Neither I nor my husband have a penchant for cruelty, but if your fondness for insulting me and my station is contingent on you seeing me as weak, on you expecting no consequences, then I will show you what power the wife of a prince possesses. My husband put you into my care – I have as much control over your life as I have over any of my ladies’. Do not make an enemy of me, Omega Beomgyu.”

Instead of cowering, instead of freezing up the way he did whenever Taehyun looked his way, Beomgyu huffs like a petulant child, and throws himself onto his back again. The lack of heat in response to Yeonjun's outburst leaves him feeling shaky, his lip wobbling as tears gather in his eyes. On unsteady feet, he starts walking towards the door as swiftly as he can.

But, quick as a viper again, Beomgyu shoots upright just as Yeonjun walks past, grabbing onto Yeonjun's shawl, wrapping it around his own wrist tightly enough that Yeonjun knows it might take him multiple tugs to free it.

“What you see as insults, Your Grace, is just my friendly advice. From a widow to a fellow wife.”

Anger swells in Yeonjun, an emotion so rare he struggles to control it as he yanks at his shawl hard enough for Beomgyu to lose his balance, having to let the fabric go to catch himself. “If you mean to be a friend to me, Omega Beomgyu, you have been doing so in an inexcusable way.”

He continues his march to the door, pulls it open inelegantly, and does not wait for Beomgyu to offer any rebuttal before striding down the hall, away from the assault of ginger and citrus. The guards at the door jump as he walks past without even a nod of his head, and it takes him the whole journey to his own rooms to calm down enough to pay attention to his surroundings. His personal servant is in his rooms, cleaning up, and is visibly shocked to see him. He dismisses her concern with a wave of his hand and requests to not be disturbed before shutting himself off in his bedroom.

Gingerly, he sits on his own bed, inhaling deeply and flinching when he realizes that the scent of Beomgyu's heat followed him, still clinging to the fabric of his shawl where Beomgyu's scent gland rubbed against it. He rips it off his shoulders inelegantly and tosses it aside, then stares at the heap on the floor as if it was an animal getting ready to pounce on him. The pearls of his headpiece flutter as he shakes minutely, in a strange mix of anger, arousal and fear. In the absence of lemon and ginger, the air around him fills with heady crushed fruit. His thighs are sticky when he shifts, and a nausea sets in as he feels his own sex throbbing. In response to what? Beomgyu's citrus scent? The familiar note of spices blending into it? Thoughts of different alphas? Of other omegas touching him, pleasuring him in his husband's stead?

To him, an affair was never an option. The prince gave him an opportunity someone like him should have never been afforded, and he was not raised to be someone who would squander it. Not for something trivial like pleasure…

And certainly not for love.

Yeonjun's hands itch, and to his own horror he realizes that they itch for his husband's touch, the comfort of his scent. If he could only rest for just a moment in his husband's embrace, his mind would surely clear of all thoughts outside of the two of them. He would not think about Beomgyu's words, or the hot mouth that spoke them, his delicate hands and elegant body, supple and fertile, his swollen breast or wet thighs or the shamelessness with which he spoke about pleasure.

Yeonjun's face flushes with blood and he clenches his thighs together, subconsciously covering his lap with his hands as if there was anyone to witness his humiliation.

Beomgyu does not know, he could not imagine how his husband treats his body. Whatever Beomgyu says, it is clear that his wife's need of pleasure is not lost on the prince – and however much his indulgence of this need depends on the prince's own whims, he is obviously not scornful of it. If anything, he treats Yeonjun's pleasure, and his body in general, with the sort of childish wonder and awe that more than anything convinces Yeonjun that his husband is not unfaithful to him either, during all the time he spends away at the Court. No man, no matter how odd, could indulge in bodies plentifully and then touch his own wife with the same vigor the prince does to him.

Unless nature dictates they should. Unless Yeonjun's body is screaming for him through all his pores, hemorrhaging warm spice into the air to entice him, to remind him that his body belongs to him. Unless Taehyun's own body is wild with the need to possess, calling for him in return, helplessly raging in his absence. 

Unless there is a chance they could conceive.

It comes as a stab to his gut again, and Yeonjun absentmindedly shuffles his robes out of the way to stare at his own stained thighs. He is ready to receive whatever is given to him, swollen and warm and sticky, wine with a hint of lemon and ginger as a nauseating reminder. There is another one now, just like his, and it has been fucked open for the prince by another man, possibly touched by however many others it took for Beomgyu to feel pleasured sufficiently. It is not prissy and picky like his. Too good to be fucked until he becomes pregnant? Too pragmatic and devoted to be exciting enough to be ruined like it should be. Would Beomgyu demand to be taken the way he wants to be? Would he let himself be fingered standing up, needy even as he still feels raw between his legs?

He doubts that Beomgyu's husband had any reservations about taking his heat, even if it did not take. Beomgyu would lie on his furs with his robes sticking to his skin and he would leave his alpha no option. He would smell better, moan better, he would be wetter, more beautiful, more enticing, more fertile.

With lips closing around his nipples, and fingers in his mouth and tangled hair and an arching, sweaty back, and if Yeonjun pressed his face between his thighs, maybe he would be half the omega Beomgyu is.

Yeonjun falls onto his back and tries to clear his mind. It conjures up images of lips that taste of oranges instead.

Caressing his  neck; sliding against Taehyun’s; nipping at Yeonjun’s fingers, his earlobe, his nipple. And Taehyun… his husband…

The hint of citrus on his tongue, vague and tantalizing. What is it about Beomgyu ? His words and his touch and his face and his body. Yeonjun finds them inscrutable like nothing else he has ever encountered; even more than his mercurial spouse. He has had years to get used to Taehyun’s moods, but Beomgyu is new and infuriating – Beomgyu makes him slide his hands under the folds of his robes. Beomgyu makes him clutch at the disappointing lack of softness in his own chest; trail fingers over his own thighs until he shivers, the rattle of the pearls following until he tears his headpiece off and sets it aside, loose hair falling onto his face.

Disheveled; wanton – what do these men make him? Messy and worthless. Beomgyu is not worth the wetness dripping down onto Yeonjun’s sheets, Taehyun is not worth Yeonjun giving up his heat for. Yeonjun’s body is not worth their admiration. His body; his worshiped, admired, beautiful, healthy body. His neurotic, oversensitive, weak mind.

Needy. Irrational. Jealous. Envious. Insecure.

Angry and humiliated and almost painfully aroused, he rubs himself to completion and then lies in his own mess as his mind slowly clears. Sluggishly, he realizes what he'd done – cleared his whole schedule to tend to Beomgyu; abandon his post, exposing his own failure to guards and servants, because of an emotional outburst; pleasure himself… to the thought of chocolate eyes and words… words that nobody should dare speak in his household, much less to his face. Petal lips, dark brown eyes and citrus.

All the thoughts gather into an ache in his brow and a sting in his eyes that he ignores obstinately as he begins to strip, not bothering with all the layers as he pulls at his clothes by handfuls, leaving them in a heap on the bed before reaching for his morning gown. Without all his underclothes on, it feels almost slippery on his skin, the fabric flimsy and light, but Yeonjun welcomes the gentle embrace of it, gathering the ample sleeves to wrap around his own shoulders like a shawl, gathering himself up in his own arms.

As his wrist comes near his nose, he catches a whiff of something mouthwatering: spiced wine, with a hint of citrus. His shoulders loosen as if under a spell at the same time as a shudder runs through his body. Something inside him calms, and goes quiet. He lets himself go, and barely registers his own movements as his own will as he walks through the door to his dressing room, all the way to the other side to where his jewels are kept, and retrieves the small stash of coin he keeps hidden there.

He knows the price will not be too steep, in fact, maybe paying it will be wholly unnecessary, but a lady can never be too careful – he counts off a modest sum, hides the remaining coin and returns to his room. It looks a proper mess, clothes scattered on the bed and floor, the smell of his arousal pungent in the air, his headpiece discarded at the foot of the bed. He gathers himself with a deep breath; imagines his royal husband in his rooms, fighting his own body to harness all his virility to rule – like his status beholds him to.

His gut fills with pride, but his chest aches with an emotion he cannot quite fathom.

Dismissing it, he crosses the room again to ring for his servant, and waits by the door for her to appear. As soon as the door begins opening, he shields the doorway with his body. The servant looks up at him in shock, then her attention shifts to his hand as he shakes the coins he has gathered in his fist – the understanding that dawns on her face then threatens to fill Yeonjun with shame again, so he speaks instead of letting it linger.

“You will clean this room, and then you will fetch me tea. I will be in my study, and I will not be disturbed unless the palace is on fire.” He shakes his fist again. “As far as you know, I have returned from the concubines’ quarters at nightfall, and I have gone straight to bed. You have not seen, nor heard, anything else, no matter who is asking the questions. Not the captain, not the prince, no lady of mine. If I hear a speck of gossip of this—”

“I will spread none of the sort,” the servant interrupts, then obviously realizes her mistake and covers her mouth with both hands, bowing her head and hunching her shoulders in deference. “... Your Grace.” She adds, mumbling into her own fingers.

Yeonjun releases a long, shaky breath. As insulting as interrupting him is, perhaps he had brought it upon himself by doubting her discretion after years of faithful service. Still, it seems his subjects are slowly losing respect for him, if none of them have the patience to let him speak his piece anymore.

Undignified, as usual these days.

Instead of reprimanding her, he simply shakes his head and reaches out the hand with the money – promptly, the servant reaches her hands out, and he drops the coin in her palms. “I will be expecting you with my tea. No need to rush.”

 

.

 

The next day, as she is brushing his hair, his servant informs him that once again, there are people waiting to be heard by him before breakfast, or as soon as possible. He accepts this news with a sigh of defeat, and closes his eyes as he prompts her to tell him who is expecting him.

“One of your husband's servants is here, as well as the servant who claims you've tasked him with keeping an eye on the concubines' quarters.”

Of course. Yeonjun breathes deeply. He spent all evening the previous day working, trying to forget the events of that day, and now he feels determined to do this correctly. This is expected; there is no need to worry himself with speculations.

“Has the prince's servant come to inform us he had closed the doors of his quarters? Yesterday, the captain said it seemed his rut was bound to begin today.”

His servant seems to hesitate. “I am afraid not, Your Grace. The news had already come earlier today – one of the Captain's men informed us, barely at the crack of dawn. I thought I would leave it to the servant to inform you of this.”

Yeonjun sighs. It would simply be too easy, wouldn’t it? If the only news of the day was the prince's long-expected rut. His life would be too dull.

“Very well. I will hear them out before breakfast. Please gather my ladies in the tea room if they are not already. I will join them shortly.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the servant acknowledges primly, the servile tone practiced to perfection. She puts away the expensive brush, bows to him and backs away out of the room politely.

Yeonjun takes a moment to gather himself again. A part of him wishes that he could take the time to put all his armor on first before receiving the missives – paint his face, cover himself in fine fabrics and regalia. Put all his worries away while he chattered away with his ladies and ate delicious food. If he decided to do so, the servants would have no choice but to wait for him to be ready, but he is not one to waste time this way. Never has been.

He stands, brushing his hair back and squaring his shoulders. Regal and imposing – surely an affect he can put on well after all these years.

With measured steps, making sure not to hurry impatiently or drag his feet, he leaves his bedroom and enters the waiting room – both of the servants waiting there bow deeply as soon as he as much sticks his toe in the door, and today, he lets them remain in their respectful pose until he takes his place directly in front of them. He crosses his arms.

“I will hear the news of the prince first.”

“Your Grace,” his husband’s servant responds immediately, without pause, bowing even deeper despite his advanced age. “The prince has ordered his rooms sealed for the duration of his affliction earlier today, and he had sent me to ask Your Grace to provide him with some of your clothing to ease his pain.”

Yeonjun feels his jaw setting, and although neither of the servants can see him tense with their backs bowed, he still forces himself to relax again. “How long have you been waiting? Why was this not delivered to me urgently?”

His aunt would have been so proud of him; his voice was so measured, despite his feelings about the situation.

“Not long, Your Grace. Your servant assured me she was just about to wake you. Minhyu— um, the head servant also said the prince’s request was not urgent. His Highness merely… anticipates a worsening of his affliction. When I was leaving his quarters, I assure Your Grace that His Highness’ condition was still good.”

“I suppose that is to His Highness’ honor, then,” Yeonjun says as lightly as he can. “To take such precautions so wisely while he is still able. I will find him such suitable items then. Haewon!”

The servant he calls for appears almost immediately, as if she was waiting by the door to be called on.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“The prince has called for some of my things, have we anything suitable from yesterday’s clothes that may carry a scent?”

“Um…” Yeonjun tenses at the servant’s pause. Right; yesterday’s robes and underclothes he tore from himself after staining them with his arousal. “I have had most of the pieces you wore yesterday laundered already, Your Grace. We still have your shawl you wore yesterday, however, and the blanket you used to sleep today may be helpful, it would not be an issue to have it replaced should the prince require it. Your morning robe as well.”

Oh. Distractedly, Yeonjun tilts his head to sniff at his own robe. He cannot smell much of anything, not when his natural smell is this neutral, but he had worn his morning robe on his bare body the day before, letting it rub on his skin and across his scent glands; it must be drenched in the smell of him.

He gives a small nod. “Very well. That is what we will do. Please go fetch my shawl while I change. I will have the prince’s items shortly.”

Both of the servants acknowledge his words with nods, and he leaves the waiting room again in favor of his dressing room. It feels entirely too empty, whenever he visits it without his ladies following, and he avoids his own eyes in the mirror of his vanity while he strips himself down to his underclothes, the sound of the fabric so loud in the too-large room. He exchanges the flimsy spring robe he was wearing for a heavier one he tends to use in the colder months, and gathers the fabric into a bundle in his hands. When he steps out, Haewon is already standing in the corridor with his blanket in her arms, and his shawl from the day before neatly folded atop it.

Only as he comes near her so they can re-enter the waiting room together does Yeonjun catch the edge of a lemon ginger scent in the air, and a painful jolt goes through him as he remembers why he discarded it the day before. With her dulled senses of a beta, Haewon must have missed it under the scent of Yeonjun, but to Yeonjun who is all too familiar with his own scent, it stands out so starkly.

He stops in his tracks. Taehyun asked for his scent to ease his pain. The scent of his omega calms him, when he has no body to sate himself with during his rut. His mind begs for omega, so he provides it omega, in controlled, barely meaningful doses. Beomgyu is omega. Taehyun’s omega, even. His by nature. This time, he does not suffer in his rooms wanting for Yeonjun only, if at all. Just like Yeonjun last night, the only thing on his mind may be pretty brown eyes and citrus. Had Taehyun sent a servant to the concubines’ quarters as well? Yeonjun could probably find out had he wished to, but perhaps he would be better off not torturing himself with such knowledge. If Taehyun could get Beomgyu’s scent whenever he wanted it, Yeonjun might as well offer it alongside his own. The prince may take it as permission to seek comfort in his concubine if he finds it necessary to do so. It would be so proper of him, so selfless, so wife-like. Dutiful. Faithful. Perfect.

Yeonjun carefully adds his folded robe atop the pile in Haewon’s arms, and together they enter the waiting room.

“Here are the items – you may bring them to your prince. If possible, please let him know that me and my ladies will keep him in our thoughts while he is afflicted, and that I wish his affliction may pass as swiftly and painlessly as possible.”

He delivers the empty words with a magnanimous nod of his head, and the servant bows again with his armful of clothing. “I will relay your words to Master Minhyuk, and he will endeavor to inform the prince, should he be well enough to receive them.”

“It is the most I can ask of you, my good man,” Yeonjun replies sweetly, and the servant backs away and out of the room with mumbled polite words of well-wishes.

Feeling somehow emboldened by his decision, Yeonjun does not even bother dismissing Haewon before addressing the other servant still waiting to be heard.

“And you – what news do you bring to us this morning?”

“Your Grace. The master physician had visited the concubine this morning to check on his condition, and he had sent me to tell you he was much more cooperative and lucid today than he was previously. His condition seems to have improved significantly and he seemed to have been able to rest.” He pauses, then, and Yeonjun steels himself. “He had spoken to me, as I was bringing him food and water by the master physician’s orders, and he had asked after your condition. I had told him I have not left the quarters since last night and knew nothing of you.”

Yeonjun considers those words carefully, then nods. “Good – we are glad to hear of his condition improving. Fortune willing, both he and the prince should be in good health soon. Please inform him I am of good health myself…” he does not let himself pause too long; does not allow himself to overthink his choice. “And that my ladies and I will pay him a visit during our morning walk.”

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

“Thank you – I trust you have not hungered during your vigil? Had anyone made sure you have rested and eaten?”

“I…” the servant hesitates again. “When the guards changed, they brought me a bite of food, and I have rested some while the concubine slept.”

“Good – still, you have done this house good service, and I wish you to be fed and well-rested. Before you relay my message, Haewon will take you to the kitchen and make sure you are given a proper meal.” He turns to his servant, who gives a tiny bow. “Please make sure this good man eats well, and ask the cooks to prepare a few bites of something Omega Beomgyu might be able to stomach. A few treats may yet lift his mood in this difficult time.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Very well.” Yeonjun stands tall, for once feeling in control again. Taking care of his household and its members, as his duty requires. Making sure his husband and his subjects are happy and remain loyal to them. “You two may go ahead, then. My ladies and I will tend to ourselves this morning; we will not require your assistance, Haewon.”

Haewon bows again, and then prompts the servant to follow her through a smaller servants’ door, instead of leading him out through the main doors of Yeonjun’s quarters. He is left alone in his waiting room then, wrapped in heavy brocade but feeling lighter than before.

Surely, this means the end to his childish tendencies. This was the last of his indiscretions. He is Yeonjun, the wife of an imperial prince, the Emperor’s eldest son. He had given up too much by this point to let himself falter.

 

 

 

Chapter 4

Notes:

unanoned bc this is the tyvnflower show and we don't care no more~

The second time he visits Beomgyu during his heat, Yeonjun likes to believe he is more prepared than the first. His face is painted carefully, his mask of perfection firmly on his face again, framed by expensive jewelry and draped in fine fabrics. Yeonjun’s entire entourage is by his side, ambling through the gardens as if it was any other day, except this time, they wander ever further away from the main palace buildings despite the cool weather, until they cross the bridge leading to the concubines’ quarters. There, by the entrance, the group divides – according to his own orders, all of the betas in his entourage are required to stay outside, so only Dayeon and Soojin are allowed to follow him in, much like the day before. This time, however, he does not have them linger in the waiting room, and they follow him down the narrow hallway leading to Beomgyu’s room.

Once again, the overwhelming citrus with a bite of ginger envelops him in a dizzying warmth, enough to make his legs shake, but he is ready this time, and he steels himself against it. His head might float uncomfortably as Soojin opens the door, but Yeonjun is strong enough to breathe in the sweetness in the air without breaking.

Beomgyu is still on the furs on the floor in his underclothes, which are now clinging to his skin even more, damp and sticky with sweat and slick, pink and red all over, dark hair a mess where it frames his pretty face as it turns towards the door to regard them. Instead of being squirmy or languid, like he was before, now Beomgyu seems oddly still, his motions sluggish and slow.

“He said you’d come,” he says, and his voice is raspy and rough. His eyes shift from Yeonjun to Dayeon, then to Soojin. “Your Grace.”

“Far be it from me to abandon a fellow omega in need,” Yeonjun replies primly.

He sees Beomgyu swallow, his throat jumping with the motion. “Your forgiveness knows no bounds, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun hears the caustic tinge in Beomgyu’s voice, but chooses to ignore it. He reaches out towards Dayeon, who sets a tray of bite-sized delicacies in his hands, and he ever so carefully crosses the threshold, keeping a vigilant eye on the other omega in case it caused him to become aggressive, despite his words from the day before. This time, instead of setting the tray on the vanity, he sets it in front of Beomgyu’s nest of furs instead.

As he gets closer, he finally notices the little signs of restlessness wracking through the other omega despite his obvious exhaustion. When Yeonjun approaches him, Beomgyu’s legs quake, just enough for him to notice, the muscles in his forearms flexing. They are lying limply by Beomgyu’s head – his posture is so open, so vulnerable, and he makes no attempt to close it back up – if anything, when he lets his head fall to the side to look at the food Yeonjun brought, his neck is exposed, with only a few strands of hair stuck to it with sweat covering it from view, the position as submissive as it gets.

The plate only clatters for a split second before Yeonjun sets the tray down, sitting on his feet by Beomgyu’s side.

“I am afraid I am, at present, too weak to feed myself, Your Grace.”

So polite, when others are around. Yeonjun closes his eyes and nods slowly. “Do not worry yourself with that, Omega Beomgyu. I will leave the food with you, so you may enjoy it whenever you feel capable of it.”

Beomgyu gives the smallest of nods. Yeonjun sighs.

“You sound parched. Have you had water?”

“Not in some time.”

“Allow me, then.”

He ignores how big Beomgyu’s dark eyes look as they follow him around the room, stuck to him as he pours water from a pitcher into a cup and brings it over, bracing himself with a deep breath that only serves to blur his vision further before he reaches out to touch Beomgyu, cupping the back of his head to help him raise it enough to drink safely.

Beomgyu lets out a loud moan when their skin makes contact, a shiver going through his entire body, and Yeonjun can tell from the way his eyes widen further that the reaction was entirely involuntary, so he ignores it, and the blood rushing to his own face under all the paint, and simply presses the cup of water to Beomgyu’s lips, forcing him to drink.

He does to obediently, and even when Yeonjun feels Beomgyu’s weight leave his palm as he adjusts to hold himself up as he drinks, he cards his fingers through the omega’s hair soothingly instead of letting him go. Beomgyu closes his eyes and drinks until the cup is empty, then allows Yeonjun to lower him back to the furs as gently as he can.

“Thank you, Your Grace. You are exceedingly kind,” Beomgyu whispers, and his voice sounds much smoother this time – both devoid of the acidic tone and the roughness of thirst.

“I will leave the cup and pitcher here, so you do not need to get up in order to drink. It was careless of the servant to leave it so far out of reach.”

“I had much more energy when he left it there,” Beomgyu counters weakly, and Yeonjun pauses with the pitcher in hand to study his face. For all his opinionated words, he had never taken the side of a servant before. And rarely has he spoken so meekly unless an alpha was present.

He sets the pitcher down by his knees. “I see.”

“Your Grace.” His voice remains thin and quiet. Intimate.

“What is it, Omega Beomgyu?”

“About our discussion yesterday.”

Yeonjun’s folded hands close into fists in the privacy of his ample sleeves. “Yes.”

Beomgyu’s head tilts towards him, dark eyes surprisingly sober in his flushed face. “I do not apologize for the words I have said to you, but I do apologize for the tone I took. You were right to reproach me.”

His mouth purses. His hands shake. He nods his head benevolently. “I am glad you have seen the error of your ways.”

What he said was unacceptable, and he did not apologize for it. Unacceptable. Unacceptable.

Right the prince’s wrong.

Beomgyu’s rosy lips quiver as he seems to consider his next words. Yeonjun does not care to hear them.

“Are you cold, Omega Beomgyu?”

Beomgyu blinks his pretty eyes in obvious confusion, tilting his head enough to look down the length of himself, obviously in the throes of fever. “I—” then his eyes fall on Yeonjun again, then flicker the slightest amount towards the door behind him. Yeonjun reaches out past the edge of his sleeve to grip at the shawl draped over his shoulders again. Beomgyu sucks in a deep breath, and Yeonjun would swear he saw his irises widening with realization.

“Yes, Your Grace. As the fever deepens, I—”

“I understand.” He reaches up and unravels the shawl, then lays it across Beomgyu’s shoulders like a small blanket. It reeks of Yeonjun’s scent; it should give Beomgyu some comfort, the comfort which Yeonjun does not dare to keep providing by being alone with the other omega anymore.

It should ease his pain; even if the slightest amount.

And perhaps, if Taehyun is in need of more of his scent—

“You are most kind to me, Your Grace.”

It does not even sound like the Beomgyu he has come to know. A frown furrows Yeonjun’s brow. Just a few more days, and this will be over.

 

.

 

Yeonjun feels restless the whole day. He is used to not seeing the prince for months at a time, to going around his day without him even when he is present in his princedom. Taehyun is a busy man, and he often takes lunches outside of the palace while visiting his ministers, councilors and allies, or in his quarters while he is buried in his work. He so rarely joins his household for meals, Yeonjun almost feels off-kilter when the seat next to him at the head of the table in the dining hall is filled instead.

The lack of chocolate eyes and curious hands in his entourage however, has become such a permanent fixture so rapidly that it keeps being a distraction to him constantly, and thoughts of the other omega always bring with them thoughts of his husband, until Yeonjun keeps finding himself scenting the air for no good reason at all, as if a more thorough breath would let him smell at least the faintest trace of either of them. There is no such luck, however. Yeonjun has no reason to be near either of them as he goes about his day, tending to his household and the people within it with utmost care as he always does.

By the time it is time to take his dinner with Madame Seo, he feels exhausted from being tense all day, and he wishes he could shed at least half the heavy clothes and jewelry he was so glad to have earlier, just to let himself rest – but he is not nearly close enough with Madame Seo to see her with his hair bare, or dressed only in a robe. She is an older omega, and has always seen herself as something of a mentor to Yeonjun, even though she had never led a proper household of her own. She was also descended from minor nobility, and her husband is a retired army officer – both of them have spent most of their lives at the Imperial Court, before Taehyun extended the invitation to her husband to live out the rest of his days in the peace of his palace away from the imperial capital.

Despite their backgrounds being mostly the same, with the only difference being that Madame Seo was born to an imperial courtier instead of being brought there as a child, she would always regard Yeonjun with a sort of fond condescension. Even today, as Yeonjun accepts her bow with a polite nod of his head, she barely holds her bow long enough to be polite before crossing the distance to reach for his hands so she could hold them in her withered ones.

“Oh, my dear, I was so saddened to hear you would not join me last night!” She chippers girlishly, squeezing at his hand. Even his aunt would hesitate to touch him without permission now that he is married to a prince – but not Madame Seo. “Were you ill, darling? Certainly not – you look rosy as a flower today!”

She pinches his cheek, and Yeonjun forces a smile on his tired face. “No, my dear Madame. I simply had matters which could not wait, and tending to them took so terribly long I could not ask you to wait for me to be done.”

Madame Seo mimics a gasp. “Oh dear. Busy as always, aren’t you, darling? Oh, how terribly inconsiderate of His Highness to allow his wife to work so awfully hard. If he had only taken you with him to the court, you would have little more to worry about than what to wear to parties!” She sighs deeply, and squeezes Yeonjun’s hand one last time before letting it go. “The foolishness of a young man. A royal soul indeed, but so naïve of the world!”

Yeonjun grits his teeth through all the chatter, then bares them in a smile. “His Highness, in all his wisdom and good judgment, knows that the needs of this household are needs I am capable of handling! His trust in my abilities remains a blessing to me. There is no need to worry yourself, Madame Seo, as you can see, today I am more than capable of entertaining you through dinner.”

He watches as the older woman’s mouth purses, politeness dictating that she not show her displeasure with the words of the benefactor who houses her and her husband so graciously while her self-imposed image of a wise old woman tells her to keep imparting her questionable wisdom upon a younger omega. Eventually, she seems to swallow the bitter pill and she smiles again.

“Our dear prince had truly chosen himself an exceptional bride.”

Yeonjun gives her a small bow of thanks. “As I have said, I do believe he is a man of good judgment, so I am left no choice but to believe his trust in me had been well-placed. Now, may we continue our conversation over dinner? I believe our dishes are growing cold while we idle.”

“Oh, certainly!” Madame Seo enthuses, seemingly incapable of not facing everything that comes her way with boundless optimism, and she follows him as he takes his seat in front of their dinner spread. A few of the tables he and his ladies use to take breakfast had been removed in favor of a more intimate set up for private dinners with esteemed guests, and the dishes used to serve their food are much nicer than the ones Yeonjun would use otherwise. All to impress the oh-so-impressionable Madame Seo.

She takes a seat opposite him, spreading out her ample green robes around her, and watches with a strained look as a servant takes a seat next to Yeonjun and begins serving him. Madame Seo is not noble or important enough to not serve herself; Yeonjun has just enough goodwill for her to dismiss the servant as soon as his plate is fixed.

Obviously struggling to keep her cheerful composure, Madame Seo launches into more chatter as she begins to serve herself. “Oh, darling, I was so excited to have your attention all to myself again. I have not gotten the chance to speak to you since that—” she hesitates. “Since the day our dear prince returned, and I have been simply bursting at the seams with all the things I would have liked to tell you!”

Yeonjun chews slowly on a mouthful of delicious fish which slowly turns tasteless in his mouth as he realizes what her desired topic of conversation will be. “Is that so?”

“Of course!” Madame Seo raises her sleeves to her face in another girlish gesture. “This has been the most upheaval this household has seen in all the six years you and the prince have shared it, has it not?”

Certainly. Doubtlessly. Yeonjun has hardly felt secure on his feet since Beomgyu had arrived. But what concern is that of Madame Seo’s?

“Upheaval?” He feigns ignorance, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes. “Omega Beomgyu’s arrival was a boon to our household! His Imperial Majesty was most generous with the prince to have granted him such a splendid gift. It was about time His Highness had made use of the concubines’ quarters – we have been tending to them all this time while they stood there unused, could you imagine?”

Not devoid of malicious glee, he watches Madame Seo once again falter in her excitement. “Oh, certainly, darling! A concubine as beautiful and as noble-bred as this… but, my dear, has he not been a bit of a spectacle to his household? The way he spoke to the prince when he was introduced to us? And I have heard the most scandalous gossip of him the past few days!”

Of course she did. Of course. “It seems to me, Madame Seo, that the members of our household are simply too excited by the prospect of finally having something interesting to talk about, they would cling to any little thing these days.”

Madame Seo gasps like the words personally offended her, and maybe they did, since Yeonjun had no doubt that she was hard at work spreading said gossip around the past few days as well. “I have heard that the poor thing had gone half mad with heat! And that our darling captain of the guard ran to his side yesterday, and nobody knows why! Could you imagine? The good Captain, involving himself in such a thing?”

Yeonjun huffs, trying to make the genuine disgust he feels at her words sound mild and playful. “Madame Seo – at your age, you should know better than to think that the gossip you hear is anything but a salacious exaggeration. I have received regular updates of Omega Beomgyu’s condition, and while he was affected deeply, I assure you he has retained all of his faculties. There is no madness in him to speak of, only a very strong heat due to his recent mating. And as for the good Captain, certainly all your reliable sources had informed you that he had been entrusted by the prince with the care of his concubine while they were at court. He had seen it as his duty to extend this assignment even in this household, while the prince remained indisposed. His efforts to assist with Omega Beomgyu’s care were nothing but a show of his devotion to our family.” He shakes his head. He does not even have to lie to preserve everyone’s honor. Despite all the dark thoughts in his own mind, the situation remains remarkably under control. “I would prefer if the truth had circulated through the palace instead - perhaps a formal acknowledgment of the Captain’s efforts is in order.”

Obviously displeased with the mundane turn of events, Madame Seo lets out a little huff through her nose. “I believe that would put a damper on the rumor mill, darling. But no matter, this gossip is not what I have come to talk to you about!”

Finding that hard to believe, Yeonjun regards Madame Seo with a small smile. “Is that so? What is it then, my dear?”

With a girlish giggle, Madame Seo pours each of them a cup of wine. “When the concubine was introduced to the court, I thought to myself – the Golden City? Surely I had heard of this place before!” She holds her sleeve to her chest theatrically. “And as fortune would have it, I had! Would you believe it? In the letters I had received from my beloved nephew – he is a military man, just like my husband, you see - he spoke of this place! Of the siege and the storming of the city, the raid on its palace. He was a junior officer at the time, and had written to me the entire time! He had always been my favorite out of my nieces and nephews - such a dutiful young man, thinking of his family no matter where his duty to the Emperor took him, so dedicated in his service.”

Yeonjun considers the offer in front of him – is this the way he learns more of Beomgyu’s origins? Not through his own mouth, but through the loose lips of his courtier? Seeing the city not from the inside, but through the eyes of an imperial soldiers, invading foreign land. It feels unclean somehow, and yet Yeonjun’s curiosity gnaws at him hungrily – he can always inquire about Omega Beomgyu’s view of the same events later. He promises himself that he will.

“What did he say?”

Madame Seo titters with excitement and drinks deeply of her wine before launching into the story she had been dying to retell to him this whole time. Imperial troops, crossing the southern border with the promise of a city so rich their breath will still in their chests at the sight of the splendor; all the spoils they would be entitled to once they brought it under the Emperor’s rule, allowing the long arm of the Empire to extent ever wider. Rumors among all the young junior officers, over meals taken hastily during pauses in their march – streets paved with gold and children with pearls in their hair, fountains with wine flowing through them and an abundance of supple omegas for them to take home from conquest. The frustration and anxious trepidation when they were stopped at the walls of the city, as they set up for a siege, the mystery of the pale walls promising to contain a wondrous city within.

Her nephew spoke of the old man who passed through the city gates on a horse that seemed fit for a giant to ride, covered in tassels woven with silver thread, with a white beard so long it tangled with the horse’s mane – he was an elder of some city council, a man who held himself as king even though, in the eyes of the Empire, his title was not worth the spit the imperial General he spoke to had his boots shined with. Somehow, it seemed to impress the young officer – the pride he had seen in the people he met in the city. A councilor with the air of a noble who wielded the words of the regent like they were an imperial decree. They would not surrender the city. The Golden City would not recognize the Emperor’s superiority. They were an autonomous, independent city, and they would remain so. The lords of the Golden City bowed to no kings, and they would not swear fealty to an emperor, either. As foolish as it was, there was a rugged romance to their defiance that the noble officers seemed to find an affection for.

And in the end, they would rather sack the city than make do with a paltry tribute, anyway.

Their spies reported that the City had spent the siege desperately calling on any allies that would listen, but hardly anyone came. There was an attempt to smuggle goods past the walls, but it had been quashed by the imperial troops, who feasted on the supplies instead, making merry under the city walls to mock the anguished people inside. At some point, a riot was said to have broken out inside, forcing the young lord and his regent into hiding, which the city council used to usurp more power for themselves – and what they have decided with their newfound power, was to stage a last stand – a valiant, if fruitless endeavor.

Madame Seo’s nephew did not get to see the worst of it – he knew that the troops were displeased as they rushed the city only to find its streets paved with stone they could not pocket, the children unadorned and filthy, and the omegas thin with starvation, with sunken eyes and listless faces, dreading their inevitable fate. While he and his men continued down he main path through the city to the palace to depose the council and seize the lord and the regent, the other soldiers flooded the city, and soon their officers lost control of them – some were starving and scavenging for food; some were ransacking homes for valuables; some got drunk and started setting fires, just to take glee in the panic as the city’s people tried to keep the fire from engulfing the whole of it and razing it to the ground.

According to him, the storming of the palace itself was a strange affair – the council took refuge within its walls rather than leaving itself vulnerable in a council hall in the center of the city, but the palace guard put up only a minor fight before letting the imperial troops seize them. It soon became obvious, as they made their way through a half-empty palace, that the priority of the palace guard simply laid elsewhere – the only thing they cared about was letting the nobles of the city escape. The young lord and the regent were separated, and taken to two different escape routes, so even if the imperial forces tried to pursue them, at least one of them might make it out of the city unharmed.

They had no such luck – in theory, they could have let them go. Since no allies came to their aid during the siege, the chances of them returning at the head of an army to take the city back were slim to none – the Emperor had nothing to fear from either of them.

And yet, they followed them, perhaps because their commander had heard earlier in the siege that the regent was an omega of exceptional beauty, and was hoping to take him for a bride as a reward for the successful conquest of the city, or perhaps it was simply his desire to show the superiority of the Empire by taking the city so completely that none of it was left by the time the Empire was done with it.

In any event, they caught the feeling nobles – the young lord, a boy no more than twelve years of age, was injured in the skirmish, the bravery of a young alpha causing him to be reckless and get caught up in the fighting, and he had succumbed to his injury while he was being transported to the Imperial Court as a prisoner. The regent was captured in a much more peaceful manner, as both sides seemed unwilling to let him come to harm in the process. Any soldier who disrespected him while he was held was harshly punished. Rumors went around about the General having taken an exceptional liking to the young widow.

“It must have been such a terrible disappointment to the General that he had never got to take the regent as his wife,” Madame Seo chuckles lightheartedly. “His Imperial Majesty held onto him for years before finally granting his company to His Highness, our prince. One wonders if maybe the Emperor himself was taken by him so.”

Yeonjun scoffs slightly. “His Imperial Majesty could have simply had him to himself if that were the case, my dear Madame. Let us not get carried away with romantic ideas.”

Madame Seo tuts. “Either way, would His Imperial Majesty not grant his son only the best he could offer? He seems to take great pride in our prince.”

That was not the way the situation had been presented to Yeonjun – but then again, maybe Taehyun's fondness for him extended to soothing his bruised ego when his husband brought home an omega who threatened to put Yeonjun's own beauty to shame.

“That he does, Madame Seo,” Yeonjun allows mechanically and finishes his cup of wine, the older omega rushing to fill it politely.

Before they can carry on their conversation, a servant appears in the doorway, and Yeonjun almost sighs in relief at the sight of her.

“What is it?”

“Your Grace, the Captain is here asking to meet with you briefly, should you have the time. He insisted he is not busy, and will wait for you to be done taking your meal should you desire so.”

“Oh!” Madame Seo exclaims, bringing her sleeve to her face. “The young man truly has ears everywhere around the palace – one speaks of him and he appears!” She laughs, then reaches out to cover Yeonjun's hand with her own like they are close friends. “You run along, my dear, see what the Captain needs. This old woman can entertain herself just as well.”

Yeonjun sees her eyeing the wine, and suppresses a scornful sound as he gathers himself and bows his head politely. “With your pardon, Madame Seo. I believe the Captain only brings news of the prince. He knows I worry whenever he becomes afflicted.”

His skin used to itch, tight and uncomfortable. What is he doing, letting his alpha suffer? Not tending to him? Not giving himself to him? Shameful and unnatural. Now the discomfort he feels during Taehyun’s ruts is a vague nagging at the back of his mind. Shouldn’t he be somewhere else? There is something he should be doing. It does not hurt anymore, does not itch. Like an old, scarred-over wound, its existence is just a dull reminder.

“Oh, His Highness is so lucky to have a wife as dutiful as you!” Madame Seo chippers after him as he leaves, and he allows himself a deep sigh before entering the waiting room, where Soobin has sat himself at the low table and now scrambles to kneel so he can bow to him properly.

“No need for the formalities, Soobin – what is it?”

Soobin lifts himself back up from his deep bow and stands up, much more slowly now. “I’ve only come to speak to you about the prince – I visited his quarters earlier, and old Minhyuk assures me that he has been handling this rut surprisingly well. He seemed taken aback by this – most of us expected this one to be harder than the rest. You included, assuredly.”

Yeonjun lifts his chin. He did well, after all. “Seems like a most fortunate turn of events. It settles my heart to know the prince is not suffering.”

He watches as the Captain pulls his bottom lip through his teeth. “Do you know what might the reason be? Is there something I don't know? I've spoken to Minhyuk extensively before the prince closed his quarters off and all wisdom seems to dictate that the prince should hardly be within his senses right now – he's freshly mated, without a partner to soothe him, and he hasn't even tried to send for Omega Beomgyu's scent. He only wanted yours – this should not be possible. With all due respect, Your Grace, that should not have been enough.”

Yeonjun feels the same weariness that he felt before Madame Seo arrived set into his bones. Should he be honest with Soobin? As always, they have eyes and ears on them, Yeonjun's servants making sure there is nothing illicit about their meeting, but the confession would not have to be blunt, or necessarily a blow to his composure; he could break the news matter-of-factly. Be dignified about it.

He clears his throat lightly. “Well. I suppose it is fortuitous that I had spent some time with Omega Beomgyu the day before. Perhaps… our scents mingled, enough to settle the prince's desire, at least to some extent.”

Soobin blinks hard, and Yeonjun can see him struggling to keep his eyes politely away. “I find it hard to believe that would be enough to settle an alpha in rut, but… I suppose it may have been a factor.”

Yeonjun sees the wheels turning in his head through the pinched look on Soobin's face. “In any regard, whatever led to this outcome, it is a fortuitous one. Meeting Madame Seo tonight made me realize it had been a long time since you have joined me and the prince for dinner – perhaps, if the prince's affliction is mild this time, we could remedy that soon – before he or the both of you abandon me again.”

He says it lightly, jokingly – not to veil any hurt, simply because, six years in, it is easy for him to joke about. Still, Soobin looks chastised and remorseful.

“I would love to join the both of you for a meal – perhaps, if the prince is lucid enough tomorrow, I could have Minhyuk tell him you and I have plans for him once he’s well – surely it would be a good motivation for him to get better as soon as possible.”

He smiles, half out of fondness and half to show Soobin that he does not need to feel remorseful on his behalf. “I would hate for him to worry himself with us while he is not feeling well.”

“As a fellow alpha, Your Grace, believe me when I say he would most likely gladly think of anything else but himself during these moments – and as his friend… I am sure he’d find the thought of your company comforting.”

Yeonjun struggles to suppress the warmth that swells in his chest at the words, laughing it off instead. “I am sure he spends most of his time thinking of the company of omegas. I believe he would find the prospect of dinner quite dull in comparison.”

“Not if it were dinner with you,” Soobin says lightly, teasingly.

He shakes his head. “Are you courting me on behalf of my husband? I believe the need for that ran out when he was given my hand in marriage.”

Soobin puts a hand to his chest. “I would not dare to encroach upon his husbandly duties that way, Your Grace. I am simply stating my opinion, as someone who has known the prince since our boyhood.”

“Oh, and it just happens to be that your opinion aligns with flattery?”

“Whether you choose to see it as flattering is up to you, Your Grace,” Soobin says, catching him off-guard. What else would it be? How else should he feel, about the prospect of his husband eager to spend chaste, friendly time with him? What else, but a shivering joy? A childish blush? They are married. Have been, for so many years.

Yet they have seen each other so seldomly throughout those years, it has always felt like more of an amicable, fleeting friendship. Admiration, more often than not, and so terribly rarely – a strange courtship, much different from their previous one.

“I will see myself out now, if you will allow.”

Yeonjun purses his lips and squares his shoulders. “Very well. Thank you for letting me know how he is.”

Soobin nods. “I am sure Minhyuk would have sent someone in the morning, either way.”

“Sometimes they take mercy on me,” he jokes, but once again, the words seem to hit Soobin oddly. He sighs.

“Good night, Your Grace. Please enjoy your dinner.”

“I may – now that I know that the prince may yet rest tonight as well. Good night, Captain.”

Soobin bows deeper than Yeonjun would require him to before leaving. Yeonjun takes a moment to gather himself before rejoining Madame Seo, ready to regale her with tales of the prince’s good health.

 

.

 

Yeonjun lies awake at night, too aware of the deafening solitude of his own bedroom. It is too big of a room to be in alone, and yet it has never been otherwise. Taehyun had never spent a night with him in this bed. Yeonjun had slept in the one Taehyun occupies now, the one in his own quarters, but Taehyun had never stayed the night.

He turns his head to the side, inhaling the scent of sheets that had never carried the scent of his husband, and he wonders if Beomgyu used to share a bed with his husband – is that the custom in the south? The way of the Golden City? He doubts so; he could not imagine Beomgyu lying peacefully next to an alpha.

Madame Seo’s story surfaces in his mind again, and he turns the other way. It was not the first story of conquest he had heard in his life, and not even the worst one. Many old veterans loved entertaining the youngsters with their war stories at dinners, at parties and banquets, telling their histories to whoever would listen – Yeonjun would always be reluctant, and yet he would often find himself forced to, anyways. Bloodshed and battle and ruin; high city walls toppled, armies massacred, women and children taken from their homes. Piles of gold and unhappy, hungry soldiers who get out of hand. He heard the stories, but they were all distant and nameless; faceless. He could hardly imagine some terrified farmer in a land somewhere far away running for his life before an advancing army as his home burnt to the ground behind his back – but he could imagine Beomgyu.

Watching as his city starved, as it was taken from him, and lit on fire. He could imagine him, sitting with perfect posture and a grim look in his face, the familiar emptiness in his chocolate eyes, as all his pleas for help from his allies went unanswered. As supplies were promised but never came. When he closes his eyes, he can be right there at Beomgyu’s side as he is forced to flee, empty-handed, separated from his brother-in-law. As he is brought before the General.

Not for the first time, he wonders what life must be like, for prisoners at the Court. When he lived there, he hardly ever heard of any prisoners. People jailed for crimes, perhaps. Sometimes money came in as ransom and the news made the rounds among the courtiers if the sum was high enough to be interesting to them, but the prisoners themselves rarely became a topic of conversation. Imperial courtiers did not look at foreign nobles with much respect – if their power was not sanctioned by the Emperor, then it was hardly real. To them, they were just children playing king in comparison to the majesty of the Empire.

But Beomgyu was a true noble, was he not? With his posture, his skill at the imperial language. His wit and his beauty. The indomitable pride that was the undoing of his city. That is what true noble blood carries – or it should.

Yeonjun turns his head the other way again. If he bears Taehyun a child – whatever strange twists fate may take to make it so – it will be a true and worthy heir. Concubine or not. Foreigner or not. A child with Taehyun’s sharp mind and Beomgyu’s delicate face and the body of an alpha could surely descend him with honor.

Could Yeonjun hold such a child in his arms fondly? Could he look upon his husband’s heir with favor? If the child was not of his blood?

He raises his hand to the pillow next to his head, and balls it into a fist.

They are wasting precious time, with every moment Yeonjun spends alone in his bed while Taehyun is in rut. Right now, he could be warming Taehyun’s bed and praying for a child while his alpha has his way with him.

He turns his whole body in the other direction, lying on his side instead.

And Beomgyu is cold, lonely and suffering, abandoned by the mate who claimed him. Fearful of what it may entail should he change his mind and demand his company. Torn between wanting his alpha close and wanting him as far away as possible. Tormented. Helpless. Just like when he watched the imperial troops engulf his city out a palace window, with no say in what happens next. Just prayers, and whatever tattered hope he has left.

While Yeonjun lies peacefully in bed, thinking that his thoughts are of any real concern. He does not know suffering. He had never been tormented, tortured, by anything but his own mind. There has been no war in his life, no strife – he had never wanted for anything. He had not gone hungry a day in his life.

And yet he dares to complain?

 

.

He is ready for it the next day, when the servant bringing news of the prince’s good condition hesitantly says that the prince had asked for more. This, too, is new. Even when Taehyun was desperate enough to ask for Yeonjun’s scent, he only ever gave in once during his rut. Maybe the remedy Yeonjun offered him works too well – and now the prince is afraid to face the throes of his rut without it. Only the shred of Beomgyu’s scent helped more than Yeonjun’s ever has. Or maybe it is simply the scent of an omega in heat that soothes Taehyun so much. Yeonjun wishes he could ask, to settle his mind, but all he can do is hope.

And perhaps ask the prince the question at a later date.

For now, he surrenders to the current – what he sends Taehyun is the shawl he had his servants retrieve from Beomgyu as soon as he awoke, drenched in sugary citrus. Whatever has to be done, for his husband’s comfort.

After breakfast, he visits Beomgyu again, wraps his shoulders in his own clothes again, and does not flinch away when Beomgyu reaches for his hand as he is pulling it away. He lets Beomgyu hold onto it feebly – once again, now that he has settled, he simply seems weak and listless. His chocolate eyes are watery and red-rimmed.

Beomgyu’s thumb traces the line of rings on Yeonjun’s hand, and there is something peaceful about it, despite the charged scent in the air. His hand is soft and gentle.

“There was something I wondered,” Yeonjun says quietly.

The doors are opened again, and Dayeon and Soojin are politely waiting outside of them. Beomgyu glances at them. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“You have told me that the customs of the Golden City differ from ours, but little of what that entails. Tell me – do married couples share a bed where you are from? Did you sleep at your husband’s side?”

How peaceful it would be – to wake to Beomgyu’s beautiful face just an arm’s length away. To feel his mate’s touch first thing in the morning.

Despite his exhaustion, Beomgyu snorts. “No, of course not. To us, an omega is not their mate’s companion. I did not get to share my husband’s bed just because he claimed me. He could have called me in if he was cold and required a bedfellow to keep warm – but he did not seem particularly inclined to do that. The climate was warm and mild in the Golden City. A small mercy from the gods, surely.”

“What about during your heat?”

Beomgyu tightens his grip on Yeonjun’s hand, the rings digging uncomfortably into his skin. “He was too busy to laze around with his wife. He stayed close enough to feel the peaks of it through our bond, and he made sure to…” His lips shake and he stares at Yeonjun, hard. “Tend to me, when I was the most desperate to have him, and the most likely to get pregnant from him knotting me. Then he’d leave me to continue his work while my body worked itself up for him again.”

Yeonjun’s brows furrow. He had expected Beomgyu to say that his mate claimed his heats completely, given the obvious disdain he had for Taehyun not claiming Yeonjun’s – but perhaps the disgust was not born out of comparison with his late husband, and rather a deeply held belief of Beomgyu’s about how a good mate should be.

He itches to ask about the meantime between his husband’s visits – Beomgyu spoke so much about pleasure and satisfaction that Yeonjun is convinced that he did not let it stand and sought comfort for himself even in his husband’s absence – but Dayeon and Soobin are right there, and Yeonjun will not ask Beomgyu to dishonor himself by discussing his own infidelity in front of others. Even if, in Beomgyu’s own eyes, having a lover is moral and justified. His ladies perhaps would not even be too surprised – they knew the intricacies of marriage. Affairs were not an uncommon sight, not even here, away from the Imperial court. Still – Yeonjun will not force Beomgyu to expose himself so.

“I am not currently strong enough to give you more of a lesson in the culture of the Free Cities,” Beomgyu continues, and the disgust on his face slowly shifts into a wane smile. “But I can tell you this much – if you seek to hear stories of marital warmth, you will be sorely disappointed. The level of affection I have seen your husband show you would be preposterous where I was raised.”

To his surprise, and obviously Beomgyu’s as well, a little gasp is heard from the doorway, where Yeonjun’s ladies are waiting.

Dayeon’s face is pink when they both turn towards her, and she covers the lower half of her face with her sleeve. “Excuse me, Your Grace. I merely…” she glances at Beomgyu. “Our prince is so infamous with his reserved behavior. It it so shocking to hear that to some lands’ custom he would be an indulgent man.”

Beomgyu pouts. “He scents his wife in front of his subjects and invites him to private dinners.”

That is what is so incredibly unthinkable to Beomgyu? “In the Empire, scenting your own mate is hardly a grand show of affection – it is the suitable way to greet one another. It is not uncommon to see couples embracing or kissing one another in front of everyone.”

“It is not necessarily the most courtly behavior, but it is tolerated in most imperial courts – especially by couples with as much influence as the Emperor’s son and his wife,” Soojin adds.

Yeonjun drops his eyes. That is the game of the court; the higher you are, the less the rules apply to you.

At the sound of Beomgyu’s scoff, he looks up again. The omega lets Yeonjun’s hand go in favor of tucking both hands to his own chest. “I am glad I was given to a man who knows better, then.”

He watches Beomgyu as his eyes skim over all of them, just to land on Yeonjun with a small frown on his pretty face. Yeonjun is not sure how to feel about that statement. He is not sure if he agrees with the sentiment.

 

.

 

That day, Yeonjun takes dinner in the main dining hall with the rest of his household, keeping up a lively conversation with the steward as they eat. To his delight, the household seems remarkably peaceful despite the rumors Madame Seo spoke about. Nobody looks at him strangely, if anything, a few curious looks are sent Soobin’s way instead.

Yeonjun should remedy that as soon as possible, but he would rather have the prince involved, so it has to wait.

Unsurprisingly, by the time Yeonjun and his entourage make it back to his quarters, the captain is waiting for him, and he bows deeply for his ladies while most of them file past him to Yeonjun’s dressing room to wait for him to arrive. Dayeon and Dasom linger, for propriety, standing quietly behind Yeonjun.

“The prince remains in good condition,” Soobin reports. “Minhyuk said he was completely lucid for a few hours today, and was able to eat and rest properly.”

“How incredibly fortuitous.” Yeonjun says, and despite his formulaic response, even he can hear the relief in his own voice.

“Indeed.” The captain shuffles his feet, then adds, “Minhyuk also said that he inquired after his concubine’s condition… and your own.”

He feels his own back straightening in surprise, and tries to keep his emotions off his face. “I hope he was informed that we are both in good health and his household is well-tended to in his absence.”

“He did not inform me of his response, but I thought you might want to be informed of his inquiry regardless.”

“It would be unfortunate if the prince was not given the news of Omega Beomgyu’s improvements.”

“Minhyuk is aware that he has been faring better – he asks me for news in he household, when I come to ask about the prince – of his own accord.”

“Good – the prince need not burden himself with issues of household while he is not well. That is what I am here for.”

Soobin’s face does a strange thing, but he nods. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

 

.

 

On the fourth day of Beomgyu’s heat, Beomgyu welcomes Yeonjun into his bed room in a fresh set of underclothes, sitting upright on his furs, legs folded in front of himself instead of neatly tucked underneath himself – Yeonjun supposes that is the more comfortable way to sit with wetness still dripping from him liberally.

He eats the treats Yeonjun brought in front of him, quiet in a different way than before, where he seemed to weak to be his usual defiant or curious self, rather in an oddly peaceful way where he seems to feel no pressure to speak. Yeonjun observes this new side to him, and marvels at the way it suits him just as well as any other he had seen him display.

Once the last bite of food disappears between Beomgyu’s cracked lips, his eyes turn to Yeonjun, catching him staring at his own face, and he asks, “How is the prince?”

Beomgyu has to know the prince is in rut – whether someone told him so, or he can feel it. “You do not need to worry about him,” Yeonjun replies, wooden. For once, there is no veil of fear across Beomgyu’s face when he asks, but every time he had asked Yeonjun this question, he seemed to be thinking that Taehyun was about to call on him regardless of all their promises.

Beomgyu’s lip twitches, and he looks away, staring off into space. “I… hope he is well,” he says, just as wooden as Yeonjun before, as if it hurts him to say, but with no acidic bite to the words.

Yeonjun blinks hard, confused, and cannot bring himself to reply.

The other omega looks down at his hands. “You have been giving him my scent.”

Ah. He swallows. “I—”

“I suppose you have found an arrangement that benefits us all.” There is resolve in Beomgyu’s face when he looks at Yeonjun again. “If the price I pay to have your scent is you providing mine to your husband, then I accept that trade. You are free to do so at your leisure.”

Yeonjun’s mouth goes dry. Somehow, while doing all this, he had never stopped to think about Beomgyu’s comfort, his own thoughts on the matter. Perhaps that was careless of him. But then again, he knew that Beomgyu would be soothed by his scent in turn.

“The prince has been doing remarkably well,” he replies feebly.

“I am sure that is a great relief to you, Your Grace.”

He can only bring himself to give a minute nod. His earrings jingle like a wind chime. He cannot look over at Dayeon or Soojin, cannot bring himself to look at their faces. They are omegas, too – maybe they alone would understand, and yet…

Beomgyu’s hands flex in his own lap. “I should be well enough to rejoin you tomorrow, should you require my presence.”

Yeonjun frowns slightly. “You are welcome to join us if you wish, but please do not push yourself. We can do a bit longer without your company if you need to gather your strength some more.”

Beomgyu nods, looking down at his own knees again. “We will see what tomorrow brings, then.”

 

.

 

“He gave poor Minhyuk such a terrible scare it almost cost the old man his life,” Soobin reports that night over a cup of wine in Yeonjun’s waiting room. “He has not seen our prince leave his bed room during his rut since the two of you mated – and now he does so, to steal his own correspondence to read in his bed?”

Yeonjun smiles in response over his own cup. “It suits him so, for the first thing he thinks to do when he is well enough to do anything but suffer in his bed to be more work.”

“Married to his office as always,” Soobin jokes.

“That is a bit rich coming from you, is it not, Captain?” Yeonjun teases. “At least our prince took enough time away from his work to court me – as easy as it was for a man of his means.”

“Ah,” Soobin shakes his head, and looks away from Yeonjun’s face. “You know me, Your Grace. The intricacies of courtship have never been… for me.”

He knows that, and yet – now that the thought of Beomgyu breaking through Soobin’s shell entered his mind, he cannot help but wonder what that shell is even made of. Is there something wrong with Soobin’s body? Do no omegas match his specific taste? Is there something to any of the rumors that have surfaced about him over the years? He considers Soobin a friend, and yet he does not know – has never cared to know, as he was happy enough to accept Soobin whatever the answer was; but the curiosity nags at him now.

“Do you intend to die a bachelor, then?”

Soobin stares into his cup, then shrugs. “Most people do not intend on solitude. Sometimes it is imposed on us by fate.”

It is almost comical to hear Soobin speak so poetically, and Yeonjun has to suppress a laugh at the dissonance between the man he knows and the words he is hearing. “My… Captain, I did not take you to be a man who would ascribe things to fate of all things.”

Instead of laughing along with him, Soobin hums. “Perhaps fate is not the right word for it – nature, perhaps.”

Yeonjun blinks, confused. Soobin shakes his head when Yeonjun does not reply promptly.

“But that is irrelevant. You are right – just like our prince, I am married to my duty to the two of you; and it is a happy enough marriage, demanding as it is.”

Still unsure of what to say, Yeonjun just nods in response.

 

.

 

On the fifth day, Beomgyu is sitting between Dayeon and Eunbi in Yeonjun’s tea room by the time he comes to join his ladies for breakfast. He still looks a little flushed, but his hair is no longer matted with sweat, and his sharp, sugary smell has waned into a soft, sweet zest in the air. Yeonjun cannot help but notice, however, that even with the glow of his heat waning, Beomgyu’s face remains starkly beautiful. He wears a pale green overcoat Yeonjun had tailored for him over silver robes, and his face is framed with pearls, in his hair, on his ears and on his neck.

Keeping his eyes off of him once he has acknowledged his presence at the table is not an easy feat – Yeonjun instinctively keeps looking away from whatever he is trying to give his attention to – whether it is conversation with his ladies or the meal before him – and at Beomgyu’s careful, tired movements, the conversation he carries on, just sluggish enough to show he is still not quite at full strength. He can’t help but wonder why he decided to join them for the day regardless – perhaps staying in the concubines’ quarters was simply too boring for him after days of it.

It gnaws at him as they eat, even as he paints his face while Beomgyu joins the others in rifling through Yeonjun’s jewelry. Beomgyu must be bored, and Yeonjun’s own days have been filled with nothing but stress and duty recently – even his peaceful daily walks through the garden have been usurped by his duties. Once the prince’s quarters open up again, there will be yet more for him to do before he leaves the palace again, but today, perhaps he could afford to give himself – and Beomgyu, by extension - some respite.

“My dears,” he speaks up as he is attaching his earrings before the mirror while one of his ladies arranges pins in his hair into a golden, sparkling halo. “What do you say to a day of rest? It has been so long since we have dedicated a day to resting our minds as well as our bodies. I crave music and games so that we may be refreshed again.”

He looks at all of them, but pays special attention to Beomgyu, who seems surprised but not opposed. The rest of them seem enthusiastic, so he rises from his seat with newfound optimism as he is helped into his overcoat.

“Lady Chaeyoung simply has to play the flute for us again. You are so talented, my dear!”

Chaeyoung, obviously flustered by the sudden outpouring of compliments, goes pink and flails her sleeve in the air. “Hardly so Your Grace! You are too kind. It would be an honor to play for you.”

They file from Yeonjun’s quarters directly into a music room, followed by a servant who lays out refreshments for them to enjoy, and Yeonjun reaches easily for a cup of wine Eunbi promptly pours for him, as soon as she sees him reach for the cup. Chaeyoung goes to look for a flute while the other ladies find themselves places to sit, some taking out dice or playing pieces to play games while they enjoy the music. Beomgyu, once again, stays restless, ambling around the room touching the furniture, inspecting playing pieces, then joining Chaeyoung in looking at the instruments.

Some of them he grips with a knowing hand, including a string instrument that Yeonjun has never seen played in his life, that probably ended up in their possession through a gift of some important guest or other. He is sure Beomgyu was educated in the art of music – Yeonjun has never heard of a culture where music was not considered uplifting for the soul, suited for alphas and omegas alike, commoner or noble. He decides not to push him to play for them, however, and just settles in a bed of pillows near where Chaeyoung sits down to play her flute to enjoy her talents – he was not exaggerating in his praises, at least not in his own estimation. Out of all his ladies’ musical talents, he enjoyed her flute-playing the most.

Eventually, Beomgyu seems to settle down as well, and all chatter in the room quiets to give way to Chaeyoung’s flute. Yeonjun closes his eyes, sips wine, and lets the sound carry his mind to a peaceful place.

By the time he gets to the bottom of the cup, Chaeyoung needs to rest, and the spell is broken somewhat while Yeonjun stares into his cup, wondering if he should ask one of the ladies to refill it for him, or do so himself.

Then a flurry of pale green enters his vision, and Beomgyu settles at his side gracefully with the pitcher of wine. “Allow me, since you have done me the favor of bringing me water in my time of need.”

There is a small smile on Beomgyu’s face, and Yeonjun watches it with delighted surprise. Is he enjoying himself? Yeonjun hopes he is.

“How thoughtful of you, Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu tilts his head demurely, like a good omega should, and the gesture seems playful when he does it more than anything. “I suppose it is time I repaid your hospitality.”

Yeonjun’s eyebrows shoot up – he has learned to be suspicious of Beomgyu’s whims, as much as he would hate to admit it. “It would be most graceful of you.”

With a little huff, Beomgyu looks away, still cradling the pitcher in his lap, then gestures with his sleeve at a table in the corner. “Do you know how to play that game?”

Yeonjun recognizes the board immediately, and shakes his head. “No. It is a war game, and as such is not suitable for an omega to play. I have seen the prince play it with out guests, but I have never been taught the rules.”

“Some customs remain the same between the Empire and the cities in the north, then,” Beomgyu remarks, rubbing the handle of the pitcher with his thumb, restless even while sitting down. “It was an alpha’s game back home as well, but one of the city elders taught it to me when I became regent – according to his words, I was not suited to rule if I could not even play a game of strategy.”

“Were you good at the game?”

“Eventually.” A little smile adorns Beomgyu’s face again. “Better than he was.”

“Perhaps someone could play you here, as well – our master steward, or perhaps the prince?”

Beomgyu sends him a look Yeonjun cannot decipher, and shakes his head. “Soobin used to play it with me while I was in his care.”

Soobin. No Captain Soobin, no qualifiers, no titles. Soobin.

“He told me you two grew to be friendly with each other.”

Beomgyu tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth. “You could put it that way.”

“Would you not?”

“It hardly matters,” Beomgyu retorts dismissively. “A friend is better than an enemy, in any regard.”

Yeonjun is not sure how to decipher his reaction, so he takes his time to respond, taking a sip of his wine first. “So they say.”

Beomgyu’s fingers drum on the pitcher, and Yeonjun’s eyes catch on the instrument he did not recognize again.

“Do you play any instruments?”

Obviously quieted by the change in topic, Beomgyu nods and looks towards the collection of instruments as well. “Of course – it was considered one of the few things that were proper for me to spend my time doing.” Despite his words, he smiles again. “When I was a child, my father in law often had me entertain his guests by playing music for them. He got to show off his son’s exotic bride, and I got to listen to all the important men coming to see him run their mouths, thinking an omega child was the equivalent of a wall they could say anything in front of. I think they barely realized I could understand everything they were saying.”

“When you were a child?”

Beomgyu hums an assent. “As soon as I could play well enough not to embarrass him – my tutors were quite impressed by how early that came. Either I am a talented musician, or I have been surrounded by flatterers my whole life. I honestly do not know which one it is.”

“You could find out – you are free to use any of the instruments you want.”

“Perhaps some other day – I am not sure if this is a good day to have my illusions shattered.”

“Very well,” Yeonjun nods easily, and drinks more wine.

Beomgyu sways the pitcher in his arms. “I do know how to play dice.”

Yeonjun nods again. “You are welcome to join my ladies in their games.”

“Would you join me?” Beomgyu’s eyes are strangely piercing, and Yeonjun only belatedly realizes that it feels so because they meet his own directly. “Or do you not participate while they play?”

“I do,” he rushes to reply, unsure of why he feels it is imperative for Beomgyu to know. “Although my hand is far from the luckiest one.”

“Whose is?”

Yeonjun blinks, and looks over to where some of the ladies are playing. “Miyeon, I would say. We had to prohibit her from making serious wagers, it was not proper for a lady to be making money as a gambler.”

Beomgyu straightens himself where he sits. “I suppose I know who I must defeat, then.”

He smiles at Yeonjun, and he, still taken aback by the sight of it, smiles back.

 

.

 

Once again, Yeonjun has not gotten the chance to dismiss his ladies by the time Soobin comes to his quarters with his report of the prince, and both he and Beomgyu seem to be startled by the sight of each other. Yeonjun is almost tempted to have Beomgyu be the only one to stay, but he has not taken steps yet to quell the rumors about their possible involvement, and he is not interested in gambling with any of their reputation, so he asks Dasom to stay behind as well – she had heard Soobin defending himself before him, so Yeonjun hopes she would not misunderstand, should there be something odd about the way the two of them regard each other.

And there is indeed something odd, as soon as the room is empty of people except the four of them. Beomgyu is not pale, frozen, his head is not hung submissively, no tense bitterness to his scent. His chin is raised, and he is looking at the captain of the guard directly, fearlessly. Even though Soobin is as much of an alpha as any other they have encountered, his presence does not seem to bother Beomgyu in the slightest.

“I—” Soobin starts, but his eyes keep flickering to Beomgyu nervously. “It is good to see you well and standing, Omega Beomgyu.”

Instead of lowering his head, he raises his chin further. “It is good to be on my feet.” He purses his lips, then adds, “Thank you for delivering my message.”

Soobin bows his head, like he’s talking to an esteemed noble – and, in a way, he is. “I felt it was my duty as a friend to this household.”

Beomgyu accepts the words with a nod, and a strange silence stretches. Yeonjun clears his throat.

“I trust the prince is still well?”

The captain rushes to nod, shifting his attention to Yeonjun. “Yes – Minhyuk said he seems a bit worse for wear than he did yesterday, I do not believe he got to read much of his correspondence at all, but altogether he still seems better than anyone could have hoped for.”

Yeonjun bows his head in acknowledgment. “I hope this means that he will be well enough to join us for dinner soon.”

Soobin does the same in response, and it is obvious that he does so much more leisurely than when replying to Beomgyu – if he wanted to dispel rumors about him having affection for the concubine, he decided to do so in the least natural way he could; and perhaps the least effective. “If fortune favors us.”

The captain does not linger much longer, and almost as soon as he is out the door, Yeonjun turns around, his curiosity no longer able to be contained.

“Omega Beomgyu.”

“Yes?”

“Soobin—” he glances at Dasom and clears his throat. “Captain Soobin said, when he came to me with your request, that you found his nature somehow agreeable.”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows rise, and his mouth twists in what is almost a smile. “Excuse me?”

Yeonjun sighs. He is simply too eager to find out to be precise in his speech. “When Captain Soobin told me you became friendly with him, I have expressed doubt, as he… is an alpha, and you have not spoken of them…”

He loses the words to express the disdain in Beomgyu’s voice when speaking of what he deems alpha nature, but Beomgyu takes mercy on him and fills in, “Kindly, yes. And?”

“He said it was his nature which allowed you to see him as a friend.”

This time, he definitely smiles a little. “Indeed it was.”

“What does that refer to?”

Beomgyu’s smile widens somehow, but there is something… slightly mocking to it. Patronizing? “You cannot tell?”

“Tell what?” It is becoming frustrating, the delicate way everyone tiptoes around this issue around him.

Beomgyu glances at Dasom, and laughs when he finds a matching expression of confusion on her face. “I believe, Your Grace, that it is not my place to uncover things Alpha Soobin has done so well at hiding. As much I respect you, since you seem to regard him as a friend, perhaps it would be more suitable for him to explain himself to you directly? He seemed quite open when I inquired, although perhaps the situation called for honesty.”

Yeonjun’s head almost hurts with the rings Beomgyu skillfully skates around the issue, and he lets it go simply because he cannot find it in himself to fight with Beomgyu on such a peaceful day.

Chapter 5

Notes:

all my love to the people who commented <3 Yeonjun really is a bit obtuse, isn't he :')

CHAPTER WARNING for internalized homophobia and a/b/o sexism that mirrors real-life sexism :') it was always kinda there but I felt like it gets bad enough in this one to warrant a warning :') Yeonjun expresses some really weird ideas in this one. you're free to hold it against him or not lol

When Beomgyu insists on being the one to help Yeonjun affix his headpiece in the morning, Yeonjun assumes that it is just another way for him to attempt to involve himself in the household and find a place for himself in Yeonjun’s entourage, until he leans close as he is weaving Yeonjun’s hair around a piece of silver and asks, mercifully in the quietest of voices:

“Were you untouched when you married the prince?”

Yeonjun’s heart skips a beat, and if his face could grow ruby red in an instant he is certain it would at those words. He is so shocked by them that he reaches out to close his fist around Beomgyu’s sleeve to steady himself. Beomgyu looks down at him with dry amusement. Yeonjun takes a deep breath through his nose.

" Why would you ask me that question? Why here?”

Beomgyu looks around them, then shrugs. “You seem to trust them, and we are never alone.”

He presses his lips together so hard he worries the paint will be stripped from them, and quickly checks in the mirror it is still there. Beomgyu continues to help him with his headpiece, too peaceful for the turmoil he had just caused him.

“It is none of your concern, Omega Beomgyu.” He lets go of Beomgyu’s sleeve and clenches his hands in his lap.

“Perhaps,” Beomgyu allows, tilting his head. “But you seem so awfully naïve to some things, I find myself wondering.”

Yeonjun’s head twitches as he takes offense to those words, and Beomgyu tuts unhappily as it makes his job more difficult. “Naïve?”

Beomgyu just hums and nods. He finishes with the headpiece, and offers Yeonjun a set of earrings to affix himself while Beomgyu fastens his necklace. “I am not sure whether you have overlooked things willfully, or you simply lack experience – but sometimes you seem to me like a child.”

“You are speaking to me insolently again, Omega Beomgyu,” Yeonjun warns testily.

In response, he feels a caress on the back of his neck that makes him freeze. “I do apologize, Your Grace. It is simply…” Beomgyu huffs. “I do not understand how there came to be an omega such as you.”

Yeonjun looks at him in the mirror before them, and sees that Beomgyu’s expression is not mocking, but scrunched in a boyish pout instead. He seems genuinely a little frustrated – maybe his amusement was aimed towards Yeonjun’s scandalized reaction rather than anything else.

He considers the question – answering it would surely not be dishonorable, or exposing something that nobody knew. It is simple, because Yeonjun has lived a good life with the opportunities he has been given.

“Yes,” he admits. “Of course I was untouched. My family had little to offer in the way of dowry, no fancy titles or offices. All I had were my looks and my purity, to find a suitable husband who could guarantee me a future. I dared not gamble with my own future.”

Beomgyu hums again, but this time it sounds thoughtful, like he is actually considering the words – a part of Yeonjun pettily notes that being listened to by the other omega feels like a surprisingly rare occasion. “I see.”

And Yeonjun cannot help but ask, “Were you not?”

To his surprise, Beomgyu seems unaffected by the question. He fastens the clasp of the necklace and shrugs his shoulders. “I had none of the concerns you did. I was promised to marry my husband when I was six years old as part of a trade agreement, and they shipped me off to the Golden City to get an education they considered suitable for a lord’s wife.” There is something empty in his eyes as he moves to stand at Yeonjun’s side instead, reaching over to fix a strand of hair where it came loose. “My whole life, I knew who I was to marry, and I knew there was little that could stop it from happening.” He sighs, and stands up straight again. “I did not like the thought of entering a marriage unaware of my own body.” A little smile tugs at his mouth, but his eyes remain devoid of joy. “At least that is what I told myself – and the one who was to help me become aware of it.”

“Who was it?” He hardly thinks about the question before he asks it – is there someone Beomgyu has been missing, longing for this whole time? Are they still alive? Is he in mourning? Are they still at the Imperial court while Yeonjun keeps asking for him to find a home here, too far away from them for comfort?

Beomgyu smiles wider, and the more pronounced his smile gets the less sincere it looks. “That hardly matters now, does it not? I find myself once again a mated omega, ever the bargaining chip between powerful alphas. Such is the fate of the gentler sex.”

“But—”

“You may have my friendship, Your Grace, should you still desire it, but you cannot have this. Not now, and perhaps not ever. Some things are to remain between me and whoever comes to judge my soul once I die.”

His words are so severe, so serious, that Yeonjun finds himself unable to argue. Beomgyu steps away to compliment his ladies’ choice of jewelry – Yeonjun barely listens to Beomgyu’s words, even as they flatter his own looks; he doubts Beomgyu even means them at the moment.

Is this the line Beomgyu would not cross? The one thing he is not willing to toss crudely in Yeonjun’s face? A lover who stripped Beomgyu of his purity; his weakness. Perhaps it makes sense – Beomgyu has nothing to gain from exposing himself before Yeonjun this way. There is no superiority to be found, no advantage in tenderness. Even Beomgyu understands that it is a foolish endeavor to succumb to it, even as a child.

And perhaps he owes it to Beomgyu to let him keep this secret to himself – maybe that is the price Yeonjun will pay for his friendship.

 

.

 

The household is oddly quiet that day, events flowing easily one into another, almost as if trying to fall back into the familiar patterns they used to take before all the disruptions that entered Yeonjun’s peaceful life in his household. They take a simple walk through the gardens, and one half of his entourage engages in a conversation about those painted brooches that seem to be the latest fashion in the capital, dreaming up all the colors and patterns they would love to have on their own, while the other half engages with Beomgyu, who seems to be unfamiliar with some of the plants growing in their garden, them perhaps being suited for a climate cooler than that of the south where Beomgyu grew up, and Yeonjun’s ladies do their best to put their own educations together to help him put a name to each of them. Yeonjun flutters between both conversations, joking with one group about their overly ambitious designs, then regaling the other with a story about their ministers only bringing them exotic flowers as gifts one year, trying desperately to outdo one another to gain the prince’s favor by bringing the most exotic, most precious one. Beomgyu listens just as intently and with just as much amusement as the ladies who have not heard this story before or been around to experience it, and he laughs at the correct times. If Yeonjun did not know any better, he would think he is a lady like any other, albeit an exceptionally pretty one.

After their walk, Master Hwang comes to complain to him emphatically about the prince never having the time to sit for his paintings, begging with Yeonjun to appeal to his husband to please find the time for his master painter, if he wishes to have the painting he requested done in time. The alpha is almost impolite in his frustration, his words only barely above whining, and Yeonjun does his best to reassure the artist without resorting to laughter.

Master Hwang is followed by the steward, who mostly comes, as usual, to drink tea and bemoan the budget while Yeonjun smiles politely and tries to soothe the man’s worries with gentle words. It always seems to help more than he expects it to, the alpha always leaving his quarters quite a bit more relaxed than he entered them, and he jokes with his ladies once he leaves about the man simply being calmed whenever he gets to be surrounded by beautiful ladies without his wife looking at him askance for seeking their company out.

Beomgyu seems muted during both audiences, but now that it is not a surprise to Yeonjun anymore, it hardly feels like a hindrance to his daily duties – still, he wonders if he could figure out a way to have him excused when he has alphas around. Perhaps Beomgyu could stay in Yeonjun’s waiting room to welcome and entertain other guests while he has them over – he often has ladies take this duty up, especially when he knows a visit might take a long time. It would be a simple way to smooth over some of the bumps in the running of the household.

After he entertains his guests, he gives in to the curiosity his ladies awoke in him during their morning walk, and he leads his entourage to Master Hwang’s workshop, to inquire with his apprentice about the brooch he asked him to paint. The young man is as obviously delighted and embarrassed to see them as ever, and Yeonjun takes a little bit of mischievous delight in making all of his ladies come close to him to observe his work, making the poor boy incredibly flustered. Even Beomgyu is willing to come take a peek, although he is not one of the ladies who seem as amused by the beta’s embarrassment as Yeonjun is.

Beomgyu simply takes a look at the delicate painting under a magnifying lens, then glances at Yeonjun, still partially bent over the work table.

“Are these the colors of your house?”

Yeonjun blinks, taken aback by the question, but nods. “Yes. Yellow, for the bountiful fields and red, as our ancestral lands lie in the warm south.”

Beomgyu looks at Yeonjun’s robes and jewelry for the day – a tasteful ensemble of yellow and black – and nods minutely before stepping away from the brooch. Yeonjun waits for him to say something else, but he does not, so Yeonjun takes it upon himself to inquire further.

“What are the colors of the Choi you are descended from?”

The omega looks at him a bit oddly. “I believe they were teal and white. Or perhaps azure? I grew unused to wearing them – the lords of the Golden City ruled under an orange banner.” He shuffles with his sleeves. “You seem to wear your family colors quite often.”

Yeonjun squares his shoulders. “Indeed – I take pride in where I came from.”

“I suppose that is to your honor, Your Grace – I am sure your family is proud of your accomplishments in turn.”

Beomgyu’s tone is completely inscrutable – so polite Yeonjun cannot fathom whether they are sincere or not.

“I believe them to be,” he says carefully.

Beomgyu only offers him a small smile and a tilt of his head – that much, Yeonjun knows, he only does out of politeness.

 

.

 

While Yeonjun and his ladies touch themselves up in his dressing room after lunch, a little gasp escapes Beomgyu, drawing the attention of much of the room as he holds the edge of his shawl out, away from himself.

“Oh my, I apologize for the disruption – I believe I had stained my shawl with wine while we ate, and I only noticed now. It startled me terribly, forgive me for the racket.”

Some of the ladies chuckle, and Beomgyu smiles at them in turn before looking at where Yeonjun sits before his mirror again.

“Your Grace, I am afraid it could stain my robes as well if I leave it on – could I be excused to go retrieve another one from my room before I join you for the afternoon?”

Yeonjun blinks – somehow, he feels thrown by this; he is almost sure that Beomgyu is lying, or stained his clothes on purpose, but he cannot fathom why, until he is reaching out towards Eunbi, to ask her to get Beomgyu one of his own instead, to spare him or a servant the trek to the concubines’ quarters. His first thought is that Beomgyu wants to be alone for some reason, but then it clicks. If Beomgyu changes here, and leaves his clothes behind in Yeonjun’s quarters, there will be a piece of clothing marked with Beomgyu’s scent available to give to the prince in the morning. No need for a servant to run to and fro, no need to loudly announce it in front of his ladies that the prince requires a dose of his new omega’s scent every day.

Smooth, polite, agreeable – the way Yeonjun himself likes to do things.

But he cannot be sure, so he meets Beomgyu’s eyes, who does not bother politely looking away, and asks, “Would you not rather use one of my own? Your room is so far away, Omega Beomgyu, and I am sure I have one in my collection that would compliment your robes beautifully.”

Beomgyu lowers himself politely, dame-like, so startlingly fake now that Yeonjun is sure he read his intentions correctly. “It would be most gracious of you if you allowed me to wear one of yours, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun waves his hand towards where his clothes are kept. “You have a free hand, Omega Beomgyu. Choose whichever one suits your fancy.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

He watches as Beomgyu easily sets his shawl aside, no stain anywhere to be seen to Yeonjun’s eyes, at least, and steps up to an assortment of folded shawls, Dayeon appearing at his side to offer her opinion on which would go with Beomgyu’s emerald overcoat the best. Yeonjun is tempted to pitch in as well, but he had already given Beomgyu free reign, and Beomgyu has just done him a quiet favor by making his life a little easier, so he turns back to his own face instead, and paints a severe pout on his own lips.

Some things in the household do not need his intervention.

 

.

 

That evening, after he has already dismissed his ladies for the night, Yeonjun lingers in the dressing room. He stands in its center, taking in the unusual quiet, the vastness of the room when it is empty again. His thoughts could wander to the first day of Beomgyu’s heat, but instead they keep pulling him towards the bundle of brown fabric Beomgyu left behind.

Nobody is there to observe him, but Yeonjun forces himself not to rush towards it anyway – he walks over with measured steps, then runs a careful hand over it, barely brushing the fabric. It is indulgently soft – if Yeonjun found out anything while shopping for Beomgyu that day in town, it is that Beomgyu seems to value materials pleasant to the touch almost more than those pleasant to his eye. There is something endearing about it, that Yeonjun cannot quite wrap his mind around.

He lifts the fabric, spreads it between both of his hands and inspects it for stains – it does not reek of wine, nor can he find a darker spot of color. Beomgyu’s shawl is spotless, and when Yeonjun brings it closer to his face, it carries a heavy note of tangy citrus – the sugary note is slowly leaving Beomgyu’s scent, leaving it light, invigorating to the senses. It seems to soothe something at the back of Yeonjun’s mind.

Without thought, he pulls the fabric around his own shoulders. He cannot smell ginger, no matter how deeply he breathes in. No peppery note, no spice in the air. Pleasant yet disquieting. He tightens his fingers on his own arms, covered in Beomgyu’s shawl.

Soon, he’ll get to enjoy the scent again. It will be milder than he remembers it from the last time they met, but it will still be familiar.

Soon enough.

He falls asleep covered with the shawl, and hands it over to Taehyun’s servant in the morning.

 

.

 

It takes two more days for Taehyun’s rut to pass. Beomgyu finds a new way to leave his scent behind every day – he leaves handkerchiefs he had kept in his sleeve all day next to Yeonjun’s vanity in the evening, and the smell of them stings Yeonjun’s nose from his seat, so potent it is after the fabric kept rubbing against his scent glands all day. They do not smell sweet, or of ginger anymore. Yeonjun wonders if they help Taehyun at all, but he does not stop sending servants to ask for more.

On the sixth day, Soobin greets him in the evening with a smile, and announces that Taehyun has deemed himself well enough to open his quarters again the next day.

“I have spoken to him, and he will spend the day catching up on his correspondence and such, but he has agreed to take dinner with us privately, in his quarters.”

Yeonjun breathes out shakily. As happy as he is for Taehyun’s rut to be over, he cannot help but worry about all the things that might follow. There is a lot he and Taehyun need to discuss, about their household, and about Beomgyu.

He turns his sigh into a laugh. “I do not know if it is wise of him to invite me in the evening – I am afraid I have so much to discuss with His Highness we might not be done talking until dawn.”

Soobin laughs as well. “Hopefully, not all of those conversations need include me – my duties have me busy since early morning, and I am dreadful at them when I do not sleep.”

Yeonjun sighs exaggeratedly. “I suppose I will have to conduct my audience such that you may be excused early, Captain.”

“You are most gracious, Your Grace,” Soobin says, tone still joking as he bows. “Although, thinking of it as an audience dampens my mood – I was hoping we could conduct our dinner in a friendly manner?”

There is an ache in Yeonjun’s back he is sure is only the manifestation of his exhaustion with his situation. “I would have loved to do so, but there is indeed a lot of business I will have to talk with the prince – some of it even including you.”

Soobin sighs. “I suppose I can imagine what it will entail. Still, Your Grace, I do not believe the prince intends to leave the household promptly. He is well, but still weakened by his affliction. There will be time, unless the matters are deeply pressing.”

Yeonjun raises his eyebrows. “Are you asking me to take it easy with our dear prince?”

The captain shrugs his shoulders. “And with yourself, Your Grace. Your health is as integral to the running of this household as our prince’s is to the affairs of the Imperial Court.”

As sweet as it is, Yeonjun feels like what his health needs is to put all these little fires out as soon as possible, so his mind can rest before he can allow his body to. “Do not worry yourself with my health, my dear Captain. I assure you it is of my utmost concern as well – I am well aware that its faltering would deeply inconvenience everyone in this household, and I do not intend to allow that to come to pass.”

Soobin bows his head politely. “I suppose that is a relief, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun gives him a smile, as warm as he can allow himself to give while being proper, and Soobin returns it.

 

.

 

Yeonjun spends the next day with the flutter of a newlywed bride in his chest. He can barely stomach breakfast, and even as he dresses in red for the day, he thinks about wearing his husband’s colors to dinner. Thoughts of the dinner distract him as his ladies’ conversation drones on around him, indecipherable to his ears as they amble through the gardens. Every responsibility is a chore, and with servants running to and fro through the palace, Yeonjun cannot help but wonder if any of them are busy with an order from the prince.

His strange mood is readily obvious to all, and his ladies are clearly discreet enough not to bring attention to it, simply not trying to include him in conversations, choosing to carry on with their day around him instead.

Except for Beomgyu, because of course he would be the exception, being such a new addition to the court. He has not learned the custom yet – perhaps Lady Dayeon would have done well to pull him aside and educate him on what is expected of him as a lady-in-waiting, for all intents and purposes.

Instead, Beomgyu gracefully and casually usurps a seat by Yeonjun’s side when they take their lunch in Yeonjun’s tea room, just the ladies and him, and while the others are busy with food and conversation, he leans over and asks, “Are you well? You seem strange today.”

Yeonjun summons all his strength to give Beomgyu a polite smile. “Very much so, I merely have a lot on my mind. Thank you for your concern, Omega Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu narrows his eyes at his own plate. He is keeping his voice low enough to be mostly drowned out by the others, but it is still not a private setting. Yeonjun hopes Beomgyu stays well aware of that. “You are to dine with your husband tonight.”

His mood lightens slightly. “Yes. If it may soothe over this… cultural difference of ours, we will be joined by our captain of the guard for the occasion. It will be a very courtly affair.”

He smiles at Beomgyu’s scoff. “That was not what I was implying. As strange as it is to witness, it is not beyond me to understand that it is common for you to share a table. I thought…” He frowns and turns his head towards Yeonjun just briefly. “Perhaps this meeting is of concern to you.”

Of concern. Does Yeonjun have anything to be concerned about? He doubts it – it simply feels like it is a long time coming. He needs to hear Taehyun’s voice, speaking of all the things he has been wondering about, discussing with him the things he wishes to discuss. He wishes to see his face, free of pain. To taste his scent. To… enjoy his company, until he leaves again.

“I would not say it is so. If anything, I…” look forward to it. He cannot say that, can he? How childish of him would that be? “Think it will be a productive one.”

Beomgyu lets out a little huff. “Very well.”

Yeonjun regards a bite of fish he is holding up to his face, then puts it down again. “There is something you should know, however, Omega Beomgyu.”

“Yes, Your Grace?” He looks at Yeonjun with his dark eyes wide – directly at Yeonjun, and Yeonjun is compelled to look away first.

“It is a habit of my ladies’ to leave me to my musings if I am not in the mood for chatter.”

Beomgyu’s face takes on a strange expression, with a foxy, sly look to his eyes as he keeps them to his own food this time. “I am not one of your ladies however, am I? I am a concubine of the prince’s.”

Yeonjun cannot help but scoff himself this time, and it makes Beomgyu smile in turn. “There is little difference in your position in this household, however.”

“Perhaps,” Beomgyu allows lightly, shrugging his shoulders. “But you are welcome to share your burdens with me. In the eyes of nature, we share a mate – who else would understand?” He glances at Yeonjun, and there is something so deliberate about the way he blinks slowly, about the way his scent wafts off of him as he shifts, the swing in his perfect hair as he tilts his head. “I am a widow as well – the intricacies of marriage are not lost on me, either.”

His motions and his words create a stark contrast in Yeonjun’s mind; his body seems to be saying one thing while his mouth speaks another, and he struggles to reconcile them, eyes carefully taking in the other omega until it seems to sink in that his intention is for Yeonjun to feel compelled by him, either by his beauty or his words, with little regard as to which method of Beomgyu’s makes him arrive to this conclusion first.

He is being convinced, in a way he has never had anyone attempt to before.

It makes his head spin a little.

“Is this what your friendship entails, Omega Beomgyu?”

Beomgyu’s eyelashes flutter. He closes himself up again, in a careful way that invites Yeonjun to attempt to open him back up – he recognizes this. He knows this. What game is Beomgyu playing with him? “A listening ear, yes.”

“I am not in want of a confidant, Omega Beomgyu.”

Some of Beomgyu’s careful affect cracks as his face twists, obviously doubtful. “Are you not? Who is your keeper of secrets then, Your Grace? Lady Dayeon? Captain Soobin? The prince himself?”

All of his ladies are – and none of them. Yeonjun does well with keeping his secrets to himself. “I believe that the crux of secrets is that they are not known to just anyone, Omega Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu does not seem discouraged by his words. “I wish to not be just anyone, then.”

Yeonjun is not sure what to think. How to feel about this. Is Beomgyu even serious? “You have just arrived at my household, and already you aim for a place by my side?”

His wording is clumsy, but he hopes Beomgyu understands. His right hand and confidant would be a position of incredible privilege – it is also why it is safer for him to keep an ample entourage to not promote favoritism, or give the appearance of it by mistake.

With a little scoff, Beomgyu shrugs again, his shoulders rippling like a silver-clad wave. “Is the place not free for the taking? Your ladies say the prince spends an awful lot of time away from home.”

Yeonjun shakes his head – Beomgyu is making very little sense. “I do not burden the prince with my own concerns unless absolutely necessary. His absences change nothing about my lack of desire to ‘share my burdens with you’ , as you so eloquently put it, Omega Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu purses his lips, but there is no malice on his face. Amusement, maybe, but no malice. “Lack of desire, you say?”

Yeonjun frowns, and looks at him directly. Beomgyu glances up at him through his lashes. He looks away again. “That is what I said, yes.”

Again, Beomgyu shifts in his seat, flooding the air with citrus again. Zesty, and mildly sweet, a strange drop of honey to it. Yeonjun wrinkles his nose involuntarily as it hits his nose.

Beomgyu shakes his head. “Whatever you say, Your Grace. May your dinner with the prince be as productive as you are hoping it to be.”

He frowns. “… certainly, Omega Beomgyu.”

With another shake of his head, Beomgyu leans over to where Miyeon and Soojin are speaking animatedly to one another, and smoothly inserts himself into the conversation. Yeonjun sighs, and continues his meal in peaceful solitude, surrounded by people.

 

.

 

If he was distracted by the prospect of dinner in the morning, after his inscrutable conversation with Beomgyu at lunch, he can hardly keep his thoughts straight in the afternoon. They keep straying in all directions, making it nigh impossible for him to concentrate on anything he is doing. He sits in his study, with important correspondence and household ledgers before him, but each word has little meaning to him, and as quiet as his ladies are used to being while he works, today their voices, the rustling of pages as they read books and the clatter of their teacups all sound deafeningly loud.

He does not have it in him to ask everyone to leave just because his mind is exceptionally cluttered that day, so he endures it, and gets almost nothing done all afternoon. Keeping a straight face is difficult as he excuses most of them for the night, especially at the sight of Beomgyu’s unhappy expression when he is not one of the ladies he asks to stay behind.

Only Eunbi and Dayeon get to stay, and help him change from his red robes into an ensemble that reflects the colors of Taehyun’s house, complete with jewelry and delicate, small pins for his hair. He drapes himself in the shawl Taehyun gave him as a courting gift, touches up his face again until it is completely free of blemishes or wear, and lets his ladies escort him to the prince’s quarters before dismissing them for the night.

Taehyun’s head servant Minhyuk is there to accept him in the prince’s waiting room, and he ushers him directly into the tea room, informing him that the captain had already arrived some time ago. Yeonjun feels slightly embarrassed – leave it to the omega to be late, too busy preening himself to not waste the alphas’ time.

Both of them seem nothing but polite when he enters, however. In this private setting, without Yeonjun’s ladies present, Soobin does not scramble into an overly polite bow, and only nods his head in acknowledgment instead. The prince is reclined on the other side of the table, looking weary but healthy, pink in the face, with his robes only loosely tied up again – his chest peeks through the dark fabric, and as Yeonjun offers him his wrist to scent and Taehyun leans forward to accept the greeting, exposing even more of it, he feels compelled to politely look away from the display.

“Thank you for joining us tonight, my wife,” Taehyun says warmly, and Yeonjun bows his head politely before taking his seat next to Soobin properly.

“Actually, it was your wife’s idea that we dine together again,” Soobin points out before taking a sip of wine. “If anything, you are the one joining us, my friend.”

The prince breathes out a laugh, closing his eyes for a brief moment before looking at Yeonjun again. “Is that so? I suppose I truly do owe you more than I ever give you credit for, my dear wife.”

Yeonjun feels a tightness enter his chest. Is he referring to Yeonjun making the decision for him to give him Beomgyu’s scent even though he did not ask for it, or is that only Yeonjun’s own mind insisting so? He cannot tell.

He attempts a smile, politely not quite meeting his husband’s gaze as he bows his head again. “I simply thought that, since the both of us consider Captain Soobin our friend, we might as well treat him as a friend, by sharing a meal with him like this.”

Taehyun hums and shifts a little, from his comfortable lounge into a more polite sitting position. “You are right, of course – how thoughtful of you.” He refills his own cup, waiting for neither of them to do so for him. “I hear that Soobin was most helpful to you during the time my doors were closed?”

Soobin opens his mouth to politely rebuff the words, but Yeonjun speaks up instead. “Certainly. He made sure I never had to go to bed worrying about your condition – he dutifully came to my quarters every evening with news of you.”

The captain looks down, obviously embarrassed, while the prince’s eyebrows jump up his forehead. “Is that so? Were you playing messenger this whole time, my friend? Have you run out of guards to send in your stead?”

Taehyun’s words are light and teasing, but Soobin seems affected by them to an almost amusing extent. “No! I merely thought—” he huffs unhappily and flexes his shoulders. “The situation seemed quite serious, and I thought it would be good if I gave it my utmost attention. As your honorable wife said, I do consider myself your friend as well, and it was a good way to keep an eye on the both of you.”

“To keep an eye on me?” In his surprise, Yeonjun forgets his decorum for a moment, raising his voice, and then presses his lips together to suppress his embarrassment when both of the alphas look at him. “I thought you were doing me a favor.”

“I was!” Soobin insists. “And at the same time, visiting you every day meant I got to see whether you seemed to handle everything well. Which you did, as usual, to your honor… Your Grace.”

The title feels too awkwardly formal for the occasion, and Yeonjun feels odd, hearing it in this setting. “Well, thank you, my dear friend. I am flattered that I hold up in your estimation.”

That thread of conversation left hanging in the air oddly, Soobin fills Yeonjun’s cup, who takes it gladly to drink some wine to ease his nerves. There is so much he needs to speak to Taehyun about, but now that he is here, before him, he feels tongue-tied and on edge. Not even his mask of flawless paint and a coat of Taehyun’s colors help him gain the invulnerability he is usually able to summon at will.

“From what old Minhyuk told me,” the prince breaks the silence, sounding as awkward as all of them must feel, “You have kept him updated in the goings-on of the household as well?”

“I did my best,” Soobin nods. “He told me he had shared some of it with you?”

Taehyun nods as well, sipping at his wine. He chose his own favorite for them to drink today – perhaps just to allow himself an indulgence at the end of a painful ordeal. “I tried to stay as aware as I could, given the circumstances.”

Yeonjun takes a deep breath to steer the conversation where he wants it to go, but Soobin beats him to it, much more lightly and conversationally than Yeonjun ever could bring himself to.

“I heard from Minhyuk that the circumstances were not as dire as usual?”

Instead of replying immediately, the prince looks down at the table, and something in Yeonjun’s mind finally sees it as permission to properly look at the prince for longer than a brief moment. He is as handsome as ever, tired-eyed and thinner than a man of his fortune should be – his cheeks glow with health, but they are a bit too lean. He could use more sleep, and to eat his fill instead of drinking wine and talking.

A frown mars his face as he seems to think about the question, and Yeonjun looks away again.

“Indeed. I was bracing for an uncomfortable ordeal, but… my head was… clearer than usual.” Yeonjun can see Taehyun look at him briefly before dropping his eyes again. “I suppose that is as much as I will say in polite company.”

Soobin chuckles, but Yeonjun does not, he just remains as still as possible.

“Do you know why?” Soobin inquires curiously, and Taehyun finishes his cup and sets it down before replying.

Yeonjun leans over to refill it for him, and ignores his husband looking at him strangely. He knows he is being unusually quiet, but he cannot bring himself to relax. When he comes closer to the prince, he still smells peppery, and he knows that their combined scents will cling to his wrist when he leaves after they are done eating and conversing. His mate’s scent is inviting to his instincts, and something uncomfortable crawls all over his back as his nose cannot help but breathe it in deeply.

Strangely, he feels wetness in his eyes as he pulls away, and he adjusts himself in his seat just slightly, to be a bit further from the prince without seeming too obvious.

“I have a theory,” Taehyun replies, and his voice is a little odd, but Yeonjun dares not study his expression to find out why. He keeps his eyes on Soobin instead, because they are safe there. There is nothing wrong with or distressing about looking at Soobin. He looks like he always does – like a handsome officer with a bit of charming boyishness to his face. His expression is nothing but pure curiosity. Yeonjun finds it so impossible to imagine that a man such as him is carrying a secret he had failed to notice all this time – he seems to wear everything he is on his sleeve.

“…and?” he prompts when the prince does not elaborate.

Taehyun takes a long breath, then sighs it out and drinks more wine. “I was hoping to discuss it privately with my wife first.”

Oh. Yeonjun blushes under his paint, even though the situation is not particularly flustering. “Well…” he tilts his head in the direction of the prince, but keeps his eyes on Soobin. “Soobin is a friend to us, is he not? Surely if anyone is to be trusted with a delicate matter…”

The prince takes in a sharp breath, and the startle of it forces Yeonjun to look at him despite his apprehension. There is still a frown on his face, and he has brought himself up to sit properly now. “Have you informed Soobin of the… special provisions you have made for me during this rut?”

Soobin’s face seems surprised, so Yeonjun feels pressured to reply as quickly as possible, before Soobin can get anything else in his head but the simple truth.

“He knows I have given you clothing with Omega Beomgyu’s scent.”

Still, Soobin’s eyebrows rise – to be fair, Yeonjun did not make him aware of the frequency with which he did so.

“He does not seem aware,” Taehyun says, and his voice sounds surprisingly tense.

Thankfully, Soobin rushes to clarify before Yeonjun has to do so himself. “Your wife has told me that he may have given you something with traces of Omega Beomgyu’s scent on it. I simply… I will admit I dismissed it as soon as he had said it, because I thought that surely that would not have much effect on you under these circumstances.”

“It was not just the one shawl,” Yeonjun adds, mildly and conversationally. This does not have to be dishonorable to any of them if only they treat the issue like the adults they are. “I made sure the prince had properly scented clothing every day of his rut.” When Soobin looks at him with surprise, he shrugs. “After the first time I did so, a servant kept coming asking for scented clothing – I took that as a prompt to keep doing so.”

“I was not expressly asking for Omega Beomgyu’s scent,” the prince argues, but Yeonjun shrugs before he can stop himself from responding to his husband so impolitely.

“Perhaps you were not, but the news that came from your quarters spoke clearly of what was necessary for me to do, so that is what I did.”

He says all of it with his eyes glued to the table before them, only to look up briefly at the end, to see a strangely hurt look in his husband’s eyes.

It feels preposterous to him, for the prince to be hurt by his actions – Yeonjun only guaranteed him the most comfortable rut he has had since they married. He did his duty, and he did so with grace and discretion. If Taehyun had wanted him to stop sending Beomgyu’s scent, he could have the servant ask for his own in particular – or have him stop coming.

But he did none of the sort, and now he seems displeased with Yeonjun?

“Did they, wife?”

The prince is many things, but he is rarely short with Yeonjun in this way, and he cannot help but raise his eyes again – just to see a strange fire shimmering in Taehyun’s that he cannot look away from, even though he wishes to.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he responds, polite, proper. Too polite. Too proper. “I understood it to mean that…” he lowers his shoulders. He clears his mind. It is simple. It is nature. “Due to your recent mating, your body responded well to Omega Beomgyu’s scent, since it must have desired to have him near in some way, at least. And the effects have been exacerbated by his scent being a heat scent, yes? As it seemed that your condition worsened once Omega Beomgyu’s heat waned again.”

“Is that why your scent was no longer present, those last two days?”

Yeonjun is not sure why he did not expect Taehyun to comment on it. Technically, his scent should not have been present even the day before that; nobody asked Yeonjun to sleep with Beomgyu’s shawl in his bed. It suddenly hits him full force, how strange of a behavior that was on his part. He slept with someone else’s scent, and it was not his husband’s. A chill goes through him from head to toe. How dare he? What was he thinking?

He swallows with difficulty, and shifts again to sit with his body even further away from the prince, even though there is no reason to – there is no citrus scent clinging to him now that would give his indiscretion away.

“What do you mean, Your Highness?” He asks in an unsteady voice and takes a deep drink of wine. It fortifies him, but barely enough to look away from Taehyun’s eyes briefly before being drawn back into them again.

“Did you stop giving me your scent because you thought I was only asking for his?”

Did he? He did – without conscious thought. There was no concern in his mind about the prince not getting enough of him – only that he might not get enough of Beomgyu.

“I believed—” he begins, defensively, only to be interrupted by his own husband, who seems to have read the answer in the shiver in his eyes already.

“I suppose this is my fault,” Taehyun says, dropping his eyes from Yeonjun’s and straightening his back. “Forgive me. For the tone I took with you just now, and not making sure my request to you was as clear as possible. I can see now, how it could have been easy for you to misunderstand. In the absence of my word, you did your best with the situation you were faced with.”

Yeonjun watches as his husband toasts him with his eyes politely lowered, and drinks his whole cup again.

“It is to your honor.”

“Tae—” Soobin stops himself – he looks like he pities the prince, and seeing his sudden meekness, Yeonjun is tempted to feel the same. “My friend.”

Taehyun brings a hand to his own face, covering it with the span of it, and the wide gesture sends a wave of pepper in Yeonjun’s direction, who closes his eyes against the sharpness of it. Once again, he feels as if it stings his skin and threatens to bring tears to his eyes. He was looking forward to this scent so much – to the sight of his husband’s face. Taehyun seemed like such a tempting prospect, when he was so far away.

“Maybe I was too hasty in agreeing to see the two of you so close to my rut.”

Yeonjun grits his teeth and opens his eyes. “My prince.”

His husband lowers his hand enough to be able to look at him. “Yes, my wife.”

“Was there a misunderstanding, then? I will admit, I neglected my duty to you by failing to provide you with my own scent, and I apologize. I was blinded by the good news that kept coming from your quarters every day, and the grace with which Omega Beomgyu allowed me to give you his scent. In this… unprecedented situation, I became careless. I hope I did not cause you pain with my indiscretion.”

Taehyun takes a slow, measured breath, then lowers his hands into his lap and bows where he sits. “You did none of the sort. I assure you. However, I…” He glances at Soobin, then shakes his head minutely and his shoulders sag, his eyes dropping, unfocused, towards the table. “I was not… soothed by Omega Beomgyu’s scent… the way I thought I would be, if I had asked for it. There was a reason I refrained from doing so. But I suppose… the way things went, with the decisions you have made, my wife… it was altogether… quite fortuitous. Things came to pass in a way I found myself… quite… satisfied with.”

It is obvious Taehyun finds it difficult to speak of, and Yeonjun is not sure if it would have been much different, had Soobin not been present. One of Taehyun’s hands clutches tightly at his own robes.

“The thing is, you see… when they brought me your scent, and I…” Taehyun’s throat jumps. Pepper stings at Yeonjun’s nose, even as he remains sitting as far as he can while remaining polite, as the prince’s scent strengthens. “I smelled Omega Beomgyu’s mixed up with it… a strange thing happened, in my mind.”

He looks up then, at Soobin first, then at Yeonjun. His eyes seem strange and clouded.

“Do you two remember the smell of your home?”

Taken aback, Yeonjun cannot get a response out in time, and neither can Soobin.

“The scent of your mother and your father, your siblings. The way all of them smelled, together.”

Yeonjun slowly nods. It is a mix of smells he only remembers in his dreams anymore, but he knows what Taehyun is talking about. The smell of pack. Of comfort. Of family, and home. In his peripheral vision, Soobin seems to reluctantly do the same.

“I felt a strange peace overcome me, when I got to smell the two of you together that way. In my… afflicted state, it felt to me like…” He shakes his head, and looks at Yeonjun again. “Please forgive me, but my inner… animal, said that my omegas,” the words sound so odd in Taehyun’s voice, and Yeonjun shivers, shifts in his seat. It feels as if fingers are running up his spine, chased by goosebumps in their wake. “Were safe. Happy. With each other. And this… homely feeling, of… a happy pack… it seemed to calm me in a way nothing else ever has.” The prince himself seems restless, flexing his back as he continues. “I was still not quite myself… I still had… thoughts, typical of an alpha in rut and I had trouble following what Minhyuk was saying should he try to talk to me a lot of the time, but… the pain and…” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “The typical troubles that befall me during my rut, they seemed to go away.”

Yeonjun clears his suddenly aching throat. “And they worsened again, when I stopped giving you my scent, and my old things did not carry it anymore.”

Taehyun nods. “Somewhat. Not to their usual extent, but… Omega Beomgyu’s scent, as pleasant as it is, and as much as my body believes it is what I need to sate myself… it was not of… exceptional comfort to me.”

While Yeonjun takes a moment to take the prince’s words in, Soobin leans forward, closer to both of them. “This is good then, is it not? Unusual as it seems for a pack-like bond to be created this way – if it brings you comfort…”

Yeonjun nods, the motion feeling strangely difficult, as if he has to push his body through water. “It seemed to have a similar effect on Omega Beomgyu in his heat – he felt comfortable enough to let me near him even though he rejected the proximity of most everyone else, and my scent seemed to ease his symptoms as well.”

“That seems impossible,” the prince argues, frowning as he looks between the two of them. “A pack with no young? That never shared their mating cycles with each other?”

Taehyun is not wrong – Yeonjun has never heard of packs forming spontaneously outside of blood relation. Close-knit families, especially among poor folk who spent a lot of time saturated with one another’s  scents, people in far-off, uncivilized countries where it was common to keep multiple mates and for all of them to share heats and ruts in one with one another – those were prone to forming pack bonds. For nobles like them, there was usually only the very trace of a bond like this with their blood relatives that waned in strength as they matured. The Empire was far too civilized to encourage the formation of packs. An alpha was to take a singular wife, and, if they were a person of title and property they could take concubines they were to keep carefully separated from their wife, themself, and the rest of the household.

Perhaps that is where they went wrong; the prince, in all his mercy that had him let Beomgyu roam the palace free and keep his wife company, allowed the two of them to come too close – and as a consequence, something quite unnatural occurred.

“Do you have a different explanation? I, for one, have never heard of scents having this sort of effect. You yourself have likened it to what family can make you feel.”

Family. Yeonjun bristles a little at the sound of the word. It seems wrong to describe them that way – as much as he is married to Taehyun with the express intention of them being a family, starting a family…

Taehyun tilts his head this way and that as he considers Soobin’s words. “I did so for ease of expression – I did not mean to imply anything.”

Soobin hums, but it is clear from his tone that he has not changed his mind in the slightest. “And I did not mean that the bond that connects you all in one of an actual pack – only that it resembles what I’ve heard of them.”

Yeonjun flexes his hands, then lifts his chin. “Whatever we call it, it seems altogether harmless. Beneficial to us, even.”

“Certainly,” his husband nods, although his expression remains pensive. “Still – I would rather seek to understand it than dismiss it, so we are not taken aback by its effects again. I will try to search for books and treatises regarding the matter. If not in our library, the Imperial Court will surely have a scholar who concerns himself with unusual bonds like these.”

“It may be wise to do so, but I would urge you to be discreet in your interest, my prince,” Yeonjun insists, voice steadfast – he has finally found his voice now. How fortunate. “It seems to me that this information could become exceedingly delicate in the hands of someone who would seek to exploit it.”

Taehyun’s lips tighten, but he bows slightly towards him. “You are right – and as sharp as usual, my dear wife. I will be careful in my investigation.”

“Thank you – I trust you will inform me of your findings, should there be any?”

“Of course,” the prince replies with so much conviction that Yeonjun has no option but to believe him. Then he pours himself more wine, and swirls it in the cup. “I believe I can trust you, in turn, to inform Omega Beomgyu of what we have learned?”

Right – Beomgyu is involved in this as well; as much as Yeonjun and the prince are. Their equal in this strange bond of theirs, even. Yeonjun does not allow himself to get lost in thought and nods firmly.

“Yes. I will take him aside tomorrow and inform him that it is a matter you are personally looking into.”

“Good.” With a small sigh, like a great burden left his shoulders, the prince’s rigid posture relaxes again. “This matter stays between the four of us, to the extent that we can make it so.”

“Of course, my friend,” Soobin rushes to assure, sending Yeonjun a reassuring smile as well that Yeonjun hesitantly returns.

That went… well.

Looking at Soobin reminds Yeonjun of the other thing he wanted to talk to the prince about, and he licks at his upper lip hesitantly as he looks between the two alphas, deciding whether it is a good time to bring it up – must be as good a time as any, no? It is certainly a matter much lighter than the previous topic of discussion.

“While we speak of Omega Beomgyu,” he starts, and both of the alphas look at him with bare curiosity. Hopefully they are not expecting Yeonjun’s next words to be tantalizing in any way. “You must have been made aware of the rumors you have stirred up in the household, my dear friend.”

While Soobin looks down in embarrassment, Taehyun raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“Rumors? About Soobin?”

“Very much so,” Yeonjun asserts, letting himself take a bit of childish glee in the captain’s discomfort. “On the first day of his rut, Omega Beomgyu begged his guards to call for the Captain on his behalf – and Soobin set the whole household alight in rumors when he promptly answered the call and rushed to see a poor ailing omega in heat.”

“His Grace is very aware of the actual situation, and there is no need—”

Soobin’s impassioned defense of his own honor is cut off by Taehyun’s laugh. The prince shakes his head and sips more wine before reclining in his seat again. “You are right Soobin, there is no need – we all sit here aware that your honor remains untarnished. But I am afraid that by becoming this heated at the sound of these rumors, you might inadvertently be giving them more weight than they would naturally have, my friend.”

Taehyun seems so unbothered, so easily amused that Yeonjun wonders if he is really the only one unaware of whatever quirk of nature makes everyone so promptly dismiss the very notion that Soobin could feel anything but friendship or courtly admiration towards Beomgyu. If anyone would be privy to Soobin’s secrets, it would be the prince, but even so, Yeonjun feels left out again, even now at a table as friendly as this.

“I am simply… unused to being gossiped about in front of my face,” Soobin complains, waving his hands in an undignified way. “The whispers are easier to ignore when they come to me through a friend of a friend of a friend. Now everyone talks to me about Omega Beomgyu with an expression that invites me to say something that would confirm their suspicions. It’s exhausting and humiliating.”

“Believe it or not,” Yeonjun replies lightly, “that is why I bring this matter up with our prince.” He looks at his husband, whose dark eyes are already trained on him curiously. “I believe it would do wonders to our dear Soobin’s reputation, should you formally acknowledge his role as your concubine’s caretaker. He has informed me that it was his role at the Court?” Taehyun nods quickly, and Yeonjun nods back in acknowledgment. “Not knowing that, I will admit my thoughts first went in the exact same direction as everyone else’s – it seems so strange, to have an unmated alpha take so much interest in your concubine’s well-being, if you are not aware that at some point, it was his duty to ensure it.”

His husband listens to him carefully, then takes a moment to think before replying. “I see the logic in your words – what do you propose, then?”

“I think that the remedy would be simple – the next time we take a meal with our household, simply call Soobin forward and thank him formally for his service to you in taking care of Omega Beomgyu’s health and safety. If you do not think that would be enough, you may even bend the truth a little – tell everyone that you have personally tasked him with assuring that Omega Beomgyu’s heat passes peacefully while you are indisposed.”

“Do you think even that would be enough to quell the rumors?” Finally, the prince reaches for a bite of food, and only then Yeonjun remembers they are here to dine, not discuss the household.

He is momentarily distracted by it, and watches his husband chew and swallow his mouthful before he remembers to reply. “Not completely, no, of course, but when it comes to gossip, it is not about disproving things as much as muddying the waters enough that the whole household does not find itself of one mind about an issue.”

Taehyun smiles in a way that seems remarkably boyish. “And currently, it finds itself united in the belief that our Soobin harbors an affection for Omega Beomgyu?”

There certainly is a tone of disbelief in his voice. Yeonjun huffs, and busies himself preparing himself a plate of food. “Is it so unthinkable? Soobin remains unmated despite his age, and Omega Beomgyu is remarkably beautiful even for a noble omega.”

“Despite my age?” Soobin repeats, his tone offended. “I will remind you I am younger than you, Omega Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun stares at Soobin in feigned offense – it has been years since it was proper for Soobin to address him in such a way. “Excuse me?”

To his credit, Soobin looks genuinely chastised. “Your Grace, I mean.”

Taehyun laughs at the exchange, covering his full mouth with a hand to remain as polite as possible even as his eyes narrow in amusement.

“While you do happen to be younger than me, Alpha Soobin, I am already married, unlike you, and may I remind you that I was engaged to be married even before I became of age, as has our prince.”

“Well,” Soobin retorts, his tone both light-hearted and exasperated. “I am neither an imperial prince expected to find a good match as soon as possible, nor do I have any princes vying for my hand in marriage, so you see, my situation differs from the two of you quite a bit.”

The prince looks at his old friend with boundless amusement. “My friend, I am sure my wife does not mean to chastise you. You are free to conduct yourself as you wish, as is your right as a free man and noble, but you have to understand that you do seem peculiar to outside observers.”

The captain huffs, picking up his wine to finish it and then immediately pour another to drink some more. “Then I suppose that is what I will be – a peculiar bachelor.”

Taehyun sighs a little. “I will make sure to take the steps my wife has suggested as soon as possible, and if fortune favors us, soon enough the household will let you live your life as you desire again.”

“You of all people know better than to speak of desire,” Soobin retorts, so sharply it would be deeply impolite of anyone but the prince’s closest childhood friend. “In the absence of things I cannot have, I will be content with peaceful solitude.”

The prince’s amused face gives way to something akin to pity, and he reaches out to pour his friend another drink. “I will do whatever is in my power to ensure it for you, my friend.”

Taehyun knows – whatever it is, Taehyun knows. And he has never shared this with Yeonjun? Somehow, he feels offended. Beomgyu told him to ask Soobin directly – is this the time for him to do so, while Soobin seems so affected by whatever pain his secret brings him?

“Will everyone continue to be cryptic about this if I do not demand an explanation?”

The alphas look at him with obvious surprise, and he straightens his back in response.

“An explanation of what?” Taehyun asks, sounding genuinely confused.

Soobin, however, seems to understand. “You’ve truly never told anyone – not even your wife.”

For a moment longer, the prince seems to struggle to comprehend both of them, before realization dawns on his face. “Oh – well. No, I have not. It seemed it was not my place to do so. I thought, if you’d wanted him to know, you’d tell him yourself.”

“How could I?” Soobin looks at Taehyun in disbelief. “We aren’t allowed to spend even a second unaccompanied. We have never been alone together in our lives.”

The prince’s mouth slowly drops open – he had obviously never considered what Yeonjun and Soobin’s friendship must look like in his absence. Did it truly never occur to him that the two of them could not simply spend time together? Have a private conversation? Taehyun himself had never spoken to Yeonjun privately until they were married – even as a prince, he was not exempt to that particular custom. Has it simply been too long that he has forgotten? Or have the rules for him changed at the Imperial Court as a married prince? Do they allow him private visits to any omega he chooses to see?

Yeonjun shakes his head against the thought – he is quite sure Taehyun would never – and if he did, the gossip would have reached Yeonjun already.

“I…” Taehyun hesitates. “I apologize if I had put either of you in an uncomfortable situation.”

Soobin sighs deeply, and when he drinks his wine, the prince refills his cup like a reflex. “Well, it does not matter now. I apologize as well, Your Grace, I was under the impression that the prince had spoken to you about it at least to some extent.”

Unable to wait any longer, Yeonjun decides to make the confession easier on the alpha by offering the option he’d always thought most likely. “Are you impotent? Is that it?”

Soobin’s snort is almost a laugh. “No, none of the sort – I almost wish I was, it would certainly be less taxing to admit.” He shakes his head. “No, I… I simply… have always found myself uninterested in the company of omegas.”

Yeonjun nods. “Yes, so I’ve gathered – but why?”

He shrugs. “It is the way I was born – my nature – an omega’s body, their scent, their heat, they have never had any effect on me. I do not desire them – not for sex, and not for love. I have only ever felt friendship towards your kind – a platonic affection.”

Considering Soobin’s words, Yeonjun frowns slightly. “Well… that is… certainly unusual, but it would not be strange of you to take a beta wife? It is no verdict of a lifetime of solitude.”

“A beta would not do, either.” Soobin looks towards the prince, then very obviously leans away from him, which makes the prince sigh before following his example and sitting straight again, away from Soobin’s personal space. “I have only ever been stirred by a fellow alpha.”

Soobin’s words are a bit severe, like he is urging Yeonjun to hear him, to listen.

But to what? Biological impossibilities? An alpha’s scent is agitating to another alpha, neutral at best and upsetting at worst – such is the way of things. They do not find each other pleasant-smelling like some omegas might with each other – much less finding each other’s scents or bodies arousing.

An alpha’s desire is single-minded in the pursuit of progeny – where omegas might find themselves drawn to the pursuit of pleasure, and in some cases might even use each other to that end, this lustful trifling is not something inherent to an alpha’s nature. Yeonjun has heard of alphas taking beta lovers, certainly, but another alpha? It is unthinkable – and even if one did so, would it not be a sign of one’s wanton nature, rather than a natural proclivity? To desire pleasure above the call of nature. To want things to no end but one’s own satisfaction.

Somehow, Yeonjun thinks that he would find it less impossible if Soobin said he took other alphas as lovers even though he physically desired omegas as well. Indecency, he understands. He is no stranger to immodest thoughts. Only a few nights before, he was battling them in his own bed, with lemon and ginger choking his senses. But Yeonjun still desires alphas – even now, his instincts would draw him across the table to drape himself across his husband’s rut-warm body. If he was not taken by another, he could dream about being under Soobin as well, he is sure of it. The weakness of mind, or whatever strange bond caused him to be so deeply, bodily affected by Beomgyu still does not hinder him from his nature. From his purpose.

He looks at Taehyun, who is looking down into his own cup, and a cold fear spreads through Yeonjun’s body. His husband’s oddities – ignoring his omegas’ heats, spending his rut in isolation, not trying to conceive an heir with his wife, even as the future of his family line rests on his shoulders. His close friendship with Soobin and overly courteous nature. Spending much of his time away from his wife, being a ghost in his own household. Taehyun did not show interest in any omega at all, until his sights seemed to settle on Yeonjun, who he vied for until he got him, only to then seemingly lose interest again after their wedding night.

Yeonjun has always been so sure; so sure, that the way he had taken him that night meant that he must have felt the same desire he did himself. That every time since then they have shared a bed meant that the prince’s desire in his body was real and tangible, if fleeting – but what if it never was? What if Yeonjun was a source of warmth to cling to, a wet hole to sate himself with? What if it was never his face, his body, his scent that were on his husband’s mind while they shared those moments together?

Soobin sets his cup down, tearing Yeonjun’s attention away from his husband again.

“You need not believe me when I say this – and you need not approve. My nature will not change for your wishes or your comfort – but it will also not be any more of a hindrance to you than it was in the past – which, I believe, it was not in the slightest.”

His tone is measured but sharp. He is completely serious.

Slowly, Yeonjun nods. He is not sure what expression there is on his face.

“Very well,” Soobin says curtly, then gathers himself to stand up. “Since we have discussed all matters you wanted to discuss that pertain to me, I should be free to retire for the night, should I not? It was my pleasure to dine with you as always – Your Highness, Your Grace.”

He bows, and Taehyun frowns at him while Yeonjun remains still in his seat.

“You have not eaten anything, my friend.”

Soobin nods. “I seem to have lost my appetite – forgive me, my friend. With some luck I will regain it with rest. I wish the both of you a peaceful night.”

Yeonjun should say something – that he understands Soobin, that he does not mind his… proclivities, that this changes nothing, that he loves him regardless. But is any of it true? Even if Soobin has never taken an alpha lover and his interest in them is purely theoretical – how could Yeonjun let that stand in his own household? How could Taehyun keep him by his side? Did Soobin ever desire the prince’s body? Has the prince given it to him? Yeonjun was perfectly chaste before they married – was Taehyun? He told Yeonjun he was, but the prince is not incapable of a lie.

Maybe he and Beomgyu are one and the same – maybe Taehyun wanted to be aware of his body as well. It would suit him and his inquisitive nature. Yeonjun’s head aches from all the terrible possibilities running through his mind.

“The same to you, Soobin,” the prince says meekly, resigned, and Yeonjun barely gets himself to lower his head politely as Soobin leaves the tea room.

Silence settles across the table. Taehyun lowers his cup to the tabletop and breathes out, long and steady. He does not look at Yeonjun.

“Soobin is a good friend to our household,” he says eventually, his voice deep, heavy with something Yeonjun cannot put a name to at the moment. “And an invaluable friend to myself. I will not allow his position in this house to be shaken, no matter what you may think of him now. I have known since we were boys, and I have always trusted Soobin with my life regardless.”

Sluggishly, Yeonjun nods.

“He has never done a thing to dishonor us, or himself – he has done more than either of us could have asked him to, all to remain a good man in our eyes. His sacrifices will not come in vain.”

He nods again. Taehyun sighs bodily, and slumps in his seat completely. Undignified, in a way no one other than Yeonjun should ever see him – except Soobin might have. Taehyun would allow him to.

Did Soobin feel as flustered as Yeonjun did, seeing the prince’s robes parting to bare his chest? Was there a familiar pull of arousal somewhere in Soobin’s body when the prince leaned close to him to pour him wine?

Yeonjun always believed the two of them loved Taehyun somewhat equally – perhaps that was more true than he had thought.

Nausea churns his stomach, and he finds himself almost heaving, more out of an intense feeling of panic, stress and uncertainty than disgust. If Soobin is capable of desiring alpha bodies, so is Taehyun… and Beomgyu, tossing his hair and opening himself up before Yeonjun in his underclothes… he, too, could be driven to unnatural desire. So could Yeonjun. So was he, the first day of Beomgyu’s heat. His heart races with fear; his eyes fill with tears – the air fills with bittered fruit, sharp like spilled liquor. He raises a hand to his chest and clenches it in his own robes.

The rising waters rush past his neatly folded legs, carrying his bridge with it. He is educated, and skillful. He is clever and discreet. He has good intuition, and good foresight. He is beautiful, high-born and married into impossible riches. He knows who he is, and he knows the world around him. He knows his husband, and his husband’s best friend – he always knows what to do, even if he does not particularly like it.

Tears spill over past his lower lashes and rush down his cheeks, dripping down onto the hand he still keeps in his lap. He is draped in Taehyun’s colors – he was so proud to wear them tonight. Now he struggles to draw in a breath.

“Yeonjun.”

Taehyun never calls him that – that name should be reserved for pleasured sighs and wanting growls. It should not be used in a setting like this. Not in this room, not with tears rushing down Yeonjun’s face. Not like this.

Has his husband ever seen him weep before with anything but pleasure?

He swallows back his sobs, one after another.

“Yeonjun.”

He has decided he hates the sound of his name in his husband’s voice – it is like a slap to the face. Undignified, childlike, he scoots himself away, further from the prince, towards the door. He must look like a mess again, and surely, in his own husband’s eyes, he is terrible. Taehyun is courtly but intellectual. He likes innovation and abhors customs he finds hinder him from carrying out his office efficiently. His wisdom allows him to look past the things that plague Yeonjun’s mind, that tear at his chest, and to the practical matter of the thing. Yeonjun is small-minded; provincial. He cannot see what the prince sees – his dear friend behind the alpha who defies natural law with his own nature. The wider world, where the things Soobin feels, the things Yeonjun feels, surely fit within a larger pattern that yet eludes Yeonjun’s vision.

His husband must be disgusted with him. Perhaps he always was. Perhaps Beomgyu was wrong, in his cold assessment of him – it was not even naked desire for Yeonjun’s body that drove Taehyun to indulge in it, and rather an aimless want with nowhere to go but his wife.

And all the pent-up desire Yeonjun had for his own husband, all of his heats without fulfillment, led his eyes to stray in the direction of a pretty, insolent omega. Beomgyu begged for company, and Yeonjun’s six years of neglect answered the call.

It is so mundane in its horror – in the ruin it brings to Yeonjun’s sense of peace, of stability.

Bile rises to his throat again and only years of courtly upbringing allow him not to spit up wine he has just swallowed all over his own robes. His limbs shake.

He needs to calm himself – needs to. These are Taehyun’s quarters, and he needs to go back to his own rooms if he wants to fall apart like this. He is before the prince. It is his duty, his calling to be dutiful to him. And the prince wills it that Yeonjun is to ignore this revelation and allow the household to run just as it did before. Put his full trust in his captain of the guard. His friend. Soobin, the alpha he has known since their youth.

Piece by piece, he gathers himself again. Tucks his feet in under himself properly. Readjusts his robes. Dries his eyes. Then he bows the deepest bow he can, prostrating himself before the prince.

He does not trust himself enough to attempt to use his voice to ask for forgiveness, so he trusts in the prince’s good sense to understand what his gesture means.

“… are you better?” The prince asks instead of words of forgiveness, his voice quiet and hesitant.

They hit Yeonjun’s ears oddly. Then again, he must have startled the prince terribly – he is usually better at falling apart in private and not making a scene. He had made a terrible spectacle of himself just now.

He nods, his forehead scraping the floor.

Then Taehyun says nothing more. Yeonjun cannot bring himself to move. The prince has not dismissed him, but he cannot go back to the table and share a meal with him, not without causing more ruckus, not without making a sound or the food coming back up and ending up all over his clothes.

He needs Taehyun to understand, he needs Taehyun’s permission, his forgiveness, to go be weak in peace.

“You are dismissed.”

His body sags in relief, undignified. Then he picks himself up slowly. He smells awful, strong enough even for a beta to notice. His cheeks are flushed and eyes swollen; his paint must be smudged from his tears – he presses the back of his hand to it experimentally, just to find it smudged on his skin. Hair swings into his vision, having come loose from him throwing himself into a bow. He is a mess.

“You can refresh yourself in my dressing room.”

He looks up at Taehyun. His husband seems pale, but he stands up gracefully as ever.

“It has a mirror you can use. Please follow me.”

Yeonjun ceases to breathe as the prince comes near him, unwilling to smell more alluring pepper, or whatever bitter note his outburst caused to bloom within it. He lets Taehyun pass, and only then follows him, head bowed and hands close to his chest, too tense to let them fall to his sides.

Taehyun’s dressing room is considerably smaller than Yeonjun’s – he need not keep a large entourage that helps him dress and pick out his clothes. Only he and Minhyuk ever come here, and it is clear from the smell of spices that seems to have settled into every crevice of the room, faint but distinct. It smells more like the prince than any other place in the house. Despite himself, Yeonjun feels somewhat soothed by this.

He expects Taehyun to leave and let him cry in peace, but he does not. While Yeonjun walks with heavy steps towards the large mirror mounted on the wall opposite to the door leading to the corridor between rooms, the prince goes to a dresser set against one of the walls, and rummages through one of the drawers.

Yeonjun regards himself in the mirror reluctantly. He looks ridiculous, the vision of a dramatic, emotional omega with tear tracks visible in his paint, red-rimmed eyes and messy hair. Some of his paint has smudged onto his shawl, white stains on silver obvious to his eyes though they may be subtle to some other. He sees his own hands trembling, and they slowly come to rest as he stares at them.

The prince approaches him, but stops a polite distance away and reaches out a hand with a plain handkerchief. He only stares at it, then looks up at his husband.

Taehyun thrusts the handkerchief in his direction. “I believe it would be the easiest for you to wipe your paint away, as I do not have any here myself for you to correct it with. Nobody should object to you walking from my quarters to yours with a bare face at night.”

He is not wrong. Yeonjun nods, and takes the handkerchief, but his body refuses to be compelled to raise it to his own face. He looks down at it, unable to move to make use of it.

For a moment, they stand there silently, Yeonjun gathering the strength to take care of himself and take himself off of his husband’s hands, finally, until Taehyun sighs deeply.

“Wife,” he says, simply and clearly, in a matter-of-fact tone.

Yeonjun nods.

“Do I have your permission to touch you?”

Eyes widening, he looks up at the prince, who looks away.

“Chastely, of course. I will help you, if you permit it.”

Yeonjun stares at him. Taehyun looks down at the floor next to them before he seems to gather himself again and meet his eyes directly, his own somber and serious.

He nods again, and Taehyun takes the handkerchief back and steps closer, the sharp smell of fermented fruit he is enveloped in cut through with rich spices with a distinct, stinging note of pepper. Pervasive, just like the ginger in Beomgyu’s heat scent.

Yeonjun remembers the feeling that entered his bones when he smelled his own wrist after visiting Beomgyu – this deep-set satisfaction, when all of their personal notes blended together into something warm and pleasant. He imagines that must have been what Taehyun smelled during his rut. Spiced wine and lemon. Warming and refreshing – a contentment that came from somewhere deep within the chest.

Pack? Could it be? A faulty omega, a spiteful widow, and the oddest of alphas. Bound together by some strange quirk of nature. One another’s weakness and comfort.

The prince wipes at his face gently, but the dry handkerchief still tugs and pulls at Yeonjun’s skin – Taehyun should have wet it in a basin before attempting to wipe the paint away, but Yeonjun gives himself in to the odd feeling of being cared for by his alpha instead of pointing it out. More tears fall from his eyes, and make the prince’s task a little easier.

Still, he seems to realize his mistake by himself, clicking his tongue before stepping away to dip the handkerchief in water. He sighs as he wrings out the excess, eyes trained on his own hands.

“Forgive me – I have never done this before.”

Perhaps that should be of comfort to him – the prince does not make a habit of cleaning omegas’ faces. Needing his assistance to take care of themself is something unique to his wife.

With the cloth soaked in water, the paint comes off much more easily – Taehyun’s hand comes up to hold the back of Yeonjun’s head, keeping him steady. His husband is a bit rough with his forehead, but exceedingly gentle to his lips, and seems strangely bashful as he drags the cloth over Yeonjun’s throat. He does not look Yeonjun in the eye, but Yeonjun looks at him the whole time.

Once he is done, he steps away and looks behind his shoulder at the dresser he took the handkerchief from. “I should have something for you to dry your face as well. Give me a moment.”

Thankfully, by the time Taehyun finds a towel for him to use, Yeonjun feels in his body enough to pat himself dry on his own – when he peeks in the mirror, there are some smudges left to his trained eye, but not enough to be a problem if he takes the shortest path through the palace to his own rooms. He should thank Taehyun, but finds himself unable to.

Instead, he reaches up and takes the pins out of his hair, leaving them in his shawl until his hair is bare, then fashions it into a simple hairstyle, returning the pins to it in a more modest fashion, at the back of his head instead of on display in the front. Then he slips his stained shawl off his shoulders, and wraps it around the ends of his sleeves instead, as if he was using it to warm his hands – it hides the stains, and he gives himself a small nod as he regards his own appearance.

A modest evening hairstyle. A bare face, which could have been caused by a happy ending to his dinner just as well as a bad one. Slightly swollen eyes he cannot help, the flush in his face could be from the wine, or his husband’s warm presence. His clothes remain unruffled, and appear unstained. If he met anyone on his way to his quarters, they would be none the wiser. He can do this, for the duration of the walk to his room – and then, whatever happens is between him and the sheets of his bed he will no doubt be staining with tears until morning.

How graceful of him.

“You look beautiful as always, my wife,” Taehyun says with a self-assurance that makes Yeonjun think he says so to regain some semblance of normalcy. To say something he would have said, before this dinner. Something a husband should say to his wife in this situation.

He clears his throat and says, “Thank you, my prince. I will be leaving now.”

And his husband looks down before looking at him again. They cannot afford to hold grudges against each other, can they? Taehyun cannot despise his wife any more than Yeonjun can lose his favor.

Although maybe he can despise him now – with a fertile concubine waiting for him at the other end of the gardens. If he spurns his wife now, he has Beomgyu – Yeonjun knows he would not go willingly, but what choice would he have? Bear the prince’s children, or be rejected in favor of another concubine? It would not be immodest of Taehyun to find more, until he finds someone he deems worthy of giving a child to.

Unless he’d rather die childless, like Soobin.

Life gets so terribly complicated sometimes. Water is up to Yeonjun’s chest, and in his confidence, he has forgotten how to swim.

His husband reaches for him, tilting Yeonjun’s head down to his own comfort as he kisses him. Once, gently, then again more firmly, three times until the lack of reaction makes him pull away again. Still, his scent gets richer in the air, mouthwatering. Yeonjun’s  own sweetens in response out of pure instinct.

“Please go,” the prince says curtly, and Yeonjun bows his head and follows the order.

He does not bid his husband good night.

Notes:

since i'm off anon now, you can find me on my twitter or my retro if you want to chat and maybe get spoilers about upcoming work or updates on wednesdays

Chapter 6

Notes:

if you're ever like "the fuck is that title" it's actually part of a line from the Song of Solomon :''') in my head that was the perfect reference to make for this story :')

thank you for taking interest in this work, reading and special thanks to anyone who leaves a comment.

Even after Yeonjun exhausts himself enough to sleep, he sleeps fitfully and feels barely rested once Haewon wakes him for the day. He sits slumped in his bed that smells like his own despair and pepper while she combs his hair, toying with the embroidered sleeve of his morning robe and thinking about nothing in particular, although the vague image in his head remains dark and unsettling, even as it struggles to take any concrete shape. His servant finishes her duty by tying his hair back with a velvet black ribbon, like she sometimes does when she can tell he is in a bad mood, soothing the vain child he turns into when his mind is filled with dark thoughts. He reaches up to wind the ribbon around his finger, and thanks her absentmindedly.

She smiles at him, warmer than is necessary of a servant. Haewon has been serving him for all of the six years he has been the master of this house, and he would assume she knows him better than most other members of his household, except for Soobin and the prince. Yeonjun hardly gives her the credit she deserves, and he wonders if she is as painfully aware of that as she is. Perhaps he should gift her something for the anniversary of his marriage – use the guise of a joyful day to show her his appreciation. Maybe she would like to have a ribbon for her hair just like this, a fine piece of clothing or beautiful jewelry. Or maybe a servant like her would rather just have some extra money clinking in her pocket. Bribery should not be the only reason to be generous to his subjects.

With a sigh, he fixes his posture and lifts his chin to look more dignified. “Haewon, please go see if Omega Beomgyu is present already, and have him come here.”

Haewon bows deeply, and with a curt acknowledgment slips out of his bedroom. Yeonjun slides off the bed, choosing to stand for this conversation rather than stay in it. Somehow, it would feel undignified to talk to Beomgyu while surrounded by his sheets.

Beomgyu must have already been in his quarters, because barely any time passes before Haewon opens the door for him to enter, then immediately closes it behind him – Yeonjun did not even have to tell her it would be a private conversation she is to be discreet about. He should certainly give her a present to acknowledge her service.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Beomgyu says in a light tone, bowing with unnecessary flourish. He is wearing a cream shade of white today and it makes him look both gentle and radiant. There is a large white artificial flower in his hair that Yeonjun does not remember gifting him – it must belong to one of his ladies instead. Beomgyu gives him a small smile in contrast to his large gesture. “Have you already changed your mind about keeping me by your side?”

Yeonjun is taken aback by the question – to be honest, he has not given it any thought since last night. This morning, he called for Beomgyu only to let him know about their bond, but now he pauses to reflect on Beomgyu’s offer with fresh eyes. He knows he has the opportunity to fade into the background until he is not interesting enough for anyone to bother him anymore, at least Yeonjun has done his best to make him aware of it, and yet he does not seem satisfied with that – he keeps taking interest in Yeonjun; giving his opinions on his affairs, extending offers of friendship, of being someone Yeonjun could express his worries to. He bats his eyelashes at Yeonjun like they are at court and Beomgyu is trying to win a more established courtier’s favor by flirting his way into an alliance. Maybe that is what he means to do – secure his spot in the prince’s household, to protect himself. Yeonjun has offered him his protection time and again, maybe he only means to ensure he keeps it.

But an omega’s eye can stray towards a member of the same sex, and Beomgyu did say he may look for pleasure from a lover who would not be at risk of giving him a child. Perhaps he has done it himself. Perhaps their situation, whatever bond has addled their mind has made Beomgyu think of them seeking that pleasure in each other. A feast of grapes and citrus as their bodies entwine, honey and fruit and not a hint of pepper in the air. The satisfaction of flesh, of the body, and affection, should they allow it. Shiny dark hair tangling between Yeonjun’s fingers, every morning, if he desires it.

He shakes his head and steps towards a window, in case Beomgyu caught wind of the scent of ripening fruit.

“I am afraid you will have to do with the position of a lady in my entourage, Omega Beomgyu.”

Somehow, Beomgyu does not seem too shaken by his words. “Am I one? A lady of your entourage? Nobody has addressed me as such, yet.”

Yeonjun looks away from the window to look at Beomgyu again – he is not wrong; Omega Beomgyu seems to be what the household has settled on. The concubine, when Beomgyu is not present. He cannot help but think it is the most appropriate form of address, however. It seems strange to acknowledge Beomgyu’s previous marriage with the title of lady, when he belongs to the prince now. Is there a special title that should be used for a concubine? They are usually not spoken of too explicitly in polite company. Their existence is acknowledged, and any titles seem to cease to matter in favor of their position in a household – but only ever referring to Beomgyu as the prince’s concubine seems so incredibly rude. Even more rude than failing to acknowledge his widowing.

“And I do not assume anyone will,” he replies simply. “We do not get to erase your status, as it was granted to you by the Emperor himself, but you are to be afforded special privileges and freedoms regardless. Are you unhappy with this arrangement, Omega Beomgyu?”

Beomgyu looks away, mischievously casual. “Of course not – it is as if the Empire has given me back my maidenhood; how terribly generous of all of you.”

Despite himself, Yeonjun is almost tempted to laugh. “I am sure you will use this opportunity wisely.”

Beomgyu looks right at him again, shameless and direct. “Oh, I intend to, believe me, Your Grace.”

Maybe it is not just something his mind conjured up out of loneliness. Maybe he only sees something that was always there that he has failed to notice up until now.

He should be telling Beomgyu about the prince, and their bond, and the strange effect their scents seem to have on each other, but instead he finds himself opening his mouth and saying:

“I have asked Captain Soobin about that… secret of his.”

“Oh?” Beomgyu’s face remains open and jovial. “Has he been as direct with you as I had assume he would be?”

Yeonjun lifts his chin, then looks out the window – the sky is gray and uninviting this time of year. “I suppose so.”

Soobin’s face swims to the forefront of his mind, serious and severe. Taehyun’s words follow it, as stark as they were last night – I will not allow his position in this house to be shaken. He closes his eyes as he recalls them.

I have only ever been stirred by a fellow alpha.

“What of it, then?”

It seems to be such a trivial, simple thing to Beomgyu. Soobin is an alpha who does not desire omegas, and to him all it seems to mean is that he is safe in Soobin’s presence – that he is no threat to his body or his honor. But it is so much more, is it not? Does Yeonjun only thinks so because he had thought himself so close with the alpha? Why does Beomgyu not find it as deeply shocking as he does?

He looks at Beomgyu again, feeling a frown set on his own face inadvertently. “How did you know? If Soobin has not volunteered this information to you.”

Beomgyu shrugs. “From his scent, his reaction to me. The way he treated me – he made it pretty obvious.”

The tips of Yeonjun’s fingers feel cold – he digs them into his own elbows, desperate to hold onto something. “Did my husband make it obvious as well?”

To his surprise, Beomgyu lets out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “If anything, your husband made it quite clear that despite his reputation, he is far from cold-blooded.” He shifts where he stands restlessly, lifting his arm so that his sleeve slips down his arm, exposing the mating mark on his wrist. “I could smell him, when they bared me before him like a piece of meat for him to enjoy. I could feel how the taste of my blood affected him. I assure you – whatever other tastes your prince may have, they certainly include us.”

Suddenly, Yeonjun wishes he was standing closer – that he could scent the air and know if there is any honey to Beomgyu’s citrus when he recalls the scene. Did he feel any stirring in return? He does not seem eager to share that piece of information – but there is a strange blaze to Beomgyu’s eyes that is different from amusement or mocking. He does not seem afraid, either. Whatever Beomgyu feels about his mating with the prince, it is an emotion Yeonjun has not yet learned to recognize in him.

“I must admit, he held back remarkably despite everything,” Beomgyu adds, airy, light – breathy? “Perhaps I should have a little more faith in him.”

Yeonjun does not react to his words – he is not sure how he would if he were to do so. Should he insist, once again, that the prince is a man of remarkable cordiality like he usually does? Beomgyu never seems to believe it until he sees it in action – he seems to believe little of what Yeonjun tells him in general, perhaps out of an abundance of caution, although, more often than not, it feels like a lack of respect for Yeonjun and his own wisdom and judgment. Beomgyu is so incredibly frustrating to him - with all that he chooses to do.

“Have you ever heard of alphas taking other alphas as lovers?” He asks instead, disregarding all that Beomgyu just said – he leaves that knowledge in his chest, for safekeeping, to torture himself with later in private, when he will imagine the prince barely holding back from indulging in Beomgyu’s body, the lean, elegant expanse of it that Yeonjun himself got to glimpse through his sweat-soaked underclothes. It will burn in his abdomen like a wound, linger on his skin like a kiss.

Impolitely, Beomgyu rolls his eyes. “Of course I have – this is exactly the sort of thing that makes me call you naïve. I refuse to believe there are none of those in the Imperial Court.”

“But it makes no sense,” Yeonjun insists, a little desperation slipping into his tone. “An alpha cannot feel for another alpha what he would for an omega.”

“And they do not,” Beomgyu replies matter-of-factly. “They feel a different sort of affection, a different kind of desire, but it is desire nonetheless. Passion is passion, at the end of the day.” He tilts his head to the side. “The same fruit off a different tree – the same at the core, but with a different taste. Just like an omega’s desire for another omega might take on a different nature than the one he feels towards his alpha.”

He shakes his head hard. “That is different,” he is not sure why he feels like it is imperative for it to be so, perhaps because he is not a stranger to the feeling of it, but it is, deep in his chest that will not stop fluttering. “Omegas lying with each other is something that I have seen happen – and as distasteful as it is, it is natural at the core of it.” His own face is scrunched, like he bit into something sour, and he has to fight to get his words out through the tightness he feels all over. “We crave pleasure and company – an alpha’s body only craves children of their blood.”

Beomgyu raises his eyebrows, tilting his head the other way. “Does it? Your husband’s does not seem to.”

It is true, which is why Yeonjun had been filled with fear that his husband is just like Soobin since last night. They defy everything he has ever been taught about their sex – everything he has learned to expect of them. “Well – my husband has always been an odd alpha.”

Beomgyu crosses his arms, mirroring Yeonjun’s stance except he seems as relaxed as he was when he entered. “Then Soobin is simply an odd one as well, no? Perhaps we all have our oddities.” When Beomgyu’s shoulder shifts, the neck of his robes slips down, exposing more of his neck – Yeonjun feels the terrible urge to look, but he resists the temptation. “Including you.”

He knows, then. He is aware, and not above taking advantage. He can tell Yeonjun’s mind rushes uncomfortably with improper thoughts of him, just like he could tell that Soobin’s did not. Maybe Yeonjun is naïve – he thought his beauty and an ample number of suitors and alphas vying to have him as a lover has taught him all he needed to know, but maybe there are intricacies he has been missing. Signals he has never learned to read.

Perhaps he is all the better for it – perhaps his life at court was simpler when he stayed naïve to the things that went down in the capital that were less than savory.

Yeonjun turns fully towards the window, to look out at the gardens below. The gardener and his apprentice are hard at work, even this early in the day. Less and less flowers are in bloom, this late in the year. Soon, their morning walks will become much shorter and duller affairs. He abhors the season; it is his least favorite time of the year. The thought does little to lift his mood.

“Will you shun Alpha Soobin because of this?”

Somehow, Beomgyu’s tone is not playful anymore, and he seems suddenly to be much closer than before, but Yeonjun does not turn to look. The air tinges with citrus, but Beomgyu stays out of his personal space. For now.

“I do not know.” He closes his eyes. How come Beomgyu of all people sounds like he does not want him to? “I thought you would encourage me to do so – would he not be a useless alpha in your eyes? You seem to feel disdain for my husband because he shirks his duty to me – to us.”

Beomgyu does not respond for so long that Yeonjun doubts he will at all, but once Yeonjun turns away from the garden to look at him, where he made it halfway towards Yeonjun from the spot where he was originally standing, he does end up giving a reply – his face has lost some of its jovial brightness; he seems much more serious now. “Alpha Soobin is not a married man – nor is he a firstborn, or an heir to an illustrious title, as far as I know. There is no duty he is shirking by living the way he chooses to. And is this way not more honorable than the alternative? As a bachelor, he is hurting no one, no matter what his tastes are. Whether he takes a lover or not – and you know me better than to believe I would begrudge him the pursuit of pleasure, wherever he can get it - it is none of my, or anyone’s business.” He shrugs. “I am sure he would sire all the heirs he would need to should he be required to - he seems strong enough in that regard.”

Yeonjun breathes out heavily through his nose. Even Beomgyu, who seems to revel in being judgmental of his household and its members, is taking Soobin’s side. Not even Beomgyu’s particular standards for alphas, or his inherent distaste for their kind, seem to sway him on this point – and he has not even known Soobin for years like he and the prince have.

He regards Beomgyu, his self-assured expression and confident posture, his unaverted eyes, and he comes to the conclusion that he is terrible. For wavering in his love for his friend. His respect for him. For being so afraid of something everyone else seems to find so simple.

For whatever it is worth, Beomgyu does not look angry or disdainful of Yeonjun in the slightest – all he sees in the omega’s eyes is a deep, unshaken conviction.

Yeonjun is the first to look away, staring off into space before lifting his chin again. “They are waiting for us in the tea room. Let us join them before they finish eating without us.”

Instead of arguing, Beomgyu just bows his head and lets him dismiss the conversation, unusually gracious, and Yeonjun distantly appreciates it as he strides past him to leave the bedroom first, Beomgyu following him closely. To his surprise, he is stopped right at the door of his bedroom, by Haewon who stands in the middle of the hallway, between him and the door to the tea room.

Has she heard any of their conversation? He hopes not, as discreet as she can be about these things.

“Yes?”

She bows deeply. “Your Grace, while you were occupied, His Highness has arrived, and he wants to speak with you.”

Taehyun? In person? Yeonjun feels his spine straighten until he stands with all his regal height on display, his body’s natural reaction to the sense of imminent danger being to make himself larger than life. The prince must be upset by his behavior yesterday – he is sure he has come simply to make sure Yeonjun will not do something unwise with this newfound information, and keeps his household peaceful. Yeonjun has no intention of causing a scene again. Ever again, for that matter.

“I will see him now,” he says curtly with a nod, and Haewon steps out of the way, opening the door of the waiting room for him.

In his haste to deal with this, he forgets to tell Beomgyu to join his ladies in the dining room, and only realizes as he steps inside, followed closely by the other omega. He stays behind Yeonjun’s shoulder, just close enough as one of his ladies would, but just far enough for it not to feel like he is making himself part of the conversation uninvited. Still, Taehyun seems a little unnerved to see him at Yeonjun’s side, eyeing the omega warily for a moment before bowing deeply before them. He reaches for Yeonjun’s hand when he fails to offer it for a greeting. Their scenting is brief, barely leaving a brief tingle to sparkle through Yeonjun’s wrist.

“Good morning.”

He gives a small bow. “Good morning, my prince.”

Taehyun’s eyes will not stop straying towards Beomgyu as he looks at him. “I have come to invite you to share breakfast with me in my rooms.”

Yeonjun narrows his eyes slightly, but makes himself smile politely. “You have come to invite me in person? Surely you could have sent a servant to relay your invitation.”

The prince looks away, and Yeonjun feels like he has won a small battle, just like the ones he keeps losing to Beomgyu. “I will admit I am bored of seeing the walls of my quarters night and day. I thought it would be pleasant to make the short journey myself this morning.”

He does not believe a word his husband says. Even if a part of him did come for that reason, there surely is more behind it – if nothing else, Taehyun must know how tricky it is for Yeonjun to deny a direct request like this, right to his husband’s face. He was not raised to disrespect his alpha this way.

Still – there can only be one reason that the prince could have for wanting to share a table with him – to get him alone again, lecture him on his duties, put him back in line. Make sure he does his husband no dishonor.

Not today; he does not want this today.

“If you tire of your own quarters, then, why not have breakfast with us today? You have already come here, and my ladies have not gotten to enjoy your company in a good while – they would be delighted to see you.”

It is obvious from Taehyun’s face that he does not like Yeonjun’s offer – he seems to fight with himself, betrayed by little twitches in his handsome face – he looks just as haggard as he did yesterday, and Yeonjun takes some small comfort in that – he was not the only one who could not sleep that night.

“Very well, my wife,” the prince says eventually, with a small bow. “I would be honored to share your table.”

Yeonjun allows himself a quirk of the eyebrow – just that much to indicate to his husband that he knows better than to believe him. “Wonderful. Please follow me, then.”

As he turns towards the door, his eyes catch on Beomgyu, who somehow looks less small and meek than Yeonjun would expect him to – something about him is stony, where he would expect it to be malleable – still, he stands stock still in his spot behind Yeonjun.

“Beomgyu, darling, please stay here while we eat, just in case we have any more guests. Have more tea, and Haewon will bring you some of the food.”

Beomgyu gives him a stiff bow of his head. Yeonjun regards him a bit thoughtfully, as he walks past them with wooden steps to sit at the table. His teachings tell him that an alpha’s scent sets another alpha on edge – that to each other, they tend to reek of danger; of threat. Is Beomgyu not altogether alpha-like, then? With his hackles raised by alphas’ scents, with the strangely flirtatious way he behaves with Yeonjun. Beomgyu is an alpha-like omega, and perhaps, Soobin is an omega-like alpha.

Somehow, he does not feel satisfied with this, too many things jutting out past the edges of this frame, but maybe he is slowly getting close – perhaps he has found something that resembles, in the vaguest of terms, that big picture everyone else but him seems to be seeing.

 

.

 

At breakfast, Yeonjun insists on sitting by his husband’s side and serving him – if Taehyun means to corner him, then it is Yeonjun’s right to corner him in return; to his delight, the prince seems taken aback by his eagerness to stay close to him, and watches with apprehension as Yeonjun fills his plate generously. He would hand-feed the prince if it made sure his mouth stayed too busy to question him – but the prince would never allow him to.

Instead, what keeps the prince too occupied to focus on Yeonjun are his ladies – him saying they would be delighted to see the prince was no exaggeration. He never dines with them privately, and his status makes his presence infinitely interesting to them, along with his somewhat reclusive tendencies whenever he is home. His ladies all want to try and figure him out, impress him or ask about their relatives at the Imperial Court, some of them half-jokingly asking for his patronage of them. The Emperor’s son is a powerful ally to have, and everyone in the room seems all too aware of that fact.

Taehyun, to his credit, takes this hindrance with remarkable grace, dutifully making small talk, praising the ladies when necessary, sharing stories about their family members, making the vaguest of promises when it comes to showing his favor. Yeonjun rarely gets to see this side of him, where his duty is to be gregarious and personable, sharing light conversation and charming courtiers. Like this, his courtliness seems apropos, his wit shines whenever he shares his insight, and his absences only seem to mean that he has more to talk to the ladies about.

He jokes with Soojin about a relative they share, compliments Dayeon’s new embroidered overcoat, complains heartily but politely about the councilman who seems all too fond of him when Miyeon brings him up. For once the lord of his house again, in the middle of what to Yeonjun is the heart of their household. Yeonjun’s little circle of friends, who keep him company in his husband’s absence, advise him and care for him.

Yeonjun himself stays mostly quiet, only contributing here and there, pretending to always be busy drinking or eating when the prince’s eyes fall on him, keeping his husband’s plate and cup always full.

Altogether, it seems to him that his plan worked just well enough to keep the prince from being able to carry out whatever he came here to do, until the food runs out and the conversation runs dry, and he turns to his husband with a polite smile.

“Thank you for joining us today, my prince. It was an honor for all of us to share a table with you. If you would allow, it is time for me to dress for the day.”

“Of course,” Taehyun begins, and Yeonjun bows his head, expecting that to be all, but he continues with, “But before you do, I will have a word with you. Alone.”

He suppresses a sigh. Taehyun could not let him get away with this, could he? He must know that Yeonjun does not wish to speak to him – there is no chance that he did not get the message at this point. And yet, he insists.

Here, before his ladies, where it would be unthinkable for Yeonjun to deny such a direct request.

He takes a deep breath and smiles again. “Certainly. If you do not mind, we could speak in my bed room while my ladies go choose something for me to wear today?”

Taehyun nods stiffly. “That is agreeable.”

“Very well then.” He sends a wider smile around the room. “My dears, please pick out something warm? I have taken a peek outside and the weather looks dreadful today – whichever colors suit your fancy!”

His ladies all give their acknowledgment of his request, and they file out of the room politely. The more the tea room empties, the more obvious it becomes that it would be easier for them to have this conversation here, but a part of Yeonjun insists that they have it in his bed room – just a door away from the dressing room, which will be filled with his ladies.

Taehyun approaches the door of the tea room first, but waits for him to pass through it first, so he can close the door behind them and let Yeonjun lead the way through the small corridor. He enters his bed room and leaves the door open for Taehyun, half-tempted to stay next to it to guard it and make sure Taehyun leaves it open, just another safeguard from the conversation straying in directions Yeonjun does not feel ready to face, but he resists. He crosses the room to the window and looks outside again – the gardener is gone now, but the weather remains uninviting.

He cannot allow himself to stand with his back to the prince, so he turns around as soon as he hears the door close behind him. Taehyun stands right in front of it, with his arms folded behind his back, spine perfectly straight.

“Are you feeling any better?”

Yeonjun takes a deep breath and smiles brightly. “I remain in good health, my prince, thank you for asking.”

The prince has to see the exhaustion in his unpainted face; all the concerns weighing down his shoulders. He sighs heavily. “Very well.”

It takes him a long moment to continue speaking, but Yeonjun does not prompt any conversation in the meantime – it seems simpler to let the prince say whatever he feels the need to today.

“I plan to give Soobin his commendation today at lunch,” he says eventually, and his eyes are attentive and careful on Yeonjun’s face – watching for his reaction; expecting him to falter, to err.

But Yeonjun is better than making the same mistake a second time. He gives a small nod. “I will make sure to be present in the dining hall, then.”

A silence stretches between them – the prince studies Yeonjun’s expression, like he is inspecting it for cracks. He will have no such luck today.

“Is that all?” he asks, conversationally.

And the same light that usually lights up his husband’s eyes when Yeonjun provokes him on purpose flickers to life – Yeonjun’s heart flutters in response. “I suppose so.”

This time, Yeonjun loses the battle, looking away first. “Well. While I have you here – Master Hwang has been quite insistent that I get you to come into his workshop to sit for the portrait you ordered. You should find the time for him as soon as possible, before you are needed in the capital again.”

“Let us go after lunch, then. It would be a good a time as any.”

Yeonjun’s eyes snap back to the prince, who stands just as firmly as before, but his expression seems much less careful. It is decisive now – firm. “The two of us?”

Taehyun’s shoulder twitches slightly. “I believe I have commissioned a portrait of the both of us, have I not?”

That he has – for the anniversary of their marriage. What a cause for celebration. “Indeed – I suppose I will adjust to your needs then, my prince.”

Like he always does. He feels it, the way Taehyun’s hackles raise. Tastes the fire that he cannot smell from this far away. The fire that moves him like nothing else does. His husband stares him down without a word.

Yeonjun drops into a small bow. “If that was all you needed to discuss, I will go dress myself now.”

Without waiting for a response, Yeonjun approaches him. He is enveloped in a cloud of stinging spice, with the slightest bitter zing. Maybe Yeonjun was unfair to him when he doubted the prince’s passions – they seem as easy to arouse as they ever were, with the right methods.

Yeonjun pauses in the middle of the room – halfway to Taehyun, and halfway to the door of the dressing room.

He could ask the prince to kiss him – demand it playfully. Corner him in return.

Yesterday, he did not return his husband’s affections. The prince seemed unhappy with his lack of reaction. Today, he longs to right his mistake – show him how measured and composed he is now. He can kiss his husband readily, like a good wife should. He wants to.

But just a short time earlier, Beomgyu stood in the exact same place, and Yeonjun thought of his body in ways he should have never let himself do so.

But Yeonjun is not like Soobin – is he? He never was; Yeonjun has been undignified in his husband’s arms, he had melted like a child in the presence of alphas he dreamt foolish dreams of succumbing to at night when he was alone. Whatever Yeonjun has been feeling recently, this remains true… does it not?

“You seem to have something else on your mind.”

He was caught then – no matter. He lowers his eyes, which were fixed on his husband’s face before. “Just trifling matters, my prince.”

Trifling. Foolish, childish indulgences. That is all that is – like craving sweets after a bountiful meal. That foolish desire for more, to live outside one’s means.

Yeonjun’s nature is not that of an alpha-like omega – his nature is that of a greedy man wanting more than what fate allotted him; and the rub is that he gets what he wants so often, he has not learned to restrain his appetite properly. The prince spoils him so; how cruel of him.

His husband swallows. The air smells of crushed fruit and spices.

“I believe there is something I owe you.”

He steps up to his husband, and only brushes his jaw with his fingertips as he presses a kiss to his lips. Taehyun does not stop him – instead, his hand raises and his fingers close in the fabric of Yeonjun’s sleeve. His lips return the kiss, but do not chase after his when Yeonjun pulls away. The prince’s eyes are dark and full of something Yeonjun does not understand when he meets them again.

“There – that should settle my debt.”

“There was no debt to speak of,” the prince argues, and he sounds weak where he should sound firm.

Yeonjun takes a little too long to respond – his mind offers him a hundred things to say, all of which could be the undoing of him. He steps away, and the prince lets go of his sleeve promptly.

“I will see you at lunch, then.”

It is impolite of him to turn his back to the prince, to leave him this way, but he does so anyway.

 

.

 

The entire morning, it seems that Beomgyu has something to say, seemingly always hesitating whether to usurp an opportunity to speak to him or not. He chews on his lips while Yeonjun paints his face, steps forward to help with his hair but cedes the duty to Dasom when too many of his ladies end up volunteering. He seems thoughtful and a little absent during their walk, during their morning duties.

The garden is as cold and gray as Yeonjun feared, and he leads his ladies straight to the anemones, to find some solace in the blooming beauties. They are approached by the gardener, who makes polite conversation about the gloomy weather, then asks for approval of some changes he wants to make to the makeup of the garden for the following year. Yeonjun does his best to listen attentively to the man’s proposal, but he is not as knowledgeable when it comes to plants as he wishes he could be, so in the end he simply approves his plan with only a vague idea as to what it would entail – he is always satisfied with the man’s work on the gardens, anyway.

He catches Beomgyu sneaking looks at him while Yeonjun is keeping himself busy in the study as well, to the point that he is afraid that both of them spend more time lifting their eyes from their books to look at each other than reading, and somewhere between catching Beomgyu’s dark eyes with his own and turning pages without even being sure he had taken in anything he has just read, Yeonjun realizes that he had never spoken to Beomgyu about their bond – the one reason he had asked Beomgyu to join him that morning.

Still – it would seem strange to have so many private conversations today – his husband’s concubine, the prince, then the concubine again; it would not look favorable for his reputation. He has to find another time to do so – how careless of him.

Yeonjun makes sure to stop looking at him so much for the rest of the morning; it would not be very proper of him to be caught staring at one of his ladies.

 

.

 

He and his entourage arrive at lunch a little late – his husband is already present, straight-backed at the head of the table, dressed in the colors of his house today. They fit him well, complimenting his dark eyes and hair, giving him a sober, regal look even though he is altogether dressed simply, with little adornment.

For once, Yeonjun really does feel like a pretty decoration as he approaches the prince to be formally greeted, his whole entourage bowing politely behind him as the prince scents him. He is dressed in red and gold, his ears and neck heavy with intricate jewelry, golden pins with hanging pendants carefully arranged in his hair, jingling like a wind chime when he bows his head before his prince. His ladies are all done up as well, a flock of pretty birds that scatters around the room while Yeonjun takes his seat at his husband’s side.

Among them, the most radiant one, a shining white dove, a swan maybe, or perhaps a crane – with a flower in his hair that seems almost translucent as it catches the light, ethereal, avoids his eyes as it trails behind Dayeon to find a seat among the courtesans of their household.

When Yeonjun glances at Taehyun, he is looking at Beomgyu as well. Yeonjun should begrudge him this, but maybe it would be wiser to take comfort in it – Yeonjun can wear flowers in his hair, too. Maybe he should, just to mourn the loss of the ones in their garden.

Captain Soobin’s commendation is exactly as awkward and stilted as these things go – the whole hall is done eating, and they linger around only because the prince has not left yet, when he calls Soobin before him and heaps praise and words of honor and loyal service onto his shoulders as the captain of his guard kneels before him. Taehyun talks about tasking him with caring for Beomgyu at his father’s court, then lies about giving him the same duty in his own with a smoothness that behooves a politician. The people of their household exchange looks and whispers. Some stare at Beomgyu openly, while Beomgyu stares vaguely in the direction of the prince with empty eyes.

Doubt has been sown, then.

Taehyun allows Soobin to straighten his back before them, and leaves a pause as Yeonjun’s cue to assure the household that they remain united on this issue – Yeonjun does as is expected of him, thanking Soobin emphatically for his service, assistance during a difficult time for their household and his loyalty.

Soobin is not allowed to look at Yeonjun, but his face seems wooden. Yeonjun will have to speak with him as well – reassure him that he still has his favor. Because he does, does he not? He feels no ill will towards him – Soobin has not done him any wrong. If Yeonjun can hold Beomgyu in his favor despite everything, if Yeonjun remains loyal to the prince because of more than his marriage vows, then Soobin remains his friend.

And if Yeonjun’s frazzled instincts disagree, then he will wrangle them into submission for the sake of his friend – just like he does for his husband. For the household. For himself.

 

.

 

Instead of bidding Yeonjun goodbye as he rises from the table, Taehyun lingers by his seat on this day.

“Walk with me,” he says, measured, somewhere between a request and a command in his princely fashion.

Yeonjun smiles up politely at him, and allows Taehyun to help him stand. “Where to?”

The prince seems confused by the question. “Master Hwang’s workshop?”

“Ah.” He lets go of Taehyun as soon as he is on his feet. “I am afraid I will have to stop by my quarters before i can sit for a painting – a lady is in dire need of a mirror in the middle of the day.”

His husband’s brow furrows. “Your paint seems intact to me, as does your hair.”

“Perhaps it does to your eye, my prince, but I am afraid that the discerning eye of an artist might judge me more harshly.”

“Are you implying that I am not quite so discerning?”

Yeonjun tilts his head politely. Taehyun seems mildly offended, but not deeply so. A little poke at his ego that should not bruise. “I believe your eyes are better suited to different matters, my prince.”

Taehyun huffs through his nose, just a little bit, just a hint of petulance. Yeonjun feels oddly proud of causing it. “Still, I am sure Master Hwang knows better than to capture your flaws in the pursuit of realism. He knows whose hand feeds him and his apprentice.”

“It is not only because of the painting – how would it reflect on you if he were to see me so carelessly unkempt?”

“Perhaps it would reflect accurately my impatience.”

Yeonjun lowers his head. “You are free to go ahead without me. I will join you as shortly as possible.”

“I was hoping to be accompanied by you.”

Without thinking his next words through, Yeonjun lightly retorts with, “You seem to desire my company unusually much today.”

And he can see as something in the prince’s face changes as he says it. Taehyun looks away from his eyes, before meeting them again, the expression in them more sober than before. “I do not mean to impose myself.”

He fights to keep his face light and teasing, to retain his smile. “Not at all, my prince. It is simply so rare for you to have the time to join us, I have grown quite unused to it.” He bows deeper this time, bending at the waist. “If you wish to have me accompany you, I will refrain from refreshing myself today.”

“No, it is quite alright,” the prince response, his tone having lost its boyish edge it so often has when Yeonjun toys with him. “You do, after all, understand these things better than I ever have. If you believe it would be more proper for you to do so, I will accompany you to your quarters first.”

Yeonjun straightens, and tries not to look too taken aback. “You will?”

“Yes. If I am so lucky to have the time to join you, I should be judicious in how I do so.”

He sounds so confident; unshaken. He reminds Yeonjun of Beomgyu in a way that stings in his chest.

Briefly, Yeonjun looks over at where his ladies wait for him, politely distant, hopefully too far away to understand their conversation. “That is most thoughtful of you, my prince.”

Taehyun bows to him stiffly, too politely – almost like a common courtesan would.

 

.

 

Taehyun makes more polite small talk on their way to Yeonjun’s quarters, leaving Yeonjun’s side to mingle with his ladies. Those who have not heard about Soobin’s duties at the Imperial Court have careful veiled questions about it, the conversation straying towards Beomgyu almost as if he were not present at all. Beomgyu himself carefully distances himself from the group as Taehyun enters it, and strays closer to Yeonjun, all but clinging to his shoulder. For once today, Beomgyu does not look like he has much to say.

When they arrive, Taehyun insists on staying in the waiting room while they get ready, and Yeonjun asks Soojin to stay behind to serve him tea and entertain him. Taehyun argues it is not necessary, and he can stand being alone for a while, but Yeonjun just playfully suggests that Soojin can just as well keep him silent company if he’s tired of making conversation, and leaves them there.

Still, he tries to be quick about his business, repainting his lips and touching up his face, fixing his hair and straightening his jewels. Beomgyu fusses with the flower in his hair in a tall mirror affixed to the wall, and Yeonjun cannot stop himself from approaching him and helping straighten it to his liking. To make up for his indiscretion, he makes the rounds around the room to assist all of his ladies.

“Ah, since the prince is joining us today, it must be our duty to look as lovely as possible!” he chippers, his tone more jovial than he feels. His ladies shower him in compliments in response, and he laughs while the pendants in his hair chime.

He sometimes thinks someone should paint this – the purest manifestation, an embodiment of a lady’s nature. A friendly gathering of beautiful faces, a menagerie of jewelry and colorful fabric. Gentleness, laughter, wrapped in a pile of money that by law does not belong to them. Companionship and soft skin.

His ladies are beautiful, aren’t they? Dayeon with her bright eyes and Miyeon with her luscious hair – Eunbi with her flawless, soft skin and Dasom with the prettiest smile, Chaeyoung with her physique, her graceful step. Beomgyu, in all his perfection, with everything they have and then some. They are a pleasure to behold, but to what extent? Where does an appreciative look end and desire begins? Where the smell of fruit turns ripe? Where the warmth he feels in his chest travels down his body?

He does not linger on the thought – he calls for Haewon, and has her invite Soobin for dinner in his rooms, then leads his ladies back into the waiting room.

It is clear from Taehyun’s face that he sees little change in their appearances, but he is polite about it, making sure to compliment his wife first before giving out kind words to his ladies as well. None of the ones he addresses happens to be Beomgyu, but he does not seem bothered to be excluded – Yeonjun is not surprised.

They travel to the workshop with Yeonjun’s whole entourage, but Yeonjun dismisses most of them as they arrive – there is little reason for them to sit around while Master Hwang works on their portrait, especially when Yeonjun is already accompanied by his husband. He still has two of his ladies stay behind; it would feel strange to be alone with the two alphas, even in this mundane situation. Master Hwang is a treasured member of his household, but no friend of his.

He chooses Eunbi and Dasom and lets the rest spend their evenings to their liking, and the two sit together in the corner of the room, watching the master painter work and entertaining each other. Yeonjun and Taehyun sit side by side, with the most courtly postures they are capable of, dressed in the colors of their houses – red and yellow, black and silver. Taehyun refused all imperial insignia or colors, so they draped a tiger pelt over his shoulder instead, and gave Yeonjun an armful of morning star lilies. Beautiful yet useful, a fitting imagery for someone of his background – and a fitting flower for the remembrance of a wedding.

They are forced to sit and listen as Master Hwang yet again complains about the prince’s decision to make the portrait less imperial, obviously deeming it too important not to tell the prince directly instead of just airing his grievances to Yeonjun, and Yeonjun catches Taehyun smiling slightly out of the corner of his eye. He has to school his own face so the corners of his mouth do not end up rising as well. Taehyun offers the painter an extremely agreeable speech about how he is an alpha of his house first and an imperial vassal second that the older alpha accepts with obvious grumpy displeasure. Yeonjun catches his ladies in the corner trying not to laugh.

The longer they sit, the more Yeonjun’s mind wanders, the two of them kneeling together bringing up memories of their actual wedding ceremony. Yeonjun wore red that day as well, although his clothes were much more resplendent than this. He had so many flowers in his hair that the hair itself was barely visible at all, and he felt almost ridiculously dressed up next to his elegant husband in traditional blue. If ever Yeonjun thought his husband really loved him, it was on that day. He seemed full of boyish joy, of admiration, paying so much attention to him whenever the moment allowed. Eyes trained on his face, intent. Like he hoped he could sear the moment into the back of his eyelids and come back to it whenever he wanted to relive it again.

He was handsome, and seemed so taken with Yeonjun, and Yeonjun was eager to have him and carry out his duty to him in peace and material comfort. Things seemed so easy, when they were young. Taehyun had money and status, and Yeonjun’s upbringing told him that was all a husband needed to have. His quick mind, handsome face, those were all just bonuses. More reasons why Yeonjun was lucky to have caught his eye.

Nobody ever prepared him for the possibility that he might worry about more than whether he had enough means to upkeep a household, and a high enough status to live safely, without threat to his body or honor. That he might worry about how his husband feels about him and his body; about whether or not he is ever going to bear a child, and get to raise them. If it would truly be better for him to take a lover in his husband’s absence. If he is worthy of his position. They did not tell him the black thoughts would not leave with material certainty. That he would perhaps always worry. That even if he looked away from the water, it was still in danger of rising.

It makes him wonder if Taehyun ever truly worries. Perhaps the bigger picture he sees includes the date when they will conceive, and Taehyun gets an heir he will be able to entrust the legacy of his name to. Perhaps the same unsaid reasons he has for refusing imperial insignia he is entitled to as the Emperor’s son and member of his council are the reasons behind everything he does; everything he is. Maybe he sees beyond the narrow world Yeonjun lives in to some grand vision.

Yeonjun wishes he would share his view – so he could live in a semblance of peace as well.

“Are you well?”

The prince speaks so quietly and intimately it feels almost inappropriate for the occasion – Yeonjun startles as discreetly as he can.

“Certainly. Just lost in thought.”

“Are there more trifling matters on your mind?”

Ah, Yeonjun wishes. He wishes his mind was occupied with Beomgyu’s pretty eyes – and maybe that is what Beomgyu meant when he urged Yeonjun so emphatically to seek satisfaction outside of his marriage. There would be something so comforting, about a simple pursuit of pleasure. Straightforward and uncomplicated.

But Yeonjun understands well enough that it would be anything but. He has a reputation, and on his reputation might hinge his husband’s reputation, and on his husband’s reputation hinges his position at the Imperial Court, and the Imperial Court, at the end of the day, is the end all be all of their existence. If they are out of favor with their liege, they might as well be commoners on the street. Taehyun’s life has been simpler than many others’, since he is the Emperor’s son, but even the Emperor will eventually pass away, and Taehyun hopes to outlive him. He has to be careful. Yeonjun has to be careful for him. Even this far from the Court.

“I am afraid this time my mind is occupied with matters of grave importance.”

The prince looks at him, eyes sharp with curiosity. “Such as?”

“The well-being of His Imperial Majesty,” Yeonjun half-jokes, expecting his husband to scoff or react the same way he does when Yeonjun teases him, but his mouth tightens instead.

“I suppose I am not necessarily being subtle.”

Yeonjun’s heart lurches in his chest; he is not sure how he manages to not react outwardly. “… oh?” But his voice come out unusually high. “Is His Imperial Majesty not well?”

“He was when I was leaving the Court. I…” Taehyun sighs through barely parted lips. “This is not the time to discuss this. Perhaps we should not discuss this at all. I assure you, to the best of my ability, whatever happens at the Court should not impact you.”

Or perhaps Taehyun has other worries. Worries Yeonjun has no idea about. He is no longer a courtesan of the Imperial Court, and even when he was, he was but a child. He is a housewife, not a politician. The prince shares these sorts of concerns with other people, not him.

Sudden warmth on the back of his hand startles him, and he instinctively flinches back, tearing his hand away. Only once he pulls it to his chest does he realize that Taehyun was trying to lay his own over it, probably to reassure him.

His heart races as he realizes what he’s done. Master Hwang looks up from with work with a furrowed brow. The prince’s hand goes back to his own knee.

“Are you well, Your Grace?”

“Yes, of course,” he rushes to reply – the painters seems to have missed what caused him to move so abruptly, but his ladies look all to aware – and a little worried. Their interaction must have been easy to misunderstand.

“I think we should take a moment of rest,” Taehyun declares and starts getting up without the master painter’s permission. “I will go and have a servant bring tea and refreshments.”

Master Hwang does not seem pleased with the prince’s decision, but despite his eccentricities, he is smart enough not to argue with his prince. Instead, he turns back to his sketches, quite impolitely ignoring Yeonjun who is promptly helped to his feet by his ladies and escorted to the table in the corner they sat at.

Neither of them ask about what just happened, and Yeonjun appreciates it. Instead, they compliment the paper flowers he held in his lap, and talk about how pretty the pins he chose for himself today are. They reflect light so beautifully, they say. Yeonjun smiles at them and shakes his head, making the pendants jingle.

A servant brings them tea and cakes, and informs them that the prince was going to take care of some matters, and would be back by the time they finish tea. Master Hwang seems to be freshly incensed at this news, although he is briefly soothed when the servant serves him a separate plate of refreshments with his favorite foods – surely, Taehyun made sure he would be brought these to soothe over the offense he was bound to take at the prince abandoning his painting yet again, even if for a brief moment. At the back of his mind, Yeonjun selfishly hopes that the prince learned to implement these small, discreet tactics from him. This is what he usually excels at, after all – knowing each member of his household well enough to know how to control their moods, and keep everyone in line.

All he has to do today, however, is keep himself in line, so he does exactly that, joking around with his ladies quietly enough to not disturb Master Hwang as he takes his tea separately from them, making small adjustments to his sketches between sips of tea and bites of food. Yeonjun eats generously and takes his time with his tea, so that when Taehyun arrives again, with a bow a little too polite for a man of his standing, apologizing for holding up Master Hwang’s work, he can lightly lift his teacup and assure his husband that he is just on time, as he was just about to finish his tea.

The prince looks at him a little too long, and then bows his head. “Please take your time, my wife.”

Master Hwang grumbles, and Yeonjun finishes his tea with a smile. “No need. We can get right back to it, Master Hwang, do not worry.”

“I do not mean to rush you, Your Grace,” the painter says quickly, aware that he has been quite impolite with him this afternoon, no doubt, but Yeonjun brushes it off with a flutter of his sleeve.

“Not at all Master Hwang! I am quite ready. Shall we?”

They sit back down, and this time, Yeonjun only allows his eyes to wander between the floor and his ladies, who he sometimes gives a friendly smile to before going back to maintaining a more properly noble expression. Next to him, Taehyun makes no further attempt at conversation, except to speak to Master Hwang about the details of his commission, and they somehow get through it that way.

Eventually, the artist dismisses them, and he and Taehyun inadvertently bow to him in unison, seeming for all intents and purposes like the newlywed couple they no longer are.

Outside of the artist’s workshop, Yeonjun wraps himself in a shawl he discarded before for the painting to keep out the chill, and Taehyun watches him from a polite distance away.

“I suppose this is where we part, my prince,” Yeonjun says lightly, offering his husband a polite smile.

“Unless you would like to join me for dinner,” Taehyun replies.

He takes a deep breath. “I am afraid I have already invited someone over for dinner in my quarters.”

The prince’s eyes darken slightly. “Oh.”

“Some other day, perhaps?”

Yeonjun is not sure how he would fare, dining in Taehyun’s tea room the day after he made a spectacle of himself there, right in front of his husband’s eyes. Still, the prince nods, bowing his head politely.

“I would be honored.”

He bows as formally as he can without seeming strange. “I wish you a good night then, my prince.”

“Good night to you as well, wife.”

The prince walks away, unaccompanied, his black-clad shoulders and dark hair making him a long shadow in the dimly-lit palace.

 

.

 

He arrives to his own quarters, expecting Soobin to be right there in the waiting room, ready to join him for dinner, only to find Haewon there by herself, wringing her hands.

“Your Grace, the Captain sent back word that he received an invitation to dinner from the prince, and would therefore have to politely decline yours.”

Yeonjun wants to look back at how his ladies react, but he restrains himself. Very well. Very well.

“Did he do so recently?”

“No, Your Grace – sometime in the early afternoon.”

Well then. He takes a long, careful breath, then turns around. “Well – Eunbi, Dasom, my dears, I suppose your services to me are no longer needed today. Thank you so much for accompanying me today. Ah, Master Hwang is quite the moody man, is he not?”

The ladies give him their polite assent and bow.

“I hope you both spend your evening well, my dears. Do not forget to eat!”

They bid him good night, and they leave him alone with Haewon. He takes another deep breath.

“Haewon.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I would like you to personally go over to the concubines’ quarters and tell Omega Beomgyu to come here. If he is dressed down for the night, there is no need for him to dress up again. Ask if he ate – if he had not, bring dinner for us both; if he had, only bring mine. Tell him to wait for me here – I will come meet him myself.”

Haewon bows deeply and scurries away through the servants’ side door. Yeonjun sags a little once he is alone. No day can quite pass without complication, can it. Now Soobin is avoiding his invitations.

He gathers himself again, and slips into his dressing room, to wipe his face clean and remove all the jewelry weighing him down – he longs to feel a little lighter tonight.

 

.

 

Somehow, Beomgyu seems surprised to see Yeonjun half-undone when he steps into the waiting room. He has removed the pins from his hair, his earrings and necklace, and tied his hair back with the black ribbon again. His face is bare, and a little pink from him rubbing at it to remove the paint. Beomgyu’s face is bare as well, and the flower he wore in it before is gone. His robes are the same though, a lovely shade of cream, and he has a small pin with a pearl stuck in his hair instead.

“You’ve called for me.”

He nods. “It seems Soobin is too busy to join me tonight.”

A small lie, but a lie nonetheless. Beomgyu accepts it with a nod. “What do you need from me, then?”

It is a strange arrangement – both of them half dressed-up; Yeonjun on his feet, and Beomgyu sitting at the table. Uneven; bumpy. Inelegant. Somehow, Yeonjun finds it quite soothing.

“Join me for dinner? There is something I still need to discuss with you.”

Beomgyu nods and stands. “I have already eaten with Lady Dayeon and Lady Miyeon.”

That is what Beomgyu was up to in the afternoon, then. Making friends of Yeonjun’s ladies. It is to his credit, probably.

“No matter; then you will keep me company while I eat. I hope you are partial to wine.”

Beomgyu walks up to him, and he stands a polite distance away, yet still feels too close. Too direct. Facing him like an equal. “When I am in good company.”

There they go again. “Do you consider me good company, Omega Beomgyu?”

Beomgyu tilts his head and regards him thoughtfully, like he needs to think about it. “Starting to, Your Grace.”

“Well, I am flattered by your assessment,” Yeonjun retorts haughtily, and turns around to the sound of Beomgyu’s amused huff. “Please follow me.”

He leads Beomgyu to the tea room, where Haewon already arranged for his meal to be set out, enough for one with a little extra, the table set in a smaller spread to receive a visitor privately. Yeonjun sinks into his seat, and Beomgyu folds himself in front of him. While Yeonjun prepares himself a plate, Beomgyu pours two cups of wine, and lifts his to sniff at it experimentally, raising his eyebrows at the smell – Yeonjun cannot tell if he is pleased or horrified, but in any event, he ends up taking a sip that makes his eyebrows lower again into a frown in another indiscernible expression. If Yeonjun did not know any better, he would say it is quite adorable.

“My father in law had an affinity for grape wine.”

Yeonjun carefully pokes at his plate. “I have an affinity for rice wine.”

Beomgyu hums, like he has just said something deeply philosophical, and downs his whole cup in one go. “What is it you need to discuss with me? Unless you would rather finish your meal first?”

Yeonjun looks into a bowl of stew and considers the question. Is there a reason to drag this out? It is a very simple matter.

“It should not take long – let us just level with each other.” He straightens up, and meets Beomgyu’s eyes while he pours himself more wine. “I have spoken to the prince, about his rut and your heat.”

Beomgyu shifts in his seat – the bitter sting of anxiety in his scent betrays his carefully open expression. “Yes.”

“He said smelling our scents together brought him great relief, and we suspect our bond may have somehow formed in an unusual way.”

Despite his obvious apprehension, Beomgyu reacts to that with skepticism. “Because your husband found the scents of us arousing?”

Yeonjun purses his lips and huffs out through his nose. “Not quite. I believe he did not mean he was sated… bodily. He spoke of a feeling of calmness – he likened it to the feeling family invokes.”

Beomgyu downs another cup. “I do not remember the scents of my family members.”

Now he is being obtuse on purpose. Yeonjun sighs. “Have you ever heard of packs?”

“Certainly,” Beomgyu responds lightly, mockingly. “To remind you again, Your Grace, I am foreign to the Empire, not uneducated. I also know that packs do not just form spontaneously when an alpha takes on another omega. There would have to be children, or shared mating cycles. We hardly even spent time with your husband prior to my heat. That would be impossible.”

“Well, I am not here to convince you that we have inadvertently formed a pack, Omega Beomgyu. We are as aware as you are that it would be highly improbable for that the be the answer, if not outright impossible.” Yeonjun reaches for his wine to sip at it. “It simply seems like a useful comparison. I was to tell you that the prince is going to try and study the topic of bonds to figure out what exactly might be causing us to react to each other’s scents in this way.”

Beomgyu snorts – impolitely, outright rudely. Extremely unladylike, but he seems to not realize there is decorum to be kept between the two of them as he drinks even more. Yeonjun should still his hand, but he hesitates. “Are the two of you equally as naïve, then? You purport to be a married couple, but you both behave as if you were both hermit monks. Is it truly that hard to understand? The prince wants me, and he wants you, and two omegas would be more than enough to sate even the most virile of alphas in a rut – especially if one of them was in heat.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together tightly. “Not everything is about sex, Omega Beomgyu.”

“Between alphas and omegas, it usually is,” Beomgyu retorts dismissively, raising his eyebrows at Yeonjun as if challenging him.

“Well, this is not simply a matter of alpha and omega, is it? It is something between you and I as well. I believe I have felt the same feelings that the prince described to me, and however naïve you consider me, believe me when I tell you I know what arousal feels like, and this was not it.”

Beomgyu lifts his chin, then drinks some more. Yeonjun should stop him next time. “Forgive me if I choose not to, Your Grace.”

Frustration wells up in him, and he reaches for the wine before Beomgyu can, filling his own cup before setting it down further from Beomgyu’s hands than it was before. The motion of his hands comes with a flutter of sleeves, and a familiar, comforting note of spice wafts up to his nose. Without thinking, he brings his sleeve up to his face – it smells of his husband, stronger than it usually does when his husband has scented him in greeting that day. Maybe his constant presence at Yeonjun’s side today has made the scent stronger, made it linger longer.

He looks up at Beomgyu, who watches him with a flat affect of doubt on his face. Yeonjun lets his hands fall into his lap again.

“Let me show you, then.”

“Show me?” the response sounds amused; Beomgyu’s eyebrows remain lifted.

Yeonjun grits his teeth, just a little bit, then reaches his hand out into the space between them. “Scent me.”

Beomgyu bursts out into a tense little laugh. “Scent you?”

“You can smell the prince on me, can you not? That is what it requires. His scent, my scent, and yours. If you scent me, you can feel it for yourself and understand that what he and I have felt was not arousal, no matter how adamant you are about that.”

His expression turning more careful, Beomgyu looks at Yeonjun’s wrist that hangs exposed between them, and then at Yeonjun. “I thought scenting was only proper between married couples here in the Empire. What do your customs say about a married lady scenting another omega?”

The words are teasing, but it sounds like Beomgyu struggles to maintain his lightness. Honey mixes with the scent of bitter anxiety that does not go away in a strange cacophony of scents. Fruit, citrus and spice. Yeonjun closes his eyes.

“If you refuse to believe me, you leave me no other choice,” he retorts, and he himself is surprised at how level his voice is. Calm. Determined. “Scenting is not a crime.”

A hand closing around the back of his, cold fingers cradling his wrist, threaten to break through his calm resolve. “But it is intimate, is it not? Even to you.”

Yeonjun bites into his lower lip and opens his eyes. Beomgyu holds his hand gently – not overwhelming like madame Seo, or carefully courtly like his husband. Gentle. “Not necessarily. Between a married couple, it is, in a way, a gesture of ownership.”

That is how he was taught it – a wife offers their scent as a show of submission and the husband accepts to assert their ownership – and then they walk around stamped with each other to show off their status – of being owned, and owning. A subtle power exchange. If Yeonjun were to be an optimist about it, he could assert that it goes both ways, actually – every time his husband scents him, it is an assurance to both of them that they belong to each other. The peace the husband can get from their mate’s scent is a form of control that goes the other way, for a change.

Beomgyu tilts his head. “Shouldn’t you be the one scenting me, then? If in this household, you and your husband are one and the same, then you own me as much as your husband does.”

The words make Yeonjun pull his hand away, and he slowly cradles it to his chest, while Beomgyu lays his own back in his lap, nonplussed. Yeonjun stares at him, at his pretty brown eyes that keep drawing Yeonjun in, his lips reddened with the wine, the little hint of flush in his face. Earlier today, he dubbed Beomgyu an alpha-like omega in his mind – and yet, faced with Yeonjun offering himself up, instead of snatching him up like an alpha would, Beomgyu invites him to think about taking Beomgyu instead. Baiting him. Opening himself up. Showing his soft, vulnerable underbelly – yet still having the poise of a snake about to strike. He is so confusing to Yeonjun’s sensibilities, to his upbringing, to how he thinks things should be. The world is so much simpler when it is drawn in simple sets of opposites - the household and the state. Red and blue. A wife and a husband. Omega and their alpha. The owned and their owners. The weak and the powerful.

Two opposites that need each other, to balance each other out. Both equally important and worthwhile. A follower needs a leader. A husband needs a wife. What are they without each other? What would happen, should they stop having need of each other? What if one became obsolete? What power is there, in independence?

He shakes his head.

“You don’t think you own me?” Beomgyu says lightly, with amusement, and Yeonjun shakes his head again. “How lovely of you to say, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun reaches for the wine and slowly drinks a cup. While it is still touching his lips, Beomgyu leans across the table, closer to him.

“Yeonjun.”

Just like his husband, using his name against him while he is vulnerable; but it does not hurt when Beomgyu does it – it sounds sincere. Their eyes meet, too close to each other, so terribly inappropriate, and Yeonjun sets the cup down while Beomgyu reaches out a hand towards him.

“Give me your hand.”

And he does, without thought. Lays his hand in Beomgyu’s – his palms are soft, but his fingers have calluses on them, maybe from plucking at the strings of an instrument until he was good enough to show off to guests. It is a strange contrast, one that makes goosebumps raise all over his forearm as Beomgyu slowly raises his other hand, careful as if he was trying not to startle a skittish animal, and opens Yeonjun’s curled fingers, only to press his lips to the center of Yeonjun’s palm.

Yeonjun’s whole arm feels like it got struck by lightning – tingles going up and down it at the same time as it goes numb, weightless in Beomgyu’s hold. Beomgyu moves up and presses the tip of his nose to Yeonjun’s wrist – burying it in rapidly ripening fruit with an undertone of spice. He feels a rush of hot breath on his skin as it escapes through Beomgyu’s parted lips. Does the prince’s scent bother Beomgyu when it is melded into Yeonjun’s? It does not seem to; Beomgyu seems anything but bothered as he breathes in again before pulling his face away, and bringing Yeonjun’s hand closer to himself instead.

He did something similar during his heat, but now Yeonjun is letting him instead of Beomgyu stealing his chance to breathe his scent in, and it feels so different. Better. Worse.

Beomgyu closes his eyes when he rubs Yeonjun’s wrist against the scent gland on his neck, but Yeonjun keeps his eyes trained on him. The twitch in his face. In his shoulders. Like he feels a similar tingle, a similar slight, delightful burn like the one that travels down Yeonjun’s wrist. His fingers itch with the urge to sink them into Beomgyu’s hair, stronger each time Beomgyu’s head shifts and the dark silk of them brushes past Yeonjun’s fingertips. As soft as he remembers it. It would flow through his fingers like water.

His eyes are half-lidded, visibly addled, when he opens them again. They remain on Yeonjun’s face while he brings Yeonjun’s wrist up to his face again, to breathe them all in. The mix of them. That perfect little blend of scents – spiced wine and sweet, tangy citrus.

He watches as Beomgyu’s eyes widen imperceptibly – as his face opens in a strange way, as if he is too taken aback to keep it straight, before it closes up again and Beomgyu pulls back, slowly letting go of Yeonjun’s hand, as if reluctant to do so. Yeonjun immediately brings his wrist up to his own face, to let the bliss and the iron tang of fear that keeps coming at the tail of it wash over him. So pleasant; so… unthinkable of him to think it so.

The three of them… linked, somehow. In something that seeps deep into Yeonjun’s bones.

“You lied,” Beomgyu says eventually, and his voice is deeper than usual.

Yeonjun frowns. “How?”

His eyes follow Beomgyu’s Adam’s apple as it jumps. “You said there would not be arousal.”

He looks away; he cannot look him in the face. “I…”

“You were right,” he continues, as if taking mercy on Yeonjun – today, of all days. “It was not only that, but it was present.”

Even then, he cannot meet Beomgyu’s eyes. His eyes drop to the floor beside Beomgyu. “You felt it, then.”

“I felt something. Not anything that I find particularly easy to place. To name.”

Finally, he looks at Beomgyu – he looks… strange. Interested, maybe. Curious, but that is not the only thing on his face. Maybe it is the arousal he spoke of. Maybe it is Beomgyu’s proud face struggling to parse the bone-deep comfort of that mix of scents that still feels like it courses through Yeonjun’s veins.

“I thought it was just you; maybe I was wrong.”

Yeonjun blinks hard, eyelashes fluttering. “Excuse me?”

Beomgyu smiles a small smile. “I thought I only enjoyed your scent so much because it belonged to such a pretty face, but maybe you two have a point – maybe there is more to it.”

And somehow, emboldened by the heady smells in the air, instead of lashing out at that, instead of being afraid, Yeonjun asks, “It feels incredible, does it not?”

Beomgyu looks down at the table. “Incredible does feel like a fitting description – I find it hard to believe, still.”

“But you have felt it.”

Beomgyu hums. “Indeed.”

Yeonjun sighs – in relief, in satisfaction; vindication.

Beomgyu snorts to himself, and reaches all the way over for the wine to pour himself more even though Yeonjun so obviously put it further away from him. Yeonjun just resumes eating his cooled stew instead of trying to stop him. “An alpha’s scent as a source of comfort,” he says, dry, like it is a joke instead of a statement of fact.

Yeonjun frowns with his mouth full. “Of course?” he responds after he swallows – it is not that which is the strange part; it is the comfort of an omega’s scent that is the anomaly. “You are mated - of course you would find him comforting, whether you like him or not.”

Beomgyu drinks another cup and shakes his head. “A mate’s comfort is a false comfort – an empty one. Something your body tells you that you should feel while the heart disagrees - like a medicine that dulls the senses to the pain but does not remove the source of it. You remain aware of it, even as you lose your ability to feel it. You know it will be waiting there for you, as soon as the medicine runs its course.”

“I have never felt it to be such,” Yeonjun argues.

In response, Beomgyu narrows his eyes at him. “Maybe it feels different, when you have resigned yourself to being your husband’s pet.”

Something cold settles in his stomach, trying to break through the comfort surrounding them. “I thought you would know better than to call me that.”

“Should I not? You claim all this power, but it is all given to you through his benevolence. He plays these games with you, and sometimes you play games right back but is his word not law in the end? If he demanded your compliance would you not surrender? Would you be brave enough to fight him?”

“I have power over him as well,” Yeonjun counters, weak, barely a whisper.

“I heard the two of you this morning – in your bed room,” Beomgyu says, heavy as if to contrast Yeonjun’s hesitance. “You toy with him, but he lets you do so – you buck as far as your leash lets you get. You tug, but your power is in the hold he keeps on you. If you set yourself free—”

“Is that not something to aspire to?” Yeonjun retorts with newfound vigor. “A pull on a man as significant as him. Even if it is a leash that lets me drag him where I please, as long as he wishes to keep hold of me, is it truly a false power? Does it have to be a prison? You have no idea, Omega Beomgyu, how small my world used to be before him. How little I was. Not a pet, not a dog at a powerful man’s feet, but a mouse. A fly on the wall. Vermin of the court, living in the warmth of others, reliant on the scraps of their kindness. Now at least I get to pretend to be something more – I get to live in the reflection of my husband’s luster and perhaps - perhaps if I conduct myself such that the people around me believe to be more than that then I can be - thanks to my husband, yes, but he chose me as well. Our marriage was not prearranged like yours. There were no trade deals to make, no peace negotiations, no land, nothing to gain. I earned my golden cage - now let me rest in it.”

Beomgyu stares at him – intent, perhaps amused, perhaps still aroused. Fascinated. “Perhaps we simply long for different things, Yeonjun.”

He purses his lips, then reaches for the wine and pours himself some just to down it immediately. Impolite, unladylike. Unpolished. Bare, in more ways than one. “Perhaps we do.”

Chapter 7

Notes:

most of this was written yesterday in an absolute haze, if it sucks, i am sorry. I could have waited but yolo :) thank you so much for sharing your thoughts on this with me, there is kind of a lot i want to write about in this, and it is cool to see people engage with the themes i bring up \o/

During breakfast, Beomgyu usurps the seat at Yeonjun’s side. While Yeonjun dresses himself for the day, Beomgyu is there to help him attach a hairpiece made out of a dozen small yellow blossoms. In the garden, he walks next to him and tells him and the few ladies gathered around them a children’s fable his nurse used to tell him when he was young, about little creatures who live underneath flowers and feed children magic pollen that will make them fall asleep for a hundred years if they go wandering the flower fields alone.

He wears a smile on his face that Yeonjun is not sure he understands. Maybe they have come to some sort of understanding last night – maybe Beomgyu is finally starting to comprehend what Yeonjun’s life is like, but he doubts that is where Beomgyu’s newfound peace stems from. They truly find each other so inscrutable. Divided by culture, their origins, their life stories.

And yet, when Beomgyu weaves his children’s tale, sleeves fluttering in the air as he gets animated in his storytelling, Yeonjun finds himself smiling as well.

On their way back to the palace, they are interrupted by a servant who immediately bows so deeply he tells his message to the path beneath their feet.

“Your Grace, a messenger has arrived from the Imperial Court. He wanted to be taken to see the prince at once, but he gave us a letter to deliver to you as well.”

The Empire calls, then. How much time did they give Taehyun to spend in his home this time, again? Half a moon? Awfully generous – they must have expected his rut to be longer than usual and assumed he would be indisposed.

“Do you have the letter?”

The servant lifts his hands to offer it to him instead of a reply. It is simple, unadorned and unsealed – from his aunt, then, rather than some important courtier. He takes it, and thanks the man before dismissing him. He catches Beomgyu eyeing him curiously, but he ignores his look and looks around at the rest of his ladies instead with a tight smile.

“It seems we are about to lose our prince again. Unfortunate.”

His ladies offer empty words of disappointment and compassion with his no doubt tiring, very important position. Beomgyu’s eyes are glued to the letter. Yeonjun tucks it into his shawl, and leads his ladies back to his quarters, to read it in his study, as privately as he can.

Yeonjun’s aunt always sends her letters to him unsealed, because she believes that no proper lady should be receiving sealed correspondence from anyone but their husband. A proper lady has nothing to hide, and if their husband wishes to read everything they receive, that is a husband’s right. Yeonjun does not know if Taehyun ever took advantage of this – has no way of knowing, in the absence of a seal, but the thought does not bother him. As a proper lady, he has nothing to hide – and his aunt usually just speaks of petty squabbles at the Court and the latest fashion, anyway.

This letter feels a little different. She implores him to visit the court soon, and to let her know of any good news in his response. Of course, she also mentions the Emperor’s gift, asking him if he has done away with that little nuisance yet. It makes him lift his eyes to where Beomgyu has been watching him read with naked curiosity. Lady Dayeon keeps trying to involve him in a game, and leave Yeonjun in peace – it is almost an amusing sight.

He is not sure how he will be able to reply to his aunt’s letter in a way that is both polite and discreet – he should not be announcing to the whole of the Imperial Court that Taehyun lets his concubine mingle with the household, even though any other member of the household, including his ladies, could do so at the drop of a hat – without his confirmation, however, would it not be more than gossip? A proof of the prince’s virtue to those who wish to see it as such, and an undeniable proof of his youthful debauchery to those inclined to view his actions negatively. Just talk.

His aunt assures him that she and his uncle are well, that his uncle has been so favored that he keeps being invited to talk with so many important people at the Court in what seems to be a blessing, as the youngest of her children are coming to be of age and she needs to find them all a good marriage. Then she veers off into the latest fashion, laments the trend of using brocade to fashion drapes and how excessively opulent it all seems, curses the youth for being frivolous with their family money, then sends him a dozen kisses and wishes of good wealth and fortune.

Yeonjun sits the letter aside and looks around the room. If the prince will be leaving soon, then so will Soobin, and Yeonjun has not settled the issue between them yet. He will have to hurry if he wants to see it righted before the two of them leave.

He should also write a letter in response, and find a delicate way to address the issue of Beomgyu without giving too much away.

Instead, he keeps ruminating on how the letter began. He must visit them soon. Let them know of any good news. Some rumor must have spread through the Court about their household, and his aunt has bought into it wholeheartedly. He would not mind, if he knew that the rumor was a beneficial one for him and his husband, and not the other way around. If the prince worries about the situation at the Court, and the Court is awash in speculation about them, it could affect the matter either way. Perhaps he should let Taehyun know of this – but he has nearly no information, since his aunt is always less than direct in her correspondence… and besides, he is reluctant to see his husband now. He will leave soon, and things seem unnecessarily complicated between them, as of late. Maybe it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie.

He toys with his necklace, until he makes up his mind and stands, startling some of his ladies – not Beomgyu, whose attention never strayed from him this whole time.

“My ladies, I have a quick matter to attend to. It would be lovely if most of you could stay here and wait for me to return. If the waiting gets unbearable, just ask Haewon for some refreshments, okay?” He clears his throat. “Beomgyu, Dayeon. Please follow me.”

They rush to their feet, and follow him out the door and into the corridor, where Beomgyu steps forward instead of hanging behind Yeonjun as he should.

“Where are we going?” He asks, just to have Dayeon tug at his sleeve, urging him to fall back behind Yeonjun again with a sharp click of her tongue. He frowns at her, but relents, and Yeonjun raises his eyebrows at them both. He does not have to answer, but he does it, anyway.

“To see Captain Soobin.”

Understanding dawns on Beomgyu’s face while a little frown settles on Dayeon’s. Yeonjun ignores both, and leads them straight through the waiting room and out the door to his quarters. Once outside, he hesitates – Soobin might not be in his room; he might be in the guards’ barracks, or with the prince. He may even be carrying out a social call, having tea with someone or other, as uncharacteristic as it would be of him. But the prince just received his summons to the Court, almost without doubt. Would he not be in his room, preparing to leave?

He leads Beomgyu and Dayeon in that direction, holding his head high just in case someone thinks to question him or his decision to see Soobin in his own room – it is the one place where Soobin cannot avoid him. If he comes in person instead of sending a messenger in his stead, Soobin cannot just dismiss him. Just like the prince did to him the day before – a household of cats and mice, chasing each other around the palace. How childish of them.

It works, however – when they arrive and the single guard stationed at Soobin’s door snaps to attention, he assures Yeonjun that the captain is indeed inside. Yeonjun makes him go inside and announce that he expects to be invited in, at least giving Soobin an extra buffer of time to brace himself before cornering him completely.

To his credit, Soobin seems more politely resigned than anything else when Yeonjun enters his room. He bows deeply and properly, then stands back up straight with a soldier’s poise.

“Your Grace, Lady Dayeon…” he hesitates a little, but just enough. “Omega Beomgyu.”

“Good morning, Captain,” Yeonjun responds, carefully polite, while his ladies bow in response, Beomgyu with a little less politeness than Dayeon.

“Are you here about the missive from the Court? It is exactly what you must think – His Imperial Majesty is asking our prince to return to his court at once.” He gestures vaguely at his room, in disarray as they interrupted him in the middle of packing. “We should be leaving tomorrow.”

Although that was not the reason why he came, Yeonjun lets his shoulders lower, anyway. He expected it, and yet, it feels like it has come too soon this time. Things will go back to normal now. His days will be simple and monotone. Maintain, manage, entertain. Rinse and repeat.

“We will be out of your hair in no time.”

It is a bit impolite, and Soobin says it awkwardly, like he has to force the quip past his lips. They are not used to being antagonistic towards each other; they have always been on the same side, a united front.

“You think poorly of me, Captain,” he retorts, folding his arms in front of himself. “It brings me no joy to see you leave again. To lose a husband and a dear friend at the same time is never a pleasant occasion.”

Soobin shifts – Yeonjun sees in it every posture he cannot take in front of him in polite company. “A dear friend, you say.”

He heard what Yeonjun meant, then. Good. “Indeed. One of my oldest ones, who has never betrayed the trust I have placed in him.”

Yeonjun wishes they could just talk – but they could only do so with Taehyun between them, and Yeonjun would rather do this imperfectly on his own terms than through his husband. He watches as Soobin purses his mouth, visibly thinking over the things he can and cannot say, and imagines he is thinking the same.

“I have never wavered in my loyalty to you – for any reason.”

“I know that, Soobin,” Yeonjun implores, forgetting himself for a moment and forgoing his title.

“Do you, Your Grace?” Soobin retorts, perfectly polite in contrast with him. “You seem to be doubting me more than usual, lately.”

Yeonjun’s fingers tighten on his own elbows. “And that is a failing on my part. There have been many… changes, to the household recently and I have found myself…” Overwhelmed. Up to his chin in water. Drowning in all the ways everyone keeps asking him to reconsider his entire worldview. Accept things as they are, even though they make little sense to him. Even as foundation after foundation gets broken down mercilessly. “Acting improperly, as a consequence. I hope you will forgive me for making you a victim of my indiscretion.” He lifts his chin. “I promise you, by the next time you see me, I will be the man you have always known me to be again.”

Soobin looks away at the same time as he lifts his chin in return, seeming so tall all of a sudden in Yeonjun’s eyes. “I have always known you to be a very refined man, Your Grace.”

“What do you mean by that, Captain?”

Soobin’s shoulders ripple in a small shrug. “You have always had a very good grasp on courtly etiquette.”

Narrow-minded. Soobin means to say he is narrow-minded, and it did not surprise him to know that Yeonjun would struggle to accept him if he strayed from what Yeonjun considered courtly. He digs his fingers deeper into his own sleeves. Soobin was not wrong.

“Courtly etiquette also dictates that I treat my friends and loyal subjects well.”

Soobin looks at Yeonjun’s feet. “And courtly etiquette dictates that I accept your kindness with deference and gratitude.”

Frustration burns in his chest. “We need not restrain ourselves to the principles of etiquette.”

“I believe we should, for the time being.”

His apology is not accepted then. Very well. Very well. Yeonjun feels a burn in his eyes that he struggles to blink away.

“As you wish, Captain.”

Soobin bows slightly, perfectly polite, and it feels mocking.

“Anything else, Your Grace?”

Yeonjun bites into his upper lip, knowing he must be smearing his paint by doing so. If Soobin insists on them only being polite, then he can do that. They can be polite. Just a lady and one of his subjects.

He takes a deep breath. “Is there something going on at the Court that I should know about? The prince has seemed concerned lately.”

Soobin nods a little, as if to accept the change of topic before he looks at the ladies behind Yeonjun briefly but meaningfully. Even if he was willing to tell Yeonjun, he would not do it in front of them. “Nothing Your Grace would need to worry about.”

Great. All he has gotten from this meeting then, is what he already knew. Of course, it is Soobin’s prerogative to be upset with him despite his attempt to reassure him of his favor, and it makes sense for him to not air imperial business in front of the biggest hive of gossip in the household, but it still frustrates him. Saddens him. He has lost Soobin’s trust, and he does not have his husband’s. He should have kept his head down and his nose in his own business – this is what happens, when he forgoes restraint.

“Well, then – I believe that is all. I will leave you to your business now, Captain.”

“That is most kind of you, Your Grace.”

The comment hurts, but Yeonjun does his best to not show quite how much it does.

 

.

 

Yeonjun does not even realize how quiet he has been the whole morning and how wide a berth the ladies have been giving him, until Beomgyu speaks up from his seat at Yeonjun’s side during lunch and the sound of his voice is deafening to Yeonjun’s ears. He does not even address him, loudly offering his words to the tea room at large.

“Does the prince ever bring His Grace along with him to court?”

Yeonjun’s ladies seem as taken aback as Yeonjun is – nobody else would speak this loudly while Yeonjun is in a pensive mood. They all keep exchanging looks instead of answering, as if trying to find out if any of them is brave enough to speak up as well.

He decides to rescue them from the dilemma, sighing a little before responding with, “On occasion.”

As if his voice broke the spell, Soojin immediately speaks up afterwards. “His Highness seems to only bring his wife along for the fun parts of court.”

And Yeonjun, for his part, lets himself smile at that. “Because he is well aware that I’ve lived through my fair share of the boring parts of court in my youth.”

“What are the fun parts, then?” Beomgyu prompts, surprisingly animated. Curious as ever.

“New Year celebrations and important weddings, usually,” Yeonjun explains, tilting his head slightly. “Other festivals we usually celebrate separately – he joins the imperial celebrations while we hold our own here.”

“Is there a reason for this? For the prince to be joining imperial festivities instead of the ones in his own house.”

“The prince’s position at the court takes precedence over his title,” Dayeon explains from Beomgyu’s other side. “As the Emperor’s advisor, he has to be present at the court for the celebrations –doing otherwise would be an insult to the Emperor.”

Yeonjun leans back, raising a hand to illustrate the hierarchy with his hand. “He serves the Emperor first, the Empire second, then the head of his house, which is also the Emperor, then his wife—” He smiles, and his ladies titter with amusement. “And then the land he lords over and his subjects, I believe, this is usually where I lose track.”

While his ladies all seem amused by his joke, Beomgyu still just looks interested. “Does the same not apply to you? Are you not required to attend?”

“No,” he shakes his head, then raises his hand to the mating mark on his chest. “When I married the prince, I have, in a way, lost my position at the Court. I am no longer a courtesan, and my attendance is not mandatory. My highest loyalty now is to the prince, so I attend whatever he wants or allows me to attend.” He looks over at Beomgyu, and smiles. “Since we have agreed that I would manage his household in his absence, I stay here for most of the year carrying out those duties instead of joining him as an imperial courtesan.”

Beomgyu looks away from him, to glance around the room again. “Is this common in the Empire? For married couples to live so separately?”

“Very much so!” Eunbi joins in, surprisingly enthusiastic, like she enjoys explaining her culture to someone unfamiliar. It is quite endearing. “Landed nobles like our prince who hold imperial offices often leave their wives to preside over household and minor land matters while they tend to their imperial duties.”

“It is considered more appropriate to leave those sorts of matters in the family,” Soojin adds. “So unless they employ a family member as steward, they usually leave the duty to their wife.”

“Is the current Lord Steward a member of the prince’s family?”

“Not at all,” Yeonjun interjects. “He was already the steward when this land was seized from its previous master.”

Beomgyu blinks at him, confused. “This land is not ancestral to the prince’s house, then?”

“It was seized after the previous lord rebelled against the Emperor,” Miyeon says, a bit less energetically than the other ladies. Unlike other ladies in Yeonjun’s entourage, Miyeon grew up here, as the previous lord’s courtesan. She was not yet of age, even, when the land changed hands, but she was old enough to remember the events well, still. “He was stripped of his titles, and this land was given to the prince.”

“As a wedding gift, to celebrate his marriage to me,” Yeonjun adds, a bit gentler, in acknowledgment of Miyeon’s unease.

“Does the Emperor make a habit of feeding his son scraps?”

The room goes silent again at Beomgyu’s blunt words. Some of the ladies cover their mouths. Yeonjun himself feels like he was just splashed with cold water. He sees Dayeon pulling at Beomgyu’s sleeve insistently.

Beomgyu tugs his sleeve away from her. “He gave him some land from a rebellious noble and an omega hostage nobody bothered ransoming.”

Yeonjun grits his teeth, but he slowly breathes out, shaking his head as he does. “His Highness has ancestral titles he stands to inherit after his father’s passing, but as long as the Emperor remains in good health, if it were not for His Imperial Majesty’s generosity and kindness, he would not yet be a landed noble, and would not stand to collect any tax. The fact that the prince has a court and a household he gets to call his own, that there is an estate for me to manage at all, is His Imperial Majesty’s act of royal benevolence. It is something we remain in the deepest gratitude of. It is not something to be taken lightly, Omega Beomgyu, and neither is your presence in our household. What you see as throwing scraps are acts of politics, and in the eyes of the Court, nobody is concerned whether or not anyone would have paid ransom for your freedom. The prince was gifted, therefore he was shown favor, and is known to be a valued advisor of the Emperor’s. I would have thought that as a former regent you of all in this room would have understood the significance of such a gesture.”

To his surprise, Beomgyu seems genuinely taken aback. As if he never considered their position at all. Yeonjun wonders just how different life would have to be in a Free City. Where nobility claimed to have their own land, free of fealty. Their titles their own to hold, defend and care for, without regard for others.

He sighs. “Is living under a liege truly such an unthinkable concept for you, Omega Beomgyu? You claim to be well-educated, yet this nuance seems to elude you.”

Beomgyu pouts, obviously offended. “I simply thought, that as his father’s heir—”

“We do not live like the southerners,” Yeonjun interjects. “The prince stands to inherit a title owed to him as his father’s son, but he will inherit but a fraction of what his father owns as the head of their house. Whatever the Emperor grants him on top of that will be a great boon to him in the future, once he loses his privilege of being the Emperor’s beloved son. We do not spit kindness in the face here.”

The Empire is the last vestige of the old way of doing things – dividing inheritance according to seniority, rather than any of the new systems adopted by the lands further south of them. He believes that in the Free Cities, a man’s eldest alpha child stands to inherit the majority of title and estate – with an omega being able to inherit only in the absence of any alpha children, and the titles transferring to their spouse upon them entering into a marriage. In the Empire, the majority always went to the oldest member of the family.

Since the Emperor is not an only child, upon his death, his younger brother stands to inherit for him, rather than Taehyun – he will get the throne, the majority of their ancestral land, and the title of head of the house. If Taehyun ever gets to touch the throne at all, chances are he will only do so as an old man.

Yeonjun huffs to himself, and resumes eating. Beomgyu, chastised, remains quiet at his side. Or maybe thoughtful instead – Yeonjun is not sure if Beomgyu is capable of feeling true shame about his words.

The silence in the room stretches, pulls taut, then snaps.

Lady Dayeon takes a sip of tea and her cup clicks too loudly in the room when she sets it down. “Was married life different in the Golden City?”

Beomgyu rearranges the plate in front of himself a bit too energetically. “Certainly. There was, for one, not enough space for one to live separately from their husband.” Some of the ladies laugh discreetly, and the tension slowly dissipates. “And I was considered as much part of my husband’s retinue as his guard – he never traveled without me.”

“That must have been quite tiring,” Chaeyoung offers, quiet, the first time she has spoken up during the lunch.

“Not as much as you might think,” Beomgyu replies, shaking his head and throwing Yeonjun a brief look. “My husband had no such obligations as your prince does, so his travel was sparse. His only concern was the other Free Cities we were allied with, that we would sometimes visit just to exchange pleasantries and assure ourselves that we were still richer than they were.”

The ladies laugh, but Yeonjun gets a bitter taste with his mouth – those were the same cities whose allegiance to a pact of mutual aid could not save the Golden City from being ransacked by the Empire. Could not save Beomgyu from captivity, or his brother-in-law from dying of his wounds. Or would not. Maybe they knew better than to try too hard to help them, knowing that their involvement could turn the wanting eye of the Empire towards them next. The Golden City was rich and full of hubris, and was not allowed to stand. They did not want to be next.

Beomgyu does not seem to be thinking of anything quite as gloomy when Yeonjun looks at him, however. He regales Chaeyoung, Dayeon and Dasom with stories about the splendor of the other Free Cities as if he was not just told off in front of everyone. Yeonjun almost envies his poise; he wishes he could bounce back half as easily as Beomgyu seems to be able to.

 

.

 

In the evening, as Yeonjun dismisses his ladies after dinner, Beomgyu hangs back, carefully discreet, as if he just happened to be the only one still in the room as everyone else files away. He stands by the door, while Yeonjun remains seated at the table. Yeonjun allows himself to sigh.

“Is there something you need?”

“What a strange culture of submission you have here,” Beomgyu remarks instead of replying, a smile playing on his lips.

Yeonjun shakes his head. “If you have only stayed behind to mock us, you may as well leave now before I have you escorted.”

Instead of complying, Beomgyu steps closer and kneels in front of Yeonjun. “I think I am starting to see how it would breed someone like you.”

He looks away from Beomgyu’s pretty face which seems aflame with a strange sort of fascination. “And I believe I understand how a Free City would breed someone like you.”

“It is where I got my education,” Beomgyu retorts firmly.

“And the Imperial Court is where I got mine,” Yeonjun replies with the same conviction.

Beomgyu huffs through his nose, then offers him his hand – he must have observed Yeonjun well, because he does it perfectly ladylike, according to the imperial custom. “Allow me then, my lady.”

Yeonjun looks at his offered hand which sheds hints of citrus in Yeonjun’s direction, then into Beomgyu’s intent face. “Allow you what?”

“The indulgence of your scent.”

Preposterous. Absolutely preposterous. He must be joking.

“I will not be scenting you, Omega Beomgyu, not tonight, and not in the future.”

“You did last night,” Beomgyu counters, firm and shameless.

“To prove a point to you. It was purely utilitarian.”

“Was letting me kiss your hand utilitarian as well?”

Yeonjun gasps. “You did not ask my permission to do so.”

“And you did not stop me, or punish me for doing it.” Beomgyu tilts his head. “How was I supposed to interpret your actions, Yeonjun?”

“You were not to interpret them at all.”

Beomgyu finally retracts his hand with a pout, laying it in his lap instead. “Do you not enjoy the sight of me? Do you not enjoy the scent of me?”

Yeonjun clenches his hands in his lap. “I believe that is irrelevant to the issue.”

“Yet you fail to deny it.”

“I deny you, the things you wish for me to do to you. Is that not enough?”

“What do you wish for me to do to you, then? Is it that you would prefer to be defiled?”

He feels blood gathering in his face, staining it red under his paint. “It is that I would prefer you to drop this matter entirely.”

Beomgyu looks down at his hands, just as Yeonjun expects him to keep pushing, to be more insistent, and the lack of immediate opposition leaves him feeling oddly suspended. Beomgyu fiddles with his own fingers like a child.

“After tomorrow, he will be gone again.”

Yeonjun purses his lips. “That means nothing.”

Beomgyu folds his hands together, but in an odd way that leaves his fingers tense and white. “Solitude is a cruel mistress.”

“I am sure you have noticed that I am very rarely alone, Omega Beomgyu.”

“We are alone now,” Beomgyu points out, and his voice is quiet and intimate.

As if to prove Yeonjun’s point, they hear a shuffle outside the door.

Yeonjun looks directly at Beomgyu, who meets his eyes with his own wide, chocolate ones and raises his voice to say, “Haewon!”

And the servant appears in the door immediately, proving to him that she just came to stand right outside the door, waiting for them to finish their conversation before bringing something to his attention.

“Your Grace.”

Beomgyu lowers his head.

“What is it?”

Haewon seems taken aback, perhaps unaware she made her approach too noticeable. “Um, His Highness has just arrived, Your Grace. He is in the waiting room.”

Yeonjun draws in a shaky breath. What would have happened if he listened to Beomgyu? If he scented him, or allowed anything even worse than that? He would have to face his husband, stained with another man. Warmed by another man. The thought makes him sick with fear.

Beomgyu must smell the fear wafting off of him, because he bristles visibly. Yeonjun swallows heavily.

“Very well. I will see him at once. Have a bath prepared for me in the meantime.”

She bows and backs away from the open door. Beomgyu looks up at him again.

“Do you see why you are being foolish, Omega Beomgyu?” He keeps his voice low, with the waiting room barely across the corridor from them.

“He will be gone tomorrow,” Beomgyu whispers in response, his expression stony.

Yeonjun shakes his head and stands up, walking out of the room without regard for what Beomgyu does. Unsurprisingly, he clings to his shoulder, and stays behind him as Yeonjun enters the waiting room.

The prince looks as tired as ever, turning to look at them over his shoulder from where he was admiring Yeonjun’s favorite painting again. He opens his mouth to address them, then seems to pause when he sees Beomgyu, and his casual demeanor shifts immediately. He turns around properly, and bows in greeting.

“Good evening, wife, Omega Beomgyu. I apologize, I thought you had dismissed your entourage for the night.”

He intended to get him alone, then. Yeonjun glances at Beomgyu.

“Omega Beomgyu has stayed behind to assist me with undressing today,” Yeonjun lies, somehow desperate to have an excuse for Beomgyu to have stayed behind with him alone. He gestures at the mess of flowers still in his hair. “This hairpiece is quite impossible to take off, and Haewon has enough duties as it is.”

Taehyun nods, and bows his head towards Beomgyu, who stands stiffly behind Yeonjun as usual. “It is most kind of him to assist you, then. I apologize for coming at an inopportune time.” He clears his throat. “Has Omega Beomgyu been informed of what we have discussed about our bond?”

“I told him yesterday,” Yeonjun confirms, and catches himself inadvertently raising a hand as if to shield Beomgyu from his husband, to insert himself between them. He folds his hands in front of himself instead.

The prince seems to wait a moment for Beomgyu to say something, but not a single sound comes out of the other omega. “Good. I have not yet had time to look into the matter, but I believe that at the Court I will have ample opportunity to do so.”

“The Captain has informed me that you are leaving tomorrow.”

Taehyun’s shoulders seem to sink. “I do not get to break the news to you, then.”

Yeonjun feels his own set proudly in contrast. “I am afraid I remain well-attuned to the goings-on of my own household.”

His husband bows his head. “It is to your honor.”

“Was that what you came here to tell me?” Yeonjun doubts it; Taehyun would not bother telling him in person.

The prince looks at him, then at Beomgyu. “I came to speak to you privately.”

Yeonjun looks behind him at Beomgyu, who raises his eyes to meet his. Looking him in the eye, in full view of the prince. The way they stand, they are quite close to each other, and the proximity feels too intimate. Yeonjun feels fear sneaking back into his limbs. He looks away again.

“Beomgyu is as discreet as any of my ladies,” Yeonjun says with his eyes vaguely somewhere around his husband’s stomach. The prince folds his hands behind his back.

“Still, I believe it is a matter best dealt with between husband and wife.”

He cannot just say no to that; he does not get to say no. But he hesitates. And it is enough for the prince to notice. Taehyun sighs, and looks away from him.

“I have come to apologize to you for being unkind to you.”

Beomgyu’s hand grips at the fabric of Yeonjun’s overcoat at the back. Yeonjun feels struck dumb on the spot. Slowly, Taehyun raises his eyes to him.

“At the dinner we shared with the Captain, and again yesterday. But mainly I apologize for my conduct during the dinner.” He clears his throat, as if getting the words out is difficult for him. “Perhaps I behaved in ways befitting of a prince, but not befitting of your husband. I hope you will forgive me.”

Yeonjun cannot find any words to reply to him with. The prince, seemingly restless, keeps talking.

“I did not wish to leave while this matter remained unresolved in my mind, even if it has been in yours.”

The room smells bitter, suddenly, and Yeonjun can’t tell fear apart from anxiety. Struggles to pick apart the notes and understand who the painful emotion belongs to. The room starts to fill with that elusive it, of citrus and fruit and spices, but it is tainted with pain which almost seems shared when it clings to the familiar blend of smells.

“All debts you may believe you owe to me are forgiven, and I promise that it is not conditional to your forgiveness of my actions.” He nods to himself, as if reassuring himself he is saying the right words, then he lifts a hand and lays it over his heart, where his mating mark is. “You will always be in my care and favor, as I swore to you as your husband.”

Taehyun must have gone mad. Yeonjun turns his head slightly to look at Beomgyu’s expression. His grip on Yeonjun’s clothes slackened. He seems as taken aback as Yeonjun is.

“I will return to my father’s court tomorrow, and I promise to you to always think of your safety and comfort above all.”

The prince bows to him like a commoner. Yeonjun sees his own hands in his mind’s eye, frivolously painting a picture of the prince’s loyalties.

A liar. A politician. That is all he will ever be. An imperial courtesan, saying whatever he feels he needs to, to suit his own interests.

A peaceful household. A happy, loyal, satisfied wife who is not a neurotic mess who would shun a courtesan due to a frivolity. Who would disgrace the prince in front of his subjects. Who would throw himself at whoever would have him, desperate for company.

He will be provided for. The prince will make sure he keeps his titles. Taehyun will get his heir eventually, whatever he will resort to to ensure it. Yeonjun will remain his wife and the master of his estate, while the prince remains at the Court. Nothing will change.

Taehyun remains with his back bowed. Yeonjun is unsure what he is waiting for.

Eventually, his posture slackens, and he stands up straight again, without meeting Yeonjun’s eyes. He looks even more tired than before.

“Good night then, my wife. Lady Beomgyu.”

It is the wrong title, but he does not seem to notice. He does not bow again, or wait for a response. Yeonjun struggles to at least bow to him politely as he rushes away.

“What did he do to you,” Beomgyu breathes out, voice still low, as the door closes behind the prince. He grabs onto Yeonjun’s sleeve again.

Yeonjun shakes his head.

Ignoring him, Beomgyu tugs at one sleeve and then the other, yanking them up Yeonjun’s arms as if Yeonjun did not undress himself in front of him every day, and there were marks on him Yeonjun could have hidden from his ladies if he wanted to. He tugs his arms away from Beomgyu’s scrutiny.

“This man just pledged fealty to you right in front of me,” Beomgyu all but hisses in his face, forceful and insistent. “What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Yeonjun snaps back, also keeping his voice low just out of instinct. “He did nothing at all.”

Beomgyu seems unconvinced; Yeonjun shakes his head wildly, hair hitting his face as it comes loose.

“Whatever you are imagining, forget it. That is not the kind of man he is, I assure you.”

To his credit, Beomgyu finally seems to hesitate at the grave conviction in Yeonjun’s voice. “Then what was that?”

Yeonjun doesn’t know; he does not know. He breathes too quickly, shaking his head again. “You said it yourself – the prince and I are prone to playing games with each other. This is a game he likes to play with me.”

And it works, it works every time. So perfectly disarming, whenever he decides to act as if he’d do anything for him. When he acts like Yeonjun’s grip on him is so tight he can barely breathe. Perhaps he understands too perfectly who he married – recognized the want of power, of authority in his wife and now he appeals to it whenever he wants something badly enough.

But what would he want now? What is it this time, other than Yeonjun’s perfect submission at the end of the day?

“He did not smell playful to me,” Beomgyu argues, obviously exasperated. “He smelled afraid.”

“I was afraid,” Yeonjun retorts. “That he would recognize how closely you have attached yourself to my side. You are being so careless, Omega Beomgyu, do you really not understand the position we are in?”

“The position you seem to be in, Your Grace, is that you live by the side of a permissive husband who is barely there. If I were to be careless to kiss you right now, who would be there to punish our crime?”

Beomgyu has come too close, close enough that all he would have to do to make his daring words true would be to lean in, so Yeonjun pushes at his chest to make him back away.

“My husband remains permissive while I serve him well.”

Beomgyu gestures towards the door widely. “Were those the words of a man who would ever be strict with you?”

“Beomgyu, a moment ago you believed him to have attacked me, ” Yeonjun stresses, showing off his pristine, bruise-free wrists as he does so. “And now you insist I would be free to be disloyal to him? Are you listening to yourself?”

“Those are two entirely different matters,” Beomgyu says, shaking his head.

Yeonjun’s mouth falls open. “How could that possibly be true?”

“A husband finds a reason to beat their wife whether they keep a lover or not,” he says dismissively, and Yeonjun can do nothing but stare. Beomgyu watches Yeonjun in turn with a frown on his face. “You seem so convinced he is aware of your every move. He does not have eyes everywhere. He is just a man. He need not know.”

Yeonjun breathes out shakily. “You are both insane, the two of you. Are the only men who turn their eyes to me madmen then?” Taehyun, with his mad childish words of devotion and Beomgyu, with his fairy tales about pleasure with no consequence. Children, both of them. Lunatics. “There is no secret so well-kept at any court that it will never be found out. Only secrets small enough to not be worth spreading. Those are the ones I am willing to keep, and no other. The cost of those I am willing to bear.”

“I have kept a lover at my court for seven years, and no one knew. Not a soul.”

The words hit Yeonjun, somewhere deep in his chest. Seven years. Seven. It must have been longer than Beomgyu’s marriage lasted for. A lover of seven years. And Beomgyu stands here, alone.

There are tears in Beomgyu’s eyes, he realizes. Bitterness in the air.

“Maybe I was not constantly being accosted by a gaggle of ladies, but I was under watchful eyes as well – and they were more hostile to me than the one in this household are to you.” Beomgyu shakes his head and looks away. “If the prince is so anxious to keep you on his side, he won’t begrudge you a dalliance. If you are careful – and who better than a lady of yours? They are allowed to be alone with you, to touch you and keep you company.” He bites his lip. “If in your saintly solitude you are to be allowed friendship of the same sex is it so wrong of you to take advantage of the only freedom you get?”

His voice wobbles, and Yeonjun realizes, starkly, that Beomgyu is no longer speaking to him.

“Whether you do it for the want of tenderness, or a gentler touch than you are ever given otherwise, are you terrible for taking it? Will you shun me, for admitting that I did? You, someone I thought would understand my need better than most?”

Yeonjun feels his knees getting weaker, too exhausted by the tension of the day, and he takes the few steps to sink against a wall instead of letting himself fall. Beomgyu weeps openly in front of him. The air smells like pain and comfort, a shared wound and a shared remedy.

“Are we to be alone, because we were born lucky? With means or with beauty. Without a cock to let us make our own way through the world. Does this preclude us from want? From need? Does the thought of being loved terrify you so that you would reject it, no matter where it comes from?”

Yeonjun closes his eyes, and shakes his head. “Enough.”

“Yeonjun…”

Not today. Yeonjun does not like the sound of his name on Beomgyu’s lips today. “Enough. I will not hear more of you today, Beomgyu.”

He takes a step towards him. Yeonjun holds out a hand to keep him away.

“Stop.” He opens his eyes again and stares at Beomgyu, his red eyes, his tear-stained cheeks. Smeared paint he will have to allow Beomgyu to fix before he leaves his quarters, to keep up appearances. Is this how Taehyun felt? Must have been. Why did he apologize, then? What did he think was his transgression? Being too patient with him? Too kind?

He takes a deep breath.

“Beomgyu, I understand that you must be mourning whoever you left behind when the Empire had taken you. I understand…” he coughs, a tightness in his throat preventing him from speaking. “That you have put much on the line to be with them, and that you do not see it as a betrayal of your own husband.” He lifts his chin. Defiant. Putting his foot down. Being the master of the house. “But your husband is dead, you live in my house now, and you cannot do with me as you please. I will not allow you to use me this way. Feel free to seek whatever you need, as long as it is not with me. I will not sacrifice my and my husband’s future for your past. Do not mistake me for yourself. I am not you, and I will never be you.”

He steps away from the wall. Beomgyu looks hurt, devastated. Small.

Yeonjun does the stupidest thing, and takes his pretty, red face in his hands. He wipes tears off his cheeks, smudging paint over his own fingers. Who would know? Who would care?

He kisses Beomgyu, gently, but too long for it to be just a whim.

Who is there to punish them?

He lets his thumbs meet on Beomgyu’s bottom lip. Citrus and fruit fit together so seamlessly, so mouthwateringly.

“You will refresh yourself in my dressing room, and then you will be dismissed for the night.”

Beomgyu nods, still trapped between his hands. His dark eyes are wide and glassy. Yeonjun kisses him again, without thinking about it. Beomgyu kisses him back this time.

“And tomorrow, we will both be more judicious.”

Beomgyu nods again. Yeonjun lets go of him, and Beomgyu walks past him without a word. Yeonjun goes to his room and sinks into his bed, covering himself up in his blanket completely. He only rises once Haewon comes to tell him his bath has gone cold.

 

.

 

They eat breakfast with the household, and once they are done eating, the prince announces his departure to the courtiers. Everyone acts properly sad to see the prince leave again, and they get their last few requests in before they are dismissed. Taehyun formally gives control of the household over to Yeonjun again, who says all the correct words of gratitude and faithful servitude. They barely look at each other that morning.

In the garden, Beomgyu is once again close to Yeonjun the whole time, but does not attempt to involve him in conversation unless Yeonjun involves himself. They make inane small talk about northern winters and whether fur-lined cloaks are in fashion. Yeonjun writes a letter in response to his aunt, assuring her that the situation regarding Beomgyu is perfectly in control. He does not look up at Beomgyu while he writes the letter a single time.

Taehyun sets out for the Imperial Court before lunch, and Yeonjun and his ladies are there to bid him goodbye, along with the rest of the courtiers. Yeonjun grits his teeth while his husband scents him longer than usual. He barely hears the well-wishes Taehyun gives him, and instead rattles off all the people he thought of earlier in the day who he’d tell his husband to relay his well-wishes to, from His Imperial Majesty down to an omega who Yeonjun took his reading lessons with when he was all of twelve years old. The prince seems suitably put-upon by the abundance of responsibilities his wife buried him under. Yeonjun feels a gleeful kind of satisfaction.

Soobin does not look at Yeonjun once. They leave with fanfare, and then the household is plunged into the peace Yeonjun knows and has come to love. He bows to the people of his household, and invites them all to lunch.

In the afternoon, Madame Seo demands to have tea with him, and relays to him nearly word for word the letter she has received from a niece of hers who lives at the Court.

“She says the whole Court is abuzz waiting for the prince to return!” she enthuses, and Yeonjun smiles at her wanly, indulgently. Even she does not know what gossip has gripped the Imperial Court so tightly. Perhaps only the highest-ranking ones know more than just to anticipate something great happening.

Madame Seo tries to prod Yeonjun for information about what they could possibly be expecting, but he is just as in the dark as she is. It seems to bother her greatly, and Yeonjun tries not to take too much pleasure in her disappointment.

Hopefully, Taehyun’s return will not bring the same disappointment to the Court – he may yet suffer as a result of not being interesting enough to the courtiers.

By the time Madame Seo leaves, Yeonjun feels drained down to the marrow of his bones, and he jokingly demands music and entertainment for the rest of the day. They find their way to the music room, and to his surprise, Beomgyu volunteers to be the musician for the night. Yeonjun finds himself a seat and has Dasom bring him something to drink, and the two of them sit side-by-side as Beomgyu picks up the instrument he had been eyeing the last time, the one Yeonjun was unfamiliar with. He picks up a bow as well, one Yeonjun did not even realize was necessary to play it, and he settles down to play.

There is no doubt he is skilled, the sound of his playing undeniably pleasant, and the way he seems to disappear into his instrument with perfect focus seeming much like the product of long hours of practice. Yeonjun watches him, transfixed, worn down, warmed by wine.

He kissed Beomgyu yesterday. And the sky has not yet fallen on his head in punishment. But that has to be the end of it. The end to his indulgences and indiscretions. The prince is gone now, and life should be as it ever was – boring and peaceful and only stressful and anxious to Yeonjun’s overactive mind.

He lets himself close his eyes, and falls asleep in his seat inadvertently – he is awoken by Dayeon in a cloud of hazelnut, and opens his eyes to her lips pressed so tightly together to hide the fact that she is smiling.

“Madame Seo must have tired you out considerably, Your Grace. Perhaps it would be good for us to leave you for the day, so you can rest?”

Yeonjun lets them go, just out of embarrassment, feeling an anxious flutter in his chest. He goes to his rooms and reads long into the night instead.

The next day, Beomgyu touches his hand under the table at breakfast and Yeonjun ignores him, using the same hand to bring more food to his plate.

He wears more flowers in his hair, pink this time. In the garden, Beomgyu leans close to him and says, “His name was Kai, and iris was his favorite flower.”

Yeonjun contemplates it for the rest of the day. He argues with the steward, entertains a member of the town council who missed his opportunity to dine with the prince. He jokes with his ladies about his old-fashioned clothes as soon as the door closes behind him. He floats the idea of purchasing brocade curtains, and all his ladies implore him not to do so.

Beomgyu lingers when the rest of the ladies are dismissed. He seems to be waiting for something. Yeonjun takes his hair down right in front of him carelessly.

“Where is Kai now?” He asks, and Beomgyu’s stony, impassive face replies, “He’s dead.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun lies on his back on his bed, sleepless.

What would he do?

How would he feel?

If an enemy army marched onto his palace, and took everything he had in a single siege. If he found himself without a husband, without land, without money, without title, without the only thing he loved outside of it. If he was locked up for two years, left to wallow in his own misery, and then let out just to be trapped again, in another loveless bond, left with the memories of the only thing that has made his previous predicament bearable.

He would grasp as well, would he not? Reach for things he could not have.

Seek company in… anyone. Yeonjun is pretty enough to want. He knows that.

Everyone seems to want his forgiveness so badly. Soobin, Taehyun, and now Beomgyu. They long to be accepted by him, as if his word means anything to any of their fates. Taehyun would never abandon Soobin, even if Yeonjun wanted him to. No amount of disdain for his husband would ever erase his royal name, and Beomgyu is, at the end of the day, under the prince’s protection as well. Taehyun shields them all, and yet he himself claims to be vulnerable?

Yeonjun could not shun him if he wanted to. He cannot just pack his bags and leave. Taehyun owns him in the eyes of the law – wherever he goes, Taehyun has the right to bring him back from, unopposed.

Kai. A lover of irises, a lover of Beomgyu’s. A man who did the unthinkable, and took the place of a married lady’s husband in his bed. Without reproach. For seven years.

Before the Empire or fate, or perhaps both, took him from Beomgyu suddenly. All too permanently.

Yeonjun weeps in his bed, for a man he never got to know.

 

.

 

He has Beomgyu brought into his room before breakfast again. Beomgyu meets his eyes directly, not even pretending to be polite. Yeonjun sits in his bed, surrounded by his sheets, with his eyes still aching.

“Who was he?”

“Kai?” Beomgyu asks, and Yeonjun nods. Beomgyu’s throat jumps before he responds. “My attendant. The only person they ever let get close to me, other than my husband. Not unlike your ladies, but more of a servant. He was not noble, either, or from a family of means. He was just a commoner.”

Yeonjun nods stiffly. “An omega?”

Beomgyu only nods in response.

Yeonjun pulls at his bed covers, his hands suddenly restless. “He was with you during your heats.”

“Unless my husband was with me, he was always there.”

Yeonjun chews at his lips. “What was he like?”

Beomgyu scoffs, like he could not possibly capture him in words. He shakes his head, then frowns. A pout appears on his lips. Then he shakes his head again. “Kind. Always so exceedingly kind to me. Forgiving, to a fault. Perhaps the reason you find me so insufferable is that he has never given me a reason to learn to curb my passions.”

The corners of Yeonjun’s mouth twitch. Beomgyu smiles stiffly.

“He was handsome as well, which did not make resisting my attraction to him any easier. Not that I wanted to. He would have wanted me to – he was opposed to it, always so terribly… concerned about me and my safety. He thought they’d kill me, should they find out he touched me before my marriage to Jaehwan.” Beomgyu looks at Yeonjun with somber amusement in his eyes. “Of course, they did none of the sort. Nobody cared what went on behind the doors of my bed room, as long as it stayed there.”

“You told me they never found out.”

Beomgyu shrugs. “Or they did not care to. I was a decoration, and a womb for my husband to fill with child. Neither of those, Kai could interfere with.”

Yeonjun looks down at the floor between them. They have been here alone too long already; much longer, and it will become inappropriate.

“I wish to know more.”

“Of my Kai?” Beomgyu laughs, for reasons Yeonjun cannot understand. “I will paint him for you, one day. So you may fall in love with him as well. But now you want me to go, do you not? Before they kill you, for having a friend.”

Yeonjun’s throat is too tight to answer. Beomgyu bows, exactly like etiquette dictates, and leaves the room.

 

.

 

Beomgyu takes to carrying a roll of paper around with him, hidden in the folds of his clothes. Whenever the ladies are idle, left to their own devices, in Yeonjun’s study or in the music room, he takes it out and begins messing with it. Yeonjun does not have the courage to steal a moment with him alone again; it feels judicious to make their private conversations as sparse as possible. He knows what Beomgyu is up to, anyway.

To his surprise, Beomgyu does not hide his paper in shame whenever one of the ladies takes interest in it – instead he shows it off, laughs about it with them. He tells Eunbi he is painting a man he saw in a dream the other day; tells Soojin he is trying to recall the face of his mother. When they confront him about the contradiction, he giggles and tells them that is painting an old friend’s face from memory. Everyone in the room turns somber after that. Eunbi gently apologizes for asking. Beomgyu responds to her just as gently.

Then one day, a roll of paper is left behind on Yeonjun’s dresser when he enters his dressing room in the evening to disrobe and remove his paint. Haewon lifts it before he can get to it.

“One of your ladies seems to have forgotten this – should I put it somewhere for safekeeping?”

Yeonjun is sure Beomgyu would never leave it anywhere accidentally. “Leave it. It is safe enough where it is.”

Once he dismisses Haewon for the night, he takes the roll to his room, and unrolls it in his bed, surrounded by blankets, still almost feeling like it is unsafe for him to look at it, in this most private of settings.

The painting is meticulous, showing a wide-shouldered man, with a strong jaw but sweet lips. A prominent nose and gentle eyes. A handsome man, one whose sex Yeonjun would struggle to guess had he not known. Alluring in his ambiguity. The face Beomgyu fell in love with.

Yeonjun rolls the painting back up. He does not know where to put it, to keep it safe, to hide it from everyone’s eyes, including Haewon’s. He puts it where he puts his greatest valuables, along with his stash of coin. Then he lies awake thinking about a man who no longer lives.

 

.

 

Beomgyu arrives earlier than any of the ladies, and Yeonjun meets him, tired-eyed, in the waiting room.

“You’ve met him, then.”

Yeonjun sighs and does not respond.

“Beautiful, was he not?”

“In your memory, certainly.”

Beomgyu shrugs. “That is all there is left of him.”

Yeonjun looks down at the ground.

“Your dear husband’s father’s greed took him,” Beomgyu says quietly, almost as if he cannot utter the words out loud.

Yeonjun looks at him, and nods. Beomgyu smiles, then looks away, at the painting Yeonjun likes, still hanging on that wall. He should have it replaced.

“He was in my room, I believe, just to slow down the soldiers looking for me. We did not assume they would kill a servant for no reason. Then again, to them, his life meant nothing. Perhaps I was the only one who thought he would survive.”

Tears run down Beomgyu’s cheeks. He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“The little alpha they have guarding me at night every fourth day is so taken with me,” Beomgyu says lightly, in contrast to the sorrow on his face. Then he looks at Yeonjun meaningfully. “He would not say a word if I asked him to.”

A weight settles in Yeonjun’s chest. Heavy. Crushing.

“Beomgyu, I cannot.”

Beomgyu huffs. “You say you are never alone – then come be alone with me.”

Yeonjun shakes his head. Beomgyu seems to be winding up to say something, but then Chaeyoung and Dasom enter the waiting room at the same time, laughing about something or other, then bow deeply immediately when they spot Yeonjun.

“Oh, Your Grace! Are you well? You look so pale today! How come you are awake already?” Dasom fusses when he greets them, stepping up to him to look into his eyes. “Are you sick?”

Yeonjun reaches out, and holds Dasom’s hand. The gesture is so uncharacteristic, she gasps and looks at the other two in the room, as if asking for help. He lets her go again immediately. “I am quite well, my dear. Please do not worry. I merely had a hard time sleeping last night.”

“Perhaps we should pay a visit to the physician today?” Chaeyoung offers, hesitant, obviously as unsettled as Dasom is.

“That will not be necessary,” Yeonjun assures them, just for Beomgyu to step forward and take his other hand.

“Lady Chaeyoung is right. You should make sure you are in good health – the household depends on you, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun sets his jaw. Beomgyu has tear tracks on his face anyone in the room is yet to address. Yeonjun looks like a ghost. Beomgyu is holding his hand.

Dasom timidly reaches out to hold onto the other one – their hands are so warm, in his own cool ones. He has to fight against himself to keep from crying in front of all of them.

 

.

 

He tells the physician he has been having trouble sleeping and feels weaker than usual. The man hems and haws over his piles of books and notebooks, then prescribes Yeonjun the same herbal remedies he always does whenever Yeonjun feels under the weather. There is something comforting about it. Dasom smiles at him encouragingly on their way back from the man’s office.

Yeonjun takes his medicine, and continues to wear flowers in his hair.

Four days later, in the middle of the night, he wraps himself in his shawl, and goes out through the servants’ side door Haewon uses, out into the garden, and across the bridge to the concubine’s quarters. Beomgyu is outside, wrapped in a fur cloak Yeonjun has never seen before, chatting with the young guard standing watch at the door.

Beomgyu looks up and smiles at him when he sees him. He says to the guard, “My friend is here.” and the young alpha bows so deeply his armor rattles with the effort.

“Y-your Grace.”

“At ease,” Yeonjun says quietly, hesitantly.

“Follow me,” Beomgyu prompts, then turns around to go back into the building, but he seems to notice that Yeonjun is not following, because he pauses with his hand on the door and looks over his shoulder again. “Haesung here promised me – did you not?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Yeonjun’s face scrunches involuntarily. Beomgyu smiles at him in amusement. Haesung blushes – he cannot be any older than eighteen years old. Yeonjun shakes his head, and follows Beomgyu into the concubine’s quarters. He almost expects to be led into Beomgyu’s room, but he takes him into the tea room instead, where wine already stands on the table.

Beomgyu sheds his cloak seemingly without care where it lands, and sits on one side, pouring himself a drink.

“Sweet little boy,” he remarks and peeks up at Yeonjun, who sits down as properly as he always does, folding his shawl primly in his lap.

“I thought you would dislike him,” Yeonjun says carefully while Beomgyu fills his cup as well. “He is young, but still an alpha.”

“He’s a cub – not aware of his own power yet. He thinks I could hold him down if I wanted to.”

Yeonjun huffs. Beomgyu smirks and sips at his wine, closing his eyes to savor it. When he opens them, he tilts his head at Yeonjun.

“Why did you come, then? To hear about Kai?”

Instead of answering immediately, he picks up the cup of wine and presses it to his lips, without drinking any. Then he lets the barest of sips in, sets it down and asks, “Do you think Soobin will ever forgive me?”

Beomgyu’s demeanor shifts a little, and he straightens his posture as he sits, seemingly contemplating the question for a moment before replying with a question of his own. “How long have you known Alpha Soobin?”

And Yeonjun cannot help but ask another question instead. “Why do you always call him that?”

Beomgyu snorts and sips his wine. “I used to do it when I was in his care, just to annoy him, because he’d let me.”

Because he’d let me. Yeonjun can imagine it, all too easily. The big alpha, bigger than Yeonjun, bigger than Beomgyu, certainly, suffering in silence because his nature does not allow him to be anything but cordial to a noble omega. Both pitiful and a little endearing.

“I have known him since we were children; since the prince started courting me. I was…” he shakes his head. “Seventeen, perhaps? Soobin all of sixteen. We have seen each other at the court before that, of course, but as the prince started courting me, we have had more and more chances to meet, as he was usually at his side. He was always…” Yeonjun sighs. Soobin was so… dear to him. Just for Yeonjun to betray him. Maybe he did not deserve to be forgiven. “The friendlier face of the two. The more talkative one. Awkward at conversation, but he did his best. The prince seemed to say little when he had nothing of consequence to say.”

“In all those years, you have never noticed he was different?”

“Different, maybe – but I never thought to care too much about what made him come off that way.” He shrugs. “It never mattered much. It did not stop the prince from employing him at his court, it did not hamper our friendship… and it certainly never seemed to matter between the two of them.”

Beomgyu taps a finger on his cup. “Do you think he loves the prince?”

He says it in a joking tone, but does not take the question back. Yeonjun stares into his cup of wine. “I would not claim to know; I always joked about it, not knowing how… possible it was for him.” He takes a sip and swallows it awkwardly. “That we both loved him, that we were equals in our relationship to him. That he was to be his wife in my absence.”

Beomgyu laughs. “Are you sure you did not know?”

Yeonjun bites his lip hard. “I believe his love for the prince is pure.”

“Pure does not mean it is not romantic.”

“Does it matter?” Yeonjun asks a little desperately.

“Does it matter to you?” Beomgyu counters, still seeming amused.

He drinks, and closes his eyes to think. Soobin loves Taehyun; of that much, Yeonjun has always been sure. He opens them again. “Not a bit.”

“Then let me answer your other question.” Beomgyu leans forward, to fill his cup again. “If Soobin knows you, if he is truly your friend of as many years as you claim, then he will forgive you. With time.”

Yeonjun drinks with a shaky hand.

Beomgyu sighs into his own cup. “You do not have a wicked heart, Yeonjun.”

“Merely a greedy one,” Yeonjun says under his breath, but Beomgyu seems to catch it, and chuckles in response.

“Hungry, perhaps,” he offers genially.

Yeonjun lays a hand over his chest. Beomgyu leans back on his hands, perfectly impolite, almost boyish.

“You are here to have your fortune told, then?”

“I have come here to be alone with my thoughts,” Yeonjun retorts, and Beomgyu laughs louder this time.

Beomgyu tilts his head. “Very well, then – please enjoy your moment of quiet contemplation.”

Yeonjun stares at him, so tense, so… frustrated. A quiet place to voice his thoughts. A safe place, a haven. A well to whisper secrets to.

“Will the prince ever give me a child?”

It feels so absolute, so uniquely terrifying, to say it out loud. To give a voice to a pain he has been harboring this whole time. For six years.

Beomgyu huffs, as if it is a confession like any other. “Are you sure you do not mistake me for a fortune teller?”

Then he seems to notice the tears gathering in Yeonjun’s eyes, and he looks away, a bit more serious.

“I do not understand that man any more than you do. Your ladies are of little help in that regard, either. Nobody seems to know what goes on in his head.”

“Have you met men like him before?”

“Never.” Beomgyu shakes his head, then sits up again. “I have not met a man who seems to want as badly as your prince does without taking. Not when he has all the right to; I do not know what possesses him to act this way.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes, wincing. Not even Beomgyu, in his purported worldliness, can solve the puzzle of the prince for him. “Whatever else he is thinking, he has to conceive. With me, you, or whoever else. He is a firstborn alpha, he cannot just…” Yeonjun shakes his head and opens his eyes, suddenly angry. “He cannot let his line die, not with two omegas in his house. How much of a shame would that bring on his father’s name? To my name? For me to manage to raise myself to a princess consort just to not bear my husband a single child?” In his sudden bout of rage, he almost throws his cup on the ground, but he stops himself, drinking it dry instead. He covers his face with his hands. “I cannot allow him to do this to me. If I have to beg him on my knees.”

“Does he know about this?”

Yeonjun uncovers his face, just to meet Beomgyu’s curious eyes. “About what?”

“How you feel about this – how much you want this child.”

He lets his hands cover his mouth again as his lips wobble. He mocked Taehyun for failing to conceive with him. He resorted to asking for a child, one single time, just to have the prince… defile him, in ways that were sure to never produce an heir.

Does Taehyun even understand the pain he causes him? The desperation he feels whenever he allows himself to think about this?

He shakes his head, then drops his hands into his lap again. “But he understands as well as I do, that this is something we must do, I am sure of that.”

Beomgyu frowns, thoughtful. “Could this be an act of rebellion on his part? Everyone says he is an exceedingly dutiful man. Perhaps he chose producing an heir as the one duty he allows himself to shirk.”

Yeonjun is immediately overtaken by indignation. “If that is so, then how dare he?! Without speaking a word to me? It it not his decision to make for the both of us. Even if he has little love for his blood, I have love for my own. I want—” his voice breaks on the word. He wants, and wants and wants. The undoing of him.

“You want the prince’s child.”

“I want a child of my blood.” How alpha-like of him. So unladylike, so unrefined, so mundane, so wanton, so…

“This feels like progress,” Beomgyu says lightly, as if Yeonjun did not just say something awful. “But in a direction I am afraid I cannot help you with.” With a tilt of his head, he looks at Yeonjun with pity. “I could not give you a child if I tried.”

And Yeonjun feels worn down enough to say, “And I assume you would be willing to try.”

Beomgyu lays his hand on the table. Yeonjun stares at it, then lays his own in it, expecting him to do something, but Beomgyu just holds his hand. “You are beautiful, and I am lonely.”

He stares into Yeonjun’s eyes, and Yeonjun has to look away. Beomgyu does not let go of his hand. The touch feels so strange, with nothing to follow it. It just remains there, warm, and… steadying. Comforting. Yeonjun squeezes his hand slightly, and Beomgyu squeezes back. Yeonjun pulls his hand away again, into his own lap, and shakes his head.

“Do you believe yourself to only desire alphas bodily?”

Beomgyu asks bluntly, but not unkindly. Not mocking, for once.

Yeonjun cannot use his voice, so he only shakes his head. Beomgyu drinks more wine.

“What relief.”

Yeonjun scoffs, and Beomgyu smirks with his eyes on the table.

Beomgyu bites his lips. “Pleasure,” he says, his tone ambiguous.

“What of it?” Yeonjun asks, finding his voice again.

“How can something good cause so much pain?”

Their eyes meet again, and Yeonjun shrugs.

“I believe perhaps it is not for us to feel, and our pursuit of it will always inevitably end in our ruin as a consequence.”

Beomgyu sighs, and lies on the floor on his back, obviously uncaring of how he appears. “A man like you should not be keeping a lover.”

Yeonjun smiles wanly, and pours himself a drink. “Thank you for noticing.”

Beomgyu lifts his head, and returns his smile. “You truly are your own torturer.”

“In the absence of hardship in my life, I have taken it upon myself to create my own.”

It makes Beomgyu laugh, and Yeonjun believes maybe his pain is worth it. “Not a problem you would leave unattended.”

Yeonjun presses the cup tightly to his bottom lip. “I am an extremely dutiful wife,” he says, then lets the wine slide down his throat.

Beomgyu spreads his arms, lying exposed before him. Dressed, but completely open. Unpainted, with his hair down, fanning around his head on the floor. “I believe I want you for reasons I myself do not quite understand.”

Yeonjun puts so much pressure on the cup his lip begins to hurt. “Perhaps that is for the better.”

“I think you remind me of myself, when I was young.”

“I believe I am older than you, Omega Beomgyu.”

Are they drunk? It feels that way. Warm, and fuzzy at the edges. Like they can say anything, and it would dissipate into the night, never to resurface again.

“I know; is that not amusing to you? What have you been doing, all your life?” Beomgyu lifts his hands above himself, studying his own palms. His sleeves slide down his arms, exposing gold-tinted skin.

“Worrying about things you have not had to worry about once in your life.”

Beomgyu laughs. He spreads the fingers of his hands as wide as they go. “I suppose. Messing around with my best friend while you were chasing an imperial prince.”

“Being chased by one,” Yeonjun corrects, then pours himself more wine as he suddenly craves the comfort of it. “The prince chose me – I would have never dared to aim that high, if he had not shown interest in me first.”

“Why? What did you have?”

Yeonjun shrugs. “They used to call me the jewel of the court. The prettiest omega the court had to offer.”

“And the prince claimed you, just to hide you away in his house? How small-minded of him.”

Yeonjun finds himself laughing. “Why? Would you have preferred him to share me around with everyone?”

Beomgyu pouts. “At least show you off on his arm.”

“He still does so,” Yeonjun argues without much passion behind it. “Whenever the New Year comes. He scoops me up from his provincial home, I dress myself up like a pretty bird for the pleasure of the Court and then he parades me around all day to make sure everyone knows what a pretty wife he leaves behind whenever he rushes to his father’s side again.”

“I am sure the other courtiers weep at the thought,” Beomgyu says dryly.

“Some of them would risk life and limb to be in his place,” Yeonjun retorts, a bit pettily. He was so highly sought after, until he got the most prestigious offer of them all. “I had many admirers when I was young.”

Beomgyu lifts himself up on his hands again. “Do you not have those now?”

Yeonjun huffs. “Few would dare, now. You do not mess with the imperial prince – heir apparent or not.”

“The steward seems to like you.”

“He likes pretty omegas, like every alpha does.”

“Certainly, but he seems to adore you in a way he does not the other ladies.”

Yeonjun shakes his head. “We are both married – does it matter?”

Beomgyu shifts, parting his legs slightly. “Depends on how badly you want that child of your blood.”

Yeonjun rolls his eyes, impolite. “Not badly enough to run into the arms of our Lord Steward.”

“Are they not all the same?” Beomgyu tilts his head back. “They all blend together in the end, all these alphas. One and the same.”

“How many alphas have you bedded, to be able to say this so confidently?”

“Willingly? Not a one.”

Yeonjun purses his mouth.

“Jaehwan. And the strange interest his father had in me when I was young. The general who took me from my home and told me so many things that never came to pass but seemed so real while he described them to me. All the guards who thought they could get away with disrespecting me, because I was a prisoner, because your Empire stripped me of my title. Their hands and words and promises.”

“Madame Seo told me the soldiers thought the General hoped to marry you,” Yeonjun says quietly, and Beomgyu scoffs and sits upright.

“That is not what he told me, but I could see where the confusion would come from.”

Yeonjun looks down, ashamed of his own countryman, and when Beomgyu’s hand enters his view, he takes it again.

“Your Empire was never going to allow me to be anything but a concubine. And perhaps that was a smart choice for them to make.” He squeezes Yeonjun’s hand. “I was not raised to submit. I was not born or raised a vassal to anyone. I could not lead the life you do.”

“It is not as difficult as you seem to find it,” Yeonjun points out weakly.

“Perhaps not, when you are born into it.”

Beomgyu is surprisingly meek. His hand is warm in Yeonjun’s. He intertwines their fingers, and Yeonjun shudders, watching their fingers slot together perfectly.

“Does he ever hold your hand?” When Yeonjun raises his eyes, confused, Beomgyu adds, “Your husband.”

“On occasion,” Yeonjun says carefully. “Usually to scent me, or to help me stand. Not like this. Almost… never like this.”

Beomgyu tilts his head playfully. “Sometimes like this?”

In Yeonjun’s vague memories of being engulfed in warmth and pepper. “When we are… intimate.”

“He holds your hand while he is fucking you?” Beomgyu laughs at Yeonjun’s affronted gasp. “How terribly romantic of him.” While Yeonjun splutters to protest, Beomgyu raises their hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to Yeonjun’s knuckles. “Does he do this as well?”

Yeonjun shakes his head mutely.

Beomgyu kisses the back of his hand as well. “A shame.”

Carefully, Yeonjun brings their hands towards himself, and carefully mimics the gesture. Beomgyu’s hand feels warm this way as well. Beomgyu smiles.

“You make me blush, Your Grace.”

It is a lie, but it warms Yeonjun regardless. He kisses the back of Beomgyu’s wrist, then brings their hands to his own cheek. The motion brings Beomgyu’s wrist dangerously close to his nose. Warm, lovely citrus.

Beomgyu breathes a little harder. “You should let me go, before I become convinced you like me.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes, and slackens his grin on Beomgyu’s hand, who pulls it away of his own volition. “That would be preposterous,” he says quietly.

“Unthinkable,” Beomgyu concurs, and Yeonjun listens to him pour and drink wine with his eyes closed.

He drops his hand into his lap and opens his eyes to look at it. It looks like it always does – he raises his eyes to Beomgyu’s hand, the bite mark on his wrist that marks him as Taehyun’s. Beomgyu never offers him that hand to hold, he realizes. Maybe that hand belongs to the prince.

“Do you think yourself capable of desiring alphas?”

Beomgyu takes his time answering the question; buries the time he takes to think in more wine. “I know myself to be. Whether it is a trick of the body or a genuine capacity for emotion towards their kind… I am not unaffected by them.” He drinks more, and presses his lips together briefly. “I wish I were.”

Yeonjun wishes he was unaffected by Beomgyu, but that ship seems to have sailed, many exchanged presses of lips ago. He recalls the kiss they shared, the strange way it came about. His eyes drop to Beomgyu’s pink lips.

He should apologize, for kissing him without his permission, but then again, Beomgyu did end up kissing him back; it was he who seemed to want Yeonjun to succumb to his wants so badly. He would have pushed Yeonjun away had he not wanted it… would he not? Surely.

“They are yours to take, should you want them,” Beomgyu quips, then smiles when Yeonjun looks up at him in surprise. “You are alone, remember? There is no one to judge you for your indulgences.”

“Except for myself.”

Beomgyu tilts his head in agreement. “The strictest judge of all.”

Yeonjun leans over the table, closer to Beomgyu’s face. “I believe my husband has never betrayed me.”

Beomgyu leans in until his face almost blurs in Yeonjun’s vision, and he can feel his breath as he speaks. “He betrays you every time he leaves you to suffer your heat alone.”

“Does that entitle me to want this?”

“Must you be entitled?” Beomgyu laughs almost silently. “We keep going in circles about this, Yeonjun.”

“You have never given me a satisfactory answer.”

Beomgyu moves forward to press their lips together, then pulls back. “Was that satisfactory?”

Yeonjun kisses him instead of answering. Beomgyu smiles against his lips.

“What?”

Beomgyu laughs, reaches out to hold onto the front of Yeonjun’s robes to pull him in again. “You kiss me like a boy; it’s sweet.”

Yeonjun tries to pull back, affronted, but Beomgyu’s fingers tangled in his clothes do not let him get far.

“Is this how they kiss at the Imperial Court?” He tilts his head playfully. “Would you know?”

Yeonjun looks away. Beomgyu shakes the hand clutching his robes.

“Was your husband your first kiss?”

He seems excited to know, but restless anxiety blooms in Yeonjun’s chest at the thought of answering. Desperate to regain some control, he reaches out to hold Beomgyu’s face, squishing his cheeks with his fingers.

“That is enough.”

Beomgyu seems to attempt to pout in his hold, and Yeonjun, somehow both determined and helpless, presses his lips against the pout. Beomgyu’s hand lets go of his clothes and lays on his cheek again. The gesture feels so gentle again, comforting. Yeonjun lets go of Beomgyu’s face, just to cradle his jaw. It feels different than touching his husband ever felt – in beautiful and terrible ways.

He looks into Beomgyu’s eyes – from this close up, they look infinitely deep. Soft and dark.

Yeonjun pulls away. “I should go; I have had my fair share of solitude already.”

Beomgyu seems to be breathing heavier than usual; the air is sweet with fruit and citrus. “You have made a habit of slipping through my fingers whenever I think I have taken hold of you.”

Yeonjun stands up. “I am not yours to hold, Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu scoffs, leaning back on his hands to look up at Yeonjun. “Yes – I borrow you from an absentee prince.”

Not meeting Beomgyu’s eyes, Yeonjun straightens his clothes and wraps his shawl over his shoulders. “We would both do well to remember that.”

Finally, Beomgyu stands as well, approaching until he invades Yeonjun’s space shamelessly again. “I am used to borrowed affection. Do not worry about me.”

Yeonjun still cannot look at him. “I may never return here like this.”

“That is your choice,” Beomgyu replies easily, then reaches out for Yeonjun’s hand, who lets him have it, and presses it to his neck, staining it with citrus. “But know that you will always be welcome.”

He finally looks Beomgyu in the eyes; he looks nothing but sincere. Yeonjun takes Beomgyu’s hand, the one without the bite, and presses it into his own neck. Mutual ownership – a crooked, strange kind of it. False; imaginary.

Preposterous.

Beomgyu sees him outside, and engages the guard in conversation while Yeonjun walks away in a daze, seeking out the servant’s doors again to avoid scrutiny.

Yeonjun would never do something like this. Say the things he said tonight. Share kiss after kiss with another omega; hold his hand. He would never do something like this. It would be so unlike him. Impossibly reckless, which he never is.

This was a dream. A strange, feverish dream of citrus.

He falls asleep with his nose pressed to his own wrist.

Chapter 8

Notes:

hi. everyone reading this is now legally obligated to wish Mr. Huening the best and good health. Thank you.

if you hate this chapter....................... girl I get it. I tried.

you should be able to skip through the more nsfw parts of this chapter safely should you wish to. :)

thanks to everyone keeping up with this lil here story (this should swing it over 100,000 words. longest thing i've ever written? crazy stuff.)

Winter slowly settles over the palace; some days, the weather is too cold for them to brave the gardens, and they spend their leisure time in the morning in the music room or the library instead, playing music or reading poetry. Beomgyu seems to be taking the cold the worst out of all of them, as fascinated as he seems by frost-covered grass and the meager dusting of snow that covers the gardens some mornings. He starts wearing the same fur Yeonjun saw him wear during his visit to the concubines’ quarters for his early morning walks over to Yeonjun’s rooms. When they question where he got it, it turns out that it was left behind by the previous occupants. The former master of this palace must have gifted it to one of the concubines. Beomgyu seems infatuated with it, even as the other ladies all tease him about how terribly out of style it is.

During the day, he keeps the fur folded in Yeonjun’s waiting room, since it is too heavy to carry around with him all day, and it stays a constant reminder of his presence. Yeonjun learns to be comforted by the sight of it, for better or for worse.

On a warmer day, Yeonjun takes his ladies out into town again, and buys himself a shrug made out of black fur, splurging on a matching gray one for his husband to wear. He offers to buy a new fur for Beomgyu to wear instead of the one he found, but Beomgyu insists on keeping the old one. Yeonjun buys him new jewelry instead, and gifts for all of his ladies, to compliment their winter wardrobe. They make the rounds with the town council, having tea, giving out gifts and joining one of their families for dinner. The wives usually look much happier to see him on their doorsteps than the husbands do, but Yeonjun is used to that – generosity and favor have to be shown to the grateful and the ungrateful evenly; especially now that the prince is absent, and may not return for weeks or even months. It is important for them to remember who they are subject to, lest they get too ambitious due to a lack of oversight.

He makes arrangements to see the other officials in the palace as well, arranging dinners and lunches and tea. With the winter set in, nobody is so busy they would refuse him. He spends his morning planning out how to impress everyone, be it with an exotic tea, a particularly refined dinner spread, or just very pretty clothes for him to wear. They seem to enjoy helping him with tasks like this, and even Beomgyu eventually joins in, although he seems to derive most of his enjoyment out of intentionally suggesting the most outlandish things he can think of, like acquiring live tigers to lay at Yeonjun’s feet during the visit, or feeding their guests morsels of solid gold.

Yeonjun tolerates his jokes, partially because the ladies seem to find them genuinely delightful, and partially because Beomgyu’s lack of seriousness helps keep the atmosphere at the table lighthearted. Purely in theory, his insistence that everyone important enough feels heard makes this time hectic, but it feels much less so, when he and the ladies are laughing over breakfast, chastising Beomgyu for saying something strange again. His shoulders are a little lighter as a consequence.

The painter’s assistant finally finishes Yeonjun’s brooch, and Yeonjun wears it every day in his shawls or on his new fur shrug, showing off his house colors even when he dresses up differently for the day. He wears a lot of black and imperial purple these days, wears tigers and coins and a golden headband fashioned like a halo of sun rays around his head. He drips in jewels and expensive metals, exotic fabrics and fine tailoring. Every sight, smell, taste that he offers his guests, is to be the most exquisite thing they have ever experienced anywhere before, maybe with the exception of the Imperial Court. A show of the wealth and splendor that they would shun, let alone have turned against themselves should they disobey the prince. Simple, blatant, calculated shows of status.

Some visits go better than others. Beomgyu seems to abhor them, especially the part where Yeonjun’s ladies show themselves off just to drive in the point that only the best of the best belongs in the prince’s palace, its inhabitants included. A flock of pretty birds, preening, flaunting their good names and beautiful faces just for the prince’s prestige.

Dayeon points out that they have to repay the prince for letting them live such a comfortable life in his house somehow – Beomgyu seems to like it just as little as he has anything about the imperial life so far. Thankfully for him, it makes more sense to dismiss him while accepting guests who have not met him yet, rather than having to explain to them somehow that he is both the oft discussed new concubine of the prince’s and is to be regarded and treated like one of Yeonjun’s ladies, so he often gets to avoid the worst of it.

As a consequence, Yeonjun sees less of Beomgyu than usual.

Since Yeonjun’s visit to the concubine’s quarters, Beomgyu has stopped trying to stay behind after everyone else leaves for the day. He has not touched Yeonjun during the day in any strange or inappropriate ways, and only challenges him playfully now, rather than with the blatant disrespect he showed before. But he still meets Yeonjun’s eyes when he should not.

Yeonjun despises himself, the whole week after the visit. Every morning, he wakes up sick with fear that they were found out, and someone will come and confront him about it. Any visit he gets, from the Lord Steward to Madame Seo, makes his hands shake, until they greet him the same way they always have, and he realizes they do not know. His ladies whisper among each other, but rarely about him, and never about that, because they do not know about it. The guards talk, but most of all they complain about the commander Soobin left in charge of them in his absence. Yeonjun promises to write to Soobin on their behalf to try and get him to appoint someone else, and around the palace, the guards seem to start regarding him with love that hides all suspicion or disdain, if there even was any before.

The longer it goes on, the more it sinks in – they do not know. Nobody knows, or if they know, they are not suspicious of his actions. After all, he may well just have visited Beomgyu to drink and gossip in peace.

Nobody is aware of the unspeakable things he has done on top of that.

Held Beomgyu’s hand.

Kissed him.

Spoken of his husband without respect or deference.

He struggles to realize which of these is the most unthinkable in his own eyes.

Once it sinks in, there comes a hollowness; an apathy, a moment of suspense.

In the absence of dire consequence comes a choice – one that is, ultimately, his own to make.

To resist, or to give in, although that particular choice he has already technically made. To fall deeper then, maybe, into depravity, into this terrible comfort, or to regain his senses, and deny himself. Keep denying himself the affection he has found himself to crave so, so badly.

True to his nature as a peacekeeper, he chooses a compromise. A half-measure, maybe, to his detriment or his merit.

The result of which is, he comes back.

Shamefully, under the cover of night, he comes back to Beomgyu’s sparkling eyes, still waiting for him outside on the fourth day even though it has been a while since Yeonjun gave in that first time. Beomgyu pats the guard on the shoulder before leading Yeonjun inside again, and then they stand in the waiting room together, too close to the door, to the young man right outside of it. His mouth seems to have been sewn shut by Beomgyu’s beauty, by his grace, by the same charm that had Yeonjun sneaking out in the middle of the night to see him no doubt, but would it remain shut if he wisened up to what was happening behind the door he guarded? The palace guard is loyal to Soobin, and Soobin is loyal to Taehyun.

And if Taehyun found out… if he knew…

Yeonjun struggles to imagine his husband truly angry, truly livid at Yeonjun’s own actions, and that scares him. He has never given his husband a reason to be angry with him; to punish him – so he does not know what it would entail, should he do so.

Perhaps he would be as permissive as Beomgyu seems to expect him to be. Perhaps he would truly struggle to be strict with his wife, but what if there is something different, hidden behind the prince’s careful mask of courtesy? He is his father’s son, and the Emperor, in all his generosity towards his own family, is a fearsome man. Who is to say Taehyun does not take after him? That they are not dissimilar in nature, and Taehyun merely knows better than to let others know just how ruthless he can truly be?

Once they are alone, in that small, modest waiting room, Beomgyu looks at him with so much hope, so much life on his face and in his bright eyes, that it almost hurts Yeonjun to say,

“What happened before can not happen again.”

Just as he feared, Beomgyu’s face dims, and he looks down at their feet. “What do you mean?”

A chill ripples over Yeonjun’s skin, itching and burning, at the thought of putting a name to it out loud. “You know. If I am to keep seeing you like this—”

“Will you?” Beomgyu interrupts, looking at him again – a similar, yet slightly muted hope.

Yeonjun looks away. “On occasion. Should you behave yourself acceptably.”

Beomgyu breathes out sharply through parted lips, a derisive little sound. “Was the intention not for us to behave ourselves as if we were alone?”

“Some things I would not do, even in perfect solitude.”

He meets Beomgyu’s eyes directly as he stares Yeonjun down, direct and confrontational. Then he scoffs, and nods his head. “Certainly. I can behave myself if you can, Your Grace.”

And perhaps the mocking in his tone should have worried Yeonjun; it should have angered him, it should have made him turn around and leave, but he stays, even as Beomgyu’s words sink into his chest, settling behind his ribs like burning embers of shame, crackling to life, stinging with every breath he takes.

The truth is, he craves Beomgyu, not only his company, not only the freedom solitude brings them, but also the closeness. The softness of his palms and the callused fingers, his warm lips and silky hair. He wants it, even now, that he has decided he should never have it again – but then, he is the one who keeps acting against his own word. Giving into his own desires, again and again.

Yeonjun closes his eyes and unravels the shawl he had wrapped tightly around his neck and shoulders.

“Speak to me. Of something. Whatever comes to mind.”

He opens his eyes to the tail end of Beomgyu rolling his eyes, walking off towards the tea room without giving Yeonjun a second look.

 

.

 

Beomgyu winds his own hair into thin braids, narrowing his eyes in his focus. He sits improperly, slumped against one of the walls of the tea room, legs haphazardly sprawled in front of himself, one half drawn up. In shivering, warm candlelight, he looks like a lewd painting – clothes askew, showing skin in multiple places, hair down and in disarray from him continuously playing with it through the night, lips bitten red from him chewing on them in concentration.

Yeonjun sits at the table, perfectly polite, sitting as formally as he can as if to make up for Beomgyu’s lack of polish. If he stays constrained by the laws of etiquette, he will perhaps not lose sight of how incredibly important it is for him not to succumb to his body again.

He will not notice how inviting Beomgyu’s lips look; his eyes will not stray to the sliver of Beomgyu’s leg he sees when he sits this way, and his mind will not conjure the memory of his legs bare, skin shining with sweat and slick, pink with heat. His hands will not crave the warmth of his exposed shoulder, and his lips will not long to trace his clavicle, and the burning in his chest, that shameful, painful burning will not resemble a content warmth of being near someone he…

Yeonjun drinks scalding hot tea and tries to find solace in the pain. Absolution, maybe. If being present hurts enough, maybe his discomfort will make up for his transgression.

“Kai enjoyed helping with my hair,” Beomgyu says as if he heard Yeonjun, and mercifully deigned to make his chest hurt even more than it already did. “He was so fond of it.”

“It is beautiful,” Yeonjun says despite his better judgment. Beomgyu rolls his eyes a little, stops winding his hair into a braid and combs his fingers through it just to free it again.

“His was, too, but he rarely let me touch it.” Instead of leaning against the wall, Beomgyu leans forward, bracing himself against a raised knee. “He was strange sometimes – he would act so aware of his own beauty and then deny it in the same breath. He would compare us, sometimes, as if I myself could be a rival to him for my own affections.” He shakes his head. “As if it mattered what he looked like, at the end of the day. As if I did not have a hundred and one reasons to love him regardless of it.”

Yeonjun’s mind is feverish – with the images of the two of them the words conjure, with all the memories of Yeonjun’s life as a courtier it makes him recall. All his little, childish attempts at romance. Aimless flings, crushes, dashed hopes. Flushing down to the tips of his toes as a minister’s son wound the end of a lock of his hair around his finger, the act so deeply intimate to Yeonjun’s boyish mind it felt as serious as a marriage proposal. As a passionate kiss. It was a promise of one, at any event.

Beomgyu rubs the fabric of his own robes between his fingers, hands always restless, especially in the absence of wine for him to pour himself. “Do you believe you have been truly in love before?”

He wants to retort by asking if that even matters, but he stops himself. For Beomgyu’s sake, he scalds his tongue again with tea and as the feeling cuts a clarity through his muddled thoughts, he wonders.

When he was young, he had all sorts of feelings about all these people. He admired and dreamed and desired and idolized, from breathtaking omegas he wished he could somehow imitate, whose company he would seek out hungrily, to dashing alphas he would flirt with, bat his eyelashes at, sigh himself to sleep thinking of. Important and unimportant. More or less noble. A list of names that by now have lost their meaning to him. They used to have faces behind them, feelings, history that meant something, that shaped him in some way, for better or for worse.

But then the prince happened. A silver scarf with a fox on it and a scrawny noble with a proposition. He married, he left the Court, and with his new status, his old acquaintances slowly ceased to matter. Yeonjun visited the Court only rarely, and life there moved on without him. His admirers moved on to other pursuits; the omegas he admired married men less important than his own husband. People married, people died, they had children and involved themselves in scandals, they fell into debt or found their fortune. Without Yeonjun, far away from him or his current life.

Had he loved any of them. Were Beomgyu asking in the moment, while Yeonjun was in the center of it, the colorful world he perceived his youth to be, he would have said yes with a certainty only a lack of experience can bestow a man with – now, with the hindsight of time, he hesitates to say.

In the dozens of smiles, of eyes and scents and hushed words he had known…

Is there not only one set worth mentioning?

A sweetly boyish smile, large dark eyes and the warming smell of spice. Having you felt like holding the moon itself in my arms.

You would be provided for in my care. You would want for nothing, for the rest of your life.

I promise to you to always think of your safety and comfort above all.

He shakes his head.

“No?” Beomgyu sounds surprised; Yeonjun presses his lips together tightly.

“My affections…” he struggles to express himself, and he sighs in frustration. “They came easily, when I was young. Perhaps I have spent my youth misunderstanding love.”

At Beomgyu’s amused huff, Yeonjun looks at him sharply, but Beomgyu does not seem apologetic even then. “Do you think you understand it better now, in your old and wise age, Yeonjun?”

Yeonjun clicks his tongue, and Beomgyu laughs lightly, in a friendly, teasing manner rather than with sharp mockery. “I believe I am past my childish illusions of it.”

“And you believe yourself to be free of it now?”

“I believe myself to be too busy running a household to go around falling in love.” Yeonjun touches the side of his cup with his finger, holding it there to feel the sting of heat against his skin. “Perhaps when the prince and I grow old…” his voice grows quiet, thins out as he gives voice to an old, foolish dream of his. “We will have the time to fall in love, genuinely, like an alpha and omega may.”

Once again, Beomgyu scoffs without much malice. “Not like a prince and a courtesan would?”

Yeonjun’s hand restlessly finds his mating mark through the material of his overcoat. “Traditional courting has very little to do with love.”

A pout curves Beomgyu’s lips. “Is that all your husband did, then? Shower you in gifts and ingratiate himself with your parents?”

He finds himself laughing. What a shrewd way to encapsulate the strange dance they had to do before their families came to an understanding. “Taehyun did not have to do as much ingratiating as convincing my aunt he did not mean to simply find a loophole to do away with my honor before leaving me destitute with unfulfilled promises.”

“Taehyun?”

Yeonjun freezes in his seat. The name is not his to say. In private, or in public. Any more than Beomgyu should be calling him Yeonjun. “You will forget you have heard me utter this.”

“Tae-hyun,” Beomgyu sounds out, his accent growing thicker as he speaks, as if he means to exaggerate it. “A man’s name.” He clicks his tongue and waves his hand, playfully dramatic. “An alpha’s name. A human like any other should you strip his title away, is he not? Your Tae-hyun.”

Yeonjun sighs then shakes his head. “With the utmost seriousness, I tell you this is a name you should not be repeating.”

Beomgyu laughs and sinks back into the wall. “Men of title are so afraid of names, as if we could hurt them by invoking them.” He shakes his head as well, rolling it back and forth across the wall. “Jaehwan felt the same. Once he took his father’s title, he acted as if the sound of his name was a slight on his honor. Jae-hwan was the boy he used to be – now he was our lord, our shining sun of wisdom and skillful lordship.” He scoffs, this time as derisively as he can. “Seeming more like a child than ever. A little boy with a large title he did not grow big enough to fit into.”

Watching him speak the words as if the man they were addressed to was still alive, a frown mars Yeonjun’s own face. “You despise your husband.”

A shrug tugs at Beomgyu’s shoulders, too sharp and vigorous to come off as careless. “If I was to feel the need to defend myself, I would say he despised me first.”

“Would that be true?”

“I believe so; his treatment of me would make little sense, otherwise.” Beomgyu’s fingers close in the material covering his knee until his fist closes tightly. “He thought me beautiful, he thought me desirable, he thought me beneath him and he was so deeply inconvenienced by my personhood.” Eyes narrowing, aimed somewhere into an illusory distance rather than at Yeonjun’s face, Beomgyu stands abruptly. “He could not understand why marrying him and bearing him children were not the only things on my mind. Why I wanted to hold conversations, ask questions. Why I would read books or look at maps.”

Yeonjun shifts in his seat – he sits a bit more comfortably, inadvertently, distracted by the conversation. “I thought you said education was common among noble omegas in the south.”

Beomgyu walks to the other side of the room, facing a bare wall, back straight as if staring down the spirit of his late husband fearlessly. “Common, yes, but not to Jaehwan’s taste.” He turns around just as abruptly as he stood up. “Ever since we were children, he had made sure I knew what his opinion of me was. I was troublesome, a bother – he would throw tantrums when his parents paid attention to me, especially his father, who seemed to adore me.” He spreads his robes, so they would fall around him elegantly as he kneels on the bare ground with perfect poise. “He would torment and insult me when we were kids, then demean and mistreat me when we were married.” He snorts, derisive, but it sounds like he is out of breath. His face grows paler by the second. Citrus bitters in the air rapidly. “It did not matter if I was meek and quiet, if I tried to placate him or if I was defiant and fighting back. He was forced to have me, he was compelled to want me and the torture of his poor, miserable soul—” Beomgyu presses a clenched fist to his old mating mark, the gnarly, thickly scarred one. “He took out on me.”

Yeonjun clenches his hands in his lap so tightly they hurt. He wants to reach out – to hold Beomgyu, to comfort him. “So you did not weep when he died.”

“I shed tears of relief when he died,” Beomgyu spits, slams the same clenched fist into the ground next to him so hard it must hurt. “The whole house, me, the lady dowager, the little one, the whole cursed city, even – we were all better off without him. Incompetent, small, despicable, disgusting man.” Beomgyu hits the ground with his fist again, like a ritual, like he is casting a curse upon his husband’s name. “Such was Lord Seon Jaehwan.”

Tears run down Beomgyu’s face even as his expression remains severe, as his voice drips with steely anger. With hatred Yeonjun himself cannot imagine feeling towards anyone. A dead man, no less.

“You said an illness took him?”

Beomgyu straightens up somewhat, wiping at his face with his sleeve gracelessly. “Or poison. Or black magic. Who cares? I did not. Even as regent, I did not urge anyone to investigate.” He sniffs wetly and licks his lips. “The council seemed eager to arrange for me to take his place, a little young omega they could sway whichever way they would please if they flattered him with the appearance of power. Perhaps they did not urge me to take action either, for the sake of their own necks remaining unharmed.”

“You think they had him killed?”

Beomgyu stands up again, pacing back and forth now. “Or the lady dowager – which would do her little good, since she herself passed within another moon of his death – but that black heart of his must have come from somewhere; perhaps she favored her younger son, or someone else did, or perhaps his death was just a mercy of fate that I am spitting on by speaking ill of others.”

He pauses in his pacing, and stares at Yeonjun, who stares back without much idea of what expression there is on his face. One of pity? Compassion? Confusion? Fear? He himself does not know.

Whatever it is, it makes Beomgyu come close again, sitting at the table and reaching out as if to hold Yeonjun’s hand again, just to hesitate mid-motion. Yeonjun stares at his hand, then lays his own palm in it. This much, they should be able to allow themselves, should they not? Madame Seo touches his hands often, even though she should not. It is no different with Beomgyu. It is the same thing; the exact same thing.

Beomgyu weakly squeezes at Yeonjun’s hand. “I can tell you this, Your Grace.” The title makes Yeonjun look up into Beomgyu’s serious brown eyes. “Whatever else he might be, your husband is no Seon Jaehwan.” He leans a little closer over the table, and Yeonjun forces himself not to lean back and away from him. “He has not raised a hand to you in anger – pulled you, pushed you or hit you.”

Yeonjun shakes his head mutely.

Beomgyu huffs, the amusement in it dry, and he leans away from Yeonjun again. “Today, I believe you.” He lets go of Yeonjun’s hand, who misses the contact immediately. “I used to believe all husbands were like mine – hateful, terrible creatures.”

To Yeonjun, Taehyun is neither of those things – he was never hateful, and despite all the hurt he has caused him, Yeonjun has never found it in himself to think him to be terrible.

“Now I believe your husband to be a coward.”

Yeonjun shuts his eyes and shakes his head again – these are just more words of disdain from Beomgyu towards a sort of life he does not understand—

“I keep finding myself wondering, about the way he treats you. The way he speaks to you, the way he behaves himself around you. He smelled like a man wounded, when he came to see you that night – with some perceived slight he has done you. And he seems so careful when you are around - in a way he did not with Soobin.”

Yeonjun opens his eyes; to him, Beomgyu is making little sense. “Of course he would be more careful with me than with Soobin – he and I are bound by different standards of manners than he is with a childhood friend. He seems to be more careful around you as well - he never seemed quite sure how to treat you.”

“He could treat me however he would please – everyone has made that quite clear to me.” Beomgyu shakes his head. “If he was just a man of manners, he would not prostrate himself before his wife like a commoner. He would not suppress his scent around his freshly mated concubine. ” He had noticed, then, although neither of them ever brought it up. “Do manners dictate him to do so? No; but fear—” Beomgyu stabs his finger into the air before him. “Fear can drive a man mad – and is that not what we believe Tae-hyun to be? A madman of a prince. Accepted by the virtue of being well-spoken one. Afraid of something - you. Me. Both of us. Something we represent? Something we could do. To him, most likely.”

Yeonjun breathes out sharply. “Now you sound mad, Beomgyu. You are rambling.”

“Perhaps,” Beomgyu admits easily. “But maybe I must adopt your husband’s affect to understand him.” He leans forward again, too close to Yeonjun. Too close to his lips. Too close to the things they have promised to avoid. “Would you agree, my wife?”

Beomgyu’s smile is boyish, and the words hurt in Yeonjun’s chest, in his stomach. Somewhere lower, past the initial wave of aversion. “Quit it.”

“You look quite beautiful today. I trust you have spent your day well – please make sure to rest.”

It is obvious Beomgyu does not know the right words – despite claiming to understand the prince, he has never heard him speak to Yeonjun privately before. He only knows the words he uses in front of the household, the firm voice and calculated little phrases, slightly stilted through all the layers of politeness.

“That is quite enough.”

Beomgyu bows at the waist in his seat. “If you say so, wife.”

Yeonjun shakes his head at him as he straightens back up. “I do not appreciate this sort of joke, Beomgyu.”

“Are my acting skills not up to your standards, Your Grace?”

The return to the familiar title feels like a relief. Yeonjun feels his shoulders loosening where he did not notice them tensing before. “You did not complain once of a single minister – apparently you do not know our prince quite as well as you believe yourself to.” With those words, Yeonjun rises to his feet - Beomgyu does not follow, only looks up to watch him wrap himself back up in his scarf. “Perhaps you can hone your skills more before our next meeting.”

Beomgyu bites his lip. “That will not be easy to do, without the original present for me to study.”

Yeonjun finishes bundling up, and looks down at Beomgyu with a heavy sigh. “I am sure you will manage somehow, Beomgyu.”

 

.

 

They are spending their morning in the music room again, and Yeonjun cradles an empty cup to his chest while watching a group of his ladies sitting together, singing a song while Soojin plucks the tune out on the instrument in his lap. Beomgyu is with them, trying to learn the song as well, laughing when he gets it wrong. It is a song traditional in the central regions of the Empire, if Yeonjun remembers correctly, one that Eunbi taught them a long time ago, with words about a landscape blooming in resplendent spring.

The irony does not seem lost on the ladies.

Yeonjun cannot keep his eyes off of them, off of Beomgyu. His mind has been restless with thought ever since the previous night, conjuring up scenarios, false memories of what Beomgyu’s life must have been like in his former home. What does it feel like, to be berated by your husband all the time? To have to live by the side of someone who seems to abhor your very existence? To have to be loyal and dutiful to someone who has never had your best interest in mind, yet your safety, both physical and material, relies on them regardless.

What kind of person would that make you? Would it make a man who sits surrounded by friends, laughing as his voice cracks on a note? Someone who would pursue a married man with strange, single-minded focus? Someone who would live in constant suspicion of an alpha’s kindness, his motives, his whims which could turn against him at any moment like the wind changes direction.

Would it drive a man into infidelity and the staunch belief in the morality thereof? Would it give him a sharp tongue and a view of friendship which at times seems ruthless?

To live in a household in which you are the enemy, but which you cannot leave, trapped in a cage with a ferocious animal. Finding spiteful honor in your duty and glee in your disobedience. A double-sided view of yourself, a feeling of righteousness.

As if he could feel the weight of Yeonjun’s gaze as it keeps pulling at his shoulder, Beomgyu looks over at Yeonjun and smiles, the motion drawing the attention of the other ladies who look at him as well, almost flustering him with their sudden shift in focus.

“Would you like to join us, Your Grace?” Soojin asks, gentle and kind, as if he can see the strange mood he is in on his face.

Beomgyu glances around at the others. “Does His Highness enjoy singing?”

“He is quite skilled!” Eunbi chimes in with an honestly flattering amount of enthusiasm.

He clears his throat, finally setting the cup aside. “I am not quite as skilled with instruments as some others are, so I have learned to make up for this flaw of mine with my voice.”

“He is being too modest, Beomgyu,” Dayeon chimes in, joining the conversation from the other side of the room where she plays dice with Miyeon. “His Grace has a beautiful voice.”

Beomgyu seems amused by this, and Yeonjun’s mouth is briefly paralyzed with bashfulness and the easy beauty of Beomgyu’s lips curved in a smile, unable to respond.

“His Imperial Majesty used to invite him to sing for the royal family all the time during the courtship,” Soojin adds in the ensuing silence, and Beomgyu seems to almost jolt upright in response.

“Is that so?” He leans towards Yeonjun, his posture so childish Yeonjun almost feels embarrassed for him. “Is this common in imperial courtship?”

“Somewhat,” Dayeon responds for him, turning away from her dice and towards the room at large. “Usually, the potential bride and their guardians would simply be invited to share a table with the groom’s family as equals, but I suppose some of the… circumstances of this courtship made His Imperial Majesty choose a different approach.”

Yeonjun waves his hand, drawing the attention to himself again. “My dear, you are not doing His Imperial Majesty justice with your words – he did invite my aunt, uncle and I to share a table with him multiple times. The… inequality of our union had nothing to do with this.”

Dayeon huffs a little bit. “Do you concede then, Your Grace, that perhaps His Imperial Majesty was simply taken with your voice?”

“Or His Highness was,” Soojin offers with a hint of dry amusement, and some laughter titters through the room.

Yeonjun sighs, shaking his head. “If it was our dear prince who insisted on my presence at their family table as the night’s entertainment, then he had never come clean about it.” He looks at Beomgyu, who regards him with curiosity. It is obvious he wants to know more about his and Taehyun’s courtship – to learn his culture, or learn more about the prince, Yeonjun does not know. “He seemed to prefer making private visits to me rather than paying attention to me in front of the Court’s eyes, or in his parents’ company.” He sees Beomgyu’s face filling with something akin to delight, and rushes to explain himself. “By private I of course mean, he would see me in my aunt’s presence, but he would come to see us, rather than summon us to join the royal family.”

He sighs again – he remembers well, the startled delight on his aunt’s face the first time the prince came personally to their rooms, only for her delight to turn to suspicion when he announced his intention to court Yeonjun. She refused to believe the Emperor had approved of the courtship, even despite Taehyun’s perfectly pristine reputation. If any alpha’s intentions were to be believed, it was the prince, but Yeonjun was poor compared to most of the rest of the Court. He was insignificant, and even if the prince had fallen for him madly, His Imperial Majesty would never give his favored son a wife of such low standing.

Yeonjun’s head spun with it all the evening after that visit, the prospect of a courtship so… life-changing, paired with his aunt’s pragmatic words. Do not let them fool you with their promises. A marriage promised is not a marriage guaranteed, and once you tarnish your reputation, you can never get it back. He has money and he knows better than most alphas would how badly any omega would want access to the kind of wealth his family possesses. He will try to charm you, with pretty words and prettier promises, but you have to keep your wits about you. Ambition is the road to ruin when not paired with a judicious mind.

And even as Taehyun promised his aunt to prove the legitimacy of his courtship, even that for the longest time felt like a trick the prince was trying to make Yeonjun fall for. Invitations to join the royals as a singer, being questioned by the Emperor as if he was a talking exotic animal, made to recount his vague memories of the south. The prince seeking him out in public, always with his entourage of young nobles about him, all of whom would happily engage Yeonjun in lively conversation while the prince seemed to hold back, as if his proximity to Yeonjun was purely accidental. Coming to see him in the evenings with gifts, shawls and earrings and hairpins, with an earnest look in his eyes as he told them that he was assured they are of finest quality and the latest fashion, bowing overly politely before so boldly recounting to Yeonjun all that he stood to have as soon as he came of age, once he inherited his share from his father, all they could have, should Yeonjun agree to his proposal.

Pretty words, so different from the way he was wooed in the past. Of course, handsome alphas had flaunted their fortune before him, emphasized how wealthy of a wife they could make him someday, but those words always came tangled up with honeyed words about his beauty, his wit, his sweet nature. His virtues and his taste and his scent, his lips and the grace in his step. Sometimes they flaunted their own skills, their own wit and strength, but they never seemed as sharply, pragmatically focused as the prince always did.

He would be unimaginably wealthy, he would most likely become an advisor to the Emperor, a position he intended to use all his skill to keep no matter who sat on the imperial throne, and once his father passed, he would inherit an estate they could call theirs, and Yeonjun would get to be the master of the house and live in peace and luxury away from the Court. He would make sure Yeonjun’s uncle kept his imperial post to the best of his ability, and he would keep him and the rest of Yeonjun’s relatives in the Court in his favor and under his protection.

A simple, practical proposal, instead of many heartfelt declarations of admiration or favor. Yeonjun’s aunt used to say that all it meant was that Taehyun was more aware of his role as an alpha than most alphas his age. He knew how to sing a song his elders would like as well. She would urge him not to accept any lewd propositions, should they come at a time where his aunt would not be there personally to chaperone, should he be approached while surrounded by other omegas, or while mingling in court.

But no lewd propositions came, and just as few courtly ones as well, at first. No invitations to dance, to sit next to the prince at a concert or to watch theater. No offered refreshments or walks through the gardens like the other alphas did, and as long as the prince remained restrained in his courtship, they continued to, thinking him altogether available for romance.

So Yeonjun would watch listen to music at the sides of other alphas, out of interest or careful politeness, he would dance with others, sometimes including the prince’s own companions, he would giggle in the gardens when other alphas compared him with flowers in increasingly ridiculous ways, he received clandestine gifts of flowers and badly-written books of poetry, and every now and then, he would pour tea for the prince himself while he emphatically described to him the golden awnings of the estate that would one day be theirs.

“You said your aunt doubted his intentions,” Beomgyu prompts, making Yeonjun realize he had paused for too long.

“Everyone at the Court was surprised,” Dasom chimes in from Beomgyu’s side. “Of course, His Grace and his honorable aunt and uncle were informed in advance, but when their courtship was made public, it turned more than one head.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together tightly, then relaxes. “The Kang family rarely sought the prestige of good looks – they tended to marry in more politically advantageous ways.”

Beomgyu makes a little noise, shockingly girlish for his usual appearance, a little dismissive hum. “Well, the prince has grown to be quite handsome regardless, has he not?”

Some of the ladies, those on more friendly and personal terms with the prince, laugh in response.

Yeonjun waves his hand in a frivolous gesture. “Everyone likes to make friends with wise marriage proposals, but hardly anyone likes to take a hideous wife.”

“Your prince even less than others, then?” Beomgyu fires back, teasing.

“Is it not quite romantic?” Miyeon offers, her voice a bit thin and dreamy. “The prince taking on a wife with no regard for wealth and status?”

Unsurprisingly, Beomgyu seems unimpressed. “Taking a pretty but poor wife is a show of status as well,” he argues, briefly glancing at Yeonjun before looking back at Miyeon. “It shows everyone that he has no need for an advantageous marriage, as he is powerful and wealthy enough on his own – it can make him seem less shrewd, even, should he benefit from appearing so.”

The words settle heavily in Yeonjun’s stomach. When he was young, he fell in love with the idea of the prince choosing him for his beauty and good reputation. That he saw him and understood him to be beautiful and virtuous, and desired that in his wife above money or title. But what if him being a nobody was the point? Still prestigious, without seeming like a dangerous advantage to the prince’s enemies. The prince is certainly smart enough to have thought of that, even as a young man, especially with his father’s wise guidance. As the emperor’s son but not his heir, perhaps he needed to make himself seem smaller before the other courtiers – just a young noble, marrying a pretty omega for his looks, instead of looking for someone more appropriate for his status.

At the end of the day, it changes nothing – the prince still chose him, Yeonjun accepted, and now they have each other and Yeonjun has served him well, but it still bothers him. Was he, Yeonjun, his personality, his efforts, his personhood – was it ever considered in the prince’s careful calculations, or was it as bothersome to him as Beomgyu’s was to his own husband?

He had never shown it – but then again, he rarely shows anything, and what he did, Yeonjun found himself struggling to believe. Perhaps simply because he is so controlled otherwise, Yeonjun cannot help but think his outbursts are as calculated as everything else. His indulgence in Yeonjun’s body, his groveling, his flattery – all things an omega might love to see from their alpha, perfect smooth breaks in composure. Where are the bursts of anger, of jealousy? Even when Yeonjun provokes him to fight for his pride, he still seems dignified when he takes up the challenge. In a terrible way, Yeonjun longs to see him break, to see him show something ugly enough for Yeonjun to deem it to be true without hesitation.

Yeonjun slumps in his seat – the ladies’ mood seems dampened by Beomgyu’s words, and to his credit, he does not seem happy about causing it.

Beomgyu shifts where he sits, his new posture a bit more reserved and polite. “How does one make a courtship official in the Empire, anyway? Do you wear one another’s colors? Wear each other’s scent?”

Yeonjun takes a deep breath. He needs to stay composed. “It varies from courtship to courtship - scenting would be… bold, to say the least. Most chaperones would not allow that, especially not high-born ones, but wearing one another’s colors would certainly turn questioning heads, and all you would have to do is confirm.”

“Is that what you did?” Beomgyu sounds genuinely curious. “Simply confirm, not announce?”

“Both, in a way,” Yeonjun replies, unsure how to describe the situation. “Eventually, for whatever reason, instead of a gift, the prince brought me an invitation, to attend that year’s spring celebrations at his side.” He folds his hands in his lap. He wore robes the color of a cherry blossom, and the silver fox shawl around his shoulders to keep out the remnants of a winter’s chill. “I was the first omega to ever appear on his arm in public this way. The courtiers put two and two together almost immediately, but he made an announcement anyway. He told everyone who approached us that he was courting me, then made an announcement of it before the feast.”

His aunt almost crushed his hands in hers in excitement, once the prince escorted him to his room for the night. The confirmation she was waiting for – making his courtship public was the guarantee she needed - the lack of a scene from the Emperor, the quiet approval of him not raising any objection to the prince’s announcement. The prince intended to marry him, and was quite serious in his intentions. That was when it broke. His aunt welcomed the prince warmly - they received invitations to the Emperor’s table, to share meals with his family. Taehyun would address him more often in public, and every now and then invite him to share an afternoon with him, perfectly courtly with his companions and Yeonjun’s friends often tailing them wherever they went. Other alphas slowly cooled in their advances towards him, until his courtship with the prince had gone on long enough for all of them to give up. He would not be anyone’s mistress or a fling, and there was only one alpha who could take him as their wife.

The prince.

Yeonjun’s parents were invited to the Imperial Court, so Taehyun could make his offer to them as traditions dictated, and then he was, officially, his bride-to-be.

A strange title to bear, for an omega who was almost of age, with a suitor over a year his junior. Their fates were sealed, but they would have to wait before legitimizing their union. At the precipice of becoming mates, yet not quite afforded the freedoms of a married, mated couple. Belonging to each other, but not free to partake in each other. Never to be alone, rarely allowed to even touch each other. Taehyun did not try to overstep any boundary, did not ask for kisses or tried to hold his hand to do anything but assist him, much less anything more scandalous than that. He treated him the same he did during their courtship, except now his words strayed more often towards that flattery Yeonjun had expected from him from the start, calling him beautiful, exalting his virtues, as if he felt entitled, or obligated to praise him now that Yeonjun was his. There was less talk of money from the prince’s side, and more talk of the splendid household Yeonjun aspired to create from his. A house to rival the Imperial Court itself – within reason, of course.

Taehyun used to look at him fondly while he spoke this way – he wonders if he had always intended to be as absent to witness Yeonjun’s dreams coming true as he is.

“The Court was so abuzz with gossip after that day,” Soojin reminisces with a smile. “Was our reticent prince in love? Did the Emperor approve of this courtship? Very few people took the rumors of him courting His Grace to be true, before he confirmed them. It seemed so unthinkable that he, of all the Court’s alphas, would be the one to choose a bride at so young an age.”

“He was always ahead of his peers,” Yeonjun jumps in. Wise beyond his years, or whatever they would like to call it. Unusually mature. A sober man. “Even in these matters, it seems.”

Beomgyu opens his mouth, as if to say something derisive, but he seems to think better of it, and closes it without making a sound. Yeonjun appreciates his discretion immensely.

 

.

 

“I believe ours was a strange courtship.”

Yeonjun looks up at Beomgyu, but Beomgyu’s eyes are not on him – he stares at his own hand, the fingers of which he has plunged under the stream of water flowing down the fountain he sits on the edge of. It is the middle of the night, but it is unusually warm for this time of year, and the two of them sit under the stars in the small garden at the center of the concubines’ quarters. Yeonjun has claimed a bench carved out of stone, while Beomgyu sits precariously on the edge of the fountain, fashioned after an intricate flower blossom, with water pouring down curved petals onto the layers of petals below. It is beautiful, in a way that makes Yeonjun feel strange – there is so much beauty in the concubines’ quarters. Fine pieces of furniture, expensive gifts, intricate decorations. As if someone cared deeply about those who would spend their time confined to them. Perhaps someone who felt more than bodily attraction to one of the occupants, someone who was forced by tradition to treat their lover as property.

So they built them a cage that is prettier than most; more comfortable – more pleasing to look at.

Pretty birds in pretty cages – a history that refuses to cease repeating itself.

“It felt…” Beomgyu flutters his fingers. “As if I was courting his desire, with his sense of duty as a chaperone. Appealing to one while careful of the other. Not careful enough, a lot of the time.”

He smiles, and Yeonjun purses his lips. Perhaps this part of Beomgyu’s history has found its mirror in the present day as well.

Beomgyu looks at him, and Yeonjun looks down at his hands, folded in his lap. “He had no qualms about touching me – chastely, at least. He would hold me if I needed comfort, take my hand freely, he would even kiss me on the cheek when we were young, although he always played it off as a joke.” Beomgyu shakes his head and looks back at the water, taking his hand out of the stream and shaking it off, sending droplets flying, sparkling like little pearls in the bright light of a nearly full moon. “But the first time I tried to kiss him, genuinely kiss him on the lips, he would not let me.”

Yeonjun imagines himself in Beomgyu’s place. In Kai’s. Remembers the kisses he himself has dodged, in the pursuit of keeping his virtue intact. Would he have done any different, in Kai’s place? He likes to think he would not, but then, it was he who kissed Beomgyu first, in the end. Him.

“I was telling him how scared I was, thinking about how I would one day have to let Jaehwan touch me. One day, he would take his place on top of me, between my thighs, when the only hands I ever wanted on my skin belonged to him.”

A sweet devotion, or maybe acrid fear. Maybe a mixture of both. Want and fear that intersect and enhance each other – the more repulsed Beomgyu was by his husband, the more he wanted Kai. The harder it was to resist his attraction to Kai, the harder it was to stomach the thought of having to submit to his husband one day.

“I tried to kiss him, I asked him to have me, but he would not.”

Yeonjun watches his own hands clench into fists. To ask to be owned, and to be denied… such a specific kind of pain. Especially from someone you are so fond of, that you want to belong to so badly.

“I thought, for a moment, that I had misjudged our relationship – that he was not as taken with me as I was with him. But he seemed so conflicted, and he so obviously adored me, no matter how much he denied me, that I knew his concerns about my safety were no mere excuse.”

Beomgyu stretches out his hand, watching the droplets clinging to it and his own skin catching the moonlight as he spreads his fingers. Tightly wrapped bandages on his wrist hide the prince’s bite mark on him. His cloak hides the ugly scar left behind by his husband. His lips are stained with Yeonjun’s own, his heart still gripped in a dead man’s hand, touched by want all over him, stained with all the men who have had him. Yet he seems so pure in the moonlight, his skin pale in this light, his face pristine, face bare and open. Vulnerable in an innocent way, as if he was simply in the garden, talking to himself.

“He truly thought they would kill me, or that Jaehwan would.” Beomgyu closes his hand into a fist, and presses it to his chest. “I did not disagree he would be capable of it, but I cared significantly less than he did.”

He looks directly at Yeonjun, and Yeonjun allows him to meet his eyes this time.

“I would rather die for having given myself to the man I loved than live a long, miserable life never having touched him at all.”

Yeonjun unfolds his hands just to grip the edge of the bench tightly. “You never thought you would outlive him.”

Beomgyu nods. “The option never occurred to me.”

Yeonjun lowers his eyes with his nod of response. His next breath of air feels freezing, aching in his throat and his lungs. “When did he agree to have you, then?”

It takes Beomgyu a long time to answer – when Yeonjun looks at him again, he is chewing on his lips, his eyes sparkling with tears that have not fallen yet – caught up in a memory, no doubt. Yeonjun thinks about holding him in his arms, like his mother would hold him as a child. Caressing his cheek, holding his hand, doing anything to comfort him – but it would require him to cross the short distance between them, and it feels insurmountable in the moment, the fabric of time stretched between them, as Beomgyu loses himself in his own past.

“I…” he hesitates, so unusually for himself. “Broke out in my first pre-heat. I felt so… different. Heightened. Every feeling was so large, so intense. Sadness and want, my anger…” Beomgyu shakes his head. “It came to a head, I suppose. For so long, I got to ignore my nature, to pretend I could never want for an alpha, that even as my mate, Jaehwan would leave me cold, and it would be so easy for me to reject him. But it was not what my instincts told me. Not what my body felt. Even in pre-heat, I knew. When this time came, I would long for him. For anyone. One day, I would be his, one day, it would be his right to claim my body whenever heat took it, and I could not, I would not let him take a maiden’s body. I cried and I raged in my room until I became too weak to stand. I knew I was hurting him, that he felt so much guilt about my distress, but I was young, and I was terrified, and in my head there was only one remedy, and he was so… caught up, in his worry of me, in my mind, that he only caused me greater pain as a consequence.”

Beomgyu sighs, and the breath hiccups in the softest of sobs.

“I only found true understanding of how he felt once he was gone, I think. I suppose learning what loss feels like taught me what he was so desperate to avoid.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes. Beomgyu sniffles softly a few times, and he hears the rustling of fabric as Beomgyu moves, but he does not come any closer.

“Is that when he had you, then? During your first heat?”

“No.” Beomgyu’s voice sounds choked. Yeonjun does not open his eyes to look at him. “He kissed me for the first time, while I was in tears, weak in my first, poorly-made nest, and he held me. I tore at his clothes during the worst of it, and he would let me touch above the waist, he would let me plaster myself to his body, needing any sort of contact so desperately, but he would not take me. He would pet my hair and kiss my face and speak these stilted words of comfort… and he would smell like he wanted me. But he was so patient. As I was losing my mind, he kept his cool, he held me steady, and once my heat fever broke, once I regained my senses…” Yeonjun opens his eyes just to see him shrug his shoulders. His face is reddened, and eyes watery. “He offered to take my maidenhood, if I still wanted him to.” He laughs, wet and breathless, mirthless. “I threw… I threw my robe at him, for making me suffer through my first heat without his touch. I pulled his hair when he kissed me, I bit his neck, I scratched at his shoulder. He was so cruel to me, but he seemed so joyful. I broke his resolve, but not enough to take me for the first time when my mind was filled with need for a knot he could never give me.”

He springs to his feet, and Yeonjun almost retreats as Beomgyu approaches him, but he only sits next to him on the bench, reaching out for Yeonjun’s hand, who lets him hold it between both of his own. One is hot, and one is ice cold. The sensation feels strange on Yeonjun’s skin.

“He smiled so much while taking me. Even though I knew he was still scared – maybe he wanted me not to worry about him. He told me about how beautiful he found me, how tempted he was, holding me. How he had dreamt of me, of my touch, of my body, of my voice saying his name the way only lovers do.”

Goosebumps rise on Yeonjun’s skin. His imagination fills the gaps for him. Beomgyu’s flushed face, and a smile on those lips in Beomgyu’s portrait of Kai. Mischief in dark eyes, and an innocent but desperate devotion on Beomgyu’s chocolate ones. Beomgyu’s hands spreading on a pair of wide shoulders. Warm breath on his cheek, and hushed, heated words. Lewd confessions, hands eager but hesitant.

The image shifts in his mind. Fingers tangling in his hair as his lover takes firm hold of his head, to bring their faces close, to tell him he is beautiful, how good he feels. Bringing their bodies close, as firmly as they can fit together, as deep as it goes, saying this is what it feels like to be yours. And the correction is on the tip of his tongue, because he hardly feels like he is his own, his own body has given out, his mind has wandered, and the only thing steady about him are the firm hands holding him, but he never says anything. He burrows deeper, closer to that warmth, that comfort. That stinging scent, the hot, burning need it sates. He sinks into the other body, into Taehyun’s body, lets consciousness drift away from him.

He remembers his first night with his husband as such a hazy, dream-like thing. Heat-sickness and Taehyun’s scent seeping into his skin, desperation and satisfaction and skin on sweat-slick skin. Fragments of things they said in the throes of it, stupid, meaningless things meant only to drive each other even madder in their desire. Possessive, wanton, childish things. As if the next day would never come, as if they never had to leave the bed again.

Yeonjun takes in a shaky breath. Beomgyu squeezes his hand.

“I believed he loved me, before that day, but I had known it since then. He was gentle with me, he was so patient, and I was so angry, and I loved him so dearly.”

“Do you remember it well?”

Beomgyu seems surprised by the question, but maybe he understands in the end, because he answers without questioning him. “I believe I could recall every second of it.”

Yeonjun lays his hand over Beomgyu’s as it still covers his own. Their eyes meet from up close.

“Whatever happens here, I never intend to forget it.”

And Yeonjun’s throat feels tight as he says, “I would never ask you to do so.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun falls asleep with Kai’s portrait under his pillow, dreams of his husband and wakes to Beomgyu sitting at his side at breakfast, smiling at him softly as he bites into a slice of fruit. Lively conversation chippers around them, and Yeonjun is deaf to it, all his senses focused on Beomgyu’s small smile. His lips. His fingers, holding the bite up to his mouth. His scent, citrusy, but mild with the sleepy atmosphere.

He raises a hand to his own mouth, rubbing his lips as if he had to wipe a kiss off of them. Beomgyu huffs in amusement and looks away, leaning towards Eunbi to add something to her conversation with Dayeon, making them both laugh before looking at Yeonjun again.

“You need to eat, Your Grace,” he says mildly, and Yeonjun nods and looks down at his plate, raising a bite mechanically to his mouth.

Again, as if his vision blurs, as if his nose flares with a phantom scent. He sees Beomgyu encouraging him to eat, smiling at him as he obeys his gentle suggestion, it is his alpha doing so. Offering him water to drink. Touching his leg under the table, just a faint brush of a touch. It is spice, it is citrus. It is Beomgyu, it is Taehyun. It is Kai, in his place, falling slowly for Beomgyu’s easy magnetism. He is hard to look away from; to ignore.

His mind swims, with thoughts of arching backs and whispered promises. Praise and sweat and bruises.

Dayeon looks at him with concern, and he lowers his eyes to his food, like a disobedient young courtesan, caught zoning out during an important event. Bashful, embarrassed. Childish.

He needs to get his act together; he is a man, not a boy. He knows better than to succumb to thoughts like this, he has for such a long time. All he needs to do is find that resolve again.

It feels so far away, however, with citrus invading his nose with every breath.

 

.

 

“If he was your attendant, was he much older than you, then?”

Yeonjun’s brow furrows with the thought – he looked so young in Beomgyu’s painting, but what sense would it make otherwise? Could a child care for a child?

Beomgyu looks up at him. He is laying down on the floor of the tea room, perpendicular to Yeonjun this time, to make looking at him a bit easier. Still, it is so uncouth of him. It is so uncouth of Yeonjun to let this stand.

“No, we were about the same age. They gave him to me when I arrived as a… playmate of sorts. While I learned my letters, he learned how to care for me, and he was by my side every day, sworn by duty to be at my beck and call.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “Did you take advantage of it?”

Beomgyu smiles a little, with an edge of sorrow to it. “Probably. I did not know any better.”

“You must not have been a cruel master, if he had never grown to resent you.”

Beomgyu turns his head towards the ceiling again. “I suppose. He always liked to think the best of me. To see the good in me, even as I grew…” He halts suddenly, and Yeonjun assumes he will not continue, when he suddenly finishes with, “Hateful.”

“It seems like you were given an ample reason to.”

Once again, Beomgyu looks at him, sharply this time, searching. “Perhaps that is just the way I tell my story. I paint monsters, to seem like less of one myself in comparison.”

Yeonjun swallows, his throat tight. “I have never seen you as monstrous, Beomgyu.”

And Beomgyu breathes heavily through his nose, his chest heaving for a moment before he looks away again. “Neither have I. What luxury I live in, to think myself righteous all the time.”

“You would have gone a long way at the Imperial Court, had that been the court you married into.”

As if his curiosity was piqued, Beomgyu turns to him completely, folding himself neatly, beautifully on his side, looking up at him from the cushion of his arms. “How old were you when you were brought there?”

“Eleven, I believe.” Just to have something to do, Yeonjun reaches out to pour himself wine he does not drink. “Young enough to have lost my southern manner of speech by now.”

“Right.” Beomgyu worries at his lips. “Does it differ much from the way they speak at the Imperial Court?”

He shakes his head slightly, and picks at his sleeve. “It is very slight, but definitely noticeable enough to make you stick out should you just arrive at court one day wielding it.”

“Did it make you stick out, then?”

Yeonjun shifts. “It… had earned me some ridicule, among the young courtesans. The south is… considerably less affluent than the rest of the Empire. Its reputation… has suffered, as a consequence, and children are not known for their keen understanding of tact.”

“Ah.”

“Suffice it to say, I had lost my southern affect rather quickly. My aunt made sure to make it so. She had to teach herself to abandon it as well, when she married into the Court.”

“Everyone here speaks of this Court with such awe – is it truly such a wonderful place to be?”

It feels almost blasphemous to hear. How could Beomgyu not think of the Imperial Court as the court to rival all courts? The most awe-inspiring, beautiful, prestigious place to be in all the world?

Now, maybe more than ever, he feels so foreign to Yeonjun. Does he have to explain the wonders of the Imperial Court? Does the very name not make it clear?

“Of course,” he leans forward, as if to emphasize. “It is the place that gathers all the greatest scholars, artists and philosophers in the country. The richest of all the courts, and the most beautiful place I have ever seen. When they were bringing me to the palace through the city, I thought I was dreaming – I have never seen a place so colorful before, so bustling with life, and when we entered the palace, it felt like entering an entire city of its own - it was so lively, filled with people from all over the Empire, the best of the best the country had to offer, wearing the finest clothes, living in such unimaginable luxury.”

Beomgyu wrinkles his nose. “They must have all been the most stuck-up people you have ever met.”

Yeonjun snorts, a bit impolitely. “The palace was big enough to house people of all kinds. Both with and without humility.”

“But they all mocked you for speaking like a southerner.”

He huffs, somehow unhappy with Beomgyu’s lack of enthusiasm. “The children did, in their youthful foolishness.”

“Was your aunt a child when she married?”

Yeonjun finds himself pouting in frustration, and Beomgyu laughs at him mercilessly.

“You are correct, Yeonjun, every great court has its fair share of bigotry and prejudice. In this aspect, as well, the Imperial Court is a place like any other.”

“If you did not wish to hear of its splendor, why did you ask?”

Beomgyu shrugs. “Perhaps I hoped to hear of them eating every meal off of golden plates and crunching on pearls for dessert. Building the Emperor’s quarters out of marble and rubies.”

“They are wealthy, not mad,” Yeonjun argues, exasperated.

“Those often come hand in hand,” Beomgyu retorts easily. “Or they did, when it came to my father-in-law.”

Yeonjun sighs. “Well, my father in law has no such predilections as yours.”

Beomgyu sits up suddenly, propping himself up on his arms. “So he robs cities like mine, just to build an ordinary court?”

The words hurt, and Yeonjun knows he should be relenting, that he should have compassion, but speaking ill of the court that raised him, that let him raise himself out of his lowly station, feels unthinkable. “There is nothing ordinary about the Imperial Court.”

“To a poor noble who has never seen a painted house before, perhaps.”

A fire lights in Yeonjun’s chest. “You truly do think yourself righteous in every situation, do you not, Beomgyu? Is derision towards my upbringing only righteous when it comes out of your lips, or do you consider yourself to be as stuck up as you claim the imperial courtiers to be?”

Beomgyu lifts his chin. “I am stuck up. I was raised in luxury – I am not like you, to be wowed by gold and splendor.”

Yeonjun’s breath catches in his throat. “Oh, you are so virtuous, Omega Beomgyu, what wisdom do you possess, to be better than us mortals whose eyes see beauty and know the value of money.” He clenches his fingers in his robes – they are woven through with silver thread, so fine, so soft on his skin, tinted with such expensive dyes. When he was young, most dyed fabric was red, as it was easy to come by. His world used to be red with his little claims to luxury, and green with vast meadows, blue with lakes so large they seemed to him indistinguishable from a sea. He learned of so many colors at the Imperial Court. He learned of pain, of prejudice, of dishonor and deviance, but he learned of beauty and art and the world and progress. He learned of love, of deception, of care and of rivalry.

Maybe he will never be able to think ill of the Court, no matter what happens. It means too much to him. Represents too much. The place where he grew from a boy into a man.

“Have you ever dirtied your feet with mud, Beomgyu? Do you know what thirst feels like? Have you ever fallen into a pond, have you ever climbed a tree?”

Beomgyu’s eyes narrow. They blaze, in a similar way to the way Taehyun’s do, the way that makes his heart race, but it is racing already this time, for a different reason. “No.”

Yeonjun reaches out to close his hand around his cup of wine. “Then perhaps you are not as world-wise as you believe yourself to be. Just because you do not have comparison does not mean the gold of a wealthy city has no worth.”

He drinks the wine as Beomgyu leans forward. “Do you know how to climb trees, Your Grace?”

He knows how to row boats and fling mud, how to weave flower crowns and how to clench his teeth through slicing both of his knees open on a rocky path. But he also knows how to play the flute, how to do calligraphy and read books, how to keep a household and how to serve tea. He was shaped by both places, by the Choi ancestral home and by the Imperial Court, and he holds both close to his heart.

“I have many skills have had had the luxury to forget, Omega Beomgyu.” He sets the cup down and folds his hands in his lap again primly. “I will tell you this – when I arrived at court as a boy, it was just in time for the spring celebration, the traditional time for young nobles to be introduced as new courtiers, and it seemed that the whole palace was abloom with flowers. During the ceremony, they give you this flower,” he raises his hand to demonstrate, cupping an imaginary blossom in his hand. “You are brought before the Emperor, surrounded by his family, all dressed in imperial colors, the larger than life people you only ever hear of outside of the Imperial City, and you bow as deeply as your body allows, as close to the ground as you go. And when he tells you to rise, you offer him this flower.” He reaches the hand out towards Beomgyu, who watches in warily. “It represents you. Your life. Your youth. All loyalties you have had, before the Court. And he takes it, to accept your fealty. Your submission. You. He accepts you, into his home and household, into his care and protection.”

“Why—”

“All I thought,” Yeonjun interrupts him, his hand wobbling between them with his passion. “When I was giving him my flower. When I was offering myself up to the royal family, as a mere child, as a footnote of a footnote of a footnote, was that I wanted to stand by their side one day. Me, in imperial purples. Me, wrapped in legend, in prestige, in wealth, until I was barely to be recognized as human.”

To never worry about a poor harvest again. To never wonder about the future of his family name. To never have to think about whether he could find a good marriage for his children.

A greedy heart – he has always had such a greedy, insatiable heart.

He looks at Beomgyu, at his startled face, and he craves his lips. He could crawl into his lap, right now, press himself into him, like a wanton, lustful thing. He could take even more. There is always more to aspire to, more to desire, more daydreaming to torture himself with. He feels set alight with this old, burning ambition. The same child that wanted to be royal wants Beomgyu now, and despite all odds, it has been granted its wishes once before.

Taehyun spoils him, he spoiled him so cruelly, and now Yeonjun knows so little restraint.

He closes his fist, and brings it to his chest. “You told me before that you did not believe me to have a wicked heart.”

Beomgyu shakes his head, and lays back down, staring at the ceiling. “And I still do not.” He lifts his head just to let it drop almost violently, then sighs deeply. “Maybe you have not gotten all the power you desired, but you’ve got your scraps. Your golden leash,” Beomgyu hisses the words out, then shuts his eyes tightly, wincing. “And I have seen how you treat your power.” He shakes his head, sighing again. “Whatever you are, Yeonjun, you are not evil.”

And somehow, even though Beomgyu’s word should not mean any more to him than any other, his shoulders slump. He exhales, suddenly exhausted. “A dreamer, perhaps.”

Beomgyu stares off into space, face inscrutable. “What a romantic way to put it.”

 

.

 

As sure as the tides, Yeonjun’s winter heat hits. He welcomes his preheat with an unusual melancholy. Maybe somewhere deep inside he had hoped that the last time the prince had taken him took. He was close to his rut, after all, even though Yeonjun was nowhere near his heat. It could have resulted in a pregnancy. It could have.

He feels too warm for days, slightly dizzy, easily irritated by smells. His body urges him to eat and seek out comfort, and he finds some solace in wine and winter furs in the evenings, as he sits in his bed thinking of his husband who is not coming. His alpha, the only true remedy, days of travel away, with other concerns on his mind. Yeonjun’s scent sweetens to his own nose, sugary, ripe fruit. The most delectable of grapes, to remain in a heap on his bed, unplucked.

They make arrangements, to make sure his heat does not disturb the goings-on in the household, that they will be ready for his absence. He summons the lord steward to make sure he will take over once Yeonjun becomes unable to carry out his duties, and he watches the man’s face too carefully. Does he breathe in Yeonjun’s pre-heat scent gratefully? Does he seem stirred by the thought of him in heat? Does he adore him? He cannot tell; cannot decide – perhaps he would prefer not to know, and his mind is kind enough to spare him.

If anyone does, it is Beomgyu. His eyes linger on Yeonjun, when he dresses in the morning, when they sit close to each other, when Yeonjun’s mind travels in directions it should not in polite company, compelled by the oncoming heat, and the sugary fruit explodes in fragrant ripeness. It makes Yeonjun feel even warmer whenever he notices it, and it mixes with the agitation, the irritation to make him feel primed to break, should relief not come to him soon.

He needs alpha, he wants Beomgyu. His skin itches with the need to be touched, his legs ache to close around something firm, something that gives the promise of relief.

When he wakes up feverish, with sticky thighs and sweat gathering on his brow, he is almost glad for his heat to have started. Now he can lay in bed, in his perfect, too-hot misery, undignified, instinct-driven, without judgment. Without consequence.

He weeps and repeats his husband’s name to himself. He sheds his clothes and holds his wrist tightly to his own face, breathing in warm spice. He rubs his wrist on his body, like he could rub the trace of Taehyun into his own skin. As if he could pretend, in any way, that he is there with him.

But he is not; he never is. Not his scent, not his body. Only Yeonjun’s empty bedroom that feels so loomingly large to Yeonjun’s feverish eyes. Quiet, lonely. Scent-free. Too clean. Yeonjun thinks of Beomgyu sprawled on a patch of fur on the floor, and he writhes in his bed.

He never tries to nest outside of it. His heat is better contained to his bed, that can have curtains drawn around it for privacy and propriety, that is the only place where Yeonjun should ever allow himself to be this vulnerable. He scrapes the heels of his palms down his thighs, trying to push the aches away, sinks his nails into his own abdomen to find relief in the little bits of stinging pain he is capable of stopping.

Haewon finds him eventually – he woke up in the middle of the night and never called for her, so she only discovers him once she comes to prepare the room for his morning routine, and she lets out a little gasp at the sight of him naked and disheveled, red marks all over his skin from all his futile attempts to stop it from hurting.

He gasps for breath, pained, watching her fuss with squinted eyes as she picks up all the things he had knocked off the bed with his squirming. She brings him water and makes him drink, brings him fresh underclothes he only puts on because he does not have the energy to fight her insistence. She has someone fetch the physician and puts up the curtain that is to protect his modesty, and make him feel safer, in an enclosed nest that does not feel as achingly undefendable as his bedroom does.

The physician checks for his obvious fever, asks him questions Yeonjun forgets as soon as he answers them, about his pain, about the clarity of his mind, about the slick that he feels leaking out of him unbidden, even as he stays as still as he possibly could, unsettled in his heat by the presence of the beta near him.

He leaves him the same tea he always does, the one that numbs his senses and helps him find rest, some ointments, including those to treat open wounds. Yeonjun chews on his lip while he watches him leave it on a side table for Haewon to find. They know he is prone to hurting himself in his stupor, clawing at his own skin too hard, tearing at his wrist with his teeth.

The pain makes him lose all dignity, all composure. In his heat, he is truly helpless.

 

.

 

They come to see him – all his ladies arrive just on time for the numbing tea to do its job of making Yeonjun feel sedated and woozy, no doubt thanks to Haewon’s good thinking. He allows the curtain of his nest to be drawn on one side, and the ladies to be let in. With the help of a heap of pillows, he sits up and smiles at them wanly as they flutter in with words of worry and compassion. Dayeon sits on the edge of his bed and pats at his knee through the blanket, her hazelnut scent warm and comforting, but so starkly not what he needs it leaves him feeling a bit nauseous. Eunbi lays a tray of finger foods in his lap with a sympathetic smile. She has never had a heat of her own, most of them have not. Only Soojin and Dayeon have any real idea how he feels.

And Beomgyu.

There is Beomgyu.

At the back of the group, carefully distant from Yeonjun and his heat scent – Beomgyu, with narrowed, dark eyes, a tension in his face. Dressed in a sunny yellow, as if it was a joyful summer day, and not the middle of a winter that has felt so cruel to him this year. The faintest hint of honeyed citrus.

The ladies tell him things, about the household, about his health, about each other, but Yeonjun can barely hear them. He pushes food past his lips without tasting it, and everything tastes like citrus, like a nearly indiscernible tone of spice. They have him drink water and promise to come again the next day. Beomgyu does not say a word the whole time, does not come any closer. Yeonjun lays in his bed when they leave, knowing that the herbs should be lulling him to sleep, but instead he wonders about the smell of Kai. The smell of Kai’s heat.

Is his warmed body so repulsive to everyone around him? Why is it so easy for everyone to resist it? Perhaps he smells too potently of crushed fruit. Perhaps it is because he does not smell exotic enough, expensive enough. Such a common scent. Hardly worthy of a noble.

His teeth worry at his wrist, his tongue tasting spice as he scrapes his scent gland raw. It does not bleed yet, but it reddens at him angrily. Yeonjun stares at it blankly through the haze of medicine. It feels like a warning, like being chided, to stare at how bright his skin gets when he does this. Another failure of his, more broken composure. Desperation is such an ugly thing, but it tastes so sweet on his tongue when he licks over the abused skin. Spice, and more spice, layered over sugared fruit he barely registers.

Beomgyu would tell him his pain is a failure of the prince’s – that he is responsible for this, but Yeonjun fails to see how. Many wives need to spend their heats away from their mate sometimes. Do all of them need to have their wounds treated afterwards? Do they cry with agony? Whisper their husband’s name where they could not possibly hear it? He doubts it; he struggles to imagine it. He has met so many noble, graceful, composed omegas. None of them would ache this way in his situation he is sure. There is a more put-together, stronger, better omega he could be, if he had only let go of all his weaknesses, of all the fruitless desires he clings onto.

It is his hunger that tortures him; not the prince.

Beomgyu does not understand – even though he should, as someone who has hungered in the past as well. But Kai was never as distant from him as the prince is from Yeonjun. He does not know true loneliness. The loneliness of a voluntary separation.

 

.

 

He believes he sleeps some, and then he claws at himself and relieves himself until another peak subsides, and Haewon comes in with a basin of water and a cloth for him to wipe himself down with, or have her do it if he needs her to. Disgusted with himself, he drags it over his sore body himself, and tries not to remember the prince’s hands wiping paint off of his face. He grits his teeth through the ache and exhaustion, blocking out the sound of Haewon slipping out of the room and coming back until she is right there at the curtain again, with a discreet little clearing of her throat to alert him to her presence before she speaks.

“Your Grace.”

It feels so tiring, to be called by his title in this state. “Yes, Haewon.”

“The concubine is in the waiting room.”

Yeonjun’s eyes shoot up to her face. She seems as impassive as ever, trained well to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. “Alone?”

But even she has her limits. She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip, hesitating the smallest amount. “Yes, Your Grace. He said he wishes to see you, should you allow it.”

He takes in a shaky breath. His whole body aches, and he is wracked with unfulfilled want. This would be awful for him, so unthinkably terrible.

But he was a comfort to Beomgyu, was he not? In all chastity and propriety. He and his scent made Beomgyu feel better. Maybe he could find a similar sort of relief in him, in turn.

He squeezes the cloth in his hand, and lukewarm water rushes down his forearm in rivulets, ticklish on his oversensitive skin. “Haewon.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She bows at the waist, proper.

Yeonjun breathes shallowly, rapidly. “Bring him in.”

She hesitates again, still deep in her bow. Just for a moment. “Yes, Your Grace.”

He sinks into his pillows. Haewon disappears into the door and when it next opens, Beomgyu is in it instead. Still dressed in a sunny, bright yellow, with a bare face and his hair modestly down, but still styled neatly. Haewon scurries past him to pick up the basin, take the cloth from Yeonjun and disappear into the servant’s door. Beomgyu watches her go, and Yeonjun watches Beomgyu.

“It is not appropriate for you to be here.”

Beomgyu bows politely. “Good evening to you as well, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun looks down at his own lap. “What is it?”

“You know what it is,” Beomgyu retorts, dismissive, and comes closer shamelessly, pulling Yeonjun’s curtain back so he can take the same seat Dayeon did earlier in the day, sitting by Yeonjun’s legs. “I am here to repay your kindness.”

Slightly bitter citrus, still so magnetic despite the unpleasant note in it, refreshing, relieving. If he rubbed it into his sore wrists, it could smell like the most magical kind of comfort. Yeonjun breathes in slowly, deeply, despite himself. His limbs feel so weak when some of the tension seeps out of them, and he sinks further into his bed. “It is not your place to bestow kindness upon me.”

“Would you rather I did not come at all?” Beomgyu’s tone is blunt, a little ruthless. “They tell me some of your heats were heart-wrenching ordeals, even to the betas.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. His ladies notice. They see it, they see his healing wounds afterwards, the weariness in his face when they come to see him to try and cheer him up. They hear about the disgusting smell of distress seeping out of his quarters that time of the year.

“You smell awful.”

Yeonjun’s face scrunches up even more, and he opens his eyes to glare at Beomgyu. “Thank you for your astute observation, Omega Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu rolls his eyes and reaches out to cover Yeonjun’s hand with his own. “Do you miss him?”

He does not have the energy to pull his hand away, but just enough to keep up his glare. “Have you come here to mock me? Because if so, I would rather sleep.”

Beomgyu shakes his head and lifts Yeonjun’s hand to his mouth as if to press a kiss to it, stopping just shy of his lips and lowering it again, as if thinking better of it. “You do not only reek of pain and heat, is all I meant to say.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together tightly, then looks away. “Please enjoy the rich scent of abandonment, then.”

It feels wrong on his lips, such a whiny, childish thing to say. Pouting because his husband is away. So entitled, wanting him here, wanting him on him, in him, around him.

Something almost like a laugh escapes Beomgyu. The citrus sweetens a little, and Yeonjun relaxes even further. Beomgyu is comforting to him, as if he belongs in Yeonjun’s bed at this time, not to be tolerated but to be welcomed. “Is this where all your righteous anger at him goes? This is how you let it out? Cursing his name in your heat nest?”

Yeonjun bites down hard on his lip. “I would never do such a thing.”

Beomgyu’s free hand reaches up, and delicate fingers brush over the sore skin of his wrist. It tingles, perhaps because it is swollen with blood and sensitive, or perhaps with the promise of being stained with citrus. “I wish you would. He deserves it.”

“Do not speak of him that way.”

Beomgyu’s thumb presses into his scent gland, and it feels not unlike aggravating a bruise. “Do it for me, then. You have more cause than I do.”

Hot tears roll down his cheeks, but they hardly register with how warm his face is with the fever. “I do not hate him, Beomgyu.”

“How?” Beomgyu’s fingers slide further up his forearm, where some of the red tracks left behind by his nails have not faded yet. “He allows this to happen to you.”

Yeonjun finds the strength to cover Beomgyu’s wandering hand with his other palm. “I would rather this than be beaten.”

Beomgyu looks away from him, and withdraws the hand that almost made it to Yeonjun’s elbow. “It is more of a natural torture than this.”

He sighs, so deeply it almost hurts in his chest. “Is that what you would want for me, then?”

“No,” Beomgyu snaps back, surprisingly incensed. “But I do not want this for you, either, and that angers me – and it angers me even more to see you accepting it so readily.”

Exasperated, Yeonjun grasps the hand Beomgyu still has over his in both of his palms, squeezing it. “Beomgyu – this is new to you, but it is not to me. I have had years to get used to this. Forgive me if I seem too able to come to terms with it to your taste.”

Beomgyu looks him up and down with a frown. “If this is you when you have come to terms with it, I do not wish to see what you were like when you have not yet done so.”

Yeonjun squeezes his hand again. “You do not.”

Beomgyu lays his hand over Yeonjun’s, squeezing in return. “If you will not take a lover, at least take my scent.”

Yeonjun looks away. “Haewon will—”

“Haewon is a beta. Will she even notice? And she has already let me in here, how much worse would traces of my scent on you be?”

He tears his hands away from Beomgyu’s and sinks them into his hair instead. “We… we will have to pay her. For her silence. I cannot… have the guards seen you come in? If you scent me, they will be able to smell me on you, I…”

Beomgyu scoots closer to him on the bed. “Calm down. I’m an omega, will they really think the worst of you? Can I not have concern for my alpha’s other mate?”

Yeonjun looks at Beomgyu from between his forearms, fingers still clutching at his own hair. “Are you mad? You yourself evangelized to me about how normal it is to take lovers of the same sex.”

“And I was under the impression that the Empire did not see it to be such.”

It makes sense; it is a deviancy, something that only ever happens in a court as strange and vast as the imperial one. Here, out in the provinces? Who has ever heard of such a thing?

He slowly relaxes, little by little. Pain wracks his body as he realizes how close to him Beomgyu is now, and his legs twitch, air filling with crushed fruit with a hint of spice. Beomgyu shakes in response, just a little bit, but enough for Yeonjun to notice.

Yeonjun watches, still stuck in the same position, as Beomgyu slowly leans in, as if pulled in by an invisible force. He braces his hands by Yeonjun’s hips, and he swallows with his throat dry.

“Who would ever suspect you? You always behave yourself so properly at all times. And the guard likes you. Soobin likes you – despite everything.”

He looks down at Beomgyu’s lips. The air is honey, citrus, fruit, sugar and spice. He tilts his face down, so he does not have to face Beomgyu head-on.

“It is not selfish of you to seek relief.”

He closes his eyes. Beomgyu’s fingers close around both his wrists, and draw his hands away from his head. They hang between them, leaving Yeonjun time to tear them away from Beomgyu’s grip. But he does not.

Lips touch the scent gland on his wrist, plush but dry, followed by the flat of a tongue that makes his stomach lurch as he flinches, his entire body responding to the touch. It burns and tingles and soothes on his raw skin. He sobs, wishing he had a free hand to hide his reaction with, but Beomgyu still holds onto both of them. Licking over one while rubbing his thumb over the other. Wetness and warmth gather in his lap, and he squirms to relieve himself. Beomgyu presses another kiss to his wrist.

Yeonjun’s heart hammers in his chest painfully. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, as if it did not only enhance the other sensations, the cooling spit on the wrist Beomgyu lowers and the electricity shooting up and down his arm when he kisses the other. This is not scenting; this is not something a friend would do. It is nothing so innocent that they would not need to feel guilty about indulging in. This is Beomgyu drinking his heat scent from his wrist, like Yeonjun does to himself, but so much more gently. Sensually, as hard as it is for Yeonjun to even think it.

“Beomgyu.”

He just hums in response, into Yeonjun’s skin, and the low sound of it, the vibration of it, makes Yeonjun squirm all over again. His body protests and melts for it at the same time, mixing up signals, responding to alpha who is not there, craving Beomgyu, wanting him closer, wanting him gone. Wanting Beomgyu to keep kissing his wrist, wanting his lips at his neck instead, wanting them between his legs. Wanting and wanting and wanting.

He cries openly, and when Beomgyu stops covering his mouth with Yeonjun’s scent, it is to come even closer, to card his fingers through Yeonjun’s hair, rub his thumb over Yeonjun’s cheek, to shush him like a child. Beomgyu presses a kiss to his cheek, and he makes a wounded noise. He blindly seeks Beomgyu’s lips, to press his own into them, taste his own scent on them, but Beomgyu either misunderstands his motion or avoids his lips on purpose. Yeonjun opens his stinging eyes to Beomgyu’s face drawn in compassion.

“Does it hurt?”

Yeonjun mutely shakes his head. It is not pain that is making him lose all composure. It is a strange mix of relief and a hungry, burning desire.

Beomgyu nods, as if he understands. He wipes tears off of both his cheeks, and presses his lips right next to Yeonjun’s mouth. “Can I scent you now?”

Yeonjun wishes he would kiss him again, but he nods instead and lifts his chin to bare his neck. He stares at the curtains drawn around the bed. They offer privacy, but they do not block scents. Citrus will be all over his bed; all over him. Haewon is a beta, but her nose is not broken. She will know.

This time, Beomgyu does not press his wrist to Yeonjun’s neck, but Yeonjun expects it, so he is ready to muffle the whine that almost comes out of him when Beomgyu’s face delves into the crook of his neck. His nose, his cheek, his lips, the skin of Beomgyu’s own neck when he pushes his hair out of the way, the silk of them tickling at Yeonjun’s jaw all the while. An intoxicating burn, a tingle, as if his skin was cracking, as if he was breaking out in pleasured hives. His mind filling with static, with citrus, body going numb and warm at the same time.

As if his body is not his own, as if the only steady thing about his body was the one looming over his…

He finds himself crying again, reaching up to wrap his arms around the warmth, bringing it closer. A hand comes up to his waist, a soothing thumb smoothing over his skin through the fabric of his underclothes, cool on his fever-hot body. An embrace. Yeonjun hides his face in Beomgyu’s hair and sobs, unable to control himself anymore. Their bodies slot together awkwardly.

Citrus blends into fruit and spice, drops of lemon swirling in spiced wine, and there is so much honey and wretched bitterness. Comfort and shared pain. Beomgyu holds him, and Yeonjun cannot stop crying.

Eventually, he realizes Beomgyu is rocking him, no longer as much scenting him as keeping his face tucked into Yeonjun’s neck, swaying him gently side to side. His hands have wormed under Yeonjun’s back enough to hold him in return.

He almost laughs as it sinks in, and Beomgyu’s arms tighten around him at the sound. Yeonjun moves one hand to tuck a strand of Beomgyu’s hair behind his ear.

“Are you feeling better?” Beomgyu’s breath is hot and wet on Yeonjun’s neck.

Is he? He thinks he is. Their scents have mingled in an intoxicating way – if Taehyun claimed that their scents together made him think of the two of them safe with one another, then what Yeonjun thinks he feels is the sensation of being safe without his alpha. A foreign, dizzying feeling.

“I think so,” he whispers in response. He keeps carding his fingers through Beomgyu’s hair. It is surprisingly light in color; shiny brown silk slipping out of his grasp like water. “I miss him terribly.”

Beomgyu seems to press himself into Yeonjun’s body even tighter, and it does not hurt; it warms. “Me too.”

Yeonjun spreads his fingers on the center of Beomgyu’s back. “We do not speak of the same man.”

“No we don’t.” Beomgyu’s hand frees itself from behind Yeonjun’s back, to land somewhere near his ribs, Beomgyu’s thumb right below the swell of his breast – still altogether unimpressive, due to his second gender, but softer now, when his body is in the middle of a heat. Dangerous. The placement of his hand feels dangerous. “Must we?”

He does not think he needs to reply, and Beomgyu seems to expect no response, as he raises himself from Yeonjun’s weakened grasp, wiping tears off of his own face Yeonjun never noticed him shedding.

Yeonjun wants to hold him again, wants to never stop holding him.

“Give me…” Beomgyu’s voice sounds unusually rough, broken. Affected. “Give me a moment to compose myself. Then I will… then I can go.”

“Don’t.” Unbidden, without conscious thought. Yeonjun holds Beomgyu’s hand. “Stay.”

Beomgyu looks at Yeonjun’s blanket-covered legs, which are sticky with need at this point. Drenched in his lust for Beomgyu and his elegant, slender, omega body. “Today of all days you should want to run away from me, Your Grace.”

“But…” there is no but. Beomgyu is right. The longer they are around each other, the more likely he is to do something he will never forgive himself for. But forgiveness feels like such a foreign concept, when surrounded by the mixed scents of the two… of the three of them. Beomgyu’s body, the delicate, graceful, warm thing that it is, the body he just held onto in his desperation… it would fit so well into his. In kisses and caresses and comfort, in a fever in which he slowly loses himself in his body, until he no longer feels like his own. Until he loses all control, until his mind is wiped of all conscious thought.

Beomgyu reaches out to pet his cheek. “No lovers allowed, in the bed of the virtuous princess consort, remember?”

He chews on his lips. “We don’t need to make love.”

Beomgyu’s eyebrow quirks, but he withdraws his hand. “You do not sound like yourself.”

He does not feel like himself. Beomgyu looks away from him, shaking his head, facing the door instead.

“I know better now, than to take advantage of others. Kai forgave me out of love, but you may not.”

“Am I so easy to deny?” It hurts to put into words the doubt that has been gnawing at him. He’s limp against the pillows, defeated. “Even in my heat? Is my body so easy to ignore? Am I not beautiful enough? Am I not sensual? Am I—”

“Stop it,” Beomgyu snaps, shockingly firm. “You know better. Do you not? Do you think I scent you out of ambivalence? Offer myself to you, time and time again? Do you think I kiss you to pass the time?”

Yeonjun shuts up, swallowing a lump in his throat. He feels on the verge of tears again.

Beomgyu glares at him, with a derision in his eyes that hurts to see. “I desire you, Your Grace. If you had never expressed to me that you wanted it otherwise, you would have had me in your bed this whole day, at your convenience. I would have given you whatever you needed to find relief, but you told me that is not what you want from me. I will not…” Beomgyu’s voice breaks, the anger shifting into something more akin to anguish. “I will not dishonor your wishes, to sate my own needs. I do not wish to be to you someone who wants you more than cares for you. An omega gets enough of those people as it is.”

Yeonjun shakes his head vigorously. “I am cared for from all sides. Everyone cares for me, everyone worries, everyone sympathizes, but who is there to want me? To love me? Everyone is scared of upsetting the prince by approaching me – I am scared of what the prince might do, should I allow it, and the prince is scared of who knows what, whatever in the world has caused him to shun me. This life of fear leaves us so trapped. I wish I was daring enough to escape it. I wish I was beautiful enough, irresistible enough, to make someone abandon it with me, the way you make me want to.”

Beomgyu’s face shifts. From anguish to compassion to… awe, maybe. Surprise. “Yeonjun…”

“Forget it.” He raises his hands to his own face, pressing down against his own sweaty, feverish forehead. He is dizzy and nauseous with heat, and he is talking nonsense. “I am… I am mad with heat, I… I do not know what I am saying.”

“Yeonjun.”

It sounds steadier this time, and Yeonjun dares to look at him. Beomgyu looks steady and determined, and Yeonjun thinks that is everything he needs right now. Everything he wants. A resolve he himself struggles to find.

“We will pay Haewon for her silence. I will stay, and I will hold you. As… chastely as I can make myself be, around a man possessing of a body like yours, or less, should you wish me to. For tonight, or all the nights, we will…” Beomgyu’s eyes flicker up and down his body. “Cross that bridge, when we get to it.”

Yeonjun nods slowly, and he realizes, with sharp clarity, that ruining oneself is a series of choices. Little allowances, lapses of judgment. Small mistakes that build, tangle into each other until they result in something just like this, a big decision that sounds so simple to make. Nod, or shake his head, but he has already chosen by the time he realizes it.

“There is coin in the dressing room. Where the jewelry is kept. A box inlaid with jade.”

Beomgyu nods and walks away, and Yeonjun lies in horror of himself. What is he doing? What has he agreed to?

He calls for Haewon once the door of the dressing room opens again, and he watches from the bed as Beomgyu hands her the money wordlessly. She looks at Yeonjun, with a look that spells worry more than anything else, but she nods firmly and backs out of the room, leaving through the servant’s door.

Then it’s him, and Beomgyu, and the oppressive silence of Yeonjun’s too-large bed room.

“You regret this,” Beomgyu says, a statement where it could have been a question.

“I will,” he replies, and closes his eyes. Maybe that is a lie; maybe he already does. But… “My bed still smells of you.”

Beomgyu lets out a quiet, amused sound, and Yeonjun slowly opens his eyes again as he comes to sit on the bed again. “It is strange, this… scent thing.”

Yeonjun hums a questioning little noise, seeking out Beomgyu’s hand, who gives it to him readily.

“I have scented you, in his absence, and it felt as good as I expected it to, but—”

“It feels better when he is part of it.”

Beomgyu clicks his tongue. “When his scent is there.” He wrinkles his nose, but it feels more like playfulness than genuine distaste. “The scent of Alpha Taehyun.”

Yeonjun laughs, despite himself. “Nobody ever called him that.”

Beomgyu brings Yeonjun’s hand closer to his chest. “Maybe they should. Maybe he should be reminded at all times that he is an alpha, and he has a duty to his omega.”

“You are also his omega now, Beomgyu, do you want him to carry out his duty to you as well?”

He watches as Beomgyu’s jaw clenches. “If he decides to, I will not resist him – I have decided that a long time ago.”

Yeonjun’s chest feels hollow with the words. He never thought to ask; he just… assumed. “You would… lay with him, if he asked?”

“If he demanded,” Beomgyu shrugs. “If he decided to. At his Court, he seemed…” He shakes his head and sighs, looking at Yeonjun with eyes that ask for his understanding. “Like a man who would be good to an obedient slave. Too busy to torture me, if I did not make a fuss. And I have had enough of having to fight for every breath I take.”

Yeonjun looks at their joined hands. “If he… if he decided to…” give you the child he will not give to me. Will you bear it for him? Will you be the mother he will not make me?

“Not tonight.” Beomgyu leans forward, and presses Yeonjun’s hand to his own chest. “This does not matter tonight. He is not here tonight, and he will not be here tomorrow.” He lets go of Yeonjun, just to begin to climb further onto the bed, over his legs, unladylike and inelegant. “Some bridges we do not have to cross yet.”

“But will you.”

He pauses, kneeling by Yeonjun’s feet. Fully in his nest, but his instincts do not protest. They are soothed, by his presence, by the promise of his touch. “Not before you, if I can help it. In your stead, if I must.”

And Yeonjun’s body melts into the pillows, even as Beomgyu, unprecedented, invasive, warm, beautiful Beomgyu, sheds his overcoat before slipping under the blanket, sidling up to Yeonjun’s side, pressing his legs to Yeonjun’s wet ones as if he did not mind the mess at all, wrapping an arm around his middle as he settles against him.

There is peace in that, is it not? In Beomgyu’s warmth next to his feverish heat. In Beomgyu’s acceptance of their predicament, and the fact that he cares about Yeonjun’s dream of having a child, even though he might never be able to help him make it true.

Slowly, Yeonjun turns to his side, and Beomgyu slots behind him. Yeonjun burns, between his legs and in his chest, but it feels like a controlled burn. A burn he can withstand, if it comes with Beomgyu’s chest against his back, his arm around Yeonjun’s body.

It is awkward, in an exciting way, in a way he is not used to. Even when he shares a bed with the prince, Taehyun does not hold him like this. He holds him to his chest, more often than not, wanting to be facing him at all times. This is different, intimate in a different way. His back, the most vulnerable part of him, cooled and protected. Surrounded by a smell that radiates pure comfort.

He drifts off to sleep like that, his body heavy in its suddenly relaxed state.

 

.

 

Yeonjun does not wake, as much as the haze around his consciousness slowly parts. He is too hot again, his skin hurts and itches. The combined scent of him, Taehyun and Beomgyu keeps a heavy blanket of contentment over him that threatens to pull him down into sleep, but the need is stronger. He will need to relieve himself, before he can rest any more.

But when he shifts, meaning to pull up the hem of his underclothes and take care of himself in the old, well-known, perfunctory, unsatisfying way, there is a weight on his arm that startles him. He whines in confusion, and the arm moves, so a hand can smooth down his arm, and a deep voice shushes him from behind his back.

He turns, while the haze dissipates even more, soothing the potential surprise of coming face to face with Beomgyu’s flushed face. Yeonjun' stares at his petal pink lips, as Beomgyu swallows visibly.

“You… you’re going through a peak. It will pass.”

But instead of answering, Yeonjun leans in to kiss him. Beomgyu lets out a startled sound, and as Yeonjun’s hand comes up by instinct to pull his body closer, winding around Beomgyu’s slim waist, he braces his hands on Yeonjun’s shoulders to keep them separated.

“You aren’t in your right mind,” Beomgyu rushes to say when Yeonjun parts their lips to make an unhappy sound and attempts to pull him in again. “Yeonjun.”

He gives up on trying to pull at him and pushes instead, to roll Beomgyu onto his back, moving him to slide on top of him. Beomgyu grumbles in frustration even as Yeonjun overpowers him, slotting on top of Beomgyu, with his face buried in Beomgyu’s clavicle, cool against his hot cheek, legs parted around Beomgyu’s, with this unsatisfying lack of pressure where he would need it the most.

He breathes heavily into Beomgyu’s exposed skin; licks at his clavicle. Beomgyu breathes out a shaky breath, and picks strands of hair off of Yeonjun’s face carefully.

“You’re heavy,” he breathes out, and somehow, with Beomgyu pressed into him head to toe, Yeonjun’s mind clears enough for him to laugh. Beomgyu sighs, as if in relief.

Yeonjun closes his eyes as Beomgyu traces his jaw, achingly gentle.

“Is it better like this?”

He shakes his head, rubbing his sweat into Beomgyu’s shoulder. “I have to… you have to…”

Beomgyu’s cool fingers close around the searing heat at the back of his neck. Soothing, with cool, refreshing citrus. “I have to…?”

Yeonjun wants… he wants… he chokes with the thought. He wants to be full of someone, until he cannot even breathe. Could Beomgyu even do that for him? Slender, pretty Beomgyu with the hands of an artisan, who was made to receive, not to give? His alpha. Taehyun. Taehyun could. Would. Should. With practiced hands, a skilled mouth and a cock made to give him what he needs. Just like… just like before. The day he brought Beomgyu to his house, the day after. Just like the first time they shared a bed, and all the times since then. On the bed, or against a wall, on his back, in his lap, bent over the bed. The pressure, the friction, the warmth and the smell. Taehyun’s fingers tangling with his the way they never would otherwise, to hold him steady, to offer him safety. Reassurance. So he knows he is held, he is cared for, he is owned.

His mind fills with him, with a phantom scent of him that he presses his wrist to his face to chase. On instinct, his hands travel down again, catching on Beomgyu’s clothes as it goes.

“Wait.” Beomgyu catches his hand with one of his, grasps his shoulder with the other. “What do I have to do? What do you need?”

He shakes his head once more, and rolls off of Beomgyu again, spreading his thighs. In his feverish mind, full of spice upon spice upon spice, it is so hard to find the words, to find any words.

“Go.”

Beomgyu moves away from him, but more towards the other side of the bed than the door, the opening in the curtains. “Off the bed?”

Yeonjun does not reply, because he does not have a reply. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and reaches down his own body, pulling up the fabric covering his modesty to get to the place that so desperately needs his attention right now. Between his legs, where his flesh is the most heated, swollen, sticky, aching, so sensitive to the touch he almost sobs at his own touch, even though he knows it will bring such an empty, temporary relief.

A brush to the inside of his thigh, the way he always does, like a greeting, like a reverent ritual. Remembering fleeting kisses, light hair, dark hair, chocolate eyes and black ones. Opening his mouth for a tongue that does not come to explore it. Gentle touches, and desperate ones. Bruises at his hip bones, from a mouth so much more often than a grip of fingers. Bite marks on thighs and fingers that know how to be merciless as well as gentle. Breath on his cheek, spice on his neck. A tongue on the nipples of his barely-swollen breasts. He never tastes them when they’re full – perhaps he likes them more when they are flat.

It burns, to think of him without his heavy scent and firm touch following after, but at the same time, it soothes, soothes the part that citrus could never hope to cool. The part that wants to stretch wider, push deeper, take more, until he is pregnant. Until he can bear an heir.

He raises one hand to his mouth again, to bite down on his wrist, but then a cool hand tears it away from him. Yeonjun blinks up at Beomgyu, confused, half blind from his arousal, from all the images he has conjured up just to be able to bring himself to completion.

“What are you doing?”

Yeonjun closes his mouth, lips pulling back over bared teeth. The scent. He needs the scent – why is Beomgyu keeping it from him? He yanks his hand out of Beomgyu’s grasp and presses his wrist to his lips tightly, protective. It is his little shred of alpha scent. He needs it. He will not let Beomgyu take it.

Beomgyu’s pretty face scrunches with a frown; Yeonjun’s body begs for his attention, but it is hard to look away from Beomgyu. His slender shoulders and refreshing scent and his concern.

He gives his wrist a small lick under Beomgyu’s pointed supervision, and maybe Beomgyu finally starts to understand as he rubs his nose into his own spit what he is trying to do, because his eyebrows jump up, and his hands flex on his knees. Honey pours, oozes around them, sweet and sticky, and Beomgyu shifts his hips.

“Don’t bite. No teeth.”

Yeonjun stares at him, his nose wrinkling. Then he moves the hand he still has between his legs, without shifting his eyes away from Beomgyu’s face. Beomgyu does not look away either – does not look down, but also does not break eye contact. He raises his hand to his own face, covering the bottom of it with a corner of the blanket, breathing heavy through the fabric as if it could block out the mixed scents of their shared arousal. As if they have not seeped into the air too thoroughly to be ignored yet. As if the sheets, the blanket, their clothes, their skin, were not drenched in them. Sugar and fruit and honey and citrus.

Relief hits him almost as a surprise, the building pressure dulled by his fascination with Beomgyu’s heaving shoulders. A cresting delight like a flame licking up towards the sky from a fire pit, the burn getting hotter, stronger, need pulling tighter at the edge of his consciousness until it reaches a blissful, white-hot high. A wave of pleasure accented, intensified by sweet citrus. He clenches his thighs around his own hand, unsure of any sounds that are coming out of his mouth although there must be many. Beomgyu’s eyes never leave him as the reliefs rocks through him, leaving him breathless, still wanting but less sharply, more vaguely, prodding where it stabbed before.

He leans forward and buries his face in Beomgyu’s thighs, closer to his knees than the source of the mouthwatering honey with a familiar zest to it. Chastely, tiredly, dazedly, he rubs his forehead into the fabric covering the cushion of his thighs – they are firmer than he expected them to be; nothing like the laps he had rested his head in before. Muscular, in a way he would associate with an alpha had he not known better. He sighs heavily into the fabric. It feels cool to the touch - most things do, in this state.

Beomgyu raises a shaky hand to the back of his neck and pets it, not unlike one would pet a dog. He pushes Yeonjun’s sweaty hair off his neck, and rubs at the scent gland on one side until Yeonjun starts shivering as well.

“Better?”

He nods into Beomgyu’s lap. Beomgyu traces the shell of his ear, so bare when free of jewelry. So terribly human.

“I think it is receding.”

Yeonjun is not sure; he might need to touch himself again before the peak truly dissolves into another exhausted stretch of recovery – and more likely than not, he will not make Beomgyu leave, despite his head clearing enough to do so the longer he lies there. Ruin comes in a series of small choices. Missed opportunities to stop it from descending upon you. Little allowances, indulgences, until at some point, nothing feels off-limits anymore.

 

.

 

The curtain over his bed is pulled open with an unusual urgency, and Yeonjun squints, heart racing, into the early morning light. It is the light that registers first, then the frown on Haewon’s face – then Beomgyu, squirming in his hold to pull away from him, lifting his head from his shoulder. They fell asleep intertwined, embracing, Beomgyu slotting into his side easily. Now his shoulder and arm cool so quickly without his warmth to keep the chill of the room away.

Caught like lovers, like children, sleeping cuddled up to each other, chastely enough if the bed did not smell of the remnants of arousal. Beomgyu’s eyes blaze in a way Yeonjun is not used to seeing them where they pin Haewon down, antagonistic, almost protective. Citrus hits his nose, sharp and sour.

Yeonjun knows Haewon cannot smell Beomgyu’s agitation, but she seems to see it regardless, bowing her head in submission as if to appease him. “Your Grace, the ladies have arrived to pay you their morning visit. I can make them wait until you are ready to see them, or I can tell them you are not feeling well enough to accept visitors.”

He bites his lips, and looks toward Beomgyu, who sits up properly, looking down at him with careful, dark eyes for a moment before looking at Haewon.

“Are they all here already?”

She nods. “I am afraid they all arrived together today. There was no… time to alert you before they came here.”

Beomgyu nods tersely and purses his lips, then scoots down the bed to pick up his discarded overcoat, hanging halfway down the foot of the bed. “They will notice I am not present. I should go.”

Yeonjun narrows his eyes at him. “And do what?”

Shrugging the overcoat on and hurriedly doing up the laces of it, Beomgyu shrugs. “I do not know. Meet them elsewhere, with a good excuse as to why I was not present.”

“What excuse could that possibly be?”

Beomgyu squeezes his eyes shut and sighs in pure exasperation. “I do not know, Yeonjun. I did not plan to be woken up with this household’s equivalent of an army’s spy network outside our door.”

Yeonjun shakes his head at the theatrics. Haewon seems to struggle to keep a straight face. “I will send them away. Stay.”

“They will worry,” Beomgyu argues, breathing a bit too heavily, sounding and smelling like the embodiment of anxiety, so unlike his usual demeanor – Yeonjun knows him angry, knows him careful, knows him quiet and cool and composed, but this Beomgyu seems frantic, and he wishes to do nothing more than to hold him until the sour note leaves his scent again. “Dayeon—”

“They can handle it,” Yeonjun replies, his firmness surprising even himself – as if Beomgyu’s obvious panic awakened something in himself, something steady with the need to protect the other omega. “They are used to me struggling with my symptoms. This would not be the first time Haewon had to turn them away from my door.”

“I can tell them His Grace is simply tired and would prefer to sleep now,” Haewon offers, and as strange as it is to have her join a conversation like this, almost as an equal, Yeonjun is glad for her contribution.

Beomgyu seems a bit soothed by that suggestion. His hands come to rest on his stomach, laces still wrapped tightly around his palms. A thoughtful expression wrinkles his face, and he looks between the two of them. Then he sighs and lets go of them, raising his hands to run them through his hair. “I will still need to leave – if they do not see me the whole day, there is no excuse I can possibly make up to explain it.”

Every bone in Yeonjun’s body wants to protest even as his conscious mind knows better, so he only nods in agreement without opening his mouth. Beomgyu’s teeth sink into his lip, turning it pale with pressure until he lets it go and the blood rushes back in, bright red.

“If you tell them you need rest, they will come back – if I leave now, I can go to the quarters and wash your scent off of myself before I go see them, and join them in their visit.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes, chest restless at the thought – horribly, unwisely, more bothered by the thought of Beomgyu washing his scent off, rather than having to sneak around to hide the fact that he had spent the whole night in his bed, pressing close to his body. Watching him pleasure himself, listening to him whining for his alpha with his own fingers inside of himself. His face warms, and he blinks his eyes open. Beomgyu is watching him with a strange look on his face.

“I can air out the room, and I will have to change Your Grace’s sheets and clothes regardless. If Omega Beomgyu is present, then they will not question the presence of his scent here.”

Both of them look at Haewon, who watches them with almost too much calm in her face. Yeonjun swallows, a lump suddenly clogging his throat. She seems at peace with this – with helping them do this. Easy and pragmatic. They paid her just enough to stay silent about a late night visit, not to help cover up an… an affair. To help hide it from the ladies. Because that is what this is, is it not? Biologically, in the eyes of nature, it is nothing but chaste comfort, but in the eyes of the household, of the ladies, of Haewon herself, of Yeonjun’s husband… this is an affair.

His hands feel cold despite his fever.

Haewon has no contempt on her face; no judgment. She shuffles through the layers of her clothing and comes up holding a key that she offers to Beomgyu. “Here. The key to the servant’s door. If you hug the right wall, it should lead you all the way outside, but you should hurry, and be as discreet as you can. Someone might be using it during the day. The door here is unlocked, but the one leading outside is kept locked at all times. You can keep my key for now.”

Beomgyu takes it, his movements sluggish and hesitant. Haewon bows deeply to the two of them.

“Your Grace. My lady. I will go dismiss the ladies now, if you allow.”

They nod simultaneously, even though Beomgyu is hardly the one who could give Haewon any orders. They watch her leave, and then exchange wide-eyed looks.

Yeonjun sees Beomgyu swallow. He tucks the key into his sleeve. “We… seem to have found ourselves an ally.”

He shakes his head, as hard as he can. It would be stupid of them to think so. “Hardly so. She—”

“She just conspired with us, to make sure your ladies do not catch us here – to make sure they do not see you like this, all but bathed in my scent.”

Yeonjun chews on his lip, finding some solace in the sting of it on the dry skin. “She knows whose hand feeds her, she—”

“The prince’s.” Beomgyu reaches out and covers Yeonjun’s hand with his own. “Yet she took your side.”

He narrows his eyes at Beomgyu’s sincere brown ones – did they switch roles again? Beomgyu’s panic seems to be fading as Yeonjun’s own rises. “We paid her.”

Beomgyu sighs and lets go of him, leaning away. “Whatever you say, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun brings both hands into his own lap. The burning itch in his bones comes back into his immediate consciousness, now that there is nothing there to distract him. He breathes in deeply, the comfort of that blend of scents soothing it. It is so natural for him to want Beomgyu at his side, and yet.

“Have you thought of an excuse to tell them just yet?”

Beomgyu looks at him appraisingly, eyes growing sharper the longer he holds his gaze, then he shrugs and looks away. “I hesitated.” He looks down at his own hand, tangling the blanket between his fingers. “I was not sure whether I wanted to see you this morning.” Yeonjun’s heart beats heavy, fast, fluttery in his chest. “A fellow omega in pain. My alpha’s other omega in distress. The smell was painful, worse than I expected it to be.” Beomgyu closes his fist. “I am ashamed of feeling this way, and I will not let my instincts come in the way of duty again.”

Yeonjun frowns. Beomgyu’s face seems carefully blank, clearing up only slightly as he glances up at Yeonjun nonchalantly.

“Do you think that will suffice?”

He swallows. “Is it true?”

Beomgyu tosses his hair back. “Most good lies are, partially.”

Hesitantly, Yeonjun reaches out, and Beomgyu’s face keeps its strange calm as their palms slot together. Yeonjun pulls him closer.

“I apologize.”

Beomgyu snorts. “For what?”

“Making you behave this way.”

His sincere words are met with a roll of pretty brown eyes. “My choices are my own, Your Grace, and I am more than willing to claim responsibility for them. I could have ignored the pain in your scent. I could have refused your offer to stay by your side. I could have left before sunrise.” Beomgyu lifts their hands, and kisses his knuckles. “I chose not to, of my own free will, and I will do my best to bear the consequences in a way that will not bring dishonor upon you.”

Yeonjun’s chest hurts. “I thought your lips hardly knew the word.”

Beomgyu huffs, and presses their hands to his cheek. “I am not blind to the consequences this could have for you – but I believe we can avoid those, and that they are worth risking.” He turns his face enough to brush against the inside of Yeonjun’s wrist. “So that your scent may stay sweet like this, free of pain.”

Yeonjun looks away, and Beomgyu drops their hands to the blanket.

“I will wake up in panic every day of your heat, if my presence helps your peace of mind.”

He laughs breathlessly and shakes his head. What he should be saying is no, you will not, you will never come here again, you will never enter this bed again, you will never, I will never, this can never happen again. But he just keeps shaking his head, wordless, helpless. He wants it. Needs it. The peace of Beomgyu, close to his body.

Beomgyu kisses his hand again, and it helps him break out of his panic enough to really look at him again. He looks… sincere. Peaceful. Determined. He reminds him of… he looks like… his promises. His assurances. His devotion.

Just like…

“You are not my husband, Omega Beomgyu,” he says quietly, choked.

Beomgyu shrugs. “He is not the only one allowed to care for you, Yeonjun.”

“Perhaps, but you seem to have read the same books on how to mess with an omega’s head. Both full of such… strange talk.”

“Unlike your husband, I intend to follow my words with action,” Beomgyu retorts testily. “And perhaps we both take after him, in a sense, since you have decided to apologize to me for slights I do not remember you committing.”

Yeonjun snorts, but Beomgyu is not wrong, so he stops short of arguing. Instead, he flexes the hand Beomgyu is still holding onto. “I wonder if this is how he feels when he does so.”

This frustration at the situation he put Beomgyu into, by the virtue of existing. Being a weak, needy omega that made him want to help, to do foolish things just to see his pain go away. Knowing that he cannot take responsibility for Beomgyu’s own choices, but wanting to. Wanting to shield him from his own actions. To take all of the blame. This is him, it has always been him, his failure, his greed, his weakness. Not Beomgyu, not fiery, insolent, proud, challenging Beomgyu. Not his firm, intelligent, kind, even-tempered husband.

He is the problem, always has been, but in Beomgyu’s eyes, and perhaps in Taehyun’s eyes as well, he is blameless. The imbalance between those two realities tortures him, in a way few other things can.

“I know he does not feel the way I do,” Beomgyu says quietly, and it is almost a hiss, but his anger is hardly aimed at Yeonjun. “If he did, he would never leave you alone this way.”

Yeonjun shakes his head. He has his own duties. He has a whole Empire to think of. A whole another court of politics to tend to.

Beomgyu sighs, but it sounds almost aggressive, like the very verge of a growl. “I should go. Your servant will want to get to cleaning this room up.”

He climbs over Yeonjun’s legs to get out of the bed, and Yeonjun fights every instinct in his body to not reach out and stop him. His head aches with the effort. Citrus, the thing keeping him sane, that sweet citrus, getting further away.

“I will be back,” Beomgyu assures him, straightening his clothes, fixing his hair. A lover sneaking out of a married lady’s bed. Heart-stopping, in so many ways. A painting of his own – unkempt, sleep-warm, beautiful. “With the ladies, and… later.”

No. Tell him no, Yeonjun. Say something. Save your honor. Save your soul.

He nods. Beomgyu gives him the barest of smiles.

“I never knew how painful leaving was,” Beomgyu says lightly. “I do not know how he did it.”

Yeonjun reaches out silently, and Beomgyu comes close, to press a kiss to his brow. He wants the kiss on his lips, but he does not protest. Does not dare to. He holds on lightly to Beomgyu’s elbow.

“Your good alpha is broken, Yeonjun,” Beomgyu says in a much more amused tone than before, but it carries the same sadness as him recalling his late lover with a forced levity. He stands close, keeping Yeonjun’s chin raised with his fingers, gazing down at him while Yeonjun’s heart hammers in his chest. “How could he ever say no to you otherwise?”

 

.

 

Yeonjun stands on a cold floor, his legs weak, wrapped in his blanket, watching Haewon strip his bed. The window is open, and the air blowing inside from it is freezing. Between the two sensations, Yeonjun is not sure if he is frozen from the cold, or the awkward tension of the situation.

Haewon said nothing of consequence when she came in, aside from confirming that the ladies expressed their desire to see him at a later hour. She promised them she would have someone inform them once he is awake and well enough to receive guests, and did not comment on Beomgyu’s absence, or Yeonjun’s obvious shaking. All she did was begin making the arrangements to clean him and his bed up, quiet and efficient as always.

He watches with a dry mouth as she gathers the linens in her arms – stained with sweat and slick of two distinct scents, but she can probably hardly tell even with them pressed to her chest. There is no outward sign on her face that she realizes what bundle of shame she is holding. How disgraceful this all is.

In theory, stripping his bed and changing his sheets is asinine. Who has ever heard of washing the nest of an omega in heat? What point is there, when he is sure to stain it within the hour? But they do it anyway, have done it this way for a long time now. Haewon changes his sheets, and Yeonjun changes his clothes, to preserve his dignity. In the very same way, letting his ladies see him in this predicament is something strange and unusual. And yet, it is the way things are done in his household. He suffers and bleeds and despairs in his heats, crushed by overwhelming loneliness, and his ladies visit him to lighten his mood whenever his mind clears enough to speak with them. Just like he did with Beomgyu, sans the ulterior motives of giving him his scent to soothe him with.

He shakes his head. This is all so improper, and yet they have long accepted it. All these strange ways they have found, to cope with their circumstances. These rituals, these odd traditions. Denials of nature, leading to denials of nature, leading to denials of nature, until the whole thing becomes so artificial, Yeonjun hardly recognizes it for what it is anymore.

His heats are meant to produce offspring, not to lie in bed accepting private visits to pass the time.

He sighs heavily, and Haewon looks towards him, careful not to meet his eyes. His personal servant is meant to keep his quarters in order and make sure his needs are met, not to help him keep secrets from the rest of the household, like a co-conspirator, like a political ally, like a friend.

“You said the outside doors are kept locked at all times,” he says quietly. His teeth chatter. Wind nips at his damp thighs.

Haewon looks away, focusing on her work again. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

But that is impossible – Yeonjun sneaks out through the door at night, whenever he goes to see Beomgyu. “That is a lie.”

His servant takes in a surprisingly unsteady breath – Yeonjun so rarely sees her lose composure, even the shiver in her breath feels like it is shaking the foundation his worldview stands on. “Perhaps I forget to lock it sometimes. I am not getting any younger.”

He clenches his fist in the blanket he is covered in. “How much do you know?”

She pauses, then folds her hands in front of herself politely and faces him, her eyes lowered, proper despite the strange circumstances. “I would not assume to know much, Your Grace, but I have been through dozens of your heats with you, and I do not intend to make it more difficult for you to ease them. Whatever it takes.”

That is not an answer. It is not an answer. To whether she knows where his late-night excursions take him. How much she has heard, seen, smelled, of what has been going on behind everyone’s backs. Whether she has been silently allowing it to happen this whole time. If she had even been silent about it at all.

“The prince—”

“Our prince is a very busy man,” she cuts him off, severe, in a tone that reminds Yeonjun of his aunt – with the comparison, it almost does not feel disrespectful, only chastising. “I would not take it upon myself to bother him with minor household matters like these.”

Yeonjun stares at her. Tears gather in his eyes. He wants to sink to the floor, but the thought of feeling the cold floor against his hot skin any more than he already is makes him nauseous. “Haewon.”

She seems to take a deep, measured breath, and then goes back to making his bed. “I will allow you to lay down and rest in just a moment, Your Grace. I am almost done.”

Tears roll down his face as he watches her work. The freezing air from the outside makes the tear tracks ache.

 

.

 

Beomgyu barely looks at him while the ladies are visiting. None of them come close enough to sit on the bed this time. Eunbi holds onto Beomgyu’s elbow gently, reassuringly. Dayeon seems to be inspecting Yeonjun’s arms for wounds from afar. Nobody comments on how red-rimmed his eyes are. Yeonjun feels weak, drained, even as his symptoms remain mild, shockingly bearable despite the loss of most of Beomgyu’s scent in his bed. He still lingers, in Yeonjun’s hair, on his scent glands, having scented him so thoroughly by burrowing into his body during the night, even wiping himself down and changing could not get all of the citrus off of Yeonjun’s skin. It feels pleasant, like a reassurance, like a loving stamp on him, not unlike the lingering note of spice in his heat scent. Reminding him that there is someone. Even when he is alone, he is had. He is owned.

The ladies look at him with such terrible pity in their eyes. It makes him sick to see, but he smiles at them regardless.

 

.

 

When the heat peaks again, Yeonjun is alone, and he scrapes his teeth over his wrist, worrying at it, without biting down, tasting citrus and spice. Beomgyu will forgive him, if he does not bite down. He is sure. He must forgive him.

His thoughts of alpha, of knot, of offspring and fullness, keep straying to Beomgyu again. Soft omega lips and firm thighs and artisan’s hands. On him, in him, under him, rubbing against him, pressed into him, sliding against him, wetly, slick, bringing shuddering pleasure in their wake. He never saw Beomgyu naked, but he thinks he can imagine, approximate from the curves of his body showing through sweat-soaked underclothes. Hip bones he could trace with his lip, with his teeth, clumsily borrowing from his husband’s book of tricks he uses to please his wife. Flicking his tongue and crooking his fingers. Hearing Beomgyu whine, moan, gasp. Painting such a beautiful picture, until he is as flushed between his legs as he is in his face, raw and used like he should be. Has to be. Like Yeonjun wants him to—

It is too easy to succumb to; to use to sate himself. Terrible thoughts of Beomgyu’s body, the torture of its absence so well smoothed over by the fact that he is coming. In an hour or in a day, Beomgyu will be here, in Yeonjun’s arms, and Yeonjun will have to deny nature in the most painful of ways to not make his feverish fantasies true. To not wet his fingers with Beomgyu’s warm sex, to not caress even an inch of him with his tongue. It will be torture, but he will be there. His body, his scent, his voice. He might give Yeonjun a kiss, might embrace him, might watch him with lust-filled chocolate eyes as he does this all over again, showing off for the captive audience of one, arching his back, whining, sighing.

Maybe he will beg, and torture them both with it.

He lies on his front, in the wet patch of his own slick, once the worst of the need is sated, with his back exposed to the room, blanket pulled down to his waist, letting the chilly air cool him down.

He stares at the curtain cutting him off from the outside world, and he wonders.

Is this what having a mate is like? What a heat could be? Painful and dizzying, but with an edge of pleasurable intoxication. Knowing someone is coming to soothe you. Your heart racing with the thought of them succumbing to you. Pleasurable thoughts of delight, of filth, instead of having to cling to hazy, painful memories.

Is this how a mate is supposed to make him feel? The bubbling in his stomach, fluttering in his chest, like he is a young courtier again. Sometimes Taehyun does. Sometimes he still does – but never during heat. Their bond is many things, but during Yeonjun’s heat it is only painful.

Beomgyu terrifies him, hurts him, ruins him, but he also excites him. Soothes him. Calms him. Is that enough? Does that make this whole distasteful thing worth it?

Could it possibly?

He has no answer. Just a burning under his skin, and an ache between his legs.

 

.

 

They are on their backs, side by side. The curtain drawn around the bed provides a dark, velvety canopy, and Yeonjun’s mind is oddly clear. Peaceful.

Beomgyu winds a ribbon around his fingers loosely – he came in through the servant’s door with it holding his hair back. Now his hair is spread around him, between them, and the ribbon is reduced to a plaything. Yeonjun watches it hug Beomgyu’s slender fingers with almost too much of a rapt fascination.

When Beomgyu was not next to him, his imagination ran wild with thoughts of him. Now that he is, Yeonjun’s mind is empty of thought.

The room is perfectly silent. The night is upon them, and the palace has quieted down even outside of the window of Yeonjun’s bed room. It is just him, Beomgyu, and the rustle of the ribbon as it slides over skin.

“You seem better.”

Yeonjun shifts his head to look at Beomgyu’s face a little better. Beomgyu’s eyes shift to him, then back to the ribbon. He starts winding it around his wrist instead. From the side like this, Yeonjun can see perfectly the curve of his nose – the pout of his lips. “I feel better, I think.”

Beomgyu hums. “Same as the prince, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“His ruts are terrible, but with our scents the last one passed smoothly, and everyone seemed tense about your heat, but you seem to be holding up well.”

He turns to face Yeonjun, and their faces are too close, with how little space there is for two men their size to lie on their backs like this. Yeonjun’s eyes flit down to Beomgyu’s lips, then back to his eyes, and he swallows.

“Right.”

“It is merely an observation.” Beomgyu looks down at Yeonjun’s mouth, too, before meeting his eyes again, but Beomgyu’s throat does not jump. “Something to note, about this bond of ours.”

Yeonjun reaches out, and winds Beomgyu’s hair around his finger. Smooth, like brown silk. “We knew already, did we not? You said my presence helped you.”

“I still had my demons to fight in your absence,” Beomgyu says quietly, so quietly it would be imperceptible in a room any noisier than this one, under the cover of curtains, but Yeonjun hears him. “But that much is true.”

He shifts his hand, from Beomgyu’s hair to his jaw. Beomgyu leans into his touch. “I apologize.”

Beomgyu rolls his eyes. “Do not make a habit of this. It is a pastime of mine to imitate your prince, do not intrude upon my territory this way.”

Yeonjun snorts, and Beomgyu smiles. “I wish I could have spent more time in your presence.”

Keeping his smile as wide as before, Beomgyu narrows his eyes at him, calling his bluff. “No, you do not. You did not want to be my bed-warmer, certainly not then, and maybe not even now.” He rolls over onto his side and reaches out as well, arm crossing Yeonjun’s, cradling his cheek in return. “You are too fond of this… position of yours. You would wither like a flower if you spent more than one day without entertaining someone important, deciding which carpet to lay in the dining hall – wrangling alphas for your husband’s benefit.”

He looks away. He wants to say Beomgyu is wrong, but is he? His instincts say one thing, but what is the truth? “What am I doing now, then?”

The pad of Beomgyu’s thumb brushes over his lip, electrifying. “Doing your best not to wither.”

He huffs, and the corner of Beomgyu’s mouth raises in a smirk. For a moment, Yeonjun thinks Beomgyu will kiss him, he seems to lean in to do it, but then it never happens, and Beomgyu’s thumb drops to his chin, pressing in before he lets his face go, and turns back onto his back.

“I remember how excited I was to be regent, and how bitterly disappointed I was at the reality of it.”

Yeonjun finds a smile on his own face. “Are you not fond of politics and accounting?”

Beomgyu pouts at the curtain above them. “No. Neither was I keen on gaining the freedom of having my own title, just to find myself trapped between the politicking of a council full of old men who all believed themselves to possess all worldly wisdom, and who could hardly decide what they were even trying to manipulate me into doing.” He tilts his head one way, then the other. “One day we were unfairly supporting the guilds, then it was the military, then the House of Wisdom. We wanted closer ties to one city, then the other. They wanted me to remarry, to destabilize the house of Seon, then they wanted me to stay a faithful widow, and ingratiate themselves with the lord-to-be.” Beomgyu scoffs. “Little, pathetic men. I do not understand how you do it. Although perhaps the prince bears the brunt of it.”

Yeonjun narrows his eyes at Beomgyu’s profile, then rolls over as well. “Are you sure you are not impersonating him again? Your complaining does sound awfully close to his.”

Beomgyu laughs, short, a little breathless. “Those of power are all the same – no matter where you go.” Then he smiles again, and looks over at Yeonjun. “Does it warm you, my wife, to hear his words spoken in my voice? Does it make you feel like alpha is near?”

Yeonjun tries to laugh as well, but his breathing is too choked; his chest too tight. “I have never had a fellow omega call me wife so many times.”

Beomgyu’s arm brushes Yeonjun’s, raising goosebumps where they make contact. That forgotten burn, in his abdomen, in his core, makes itself known again. “You seem to enjoy it.”

His mouth wavers. Opens and closes and hovers on the edge of a confession. He looks at Beomgyu, and Beomgyu looks at him. So peaceful, accepting. Yeonjun opens his mouth.

“I enjoy when he says it.” Beomgyu’s eyes do not waver, even as Yeonjun speaks of the prince right to his face. “When he wants me. It makes me feel… his. In a moment where I could be just a body, I am the one he claimed, the one he courted and married. His wife.”

Beomgyu squints at him, a bit of doubt in his expression. “It is all he ever calls you.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together, embarrassed, and looks at the curtain again. “I know. I like to believe his tone changes. That there is a difference.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, that is not true. He calls my name. Not that you would ever hear him do so. Or anyone else.”

Another amused noise escapes Beomgyu’s lips, and he feels the cool relief of his touch on his hand as Beomgyu slots their fingers together. “What a man of romance he is – to hold your hand and call your name only while he has you.”

He lifts their hands to look at them. Yeonjun’s hands are smaller, his fingers more stubby, less elegant to his own eyes. “Perhaps he believes the scarcity makes it sweeter.”

“Does it?” Beomgyu, to his credit, sounds genuinely curious.

Yeonjun shrugs. “I have never really considered it. It feels good, when he gives me those concessions, even if I have to earn them on my back.”

Beomgyu tilts their hands towards himself, pushing them into his cheek while he looks at Yeonjun. “I did not expect you to describe it in such a way.”

“You would.”

“Yes,” he admits easily, shifting again to lean his body towards Yeonjun. “But then again, I was conditioned to see sex between a husband and their wife as little more than a duty I had to endure to stay alive and safe.”

“I was conditioned to see it as…” Yeonjun pauses. Stops. What is their sex, to him? What truly happens, when he lies with the prince? Worship, and pleasure and passion. Aimless, but strangely regimented. Rarely spontaneous; a weapon they wield against each other, him against the prince more often than now. A decision they make, together, that today, they are husband and wife in more than law and name. Mates in the truest sense of the word. “A pleasant change of pace.”

Beomgyu laughs quietly, breath fanning over their knuckles. “Pleasant, you say. Is he any good? He does not strike me as a man who would be.”

Yeonjun squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly shy, and Beomgyu laughs more loudly.

“Oh, is that too much for your sensibilities to bear, Your Grace? You can tell me all about the things he does while he takes you, but you will not talk of his skill? I am afraid I am left with no choice but to assume the worst of him.”

He uses their joined hands to shove at Beomgyu’s chest, who laughs like a giddy child, pressing their hands into his chest tightly to stop Yeonjun from pushing him any more. “He does well.”

“Well, or well enough?” Beomgyu prods, seeming all too delighted. Despite everything, honey worms into the air between them. The slightest tinge, a small taste.

They are still so close, and Yeonjun’s body burns up the more of Beomgyu’s excitement he can taste in the air. He thought of him, his body, about having it, about claiming it, about defiling it. Beomgyu is no blushing flower. No virgin. He wants Yeonjun to do so, on some level. He wants to know about Yeonjun’s body under the careful attention of his husband, he wants to think about what it is like, when Yeonjun surrenders to someone.

The longer they stay like that, the sweeter Beomgyu smells, the hazier Yeonjun’s mind becomes. He leans forward and presses their lips together, and Beomgyu does not manage to avoid him in time.

“Well,” he replies, against Beomgyu’s lips.

He hears Beomgyu swallowing. Their fingers squeeze together a bit tighter. “How shocking,” Beomgyu replies without putting any distance between them.

“I…” He could show him; show Beomgyu how it feels, to have an alpha like his – a strange one, an odd one, but not hateful; not disdainful of his omega. Careful and worshipful, and in the worst cases, almost loving.

“You.”

A pulsing pain goes through him, his lower abdomen and the top of his thighs, making him flinch, almost knocking their teeth together as his body instinctively wants to curl into itself. Beomgyu moves away to give him space, and Yeonjun curls up around himself. Wetness rushes out of him, wetting the cloth of his underclothes again, pungent and humiliating.

“Did we…” Beomgyu is barely making a sound. “Trigger another peak?”

Yeonjun closes his eyes and grabs at himself through his clothes, letting out a choked noise just at the feeling of the pressure against the hot, swollen flesh. “I…”

“Oh Yeonjun.” He sounds like he is unable to choose an emotion to feel. Compassion and amusement and guilt and melancholy.

This time, he lets his tears run freely. It hurts, it burns and it feels good, too good, when Beomgyu pulls his hands away when he nearly breaks through his own flesh with his nails, and when he never, for a second looks away, while Yeonjun sates himself, thinking about him again, and about Taehyun, about both of them at once, the places where they intertwine, the places Taehyun did and Beomgyu could, where Beomgyu would and Taehyun should.

Honey is overpowering in the air, even more when Beomgyu draws his knees up to his chest, but he does nothing about it. Not a twitch of his hand. Yeonjun wants to… wants to press his face to it. Bury his nose in it. In the source of it. Choke himself with honey.

It is such a… disgusting thought. It is filthy, and he cannot shake it. His chest flutters with it. Just the very thought. What would his aunt think of him? What would anyone? What would Beomgyu, if he knew, the things he thinks about while pleasuring himself before him?

In the private, quiet corners of his mind, driven wild with heat, he lets himself think that Beomgyu would want it as badly as he does. That he would drip honey on his tongue, merciful, indulgent, bare-thighed above him. Undressed. Open. Flushed and willing. Hot and velvety, sour and sweet. Spine arching down while Yeonjun’s arches up, toward him. Opposite, yet one and the same. Slotting together perfectly. They could fit their heads between each other’s thighs if they wanted to. The most indulgent pleasure can get. Mutual.

Yeonjun cannot bring himself to face him, once the peak subsides. Beomgyu sits behind him and braids his hair into thin braids he lets dissolve as soon as he is done. He trails his hands down Yeonjun’s back and Yeonjun shudders, tears slipping out of his eyes. The want might kill him, before his heat is done. The victim of his own imagination.

 

.

 

Beomgyu leaves on time that day, and the next day, and the next. He comes with the ladies and looks reserved, he comes into Yeonjun’s bed in the evening and looks relaxed. Haewon changes his bedding and does not ask questions, but she seems pleased by the shocking lack of marks on him. Yeonjun still claws and chews at himself, but he does not break skin anymore. The ointment the physician left behind stays on the table unopened.

He makes up mad fantasies of making love to Beomgyu and never allows himself to make them reality, even with blazing brown eyes inches from his face. Yeonjun can do a lot of things, but he cannot do that. What path would there be, beyond that? None he could find his way back from.

Beomgyu braids his hair, winds ribbons into it, holds his hands, exchanges fleeting kisses. He sits in Yeonjun’s bed, wanting and wet, and does not demand a thing. He holds him at night, melts into his back, his side, exchanging his scent with him freely. It feels like such a strange place, the privacy of the curtain of his heat nest, a place where rules do not apply. Where they call each other Yeonjun and Beomgyu unless they are making a point, teasing each other, because their titles mean little under Yeonjun’s blanket, on top of his sheets. Tradition and politeness and propriety. Such foreign, foolish, distant concepts.

Duty. A thing that cannot touch Yeonjun just now. Something his instincts do not allow him to focus on. Beomgyu. His hands, his neck, his scent. The idea of his sex, his teasing words, his touches. That is important – worth his attention. His sole focus. Citrus upon citrus upon citrus.

 

.

 

Yeonjun’s heat breaking is such a strange thing. He wakes alone, limbs heavy, feeling lethargic, feeling exhausted, and the nearly constant smell of sugar around him has weakened, waned until it is just a sticky note at the edge of his awareness. He touches his thighs, and the permanent wetness has dried, uncomfortable on his skin. The room no longer feels too cold when he sticks a hand out through the curtains experimentally. It is as cool as it ever is. No sweat rolls down his forehead or his back. Everything feels strange, as if he was born anew. He sits up of his own accord, and scoots out of the patch of dried slick he was sleeping in, suddenly repulsed by it. So gory, despite the lack of blood this time. Disgusting. Heat was disgusting to him. His own hands, when he brings them up to run through his matted hair, smell like his own arousal still, and while the spiced tone on his scent glands has subsided, and Yeonjun’s own scent with it, back to being something he is barely able to notice now, he still smells citrus on himself. He is bathed in it, like he soaked himself in a tub of hot lemon water.

His head aches a little, and his lips hurt from dehydration. He needs water, food and a bath. Usually, the household affords him a day to put himself together before demanding his attention again. He hopes it is near dawn, and not late afternoon. Even though his symptoms were so mild this time, he wishes to rest. So badly.

Swinging his feet over the side of the bed, he pushes the curtain open and calls for Haewon. She arrives so quickly he is sure she was close already – that, and the muted light in the room, reassure him that it has to be morning.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

Without needing to be prompted, she brings him a cup brimming with water, then leaves to fetch him fresh underclothes and a morning robe – she can tell his heat broke, obviously. She would not bring him anything to properly wear otherwise.

“Would you like to bathe before or after breakfast?”

Yeonjun swallows the water tiny sip by tiny sip, taking his time to respond while she sets the clothes next to him, then assumes her neutral servant position, hands neatly folded, by the foot of the bed.

“Is it time for breakfast?”

“Nearly – I was about to come check on you when you called.”

He nods and finishes his water. “I want a bath more than food. I will dress once I am clean. Are the ladies on their way here again? Do you know?”

Haewon shakes her head. “No, Your Grace, but I can find out while I go prepare your bath. Should I have someone tell them not to come today?”

Yeonjun swallows with difficulty and holds the cup loosely in his lap. His underclothes are stained, patches of dried slick all over the fabric. He feels so dirty, so weak. Would their presence be pleasant or exhausting? “No – it is quite alright if they do.” He gives Haewon the weakest of smiles. “Someone needs to tell me what the household was up to in my absence.”

Haewon bows, but does not leave immediately. “For my part, Your Grace, I can assure you that the lord steward supervised over a peaceful household. As far as I am aware, he hardly had any fires to put out while you were indisposed.”

“That brings me some peace of mind, thank you, Haewon.” He bows his head in acknowledgment. “I suppose this… spy network of mine will be eager to let me know if any juicy gossip has sprung up in the absence of real issues for my household to worry about.”

His servant seems to fight to suppress a smile. “It is what they do best, Your Grace.”

He breathes out shakily, and reaches out towards her to have her take the cup from his hand and set it aside. “It is an invaluable service of theirs. Just like yours.” She looks at him, careful, and he makes sure his voice does not waver like his breath did. “I could not do this without all of you.”

Haewon bows, as deeply as body allows without her lowering herself to her knees. “It is my honor to serve you, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together, tightly enough for it to hurt. “I intend to be worthy of your service to me, Haewon.”

A flicker of emotion passes over her face again – a nearly imperceptible frown. “I believe you already are, Your Grace. I would not have done this otherwise.”

He sits with those words, after she leaves him to make arrangements for him to bathe. His worth feels like such an ambiguous thing. Something for others to see and he himself to strive for, paint himself a certain way in eyes he could not see through. What a strange thing, for his life to be hanging in the balance of something he could never hope to understand.

 

.

 

Once again, he sits in his tea room, surrounded by ladies, the familiar scene feeling so foreign to him through these fresh eyes he awoke with. He smells heavily of expensive oils he slathered his body and hair with to wipe away the remnants of his heat scent, and he is properly dressed, after so long of spending time only in his underclothes. His winter robe is heavy on his shoulders, and his hair is pulled back with Haewon’s black ribbon. Beomgyu sits on the other side of the room, instead of clinging to his side. He barely tastes the food on his plate, even as his stomach growls for it.

Eunbi, conversationally, without a hint of tension in her voice or posture, sits next to him while she recounts a master composer that they house getting into an altercation with their master painter’s apprentice over a gambling debt, in full view of the whole household. Her eyes sparkle with amusement as she describes the way the lord steward invoked his own name to get both of them to stand down, his words hiding a veiled threat of the both of them losing their position in the palace and being forced to leave.

“If only the prince knew his subjects use his generous stipend to bet on games of dice,” Soojin chimes in, cold and dismissive.

“They have nothing better to do,” Miyeon argues from the other side of the table, tone light, barely confrontational. “Ours is not a court that brings much excitement, so they fuel their need for danger with gambling.”

“Are you calling this household boring, Miyeon?” Dayeon sounds more amused than offended on Yeonjun’s behalf.

“I would rather call it peaceful,” Miyeon retorts, giving Yeonjun a quick look, as if to check if he was hurt by her words. “Not everyone thrives during peacetime, Lady Dayeon. Some of us require a thrill to survive.”

Yeonjun chews on his lip. He likes peace. He enjoys peace. Hard, boring, repetitive work focused on with his head down. Unlike some, he was not made to live a thrilling life full of excitement. He never wanted anything to break the monotony. No improper courtship, no affairs, no intrigue, no dives so deep he ended up in over his head, swimming in unknown water.

But that is where he has found himself. Deep in something even he himself struggles to understand. Keeping dangerous secrets. Living on the edge, one would say. On the edge of something terrible.

“But to gamble with money you do not have is a fool’s errand,” Soojin says, still as cold as before.

“That is the trick, Lady Soojin,” Miyeon says with a smile, reaching an empty hand out and closing it into a fist. “Until you lose, once and for good, there is always the chance that you will not walk away with an empty hand, no matter how light your pockets were when you sat down. Until the dice roll, and the call is made, all the money at the table is yours, and none of it at the same time.”

“I believe I understand now why Lady Miyeon was forbidden from betting on dice,” Beomgyu chimes in, lighthearted.

Miyeon smiles at him widely. “Purely out of fear, I say. They feared for their purses and their pride – they could not brawl with me, if I demanded my dues be paid.”

Beomgyu laughs. “Somehow, I am sure you would best them in a fight as well.”

If anything, the lady seems delighted by Beomgyu’s confidence in her abilities. “I believe I am resourceful enough to do so, should the need arise – and a hair pin is sharper than most of them realize.”

“I hope I will not leave any of you in want of money enough for you to resort to violence to gain it,” Yeonjun steps in, firm but conversational enough. “I believe your hairpins suit your head better than some courtier’s eye.”

Miyeon looks a little chastised, her lips pushing out into a pout. “All I am saying, Your Grace, is that we are less helpless than they realize.”

He stays staring at her a little too long, before looking to Beomgyu, who meets his eyes shamelessly with a little shrug. Yeonjun looks down at his plate.

They have much at their disposal. Ways to keep themselves safe. Methods of clinging to edges, so they do not careen past them. They are disadvantaged, but not helpless. All they have to do is be resourceful. Be intelligent. Use every advantage they are afforded.

 

.

 

Yeonjun gets a few days’ peace after his heat. He takes control of the household back from the lord steward on the next day, and they reprimand the gamblers together with stern but not overly harsh warnings. They spend most of that day together, going over everything Yeonjun missed, taking lunch and tea together, only parting at dinner so that the lord steward may spend it with his wife. Yeonjun dismisses his ladies and dines alone, then goes back to his study to read his correspondence long into the night.

The day after that is more of his usual routine, as is the day after that, and the day after that. Beomgyu slowly goes back to sticking to his side more firmly, now that it no longer seems strange for him to do so. Yeonjun misses his chance to see Beomgyu in the concubines’ quarters, but Beomgyu does not seem bothered the next day. Things scarcely change. Everyone treats him the same they always did. Life feels so strangely normal.

As winter deepens, they start making arrangements for the New Year celebrations. Yeonjun will not be present for them, but he still wants to make sure they are properly splendid in his absence. It is by these sorts of events that prestige is often measured. He conspired with the town council, with the lord steward, with his ladies, the musicians they house and feed, their cooks, he even asks Haewon for her opinion. They will cover the palace and the path leading to town with colored lanterns, setting the whole place alight, open their doors to whoever according to northern custom, feed them rice cakes and warm soup, noble and commoner alike. His ladies will walk around fine clothes and silver jewelry, bestow gifts of money and blessings in the name of the prince’s house. Yeonjun’s heart warms as the plans take more and more of a concrete form, the music and dancing and food as real in his mind as it would be, were he present to witness it. It only bothers him that he knows he will not be able to. The more their preparations progress, the more sure he is that the prince will return any day now, with his summons to the Imperial Court for the occasion.

But he is wrong.

Of course he is, as fond as fate has been lately of making a fool of him. This year, the prince does not arrive at all.

Instead, an imperial envoy comes in the middle of the night, and Yeonjun has them placed in a guest room, to be formally welcomed in the morning. A kinswoman of the prince’s, is the vague explanation he gets as to who their visitor is. None of the servants who interacted with her know exactly who she is, and she only identified herself with an imperial seal and the colors of the prince’s house.

Yeonjun recognizes her immediately, though, when she stands before him in the dining hall. A sharp jaw and cat-like eyes, an alpha’s smell with a tinge of woodsmoke. Taehyun’s cousin, Iseul – his uncle’s firstborn. In black and silver, with an embroidered tiger leaping up her shoulder as he bows before him, straight-backed. Just polite enough as a guest without seeming servile or submissive. Her station towers over Yeonjun’s, even though he is the master of this house.

“Your Highness.” He sounds breathless to his own ears. He needs to get a hold of himself. He cannot show any weakness in front of her. “What do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

She watches him with the eyes of a predator, with a small smile rising to her lips. “I was sent here by His Imperial Majesty, Lady Yeonjun.”

He bows his head in acknowledgment. Suddenly, he wishes he was not alone at the head of the table for once – that Taehyun could be there, by his side, facing this with him. The lord steward sits too far on his right, not nearly close enough for them to make for a united front. It would have been a dangerous display of kinship in front of a representative of the Imperial Court, anyway.

“Very well, then. What does His Imperial Majesty wish to tell us, then?”

Iseul stands even straighter, if that was ever possible, and Yeonjun rights his own shoulders, prepared to weather imperial theatrics. He knows well enough how this goes, from all his years at the Court.

“I, Kang Iseul, in the power and honor bestowed upon me by His Imperial Majesty, Kang Taeyul, the fourteenth emperor of the Kang Dynasty, holder of the Sun Throne, the sun in the north, the south, the east and the west, have come to extend a royal invitation to the celebration of the New Year at the Imperial Court to you, honorable Princess Consort Choi Yeonjun,” Iseul lifts her chin. “And to the concubine by the name Beomgyu.”

The whole room seems to freeze. Yeonjun’s courtly smile tightens at the edges. Pardon? Is the word he cannot bring himself to get past his lips.

“Much less formally, Lady Yeonjun,” Iseul continues, tone lighter but merciless to Yeonjun’s ears. “His Imperial Majesty hopes you are well. Prince Taehyun has informed us of your unfortunate illness, and it is safe to say the whole royal family was concerned with your well-being.”

His gut is so tight he can hardly draw in a breath. He bows his head politely. “Thank you, Your Highness, and to His Imperial Majesty for his kind concern. I have recovered quite well. I should be well enough to travel to the Court for the celebration.”

Iseul gives him a wider smile this time, one Yeonjun knows better than to trust. Does anyone know about Taehyun making up an illness to slip away from the Court? Just asking one courtier will let her know there was no illness to speak of. “That is wonderful news, Lady Yeonjun. His Imperial Majesty has asked me to travel with you, to ensure your safety, since my honorable cousin is unfortunately too busy to deliver his summons on his own. If you would be so generous as to let me take advantage of your hospitality until you are ready to depart, I would presume to remain here in the palace with you.”

He takes a deep, steady breath in. “Of course, Your Highness. Our doors are always open to members of the great House of Kang.”

This time, the smile reflects in Iseul’s eyes. “You are too kind, Lady Yeonjun.”

“I was already preparing to depart with my husband, so I should not keep you too long.”

The prince bows politely. “You do not need to rush for my benefit, Lady Yeonjun. I seem to find my honorable cousin’s holding quite a charming place. I will not mind lingering, should the need arise.”

“I will keep you abreast of the state of my preparations, then.”

“Thank you – I will indulge in the comfort of your home in the meantime.”

Yeonjun smiles, and believes it barely wobbles in the corners of his mouth. “Please do, Your Highness.”

 

.

 

As soon as they arrive in Yeonjun’s quarters and the door is shut behind them, Yeonjun succumbs to the uncomfortable flutter of anxiety in his chest, letting out a shuddering sigh. His ladies look at him in concern – they look just as baffled as he felt at Iseul’s arrival, much less her missive. Something has to be wrong, for things to happen this way. Something happened at the Court, and it is echoing all the way here, to their peaceful palace.

“My dears, you will wait for me in my study. I will speak to Omega Beomgyu in my dressing room, alone.”

This time, he needs no excuse to be alone with Beomgyu. The Emperor’s strange invitation is reason enough. None of the ladies comment on it, and they file away, Yeonjun following with Beomgyu in tow, the two of them entering the dressing room, where Yeonjun sinks into his seat by the mirror he paints himself at.

“What is this, Yeonjun?”

He snorts, chest heaving suddenly, now that he can afford to show some weakness in the comfort of a friendly presence. He puts his face in his hands, shaking his head hard before raising it again. “Do you think I know, Beomgyu?” He swallows, his throat tight and dry. “This is not how this is supposed to go. The prince never sends anyone in his stead to bring me to him. The Emperor is not supposed to summon me, directly, much less invite a concubine to join the court. Nobody from the prince’s family just comes in to visit us like this. This is not supposed to be happening.”

Beomgyu stands in the middle of the room, too far from him, frowning too hard for it to flatter his pretty face. “What could he possibly want with us?”

“I have no idea, Beomgyu. But he could gain a lot from having Prince Iseul at our house like this. We are safe here in our isolation – hardly anything that happens here reaches the Court unless we want it to. Now she walks the halls of this house, the eyes and ears of the Emperor.” He shakes his head again, pressing his fingers tightly to his hairline. He would stroke them through his hair, were it not done up in an elaborate hairstyle already. “I will have to make sure we leave as soon as possible. And you…” He looks at Beomgyu, hoping to convey the guilt he feels for what he is about to say through his eyes. “You will have to stay at the concubines’ quarters. I cannot have you mingling with the others in her presence.”

Beomgyu purses his lips tightly, but nods. “I understand.”

“And if Prince Iseul comes to see you…”

“Then I will behave myself,” Beomgyu says firmly. “And I will not say a word she could interpret as a stain on your reputation.”

“Or the prince’s.” Yeonjun leans towards Beomgyu in his seat, as imploring as he can make himself sound while still struggling to contain his breathing. “We need him to stand firm, Beomgyu, whether you like him or not. We cannot hand them a way to shake him on a silver platter.”

Beomgyu’s hand flexes. “If she asks me whether we consummated our bond?”

Yeonjun swallows. “Tell her whatever you feel is necessary. But we must make sure then, that the prince knows not to contradict it once we arrive.”

He nods, and Yeonjun nods back. Slowly, he collapses onto his vanity, into a heap in front of his mirror, hiding his face in his arms. After a moment, a warm hand travels down his back, soothing.

“Perhaps we overreact. It is just an invitation.”

Yeonjun snorts into his sleeves, then lifts his head to squint at Beomgyu, who slides his hand up to the back of his neck, caressing the side of his throat gently. “I thought you abhorred naiveté.”

He shrugs. “It can be useful, sometimes. Sometimes it pays to be a fool – especially when those around you expect you to be.”

They stare at each other, for a long, silent moment, then Beomgyu brushes Yeonjun’s cheek with the back of his hand before withdrawing it completely. “I know my way around a high-stakes court, Yeonjun, and so do you. No Emperor can strip us of our experience.”

Yeonjun looks down, at the empty space between them, and he nods.

They are less helpless than the alphas of the Imperial Court realize – that is their advantage.

Chapter 9

Notes:

PLEASE NOTE: if you've read the previous chapter before I fixed the mistake, please be aware that I have changed all references to Taehyun's cousin Iseul as "princess" to "prince" - as an alpha, she should be referred to with the masculine word, and i did not catch my own mistake until i was well into writing this chapter. from here on out she will be referred to as "prince" and I will do my best to make sure y'all always know whether "the prince" refers to her or Taehyun. please have faith in me and yell at me in the comments or on retro if it becomes unclear so i can fix it <3

love you. thank you so much for taking interest in this work :') i hope this chapter does not disappoint.

It is a strange experience for Yeonjun, to feel so wholly unsafe in a palace he so confidently called home for many years now. As long as the prince Iseul remains its guest, the familiar routines and pathways of it seem to Yeonjun as perilous as the depths of enemy territory must to a soldier on conquest. Except that he is the one subject to conquest this time, is he not? The one whose home is being invaded by the long arm of the Emperor.

Before, he thought himself incapable of ever truly understanding what it feels like, to have your entire sense of security ripped out from under you, the same way Beomgyu did when the Empire laid siege to his city, and perhaps he still is – perhaps this is still not enough for him to truly comprehend the mind-numbing fear that must come with it, but maybe he now knows the flavor it carries; the tension, the pressure on his chest making him struggle for every breath he takes. An endless anxious spiral – there, beyond his walls, outside his view, is an enemy that he cannot control, with an agenda unknown to him that he would rather regard as hostile than pay dearly for assuming otherwise, and every moment he spends looking away, moving things in place for his departure, is a moment that works for and against him at the same time.

He does his best to take advantage of the goodwill he has gathered with his subjects to keep an eye on Iseul without having to actually exert himself at all – gossips about her activities with his lord steward as he would any other interesting guest to his house, jokes about her with his ladies to see if hey had heard anything; inquires with Haewon, gently, to see if the servants have noticed anything the more gentile members of the household have not. The most significant, and at the same time the most troubling thing he comes to learn is that the prince seems to have chosen the Madame Seo as her dedicated companion for the duration of her stay – almost to the point of impropriety, to the amusement of their lord steward, the young alpha is seldom to be seen without the matronly omega attached to her arm. 

Yeonjun defends her almost by instinct, chiding the older alpha gently – just like Yeonjun, Iseul knows the Madame well from her youth at the court, and as dangerous as her loose lips are to Yeonjun in this situation, the prince choosing her to keep her company makes perfect and perfectly courtly sense. To the youngsters of the court, Madame Seo is a mother figure they never asked for but which she has always strove to be. She is, no doubt, charmed to some extent by someone as important as the future Emperor’s daughter, a good-looking young alpha no less, paying her this much attention, but that all just plays further into Iseul’s hand – and here, away from the Court, she can afford the air of impropriety, knowing it will not follow her back home.

It is the perfect move to make, a flawless maneuver – one Yeonjun can do very little to counter, short of summoning Madame Seo to his own quarters just to get her away from the prince for a short while, but he hardly has an excuse to do so. Nothing he needs to do before he leaves need include the good madame.

At least, in a small mercy, no news ever reaches him of the prince even attempting to approach the concubines’ quarters. Beomgyu’s doors remain closed and undisturbed, with the only people passing through being the servants bringing him food every day. Haewon assures him that from their talk, it seems that Beomgyu is having an easy enough time being confined to a single building of the palace, being caught reading books, playing music or strolling through the tiny courtyard during the day. If he has attempted to sneak Yeonjun a message or has been waiting for Yeonjun to visit him, not a word of it has reached Yeonjun’s own ears yet.

The first night, he is almost tempted to be reckless and go see him, just to relieve some of the panic threatening to well up within him, but he thinks better of it. He would rather they both be safe, even if he has trouble sleeping almost until the crack of dawn.

Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned, somewhere in the empty space left behind by Beomgyu after he makes the decision to have him hide out in the concubines’ quarters. He had gained something valuable, perhaps invaluable in Beomgyu, through their bond, through his... continuous failure to deny him. Companionship, friendship, an alliance. A double-edged sword in times like these. Giving him something to rely on, but also something to lose. Another thing he needs to consider when weighing his next move – whatever happens, Beomgyu needs to be protected, and if Yeonjun has even a shred of a say in their future, he should stay at Yeonjun’s side. A burden lifted and a burden shouldered. It is a strange feeling, one Yeonjun cannot altogether bring himself to dislike. There is a strange firmness, a determination in realizing he has something to protect, for no other reason but for himself, his own peace of mind.

On one hand, he cannot allow himself to rely on Beomgyu enough to be shaken irreparably by his absence, and on the other… what a small torture it is, in comparison to isolation so much more thorough than this, that he has known in his life as well? To voluntarily give up Beomgyu’s company for the safety of the two of them.

So he manages and he works as fast as he can, to resolve this situation before the tide has the opportunity to turn against him.

 

.

 

If years of life at the Imperial Court, observing and participating in the precarious game of court politics, have taught him anything, it was that every push, no matter how delicate, was almost sure to be followed up by a pull.

Two days go by during which the prince barely interacts with Yeonjun beyond perfectly respectful politeness during meals they share with the rest of the household – which are nor even all meals of the day, as Iseul deigns to accept private invitations by Yeonjun’s courtiers, so generous with her attention despite her station. So becoming of her, to mingle with the people of a lesser court such as their own. How virtuous.

Perhaps it is a failure of Yeonjun’s to view her willingness to grant her time to the members of his household as anything less than genuine, but he struggles to see any innocent reasons for her to enter his household like this, and when he gets the news on the third day that the prince will be joining the household for breakfast, he already finds himself anticipating the push to come even as he orders to have a special seat arranged for her at the head of the table, by his own side.

He dresses himself in resplendent reds, assisted by his ladies, who help him affix ruby pins in his hair while he paints on his face a white and red mask of careful indifference. A breakfast like any other. Little more than a formality to share it with the members of his household as a boon to them, to grace them with his presence. He has taken countless of those breakfasts, even though he prefers to spend his mornings in the privacy of his own quarters.

Iseul seems amused to see him, once he arrives, fashionably late. She sits in the seat he arranged for her, right next to his own at the head of the table, and Yeonjun feels, briefly, like he is the guest. He stands in the middle of the room with his ladies, much like he would had Taehyun been home and Yeonjun was to join him, giving Iseul a polite bow to greet her, like he would to the master of the house – and maybe she feels it too, because her eyes stay mirthful, as Yeonjun’s ladies disperse around the room, leaving him alone to face the prince on his own, his body almost urging him to go towards her to be scented before he is allowed to take his seat.

“I was told you requested I sit next to you this morning,” the prince says mildly, as the moment stretches without Yeonjun making as much as a step. “It is an honor.”

He squares his shoulders. “It is an honor for me to share a table with you, Your Highness.” Then he bows again, like a courtier, like a boy. “Would you also grant me the honor of allowing me to serve you?”

Iseul’s eyebrows rise, and the amusement in her gaze becomes somewhat inscrutable. “My lady Yeonjun, you would treat a prince like a king – you are too kind.”

Yeonjun stands back up proudly again. A push and a pull. “Do you refuse my service, then?”

It would be strange of her to do so – perhaps too overt a show of disfavor. “Of course not, Lady Yeonjun. It will be a pleasure to be served by you.”

The same way him lowering himself enough to serve her is an overt show of favor – an acknowledgment of their inequality. He thinks it is beneficial for him, to make sure she knows he knows where they stand. Yeonjun lives and falls by the favor of House Kang. He remembers it well.

He takes his seat, and it is surely almost a comical sight, to see him have to leave it once he formally greets his household just to be able to take Iseul’s plate to prepare it. He takes his time with it, choosing bites carefully, and politely ignores Iseul’s eyes lingering on him, even as she has ample opportunity to look away, strike up a conversation with the lord steward or anyone else she might take interest in.

“We have hardly seen each other the past few days, Lady Yeonjun. It is a shame.”

Coming from anyone else, perhaps those words could be understood to be flirtatious, but Yeonjun takes them for the careful push they are. He smiles at Iseul, as bashful as he can make himself appear. “Oh, I apologize for being a poor host, Your Highness – I was so caught up in my preparations, I have neglected you.”

“I understand, Lady Yeonjun,” the prince assures, raising her hand placatingly. “I merely tease. Madame Seo has told me it is not unusual for you to be as busy as you are these days.”

“Oh, you have spoken to her?” Yeonjun widens his eyes, fluttering his eyelashes as he feigns ignorance.

If the casual mention of the madame was a test to see just how informed Yeonjun is, the prince seems happy enough with his overt show of cluelessness. “Indeed – in your absence, she seems to have taken it upon herself to be my host and guide in the palace. I believe there is hardly a nook in this household she has neglected to mention in the past two days.”

This time, Yeonjun does not have to fake his amusement. “She has not changed much since our youth, has she?”

And as far as he can tell, the responding smile in Iseul’s eyes is just as genuine. “That she has not.”

Perfectly practiced, Yeonjun sets the plate down before her without making a noise as it hits the table. “Perhaps I could make up for my absence by inviting you to share lunch with me in my quarters today?”

The prince narrows her eyes at him. “Are you attempting to save me from the grasp of our Madame Seo, Lady Yeonjun? I assure you, since she has left the Court, there has been enough of her kind in our midst for me to not have gone out of practice handling a personality like hers.”

Yeonjun allows himself a small breath of a laugh as he pours Iseul a drink. “I do not doubt it, Your Highness. I am afraid my offer did not come out of so selfless a place – I would not dare assume you needed saving. It is simply rare for me to have the chance to share a table with a relative like this. I do so rarely get to see my husband’s family at the Court, much less my own.”

Iseul keeps her eyes on him as she takes a careful sip. “You do live quite an isolated life here, Lady Yeonjun.” Her lips twitch in a strange way, then she tilts her head. “Madame Seo seems to believe it is quite cruel of my cousin to keep you here like this.” Her eyes flick up and down Yeonjun’s frame. “And I do seem to remember you positively thriving during your time at the Court.”

Careful to manage his expression, Yeonjun shakes his head. “Your Highness, as much as I appreciate Madame Seo’s kind advice and company, I am afraid sometimes her view of a wife’s duty seems quite… narrow, shall we say. Is it not proper of a wife to tend to a household this way? I am more useful to my husband here than I ever could be at the Court. You certainly would agree, the life of landed nobility is not quite like the courtier’s life Madame Seo is used to.”

He cannot decipher the expression that takes over the prince’s face at his words, and it leaves him feeling strangely suspended, waiting for her to answer. “In any event, Lady Yeonjun, the gates of His Imperial Majesty’s court remain as open to you as they ever were.”

The response is as unreadable to him as her face – perhaps he has erred in reminding her that unlike her, Taehyun already holds land at so young an age.

Yeonjun takes a small, careful breath. “And I remain ever grateful of His Imperial Majesty’s generosity, as well as the kindness shown to me and my husband by your entire family, Your Highness.”

Iseul blinks slowly, looking even more like a cat than her eyes naturally make her seem. “You are as gracious as always, Lady Yeonjun.”

“I believe even this far from the Court, my politeness is a skill well-practiced.”

“It is to your honor,” Iseul says with a nod to her head, reminding Yeonjun, with her dark hair and an alpha’s body clad in Kang family colors, of her own cousin. “Lady Yeonjun.”

Only the address is different. The context. Perhaps the sentiment is the same – a stiff acknowledgment of Yeonjun’s penchant for composure.

He bows his head politely in response.

“I will happily join you for lunch today,” she adds before she begins eating, turning away from him slightly to signal that he is free to serve himself now.

Yeonjun looks over at the servant who is hovering by them, unsure whether he is to be served today. He shakes his head imperceptibly, and the man retreats, stepping backwards to not show him his back politely. Then he reaches for a plate, and begins to fix it for himself – today, he can step off his pedestal, in the name of politeness. “I will look forward to the pleasure of your company then, Your Highness.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun takes his seat at the privately set table in his tea room only once the prince has – Dayeon and Soojin stand to the side, hands neatly folded and their heads down, seeming more like servants than noble ladies. The well-practiced wheels of etiquette squeak under them with the strain of them having to adjust for this unusual situation – this time, Yeonjun is not at the top of the pecking order. They take this lunch privately, as the company of Yeonjun’s high-born but ultimately ordinary ladies is not suitable for a prince, unless they are there to serve them, so the room is so much emptier than it usually would be, devoid of the usual middle-of-the-day chatter. Yeonjun had to adjust his appearance before admitting Iseul into his quarters at all instead of leaving it for after he takes his meal, and the spread before them is so splendid, just like the lunches he would prepare to impress a subject of his to gain their submission through sheer opulence.

This time, however, the opulence only serves to beg for the prince’s respect.

Iseul eyes Yeonjun’s ladies from her seat, her eyes keen and appraising – Yeonjun only hopes he chose well; it felt the most shrewd of him to choose the two omegas, both of their relatives, no less. Lady Soojin of the finest stock, and Lady Dayeon of Yeonjun’s own blood – Iseul could hardly protest to either of them not being worthy of her presence. And they needed chaperones, either way; someone to sit with them as they shared the table. They may be relatives by law but in the eyes of courtly etiquette, they were still an alpha and omega.

“I believe you recognize our good Lady Soojin, Your Highness?” Soojin bows on cue, perfectly proper. “A distant cousin of yours, I believe?”

“Of course,” Iseul responds with a bow of her head. “We recognize each other from the Court, do we not?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Soojin straightens back up, keeping his head down, and Iseul gives him a small smile. “I trust our honorable cousin’s house has treated you well all these years.”

Relaxing a little where he had been stiff as a board before, Soojin smiles slightly in response. “Indeed it has, Your Highness. It has been a pleasure to keep His Grace company here.”

Iseul glances at Yeonjun, as if to gauge his response to the endorsement, but Yeonjun only gestures towards Dayeon. “This is my cousin, Lady Dayeon.”

Dayeon repeats Soojin’s gesture, holding the bow until she is acknowledged. “Your Highness.”

“My pleasure, Lady Dayeon.”

Yeonjun gives his ladies a small smile, then turns to Iseul again. “I thought it would be lovely if my ladies could serve us today.”

The prince smiles in return, then looks at the two of them, giving them another brief, evaluating glance. “Indeed it would.”

“Dayeon, my dear, would you serve me today?” Yeonjun gives his cousin a sunny smile, and Dayeon responds with a small bow.

Iseul lets out a small laugh. “Choi to Choi and Kang to Kang, then? Will you not give me the honor of your cousin’s service?”

Taken aback, Yeonjun cannot quite stop his mouth from forming a silent little O before he regains control of it. “Certainly I would, Your Highness – I merely thought you would prefer the company of your kinsman at your side.”

She tilts her head, cat eyes narrowing, and Yeonjun wonders if she is simply pleased to see him so taken aback. “With all respect due to the good Lady Soojin, perhaps the service of a Choi omega could help me understand why my cousin had fallen for your charms so thoroughly.”

Yeonjun lets his eyebrows hike up, just a little bit. “Was my service at breakfast this morning not enough to convince you, Your Highness?” With the slightest tinge of a teasing tone – with Taehyun, he could afford to be bolder, with an alpha lower than him, he could tease as bluntly as he would like, but with Iseul, he needs to be careful.

“It certainly convinced me of your virtues, Lady Yeonjun,” Iseul says in a placating tone, the amusement in her eyes giving them a strange light as she looks to the side at Dayeon again. “I merely wish to know if it comes from a nobility of blood, or if you are simply such a uniquely virtuous omega yourself.”

And perhaps she knows exactly how Yeonjun will react to this, with a stiffening of his spine in response to a challenge to the merits of his house, but this challenge he believes he is more than capable of rising to, so he only gestures towards Dayeon with his sleeve, his chin tilted up as much as he can afford to have it be, in the presence of an imperial prince. “Well, Your Highness, I have full trust in Lady Dayeon’s ability to convince you of the nobility of the Choi bloodline. You may have her company today.”

Dayeon bows deeply, then comes closer to sit at the prince’s side, with her head bowed and eyes on the floor just like before. Woodsmoke stings at Yeonjun’s nose as Iseul’s scent becomes heavier, imposing the alpha air of dominance upon the two of them. When Yeonjun waves at Soojin to come join him on his side of the table, the gesture is much less grand, depressed by the weight of it.

Yeonjun’s ladies pick up the plates and begin arranging food on them – Iseul’s eyes are on Dayeon, watching her with the same keen attention she gave to Yeonjun earlier at breakfast, before they come back up to Yeonjun’s own face.

“Still, as delighted as I am to have met your cousin, Lady Yeonjun, I was somewhat hoping to find myself in the presence of the concubine.”

Dayeon stills for a barely perceptible moment; Soojin visibly swallows. Yeonjun puts a smile on his face. “Pardon?”

“Our Madame Seo told me that my honorable cousin has all but gifted the concubine to you to serve as your lady,” Iseul says lightly, non-confrontationally. Still, Yeonjun weighs his response carefully.

“That is true,” he admits, speaking slowly to give himself time to weigh how to word his next statement. “However, I thought it would have been quite disrespectful of me to make a woman of your importance spend time in the presence of a mere concubine.”

The prince seems amused by his response – at this point, Yeonjun is beginning to believe she is simply enjoying making him squirm. “Do you not think yourself important enough to refuse his company? Or has my cousin imposed this measure on you cruelly?”

Yeonjun takes a slow, deliberate breath. “I have come to appreciate our prince’s affinity for pragmatism,” he says eventually, keeping his smile up. “With him away from our house as often as he is, there seemed to be little benefit to having an omega withering away in the concubines’ quarters when he could serve me instead when he is not needed by the prince. Plus,” Yeonjun waves his hand in the air, crimson fabric fluttering before him. “You may believe me soft-hearted if I admit this, but I disliked the idea of keeping the concubine confined on his own as much as my husband abhors the waste of a resource. We omegas are social creatures, you see, and we lack other concubines to keep him company in the quarters – had we required him to stay there, the poor thing would have been condemned to terrible boredom and solitude.”

The appeal to gender seems to work on the prince – her face takes on that so specific, kindly affect of an alpha endeared by an omega’s weakness. “I suppose that speaks only further to your virtue, Lady Yeonjun. Not many omegas would be willing to take a blow to their reputation just to be kind to a fellow omega.”

He does his best not to bristle at the blatant suggestion that keeping Beomgyu at his side is somehow dishonorable to him. If anything, he should be praised for how willing he was to take this predicament on. For the poise with which he did so – how many wives could so calmly keep their husband’s concubine at their side? Without resorting to cruelty? To pettiness? If anything, he and Beomgyu got along too well. Became too close.

But things work differently at the Imperial Court. Being open-minded is not a virtue in most corners of it. Taehyun may try to run his own household in a different way, but the Imperial Court will always have its own set of rules, irregardless of this bubble of modern thinking they have created. Taking dishonor on the chin would not make him more noble at the Court. It would make him vulnerable; exploitable.

Yeonjun taps his finger on his empty cup, to signal Soojin to fill it for him. “I believe it is a minor indiscretion I can afford in the privacy of my home.”

Iseul’s brow rises a little bit as he takes a small, proper sip of his wine. “As long as your husband endorses it, certainly.”

Does Iseul think Taehyun did not cosign this decision? He was the one to propose it. “You know our prince, Your Highness. He is quite utilitarian in his thinking.”

Prince Iseul gives a little huff, as if she had to suppress a laugh. “Indeed. And such a great man of progress as well.”

Yeonjun watches Iseul take up a drink of her own. Something in her tone bothers him, but he cannot quite pinpoint what it is.

“Either way,” she continues, light-hearted. “I should get my fill of the concubine’s presence while we journey to the Court, should I not? Since he will be joining us.”

“It appears so,” he says, measured, then weighs his next words carefully until he decides he most likely has very little to lose by simply asking. “Do you know why? We were somewhat taken aback by the Emperor’s invitation. His Imperial Majesty so rarely grants us those at all, for the concubine to receive one himself was quite the surprise.”

“I understand,” Iseul assures in a sympathetic tone. “And I am sorry I had to be the bearer of such unusual news – but I am afraid I am just as in the dark as you are, Lady Yeonjun. I was simply given the order without much by the way of explanation, and I would not dare presume His Imperial Majesty’s intentions. The wisdom of an enlightened man such as himself continues to elude me.”

She gives him a kind smile, and Yeonjun finds himself not trusting a word that falls out of her lips. He struggles not to purse his own lips in response, and smiles at her instead.

“It is quite humble of you to view it this way, Your Highness. I see that a judicious mind is truly something inherent to the Kang.”

The prince’s eyes warm as she takes a drink. “I can only hope to pass it onto my children.”

“I have little doubt you will, Your Highness,” Yeonjun assures, empty and polite.

Dayeon sets a plate before Iseul, and Soojin sets one before him, before they both retreat to sit further behind them, to not disrupt their private conversation. At a less important lunch, they could fix themselves smaller plates of food before doing so, but unfortunately they will have to go hungry today. Yeonjun will let them eat while they are busy again in the afternoon.

The prince gives her plate as appraising a look as she gave his ladies, before selecting a fine cut of meat – her plate has all the better cuts, the finer bites of food. Yeonjun’s ladies did well.

“Speaking of the House of Kang,” Yeonjun speaks up, a bit emboldened by how smoothly his previous inquiry went. Iseul looks at him questioningly, mouth still full of food. “We also did not expect you to bring an invitation, instead of my husband coming back here to extend his own. Is he quite alright? He has not written us.”

“Oh, there is no need to worry, Lady Yeonjun.” Iseul assures, focusing her attention on the food once more. “My honorable cousin is in good health. I am afraid my taking up his duty was more His Imperial Majesty’s decision than a necessity.” Then she looks up at him again, with a conspiratorial mischief in her eyes. “As you well know, His Imperial Majesty considers Prince Taehyun a valued advisor, and he was quite displeased by his prolonged absence at Court following his taking of the concubine. He demanded Prince Taehyun focus on fulfilling his imperial duties for the foreseeable future, rather than running errands like these.”

Yeonjun ignores the stab to his ego the wording of her sentence is. His invitation is an errand to run, not an honor, not anything worth wasting their precious royal time on – except the Emperor did waste royal time on it, did he not? Prince Iseul is as much a Kang royal as Taehyun is.

“Did he not mind you running such errands, Your Highness?”

“Ah, my good lady,” Iseul gestures widely, nonchalant. “Taking up this duty was as much a favor to me from His Imperial Majesty as it was a favor I was to do for my cousin. The life of a tax official is so dreadfully dull when it is not season for us to be hard at work – just like the farmers in their fields, before it is time for the reaping, we bide our time before the crops come to flourish.”

Right. She is just here to pass the time; because she has nothing better to do. They are no more than a foreign theater for her to attend and observe for her amusement.

“I hope you find our household suitable for a break in the monotony then, Your Highness.”

“I certainly have so far, Lady Yeonjun.” The prince raises her cup, as if to toast him. “You run a truly splendid household – it has been my pleasure to explore it.”

Yeonjun bows at the waist to receive her praise. Whatever he gains from this lunch, he is certain now that a peace of mind will not be it.

 

.

 

The first time Yeonjun gets to see Beomgyu after Iseul’s arrival is the day of their departure.

Beomgyu stands in the courtyard flanked by palace guards, dressed in white and drowned in the fur of his favorite cloak. His face is painted, perfectly modest by imperial custom, and his hair, adorned with only the simplest of silver pins, is styled down, demonstrating his lack of intention to show off. Simple, modest and proper. If he was at least a sliver less beautiful than he is, he would have hardly stood the chance of rivaling Yeonjun, who is as dressed up as he can be for a journey as long as the one they will be taking.

With Yeonjun standing by the largest palace building, Beomgyu and his guards on his left, and Iseul and her imperial escort on his right, they form a strange, uneven triangle. Beomgyu’s eyes are boring holes into the floor, unflinching. He seems to have held steadfast in his decision to behave well around the prince, and Yeonjun is grateful for it – if he had to worry about Beomgyu in addition to worrying about himself, he thinks he may collapse on the spot.

What brings him some peace of mind is that Beomgyu looks altogether unaffected by his prolonged solitude – Haewon’s reports must have been more than just attempts to ease his mind, and he had to have spent his rare time alone well. His face is healthy, without any of the terrible paleness Yeonjun has seen in it before, and while his shoulders are hunched, they are not as stiff as Yeonjun worried they could be.

Having made sure Beomgyu seems to be well with the briefest of examinations, Yeonjun begins the ceremony that comes with his every departure from the household. The apologies to his household for leaving, warm and half-joking. Wishing them a peaceful and joyful celebration of the New Year in his absence. Assuring them he will be back to welcome the spring with them. Formally giving over control of the household to the lord steward, who repeats his oaths to him and the prince and assures him they will carry out his orders regarding the celebrations. He offers formal well-wishes of the household towards the Emperor, which Yeonjun promises to relay. Then he offers Yeonjun his arm, to escort him to his carriage.

With the more ceremonial affairs done, Iseul begins to move, giving her men orders while Yeonjun crosses the courtyard. The imperial escort is to take up positions both in front of and behind Yeonjun’s carriage, to assure his safety.

“Lieutenant – you are taking the concubine.”

Yeonjun pauses, right in front of the carriage. A soldier in imperial garb steps forward to approach the spot where Beomgyu still stands motionless. He clears his throat.

“Your Highness, if I may be so bold.”

His lord steward takes a step back from him. The prince looks at Yeonjun, curiosity clear in her dark eyes. “You may.”

The lieutenant reaches Beomgyu, and Beomgyu takes a step forward to follow him. Yeonjun swallows heavily.

“I believe it would be better for the concubine to join me in my carriage.”

Both Beomgyu and the officer pause. Iseul folds her hands behind her back. “How so, Lady Yeonjun?”

“Creatures like us are prone to a weak constitution – whatever reason His Imperial Majesty has to extend his royal invitation to him, I assume he would prefer the concubine to arrive free of illness? The weather is quite uncompromising this time of year.”

The prince seems to consider his words for a long moment, before she nods her head. “I suppose you are correct, Lady Yeonjun. It would be quite cruel of us to expose a face as beautiful as his to the elements, would it not?”

He attempts to smile at her, ignoring Beomgyu’s posture stiffening visibly in the corner of his eye. “I believe so, Your Highness.”

“Very well then. Lieutenant? You may escort him to Lady Yeonjun’s carriage.”

He allows himself a small, shaky sigh. His lord steward gives him a reassuring smile as he helps Yeonjun board the carriage, and he is sure that he had seen Yeonjun’s minute break in composure.

“Have a safe journey, Your Grace,” he says kindly, and Yeonjun musters up a genuine smile in response.

“Please make sure to enjoy the celebrations as well, my dear lord steward. Do not overwork yourself.”

“If that is what you command, Your Grace. I will strive to do so.”

The warm conversation eases his mind somewhat, and he allows his shoulders to drop as he is left alone in the privacy of the thin wooden walls of the carriage. Noise carries to him from the outside muted, as Iseul orders more people around and the escort mounts their horses. It comes into stark focus again as the door of the carriage opens and Beomgyu climbs inside, assisted without much flourish by Iseul’s lieutenant. The man does not say a word to either of them before closing the door again. Yeonjun sighs heavily.

Beomgyu settles himself into a comfortable seating position, spreading his fur around himself like a blanket, then glances up at Yeonjun and smiles.

“I suppose I owe you a great deal of thanks, Lady Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun narrows his eyes at him, but a warmth spreads in his chest that seems to flood the chill of the winter day out of him. “I meant what I said to Prince Iseul – I do not wish for you to fall ill simply because you are not deemed important enough to travel in a carriage.”

“Of course,” Beomgyu replies, his tone amused even as he schools his face into a more serious expression. “You are exceedingly thoughtful, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun huffs, and Beomgyu’s laugh gets lost in the noise of the gates of the palace opening outside.

 

.

 

If Yeonjun even thought to worry about what a journey might be like without Taehyun in his carriage with him to keep him company, then Beomgyu manages to dispel his concern as soon as they set out. He regales Yeonjun with stories of his misadventures in the concubine’s quarters while they were separated – the things he found in the other bed rooms in the building, jewelry and figurines and stashed-away letters, the books he has read, how he tried to teach himself to play the song the ladies have taught him on his own. His failed attempts at writing poetry, which frustrated him to no end, reciting snippets to Yeonjun in a language he has not mastered, and barely understands a word of. It makes him blush, to be confronted in this way by his own ignorance. The Empire has little use for their ladies to understand anything beyond the imperial language. There are allies and diplomats and dialects in the more far-off regions that someone at the Imperial Court might struggle to understand, but there is no real need to master a foreign language or a dialect. In all of their diplomatic endeavors, the Empire is the dominant force, the side that sets the rules of engagement. If people of other countries want to communicate with the Empire, they have to learn the imperial language, or hire a skilled scholar who speaks both languages to speak on their behalf. Why would an imperial lady speak a language of some distant country somewhere?

Beomgyu seems too pleased by his embarrassment, once again finding a feeling of superiority in his own education. But in the end, is it not a sign of that submission he seems to abhor so ardently? That the Free Cities would have need to speak the imperial language – that it is something expected of an educated noble, because educated people surely can speak the language of great scholars – those housed in the great one Empire.

He hardly confronts Beomgyu with this train of thought – seeing as they are to spend days in each other’s company this way, he has little interest in starting arguments. Instead he just offers Beomgyu stories of his own in return, little events he missed and the gossip that has not reached the concubines’ quarters.

There is sort of a strange dichotomy between the moments when Yeonjun is inside and outside the carriage along their journey, not dissimilar from how it felt to be enclosed with Beomgyu in his nest during his heat – even though in this case, there is none of that physical closeness between them as there was during Yeonjun’s heat. They cannot afford to touch each other, or even speak too plainly too loud lest someone outside of the carriage hear them. There is very little lust between the two of them, and in its stead something comfortable and peaceful rests in the empty spaces of the carriage.

A friendly presence – had someone told Yeonjun he would ever regard Beomgyu as such, he would think them mad, but that is what Beomgyu is to him now, is he not?

In contrast, whenever the door of their carriage opens, whether only so that the prince may speak to him or because it is time for them to disembark, to take a meal or to enter their accommodation for the night, Yeonjun has to pretend that Beomgyu is not even there. He does not look at Beomgyu for more than a passing moment, glancing at him every now and then to see how he fares. The prince keeps them separated, having Beomgyu take his meals in the carriage if they have to resort to stopping to eat in the middle of the road, or with her officers when they stop to eat at an establishment with a roof over their heads. Beomgyu is just important enough as property of Taehyun’s to not be made to eat with the common riffraff, but not nearly important enough to eat with him and the prince. He gets a room of his own in every accommodation they find as well, with guards stationed at his door as if he was to attempt an escape should he be left alone for the night.

Yeonjun finds the prospect laughable – even if he were to do so, it would do him little good. Without money, claimed by a living alpha, too beautiful for his own good, such a daring escape would hardly lead to a prosperous life. Whether he likes it or not, Beomgyu is, at the end of the day, better off in Taehyun’s ownership than he could be anywhere else.

The thought sours Yeonjun’s mood somewhat, but he does not share it with Beomgyu even at his gentle prodding – Beomgyu need not concern himself with the strangest of Yeonjun’s thoughts. Not now, at any event.

It takes them days of travel to reach the court, and by the time that they do, Yeonjun’s entire body aches the way only travel can make it. He is weary and no doubt haggard and disheveled both in expression and appearance by the time the carriage passes through the gate of the Imperial City, and the relative quiet of the road, only broken occasionally by the voices of travelers, the racket of passing carriages and carts and the stomping of horses and oxen, breaks into the bustle and din of the city. Even through the walls of the carriage, the noise is relentless, countless conversations happening at the same time, laughter, shouting and exclamations, some voices hushing in reverence as they pass through the street, the decor of the carriage, the armor of their guard and the presence of an imperial prince making it obvious that someone of great importance is passing through. Every now and then, they hear Iseul’s voice addressing the people with the kindly, condescending tone of a royal. Yeonjun wishes their carriage could afford to be an open one – he would have loved to watch the colorful houses and equally colorful people passing by and give out smiles to the people as a princess consort might.

Instead he watches Beomgyu’s face, which starts out relatively impassive as they enter the city, but gets progressively more curious as they delve further and further without having reached the palace. He fights the smug expression that threatens to overtake his face, but he seems to have failed enough for Beomgyu to narrow his eyes at him in displeasure.

“You wished to know of the splendor of the Imperial Court, Omega Beomgyu,” he says lightly, teasing. “I suppose you may, now.”

Beomgyu pouts. “When I was brought here before, I had neither the time nor the mood to take in the sights.”

“I hope our court makes a good impression on you.”

Beomgyu rolls his eyes. “I doubt it will, Yeonjun.”

 

.

 

Once they enter the main courtyard of the imperial palace, their carriage comes to a stop, and Yeonjun attempts to gather himself, fixing his hair absentmindedly while he strains his ears to hear the conversation outside. The prince Iseul is speaking to a voice that sounds familiar to Yeonjun’s ears, and once the door to his carriage opens, he immediately connects it to the face that greets him outside it.

“Alpha Myeongjin.”

A friendly smile splits the young alpha’s wide face as he gives Yeonjun a deep, polite bow. “Lord Myeongjin, Your Grace.”

Unbidden, feeling boyish in the presence of an old friend, he covers his mouth with his sleeve. “Oh, is that so, my lord? I suppose much has happened with you since the last time I have paid the Court a visit.”

“Indeed it has, Your Grace,” Myeongjin agrees with just as wide a smile as he straightens back up, and politely offers him a hand to help him get out of the carriage. “A marriage and an imperial appointment – the two greatest pleasures in an alpha’s life.”

He laughs as he lets Myeongjin assist him with disembarking, then turns to him fully once he has stepped out and they have let go of each other. “Should we all be so lucky, Lord Myeongjin. Do I happen to know the dashing bride you have taken?”

“You certainly do, Your Grace. I believe you have spent quite a few of your days in the company of Omega Nayoon.”

“Oh, indeed I have!” He covers his mouth with his sleeves again. “What a fortunate union. Is it Lady Nayoon now, then? The Lady Nayoon, wife to our good lord imperial officer?”

Myeongjin bows deeply again, exaggerated. “The right hand man to the very Lord Steward of the Imperial Palace at your service, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun gasps just as exaggeratedly, a smile growing on his face. “Oh, my dear Lord Myeongjin, I do not know which one of you I shall be happier for. I will have to pay your good wife a visit to congratulate her on your marriage.”

“I am sure it would be a great honor to her should you grace her with your presence.”

With the happy flutter in his chest, Yeonjun all but forgets about Beomgyu still sitting in the carriage they are standing by, until Iseul steps up to the door of it, reaching a hand inside. Beomgyu lays his own in it perfectly ladylike, barely making contact as he disembarks and comes to stand right outside the door without looking at anyone.

“Ah.” Myeongjin looks over at Beomgyu, his eyebrows raised. There is a tinge of disdain in his expression that tightens the smile on Yeonjun’s face. “His Highness’ concubine. I have heard.”

Yeonjun is not sure what to say, so he does not say anything. Iseul gives the two of them a smile, but it feels mocking in Yeonjun’s eyes, of the both of them.

“Our good Lady Yeonjun insisted he share his carriage, so he would be shielded from this awful cold. Is it not simply lovely of him?”

Myeongjin’s eyebrows stay high up on his forehead as he looks at Yeonjun, apprehensive. “I suppose so, Your Highness.” He clears his throat, then bows again, as deep as he can before going down to his knees. “In any event. Your Highness, Your Grace. I was sent here to greet you on behalf of His Imperial Majesty. Welcome to the Imperial Court.”

Yeonjun bows deeply in response, while Iseul only inclines her head. “It is always an honor to be able to return.”

“I am afraid His Imperial Majesty will not be able to welcome you personally just yet, Your Grace. He is meeting with his council as we speak, and the meeting might well run until late in the day.”

Ah. Taehyun will not be in his rooms to receive him either, then. Too busy to see him, once again.

“However.” Myeongjin smiles slightly. “I have happened to speak with the good Madame Choi earlier today, and she implored me to relay to you an invitation to her room, as soon as you are able. Should you desire to take her up on her offer, I can have your things taken to your husband’s rooms while you go see her.”

“Oh, that is incredibly kind of you, Lord Myeongjin.” Yeonjun glances at Beomgyu. He cannot take him to go see his aunt, can he? Even if Beomgyu would not mind, his aunt would surely protest bitterly against the dishonor of him bringing a concubine to a lady’s rooms. But then again, he will eventually have to leave Beomgyu to his own devices. He cannot bring him everywhere with him here, like he did in his own household. Beomgyu is to the court not much more than an expensive woven rug would be, and Yeonjun would look equally as strange walking around with one of those under his arm wherever he goes. “Have you spoken with the prince as to what is to be done about his concubine?”

Beomgyu’s eyes twitch, but he stays put. Iseul folds her hands behind her back, seemingly as curious about the answer as Yeonjun is. Myeongjin only shakes his head.

“I am afraid we have not gotten the chance to do so – he has been at His Imperial Majesty’s side since early morning. I suppose…” He looks over at Beomgyu and frowns. “We could put him with the ones of the other lords councilor.” His mouth thins out into a line. “The quarters given by His Imperial Majesty to His Imperial Highness are filled quite thoroughly.”

Iseul huffs in amusement, but despite it, Myeongjin seems a bit chastised.

“It is to your royal father’s honor, of course, Your Highness.”

“Of course,” Iseul concurs, still just as mirthful.

When Yeonjun glances at Beomgyu again, color seems to be slowly draining from his face. Yeonjun squares his shoulders as the urge to defend him washes over him.

“May I suggest.”

Myeongjin turns towards him, obviously surprised to hear him speak up. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Having decisions made for him this way always puts my husband in such a sour mood,” he implores, playing up a pouty tone to his words. “I would rather prefer to be joined by a joyful husband when he returns to me. Perhaps you could have the concubine wait in the prince’s rooms for him, to be housed wherever he deems fit once he is capable of deciding?”

Iseul lets out a similar huff as before. “Lady Yeonjun is quite right, is he not, Lord Myeongjin? Little seems to bother my honorable cousin more than not being able to decide for himself.” She unfolds her hands and nods to him. “You should listen to him.”

Myeongjin seems to take it for the order it almost certainly is, and bows to Iseul. “I will arrange to have it done, then. Your Grace, do you wish to go to your husband’s rooms immediately, or would you prefer to pay a visit to Madame Choi?”

Over Myeongjin’s shoulder, Yeonjun sees Beomgyu’s eyes briefly flicker in his direction. Yeonjun hovers his fingers over his cheek, bashful. “I am afraid I will have to refresh myself first. My honorable aunt may miss me, but she would never forgive me for showing my face anywhere in so disheveled a state. I believe she would rather I delayed our meeting than come to her this road-weary.”

“It hardly shows, Your Grace,” Myeongjin assures, certainly as empty flattery. Yeonjun makes sure to shyly cover his mouth with a sleeve anyways, in a sweetly girlish gesture. “But if you are certain, then please follow me. I will have the servants bring your things.”

He bows politely, not too deep, but not too shallow. “Thank you very much, Lord Myeongjin.”

 

.

 

“Your Grace.”

Yeonjun gives the male beta that greets him in Taehyun’s rooms a warm smile. Kyunsang is an older man, just like old Minhyuk who takes care of the prince as his personal servant at their own palace, but decidedly more sprightly. His hair is peppered with white rather than overtaken by it completely, and his spine bows out of his own will rather than with age. He has not been with the prince since his boyhood, but he has been a staple of Yeonjun’s own visits to the Court.

“Kyunsang. I trust you and the prince have been well.”

“I believe so, Your Highness.” He stands with the posture of a military officer, his wrinkled face and perfect poise giving him the air of a general rather than a personal servant, even one assigned to a royal prince. “Although, one of us has been hard at work ever since he arrived here, while the other has had a blessedly easy time keeping these rooms clean since there is hardly anyone here to make a mess all day long.”

He allows himself to laugh in response. “A curse upon one man is a blessing upon the other.”

Kyunsang bows as precisely as he stands, inclining just slightly in polite acknowledgment. “So it seems, Your Grace.” Then he glances to Yeonjun’s side, where Beomgyu stands, just as quiet and stiff as in the courtyard. “I see you have brought the lady Beomgyu with you.”

Beomgyu looks up, obviously startled, and Yeonjun himself has to compose himself before responding. It feels strange, to have Taehyun’s servant be the first person from the Imperial Court to address Beomgyu by name this way, with a title they did not even dare use in their own household, no less. Has he adopted it from the way Taehyun spoke of him? Was Beomgyu Lady Beomgyu to his husband in the privacy of his own rooms?

“Omega Beomgyu.”

To his surprise, Beomgyu regains composure faster than him, and his voice comes out strict and severe, in contrast with his gentle, modest appearance.

Kyunsang, to his credit, takes the harsh correction perfectly in stride, bowing deeply and politely to Beomgyu, just like he would to an actual noble lady. “I sincerely apologize for my mistake, Omega Beomgyu. It will not happen again.”

As if emboldened by the quick apology, even as he does not acknowledge it verbally, Beomgyu unfurls minutely where he stands, his hunched shoulders straightening and chin lifting slightly. Perhaps it felt to him as an exertion of the shred of power he gets to have, at least between the walls of these rooms – and perhaps, he is simply glad to shed the reminder of his union with Seon Jaehwan.

Yeonjun gives Kyunsang a tighter smile this time. “I was informed that the prince has not decided where Omega Beomgyu is to be housed during our stay, so I have asked Lord Myeongjin to allow him to stay here until the prince can make a decision.”

“Ah,” Kyunsang’s brow furrows slightly. “I see, Your Grace.”

There is something halting about the way he speaks, and Yeonjun feels tension creeping back up his spine. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Kyunsang?”

“Your Grace, I merely…” he lets his words trail out, then shakes his head and his face grows serious. “I simply wonder if you have informed His Highness of your decision to bring Omega Beomgyu with you. I have only been told to expect your arrival.”

Yeonjun’s face probably does something entirely undignified in response. “Pardon?”

Kyunsang’s impressive shoulders shift a little in obvious discomfort. “If His Highness was aware that Omega Beomgyu will be joining you, he has not mentioned a word of it to me.”

Yeonjun’s mouth hangs open slightly as he takes the words in. Was Taehyun not told? Was Iseul given the order to bring Beomgyu behind his back? Why could the Emperor possibly want to ambush Taehyun by bringing his concubine to the court?

His breath shivers, as his treacherous brain offers possibility after possibility, one more ruinous to them than another. All of them putting all three of them into a situation they would do better to avoid at any cost. His wife, and his concubine. The Emperor wanted his son and both his omegas under his watch.

But why?

Beomgyu breathes out so sharply next to him it sounds like a scoff, and Yeonjun cannot help but look at him. Beomgyu errs by looking back, directly into his eyes, then looks away quickly. There is something dark in his expression, more grimly resigned than possessing of any of his usual fire. Yeonjun hopes the same expression is not mirrored on his own face.

“Omega Beomgyu is here by the royal invitation of His Imperial Majesty, Kyunsang. His presence here was not my choice.”

He gets a glimpse of the surprised expression on Kyunsang’s face before the man bows deeply again. “My deepest apologies for assuming, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together. The more contact he has with the Imperial Court, the more concerned he gets. Taehyun seemed so preoccupied with his standing here, and yet he assured Yeonjun so confidently that he would make sure whatever complications he was facing would not reach Yeonjun. But they did, did they not? When Prince Iseul stood before him and spoke Beomgyu’s name. Now that he is here, unable to see his husband for very well the rest of the day, finding out that secrets were kept from the prince at a court he was supposed to be holding in the palm of his hand. By his own father, no less.

“It is quite alright, Kyunsang. I understand your confusion. I am similarly surprised to hear that our prince has not been informed. It seems to be quite curious an oversight.”

Kyunsang’s expression tightens visibly. “Indeed it does, Your Grace.”

He takes a deep breath, and reaches up to undo the clasp of his fur shrug. “Well, now that we are here, and all sufficiently informed. I have come to refresh myself before I pay a visit to Madame Choi, and Omega Beomgyu is to stay here in your care until the prince returns. We will retire to the dressing room together, so that Omega Beomgyu may assist me, and in the meantime, I would appreciate it if you had someone fetch tea so he may enjoy it while he waits.”

The servant bows again. “I will see to it, Your Grace. I will also have the prince informed of your arrival.”

Yeonjun wraps the shrug around his hands. “I was informed that the prince is embroiled in a meeting of the Emperor’s Council.”

Kyunsang gives him the smallest of smiles. “Then I will have the prince discreetly informed of your arrival.”

He cannot suppress his smile in response. Taehyun likes Kyunsang quite a bit, not as the grandfatherly figure Minhyuk is to him, but more as a man in his own right. Punctual, precise and intelligent. Yeonjun believes he can understand the sentiment.

As Kyunsang leaves through the servants’ door, Yeonjun leads Beomgyu to the dressing room, where servants have set down most of Yeonjun’s baggage, and they scramble to leave as to not disturb him as he steps through the door. He does not bother stopping them, and quickly enough, they are left alone in the room.

Still Yeonjun stands in the middle of the room, eyes fixed on the servants’ door in the far wall. Are they truly alone? If the Emperor would wish it otherwise, they might never be, not while in his palace.

Beomgyu does not seem to share his worry, or perhaps believes his words to be innocent enough, as he comes to lean against a chest of drawers, leaning on his hands behind himself, his posture more open now than it has been all day. “I thought we were coming to visit your old home, Your Grace. How come it feels more like we have entered a den of lions?”

Yeonjun huffs. Perhaps his words are innocent enough. Even if they are too casual, too friendly for a concubine. “This is my home, Omega Beomgyu. The sense of impending danger notwithstanding.”

Instead of replying immediately, Beomgyu narrows his eyes at him, then nods. “I believe I am ever closer to understanding how this court came to form you, Your Grace. In an environment as stiff as this, perhaps anyone would develop a spine as straight as yours.”

He rolls his eyes, and finally relaxes, stepping to the mirror to check his face. It looks to him just as much in dire need of correction as he feared it was. “Would you please look at the packs they have brought and find my paint? Make yourself useful, darling, would you?”

Beomgyu rolls his eyes with just as much gusto as Yeonjun did – Yeonjun ignores him and starts pulling pins out of his hair, just so he can tighten everything up again. “Certainly, Your Grace.”

It takes Beomgyu about as long as it takes Yeonjun to fix his hair to find his jars of paint. He sets them out before Yeonjun meticulously, then hands him the first brush he always uses when refreshing his paint without having to be prompted. Yeonjun smiles at him at the gesture, and hopes that his paint is intact enough to hide his blush.

Beomgyu leans even closer, and for a moment Yeonjun is scared to the core that he is about to kiss him, until Beomgyu whispers, “Do you believe we are being listened in on?”

He purses his lips, then shrugs, in the most honest answer he can offer. “I do not know – but I worry now. The Emperor is rarely anything but straightforward with the prince.”

Frowning at his response, Beomgyu nods and moves away again, glancing at the mirror and fixing a strand of hair that had almost come loose from his hairdo. “Would you allow me to remove my paint? I assume I will not be allowed to leave the prince’s rooms anytime soon – I should not scandalize anyone with my bare face while sitting here drinking tea.”

Yeonjun feels apologetic, but is not sure how to express it, so he just looks into his own unhappy eyes as he dabs his brush against his face. “I am afraid that if you remove it now, you may have to reapply it later, if the prince has you moved anywhere outside his rooms. It would not bode well for you if you were seen walking around with a bare face.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees the displeasure on Beomgyu’s face. “You mean if he has me move in with the other concubines.”

He shrugs again, frustration building in his chest. “He may well have to. Especially if his father is not in the mood to tolerate his oddities.”

“You believe he would not do so of his own volition?”

That, finally, has Yeonjun glance up at him again, hoping his eyes convey his sincerity. “He did not do so the last time you were here, did he? He had you stay in Captain Soobin’s care. That is a peculiar arrangement indeed.”

Thankfully, Beomgyu seems to understand his point. It would have made sense for Taehyun to house Beomgyu with the other concubines living at the Court – but he avoided doing so, blatantly and deliberately. Whatever reason he had for doing so, Yeonjun believes he would do his best to avoid causing Beomgyu the discomfort of having to live with the others. Perhaps to avoid Beomgyu having to face what his life could have been like, with another alpha.

“I suppose so, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun nods, and goes back to preening himself for his aunt’s benefit.

 

.

 

“Your Grace!”

The words will never cease to be odd to Yeonjun’s ears when they come to him spoken in the voice of the woman that has all but raised him. His aunt bows to him, so deeply, so properly, as if barely acknowledging of her position as his elder. As always, she is dressed immaculately, painted with obsessive precision, and her hair is pulled back into a modest hairstyle suitable for an older omega so tightly Yeonjun would worry it could cause the woman a headache. The air around her is tinged with chamomile, gentle and slightly sweet, and it sets Yeonjun’s tired shoulders at ease. She smells the closest to home Yeonjun gets without returning to his ancestral house in the south.

“I have implored the lord Myeongjin to relay my invitation to you most urgently, but I hardly expected to see you this early in the day! In time for lunch, even? We may take it together, should you have the time to linger in my company.”

He sighs. “Auntie Misoon.” His chest feels heavy with both fondness and a bit of melancholy. He wishes his aunt was the type who would embrace him in greeting, not to address him by proper titles and bow so deeply her back must ache with it. “You know well I love to spend my time in your company. If you would have me share lunch with you, I will do so gratefully.”

His aunt crosses her wrists in front of herself, perfectly proper. “It would be a great honor to me to share a table with someone of your standing, Your Grace.”

If he did not know neither hell nor high water could get Choi Misoon to compromise her perfect manners, he would be imploring her at this point – but he does know, so he bows to her politely. “Then I intend to grant you this honor, Aunt Misoon.”

Misoon’s shoulders drop slightly, and some of her servile affect cracks slightly as she seems to appraise Yeonjun with her eyes, as sharp and critical as ever. Then she smiles at him, again perfectly polite. “I appreciate your choice of wardrobe, Your Grace. Gold is quite in fashion at the Court these days.”

Yeonjun knows, because his aunt told him in her letter – she is as much praising herself for having the foresight to inform him of the latest fashion as she is praising him for remembering it well. But of course he did so – she has never steered him wrong before, and he made sure to wear it on his first day at the Court to please her.

“Thank you, Aunt Misoon.”

She gives him a nod, as if to acknowledge that he accepted her compliment with a proper amount of grace, and gestures to the tea table beside them. As a minor courtier, his aunt lives in a much less elaborate space than the prince, and there are no doors for her to lead him through to get to where she takes her tea and private meals. The table is large, no doubt to be able to contain both her and her children at the same time, but not overly elaborate in its design, the carving of it simple and symmetrical. “Shall we sit, then? I should serve tea before it is time to take our lunch.”

Yeonjun acknowledges her suggestion with a bow of his head, and takes his seat, knowing that his aunt will not sit before him, even though, as his family member, she could easily take liberties with the social ladder when it comes to him.

He watches as she prepares tea, watches her eyes drift as the years of practice take over, her body altogether moving on its own until they have cups of perfectly brewed tea before them.

They reach out to touch the sides of their cups with their fingers at the exact same time, and Yeonjun has to suppress a smile.

“Where is uncle?”

His aunt’s face is overtaken by a smile so perfectly placid that Yeonjun immediately becomes wary of it. “You would not believe how incredibly busy your uncle has been, Your Grace. As of late, all he does is rub shoulders with the powerful and the wealthy.” She laughs insincerely, hiding her mouth behind her sleeve. “It seems you are not the only member of my family to have caught the eye of a member of the Kang family.”

Yeonjun feels his own face shifting. “Is that so?”

“Indeed – as I have written to you in my letter – he has been receiving invitation after invitation.” She folds her hands in her lap primly. “By the grace of His Imperial Highness.”

“Our prince’s uncle?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” his aunt responds, in the same chiding tone she would say his name with when she did not like his reaction to something. Perhaps he sounded a little too surprised for her taste. “The Imperial Highness. The only one we have, peace be to Prince Yongwoo’s soul.”

Yeonjun bows his head, properly chastised. He was not present at the court for the youngest prince’s passing – Yeonjun was still running barefoot in the green meadows of the south, and Taehyun barely spoke of his other uncle, having been much too young to remember much of him when Prince Yongwoo passed. His aunt, however, was a young woman still new to the court, and the death of the prince and consequent period of mourning has always seemed to leave such a deep impression on her.

He hopes to never have such an experience, but as he grows older, he supposes that it will come, sooner or later. One day, even his aunt herself will have to pass on, and he will have nothing but her memory to turn to for advice.

The thought probably has his expression darkening, because his aunt seems to take mercy on him with a small sigh.

“His Imperial Highness is truly quite fond of your uncle,” she continues, in a tone much less harsh than her previous one. “He has confided many a worry in him, and has promised to think of him when it is next season to hand out appointments at the Court.”

Yeonjun’s uncle? One of dozens of imperial tax officials, not even a highly appointed one like Prince Iseul, a close personal friend of the heir apparent? It sounds like such an… unlikely fortune, great as it is. But then again, so is a nephew of said imperial tax official gaining for himself the hand of the prince. Perhaps fortune simply favors his family with exceptional zeal.

“That is… incredibly fortuitous, auntie.”

His aunt straightens her shoulders somewhat, testing her cup again before lifting it for a careful sip. “We are well aware of that, Your Grace. Your uncle and I have been… striving to make sure we are worthy of His Imperial Highness’ favor.”

“I hope uncle is not working himself too hard,” Yeonjun says carefully, but it still earns him a harsh look from his aunt. Sheepish, he picks up his own cup as well, forgetting to check its temperature before he does, but thankfully not burning his mouth as punishment for his carelessness.

“Your Grace, you know your uncle works as hard as the Empire requires him to. It is honorable of an alpha to be as dedicated to their service as he is.”

“I did not mean to imply otherwise, Aunt Misoon,” Yeonjun rushes to say, quietly, with his head bowed like a boy. “I merely wish for him to remain in good health as long as possible.”

“A poor man in good health is worse off than a wealthy man in poor health, Your Grace.”

“Indeed, Aunt Misoon.”

She sighs a little, and drinks more tea, this sip even more dainty and proper than the previous one. “Anyway, Your Grace, I could not help but notice that you have not included much by the way of good news in your letter to me.”

Yeonjun tilts his head – her letter asked for such, but not knowing what the rumor making its way through the court was, he had no idea what to write to her to satisfy her curiosity. “I have included all I could, auntie. I am afraid it was a busy and altogether joyless season at my court. I did not have much good news to share with you.”

“Not even now?” She pierces him with her uncommonly light eyes, as if she could extract the information she wants from him with her gaze alone. “Is there nothing you need to tell me, Your Grace?”

There is much he could tell her, had he any faith that she would not judge him for doing so. But she would, starting with him letting Taehyun give Beomgyu to him as a lady and ending with the two of them curled up together in Yeonjun’s nest like lovers. She would condemn him for every single step of it.

So he shakes his head. “I do not believe so, Aunt Misoon.”

This time, her sigh is much sharper and louder, coming on the edge of an obviously deep breath. “Well then.” She sets her cup down and folds her hands in her lap, suddenly thoughtful, then shakes her head and picks her tea up again. “Very well.”

“Auntie, what is it? I have heard from Madame Seo at my court that a rumor has spread, about me or the prince perhaps? And that they were hoping to know more once the prince returned to the Court, but I hardly know what people speak of here.”

His aunt heaves another sigh, but seems to relent when faced with his imploring expression. “Your Grace.” She shakes her head. “My dear boy. We had been hoping for the good news of your pregnancy.”

Yeonjun’s mouth runs dry at once. Instinctively, he raises his cup to his mouth to chase the feeling away with tea. “Auntie…”

“Your uncle heard the rumor from His Imperial Highness himself.” She purses her lips tightly for a brief moment before relaxing her mouth again. “We had thought surely whatever His Imperial Highness has heard must have some voracity to it.”

Pregnant. His aunt thought he was pregnant. So did Iseul’s father, and those at the Court in the know, no doubt.

Perhaps even the Emperor. Maybe even His Imperial Majesty, in all his wisdom, fell for a baseless rumor of this kind. If not out of a lack of good judgment, then perhaps for another reason. Not like an Emperor would, but like a father would.

Yeonjun feels vaguely nauseous.

“But you are not pregnant, are you, Yeonjun?”

He bows his head. In shame. In humiliation. He wishes he could tell her he tried – wishes she would listen if he did.

“No, auntie.”

“Well.” His aunt pours herself more tea, then presses her finger against the cup until her mouth purses in discomfort and she has to let go. “That is just as well.” She raises the cup to her mouth, and no doubt burns her mouth on the tea. “It is good to have you back, either way. Welcome back, Your Grace.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun feels listless when he comes back to Taehyun’s rooms. He sinks into the seat opposite Beomgyu without a word, and undoes his shrug to fold it in his lap while Beomgyu pours tea for him, eyeing him curiously. Yeonjun ignores it as long as he possibly can, fussing with his hair, then taking a drink, pressing his fingertips to his temples to stave off the headache he can feel coming on.

“I take it your audience with Madame Choi was not a joyful one.”

There is not much of an expression on Beomgyu’s face when Yeonjun looks up – he does not look amused or mocking or even particularly compassionate. Searching, maybe.

Yeonjun reaches for the tea again. “It was good to see my aunt again.”

Beomgyu hums, and takes his own, smaller sip. “Must have been, for you to stay for lunch.”

“Has Kyunsang provided you with lunch of your own?”

“Yes, I have eaten – thank you for your concern.”

Yeonjun nods stiffly. He wishes he could undress himself, undo his hair and his paint, but he may yet have to meet important people today. His husband, for one, perhaps even the Emperor, if he makes time to welcome him. For now, he has to stay in all his finery, just like Beomgyu.

“I feel like you are hardly listening to me.”

He nods again, and Beomgyu huffs.

“Yeonjun.”

The sound of his name catches his attention without issue, and he frowns at Beomgyu’s satisfied expression.

“Your good man Kyunsang also informed me that he managed to get word of our arrival to the prince.”

Ah. Right. They were trying to counteract whatever trap was being set up for Taehyun – but Yeonjun can barely keep his mind on it. Taehyun must know as well, does he not? About the rumors. About how unfounded they were. How that reflects on both of them.

“Good.”

“Hopefully your husband will know how to use the information to his advantage.”

Yeonjun nods again, trying to keep his breathing steady. “I trust him to.”

“Yet you still seem quite unsettled.”

He forces himself to meet Beomgyu’s eyes – they seem to be asking for him to confide in him, but he cannot bring himself to. “We have found ourselves in quite an unsettling situation.”

Beomgyu pouts slightly, but seems to relent. “I suppose so.”

For a moment, he seems to be content letting Yeonjun finish his tea in peace, but then he leans over the table, closer to him.

“Your husband seems to be in possession of the same game of strategy you had in your music room.”

Startled by the sudden shift in topic, Yeonjun blinks in response. “Yes? It is a suitable pastime for an alpha of his standing. Every educated alpha plays.”

Beomgyu lays his open hand on the table – Yeonjun knows better than to take it. “Well, would you like to play as well, Your Grace?”

“Excuse me?”

“I can teach you how to play.”

Yeonjun frowns, utterly confused. “Why would you—”

“Because until the prince is freed from the clutches of this meeting of his, we are stuck here together, unless you feel like paying any more friendly visits,” Beomgyu retorts, almost too sharp in his enthusiasm. “And it is as good a way to pass time as any, even for our kind.” He leans even further towards Yeonjun, insistent. “If you are afraid of what the alphas around us are planning, Yeonjun, then let me teach you how they were taught to think.”

This time, he does not lean away, and neither does he lean in closer. “It is just a game, Beomgyu.”

As if he understood that Yeonjun will not be easily swayed by his passion, Beomgyu straightens back up again. “It is an alpha’s game. A game for lords and princes alike. Ill-willed as he was, the alpha who taught me how to play understood something fundamental about it in my eyes – the reason why every young alpha was made to learn it was that it teaches one invaluable lessons about strategy. Ones an alpha may need, whether he ever stands at the head of an army or not. To understand when to press and when to withhold – when to attack and when to defend. To recognize an advantage, and be able to capitalize on it, to recognize your own weakness and to know how to counter it.”

Yeonjun purses his lips. “Do you believe I do not know these things?”

“No, Yeonjun – I want you to be as aware as you can be that they do. To understand their thinking, not to improve your own. The only advantage greater than knowing yourself is knowing your opponent – and this game, trivial as it is, stands at the core of every alpha’s studies.”

He stares at Beomgyu, his impassioned face, the fire in his eyes that makes his own heart want to crumble apart. More than at any other time, he wishes Beomgyu could stand at his side. As an equal; as a friend. He would be such a fearsome ally to have, if all these cruel twists and turns of fate did not reduce him to a man who could use little power but his own words, limited to the few ears willing to listen to him with hands powerful enough to execute his thoughts.

Yeonjun thinks he might cry, then thinks that would be altogether quite unladylike of him.

With a deep breath, Yeonjun looks around them, then gently, briefly, lays his hand in Beomgyu’s, their palms squeezing together before he withdraws it.

“I thought you only meant to distract me with this game.”

Beomgyu shrugs, and takes his hand off the table to lay it in his lap. “I did, but with every moment I spend thinking about it, it feels more and more imperative that I teach you how to play it.”

Yeonjun sighs. “I truly believe I am well aware of how the alphas of this court operate, Beomgyu – I am married to one.”

“And I truly believe that we need something better to do than sit here drinking tea and looking into each other’s eyes. What say you to that, Your Grace?”

That Yeonjun is here to sit pretty and drink tea and chat with other ladies until it is time for the celebration. He is not here to make great moves, that is never the intent of him coming to Court. To him, this is as much of a holiday as a wife in charge of a household gets. A time to stop worrying and enjoy a time of merriment and festivities. All he needs to think about is whether he looks pretty enough today, and who he should pay a visit to next in his limited time here.

But that is not something he gets to do today, is it? He cannot relax – not here, not in his aunt’s room. Certainly not outside. He has become subject to rumors which are only malicious in their inaccuracy, and a playing piece in a game he does not understand.

He might as well simply… play the game, then.

“Very well then.”

“Very well?”

“Let us play.”

“Wonderful.”

Beomgyu springs to his feet, almost too energetic to be ladylike, then offers Yeonjun a hand to help him stand. He takes it without a conscious thought, used to being assisted by his husband or lord steward, but only as he is on his feet does he realize it is hardly a fellow omega’s place to offer him assistance this way. Smoothly, without blinking an eye, Beomgyu has adopted an alpha-like affect.

He sits at the playing table before Yeonjun does, perfectly impolite, and the boldness almost amuses him enough to ease his worries. Still standing by the tea table, Yeonjun watches as Beomgyu picks up the bowl filled with playing pieces, taking one out to inspect it, flipping it over between nimble fingers. As far as Yeonjun knows, it is made of the finest material it can be short of being as expensive as the Emperor’s. The whole set, Yeonjun believes, was also a wedding gift to the prince, from his royal uncle himself. The name of their house is lovingly, precisely carved into the side of the bowl, as if to reinforce that point.

“What?”

Yeonjun shakes himself as Beomgyu catches onto him not moving to sit and staring at him instead. There is a smile playing on his lips, and Yeonjun, despite everything, allows the corners of his to tug upwards as well. “Nothing.”

 

.

 

By the time Kyunsang slips through the servant’s door into the room to answer a door neither of them realized needed answering, Yeonjun’s headache is well under way. Beomgyu speaks about rules, opening strategies and capturing tactics with more enthusiasm than discipline, and his explanations prove too scattered for Yeonjun’s worn mind to fully grasp, so as the ache blooms between his temples, he finds himself watching, all but entranced, as Beomgyu plays an impassioned game of strategy against himself while explaining every move he makes.

He pauses, however, as Kyunsang enters, and rushes to fix his clothing as if they had been doing anything that would dishevel it. Yeonjun can only watch in a daze as Kyunsang opens the door for a younger servant, who bows to Kyunsang politely.

“Master Kyunsang. His Imperial Majesty has sent for Princess Consort Yeonjun and the concubine Beomgyu.”

Yeonjun’s head perks up where it was lowering dangerously towards his shoulder this whole time. His Imperial Majesty, not His Highness. Not Taehyun, his father.

“At this hour?” Kyunsang looks over the man’s shoulder at the early winter’s darkness outside. “It is almost dinnertime. Should I wait for them with a meal prepared?”

“No need, Master Kyunsang. They are to join the royal family for dinner.”

“Ah.” Kyunsang bows his head. “I understand. Has His Imperial Majesty sent an escort, or are they free to arrive at their convenience?”

“I was given no further instruction.”

“Very well. I will make sure His Grace is informed.”

The servant outside the door bows again, even deeper this time. “Long may he reign, Master Kyunsang.”

“Long may he reign.” Kyunsang closes the door, then turns to them, giving them the briefest of appraising looks before he gives them a bow. “Your Grace, Omega Beomgyu, you are expected in His Imperial Majesty’s quarters for dinner. I believe there is no rush, should you have need to refresh yourself or change before you go.”

“Oh.” Yeonjun looks down at himself, pulling at his golden sleeves. “I suppose these robes would be splendid enough for His Imperial Majesty, would they not?”

“You certainly look remarkable wearing them, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun smiles at him wanly. “Thank you, Kyunsang.”

“Will you require any assistance from me to get ready, Your Grace?”

“It will not be necessary. I will go consult a mirror to see if anything needs adjustment, and I will have Omega Beomgyu assist me should need arise. You can go, Kyunsang.”

The man bows again, then gives them one last look before leaving through the servants’ door. Only as the door closes behind him does Yeonjun remember that he should not have been sitting at the playing table at all.

 

.

 

In the dressing room, Yeonjun cannot help but feel exposed. Perhaps it is due to how bare the room is – to leave enough room for the prince to dress himself even if he is joined by his servant, all of the furniture lines the walls, simple and unassuming as it is rare for anyone to see the inside of a noble’s dressing room, and the center of the room remains empty. Any other time perhaps he would pay the free space little attention, but right now it seems to him a gaping maw as he steps into it.

Untethered, unsure – aching from the soles of his feet to the throbbing in his head. The room is so silent in such a loud way, and Beomgyu’s footsteps seem to echo through it as he comes from behind him, only to turn around and face him, right in the middle of that vast emptiness.

Bare of earrings and jewelry, in the purest white, Beomgyu reminds Yeonjun of a fairy. He remembers the little story Beomgyu told his ladies in the garden one day, about the creatures who put children to sleep with their magic pollen. Perhaps Beomgyu could put him to sleep as well, right now, whisk him away into dreamland, so he can rest until none of this matters anymore – until all his worries are just dust in the wind, and maybe he can lead a new life, a better life.

A life with Beomgyu, or someone like him at his side, if he is lucky.

“You’re in pain.”

He presses his lips together tightly, but nods. “My head. It does not matter.”

Beomgyu gives him this pinched look that he only recognizes as compassion when he steps closer, to gently put his hands to Yeonjun’s temples, obviously careful not to dishevel his appearance. “You have worried yourself entirely too much today.”

Yeonjun looks at him through narrowed eyes. “Can you blame me? It has not been an easy day for either of us.”

With a sigh, Beomgyu lowers his hands, only to tap the back of his fingers on one against the underside of Yeonjun’s chin. “And you have still not told me what happened with your aunt.”

He brushes Beomgyu’s hand away. “Some other time. Not now. The day is not over yet.”

Beomgyu latches onto the hand Yeonjun uses to bat his away and holds it in his own, suspended between them. “Was it so bad?”

To Yeonjun? Yes. To anyone else who does not feel as… deeply about this topic? Perhaps not at all.

He does not answer, and Beomgyu seems to take it to be enough of a response, as he nods and step back, letting Yeonjun’s hand go. “Whenever you are ready, then. Or whenever you have had enough wine to be as brave as to confide in me again.” Beomgyu gives him a teasing smile, and he responds with a weak one of his own.

Maybe he will be. Maybe he can be. But not just yet.

He reaches up to his hair, and peeks around Beomgyu’s shoulder at the mirror on the other side of the room. Beomgyu steps to the side, clearing his path towards it.

“You may consult the mirror if you would like, but I assure you that you look impeccable, Your Grace.”

Beomgyu’s use of the title makes Yeonjun’s smile widen even further, and he steps towards the mirror with at least a breath of new energy in him. Thankfully, Beomgyu is not incorrect. If anything needs fixing at all, it would be the paint on his lips, which should be easy to remedy quickly.

“What is impeccable to you might not be what is impeccable to His Imperial Majesty, Beomgyu.”

He keeps his tone light, and Beomgyu seems to understand it for the joking remark it is, as he huffs in amusement instead of taking any offense.

“Is your great Emperor a connoisseur of ladies’ paint? I did not know the great one Empire housed alphas of such kind.”

Yeonjun snorts, then immediately feels guilty. “Beomgyu.”

“Yes, Your Grace?” When Yeonjun looks over, Beomgyu looks infinitely amused.

“Not a word of this sort of talk where anyone could hear, understood?”

Beomgyu raises his eyebrows, exaggerating his surprise. “Does that include you, Your Grace?”

He presses his lips together, then looks away at the mirror, before dropping his eyes to his jar of paint. “It should.”

Even as he stubbornly pays no attention to Beomgyu while wetting his brush, he can hear the other omega suppressing a laugh. With his shoulders loosening at the sound, he feels the grip his headache has on his temples loosening as well. His mind clears, as it usually does, as he loses himself to the practiced motions of refreshing the paint on his lips.

In his native south, there was a tradition during the harvest celebration where the lady of the house would dress all in green, and would paint a stark red line down the center of their lips, with red dots on either side of the bottom lip, to resemble the depictions of a local goddess of harvest. Sometimes, when he would miss home, he would recall watching his own mother paint her lips this way, and would paint a similar shape on his own before brushing it away. But he is too old for such comforts now, is he not? To think of his mother when he feels vulnerable, like a child.

When he is done, he stares at his own reflection, the perfect mask of rouge and porcelain. Indomitable. Invulnerable. Without emotion, thought or opinion. Beautiful and unbreakable. Immovable. Silent and so, so painfully beautiful. Fox-eyed and wrapped head to toe in gold.

He closes his eyes and breathes. Then he looks up at Beomgyu. He watches Yeonjun with something strange in his expression. Maybe it is desire, an appreciation for his beauty. Perhaps it is something else entirely.

“Come here, Beomgyu.”

Without question, Beomgyu steps closer, and Yeonjun reaches up to tug at one pristine white sleeve.

“Kneel.”

Beomgyu lowers himself to his knees, bringing them altogether face to face, and the proximity flutters in Yeonjun’s chest with something that threatens to break his composure. He turns to his paints, and swirls the brush in the jar of red again.

Next to him, Beomgyu is silent, and it unnerves him. He is rarely silent around him, especially when they get the chance to be alone. It makes him look in Beomgyu’s direction, and his eyes catch on Beomgyu’s lips. His eyelashes flutter as he takes in the sight of them, the curve of them, the gentle red tint to them.

“The paint you use for your lips is different from mine.”

Beomgyu blinks so slowly it seems more like he closes his eyes for a moment. “Yes. I tend to prefer a more gentle appearance.”

The response makes a smile tug at Yeonjun’s mouth. “I suppose the both of us have things we would prefer to correct about ourselves.”

A genuine smile splits Beomgyu’s lips in response. “I like to believe I am a gentle creature at heart, Your Grace.”

“And I would like to believe myself to be a stern one.”

Beomgyu’s lips pinch together in amusement. His lip paint is in dire need of fixing. “It is a color you wear well, Your Grace.”

He looks away from Beomgyu’s face, feeling a flush in his own, and taps his brush into the jar of paint unhappily. “The servants must have unpacked your paint as well – it has to be here somewhere.”

“I do not mind wearing yours this evening,” Beomgyu assures, if anything too eager to offer. Sharing lip paint, using the same brushes for their lips. How terribly scandalous, when not born of necessity like last time.

“Painting over yours with mine seems to me a bad idea,” he argues, looking at Beomgyu again to inspect the tint on his lips. “What if—”

Beomgyu cuts him off by pressing their lips together, approaching just slowly enough for Yeonjun to be able to avoid him should he want to, but he does not want to. Not really. The kiss is not brief, either – Beomgyu seems to revel in rolling their lips together, just so he can pull away with stark red smudged over his own. “Now – I have stained my lips already. You may use your own paint.”

His mouth hangs open, as he takes careful, shaky breaths through it, wide eyes fixed to Beomgyu’s ones that are alight with mischief. “You…”

“I.”

Yeonjun swallows with difficulty. “I have just fixed it.”

Beomgyu smiles so fondly it aches in Yeonjun’s chest. “You can barely see a difference – see for yourself.”

He does, and very much sees the smudging Beomgyu seems so confident is not there. “Ah, your paint at your home court must have been dreadful.” He leans forward towards the mirror, and repaints his lips again. “No eye for detail at all.”

“Perhaps I simply enjoy watching you paint yourself, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun narrows his eyes at Beomgyu. “Have you not had your fill at our home? You see me do it every day there.”

“Not the last few days – not along our journey.”

Beomgyu is not incorrect, so Yeonjun only huffs and takes hold of Beomgyu’s jaw a bit too tightly as he angles his face so he may have an easier time painting his lips.

“If fortune favors us, you will get more than enough of your favorite sight soon.”

He hesitates with the brush halfway to its destination, then paints a line down the center of Beomgyu’s lips, then a dot on one side, then a dot on the other. Beomgyu’s eyes on him turn curious, and he reaches up the thumb of the hand still holding Beomgyu’s face to press his thumb to Beomgyu’s lip, right over the line he just painted there.

“Beomgyu. Promise me you will be careful.”

Beomgyu blinks at him, obviously taken aback. His eyes look strangely hazy.

“Promise me. The Emperor is the one alpha I could never hope to protect you from.”

“I promise,” Beomgyu breathes out, the warmth of his breath fanning over Yeonjun’s skin raising goosebumps in its wake. “I never intended to be anything other than docile, Yeonjun. I know what they expect of me.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes, and only opens them when he feels the smallest of kisses pressed against the tip of his thumb. He withdraws his hand, and dips his brush again. “I wish I knew what was expected of us.”

“Perhaps nothing at all – if the Emperor simply aimed to ambush your prince with my presence, maybe our actions hardly matter.”

He considers it, while finally painting Beomgyu’s lips properly. He might be right. Perhaps this is not a game they can win, because they do not hold the stones it is played with – they are the stones themselves. All they can do is take their position, and watch Taehyun be cornered.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

 

.

 

They make their way to the Emperor’s quarters from Taehyun’s rooms, and despite the darkness that has set over the palace, or maybe partly because of it, Beomgyu seems for the first time at least mildly impressed with the sights the Imperial Court has to offer. With their path lit with lanterns and many people making their way this way or that through the courtyards and pathways of the palace, most of them pausing along their path to show deference to Yeonjun and be rewarded with a nod of his head or a kind word should they be a familiar face, the palace truly looks like what Yeonjun has always seen it to be – as much a city in its own right, rather than a simple household. Constant buzz of footsteps and conversation, lights visible through the windows of the various buildings and lining the pathways. So different from his own, quiet court. So vibrant and exciting. Beomgyu watches it all with the same hungry curiosity he regarded Yeonjun’s court with in his first days there. Yeonjun finds it as endearing now as he did then.

Eventually, they come to an open archway guarded by two tiger statues and two imperial guardsmen of flesh and blood, and the guards bows deeply at the waist as Yeonjun passes by them into a small, stone-paved courtyard, with a single maple tree planted on the west side of it, to their left. Beomgyu seems taken by it, and Yeonjun feels almost bad for having to urge him to keep walking.

They approach a flight of pitch-black steps, and the large double doors at the top of it open when they are as much as halfway up, to reveal a tall, thin man dressed in black from the tip of his pointed, bearded chin all the way to the floor, where his robes are so long they do not show even a glimpse of his feet even as he walks forwards to greet them at the top step of the staircase. He bows, and his thin, white hair almost shines in the light of the lanterns.

“Your Grace. Welcome.”

“Master Jungsik.” Yeonjun bows his head, and notes with some relief, Beomgyu bowing as well when he hears how politely Yeonjun speaks to the man. Perhaps his deference is a little overwrought, but Jungsik has been the head servant of the Emperor’s quarters ever since Yeonjun came there for the first time to entertain the royal family with his singing, and he has never strayed from the same level of politeness he had shown him the first time. After all, the Emperor must favor him, if he has gotten to keep his position for as long as he has. “We have come on the invitation of His Imperial Majesty.”

“Yes, Your Grace. You are expected. Please allow me to escort you to the dining room.”

Yeonjun bows a bit deeper this time. “It would be most kind, Master Jungsik.”

The head servant steps to Beomgyu’s side, to be able to walk with them without showing Yeonjun his back, and they step through the large doors to the hallway beyond. Yeonjun thinks maybe the decor has changed somewhat, but the appearance of the Emperor’s quarters has the same atmosphere to it as he remembers. Opulent and cold. High ceilings and cold dark stone. Their footsteps clicking on the floor and echoing through the space. Intricate doorways gilded with gold. The building itself is as big as the main building of his own palace, if not larger still. The hallways of it stretch, barely the tiny corridor in his own quarters. It makes his breath still in reverence, even though he has been led through these hallways many times. He belongs here – belongs to the royal family, in all but blood.

But he still feels small, when faced with something this vast.

The dining room they are led is similarly enormous – almost too enormous, designed in a way that keeps the Emperor away from anyone he shares a meal with, except for his own wife. His table is on a raised pedestal on the very other side of the room, where it is framed by drapes and a purple banner with the Kang family name on it on the wall behind it, with a cushion for him and his wife, and two more tables are set to the left and right wall, a polite distance away. When Yeonjun would sing for the family, he would be made to stand in the empty space in the middle, then on a cushion in the corner if they tired of him, until they were done eating. The cushion is still there, when he casts a glance towards the corner as they enter. Like a bed for a pet dog, a bit too large for one person to sit on. A strangely humiliating way to provide unimportant guests at their table some comfort.

Jungsik stops right inside the door and steps to the side as Yeonjun and Beomgyu make their way further in. Yeonjun keeps his eyes politely down on the floor, but he gets enough of a glimpse of the rest of the room as they enter. When the servant said royal family, thankfully it did not mean dining with the entirety of the Kang family.

The Emperor is there, in his seat on his pedestal, dressed simply like a man too busy to bother with many fineries. An old man now, with a permanent severe expression on his face and a beard long enough to touch his lap as he sits, straight-backed, just like Taehyun does when in public. Yeonjun has spent enough time around the man to pinpoint all the small details of his features that have reflected themselves in Taehyun’s own face, but every time he sees him after a long time, it strikes him how dissimilar they seem in appearance – Taehyun has taken much from his mother in the way of looks, and in the privacy of his heart, Yeonjun is glad for it. He prefers his husband’s face, so often capable of seeming too sweet for a man of his demeanor and status, to a wise and strict face like the Emperor’s.

His Empress is at his side, a waifish noblewoman with a tiny, heart-shaped mouth painted the same severe red Yeonjun himself prefers. She is also dressed quite plainly, without much elaborate jewelry or flashy dress, and Yeonjun cannot help but feel a little disappointed, if not mildly insulted that not even she would put much effort into greeting him in a garb properly royal.

Still, he drops to his knees in the middle of the room, then lowers himself as low to the floor as he can, cushioning his forehead with his hands while careful not to smudge the paint covering it. Next to him, Beomgyu does the same.

Taehyun. Taehyun is there as well. At the table to the Emperor’s right, on Yeonjun’s left. Clad in black, with white lining on his collar. Grim. Tired as always. But not shocked, not shaken. Tight-jawed and stoic.

“Princess Consort.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” he responds, as clearly as he can to make his voice carry even as he addresses his words to the stone floor beneath himself.

“We have called upon you, to join our table this evening.” The Emperor’s voice is breathier than Yeonjun remembers it – but then again, he had not been to the Court for a year.

“It will be my greatest honor, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Stand.”

Yeonjun lifts himself back up and stands with his back straight and eyes down at the floor beneath his feet. Beomgyu remains in his deep bow, unmoving, his fur cloak spread around him like a mane of wild hair.

“Jungsik.”

He reaches for the clasp of his shrug, knowing immediately that he is to hand it to the servant without having to be prompted. He folds it out of sheer habit, and hands it to Jungsik, who casts a brief look at Beomgyu who remains perfectly still before stepping back away from them.

With a fire blazing in the room on the opposite side of the door from the cushion, the room will surely be too warm for Beomgyu to be comfortable in his fur. But there is little to be done.

“You may join your husband, Princess Consort.”

He bows, as deeply as he can without lowering himself to his knees again, and rounds the table on the left to sit next to Taehyun, who does not raise his eyes to follow his approach, nor acknowledges him as he sits down, or afterwards.

The Emperor breathes in loudly, then sighs out just as heavily, the sound wheezing slightly. “You do not seem overly surprised, son. I suppose that should make me a prouder father than I am.”

Taehyun lowers his head – there is an expression in his eyes, on his face, that Yeonjun struggles to recognize as shame. He wishes he could reach out, to comfort or reassure him, but his concern would be taken as Taehyun’s weakness, not his, and he can allow himself to be weak sometimes, but never the prince.

“What do you call it, Taehyun? Byeol? Mi? Iri?”

When Yeonjun glances at his husband for explanation, he finds his eyelashes fluttering, his mouth open soundlessly before he answers, “Beomgyu.”

The Emperor hums as Yeonjun’s spine stiffens. “So I hear, Taehyun. So I hear. Will you call its name in front of your father?”

His eyes finally coming to rest, Taehyun lifts his chin, and his voice comes out much more sharp and severe. “Beomgyu.” Yeonjun watches Beomgyu flinch almost imperceptibly where he is still hunched on the floor, a small pile of dark fur in the vast room. “Stand.”

Beomgyu gathers himself to his feet, just fast enough to not get scolded but slow enough for Yeonjun to know how stiff his limbs must feel. He keeps his eyes down, just like Yeonjun did, and does not turn away from the Emperor even slightly to face Taehyun instead.

“Sit.”

Now his eyes flicker, unsure how to follow the command.

Taehyun seems to understand, because he clarifies immediately with, “On the cushion in the corner.”

Beomgyu nods minutely and starts walking backwards towards the door, steering himself awkwardly to the seat, but with enough sense to rearrange his clothes to sit properly, still in his cloak, eyes almost unseeing where they remain fixed to the floor.

Yeonjun watches Taehyun’s Adam’s apple jump, but sympathy comes to him this time somewhat less easily than before.

“Is this what you do in your own house, Taehyun? Send your omegas off to the corner so they would not distract you?”

“I do not make a habit of inviting concubines to the one Emperor’s table, Father.”

The Emperor lets out a sharp, unamused sound before speaking up again. “You have certainly learned your manners, Taehyun. You have learned your letters, your numbers, you have been so highly praised by all your tutors.” He shakes his head. “Tell me, Taehyun – was I the worst of them? Am I the only one you have not learned a thing from? Is this my fault?”

Taehyun does not look at him; his eyes remain fixed to the center of the room, as empty as Beomgyu’s. “No, Father. It is not.”

“Whose fault is it then, Taehyun?”

“My fault, Father.”

“Hm.” The Emperor seems to pause in his reverie, and take another deep, wheezing breath. Perhaps he is somehow appeased by how easily Taehyun accepted blame, whatever he is being blamed for at the moment. He strokes his beard for a moment, then reaches out a hand, closing his fingers to beckon into empty space. “Bring him to me.”

“Which one.” Taehyun’s tone sounds tense, but he does not argue. Yeonjun is not sure it would do any of them any favors if he did.

“Your wife.”

Taehyun’s eyes only flicker in Yeonjun’s direction, as if he is reluctant to meet his eyes. He probably is. “Yeonjun. Go to His Imperial Majesty. Now.”

He stands without questioning it, without thinking – he does not get the feeling that he would be rewarded for dawdling. Taehyun does not speak to him this way – does not use his name like this. He would never do any of this, unless he felt it was necessary – Yeonjun has to believe that. Trust the years spent at his side. Taehyun seems to believe that a show of his dominance is what his father wants to see, so Yeonjun will submit. Approach the middle of the room with the stuttering steps of a young courtier.

“Not there. To me. All the way.”

Yeonjun bows before complying, stepping all the way up to the pedestal. It comes up to his thighs, and with his head bowed, he can barely see the Emperor at all.

“Your wrist, Princess Consort.”

The request freezes him on the spot, and he is sure his face does something quite undignified. Does the Emperor mean to scent him? His son’s wife? Before the Empress, before Yeonjun’s husband?

“Do it,” Taehyun prompts, resolute but not loud or sharp, and he simply relents.

In the absence of clarity of the situation, he relies on his husband to not guide him incorrectly.

He offers the Emperor his wrist, palm up, and as the alpha reaches for his hand, leaning forward, Yeonjun catches the familiar scent of cedar – but there is something strange about it. An odd note he does not recognize, unpleasant, like a rot spreading through the wood.

The Emperor does not scent him, but he brings his wrist close enough to his nose that Yeonjun has to suppress an uncomfortable shiver. Then he lets Yeonjun go, abruptly, making him scramble to pull his arm back quickly.

“It is true then.”

And a knot tightens in Yeonjun’s gut as he realizes what this is about.

“He has arrived at my court unburdened, yet again.”

He closes his eyes and presses his lips together, the only things he can do to stave off an undignified reaction. The smell of fermented fruit, stinging, lingers in the air around him.

“It is year after year, Taehyun. You have had him for six years, and what do you have to show for it? A pretty house, enough to amuse your royal cousin for a few days? A pretty wife, to assure everyone once a year you are, indeed, a married man?”

Yeonjun wants to step back, or go back to the safety of the deep bow. To go to Taehyun’s side, or to curl up into Beomgyu’s. But without the attention of either alpha on him, there is no one to order him to move, so he must stay put.

“Is this what you do, with the generosity I show you, son? With the pretty things I let you have.” He waves his hand in front of himself. “Bring me the other one.”

“Beomgyu, p— go.”

Yeonjun can only listen as Beomgyu gathers himself up.

“Jungsik!” The Emperor’s voice booms over him before Beomgyu’s steps can reach Yeonjun. “Take that omega’s cloak away – since my son is incapable of taking care of his things.”

Slowly, Yeonjun opens his eyes. There are steps and shuffling, and then Beomgyu is next to him again, his white robes shining with reflected firelight. Brown silk hair, a pale, bloodless face, bitter citrus and tense shoulders.

There are no more sounds for the longest moment. Whatever happens while he is unable to look at the Emperor happens wordlessly, with no gesture he can catch in the corner of his vision.

“Everything I do, my son, is for the sole purpose of the greater good. Of you, and of our house. The concessions I give you, the gifts I grant you – they are the building blocks, for a future I desire you to have. I want you, one day, to be the very foundation of the magnificence, of the power of House Kang. Whether you do so as the Emperor, or as a nobleman who has made his great fortune through other means. I have always put my faith in you, to take my name, and build upon it, something perhaps greater than I could ever even imagine. This court calls you a man of progress, Taehyun, and perhaps you are – perhaps what you are destined to do with my legacy is to bring about a new era of this empire that our ancestors have built, for us to rule and expand in their honor. But what foundation have you for this new empire?” Yeonjun feels more than sees the arm thrust in his direction. “Your wife? A pretty thing, surely – as is the concubine I have given you, but that is not enough. You cannot build your empire, your dynasty upon appearances. You cannot build it on the backs of two childless omegas. Their spines break easily enough under an alpha’s voice, do you think they can hold up your legacy?” The emperor’s voice builds up to a yell as he speaks, and Yeonjun’s nerves are so frayed by tension in the air that when he punctuates his point by screaming at them to, “Kneel!”, he can hardly stop himself from doing so.

He drops into the formal bow, all but collapsing into the position. Next to him, he notices, Beomgyu only lowers himself to his knees.

“Do you understand what I am saying, Taehyun?”

As if they were barely there. Taehyun’s voice sounds thin, barely there as well.

“Yes, Father.”

Perhaps in response, and perhaps deliberately, the Emperor’s next words are also quieter. “I have given you everything you have ever asked me for, Taehyun. Everything. And all I ask in return, is for you to show me that my trust in you had not been misplaced.”

“I understand, Father.”

“I don’t care which one it is, Taehyun – the wolf or the jewel – your blood is what matters. But I will not let this dishonor stand any longer. ”

“Yes, Father.”

Yeonjun feels tears gathering in his eyes – he wonders if he will be able to hide them once he stands; if it even matters. His arms quake where they cushion his head. Another long moment of silence stretches. Bitter citrus mixes with fermented fruit and rotting cedar. He feels nauseous.

“Stand, both of you.”

They rise again, and Yeonjun uses all his years of training to stand as proudly as he can.

“Lift your face, pretty one.”

As strange as the situation is, Yeonjun feels safe in assuming the words are not addressed to him – the Emperor would not just forgo his title, would he? Next to him, Beomgyu raises his chin, and to Yeonjun the motion feels altogether too defiant, perhaps simply by the virtue of him having seen Beomgyu turn his face up just like this in challenge countless times.

Thankfully for them, the Emperor either does not see it that way or is not bothered by it, because all he gives is a thoughtful, raspy hum. “Beautiful indeed. Tell me, little wolf – Lady Regent – have I wasted you on my only son?”

Yeonjun expects Beomgyu to respond, but he does not, and to his surprise, it seems to be the reaction that was required of him, because the Emperor moves on after a moment without reproaching him.

“Did you even take him at all, Taehyun? Did you even try.”

More silence follows, but this time it does not seem to satisfy the Emperor.

“Did you, Taehyun.”

“No, Father.”

There is a pause, then a short grunt of acknowledgment. “At least you have the decency not to lie to your father’s face. Your cousin told me the two of you have spent your cycles separately.”

She was snooping around Yeonjun’s house, then. Gathering information for the Emperor.

“Yes, Father.”

“And I do not assume you have an explanation for me that would satisfy me.”

Perhaps he does. Perhaps now Yeonjun will—

“No, Father.”

There is shuffling of fabric and wheezing breaths, then— “Recall your pets.”

The words hurt, and Yeonjun has to struggle against tears welling up in his eyes again.

Horribly, or perhaps to his credit, Taehyun’s voice wavers for the first time. “Beomgyu, go back to your seat. Yeonjun, come to me.”

They back away with their backs bowed, then split to head to the opposite sides of the room. Yeonjun sinks into the seat next to Taehyun with as much dignity as he can muster. The air around Taehyun is filled with sharp, stinging, bitter spice, and Yeonjun wishes he was good enough to muster up enough compassion to want to comfort him.

“Now we will eat. And you will think carefully about my words.”

Taehyun bows at the waist, and Yeonjun follows his lead. When they straighten back up, Taehyun reaches for his plate, but Yeonjun lifts it before he can reach it, and begins to set food upon it, while Taehyun carefully watches his hands and not his face. Yeonjun does not look at him either – briefly, he glances up at the Empress, who is preparing a plate for her husband without a trace of expression on his face, then to the side at Beomgyu, who sits neatly with his hands in his lap, still as a statue.

Nobody brings Beomgyu a single bite of food. They might have, had Taehyun spoken up to order it, but he does not. Yeonjun barely eats two mouthfuls himself, and not a word more is spoken until the Emperor dismisses them.

 

.

 

Taehyun does not look at them or speak to them as they leave the Emperor’s quarters. He keeps his arms tightly folded behind his back and his spine perfectly straight, but he walks like a man who barely sees the path beneath his feet. Yeonjun wishes he could use the advantage of them walking behind him to try and seek comfort in Beomgyu, but despite the late hour, the pathways of the palace are far from empty, and he can do little more than subtly brush his hand against where Beomgyu’s must be, somewhere under his cloak.

When they reach his rooms, Kyunsang is there, in the middle of the room, and his and Taehyun’s motions seem perfectly practiced as Taehyun sheds the outer coat he wore to keep out the chill, folding it before handing it to his servant.

“I will be in my study, Kyunsang. Take care of them.”

For the first time today, his voice sounds softer, and something about it lights a fire in Yeonjun’s chest where it was frozen before.

“No.”

Taehyun stops in his tracks, turning to him with startled, wide eyes. “What?”

“You will not be retiring just yet, my prince.” The title clashes with his sharp tone, and he undoes the clasp of his shrug with perhaps too much force before he cools his temper down enough to hand it to Kyunsang politely.

“Says who?” Taehyun shoots back, firm again. So uncharacteristically strict.

“Says I,” Yeonjun retorts, taking a step forward. “If you can order me around like an alpha, Your Highness, then you can face me like one.”

“I…” Taehyun looks from him to Kyunsang and to Beomgyu, and the resolve in his eyes slowly crumbles into something more resembling the shame Yeonjun saw on his face earlier. Some kind of pain. “You must understand—”

“I have spent six years trying to understand you, will you for once do me the honor of explaining yourself?”

“What is there to explain?” Taehyun gestures widely, ill-composed. “You have heard it with your own ears, wife, my father has made himself exceedingly clear.”

“That he wants you to have an heir.”

The prince’s expression becomes pinched, drawn tight by whatever is on his mind. “That is the matter on his mind right now, yes.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Taehyun closes his eyes tightly, briefly, before he schools his expression again into a mask of serenity. “That however excessive his show of displeasure was today, I believe his disfavor will be temporary.” In contrast to his words, his chest rises and falls in a rapid rhythm, fluttering. “He has been tolerant of our lack of offspring for a long time now – he has always trusted me to do right by his name. This is only because—” he shakes his head. “I do not know if the word of it reached you, but when I left the Court the last time, telling Father I wished to be at your side in your time of illness, someone took it to mean I got the news of your being burdened with child and wanted to see you. I do not know how, but virtually as soon as I left, the entire council knew of this rumor, and the lords councilor told Father.” He touches a hand to his forehead with a sigh. “The rumor would not have harmed us at all had Father not been as disappointed as he was to learn there was no truth to it.” He looks away, at an empty stretch of wall, shaking his head again. “But with everything that has been going on lately, I should have known.” When he meets Yeonjun’s eyes again, there is a firmness behind his eyes that is much more reminiscent of the Taehyun Yeonjun knew before today. “I should have predicted his anger, and shielded you from it.” Taehyun looks at Beomgyu, who Yeonjun barely remembered was still in the room – Kyunsang, meanwhile, disappeared somewhere, along with Beomgyu’s furs. “Both of you.” He lifts his chin, firm and regal. “I understand that the way I have treated the two of you today was unacceptable of me, and I assure you, were I not concerned for your safety had I not complied, I would have never done so.” His lips thin out, and pain sneaks back into his eyes. “You are nobles, and should be treated as such. You will be treated as such. As soon as I—”

“Untuck your tail from between your legs?”

Yeonjun startles at the sound of Beomgyu’s voice – so much firmer and sharper than he had heard him speak in front of an alpha other than Soobin before. Beomgyu’s chin is raised just like Taehyun’s, and they look almost too much alike. Straight-backed and proud – stubborn.

Taehyun seems to be as shocked as Yeonjun is to hear Beomgyu speak. “Pardon?”

“Is this what your protection looks like, Prince?” Beomgyu all but spits, acidic and mocking. “Is this how you care for your wife? Your spine breaks the moment your father scolds you? You let him call your wife a pet? Give him orders like a dog, strip him of his title?”

To his credit, Taehyun seems to regain his bearings swiftly enough, squaring his shoulders as he snaps back, “Omega Beomgyu, you do not under—”

“No,” Beomgyu interrupts him, perfectly impolite as usual. “Speak to me the way you should, alpha – step on my neck some more, like you know you should.”

“I understand if that is the man you believe me to be now, Omega Beomgyu, and I will not beg for your approval – I have no need of it. All I need is for you,” he turns to Yeonjun again, wide eyes imploring. “To put your trust in me again. I admit I have failed you. This – what happened today. I should have never allowed it. Your comfort should have always been my priority, and…” He pauses, breathing heavy still. “I have sacrificed it for a sense of safety today. I acted in ways fitting of an alpha, but not of a husband—”

“Do not do this to me again,” Yeonjun’s voice breaks, just slightly, but enough to bring a stricken expression to Taehyun’s face. “You have said these same words to me at our house, and they meant as little then as they mean now.”

“I have always said them with the utmost sincerity.”

But the word of a liar cannot be trusted – and even less the word of a man with no spine to speak of. Perhaps Beomgyu is right.

“If you cared for my comfort, my prince, if you had cared for my wishes at all, we would never have been in this predicament in the first place. I asked you to give me a child, and you refused to do so. You have always rejected me, heedless of my comfort. Of my well-being. Heat after heat which you have condemned me to suffer on my own, with barely a trace of your scent to soothe my pain. How dare you speak of putting me first, when everything that has happened, has happened of your own volition? You have caused this, Taehyun. You have been embarrassing me, and your father, for years now, and we have been allowing you to do so – out of love, and out of trust in your good judgment. But perhaps we have misplaced our faith in the first place.”

“A failure to act is as much of a decision as an action itself, princeling,” Beomgyu says, stepping up to Yeonjun’s side. “You are not beyond reproach simply because you have refused to concern yourself with the matter of progeniture.”

Taehyun looks between the two of them, his mouth slightly open as he seems to struggle to accept what he is hearing. “You would both take his side then – with the way he spoke of you. The way he treated you. And you still believe he was correct?”

Beomgyu scoffs. “Tyrants are not tyrants because they are incapable of speaking the truth, Tae-Hyun of the Kang. Just like you need not be correct only because you believe yourself to be a kind man.”

“You would let us do this to you, then – reduce you to this, to something to fill with child to please our elders because they fear their own mortality?” Taehyun’s voice raises, uncharacteristically, tight and incredulous.

“Mortality is something wise men fear because they are well aware of the harshness of its existence,” Beomgyu retorts, unafraid despite the escalation. “It is much more real than whatever fear you hold in your own heart, princeling.”

“Do you think I am not aware my father is capable of dying?”

“I think you are not aware that you are,” Beomgyu corrects, stepping closer to Taehyun that Yeonjun stands, even. Ever the bolder one between the two of them. “You will die one day, little prince, just like the rest of us do. And when you do, what will become of the wife you claim to care for so dearly? A mourning widow, will they let him take the land they gave you? Or will they find another alpha to honor by granting it to them? Will they house him at this court, to be treated the way your father treated him when you were not strong enough to shield him from it? Will he have to remarry, giving himself to an alpha infinitely worse than even you could be, with your delusions of honor and decency, just get a chance to survive with enough respect to live the rest of his life out in relative peace? Or will you father a child, a single alpha child, who could inherit your lands, your titles, all the power you use to take care of him, so that when you die, he may be protected by the alpha you sired, be shielded by the very existence of them in this world? What many would dare do to a widow, less would dare do to a mother, especially with a child destined to be as powerful as yours would be.”

Yeonjun finds himself staring at Beomgyu. At the passion with which he speaks, at which he advocates for him, in the face of Yeonjun’s husband, of his own alpha. Are these thoughts he had weighed on his own before? Is he bringing forth arguments he had made in his own mind before for Yeonjun’s benefit? Yeonjun knows he was willing to bear the children of a man he hated – was this why? This cold, ruthless pragmatism?

It is a language Yeonjun knows Taehyun to speak well, and perhaps that is why, as Beomgyu’s voice cuts out and silence overtakes the room, Taehyun’s anger slowly drains out of his face along with the blood that brought a flush of passion to it before. The longer he stays silent, the paler he is. The duller his eyes become. His chest heaves at a slower pace than before, as if it grew heavy. He tightens his fingers into fists.

Something in Beomgyu’s posture shifts almost imperceptibly, and he comes even closer. Citrus is so sour in the air it has to sting Taehyun’s nose as strongly as it does Yeonjun’s, if not more, as Beomgyu approaches until he is as much as looking down his nose at the prince. Taehyun does not flinch or withdraw, and yet he seems so small compared to Beomgyu, so severe in his conviction.

“You do not have to take him tonight. You do not have to take him tomorrow – as little good as it would do you. But you should think about my words as carefully as you do about your father’s. The truth is not an easy medicine to force down a reluctant throat – but it is a powerful tool. One you can use to your wife’s advantage, if you would not do so to your own.” He reaches up a hand, his hand closed in a fist, and raises it slowly to Taehyun’s chest, and Yeonjun watches in horror and fascination as Beomgyu pushes Taehyun backwards with his fist easily, the prince stepping back without a hint of resistance. “Be the alpha he needs you to be.” Then he looks Taehyun up and down, eyes derisive, full of disgust as he takes the prince’s form in. “And should you have need of my body to do so, it is at your disposal. Unlike you, I can face a distasteful duty with dignity.”

Taehyun takes too long to react – to say anything. He stands where he was pushed to, staring at Beomgyu with an expression in his eyes Yeonjun cannot read.

Then he says, “Are you done, Omega Beomgyu?”

“Yes, Your Highness – that is all the wisdom a widow can impart on you.”

Taehyun nods. Yeonjun thinks he sees him shaking, but he cannot be sure. “Thank you.”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows rise. Taehyun bows to him, bending at the waist fully. Beomgyu seems to incline his head simply out of the force of habit.

Then Taehyun’s eyes stray to Yeonjun, and they are full of the same pain he saw in them before. His chest aches, but he feels no sympathy. He has had enough.

Taehyun bows again, just as politely.

“Good night, ladies.”

He leaves them for his study. Yeonjun stares at the door as tears gather in his eyes. Then he takes pin after pin out of his hair, lets it down until it hangs loosely around his face. The tears tumble over his lashes and rush down his face. He tosses the pins on the floor, then his earrings. Undoes the lace of his robe, shedding it carelessly, until he stands there in his underclothes, crying like the child he feels like so often these days.

And just like a child, when a pair of arms wrap around him, he curls into a warm shoulder, citrus sweetening rapidly as his face presses into it desperately, rushing to soothe him. Calm him. Care for him. Beomgyu’s fingers run through his hair, pet at his back and shoulder. His touch is so gentle in such a sharp contrast to the way he spoke just now. He holds so much in him, in this delicate expanse of him – a ruthlessness and a capacity for love. To be loving; protective; teasing; pragmatic.

Yeonjun admires him – his resolve and the composure with which he holds a sobbing omega in his arms, the same composure he broke Yeonjun’s unbreakable alpha with. Beomgyu – Beomgyu would make such an impeccable princess consort. He would never let this happen, to any of them. He would not dawdle until his inaction caught up with him, he would not…

He kisses Beomgyu, desperately, passionately, and they hold each other, tightly enough the Yeonjun slowly comes to believe that Beomgyu needs his touch if not as badly as Yeonjun needs his, then at least enough for his fingertips to almost sting on his flesh. Need – Yeonjun has need of him on so many levels, feels the maw of hunger opening in his chest as their kisses grow less and less chaste, as the air ripens around them, fills with crushed fruit and honey, but it is bitter and it is sour, and even as Yeonjun pushes the folds of Beomgyu’s robe apart, he wants nothing more than to press his lips to Beomgyu’s scent glands and suck some sort of false comfort out of the lingering citrus of them.

It is Beomgyu, who gives his desperation a direction, who recognizes the vulnerable, dangerous position they are in, and holds his face until he regains his senses enough to follow Beomgyu to the bed room he uses while at the Court, and he sits Yeonjun on the bed as he strips before him, kneels at Yeonjun’s feet to strip them bare as well, and Yeonjun thinks that if he was a lesser man, or perhaps a man less stricken, his blood would boil at the sight, at the luster in Beomgyu’s hair as he takes the pins out of it to shake it loose, and it settles on his graceful shoulders.

As it is, as they are, on this night, as Beomgyu climbs into his bed just to pull Yeonjun to his chest, he closes his eyes to Beomgyu’s beauty and settles for basking in the warmth and comfort of it. He wraps his arms around Beomgyu’s waist, and revels in the hands that soothe at his head. Perhaps he cries more, but he hardly remembers. He dozes off to sleep that way, his whole body aching, terribly soothed, awash in citrus.

Chapter 10

Notes:

hi guys. i am here once again. with a chapter. it's a shorter one this time but hey it did NOT take two weeks to come out \o/

unfortunately, this time, the chapter comes with a

CHAPTER WARNING: this chapter includes discussion regarding miscarriages and extremely briefly mentions abortion. it IS possible to skip this part of the chapter if these topics are distressing for you. if you'd like to do so, please consult the end note where I inform you where to stop reading and briefly summarize, or just check the end note to see if you think you'd be able to handle it if you're not sure.

as always thank you so much for the kind reception to this work, to letting me know your thoughts about it and the characters, I am excited to read every single piece of feedback and opinion you guys give me. you're the best.

Yeonjun wakes slowly, unsure if he is awake at all until he hears a growl that sounds like Beomgyu’s voice and he sits up in alarm, to see what the threat disturbing them is. He comes almost face to face with Kyunsang, who is holding a candle to light the pitch-dark room – it must still be the middle of night, then.

For some reason, Beomgyu is not at his side, but at the feet of Yeonjun’s bed, half draped over it, using his previously discarded robes as a blanket and pressing as close as possible to it to lean away from Kyunsang.

The servant’s face crumples as he takes in the scene before him, the two startled, obviously suddenly awoken omegas. “My deepest apologies, my ladies. I did not mean to wake both of you.”

“What…” Yeonjun’s voice is raw, and it is almost painful to speak. He tries to clear it, but it barely helps. “What do you… need, Kyunsang?”

The servant sighs. Beomgyu folds his legs under him even tighter, curling up into a ball. “I have arranged a place for Omega Beomgyu to sleep, should he want it.”

“On whose orders,” Beomgyu says, still growling and hostile.

Kyunsang looks at him unhappily. “On the orders of my manners, and compassion for a young omega who is sure to spend a miserable night on His Grace’s floor.”

Even in the weak candlelight, Yeonjun sees Beomgyu’s eyes go wide in surprise.

“Where is this?” Yeonjun inquires when Beomgyu seems speechless for the moment.

“In the servants’ nook, by the front room. Nobody ever uses it but me, and it has space enough for a mat and some bedding. Omega Beomgyu may use it at his leisure until the prince orders otherwise.”

Beomgyu’s mouth twitches at the mention of the prince, but he seems to finally relax enough to sit up properly. He looks over his shoulder at Yeonjun, but he must barely be able to see Yeonjun’s expression at all. “I—”

“You should go,” Yeonjun says quietly, softly. He still feels so tired and achy – Beomgyu went through just as many days of travel as he did, and they can hardly share his bed without consequence. He needs a better, warmer place to sleep. “Do not worry about me. I will be safe here – and you will be safe there.”

“I will ensure it, Your Grace,” Kyunsang adds with a small bow.

Beomgyu looks at the older man, searching and obviously apprehensive. “… very well,” he says eventually, and as soon as he begins to move to stand, Kyunsang offers him a hand to assist him that he inspects warily before accepting it. He shifts his robe around his shoulders, to wear it like a cape, tightening the fabric around his chest modestly. “Take me to it, then.”

Kyunsang gestures to the servant’s entrance tucked into a corner, then gives Yeonjun another bow. “Good night, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun clutches his blanket close to his body; Beomgyu gives him a long look, but as the candlelight barely catches on his face, Yeonjun cannot tell what his expression says anymore. “Good night, Kyunsang. Omega Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu gives him a halfway bow, then leaves through the door without looking back. Yeonjun curls in on himself as they leave, pulling the blanket as tight around himself as he can. It still smells vaguely of citrus, but the scent seems to fade quickly. He should worry more, probably, but with the knowledge that Beomgyu is safe and warm, even far away from him, sleep comes to him easily enough.

 

.

 

The next time he is woken up, Kyunsang is in his room again, holding a tray of toiletries, and a fresh morning robe is draped over one of his arms. As Yeonjun sits up in bed, Kyunsang sets the tray down at his side. A basin of water, a cloth, a hairbrush and a simple plain white tie for his hair should he make use of it.

“Breakfast is already served in the tea room, so you may take it whenever you are ready, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun nods, reaching out to test the temperature of the water in the basin. At home, Haewon assists him with most things in the morning, from brushing his hair to dressing him, but at the Court, Kyunsang generally leaves him to take care of himself once he has brought everything in. It is somewhat more appropriate of a male beta, and again, Kyunsang must split his duties between him and the prince whenever he comes to court, instead of being able to spend all his time doting on one of them.

“Thank you, Kyunsang.” He shakes the water off his fingers. “What of the prince? Has he left for the day already?”

“No, Your Grace – he is still in the tea room taking his breakfast.”

“And Omega Beomgyu?”

Kyunsang seems to hesitate, taking a bit too much care laying out the morning robe. “I have not gone to wake him yet. Where would you prefer I have him take his breakfast, Your Grace?”

It is Yeonjun’s turn to hesitate. Should this decision not be the prince’s? “I… suppose he may choose for himself. He may join me and the prince in the tea room if he wishes to, or take his breakfast in the front room.”

Kyunsang gives him a deep bow. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun watches him leave, a bit apprehensive. With some luck, Taehyun will not be bothered by his choice. Does he have the right to be bothered by it? Yeonjun would prefer to take his breakfast at Beomgyu’s side – and if what they faulted Taehyun for was not making enough of a commitment to his convictions, then Yeonjun’s commitment should be advocating for Beomgyu to share their table.

What a strange idea it is – to disobey his husband willfully, to his face. A risk so much less calculated than the ones he is used to taking. But Taehyun did not earn their fear and respect, did he?

He picks up the hairbrush, and begins smoothing out his hair with it, as swiftly and efficiently as he can. They can handle Taehyun – whether he likes their choices or not.

 

.

 

When he opens the door to the tea room, it is to the, wholly unsurprising, sight of his husband ignoring the spread of food before him in favor of reading what has to be his morning correspondence, carefully rolled paper scattered on the table before him. He looks like he barely slept, and wears the same clothes he had worn the day before. The eyes he looks up at Yeonjun with as he enters are solemn.

“Good morning, my wife,” he says, quieter than usual, his voice perhaps deeper than Yeonjun is used to hearing it. He reaches out a hand, for Yeonjun to lay his own in it and allow himself to be scented.

He gives Taehyun a full bow and a wish of good morning in return, then he holds his breath as he ignores the prince’s gesture and takes a seat opposite him instead, moving to pour himself tea.

Taehyun withdraws his hand as soon as he sits down, his eyes flicking to the side, away from Yeonjun, as he takes a deep breath – of anger or of embarrassment, Yeonjun cannot tell. His spice smells stale and bittered today, but the scent does not shift with his indiscretion.

Yeonjun finishes pouring his tea, and Taehyun meticulously rolls the letter he was reading back up. Yeonjun tests his cup, and Taehyun sets his letter aside to pick up his own cup. Yeonjun does not rush to fill it for him.

“Do you know what you will be doing today? I assume there are many people waiting to be visited by you after all this time.”

He swallows dry, before drinking some tea to wet his throat. This is what Taehyun wants, then – to speak to him as if nothing happened last night. “I assume so as well – I have not made any specific plans just yet. I was considering visiting the lady Nayoon – I had no idea that she was married to Lord Myeongjin, I feel I need to go see her and congratulate her.”

“Ah.” Taehyun’s eyes stray to his face briefly. “I have failed to inform you – I suppose my mind was elsewhere, I apologize.”

Yeonjun shakes his head lightly. “I assumed you hardly knew these are news I would be interested in hearing. Both she and Lord Myeongjin were good friends of mine in my youth.”

More than friends, even. Myeongjin was one of the alphas who showed interest in Yeonjun when he was young, inviting him to the theater so often one would think he aspired to become a patron of the arts. He was one of Misoon’s favorite prospects, as she had great expectations of where his ambition might take him one day – and given the prestigious position he was able to achieve at such a young age, she was right to do so.

“I am aware,” Taehyun responds, a bit primly. “I am well-acquainted with the company you kept at this court.”

Incapable of fully reading Taehyun’s tone, Yeonjun’s brow rises in dry amusement. “Clearly I only kept the best of it – since Lord Myeongjin was blessed with such a high appointment.”

Taehyun seems to almost relax, his expression as composed as ever when he responds with, “Not as much of a blessing as a series of shrewd decisions. He had chosen his friends well.”

Yeonjun tilts his head slightly. “Do you count yourself among them?”

To his surprise, Taehyun sighs deeply and looks away. “I am afraid not. His recommendation came from the lord councilor Changho, and he spends quite a good amount of his time making merry with the members of the House of Moon.”

The furthest people from Taehyun’s greatest supporters. That is just as well. “Only the finest of lordship, then.”

Taehyun all but laughs. “Indeed. Hardly could he find company more noble.” Then his brow lowers somewhat. “Perhaps it would be good if you were to pay a visit to the lady Nayoon.”

If Taehyun cannot find a way to establish a connection with the lord Myeongjin, maybe Yeonjun could, through signs of goodwill under the veil of rekindling old friendships from their youth. If their wives are close enough friends, would it not be prudent of them to attempt to find common ground?

“Then I will do so today.”

Taehyun bows his head. “Thank you, wife.”

Yeonjun bows his head in return. He pours himself more tea, and Taehyun picks up another letter instead of eating.

Taehyun has always spoken of the way his father set up his council with equal parts admiration and frustration. Through careful appointments, he has managed to create a group of advisors so disparate in their ideas of how the Empire is to be run, that he has ensured both that he would never have a lack of varying points of view to draw on when making his decisions, and that the council will hardly ever be able to come a consensus and create enough pressure on him to make him rule in any particular direction. Even as Taehyun has been using his influence on his father to make him employ more people who would share Taehyun’s more visionary outlook on the future of he Empire, the most he has achieved is a sort of uncomfortable equilibrium between the two forces at the highest level of administration, in the circle of advisors around his father, but he has had to make many concessions along the way at the lower levels, in having to nod to appointment after appointment of alphas less inclined to take his side simply to ensure that the lords councilor who dislike him do not feel threatened enough to take strong measures against him. It is a precarious position to be in, and Yeonjun has never envied it. If anything, he has always admired Taehyun for being willing to walk this tightrope simply because he refuses to compromise on his stances, and fall in line with the others.

To Yeonjun, he always seemed so… principled. But is he? He was not, the day before. And perhaps he is, in his staunch refusal to have a child, but to what end? To protect Yeonjun from a duty he would take on happily?

Yeonjun reaches out to start putting food on his own plate, and sees his own hand shaking – thankfully, Taehyun seems too focused on whatever he is reading to notice. He takes a deep breath, and drops his eyes to his own lap.

“My winter heat passed while you were away, but Omega Beomgyu’s is still to come.”

His words are met with silence at first, then the shuffling of paper as Taehyun rolls up the letter and sets it aside with a sigh, straightening up where he sits to face Yeonjun, who refuses to look at his face.

“Is this really what you want, wife?” Yeonjun opens his mouth to respond, but Taehyun continues. “Without the Emperor here, to speak about the future of our house and dishonor upon his name. Without him breathing down our necks; without Omega Beomgyu here to speak of danger to your life, truthful as his words may have been. Even if they are both correct, which they well may be.” He finally manages to look up at Taehyun, and his face is surprisingly placid. Free of anger, but resolute. “Do you wish me to conceive as soon as possible? No matter who it is with?”

No matter who it is with. Yeonjun purses his lips. It would be selfless of him to agree. Perhaps not towards Beomgyu who seems to hardly wish to bear Taehyun’s child, but towards their house. Towards Taehyun, and their household, and their future. His aunt would not be overjoyed, but she would have to be content knowing that Taehyun’s line did not end with them. She would commend Yeonjun for making the sacrifice of allowing Taehyun to have his child the way he preferred, instead of selfishly insisting on being the mother of their heir. It would ensure their safety – so simply, so… efficiently.

But Taehyun seems as serious as ever, and if he says that wanting Taehyun to sire an heir no matter what is his wish rather than something he sees as a compromise, it would be a lie. Perhaps he owes Taehyun some honesty of his own in return, if the time has come for them to speak of the things they have never spoken about openly before.

“I wish…” he closes his eyes against the urge to lie. To say what is expected of him. I do not care. Who the mother is is not important. “For the prosperity and success of our family.” And a family needs children to be considered a family. A child of his blood. Of Taehyun’s blood, or Yeonjun’s, or both. And he wishes— “And I… would prefer… to bear you an heir myself.” He shakes his head. His stomach is tight with the anxiety of it. The pain of the admission. In the face of the man who clearly wishes that Yeonjun would think otherwise. “But if it cannot be helped, then…” he gestures vaguely with his hand. “I will raise a child of his as your heir if that is what is required of me.”

He would raise them as his own, would he not? The child of two people he has come to love, despite their flaws. With Beomgyu’s hair and Taehyun’s eyes. He could love that child. Care for them. Like his mother cared for him. Could he not?

“Your child would always inherit over his,” Taehyun points out, careful and measured.

“Not if I failed to bear you an alpha.”

“Would you be willing to bear more children then, until you did?”

Would he? Would his desire to have a child of his blood be satisfied no matter the sex of the child, or would his ambition not be sated until he could call himself the mother of an imperial prince’s heir?

He hesitates, and before he can bring himself to respond, the door behind him opens.

Both he and Taehyun look up, to Beomgyu standing in the doorway, bent properly at the waist. He is wearing a morning robe Yeonjun has never seen before, awash in colorful flowers along the bottom hem, and his hair is pulled back modestly but not styled. He must have come right away after being woken up.

“Omega Beomgyu,” Taehyun acknowledges him, and his voice sounds oddly dark.

“Good morning, Your Highness.” He straightens up, then bows halfway in Yeonjun’s direction. “Your Grace.”

It is so stark, the difference between the lack of respect Beomgyu showed Taehyun last night, and the politeness of his speech now. He sounds perfectly courteous, but to Yeonjun even that is a strange sight. There is no tension, overwhelming Beomgyu’s body. No obvious fear freezing his tongue. Taehyun let him get away with disrespect yesterday, and it is obvious that Beomgyu took it as a weakness on his part. As an invitation to behave himself more comfortably. Confirmation that Taehyun is not to be feared, perhaps – for better and for worse.

“I had Kyunsang invite Omega Beomgyu to share our table today,” Yeonjun explains, bracing himself for the questioning he is not entirely convinced is coming.

Taehyun inclines his head in acknowledgment, his eyes going from Beomgyu to Yeonjun and back to Beomgyu, where they linger for a moment before he reaches for his tea again. “He may.”

It seems Taehyun is unwilling to continue their conversation in Beomgyu’s presence, his attention finally going to the food as Beomgyu crosses the room to sit by Yeonjun’s side. Without any prompting, Beomgyu reaches for Yeonjun’s plate, starting to place things onto it, and Taehyun’s eyes rise to Beomgyu’s again.

Beomgyu’s never leave Taehyun’s. Inappropriate, insolent, daring. As he fixes Yeonjun a plate and sets it before him, then reaches for his own to do the same.

Unsurprisingly, Taehyun is the one to look away first, at Yeonjun who looks down at his plate, ready to be chastised for allowing Beomgyu to behave like this.

“I see the two of you get along well,” is what Taehyun says instead.

Yeonjun stays frozen in his seat. He thinks back to the night before – discarding his clothes in the front room, kissing Beomgyu, climbing into bed with him. When he awoke, Beomgyu was sleeping at the foot of his bed, but Kyunsang made it clear that he had been in the room at least once before he woke them. Was Beomgyu already out of Yeonjun’s bed? Or was he in it, clinging close to Taehyun’s wife, both of them in their underclothes? Did he see anything? Hear anything? Did he tell Taehyun about all of it?

At the very least, he must have told him that Beomgyu was loyal enough to sleep at his feet, to be reluctant to leave his side. If their advantage was in how little Taehyun knew, then they may have squandered much of it.

“As I am sure you intended,” Beomgyu retorts with an insincere smile.

Taehyun cocks his chin, and Yeonjun, to his own horror, notices a spark igniting in his eyes. “I intend for all of the omegas in my care to live as peacefully and happily as possible.”

Beomgyu lifts his own chin – two pieces of fruit off the same tree; Yeonjun would laugh if he was not so horrified at what he is witnessing. “The nobility of your intention never ceases to amaze, Your Highness.”

“I believe in this case, I have also made arrangements that have made such an outcome possible, Omega Beomgyu.”

“Such as ambushing your wife with my arrival without letting him know beforehand?”

Taehyun’s jaw clenches. Yeonjun reaches out to place a hand on Beomgyu’s leg, trying to urge him to stop arguing with the prince, but Beomgyu ignores him. “Would you have preferred me to linger here at court, Omega Beomgyu? Perhaps until the heat took over, so my father’s anger could have come down upon us earlier? Would you have liked for him to force me to take your heat?”

Beomgyu scoffs. “I know that you do not know much about me, Your Highness, but if my old mating mark could have told you anything, it is that I am hardly horrified by the idea of having my heat claimed. I have given it to an alpha infinitely more repulsive than you. The fumbling of a weak-willed princeling could hardly shake me.”

Yeonjun can only stare. If he himself ever dared to say something like this to Taehyun, it would be with the sole purpose of provoking the prince into showing him just how capable he is of much more than fumbling, and Taehyun seems aware of it as well, as his body slowly seems to go as taut as a bowstring, and the smallest hint of pepper sharpens the air around them.

“You know as well as I do,” Taehyun begins to respond, and his voice is so controlled it is almost too obvious that the composure does not come naturally. “That a mating heat is different from a usual one.” He reaches out for his cup of tea, only to find it empty, and nobody moves to refill it for him. “As is the mating rut.”

Beomgyu tilts his head to the side. “Indeed they are. Strong enough to perhaps leave us with mercifully little memory of what our instincts made us do.”

Yeonjun lifts his sleeve to his face. He remembers enough; but what he does brings him no shame. It brings him pleasure, in a terrible way. Does Beomgyu’s memory of succumbing to his husband fill him with embarrassment?

“Does that not disgust you?”

Beomgyu seems taken aback by the question. Yeonjun feels a bit dizzy. For a long moment, it seems like Beomgyu is waiting for Taehyun to relent or to explain himself further, but he does none of the sort. All he does is stare at Beomgyu, unwavering.

“It does,” Beomgyu says eventually, his voice gentler than Yeonjun expected. “Of course it does, but what difference does that make? We—”

“It disgusts me as well,” Taehyun interrupts him, his voice stronger where Beomgyu’s wavered. “I did not want to take you without either of us having much control over what happens. I did not want that to be my first act as your alpha. To be reckless with your body – or have you act recklessly with mine, in a way you might come to regret should the haze not be enough to erase it from your memory.”

Yeonjun sees Beomgyu swallow. For better or worse, he seems to be on the back foot, ill-prepared for Taehyun to push back in this way.

“Would you have it be your second then,” he shoots back, and it seems so childish, defensive more than accusatory. “Your third, or your fourth? How many times are you willing to hold back to buy my trust, Alpha Taehyun?”

“Beomgyu.” Yeonjun cannot hold himself back from snapping at him at the completely insolent address of their prince. Has Beomgyu gone mad?

“You may ask my wife, Omega Beomgyu,” Taehyun says, paying little attention to Yeonjun’s outburst, “how often I am willing to hold back for the sake of my omegas.”

“For your own sake, you mean.”

“Is it so wrong, Omega Beomgyu, for things to have more than one utility? If I do not lie with you, because I do not wish to take advantage of you in a vulnerable state, I have little interest in siring children with you, you are so obviously repulsed by me as an alpha that the two of us sharing a bed would bring you little real pleasure and my wife would hardly applaud me for taking another omega under his own roof, what is so wrong about that? Where have I erred? By wishing to make every one of us as content as we can be in these unfortunate circumstances?”

Beomgyu seems to pause to take his words in, then sneers. “What kind of an alpha are you?”

Obviously fed up with the conversation, Taehyun begins gathering his letters in his arms. “The kind that I wish to be, Omega Beomgyu. One that does not impose themself upon the bodies of others without any regard for them.”

He stands up with his letters in his arms and begins heading towards the door of the tea room. Yeonjun hears more than feels a frustrated sound leave his own lips, and he presses his fingertips to his hairline to try and calm himself.

“My prince.”

Taehyun comes to a halt next to the table they sit at. He seems like he just realized Yeonjun could hear the entirety of their conversation. Yeonjun is only slowly starting to realize himself what he had just heard.

“Yes?”

Yeonjun closes his eyes briefly to force enough composure into his body to be able to speak plainly. “We need you to make a decision about Omega Beomgyu’s accommodation. He is supposed to be staying here as a temporary measure, and if you do not decide otherwise, they will most likely try to put him with the other concubines of the Court.”

For a moment, Yeonjun is not sure if Taehyun will answer him, but then his shoulders rise and fall with a measured breath and he gives him a nod. “Well, if my father insists that I keep my omegas close, then Omega Beomgyu may stay here for the time being, no?” His eyes shift to Beomgyu. “Unless he would prefer to stay with Captain Soobin again.”

Beomgyu tilts his head back to look at him, impolite as always. “It’s okay, little prince. I am not afraid of you anymore. I know who you are now.”

To Yeonjun’s surprise, Taehyun rises to the challenge, leaning closer to Beomgyu where he stands next to him, hovering over him, spice ever more potent in the air as he tries to exert his authority.

“I hope you do, Omega Beomgyu,” he says altogether coldly, then looks at Yeonjun. “We will house him on our breast then. I assume you would prefer it this way as well.”

When Yeonjun nods, face-to-face with Taehyun’s suddenly impassive demeanor, it feels almost like he is admitting to adultery to his own husband’s face. “I very much would.”

Taehyun nods in response as if he understands – as if he realizes what it means for him to agree to this. “Your wish is my command then, wife. I will inform Kyunsang of my decision.”

Yeonjun bows and keeps it up as Taehyun leaves. Beomgyu makes no move to show him any deference.

He drops his face into his hands as soon as the door is closed, and breathes heavily into his own palms. He had lived for so long in such a peaceful marriage, well-provided for in his pretty house with his handsome, amicable husband. Despairing hardly four times a year, dodging questions about his lack of offspring skillfully, graciously. Serving his husband faithfully and tirelessly. Chaste and polite and hard-working. Only looking at other alphas for the benefit of his husband or their household, never asking for more, never looking for more. He believed, in the privacy of his mind, that his husband loved him, that he looked upon their first night together as fondly as Yeonjun did, that they would have children one day, that some kind of magical happiness, some contentment was waiting there, on the other side of his dutiful service, that his obedience would one day lead to a life free of worry and strife. With a husband at his side. A child clinging to his skirts. His name would be met with an earned respect, rather than one owed to his husband and his lineage. He would be Madame Yeonjun, His Grace to most, Mother to the most precious one of them all.

But what is he now? Conniving and dishonest; hardly able to admit to his husband’s face that the thought of never bearing him a child crushes his chest painfully, in ways he believes have nothing to do with the Emperor’s anger; with Beomgyu’s warnings. Wantonly seeking comfort in another omega’s body, no matter how sweet it feels when he does so. It is wrong of him, if not by nature, then by the law of morality. He has a husband, who as well as admitted in front of him that he thinks of their first night together with distaste; the same night he always reminisced about so fondly. Even if it is so because his husband wishes they were both in their right minds as it happened, what does it mean to how he views Yeonjun and his body? Is it sullied by this experience of theirs in some way? Or is it simply his philosophy of not imposing himself that has him so cold unless Yeonjun as much as throws himself at him?

“A Seon Jaehwan, your husband is not.”

Yeonjun looks at Beomgyu, who picks up a piece of fruit between his fingers, and brings it up to his mouth to bite it off. He is not looking at Yeonjun, staring vaguely off into space instead.

“My alpha was embittered, and yours…”

His is hot and cold, shrewd and irrational, gentle and severe.

“Deceptively sweet, maybe. A lurking tiger with honey dripping off his fangs.”

Beomgyu is honey. Beomgyu is a tiger, whatever symbolism the House of Kang may have usurped for itself over the many years of its existence.

Taehyun is stinging pepper, he is a fish, swimming against the current, always headed away, somewhere beyond, somewhere further. Slippery, impossible to hold between one’s hands for more than a moment, as if his life depended on always moving forward. Away from Yeonjun. From their home. From Beomgyu. From his father. From the expectations of the Court. Running, running, running.

 

.

 

They dress together, and Yeonjun realizes that they have never done so before. He has never seen Beomgyu put his hair up, or slip into his robes. Now he watches with hardly appropriate fascination, barely focusing on his own paint, as Beomgyu winds the brown silk of his hair into a simple hairstyle, and fixes it with the same plain silver pins he has been using every day now. Yeonjun realizes he misses seeing him done up, with pretty hair pieces and jewelry, with his hair fashioned more elaborately than this – he misses seeing colored robes complimenting his pretty face beautifully.

Perhaps he could nudge Beomgyu to wear something pretty, just for him.

Before he can do something about it, Beomgyu is the one to speak up first, looking at him curiously through the mirror from behind him.

“The omega next to the Emperor yesterday was his empress, correct?”

Yeonjun blinks hard at the unexpected choice of topic, but he nods before tearing his eyes away from Beomgyu, finally focusing on his paint again instead. “Yes.”

“Is she your prince’s mother?” When Yeonjun does not immediately answer, he adds, “They do not look much alike.”

Indeed they do not. Yeonjun hesitates with his brush on his chin. “No.”

Quite impolitely, Beomgyu crawls over to where Yeonjun sits, to look him in the face directly, eyes alight with curiosity. “Was he born of a concubine, then?”

It would explain things so neatly, would it not? Taehyun was born of a concubine, and has compassion towards them. Does not wish to violate them, or have them live in isolation. Because his mother was one of them.

He shakes his head, and turns towards Beomgyu, lowering his brush for a moment. “He was not – he is a child of marriage. His mother, the previous empress, passed away many years ago – before the prince and I were even engaged.”

Beomgyu purses his lips, obviously unhappy with this revelation. “The Emperor remarried, then.”

Yeonjun shrugs. “It seemed prudent – he had children by some concubines, but it seemed quite… unfortunate that his wife only ever bore him the one son. If Taehyun were to pass himself, his inheritance would fall to one of the children of his concubines, and as legally legitimate as that would be—”

“The Emperor passing his firstborn’s inheritance down to the child of a concubine would hardly be viewed as prestigious.”

With a sigh, Yeonjun turns back to his paint. “Indeed – therefore a new marriage was in order.” He taps his brush in the white paint. “But the new Empress has not given him any children, either. Talk around the Court is that she is barren, but the Emperor cannot divorce her, as he has enough concubines and an alpha heir.” He shakes his head. “Perhaps that only added to his anxiety about Taehyun’s lack of offspring.”

Perhaps the Emperor’s anger was a long time coming.

“Aw, he just worries that his son will end up like him,” Beomgyu coos, his voice insincerely sweet. “How caring of him.”

“It is a father's place, to worry about his son’s progeny,” Yeonjun points out. “Has your husband’s father never—”

“Oh, certainly,” Beomgyu cuts him off, his voice amused but in as unkind a way as his sweet voice before. “My father-in-law had many opinions on what Jaehwan should do. What he should be. How he should act. And Jaehwan tucked his tail between his legs, just like your prince, and his anger boiled within him as he took so meekly his father’s imparted wisdom, and then he’d come to me and let it loose.”

Yeonjun is, as usual, quite stricken by the reminder of Beomgyu’s previous torment, but instead a curiosity builds within him that he cannot quell. “How long were you married again?”

Beomgyu’s eyes seem to shiver and hesitate. “Some four years.”

He frowns, and turns more fully towards Beomgyu, who seems to withdraw a little. “And your husband took you during every single one of your heats, and during his ruts.”

It is obvious Beomgyu knows where he is headed, and he seems to nod his head with reluctance. “Yes.”

When Yeonjun reaches out, Beomgyu lets him take his hand. “Beomgyu. Are you sure you are even capable of bearing a child?”

And Beomgyu clutches at his hand, tighter than Yeonjun expected him to. “I know I am capable of becoming pregnant.”

Yeonjun blinks at Beomgyu’s face, briefly unseeing. “Pardon?”

“It is not that it never took,” Beomgyu says quietly, too quietly, squeezing Yeonjun’s hand even tighter. “It did, once. But nothing came of it. I…” He purses his lips so tightly they go white. “Kai was the one to notice my scent had changed. I told Jaehwan, hoping the news would…” He shakes his head. “They changed little, and they became a lie soon enough. My scent grew rotten, and the child…”

Yeonjun takes Beomgyu’s hand between both of his own. “It is… not unusual.”

“Indeed,” Beomgyu agrees, but his eyes tell a different story.

Heedless of the paint on his face, Yeonjun reaches up, to bring their faces close, their foreheads coming together. He does not know what to say – he was never the one to provide comfort in these situations. It always happened around him, to acquaintances of acquaintances. To his cousin in a letter from home. To his aunt, when she was younger, before he came to live with her, the indomitable woman who never asked for comfort from anyone.

But now it is Beomgyu, his unfortunately beloved Beomgyu, with a pale face and haunted eyes.

“I’ve told you before I see myself as righteous all the time,” Beomgyu whispers, every breath of it tickling at Yeonjun’s unpainted lips.

“You have.”

“That was a lie.” Beomgyu reaches up, and holds the side of Yeonjun’s face. “When the blood came and would not stop, all I could think was that it was my hate that killed my child. That I have caused this, with how much I dreaded bringing this new life into this world,” He swallows, his lips thinning out again. “And I did not feel righteous.”

“Beomgyu, you—”

Instead of letting him speak, Beomgyu holds both sides of his face. “So if your husband calls for me to do what I have to do, I will do so without hesitation. I will not let this happen again.”

“Beomgyu, it was not your fault.”

Beomgyu’s hands slip off of his face. His eyes shift, from conviction to something wary and pained. “That is what Kai said. And the midwife they sent to care for me until I was better. She would pet my hair and call me little flower, and she’d tell me these things happen. She said her gods throw a dice for every soul that tries to make its way into this world, and not every soul’s number is a lucky one. That I’ll have another, and it will be strong and healthy and grow to be my pride and joy. That I’d have so many I’ll wish I could have a moment of my day without a little one tugging at my sleeve, asking for attention.” One of his hands lands on Yeonjun’s leg instead. “And I could hardly tell her I didn’t wish for any of that. Even the one child pained me so bad I’d killed it before it could ever see the light of day.”

“You did not.” Now Yeonjun holds onto Beomgyu’s face, holding it so tightly it must be uncomfortable, but he needs Beomgyu to listen. “You did not kill the child, Beomgyu. Perhaps I do not believe in gods gambling with the souls of unborn children, but I believe this. Maybe your hate is as potent as it gets, but not even it can take a life. And with…” His voice peters off, unbidden, and he clears his throat as his fingers slip into Beomgyu’s hair, messing up his carefully arranged hairstyle. “With the life you were subjected to. You… one cannot blame you for… not only thinking of the child with a mother’s loving thoughts.” He closes his eyes, and pulls back to knock their foreheads together gently. “I do not mean to say you could have never come to love them. There is love in you, Beomgyu, there is a gentleness, and I believe it because I have felt it upon my own skin. You would have loved them, and I think you know that, deep down. You would not…” He pulls back, and looks into Beomgyu’s eyes, which are glossy with tears. “You would not weep for a child you had no capacity to love. It would not melt the steel heart of a monster, to lose a child this way. But it crushed yours. The pain you feel, that is the proof that you are human. That you could not have taken that child’s life, because you did not want to. Wishing for a different life, for a different husband, for a different circumstance to bring a child into, does not mean that you—”

“If I had thought of killing it.” Beomgyu’s fingers dig into his leg now, uncomfortable. “If I considered taking its life, even if I only did so once, would you think of me any differently? Would you shun me then, Yeonjun? Would that make me monstrous in your eyes?”

Yeonjun could ask if he did, but he believes it is not the point, at the end of the day. Would he. A cruel husband, who would berate and beat him to have an outlet for his anger. A bitter, dark household to bring his child into. A secret relationship that is his one escape from it all, and a child, born outside of it, who could hardly ever become privy to it unless they were to risk being found out. Child of blood that boiled Beomgyu’s very veins. A tyrant’s child. One that could, despite it all, grow to be healthy, and loving, who could love their mother, and their mother’s lover, and learn from their father’s mistakes.

An unbridled potential of soul. And on the other side of it, a young omega, trapped in a life he did not ask for.

Is the very thought monstrous – do monstrous thoughts make for monstrous men? Or are their actions all that matters? How you feel about your actions, your own thoughts… could it absolve you? Should it?

He reaches out and pulls at Beomgyu – embraces him. Like Beomgyu embraced him, last night and in his heat, but he is perhaps fiercer with how tightly he holds into his body that feels so slender now that he is the one holding it and not the one clinging to it for comfort. Skin and bones and a heart that flutters where Beomgyu’s chest presses into him, and Beomgyu does not wrap his arms around him in return.

“I would love you, Beomgyu.”

The body shakes in his hold. More silky hair escapes its confines, and tickles at Yeonjun’s own skin. He holds Beomgyu tighter.

He would love Beomgyu’s child as well. Like his own. Because it would deserve to live as much as his own, and to be loved and raised well, with guidance and affection, to be able to live their life without living with the same fears they had to grow up with.

“I would love you, so much.”

Because he deserves to be loved, does he not? To feel happiness and contentment. Monster or not. With the black thoughts and the loving ones. With his tears and his anger. That is what Beomgyu tried to teach him, what Kai perhaps managed to teach Beomgyu, before he passed. That love should be there for all of them, and being denied it is perhaps the greatest crime one may commit against another.

He runs his fingers through Beomgyu’s hair until he stops shaking.

 

.

 

Beomgyu is curled up on his side with his head pillowed on Yeonjun’s lap, his hair loose again now as Yeonjun plays with it, winding it around his fingers, brushing through it, smoothing his fingers over Beomgyu’s face and neck, and Beomgyu’s fingers are busy with Yeonjun’s morning robe, playing with the material of it for the lack of anything substantial to do; maybe simply for comfort.

He talks to Yeonjun in a hushed voice, and Yeonjun just sits and listens. For once, Beomgyu talks about nice things – about the ivory coasts of the island he was born on, that are altogether the only thing he remembers clearly about the princedom that gave birth to him. He talks about food they used to serve in the Golden City that he is missing sorely, some dish of sliced fruit boiled in honey that he would eat too much of and make himself sick with. He talks about walking through markets in the grand cities they would visit, all the sights and smells of them, fabrics and carvings and jewelry and fruit and sweetbread, tea sets and hairpins and books.

He also talks about Kai. About his favorite foods, and the modest clothes they had him wear as a servant, always in the orange of his husband’s house that barely complimented Kai’s own beauty. Talks about teaching him how to play instruments, about writing dirty poems he would recite to Kai to make him laugh or blush. He tries to recall them, but the wordplay in them is mostly lost on Yeonjun, who does not bother pointing it out, because Beomgyu’s voice is pleasant to listen to either way. He tells Yeonjun that Kai liked to sing, and would sing to him sometimes when sleep would avoid him for too long.

It reminds Beomgyu that Yeonjun’s ladies complimented his voice before, and Yeonjun lets himself be talked into singing for him without much convincing, and Beomgyu lays on his back to be able to look Yeonjun in the face properly while Yeonjun sings him a southern lullaby his grandmother used to soothe him and his cousins with whenever they were sick or upset and the servants could not get them to sleep. He keeps his hand on Beomgyu’s face, caressing his cheeks as he sings, and then drags his thumb across Beomgyu’s lips. Down the center, then on the left, then on the right.

Beomgyu catches his hand, but he waits until Yeonjun is done singing to speak up.

“You’ve done that before.”

He noticed, then. Yeonjun gives him the briefest of smiles. “It’s just something I remember from home.”

Beomgyu’s face takes on a strange expression, but before he can say anything, a voice comes steady through the door to the front room, and they both jump at the sudden breach of their little place of sanctuary.

“Your Grace?”

It is only Kyunsang – he seems to make no motion to open the door, so Yeonjun clears his throat and answers without ushering Beomgyu off his lap. “Yes?”

“I wanted to make sure you are well.”

Ah. Right. They must have been here… how long? An hour? More? Less? Not even an omega as vain as him takes this long getting ready. “I am well, Kyunsang, thank you. I apologize for worrying you.”

“No matter, Your Grace. I will leave you to your preparations, then.”

“Actually, Kyunsang,” Yeonjun speaks up, and in the absence of footsteps headed away from the door, he continues. “Could you please get us some tea and send someone to let Lord Myeongjin’s wife know I will be visiting her for lunch today?”

“Certainly, Your Grace. I will have it done promptly.”

“Thank you, Kyunsang.”

They listen carefully as he walks away from the door, and then Yeonjun looks down at Beomgyu, who is still on his back, looking up at him with his pretty chocolate eyes, and he sighs.

“I apologize,” he says quietly, and pets his thumb down Beomgyu’s chin. “I told my husband I would speak to her.”

Beomgyu laughs and holds onto his wrist, caressing the inside of it. “I have told you before – I believe you would wither without matters to attend to.” He lifts Yeonjun’s hand to his face, and kisses his palm briefly. “I have few illusions about your desire to simply play with my hair all day.”

Yeonjun pouts, and pokes at Beomgyu’s nose. “What a privilege it would be to do so,” he says, but just like before, he cannot find it in himself to really deny it.

 

.

 

“Do you have any instruments here?”

Yeonjun looks up from the plate of rice cakes he had been admiring, across the tea table at Beomgyu who raises his eyebrows as he takes a sip of tea. They dressed quickly, after Kyunsang came, and Yeonjun hardly had to do much convincing to get Beomgyu to put an ivory bird pin in his hair. If anything, Beomgyu seemed endeared by Yeonjun’s interest in seeing him with jewelry on again. Now Yeonjun almost regrets his choice, face to face with Beomgyu’s lovely visage.

“Or books I could read, while you are gone.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head, apologetic. “I am afraid I keep no instruments here, and I do not believe the prince does, either. And I unfortunately doubt Kyunsang will let you peruse the books in the prince’s study without his permission.”

Beomgyu huffs unhappily, sitting his tea down. “Maybe I should protest against you leaving me here, then – I am going to die here of sheer tedium.” When Yeonjun laughs, he gives him a crooked smile. “I will have to sit here playing games against myself and drinking tea.” Then he pouts slightly, tilting his head. “Do you think your good man Kyunsang can play the alpha’s game as well?”

The question takes Yeonjun aback – Kyunsang has no reason to know how to play, but then again, on the face of it, neither does Beomgyu. Perhaps Taehyun taught him, just to have an opponent when he struggles to amuse himself – or he has simply learned the rules somewhere.

“I have no idea,” he admits, his tone sounding surprised to himself.

Beomgyu sighs exaggeratedly, pouring himself more tea. “Well, at least Alpha Soobin was useful for something when he hosted me.”

Oh. Soobin. Yeonjun has barely thought of the man since they came to court, every moment after their arrival being such a barrage of issues to deal with. Complication after complication, confrontations, painful confessions. Yeonjun forgot to wonder why Soobin never came to greet him; where he even was the whole day.

They have not spoken since he and Taehyun left court – even the letter Yeonjun ended up sending on behalf of the palace guard was addressed to Taehyun rather than Soobin personally, out of an abundance of caution – similarly, Soobin’s response was delivered to his deputy rather than Yeonjun himself. Yeonjun has no idea if Soobin’s thoughts of him, his feelings towards him have changed at all.

But Yeonjun’s have, have they not? Yeonjun understands now. Has done worse than Soobin ever would. He understands what Taehyun meant when he said that Soobin has made many sacrifices for the sake of the two of them. Soobin has sworn himself to celibacy, resigned himself to solitude, because he knows he cannot afford to falter. He is too close to the prince – every indiscretion of his would reflect on Taehyun. Keeping lovers, letting people see his true nature – he has decided the risk was too great, and banished all thought of it, for Taehyun. For Yeonjun.

Yeonjun should not just love him for the old friend he is – he should admire him for his conviction. For his grim determination. Love him for his sacrifice.

Hurt for him, because everyone, every creature in the world should be allowed to experience loving affection.

He touches his cup, and Beomgyu refills it when he notices its emptiness, even though Yeonjun was just looking for something to do with his hands. “Perhaps we should invite Captain Soobin,” he says carefully, watching for Beomgyu’s reaction, who looks more curious than anything else. “See if he would like to play another game against you.”

Beomgyu sets the teapot down and taps the knuckle of his index finger against his lower lip in an overt show of thoughtfulness. “Would it not be somewhat embarrassing? For me to so blatantly reject Alpha Soobin’s care, just to have him brought to me anyway to entertain me.”

The way Beomgyu speaks about it is insolent, but more than offense, Yeonjun feels amusement bubbling in his chest. “Would you rather face death by tedium, then?”

With a sigh, Beomgyu lowers his head in defeat. “I suppose I would not.”

 

.

 

When Soobin arrives, to Yeonjun’s relief, he looks more amused and curious than the previous blank coldness he displayed around Yeonjun at his household. He is in uniform, and he eyes the two of them before him with a curve to the side of his mouth.

“Have you brought me here to speak about His Highness?” Soobin’s eyes shift fully to Beomgyu, who he looks up and down, ignoring the challenging jut of Beomgyu’s chin. “He came to me this morning to complain of Omega Beomgyu.” Then he looks at Yeonjun, and perhaps he looks more measured when looking at him, but he is certainly less curt than before. “He said that was he not convinced that his father truly meant the best for him, he would have believed that he had put Omega Beomgyu in his care as his royal punishment.” He obviously has to suppress some sort of amused outburst, pinching his lips so tightly that dimples dig deep into his cheeks. “I have told him many times about Omega Beomgyu’s truly unique set of manners, but he would not listen.”

Yeonjun has to cover his mouth with his sleeve to suppress his own amusement, and Beomgyu takes advantage of his silence to speak up himself.

“Up until now I did not know if the prince would be as receptive to my manners as you were, but he seems to have proven himself to be so.”

Soobin’s eyes narrow slightly, as he gives Beomgyu another measuring look. “I thought I was the only one you have deemed unworthy of your respect, Omega Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu only straightens up further in response. “No, Alpha Soobin, in fact there are many weak-willed alphas like you out there.”

To Yeonjun’s surprise, instead of taking offense, Soobin laughs. “Is that what you have concluded, Omega Beomgyu? That His Highness is weak-willed? Our prince? Prince Kang Taehyun?”

“Yes,” Beomgyu retorts, as if it was obvious. “He is as much of a prince as you are a military commander.”

Soobin huffs so sharply it sounds more like a snort. “And how have you come to this wise conclusion?”

“We are not discussing this right now,” Yeonjun steps in, feeling like this conversation might be straying in directions Yeonjun would prefer to avoid. He does not know how much Taehyun has confided in Soobin about last night’s dinner with the Emperor, but he would rather not rehash all of it with the captain – friend or not.

Unfortunately, Soobin’s altogether jovial demeanor cools somewhat at his interruption. He turns his attention to Yeonjun, and his face grows serious. “Why am I here then?”

“Well, for one,” he begins, steeling himself, standing as firmly as he can in his fineries, “I have not seen hide nor hair of you yesterday.”

Soobin’s chest rises and falls slowly, and his face does not move. “I did not figure you wanted to see me, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun purses his lips. He made it clear enough that he meant to repair their relationship, did he not? It was Soobin who insisted on them keeping their distance for the time being. Did he interpret Yeonjun speaking to him through Taehyun as more than Yeonjun respecting his wishes? Does he truly believe Yeonjun is incapable of understanding him?

Beomgyu seems to take the ensuing silence to be an impasse it is his responsibility to break, as he takes a step forward boldly to speak up again. “And also, we have brought you here because I could use someone to play with who could rival me.”

It pains Yeonjun somewhat, to see Soobin regard Beomgyu so much more comfortably than him – it feels like an odd sting of jealousy he is not used to experiencing. His tone is so relaxed, when he responds back with, “I did not think you believed I could.” His eyes narrow again, and his mouth curves in a mockery of a smile, that seems friendly in its skirting of propriety nonetheless. “I thought I was weak-willed, and a poor strategist when compared with your own genius.”

In response, Beomgyu gives him a light shrug of shoulders – it is obvious they both enjoy this – this strange ribbing they subject one another to. But it is not as charged as when Yeonjun provokes his husband – when Beomgyu disrespects him, even. It is more of a sparring of wit than any sort of titillation – not that Yeonjun believed it would be, on Soobin’s part, but it is still interesting to observe the difference in the air, when citrus and amber stay still even as their voices grow animated.

“You are not hopeless in the realm of tactics, perhaps,” Beomgyu says primly, then tilts his head towards Yeonjun. “And you are still an infinitely more interesting opponent than His Grace.”

Yeonjun’s mouth drops open in offense, but at the same time, Soobin’s does as well.

“His Grace? Does His Grace play the game as well?”

Beomgyu tuts, obviously unbothered by both of their reactions. “Barely. Which is why I have need of you, Alpha Soobin.”

Soobin leans forward, almost as if he could barely restrain his curiosity. “Was it you who taught him? Did you have His Grace play an alpha’s game?”

He sounds so incredulous, Yeonjun feels hot shame spreading all over his body, once again thankful for all the paint masking the flush. He clenches his hands in front of himself, standing stiffly as Soobin looks him over with a look Yeonjun is afraid to read into in his eyes.

“Perhaps His Imperial Majesty did send you to punish our prince, Omega Beomgyu,” he says then, with amusement clear in his voice. “Have you been corrupting his wife’s morals?”

Oh, Soobin has no idea. No idea at all.

But Beomgyu is quick to scoff, as if it caused him little pause to hear an accusation so accurate come from the good captain’s lips. “If reminding all of you that the way things are done in this pitiful Empire of yours is hardly the natural law of the world is a punishment, then yes,” he smiles at Soobin, and it is hard to tell to which extent he does so sincerely. Perhaps it is simply a smile of genuine pride at how scandalous they find his behavior. “I am verily a messenger of reckoning.”

Soobin laughs, almost boyish with the lack of restraint. “If you believe in a revolution of the mind, Omega Beomgyu, then I truly believe His Imperial Majesty could not have placed you in a worse household.”

“It might be so,” Beomgyu responds haughtily, carelessly, then gestures with his sleeve towards the playing table. “Will you still play with me?”

And Soobin lowers his head, to huff amusedly to himself, before lifting it again and giving Beomgyu a polite bow. “Of course, Omega Beomgyu.”

 

.

 

“Oh, I am so terribly sorry.”

Ahn Nayoon is as pretty as ever. Her eyes are kind, her mouth quick to smile, and her hair sparkles with golden pins, as do her ears and neck – gold is indeed in fashion at the Imperial Court. Her dress is not too overwrought for a simple lunch with an old friend, but not so modest that Yeonjun would feel hurt at her lack of effort. The collar of her petal pink robe is embroidered with gold thread, as is the hem of the sleeve she presses to her mouth in embarrassment.

“I am afraid my husband will not be able to join us today. He was hoping to, but he received an invitation to lunch from Her Highness Prince Iseul and he unfortunately had to agree to eat with her instead.”

Yeonjun sighs, raising his own hand to placate her. “Oh, do not worry about that, my dear. I understand. A prince’s invitation is hardly to be refused.” He gives her an understanding smile. “I only feel a bit bad for you, Lady Nayoon. It is always so… troublesome, to have to be the bearer of such news on behalf of your husband, is it not?”

Nayoon laughs bashfully into her sleeve, but nods and lowers it. “Indeed, Your Grace. I…” she sighs a little, but there is a wide smile on her face even as the huff of breath escapes her. “I suppose I am not quite used to this wifely duty just yet.”

“And you might never be,” Yeonjun replies light-heartedly. “I myself have never stopped dreading having to explain what important reason my honorable husband has for not being present where he is expected on any given day.”

“Ah,” Nayoon bites her lip. To Yeonjun, it is almost as if she has not changed at all from the girl he used to spend time at court with. She is dressed a bit more splendidly now, and has a pretty title in front of her name, but she is just as sweet as he remembers her. “Would it be childish of me to say I look forward to finding out?”

He feels his own smile widening, and does not bother stopping it. “Certainly not, my dear. A marriage can be a wondrous thing if fortune allows, and if we allow it to be.” He bows, not too deeply, but enough to be exceedingly polite. “And I once again congratulate you on yours.”

Nayoon seems to flush a little as she bows in return. “Thank you very much, Your Grace. It has truly been the happiest turn of fortune I have experienced in a while.”

“Certainly not without hefty contribution of our Lord Myeongjin.”

Nayoon laughs. “Ah, because of him, perhaps?”

It warms his heart, despite everything, despite the perhaps underhanded reason he has come here, to see his friend smile and laugh so easily. She seems truly smitten with her husband, and excited to show Yeonjun around her and her husband’s own quarters, equipped with a separate tea room, no less, where she can host Yeonjun with an expensive-looking tapestry of an ocean view behind her back, seeming like a proper imperial lady with all the luxury and fineries that come with it.

Only once they sit down, Yeonjun taking careful note of the fine plates set out before them, and Nayoon’s servant comes to fix his plate for him, does he bring back the topic he made note of before, that he thought would be best left to when they had food before them to distract them.

“Your husband is with the prince Iseul, then?”

Nayoon hums in agreement, giving him another apologetic smile. “The invitation came quite late in the morning I am afraid.”

“Do the two of them spend much time together? I do not remember them being very close when we were young.”

“Ah.” Nayoon’s friendly and smiley demeanor grows slightly awkward. “Well… you see, my husband has somehow been finding himself quite close with… that side of His Highness Prince Taehyun’s family.”

“Oh, is that so?” Yeonjun tilts his head, innocent and curious. “When I spoke to my husband about him, he said that he has been quite close with the Moon family, rather than associating with the Kangs.”

To be a friend to both would be… unusual, if not outright impossible. A truly precarious balancing act to strike. The two families have historically hardly gotten along well, and the only thing keeping the Moon at court is just how disastrous a potential uprising of nobles of their means and prevalence at the Imperial Court could be to the stability of the Empire. Perhaps it would be a beneficial gap to straddle, if one had the courage to do it – and Lord Myeongjin surely seems to have it.

“That is… also not incorrect,” Nayoon concurs, the awkwardness penetrating her expression even further, as Yeonjun’s plate is set before him and hers is picked up. “My husband has relied quite heavily on the mentorship of the lord Moon Jongwoo, in making his way through court, and raising to his current appointment,” she hesitates, and bites her lip again. “He has been… exceedingly kind to our Myeongjin, and his kindness has lately extended to involving him in reaching out a friendly hand to His Imperial Highness.”

Yeonjun tries not to react too overtly. A Moon family noble, breaking bread with Taehyun’s uncle?

Nayoon makes a little gesture he finds adorable, clenching her hands in fists in her lap and bringing them together nervously as she adds, “I believe perhaps this will spell good news for the future of the Empire and this court. If they find common ground, this will surely lead to a more peaceful life for us all.”

He wishes he shared Nayoon’s optimism, and perhaps he would, if he were in her position, or if he were in Myeongjin’s. But Taehyun would not have asked Yeonjun to try and gain the favor of this young couple only as a measure of safety, would not do so if he knew that Myeongjin was already more than interested in making friends of his relatives. Is Taehyun unaware, or does he need Yeonjun’s help despite it?

“It certainly sounds that way…” He takes advantage of the moment his cup is filled with wine to compose himself, giving the servant a brief and unnecessary nod of acknowledgment. “I can only hope this can come to pass, my dear lady.”

Nayoon sighs as her cup is filled as well, and she picks it up immediately to take a tiny, ladylike sip. “Oh, if anyone could bring such a fortunate miracle to fruition, would it not be my Myeongjin?” She laughs girlishly, putting her cup down, and Yeonjun cannot help but smile at her indulgently.

She launches into more enthusiastic endorsement of her husband, of his charm and wit and his taste in choosing courting gifts, his handsome face and great expectations. It is altogether endearing, and as pained as Yeonjun feels, thinking about how their husbands might come to stand against each other at some point in their lives, he listens to Nayoon as attentively as he can, and prompts her to continue when she is overcome by embarrassment at her own chatter.

They eat, they talk, and at some point during the lunch, she bites her lip again and gives him a sly look that does not suit her sweet face.

“Ah, but Your Grace! I have hardly let you speak of yourself, and you are the one who has been the talk of the court as of late.”

Right. Those rumors again – Yeonjun would have to get used to dismissing them, as nonchalantly as he can. “My dear, I am afraid all talk of this sort is being done by evil tongues trying to make my coming to the court as disappointing as they possibly can. I am afraid there is no news as great as what the court seems to be expecting.”

Nayoon’s smiley mouth purses into a little red pearl, and she looks at Yeonjun with obvious doubt in her eyes. “Are you sure, Your Grace?” She tilts her head, and Yeonjun recognizes the telltale expression of a young courtier about to spread some outrageously interesting piece of gossip. “Because my Myeongjin heard from Lord Jongwoo that His Imperial Highness had it on good authority that you were with child.”

She is obviously proud of herself for being in the know, her bright eyes narrowed in satisfaction, and the smile of a cat who has successfully pounced upon its prey on her face, as innocent as a little girl’s.

Who else has His Imperial Highness told? Why is the heir apparent the loudest gossiping goose of them all? Should he not leave this business to the omegas?

Yeonjun tries not to sigh too obviously, and gives her an awkward smile instead, picking up a bite of food to try and add to an air of nonchalance. “My dear, like I said. Nothing but bad tongues wagging emptily.”

Nayoon’s pleased smile gives way to a small frown. “If you insist, Your Grace.” Then, just when Yeonjun thinks she has let the issue go and has started to truly focus on the taste of the food in his mouth, she adds, “You do know you could tell me anything. I still consider myself to be your friend.”

He covers his mouth with a sleeve until he is able to swallow, and school his expression into something kind. “I do, Nayoon, truly. You are a friend to me as well, and as your friend, I assure you, it is nothing but a lie that has spread too far for anyone’s good.”

The expression that takes over Nayoon’s face next is the worst one of them all. It is sympathetic. It carries pity. “Very well, then.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun returns to Taehyun’s rooms only to find everyone he could possibly be looking for right there in the front room. Soobin is still there, sitting cross-legged at the playing table with a pinched expression, while Beomgyu sits neatly opposite him, his face more relaxed but his eyes alight with focus. And from a seat by the tea table, with a cup in his hand and a frown on his haggard face, is Taehyun.

He has finally changed clothes, at least. His robes are maroon today, which could have complimented him well on any other day, but on this one make him look more pale and sickly. Yeonjun should urge him to rest better, but then, would he react like his aunt did? With offense at the implication that he could not bear the burdens placed upon him? That he would not gladly die at his feet from balancing all his duties?

With a sigh he hopes goes unnoticed by all of them, he sinks into the seat opposite Taehyun, and begins pouring himself tea as well.

His husband’s eyes shift to him, and some of the furrow in his brow lightens with it. “Soobin said you have invited him.”

“I did,” Yeonjun agrees with a firm nod, drinking his tea and turning his head to watch him and Beomgyu play. To Yeonjun, it mostly looks like two grown men pouting intensely at a block of wood, but then again, they have established that the intricacies of the game are, for the time being, quite beyond him.

“It is not exactly appropriate for the two of them to be spending time alone.”

Yeonjun raises his eyebrows without looking at Taehyun. Says the man who housed them together carelessly the last time they were at court together. Regardless of etiquette, both of them know it is hardly a risk to leave them alone together.

“Indeed it is not.” He turns to Taehyun and tilts his head slightly. “We should have some books brought here for Omega Beomgyu, so he has something to amuse himself with during the day.”

To his credit, Taehyun looks like he immediately realizes his own oversight, and he wastes no time nodding his assent. “I will have it done.”

“And have it be something sensible,” he hears himself saying before he can stop himself. “He is well-educated.”

Taehyun looks slightly taken aback, but he nods again. “Certainly. Do you think he would appreciate a book on game strategy?”

With a little huff, Yeonjun looks over at Beomgyu, whose resolve seems so incongruent with the pretty bird in his hair, his polite omega’s sitting manner. “Perhaps he would take it as an insult to his technique. Some poetry, perhaps, or a treatise on such, would be more in order?”

The prince seems to suppress a small smile of his own. “That can also be arranged.” Then he reaches for the teapot, even though his wife is there to refill his tea for him, and his face becomes a bit more serious again. “Kyunsang informed me you went to visit Lady Nayoon.”

More business, then. Yeonjun rubs the rim of his cup with a finger. “Indeed. We had a lovely lunch, she and I. Unfortunately, Lord Myeongjin could not join us, as he was engaged with your most honorable cousin, Prince Iseul.”

He watches Taehyun’s expression carefully for a reaction, and while Taehyun does not look at him to acknowledge it, he regards his own tea with an expression that is decidedly unhappy.

“Lady Nayoon also told me that the House of Moon has been magnanimously extending a hand in friendship to His Imperial Highness himself.” As expected, these words make Taehyun look up at his face. Yeonjun purses his lips. “Will you tell me what is going on now, my prince?”

Taehyun is obviously hesitant to do so, his eyes shifting this way and that to avoid Yeonjun’s own.

“If I am to be playing this game on your behalf, my prince, I deserve to know what game we are playing.”

“Ha,” comes from the other table, Beomgyu’s voice delighted as he grins over the playing table at Soobin, whose mouth is tight with an annoyed expression. The board is awash in white, and Yeonjun needs to be no master at the game to recognize that it spells Beomgyu’s victory.

Soobin huffs, picking up the slate-black pieces to put them back in their bowl. “An even enough match.”

“There is no good enough in war, Alpha Soobin – only winners and losers,” Beomgyu retorts, all too amused.

“My father is dying.”

Every one of them looks at Taehyun, who grips the sides of the tea table with a carefully neutral expression as he only looks at Yeonjun. Soobin does not look surprised – Beomgyu does not, either. Yeonjun frowns. Was that it, then? That rotten tone to the Emperor’s cedar scent. The strange note that he could not quite place. Did Beomgyu smell it himself? Did he recognize it for what it was, and expected Yeonjun to have done so as well? Is that why his eyes carry more curiosity than shock as they regard Yeonjun’s husband?

“That is why he is so insistent on me securing my lineage,” Taehyun continues, perfectly measured. His voice does not waver. “I think it is also why he wants me at his side at all times these days.” He gives a small nod. “He is getting his affairs in order.”

It slowly starts to sink in – what exactly Taehyun’s words mean. For them, for their future. Without the protection of Taehyun’s father, Taehyun’s place at court, his significance as a member of his family, comes into question. He had always hoped to be as well-established as he could be by the time that happens, so that his role at court would not be shaken, but it hardly is as secure as he was hoping to make it, is it not? His position is precarious, and forces much more influential than him are making moves behind his back. Taehyun’s uncle, the future Emperor, now assured if the current Emperor is to die first, is making friends with his husband’s enemies.

“You are being encircled,” Beomgyu says, and his tone sounds somewhat ambiguous, as if he is not sure whether to be amused or worried. “They are aiming for the capture.”

Was Beomgyu listening to them? Does he actually understand what he is saying?

With a sigh, Taehyun lets go of the table and takes a drink of tea as if it was wine. “My uncle is simply getting his affairs in order as well.” He looks at his cup, as if he wishes it was full of wine as well. “He has been slowly chipping away at the foothold I have carved out for myself here.” He raises a hand to massage at his own temple. “I believe he is hoping I will deem the situation hopeless and leave the court once Father passes if he stacks the deck against me thoroughly enough.”

Yeonjun blinks, trying to keep up with the situation. “And to this end, he has been trying to gain the Moon family as his allies?”

Not only the Moon family. Yeonjun’s family. His uncle and aunt.

Taehyun shrugs. “Or the other way around – either way, accepting an offered hand from them could only benefit him. It is a brilliant move, really – an enemy of one’s enemy is meant to be a friend.” He waves his hand in front of himself in frustration. “The both of them dislike me for the same reasons, at the end of the day – because I believe that there is value in building upon the foundation our ancestors have laid for us, instead of limiting ourselves to it – flattening ourselves upon it, and refusing to move.” He lowers his hand to the top of the table in vehemence, as if to strike it, but he stops himself at the last moment, and just presses his clenched fist to it quietly. “And if sometimes, we have to use the wisdom our ancestors have bestowed upon us to realize there are flaws in this foundation, and we may have to tear it down to build a firmer structure where it stood, so that we may build and even greater state in their honor, then that is just as well.”

Yeonjun watches his husband with a frown. He is not very well-liked in the more traditionalist circles of the court – ones Yeonjun’s family has always preferred staying in. He is young and idealistic and uses his considerable influence on the Emperor to give voice to other young alphas, with their modern thinking and well-read but naïve minds hardly knowledgeable of the world in the eyes of the older courtiers. Many think that Taehyun and his preferred company do not show enough respect. That they should learn how to be silent when their seniors are talking.

He has never fully decided what he thinks of his husband’s opinion of imperial politics – has never truly had to. Whatever his own opinion, his duty would be to help Taehyun carry out his wishes, regardless. Laws are laws for a reason – but is there not something to admire about a man who would dare to question them?

“And this ancient law of ours, the same that will soon enough place my uncle on the Sun Throne – the one keeping old alpha after old alpha at the head of this great empire of ours – does it not ensure a rigid view of the world? When the greatest mind in our state, the mightiest hand of them all, is always an alpha well beyond budging when it comes to their thinking – at least my father, in all his old man’s wisdom, is willing to at least hear a dissenting voice out – he will give his ear if a young man speaks, even if he may not always listen, much less agree. But uncle Jeongyul? That man is as stubborn as they come, and twice as deaf to words he does not wish to hear.” Taehyun props both of his fists on the table, clenching them tightly. “If, by the time Father passes, there is no one left to stand behind me and convince uncle to have me stay on the Council, then he would be right – I may as well save myself the embarrassment and leave the Court altogether.”

Silence follows, perhaps because nobody is sure if Taehyun is done talking, perhaps because nobody is sure what to say – there is nothing to add, little to disagree with. It seems an apt enough summary of their situation.

Then the silence is broken by noise, by the clinking of clamshell playing pieces tumbling into a wooden bowl as Beomgyu starts clearing the playing board, focused on his work, the bowl with the Kang family name carved into it sitting in his lap.

It makes Yeonjun wonder, about the meaning of the royal prince’s gift. Perhaps he gave this set to Taehyun, because he knew that one day, they would stand on the opposite sides of a game just like this. Perhaps he simply wished to face a worthy opponent.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

/// CW

in the fourth scene of the chapter, beginning with They dress together..., you may stop reading after the line “I know I am capable of becoming pregnant.” and skip to the next scene.

in summary, Beomgyu admits to having been pregnant once but having suffered a miscarriage which he blames himself for. he briefly alludes to having thought about terminating the pregnancy. Yeonjun is in general supportive and comforts him.

 

Please do not take anything in this chapter as a personal statement on my behalf. thank you <3

Chapter 11

Notes:

okay. a couple things to say.

a. i think i just accidentally bodied nanowrimo with this????

b. once again minor warning for sexual content. (I'll keep doing this since the rating is M and not E, so whenever it gets more serious i'll just give you guys a head's up lollll)

c. i feel like there was more but now i can't remember. oh my god.

if you followed the journey of me trying to write this on twitter i'm so sorry i'm such a whiny bitch i'd like to say it won't happen again but it will.

OH. please send your thoughts and prayers and well wishes to Mr. Choi Soobin :')

thank you for every comment, retro, twitter reply, even just a kudos. I have many doubts while writing this story and your encouragement is sometimes incredibly helpful :') love you, thank you.

The light is low in the front room, and along with the silence permeating it, it creates an oddly gloomy atmosphere. Yeonjun has his wrists crossed in front of himself, his posture a bit too rigid for the occasion, his lips pinched together uncomfortably. Soobin stands in front of the door leading outside, but he faces Yeonjun, his head bent down, eyes away from Yeonjun’s face in a way that might, strictly speaking, be polite, but looks avoidant anyway. He hardly stands at attention – his own posture is more that of a friend than a captain of the guard. Off to the side, Beomgyu lingers by the door to the dressing room, ready to slip through it as soon as Soobin leaves – he is staying for propriety’s sake, and maybe because he knows Yeonjun would rather have him here than have Kyunsang witness the tension between him and Soobin.

“Thank you for having me today, Your Grace.”

“It was our honor, Captain Soobin.” Yeonjun bows slightly in acknowledgment. “Thank you for keeping Omega Beomgyu company.”

Soobin glances briefly in Beomgyu’s direction. “It was hardly a sacrifice on my part, Your Grace. He is decent company, especially when he is focusing on the game too much to speak.”

Yeonjun sees Beomgyu smirk out of the corner of his eye. He sighs, then lifts his chin slightly. “Perhaps one day you could be my opponent as well – I may prove to be a better player under your guidance.”

Finally, Soobin lifts his eyes – not quite to Yeonjun’s own, but he finally faces him the way he used to. “Is that something you do now, Your Grace? Play games with alphas as their equal?”

Yeonjun blinks hard. It feels chastising, but he assumes Soobin does not mean for it to sound that way. The urgency to his tone is not disapproval; it is searching, if anything. Trying to understand who Yeonjun is now. In the aftermath of Beomgyu, of all of this.

“It is just a game, Soobin,” he says, softly, his voice almost failing him. “If one plays it well, what does it matter who they are?”

And something in Soobin’s eyes shifts; grows more gentle. “I was not under the impression that you were a skilled player, Your Grace.”

He lifts his shoulders briefly in a shrug. “I am new to all this.”

Maybe Soobin understands his words a bit too well, because he presses his lips together and gives Beomgyu another brief look before nodding. “As you well know, I am far from an experienced player myself.”

Yeonjun wraps one of his palms around his other hand and squeezes. “It is not easy to find a worthy opponent.”

Soobin tilts his head to one side, the gesture a bit too coy for a man of his stature. “It takes a brave man to agree to a game he is all but sure to lose.”

“That is how we learn, is it not? Through our own failures.”

The captain lowers his head again. “If we are afforded a second chance at the table at all.”

He takes a deep breath. “I failed you, Soobin, and I am sorry.”

Soobin seems startled, and it hurts a bit in Yeonjun’s chest. He looks at Yeonjun with wary eyes.

“But I aspire to be a man worthy of your friendship from now on. One who understands and supports you, as you have supported me and my husband.”

At first, Soobin looks away, thoughtful, and briefly, Yeonjun worries about his apology being rejected again. Then, instead of cold words of dismissal, Soobin says with a hint of amusement, “The two of you are truly cut from the same cloth.”

Yeonjun brings his hands up to his abdomen, pressing into it tightly. “We were raised with a similar set of manners, if nothing else.”

“Madame Choi’s school of etiquette would surely rival any military academy the Empire could ever devise,” Soobin retorts lightheartedly, and Yeonjun’s knees almost buckle with relief.

“Demanding teachers make for discerning students.”

Soobin looks at him again, his eyes flicking up and down Yeonjun’s careful posture. “Ones who might find their teachings exceedingly difficult to unlearn.”

This time Yeonjun looks away from Soobin – his eyes stray to Beomgyu, unbidden. Any other courtier would try to look too busy with something else to be paying attention to them, but he does so blatantly, shamelessly. His eyes meet Yeonjun’s, and his eyebrows rise questioningly, but Yeonjun only shifts his eyes back to Soobin’s face.

“I believe it is that discerning nature they have instilled in us that allows us to choose which teachings are worth adhering to, and when.”

“Am I an exception in your eyes, then?” Soobin asks, a bit too bluntly, perhaps – a bit too openly. “Is it just because it’s me?”

Yeonjun tightens his hands where they are folded together. “…no. And if I believe so somewhere in the back of my mind, then it is a failing on my part.”

The world is bigger than Yeonjun; than his family and his loved ones – and as much as he likes to focus on the fine detail, to finesse the small world around him into perfection, there is that bigger picture that keeps eluding him that he nonetheless needs to keep in mind. If nature allows for omegas like him. Like Beomgyu. Like Kai. Then if it also allows for alphas like Soobin, then there must be others like him as well, and Yeonjun would do well to reserve his judgment when it comes to them.

Soobin nods, then glances at Beomgyu, who meets his eyes fearlessly. “Perhaps this is the revolution of mind I spoke about. I only meant it in jest.”

“Learning more about the world can hardly be called a revolution,” Yeonjun argues, a bit frustrated. He is not… changing his mind drastically, is he? He is adjusting for truths he had perhaps… been blind to before. About himself. About Soobin. The way the world around him works.

Soobin hums thoughtfully, giving Yeonjun his attention again. “I admit it may be that these shifts in your thinking are only so stark to me because we have been spending so little time together lately, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun cannot help but press his sleeve to his mouth, a bit too tightly to be appropriate – he must be smudging his paint on the fabric. He takes a moment to compose himself, blinking emotion away, then nods. “It may be so, Captain Soobin. Unfortunately, with you as engaged at this court as you are, I suppose it would not be favorable to us should that change in the near future.”

When Soobin nods, he seems a bit rueful, and Yeonjun feels terrible for being soothed by that. “It seems so. The luckiest option for us may be that we will have little need of you here at the Court for a long time after this.”

He takes a shaky breath. “What a strange life it is, to view every year when I hardly get to see a dear friend of mine as a fortunate one.”

Soobin lowers his head. “I am afraid that is the life we are to lead, Your Grace.”

“I suppose so, my dear captain.”

He sees Soobin’s shoulders lowering, and when Soobin looks at him next, he sees nothing but his old friend, and the feeling of it threatens to bring him to the brink of tears again. It has been such a long day – every day of his is so terribly long lately. The world is so merciless in its motion.

“I believe I am keeping both you and Omega Beomgyu up at this point. I should let you rest.”

Yeonjun wants to protest, but he is not sure how much longer he can keep up his composure, so he lowers his head politely instead. “I hope you can spend your night peacefully, Captain.”

“And I truly wish the same for you, Your Grace.” Soobin bows deeply to him, then gives Beomgyu a halfway bow. “A peaceful night to you as well, Omega Beomgyu.”

“Likewise, Captain Soobin,” Beomgyu says mildly, and Soobin’s eyebrows jolt up at the unusual show of respect, but he does not comment on it.

With one more bow, Soobin leaves, and then Yeonjun is, embarrassingly, dabbing tears away with his sleeves while Beomgyu watches him quietly. His paint must be a mess – what a disgrace.

“He seemed more receptive than last time.”

Yeonjun bites at his own cheeks to try and keep his composure the best he can. “Indeed.”

Beomgyu takes a step towards him, but Yeonjun shakes his head, and he stops immediately.

“You may go undress without me,” he says as levelly as possible. “I wanted to speak with the prince again before I retire for the night.”

“Alone?”

Despite his upset state, Yeonjun finds himself huffing dryly in response. “Yes, Beomgyu. I wanted to have a private conversation with my husband.” Beomgyu looks at him warily, and he shakes his head. “There is no need to worry. I believe our prince has proven to both of us he is not a man we need to fear, and the conversation should be friendly enough regardless.”

Beomgyu hums in response, his lips pinching together. “If you are sure. I will be in the dressing room if you have need of me, then.”

He nods firmly, deeming his eyes dry enough to stop fussing at them. “Thank you, Beomgyu. You can go.”

With a smaller nod of his own, Beomgyu leaves through the dressing room door, and Yeonjun turns towards the door of Taehyun’s study. He raises a hand to his hair to neaten it, as if it even mattered with the dishevelment of his paint and his no doubt reddened eyes – but he wishes to speak with the prince, and Taehyun has made a habit of making himself hard to pin down, so Yeonjun needs to speak with him before he can sneak off into his bedroom for the night while Yeonjun is getting ready for bed.

“My prince?” He says as he reaches the door, before pushing it open slightly. Taehyun looks up at him with eyes that look a little guilty, and the reason for this expression is clear enough to Yeonjun as he takes the full view before him into account. Taehyun is at his writing desk, but his papers, brushes and ink are all pushed to the side for the sake of a gold-painted flask and no doubt also the shallow cup he is currently holding up to his mouth. It is empty, but Yeonjun has little doubt that it was not this way moments before he entered.

It seems the prince did not retire hastily after dinner for the sake of his work.

“Wife. I…” He sets the cup down too quickly, and clears his throat loudly. “What is it?”

To Yeonjun’s disappointment, he sounds somewhat inebriated, but he steps through the door to come inside and close it behind himself, anyway. He was hoping to have this conversation with a clear-minded husband, but this will do. “There was a matter I wished to make clear with you.”

Taehyun nods carefully, and Yeonjun tries not to be endeared by his obvious difficulties with keeping himself from making motions less than dignified. “Of course.” Then his brow furrows, and his handsome face seems to crumple in a surprisingly unrestrained way. “Were you crying?”

He would never ask him that otherwise. Yeonjun holds his hands tightly to his abdomen again. “I had a… moving conversation with our dear captain Soobin.”

That much, he may as well confess to. Taehyun nods jerkily.

“Not an unpleasant one, I hope. Soobin is fond of you. That is why…” in his afflicted mind, Taehyun seems to have trouble finding his next words. “Why I believe he reacted so strongly to your…” He frowns again. “Reaction.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together, both at Taehyun’s lack of composure, and his words. “Perhaps so. I believe we have come closer to an understanding, if not an understanding altogether.”

“Good,” Taehyun says vehemently, and Yeonjun sees him make an aborted motion to refill his cup. “I like seeing you two happy.”

He feels tears coming on again, so instead of letting emotion overtake him, he comes closer to Taehyun at his writing desk, picking up the flask to refill his cup. Taehyun stares at him with big, cloudy eyes as he does it. With a small sigh, Yeonjun raises the cup to his own mouth and drinks it himself, then pours another, takes a sip and extends the rest of it towards his husband.

With his eyes never leaving Yeonjun’s face, Taehyun wraps his fingers around Yeonjun’s hand and brings it to himself, to tilt the cup to his own lips while it still rests in Yeonjun’s grasp. Yeonjun feels warm with it, skin alight where it meets Taehyun’s, but his husband is the one to dispel the moment, letting him go and looking away, eyes narrowing as he rubs at his temple as if to chase away a headache.

The moment broken, Yeonjun puts the cup down again, the only remainder of it the warmth of the wine in his stomach. It is stronger than the wine he would usually enjoy, than the kind they would serve for dinner. Taehyun truly meant to numb himself by drinking it.

“You said you had something for us to discuss.”

He swallows, and nods. “Indeed.” A thought crosses his mind, and he amends with, “Perhaps two things.”

“I am listening.”

Perhaps it is better, even, to speak of this when Taehyun is slightly indisposed. “I never got to respond to you today at breakfast.” Yeonjun clenches his hand into a fist, hoping for it to get lost in the fabric of his sleeve. “You asked if I would bear children for you until I gave you an alpha.”

Taehyun sighs heavily. “I did not mean to—”

“The answer is yes.” Yeonjun’s pride. Yeonjun’s ambition. His determination. Taehyun’s father’s lack of legitimate offspring. Yeonjun’s childhood in a household full of children. His belief, his staunch conviction, to show affection to all the young in his care. It all means yes. He will give Taehyun one child, or a dozen. He can. He wants to. “I have dreamed of being the mother of your heir – and I have waited for that honor long enough as it is. If it takes a dozen sweet omega children for me to do so, then at least there will be someone to rock your heir for me when the time comes.”

His husband’s chest rises and falls quicker than before – his scent strengthens, but there is scarcely any pepper or bitterness to it. Only warm, heady spice. “There might not be time for a dozen.”

He does not regard Yeonjun with disgust, with contempt, or even with pity. His eyes are wide and his breathing betrays some sort of arousal of mind, but he does not seem to be thinking less of Yeonjun – nor does he look reluctant to grant him his wish. There is an intensity to his presence. A starkness.

“Then as many as we can conceive. As many as we choose to.”

Taehyun’s eyes lower on his body – whether they go to his abdomen, that would hold his child for him in due time, or if they aim even lower, Yeonjun does not know, but the air sharpens with the first sting of pepper. “I…” he pauses, perhaps for entirely too long, then closes his eyes and lifts them to Yeonjun’s again. “If you wish it to be so, I will take measures to make it happen.”

Take measures. Take Yeonjun’s heat – or give him his rut, for the first time since they were married. Yeonjun knows he is capable of imagining what it would be like – he has, so many times, while in the throes of it – but it seems so strangely abstract now with the promise of it becoming reality. Yeonjun’s alpha, his husband, of warm flesh and blood, of pepper and other spices, taking Yeonjun’s over-warmed body. Giving in to his want. Sating it. Soothing it.

He has to take a long, deep breath, and in the meantime, Taehyun pours himself another cup of wine and drinks it with his eyes fixed on Yeonjun’s face. Pepper permeates through the room, and fruit ripens to answer it. The prince pours another, and extends the cup to Yeonjun. Yeonjun offers him his wrist instead.

Taehyun’s face moves towards it, as if by instinct, then he pulls his head back and looks at Yeonjun questioningly, his face crumpling with another frown.

“I denied you my scent this morning. I should not have.”

His husband takes in a breath that looks like it pains him. “It is your right to deny me your scent if you wish to.”

Yeonjun can see his own hand shaking where he keeps it extended. His right. His scent, his body, his future, his service. They are meant to belong to his husband. He swore himself to Taehyun, body and soul. What right should be afforded to him to pick and choose whenever Taehyun gets to have him?

Perhaps what the prince means to say every right. He should have every right – to be petty with his husband, to guard carefully his access to his own body, to choose when he gives it up and when he would prefer it to be sacred to his alpha’s touch. He is not sure how that makes him feel. Perhaps there should be power in that, the same power he feels when he chooses to use his body as a weapon, against his husband or any other, but there is such a strange weightlessness to that sort of freedom. Without the heavy burden of duty upon every action of his, what is left there for him to hold onto? Why would he ever do anything?

“Well, I wish you to have it now,” he says, meaning to sound determined, but his voice comes out trembling.

“Why?” The prince’s voice sounds much more composed – a drunk man with more conviction than Yeonjun can find within himself.

“Because, my prince…” With a sigh, Yeonjun withdraws his hand, the gesture so painfully exposed. “The second thing I wished to make clear to you, was that I am…” Somehow, it is as difficult to say as it was to admit he wanted to bear Taehyun’s heir. “On your side. This… game of court you are playing. I understand how imperative it may be to our future. And I wish to stand at your side throughout it. I wish to be a playing piece bearing your colors. Whether we win or lose, I…”

“No.” Taehyun shakes his head vehemently, and leans away from him. “I took you out of this court for a reason, I—”

“You did?”

The admission hangs between them, Yeonjun feeling as if he was struck, in the face or perhaps in his chest. Perhaps this should have been clear to him from the start.

“Like I said, my goal is always to keep the consequences of Imperial Court politics from reaching you.” Taehyun’s fingers sink into his own hair in an unusually ill-composed way, and Yeonjun sees his fingers clench as he grabs fistfuls of it. “But lately, this has been… since Omega Beomgyu’s arrival, my attention has been… I should have refused my father’s offer more vehemently.”

Yeonjun’s blood runs cold with it – with the thought that he could have; that Yeonjun would be here, without the promise of seeing a pair of sweet chocolate eyes once more before he goes to sleep, without knowledge of brown silk hair and an insolent tongue. Without ever getting to hear of a sweet servant to the lordship of the Golden City by the name of Kai. Beomgyu could have been forgotten, pushed aside – delegated to some communal concubine’s quarters, to be used at some alpha’s convenience, where nobody would ever listen to his story, to his advice, to his sharp opinions of their great Empire. They would have never met; hardly heard of each other. Yeonjun would have never betrayed his husband. He would weep in his bed, quietly, chastely, and composed himself every day to bear his burden with dignity.

“You refused it?”

“For all the good it did me – Father was not listening to me at all, and I deemed it a lost cause. I thought perhaps with all my years of experience keeping a wife, I could care for a concubine just as well.” His jaw sets so tightly it must be painful, and he lets go of his own hair to grip the table instead. “But all I have been doing is falling ever further from my intention. And in your own words, I have hardly cared for you at all. What have I been doing all this time, then? Is this where my conviction leads? To me shouting my beliefs at rooms full of deaf ears? Is the world so resistant to changing? Can we never do any better? Would I have done better to just listen to Father like he wants me to?”

The prince addresses his sharp words to the top of his writing desk and yet, faced with his anger, with the potency of his scent, Yeonjun feels weak in the knees regardless. Part of him wants to run, and part of him wants to wrap himself around his husband to soothe him. This is real anger, it is the break in composure Yeonjun wanted to see one day, something bare and honest, but now that he sees it, it frightens him. Taehyun’s eyes shine with unshed tears and he knows he had never seen the prince cry before. He was not sure he was capable of it. Of overwhelming emotion. Of showing weakness this way.

Taehyun’s breath quivers when he breathes out, and he drinks down the cup of wine Yeonjun refused before, and pours himself another he immediately drains as well. Yeonjun is frozen where he stands.

Once he is done drinking, Taehyun massages his temples again, shutting his eyes tightly – Yeonjun believes he sees a tear slipping through, sliding down the side of the prince’s sharp nose. “Have you ever been to concubines’ quarters, wife? To proper ones, not like the ones in our home.”

“No,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

“I have. My father took me to his, as part of my prince’s education,” he says the words disdainfully, and Yeonjun’s hands clench. “Do you know what he calls his omegas?”

Yeonjun shakes his head, but since he knows the prince is not looking at him, he adds a verbal, “No.”

“He has these little pet names for them, you see? He has Bae who is as sweet and ripe as a pear. Dal who is as pale as the moon. His little sparrow, his pearl, his rose. They used to have names, but they lost them, when they were given to him – that is why he finds me letting Omega Beomgyu have his so preposterous. What does it matter who they were, if all they need to be now is ours? Nobles or commoners, widows or maidens, regents or musicians – it should not matter. There is life in those quarters, of course there is. There are children playing, there is art, there is music, there surely must be lively discussion. Omegas do not just become mindless when we stop looking at them – but they are to drop all of it, in favor of their alpha, as soon as the alpha arrives. As soon as the concubines get their summons. Their one master, the god of the little world they are contained to – the one entitled to their bodies, however the alpha deems fit to use them. For pleasure, or pain, or their own amusement. They are to suffer their master’s touch, whether they want to or not – and perhaps some do. Perhaps some find as much pride in their service as a wife would, but does that change a single thing? If Omega Beomgyu would have me because he has deemed it a duty he is not above bearing, even if he would enjoy having me, would that make my taking of his body any less monstrous? You are my wife. In one way or another I owe you pleasure, if you should want it from me. And I take pride in providing it whenever you ask me to, but ours is a mutual exchange. Is there any kind of generosity I could show him that would make up for the unequal standing this whole… institution of concubinage puts us in? Could I ever truly trust him to accept my body of his own volition, and not because he was forced to by his circumstance? I did not want this – not for me, and not for him.” He looks up to Yeonjun again, and he looks a little desperate, for what, Yeonjun does not know. “But perhaps it is better that I took him under my protection? Rather than an alpha who holds none of my scruples? Or have I convicted him to a life of suffering, like I have done to you? Am I really just a fool for making this effort? Does it make me a weak man? A bad alpha?”

Does it? Does Yeonjun truly believe that? From the bottom of his heart – when he looks into his husband’s eyes; does he see weakness? Does he despise him for his choices? Does he begrudge him his reluctance, does he fault him for being so careful with Yeonjun’s body, so mindful of it that he ended up hurting him, over and over again, without asking if he wanted it that way at all? Would Yeonjun have been honest with him if he had? At all of nineteen years old, believing down to the marrow of his bones that to be possessed by his husband would have been the greatest honor of all? The most pure of pleasures? Would he have come to love his husband and his body, or would he have despised it, if having it against his own was as much of a routine as taking walks through his garden every morning? Would he grow to see his husband’s touch as precious the way he does now?

When Beomgyu doubted himself before him, Yeonjun believed he deserved nothing but his love. When Taehyun does, Yeonjun hesitates. And it hurts him. He wishes he felt for Taehyun the same easy, uncomplicated affection he has come to feel for Beomgyu. He wishes that the only words on his mind were everyone deserves to be loved.

But Taehyun failed him, time and again. He hurt him and deprived him and did so with righteousness in his heart, thinking his pain was for the best. Always leaving him to pick up the pieces of himself alone after he was done with him. Cruel and thoughtless and cold and with lie after lie on his lips.

Yeonjun wishes Beomgyu was here, to speak for him, to push at Taehyun’s chest and dress him down, to ignore the pain in the alpha’s eyes and the desperation in his voice and tell him the words he should hear. Teach him the lesson he should learn. Maybe Beomgyu would slap some sense into him, even – he seems brazen enough to do so. But Yeonjun is not, is he? Yeonjun is too dignified for that. Too well-composed. He does not get angry, he does not cry. He is never desperate, or upset, and he keeps his thoughts to himself. He stands behind his husband, no matter what, and he does so to the best of his ability. The prince’s wife that always stands tall, no matter what.

He should be grateful to Taehyun for taking Beomgyu on. He should be grateful.

“Your Highness.” The formal address seems to startle Taehyun – it is not for Yeonjun to call him that. He does not call him that. Yeonjun reaches out, and picks up the cup and the wine. “It is not proper of an imperial prince to drink this much.”

“You would shun me for this, then.”

That shakes Yeonjun in return. He did not expect Taehyun to acknowledge his rejection. For more tears to gather in his husband’s eyes. Since when do alphas cry? Since when do nobles? Royals?

“As I said, Your Highness. I will always take your side. I take my oaths to you seriously.” Does he? He kissed Beomgyu. Again and again. Took him into his bed. Spent his heat with him, as chaste as it was.

“My success is in your best interest.”

That. Yeonjun needs him. To be strong and wealthy and successful. So he has money to buy Beomgyu pins to wear in his hair and candied fruit for him to enjoy. A big house for their children. So his name would one day be in some great tome attesting to the lineage of House Kang.

“It is in the best interest of all of us,” he says as coldly as he can, ignoring the tremble in his own voice. “So if you want to make everything you have done worth our while, then I suggest you find a way to win. You have my hand at your disposal – whether you deem it worthy of assisting you or not. I will not betray you, and in turn I ask of you not to disappoint me.”

To Taehyun’s credit, he does not make a sound when the tears brim over. Weak of mind, of heart, but of strict education.

After a long, silent moment, the prince clears his throat and lifts his chin. “Is that all you have to say to me, wife?”

He mirrors the gesture, resolute. Taehyun may find out what it feels like, to be left like this. To his own devices, to put all the scrambled, scattered parts of himself into some sort of order. Alone, with no help. Without mercy. “Yes.”

“Then go.”

Yeonjun bows politely, and backs out of the room, Taehyun’s wine and cup still in hand. He feels cold all over, and once he is out of the room, he can feel his own hands shaking. Something tumbles to the floor on the other side of the door.

When he steps away from the door enough to see the tea table, he finds Beomgyu there, with his hair down, in the same robe he wore that morning. His back is to Yeonjun, and he seems to be going through a pile of books; Kyunsang must have brought it in on Taehyun’s orders while they were all busy elsewhere.

Craving the comfort of his touch, Yeonjun goes straight to him, setting the flask and cup down on the table and sinking to the bare floor next to Beomgyu just to run his fingers through his hair.

Beomgyu smiles at the pages of the book without looking over at him at first. “How daring of you, Yeonjun,” he whispers, warm and amused. “Out here in the open? They could walk in at any moment.”

Then he looks over at Yeonjun, and his smile fades. He reaches up, runs a thumb over the inside of Yeonjun’s wrist, and the touch brings a horrible weight to Yeonjun’s limbs that has him dropping his hand back in his own lap, still in Beomgyu’s light grip.

“You said the conversation would be a friendly one.”

He nods, and drops his eyes to his lap as well. “Should have been.”

“Did he say something?”

Yeonjun lifts his hand to put it on top of Beomgyu’s. “He asked something of me I could not give.”

Beomgyu’s face pinches. “You could not be more vague, Yeonjun.”

Perhaps he is vague on purpose – perhaps he worries what Beomgyu would think of him, were he to admit what he just did to Taehyun. Because he felt good, but he did not feel righteous. “I refused to coddle him.”

And maybe Beomgyu understands that he is not being extraordinarily honest, because his derisive scoff is softer than it usually would be. “He does not deserve your coddling.”

“I know.”

Silence embraces them, and Yeonjun does not feel as at peace as he was hoping to feel in Beomgyu’s presence. With his free hand, Beomgyu picks up a book off of the tea table, and opens it between them.

“He got me the books you asked him for.”

Taking it as the distraction it must be meant as, Yeonjun lets go of Beomgyu’s hand and picks the book up himself. It takes him a long moment, and quite a bit of confused blinking, to realize his eyes do not deceive him, and he actually cannot read what the pages say.

“It is written in the language of the Free Cities. A retelling of the story  of the founding of your country.”

Yeonjun looks up from it to Beomgyu, who picks up another book, and then another. “A collection of our poetry, a book on the geography of the world.” He arranges the books in two piles, as he takes the books out of the stack. “Imperial poetry, a gentleman’s guide to composition in the imperial language. A book of myths in the language of the south. A truly dreadful looking imperial book about heraldry. A southern book about birds, of all things. And this, and that, and this, and that.”

He arranges them according to language, then picks up the book Yeonjun is holding and adds it to the pile of southern books. They are almost equal in size, although the books in imperial language have a slight advantage. There are perhaps almost too many books, but Taehyun may have wanted Beomgyu to have the freedom of choice in what he reads. The luxury of variety.

“I did not know the Imperial Court’s library housed so many southern books,” Beomgyu says light-heartedly.

Yeonjun licks his lips; his mouth feels dry. “Neither did I.”

“It is… thoughtful. Of your prince.” He reaches out to take the book on top of that pile off again, opening it on a random page. “It will be nice to read something in it for a change. If there is anything…” He presses his lips together briefly, thinking better of his words before he continues. “I miss speaking it.”

He adds something after that, something Yeonjun cannot understand, as Beomgyu smoothly slips into that strange southern way of speaking. Maybe Yeonjun should strive to learn it – to understand Beomgyu better. To be able to read his poetry one day. Sing his songs.

They hear a door opening, and before either of them moves, the prince comes into view. His step is a bit unsteady from the wine, but his face is grimly composed, and his eyes are dry again, barely holding a trace of his previous emotion.

“Your Highness.”

Beomgyu is quicker to acknowledge him with a small bow. Yeonjun just inclines his head.

Taehyun stands in the middle of the front room, hesitant, then pulls something out from under his arm Yeonjun did not notice before. A thin book, that he steps up to Beomgyu to offer him. “This is for you, Omega Beomgyu. My wife thinks you might not appreciate it, but please be assured that I mean no disrespect by offering it. It is my favorite book I own.”

Beomgyu’s eyelashes flutter in obvious surprise as he takes it with both hands, bowing his head respectfully as he does so. He brings it to his breast instead of opening it, seemingly too taken aback to focus properly on what he is holding. “That… thank you, Your Highness.”

Yeonjun expects Taehyun to bow deeply, to be as overly polite as he often is with Yeonjun, but he just inclines his head in princely acknowledgment.

“I hope it makes for an engaging read,” he says, in a perfectly measured voice, and leaves for the dressing room without as much of a nod of acknowledgment to Yeonjun.

Beomgyu looks at Yeonjun, obviously asking for an explanation, but he only shrugs. “I believe it is the book of strategy he mentioned earlier.”

Finally removing it from where he rested it on his chest, Beomgyu opens it, his eyebrows hiking up his face. “Indeed it is. I feel enabled.”

Despite the ice cold grip on his chest, Yeonjun’s huff almost sounds like a laugh to himself. “It is hardly a vice, Beomgyu. You do not use your skill to gamble.”

Beomgyu pinches his lips together, leafing through the book. “Perhaps I should make a wager with your good captain – to keep his wits sharp.”

Yeonjun shakes his head. “I may have just regained his friendship, Beomgyu, do not go and make him into an enemy of ours.”

Beomgyu laughs, unrestrained and perhaps too loud. “I see you do not trust him to win this wager.”

“Say, if he did, who would pay your debt for you?”

He watches as Beomgyu’s breath quickens; his grip on the book tightens. “You would? In your kindness and generosity?”

“With whose money?”

“Ah, I understand, you do not need to rub it in, Yeonjun.” Beomgyu looks over his shoulder at the dressing room door. “I stay well-aware of my status of a pet. Perhaps I should make him an offer of jewelry, then – he would look dashing with a pair of earrings, would he not?”

Yeonjun cannot help but laugh at the absurdity of it. Their Soobin, his large alpha body and a kind soft face, adorned with pretty earrings. “Perhaps he would.”

“I will give him jewelry, so he may indulge in an omega’s boon of beauty, and he will give me money, so I may indulge in an alpha’s boon of making a living.” Beomgyu snorts to himself, snapping the thin book shut and bringing it to his chest again. “Seems an equal enough wager.”

With a sigh, Yeonjun reaches over to the table, to pour a cup of wine for himself to drink. “I can hardly keep up with you sometimes.”

 

.

 

The next morning, it feels like nothing has changed. Yeonjun dresses in his bed room and comes to a tea room already occupied by Taehyun, who has a teacup in one hand and a letter in the other, who wishes him good morning briefly before focusing on his reading again. Yeonjun wishes him good morning back and sits at the table without offering his scent. He pours himself tea, and Taehyun informs him in brief, perfunctory words that he will be spending the day away from his quarters, and wishes Yeonjun a successful day.

“Is there something you need me to do today, Your Highness?” He asks mildly, sweetly, and watches Taehyun’s expression cloud over.

“No.”

Beomgyu comes in before Yeonjun can pour himself a second cup of tea, with the same careful politeness as the day before, but he does not stare Taehyun down as he fixes Yeonjun and himself a plate, even though Taehyun is obviously waiting for him to do so, his eyes struggling to stay on the letter as Beomgyu moves with both grace and efficiency.

Only once the two of them begin eating, does Taehyun seem to relax again, and he pours himself more tea and eats a single bite of food.

As he is swapping one letter for another, his eyes stray towards Beomgyu, and he says, “Have you taken a look at the book I gave you, Omega Beomgyu?”

Beomgyu, for once, does not look him straight in the eye, even as he raises his eyes towards him. “Briefly. Not out of a lack of interest – I merely…” His mouth twists as he seems to think twice of his words, a view so rare to see on Beomgyu’s face. “One of the books you had your servant bring here for me is one I recognize from our library in the Golden City.” He frowns to himself, and lowers his eye to his own plate. “I was drawn to… revisiting my favorites.”

The prince hums in response, and unfolds the letter he is holding. “Very well. There is no rush – you may have it for as long as you would like.”

Beomgyu nods, and Taehyun does not acknowledge him further as he immerses himself in his correspondence again.

All of four bites in, he gathers his letters again and bows to them with a wish of a fruitful day before leaving. His plate remains laden with enough food to feed three servants – Yeonjun wonders if Taehyun fixed it for himself in good will, hoping to find his appetite, or if Kyunsang fixed it for him generously, hoping to see the prince eat more.

Whichever it was, it did not work.

 

.

 

“I think I will go down into the city today, to purchase some gifts, and then I will go visit our ladies’ families to give them away,” Yeonjun explains as he paints his face, and Beomgyu hums in acknowledgment where he is putting golden earrings on Yeonjun’s ears, kneeling at his side. “Unfortunately, I will have to take Kyunsang with me, so you will have to stay here alone, but the guard at the door should turn away any visitors, so nobody should bother you. I will dismiss him once we get back, I can get someone else to carry my things for me while I make my rounds. And someone will probably have me for lunch,” he pauses as Beomgyu shifts to his other side, to put the other earring on the other side. “So you will have to eat without me. But I should be back by dinner time. I will do my best to make it so, anyway. These social calls are not terribly important, and I do not have need to linger too long.”

“I will do my best not to wither in your absence,” Beomgyu says good-naturedly, smiling at him through the mirror, and Yeonjun sighs.

“I believe you may not, but I would prefer for us to have dinner together.”

His smile widening, Beomgyu lifts the dangling part of his earring with a finger, leaning closer to his face. “What an honor, Your Grace.”

With a sound of a door opening, they practically jolt apart, Yeonjun’s heart seizing in panic. Through the mirror, he sees his husband before he turns around to face him, falling into an overly polite bow, face parallel with the floor more in surprise than out of any sort of politeness.

There is a moment of silence, then a deep breath that is too loud in the quiet of the room. “No need to startle so much on my behalf. I forgot my coat.”

Oh. Yeonjun assumed Taehyun had already left, but he must have been in his bed room or in the study. A failure on his part.

Next to him, Beomgyu springs to his feet while Yeonjun lifts himself back up into a proper seated position.

“I will get it for you.”

Taehyun narrows his eyes at him. “Why? Sit.”

Instead of obeying, Beomgyu takes a step towards him. “I thought you only ordered me around like a dog on your father’s behalf.”

His words are surprisingly lighthearted, more along the lines of the jabs he exchanged with Soobin, but Taehyun does not seem to take to them too kindly, his jaw tightening in response.

“If I was interested in treating you like a pet, Omega Beomgyu, would I not have asked you to fetch for me?”

Beomgyu seems to take it in stride, reacting as if Taehyun spoke as jovially as himself. “The most loyal of dogs fetch without needing to be prompted, Your Highness.”

“Is that what you meant it to be, Omega Beomgyu? A show of your loyalty?”

“It soothes an alpha’s ego, does it not? You seem to be in need of soothing, little prince.”

Instead of responding, Taehyun sends a hurt look in Yeonjun’s direction, then strides over to the chest of drawers where he seems to know his coat is kept, because he wastes no time taking it out, closing the drawer again with perhaps too much force. Beomgyu takes another step towards him.

“Do you—”

“Not a word more out of you.” Taehyun’s words manage to be sharp without him raising his voice. Beomgyu looks surprisingly stricken – perhaps the situation brings back too many memories. “I have patience, Omega Beomgyu, even for your kind, but it has limits.”

“My kind?” Now Beomgyu sounds cold as well.

“Those who have never learned the value of silence,” Taehyun retorts. “Now will you. Be silent.”

Beomgyu is paler than he was before. He raises a sleeve to his mouth and covers it, pointedly, tilting his head at the prince and widening his eyes.

“Thank you, Omega Beomgyu.” Taehyun bows to him exaggeratedly. “For doing me this great kindness.”

He turns around and leaves, once again without acknowledging Yeonjun, and Beomgyu drops his sleeve to reveal a confounded expression on his face.

“What’s gotten into him?”

Yeonjun’s petty rejection; his performance of cruelty, most likely. His cup of patience with his omegas’ disobedience may have run over, and it is only his own fault.

“He… must be… quite upset about the situation at court. I suppose… his mind is full of other concerns today.”

“I suppose I have misjudged his meekness.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together tightly. What if he broke something? What if Taehyun took Yeonjun’s reaction to mean something it did not? Not revenge, but an invitation to treat the two of them… as cruelly as… they treated him. Were they cruel to him? Yeonjun was, but did Beomgyu rise to that level as well? Perhaps Taehyun viewed it so in his… upset state.

His husband. Upset. He has to fight not to dismiss the thought altogether.

“Perhaps we both have. Beomgyu… please… be careful around him.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Yeonjun looks up at him, serious and imploring. “Please watch yourself. Do not push him too much.”

“For his benefit, or mine?”

“Yours. Above all.” He shakes his head. “I do not know him to be this way. I do not think we should find out what this mood of his entails, should we not be cautious of it.”

Beomgyu seems to genuinely weigh those words, then his shoulders twitch with an emotion Yeonjun cannot quite pinpoint, and he comes to sit next to Yeonjun again. “To his credit, he did not seem particularly inclined to strike me.”

Yeonjun’s chest will never stop seizing with how easily Beomgyu seems to bring the topic up. He opens his mouth to say he would not do so, but the words refuse to come out.

As if noticing Yeonjun’s turmoil, Beomgyu gently nudges Yeonjun’s face towards himself, careful not to smudge his paint. “You are right – he seemed agreeable enough before I provoked him to anger. I will not do it again. Not while he remains in this… mood of his.”

He smiles at Yeonjun, obviously meaning to calm him, but Yeonjun only feels guilt curling up in his chest. He did this to Beomgyu. Took away the safety he had, in being able to be himself around Taehyun without much reproach. Now he has to limit himself because of Yeonjun’s own indiscretion. And Yeonjun cannot bring himself to admit it to him.

“Please,” is the only thing he says.

Beomgyu nods vehemently, closing his eyes as his head bows to make himself look that extra bit sincere. “I promise.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun’s errands are as uneventful as he expects them to be. He is brought from the palace down to the city market in a palanquin, and Kyunsang stays faithfully at his side as Yeonjun makes his rounds around the stalls and visits shops to find suitable gifts for the people who are to be shown favor. Here in the Imperial City, the royals are less of a shock to see, the sight of them decidedly more common, but the market still seems to grow quieter wherever he goes, and people offer bows and blessings at the sight of his purple overcoat. Now that he knows that he might soon be a much less prominent royal than he is now, it feels a bit ostentatious to wear it, but it is yet suitable for him to wear for excursions among the common folk like this. Perhaps he now understands Taehyun’s reluctance to show off his imperial status. It feels so precarious now – knowing what is inevitable to come. It hangs over them, like a storm cloud promising rain any moment now.

Once he makes his purchases, they return to the palace, and Yeonjun pays two servants to follow him around with arms full of only the finest of goods as he makes his way throughout the pathways of it, drawing attention as he goes that he welcomes with his head held high. Prince Taehyun pays his dues. Their family is a generous one, a discerning one, and it pays to be in their favor.

He visits Eunbi’s father, Soojin’s parents, Dasom’s aunt and brother and Chaeyoung’s cousin. Dasom’s brother and his wife host him for lunch, and he gives a toy to each of their four children. He entertains the two youngest omegas with exaggerated descriptions of their aunt’s beauty and ladylike virtue, then taps them on their small button noses, and tells them to behave themselves well, so that their splendid aunt will be proud of them when she comes to visit.

As he is leaving, he reminds himself he has to be the one to make that possible – only because he is, by the virtue of his husband’s wish, confined to his provincial home, does not mean the ladies should not get the chance to visit the court and see their families.

By the time he dismisses the servants assisting him and starts making his way back to Taehyun’s rooms, darkness has already set upon the palace, but the paths and courtyards are as lively as ever, with servants putting up decorations for tomorrow’s celebrations, running to and fro with arms full of food and materials, setting up fire pits in the middle of courtyards for them to set alight once twilight comes upon them again tomorrow.

It fills Yeonjun’s chest with something shivering and girlish. Creatures like him, who thrive when surrounded by beauty and tradition, cannot help but be seduced by this air of festivity. A celebration is upon them – with all his worries, he nearly forgot about the New Year altogether.

He returns to Taehyun’s rooms in good spirits, and smiles when he sees Beomgyu reading with the same focus he has seen him display when embroiled in a game. He greets Kyunsang warmly, and hands him his shrug properly folded.

“The palace seems all but ready for the celebration.”

“I have heard that the lord steward and the Empress have worked on it quite tirelessly this year,” Kyunsang concurs with a polite smile.

Maybe Lord Myeongjin contributed as well – Yeonjun cannot help but find the idea of the alpha picking flower arrangements a little amusing. “Then it certainly will be at least as wonderful as last year’s.”

“I have not lived a year at this court when it was not an occasion worth seeing.”

Yeonjun dismisses Kyunsang with another warm smile, and sits opposite Beomgyu at the tea table.

“And what of you? How have you been?”

“Good.” Beomgyu lifts his eyes from the book to look at him. “I have not heard a word of your prince since this morning.”

Yeonjun shrugs. “He told me at breakfast he would be busy. I believe he has much to attend to.”

“To avoid being captured?”

He sighs and waves his sleeve. “Whatever it may be.”

“He did not share his intentions with you?”

“Perhaps he deems it above my station.”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows rise. “You are good enough to bestow favors in his name and entertain his subjects, but not good enough to discuss strategy with?”

Yeonjun purses his lips. “It may be so.”

Beomgyu huffs through his nose, dismissive. “What does he have me studying his little alpha’s handbook for, then? To win over Captain Soobin even more decisively?”

“I do not think he intended you to use that knowledge to his benefit at this court.”

“Ah, what a waste of a keen mind like mine, then,” Beomgyu laments exaggeratedly, until he gets Yeonjun to smile, which makes him smile in return. “Perhaps he is honest enough in his intention – he may just like the book enough to want to share it.”

Reluctantly curious, Yeonjun looks down at Beomgyu’s hands, which hold a familiar thin book. “Is it worth the prince’s endorsement so far?”

Beomgyu looks down at it, dragging a finger down a page. “Well – so far it has spoken a lot of recognizing your assets and extolled the virtue of decisiveness – perhaps the prince believes those are lessons he could stand to learn, rather than the book having much worth of its own.”

Yeonjun hums, resisting the urge to chew at his lip by touching his fingers to it, as if to correct a smudge in his paint. Speaking of which, he should probably refresh it, or take it off before dinner. “He does not know you well enough, if he believes you need a lesson in decisiveness.”

Beomgyu smiles. “Indeed. You would think he might have guessed by my demeanor.”

Yeonjun smiles back distractedly, then stands up with his fingers still at his lips. “I will leave you for a moment. I believe my paint is in need of refreshing.”

With Beomgyu’s nod of acknowledgment, he retreats into the dressing room.

 

.

 

He is nearly done with his lips by the time Kyunsang’s voice comes through the door.

“Your Grace? Madame Choi is here.”

Yeonjun watches his own eyes widen comically in the mirror. His aunt? Now? He has to clear his throat before answering. Did he bring her into the front room? Beomgyu is there, and his aunt will… not take kindly to his presence. At all. What is he supposed to say? Tell her about the dressing-down that they got from Taehyun’s father? Tell her that the prince is too possessive to house his omega with the others, and Yeonjun tolerates the disrespect to him with a smile?

His head spins with it. “Thank you, Kyunsang, I will be there promptly.”

Hurriedly, he finishes touching up his face, and quickly fixes his hair as well before stepping out, dreading the moment he sees the expression on his aunt’s face, much less the expression in Beomgyu’s.

But Beomgyu is not there. Kyunsang is, by the servant’s door, waiting to see if he is to be dismissed or linger, and Choi Misoon is there, dropping into a formal bow as soon as she sees him. She is carrying a small basket of fruit and rice cakes. As formal as she can be, as always. To Yeonjun’s nose, citrus still lingers in the air at the edge of sweet chamomile, but perhaps to his aunt’s older woman’s nose it is hardly able to be discerned from the smells of tea and the favors she is carrying.

“Auntie Misoon. Welcome.”

“Your Grace.” He purses his mouth awkwardly as his aunt rises from her bow and extends the basket with both hands. “I have come to pay my honors to your family.”

Yeonjun tries not to sigh, so he smiles instead and gestures for Kyunsang to take the basket from her. “It is most kind of you, auntie. You did not have to.”

Quite literally, since Yeonjun paid her a visit the day before, there was no need for her to do this. And yet she did.

“I have also come to speak with you, preferably alone? It concerns a… matter of family.”

Yeonjun’s heart jumps into his throat – his mind immediately goes to the darkest of places. A death in the family. Tragedy. But his aunt is too composed for such a matter, is she not? She is always composed, no matter what, but even a woman like her would surely waver at the news of a loss?

He swallows heavily, and gestures at Kyunsang, who is still hovering by the door. “Kyunsang, please leave us.”

The servant bows and disappears through the door. Yeonjun’s aunt purses her lips tightly and her hands clench almost imperceptibly, but Yeonjun is skilled in reading her after all these years. She is nervous, whatever she is here to say.

“Auntie, what—”

She brings a finger to her lips. Yeonjun’s heart freezes in his chest. She wants him to wait for Kyunsang to make his way further away from the room. To be out of earshot. She wants them to be alone.

Instead of him approaching her, she comes closer to him, away from the door.

“There is something we need to talk about,” she says primly, and Yeonjun nods dumbly. He feels like a boy again, when she regards him with eyes like this. Calculating, severe, strict eyes.

There is almost too much of a delay before she speaks again, like she is hesitating whether she wants to say it at all. Her eyes study Yeonjun’s face, narrowing the longer she looks at him.

“Is it true that the prince has not been trying for a child with you?”

He feels almost disappointed by the topic. Of course. His Imperial Highness, or perhaps even Iseul, spreading gossip around again, to any ears that would hear it, and his aunt’s would be the most primed for such gossip of them all.

“Auntie—”

“Is it.”

He shakes his head. “I do not see—”

" Yeonjun.”

His skin crawls with the sound of his name. She says it so insistently. So disrespectfully. She speaks to Yeonjun, her nephew, not to princess consort Yeonjun, the wife to her prince. “What? Does it matter? He has agreed to have a child with me.”

“It is grounds for denouncement.”

He shakes his head again, not comprehending her words. “Excuse me?”

“If he has not touched you since you married, you can leave.”

“But he has, auntie, he—”

“Prince Iseul went to your court. He has not been taking your heats.”

“And what concern is that of hers? Of yours?” Yeonjun knows his words are beginning to lack the proper respect, but his aunt’s words scare him. What it sounds like she is getting at…

“She could take care of you.” His aunt reaches out, and takes him by the arms – he cannot recall the last time she has touched him this way. “My boy. Things are… shifting here at the court. We hear all about it. I do, your uncle does, from His Imperial Highness and others. This marriage of yours, it is…” She sighs, and her face tightens briefly with an emotion she is quick to suppress. “The Emperor is on his last legs. With every blessing there is, he will not live to see the next winter. And when he is gone, His Imperial Highness will take the Kang ancestral house, and he will make Prince Iseul the mistress of it. Her wife will be in need of ladies to tend to her. It would be a good place for you to be.”

Exactly what he thinks she is getting at. Iseul did not only come to his home to be the eyes of the Emperor – she came to gather information for her father. Information that could further discredit Taehyun, which could shatter and shake the foundation he has built his influence at the court upon. That he is not trying to conceive. They could call him impotent, cold-blooded. Even if Taehyun had taken him outside of the peaks of their cycles, even if his blood is as hot as it gets, it might not matter. Six years with no child. Yeonjun cannot divorce him, that is not an institution for omegas to take advantage of. He cannot undo their mating. But he could leave. Denounce him publicly. If he had enough support, he would get away with it – he could never remarry, but if he became a lady-in-waiting to another wife in another household, that would not matter. He would be provided for. There would be no greater support he could get in his decision than the future Emperor and his daughter. The Kang family would embrace him with open arms, if he were to do them this small favor. Of embarrassing his husband in front of everybody. Leaving his home. Leaving his marriage. Leaving Beomgyu behind to deal with the aftermath of his decision. Betraying Taehyun.

“Auntie.”

“Think about it. There may be… you may not want to be on his side much longer.”

This time, he cannot stop himself from sighing, but his aunt holds him tighter.

“If he tries something, it will not only have consequences for him, but for you as well. Any children you may have by him. You live in the reminder of the repercussions actions like these may have.”

“My husband is not about to start an uprising, Aunt Misoon,” Yeonjun hisses, and he knows he is disrespectful, but so is she. Taehyun is an idealist, not a fool.

“Would you know if he was? Would the prince have told you? Because that is exactly what His Imperial Highness thinks he means to do. He would not be the first son of an Emperor to try it, and not the first one to fail.” She shakes him slightly by the arms. “The less people listen to him, the better. And if they know how he has been conducting himself with you…”

The shock, outrage and frustration in his chest boil over. “Choi Misoon.”

It shakes his aunt enough for him to be able to free himself from her grip and take a step away from her. By laws of etiquette, he is allowed to call her by name, only so highly, highly discouraged from doing so by his duty to her as her junior. He should be respectful to her, but he will do so when she proves herself worthy of it. This is not worthy of his respect. And it comes from the mouth of his aunt, who he always considered the most respectable of them all.

“Get a hold of yourself. What are you saying? I am married, Aunt Misoon. Childless or not, Prince Taehyun is my husband. And I may not know him well as an alpha, but I know him well as a man and as a prince and I assure you, whatever His Imperial Highness or Her Highness Prince Iseul has told you, the man I know would not make such a careless decision. Not for himself, or me, or anybody. He cares about this state, auntie. He cares about this court. And all His Imperial Highness cares about is ousting him from it. And I will not take part in that. I will not go crying to the Court, begging them to free me from him just so they could tuck me away to their palace and have me disappear into obscurity. I will not betray my husband for a life of cake and pretty clothes. I have enough of those, by my husband’s side, I have more than that, and I will not give it up, because you would not trust him to not drag him with me into whatever ill-fated venture you imagine he is concocting. Do you think that is the man you raised, Aunt Misoon? Someone who would do so? Is that what an honorable omega does? Is that what a proper wife does? Are you listening to yourself, auntie?”

“What if it is true, Yeonjun? What if you do not know the prince as well as you think? Would His Imperial Highness just… make up an uprising for no reason?”

Yeonjun clenches his teeth. “I do not know. It is not for me to know. It is for me to rely upon my husband to guide me. And his guidance does not lead to any attempts at usurping the throne. Believe me, the moment I catch wind of such a thought, I will make sure the prince knows what I think of it.” He lifts his chin. “And then…” His stomach tightens. If. If. This is how he is raised. This is what he knows is right. It is what he told Taehyun, because he meant it. “I will rely on his guidance. And I will stand by his side. And I will…” He swallows. This is what is right. “I will bear the consequences with him, whatever they are. Because that is what a wife does. That is what you taught me a wife’s duty is. Not to question our husbands, not to denounce them to save our own skin – to serve them.”

Misoon takes a breath that seems to strain in her throat. “If he shirks his duty to you—”

“Then that changes nothing. That gives me no right to abandon him. I do not believe that. You do not believe that. Auntie. Aunt Misoon. You were the one to teach me that an omega’s honor is the greatest asset of them all. Beauty fades, riches come and go, titles change, family names rise and fall with the times. So what do we have to cling to? If I give up my honor for my own comfort, what will I have? A lifetime of knowing I betrayed a good man? That I left my husband, my alpha, my mate?” It hurts him to think of Taehyun in his heat now, it hurt him when he still believed somewhere at the back of his mind that Taehyun loved him. If his every heat going forward came with the memory of a man he used to love and respect, who he stepped over only to cling to his comforts? He would not have survived it. He would rip himself to shreds, tortured by that awful note of spice in his heat scent. “I will never. You will not speak of this to me again.”

He breathes hard, and his aunt looks stricken. Yeonjun feels naked, bare, raw, but he feels tall. He feels himself bigger than this. He is not a little boy who would be frightened by this sort of fear-mongering. He is a man. He is a princess consort. He is royal.

“Leave.”

She seems to hesitate. Her hand raises in his direction.

“Leave, now.”

Her expression turns stony. She bows, and seems to hold the position for a moment too long. Giving him the time to reconsider. To hesitate; to waver. But he will not. She taught him too well. She taught him better than that.

He watches her back away from him, and disappear through their front door. For the longest time after she leaves, he stares at the door with his chest heaving, but as soon as he looks away, his eyes catch on the servant’s door.

Beomgyu is there. And he looks at Yeonjun with a look Yeonjun cannot read. He must have heard everything.

 

.

 

“You would go down with him.”

He watches Beomgyu look up at him through the mirror. Beomgyu is behind him, winding his hair into a braid. He already made one on the other side, and fixed it with a piece of ribbon. Yeonjun looks like a child; like a commoner, with his hair fashioned like this. But it is pleasant to feel the gentle tug as Beomgyu braids his hair.

Beomgyu does not say a word, so Yeonjun continues. “If I had agreed – if she was right. They would never let me take you with me.”

But Beomgyu just looks back down at his hair, and reaches for a tie to finish the other braid up. Yeonjun’s face is bare, and he looks so strange to himself without his paint today. Does he still recognize himself? His eyes focus in on all his flaws now – every imperfection he is so intimately acquainted with. His own eyes look so tired to him.

“She was talking nonsense. Everything else aside, taking up arms is not something Taehyun would do. He would rather argue with a room full of alphas who disagree with him than draw a sword against a single one of them.”

Shouting his beliefs at rooms full of deaf ears. That is Taehyun. Screaming himself hoarse.

Beomgyu finishes tying the braid, and tosses it over Yeonjun’s shoulder. Then he crawls until he is at Yeonjun’s side, takes his face in hand, and kisses him, briefly, chastely, but pointedly. His thumb caresses Yeonjun’s cheek.

“You have made your bed,” he says, then, and his voice does not waver. “And mine was made for me. There is nothing else to say.”

Yeonjun nods, and Beomgyu offers him a wan smile. He kisses Yeonjun again, then pulls away.

“Let us hope you are a good judge of character, Your Grace.”

 

.

 

They are still in the front room, putting off sleep, when Kyunsang opens the door to a messenger.

It is a nervous young boy, probably not even of age, and he informs the prince’s servant that the prince has been drinking heavily, and will have to be assisted to get back to his rooms. Kyunsang seems unbothered as he acknowledges the message, and apologizes to them politely for having to leave, which Yeonjun dismisses without thinking.

Then they sit at the tea table, and Yeonjun feels too aware of his own breathing.

“Should we be worried?” Beomgyu asks carefully, probably able to see Yeonjun’s own apprehension.

But he has to shake his head. This is not unusual, of a noble, of a courtier of the Imperial Court. Drinking is how many alphas, many courtiers in general, make merry. Solidify friendships. Celebrate their unity. It is more proper of Taehyun to be drinking this way than to drink alone in his study. And yet, it bothers him. Rubs him the wrong way. He is not eating well, and he has not looked well-rested since his rut. He is sullen, and lashing out. Yeonjun should care. Yeonjun needs him strong, he needs to be able to rely on him and trust him.

“He was probably with the lords councilor, playing statesmen and drinking all evening.”

Beomgyu hums. “Does he do that often?”

Yeonjun shrugs. “I would not know. He has not had to be brought home like this while I was here before.”

Beomgyu hums again, but this time he does not say anything further, only lowers his head to the book he was reading.

They both decide to go to bed before Kyunsang returns, but once he does, there are two sets of doors open into the front room, and neither is the one leading to the prince’s bed room. Beomgyu and Yeonjun stand in their doorways, and watch the old man drag the stumbling prince through the door. Yeonjun was hoping Taehyun would be too far gone to look around himself, but he is not. He laughs too loudly as he spots them. Beomgyu first, then him.

“Ha! We’ve entered the chamber of judgment, my friend. Let us hurry, before it comes down upon us.”

His words are slurred, but clear enough, and Beomgyu seems vaguely amused by them where he stands, watching the prince be taken to his room through narrowed eyes.

Unfortunately, the path to Taehyun’s room takes the two of them past the door of Yeonjun’s room, a bit too close for comfort, and Taehyun’s eyes meet his without fail where he would have preferred to avoid them. Taehyun shushes him clumsily, his hiss coming out along with spit, undignified, as Taehyun waves his hand between them.

“Not a word, my love. Not a word.”

Who? Yeonjun’s eyes narrow just like Beomgyu’s did. Kyunsang takes the prince to his room without saying anything, and closes the door.

“An odd alpha indeed,” Beomgyu says, seemingly to nobody in particular, and shuts the door to the servants’ nook.

Yeonjun stands in the doorway, then closes the door and goes to sit at the foot of his bed.

He spat words at his aunt today – about wifely duty. About service and obedience. About honor.

At the end of the day, is he to sleep alone? On this day, of all days?

They do not share a bed. They are not expected to. Taehyun might prefer to sleep alone, even.

He stands up, and realizes he is so naked. Without a robe, without paint. With his hair still in the braids Beomgyu wove them into. He must look childlike, thin, inelegant. He crosses the room to the door with unsure steps, and when he pushes his door open, it is to Kyunsang about to close the door to the prince’s room – the servant pauses when he sees him, and when Yeonjun steps up to his side, he moves aside to let him pass through before closing the door behind him.

Taehyun lies under his blanket with his eyes closed – if he is awake, then he is probably not aware of Yeonjun in his room. His bed is big enough to hold two comfortably. Yeonjun approaches it with wary steps.

He sits down at the foot of it, and Taehyun’s eyelids flutter. He touches Taehyun’s leg through the blankets, and his eyes open.

“Wife.”

That is it – the correct address. Wife. Taehyun’s wife. He swore himself to him – swore him an oath of loyalty. And Taehyun promised to always think of him. To care for him. Protect him. Provide for him and their children.

“Husband.”

Taehyun seems to pout in response. “Why?”

“I want to sleep here.” His voice comes out so strong and steady he cannot believe it himself.

The prince narrows his tired eyes at him. “Want to?”

“Yes.”

Taehyun closes his eyes and swallows. “I… cannot… I do not know what you mean by this.”

Yeonjun suppresses a scoff. “I want to be at your side tonight.”

His husband opens his eyes again to look at him. “Why?”

He squares his shoulders and sits up taller. “It is my right.”

Mutual ownership. They need one another. Yeonjun cannot live without him, would starve and need without him, and Taehyun is… starving. Needy. Exhausted.

What is a wife? What is their duty? What rights do they have? To their husbands’ bodies? Their beds? Their company?

Taehyun hums. He looks down, at nothing in particular, and then turns around, making even more space next to him. “Whatever you say.”

Yeonjun climbs up the bed, and slips under the blanket. There is enough space for him to share the bed without touching his husband, but that is not what he is there to do, is it? So he shifts, turns onto his side, until he is right against his husband’s back. Too-warm, smelling of alcohol and bitter, stale spice. He pushes his face into the back of Taehyun’s shoulder, just far enough from his scent gland. And unthinkingly, foolishly, intoxicated by warm spice, by that familiar scent, his alpha’s scent, his mate’s scent, the most comforting scent he has ever got to know… he wraps an arm around him, and pulls him close to his body. Holds him.

His prince is rigid in his hold, but Yeonjun is soothed. Yeonjun is where he is supposed to be, doing what he needs to be.

In a half asleep state, when the body in his hold shakes, he coos and shushes. Presses kisses into the shoulder under his lips. And the spice is warm and bitter, as it lulls him to sleep.

 

.

 

He wakes to the sight of his husband’s face, right next to his own on the pillows, and as the haze of sleep slowly dissipates, he decides that his prince is altogether lovely. Although he might be more gaunt than Yeonjun would like to see him be. Even though his eyes are tired, his lips pale, even though he still reeks of last night’s wine. Somewhere between his imperfections, there is a man Yeonjun brought himself as close to loving as he dared to. The same man who was so careful with him during their courtship, never overstepping, never wanting more than would be safe for him to give. The man who looked at him with such… adoration on their wedding day.

Taehyun looks at him now with apprehension; with melancholy.

“Why did you come?”

Yeonjun tries to put into words the things he felt last night; the determination and desperation, the worry that brought him to Taehyun’s side. But, as the words to describe it elude him, he says instead, “My aunt came to see me yesterday.”

His husband’s eyes leave his face, to focus on his throat instead. “Yes?”

“She came to warn me you might be attempting to start an uprising.”

The words make Taehyun look into his eyes again. “Is that so?”

Yeonjun hums an assent, and reaches out, carefully, only reassured once the prince does not avoid his touch long enough that he is free to press his fingertips to his jaw.

Taehyun’s eyes narrow. “And what did you say?”

He puts his palm on the prince’s cheek – it is cold from the chill of the room. “That the Prince Taehyun I know would never do such a thing. And then I told her to leave.”

“Is that all she told you?”

Does Taehyun know? Does he only suspect? Yeonjun most likely does not have to tell him for him to know that his uncle had been spending time with Yeonjun’s. He might have predicted this – that they would try to turn his own wife against him. That they would try and appeal to Yeonjun’s sense of practicality, the same one that had him marrying the prince in the first place.

Yeonjun rubs his thumb across Taehyun’s bottom lip. “Are you going to attempt an uprising?”

“No,” Taehyun answers without hesitation.

He presses the thumb down, all but holding Taehyun by the jaw. “Would you have told me if you were?”

“Would you have told me if there were more to your aunt’s warning?”

He should; it would be the wifely thing to do. If he were to be loyal to Taehyun. Dutiful and obedient. If he truly chose his side, no matter what.

With a sigh, he lets Taehyun go, and rolls over onto his back. “She offered me a way to escape.” When Taehyun does not react, he just elaborates, without needing to be prompted. He stares up at the wooden ceiling. “Your uncle knows we spend the peaks of our cycles separately now. Even if our household attested to us sharing a bed at other times, it would be enough for a claim of impotence.”

“If the next emperor and the Moons stood behind you.”

He nods. Taehyun sighs, and flips onto his back as well. It reminds Yeonjun of lying like this next to Beomgyu in his heat nest, and the parallel aches in his chest.

“Who would take you in? Your aunt?”

Yeonjun turns his head to look at him. “Prince Iseul – she will need ladies-in-waiting for the Kang estate soon.”

The prince huffs, his expression one of disbelief. “How intricate the web they weave around me is.”

He does not ask how Yeonjun feels about the offer. Does he feel he does not have to?

Taehyun turns his head to look at him. “I am not planning an uprising of any sort.”

Yeonjun nods in acknowledgment. His husband looks away from his eyes again.

“I have to applaud their strategy.”

“It is somewhat distasteful,” Yeonjun argues, and a smile plays on Taehyun’s mouth for a brief moment for whatever reason.

“But effective. The annals of history need not question your means, once you have come out victorious.”

He purses his lips. “Perhaps it would not be effective at all – the court might have simply questioned my integrity, rather than yours. Maybe they would have seen it as an injustice committed against you, and would have rallied to your side.”

“Maybe so,” Taehyun concurs quietly, then turns away from Yeonjun to look at the ceiling instead. “But I would have not. I would have seen it for what it would be – a logical enough decision on your part.”

“What difference would that have made?”

The prince lifts a hand to rub at the bottom half of his face, and does not answer him but with a question of his own. “Is that the only reason why you are here then? You could not wait to tell me of your aunt’s visit? To reassure yourself you were right to trust me?”

And Yeonjun finds the words to express himself.

“I wanted to be at my husband’s side – since that is where I chose to be.”

Taehyun’s face turns towards him again and his eyes seem to search Yeonjun’s for something terribly important that he does not know if he possesses. Doubt, or love, or devotion – the trappings of a good wife. Of a calculated, heartless omega. Of someone desperate for their own survival.

“You are welcome here whenever you wish to be,” he says eventually, quietly, his voice deep with its morning roughness, resonating in Yeonjun’s chest. The scent in the air is warm and bitter. A dish of fruit and spices.

“In this bed? At your side in general?”

Taehyun looks away from him again, but Yeonjun wants to be looked at. To be seen. “Wherever you wish to be.”

He takes it as a challenge it was almost certainly not meant to be, and he pushes the blanket they are under down, exposing both of them to the cold air, goosebumps breaking out everywhere on his skin as he climbs over his husband and settles himself down in his lap, pulling his underclothes up enough to be able to fully straddle him, exposing himself all the way to his thigh. It is strange for him, to be on top of his husband like this, without being able to feel his arousal under him, without smelling pepper in the air. With no intoxicating scent clouding his mind, unmoved by the stirring of desire, it is just Yeonjun, nearly naked and exposed, on top of his warm, sluggish, bitter-smelling alpha, and the gentle pressure of the bulge settled between his legs as he shifts his hips.

Yeonjun watches Taehyun’s Adam’s apple jump, but he does not move to hold him, to move against him, to press into him.

“Wherever,” he says, asks, and Taehyun nods.

His fingers find the hem of the thin plain undershirt hiding the prince’s torso from view, and he pulls it up just enough to lay his hands on the abdomen underneath it – the prince lets out a choked gasp, one he obviously meant to suppress, as skin meets skin. He is sleep-warm and solid under Yeonjun’s touch – his skin is not as soft as Beomgyu’s; hair tickles at Yeonjun’s palm. This is his husband, his prince. An alpha, under his touch, between his legs. Looking up at him with big, dark eyes.

“You will care for me,” he says quietly, under his breath, in the tone of a lover. Taehyun nods.

“You will ensure my safety.” Taehyun nods again.

He draws his nails down Taehyun’s skin, not pressing in hard enough to hurt him, just enough to make him shudder. “You will give me a child in spring.”

What he expects is a rush of pepper, a stirring against him where he still sits so firmly astride his husband’s lap, but instead what he gets is a rush of bitterness, as if whatever spice had been bittering the air was suddenly crushed open to sting his nose even more strongly. He gets his husband’s face tightening in what looks like pain as he nods his assent again.

Not desire; fear. Anxiety.

“Are you afraid of me?”

But the prince shakes his head. He lifts his hands, and settles them on Yeonjun’s sides, presses his palms in tightly enough that he has to fight against the urge to squirm in his hold. “This is not your fault.”

Yeonjun clenches his hands into fists against the waistband of Taehyun’s pants. “Whose is it, then?”

“Mine,” Taehyun says easily, promptly, without hesitation, and sits up to wrap his arms around Yeonjun’s waist instead. Like this, they are nearly face to face – nearly equal. “This is my failure, not yours.”

“That the thought of giving me a child does stir you at all?” He sounds a little hysterical to his own ears – overwrought. Dramatic, and weak. Feeble of heart. Again. He thought he was better than this. But it is right there – pressed against him. The limp testament to the hopelessness of his situation.

His husband’s arms loosen around him instead of tightening. Instead of Taehyun’s eyes blazing in denial. “That I am not as strong as the alpha you would deserve to have. I understand that now – that I had no right to have you bear the consequences of my own weakness. That it was a weakness that had me push you away when I was to hold you the tightest. Whatever I called it, whatever justification I made up for it in my mind – I was weak, and I have put both of us in this situation, but I will take responsibility. I will hold you, like you deserve. I will sire an heir, I will… tear this court down, if that is what I have to do to cling to my place here. If that is what you wish for me to do. I will leave the Court, if you would prefer me at home, I will build you a palace here if you never want to leave, I will—”

He cuts off as Yeonjun grabs at his head, pressing his palms into his temples tightly. “No more empty promises. We cannot build a legacy on empty words.”

“You owe me no faith or forgiveness,” Taehyun says dismissively, narrowing his eyes. “You may choose to believe what you want.”

“And if I do not believe a word you say?”

The prince lifts his chin. “Then take Prince Iseul’s offer. You know well the duties of a lady-in-waiting. You would fit in splendidly with the ladies of the Kang estate.”

Yeonjun’s heart quickens in his chest. Freedom. The freedom to choose. There should be power in it, and yet…

He lifts a hand to the prince’s chin – pushes it further up with his knuckles, and Taehyun gives. He lets him. “What then? You take another wife? Finally take advantage of Omega Beomgyu?”

It has to be uncomfortable; humiliating, but Taehyun does not move as he replies. “Without you, there will be no more reason to battle my own failings. My line may die with me, and Omega Beomgyu may keep his virtue of a wife unsullied by another.”

Yeonjun almost laughs. Beomgyu has no such virtue. And he gave it up happily.

Then he feels it. Smells it. His nose wrinkles. He digs his knuckle into the bone of Taehyun’s jaw.

“I would not keep mine.”

Taehyun makes a questioning sound, and it is a little choked off. Yeonjun breathes faster.

“I would not keep my virtue. Not for a husband who would not deserve it.”

The prince’s swallow is so prominent, with his head tilted back. Yeonjun wants to press his lips to his throat, and feel him swallow against them.

“I would take another – I am beautiful enough to find one.”

He has – in all but letting Beomgyu have his way with his body. Beomgyu has had the lips Yeonjun is biting right now; the hands that treat his husband so disrespectfully; he has had the scent of Yeonjun’s arousal, the one that curls around them the longer this goes on. The one that begins to meld with the sting of pepper that was already there.

His hand lowers, his palm covering the span of the prince’s throat, and something shivering and pleasant goes through him as he feels it bob with a swallow. “Someone who would not be afraid to have me. Someone who would hold me better than you. Tighter than you. More passionate than you.”

Yeonjun rocks with it, with every word of disrespect, every threat, against the hardness that grows against him in response. Taehyun holds his sides, and his eyes shut. He fails to protest; to push him away; to reprimand him. He always fights back, but not against this. He lets Yeonjun do this, uninhibited.

And in some ways, it hurts to say every word of it, because it speaks of a nature that is so wanton he has never even entertained a thought like this, never thought of replacing Taehyun, taking another alpha. Even when he dreamed of burying his heat pain in the depths of Beomgyu’s body, it was not a rejection of his husband. Not an insult to him, it never felt as adulterous as these words feel. Yeonjun has never felt this dirty, this whorish. He does not believe he likes the feeling as much as the throbbing between his legs might suggest. His stomach is tight, and his head feels dizzy, and his eyes cloud, and wetness seeps through his underclothes, to wet the front of his husband’s pants, and his arm wraps around Taehyun’s neck, and he brings them closer, as they rock together, against each other.

“There must be knots bigger than yours. Hands more skilled than yours, tongues more wicked than yours could ever be.”

Like this, their faces are close to each other’s scent glands – Yeonjun finally feels that intoxication overwhelming him. The pepper stinging all over his body, warming it, enveloping it. Feels fingertips press tightly into his hips, as ripened fruit has a similar effect on the prince. Losing themselves, little by little. In each other. In the scent of it, the motions of it. The warmth and the electrifying sensations.

“And I’d drown myself in pleasure, to get away from you.”

Chasing traces of spice off his body, with citrus, with whatever acrid, unpleasant, heavy smells other alphas carry. None of it as warming, as soothing, as pleasing to the senses as peppery spice. As his beloved scent of spiced wine and citrus.

“You coward,” he breathes it against the side of Taehyun’s face, like a word of passion, like a sigh of pleasure. “Weakling. You impotent little boy. ” He clutches at the hair at the back of Taehyun’s head, and it must sting with how tight his grip is. His lips brush against the shell of Taehyun’s flushed ear, and he nips at it. “Do you think I’m only yours? That you have me?”

He does not know what he is saying anymore – does not care. All that matters is that the words keep propelling them forward, closer to each other. That they make his husband hold him more desperately, make him twitch and rut against him, through their clothes, like children, like undignified animals, propelled by the singular focus on the pleasure it brings them. Passionate and aimless – as is their habit.

Taehyun pulls him down as he pushes up, and the next disdainful words to call him come to his lips thoughtlessly.

“Puny little princeling.”

An aborted breath, a gasp almost deafening in Yeonjun’s ear, and a straining of muscle. Lips at his neck and the pulsing he feels against himself. Twitching and palms pressing down on his skin through his underclothes, insistent, while the space between them floods with warmth. The sounds of them wetter where they rub together, sticky, the fabric clinging.

Yeonjun kisses his husband, his prince, with abandon he has not felt in so long. Not between the two of them, not like this. As if all of their actions were free of consequence. As if nothing else mattered.

He almost fights when he is pressed back into the sheets, dethroned from his seat of honor in his prince’s lap, but then there is that familiar brush of lips. Gently, on the inside of his thigh, right by his knee, then further up as his clothes are pushed out of the way, and the back of his leg rests on a familiar shoulder, and he lets himself sink into the feeling of it. The pleasure, and the sweaty hair his fingers sink into. The fluttering of his heart and the throb of the same rapid heartbeat between his legs. Breaths he can hardly take in without gasping, the twitch in his leg he cannot stop. The wave of satisfaction he would never want to stop.

The merciless bite to the inside of his leg once he is all but done shaking, harsh and possessive. Definitive. Chased by a long, firm press of lips.

This – Yeonjun did not come here to do any of this.

His husband sits up between his haphazardly open legs, and he looks dazed himself. Neither of them intended for this – perhaps that should absolve them of all consequence. It was a mistake on both of their parts, after all.

At least they are most likely disheveled to a similar degree – the prince’s hair is wild, his lips red and stained, the pants of his underclothes ruined. He seems unsure where to look, and his chest is heaving. Yeonjun slowly, carefully, pulls his legs towards himself, closing them modestly and pulling his underclothes down to cover himself up. He is still disgustingly wet – with slick and spit and sweat, and all of it dries on his skin so uncomfortably in the winter cold.

He shuts his eyes tight against the sensations still wracking through his body. The lingering satisfaction, and the discomfort, and the racing of his heart and the warmth having his husband fills his chest with every time. He feels so disgusting and so desirable. So ashamed and exhilarated.

When Taehyun leaves the bed, Yeonjun draws the blanket up to his chin and tries to bury himself within it as deeply as he can. He watches Taehyun as he calls for his servant a little too loud, as he politely asks for the morning’s necessities and fresh change of clothes for himself and his wife with composure Yeonjun scolds himself for being surprised to see in him. Kyunsang must be able to see all of it, everything the prince should be ashamed to show anyone, much less a subject of his, but he faces his servant shamelessly, nobly. Like a royal.

Yeonjun stays hidden in bed even as Taehyun comes back to sit on the other side of the bed, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his undershirt. He watches Taehyun slump tiredly, and rub at his face, cannot take his eyes off of him as he seems to waver between drowsy and thoughtful. No words are spoken between them. Kyunsang brings them two trays of toiletries first, then two sets of new underclothes and morning clothes to wear over them. He never looks up from the floor at all, leaving them as much privacy as he can provide them while doing his duty to them. Yeonjun is grateful for the blanket keeping him safe; Taehyun seems to have no such qualms.

They were assisted like this by Minhyuk before, but not Kyunsang – the knowledge makes Yeonjun feel almost bashful. Of all the times for Kyunsang to see the aftermath of him laying with the prince, it had to be this? This strange event that Yeonjun does not even know how to feel about in general, much less how to feel about having someone witness the consequences of it?

He is reluctant to leave the safety of the blanket even after Kyunsang leaves for good – Taehyun sheds his undershirt, and wets a cloth in one of the basins, before pausing in his motions.

His eyes stray towards him for what feels like the first time since he detached himself from Yeonjun’s body, even though it might be an exaggeration on Yeonjun’s part. He looks somewhat meek, as Beomgyu would say. Boyish, with a bare chest with hardly any hair on it to speak of, with the crotch of his pants still sticking to his skin. “Do you want my assistance, or would you prefer to take care of yourself on your own?”

Yeonjun presses his lips together, and then it is Taehyun watching him, as he pushes the blanket off and sits up. As he takes a hold of his underclothes and his chest heaves, imagining himself taking the piece of clothing off before his husband like this. Not having it hastily pushed off his body – not stripping it seductively to arouse him. Simply undressing in front of him, without pomp or flourish. He hugs himself instead.

Taehyun seems to study him carefully, then drops the cloth into the basin, and picks up the other tray to bring it closer to Yeonjun, before rearranging himself to face away from him. Giving him as much space and privacy as he can by turning his back on him.

Tears sting at his eyes for a reason he does not fully understand. Shame or gratitude, love or frustration.

“Please hand me my clothes as well.”

No my prince. No Your Highness. Taehyun simply reaches for the neat pile Kyunsang made of Yeonjun’s clothes and sets it next to the tray before bowing his head and turning away again. Yeonjun watches him wash his face and wet his hair, but feels the need to look away when his motions make it too obvious he is undoing the laces of his pants, even though Yeonjun cannot see him clearly like this.

He finally picks up the cloth to clean the mess between his legs, but with a trembling hand, he still cannot bring himself to do so without the blanket covering him, his underclothes still on and getting in the way. Some days he took pride in how disheveled these trysts could make him; it seems today is not to be one of those days.

 

.

 

It is almost comical to see Taehyun dressed for the morning, his hair smoothed and his scent leveled out into a warm note of spice with only the slightest hint of staleness to it. He seems detached, as he waits for Yeonjun to finish tying his hair back – like his mind is somewhere else, on something more important again. Imperial matters, no doubt. Encirclement and strategies and his uncle’s plotting to ruin him.

Yeonjun watches him as he tightens the tie and makes sure it will not come loose unintentionally. His pillar; his alpha. His Taehyun.

A thought comes across his mind without prompting, as he rises from the bed to come to his husband’s side.

Taehyun called him his love last night. Drunkenly, foolishly, but he did.

Should that mean something to him? Nobody has done that before – not even Beomgyu dared to. It feels odd and inappropriate – to think of himself as such. The keeper of Taehyun’s estate, and the master of his heart. What a strange title it would be to hold.

He slips his hand into the crook of Taehyun’s elbow, and Taehyun looks him up and down with wary eyes. Perhaps neither of them is sure what to come away from this experience with – a shared secret? A reassurance of their bond? A confirmation of how broken their marriage has gotten?

“Kiss me?”

And Taehyun does so without hesitation, brief and warm and calming. Yeonjun nods to himself as they part, and Taehyun seems to find it slightly amusing. He opens the door of his bed room, and lets Yeonjun pass through before him.

Only Yeonjun comes to a halt halfway on his way to the tea room, and the prince scrambles to his side to see what gave him pause.

“Uh, good morning, Your Grace. Prince.”

Soobin. With an empty teacup in front of him at the tea table, dressed up splendidly for the day of celebrations like a wealthy man of his station should, silver pendants dangling at his temples as he bows his head politely. Beomgyu sits opposite him, still in his morning clothes and with his hair down, and he looks at the two of them curiously over his shoulder without scrambling to show respect to either of them.

“Captain Soobin,” Yeonjun manages to say, his voice more surprised than polite or friendly.

“We were not expecting you,” Taehyun adds, much more composed than Yeonjun.

“Ah, I,” Soobin laughs awkwardly. “I thought I would surprise you. That it might be pleasant for us to spend today’s celebrations together, breakfast included.”

Soobin is here to pay a friendly visit; to have breakfast with his friends. On any other day Yeonjun’s heart would melt a little at the sweet show of kinship. Today, he has to raise his sleeve to his mouth to compose himself.

“You are a bit overdressed for breakfast, I am afraid,” Taehyun says, teasing with a mild, level tone.

With another laugh, Soobin reaches up to the strip of white silk tied around his head, fingering at the pendants hanging off of it. “It may be so – I did not want to have to go all the way to my own rooms just to redress into something more appropriate for the occasion.”

“How alpha-like of you, Captain, to prioritize matters of practicality over matters of fashion,” Beomgyu quips, and Yeonjun finds himself relaxing minutely. Smiling into his sleeve before he lowers it.

“I fear it is a consequence of the way we are raised, Omega Beomgyu,” Taehyun responds before Soobin can, and Beomgyu looks a bit taken aback by how easily the prince engages him in dialogue. “Our education when it comes to fashion begins and ends at how to lace up our pants properly.”

Beomgyu’s eyes lower to the prince’s lower half, a bit too obvious to be appropriate. “Well, I see you have taken exceptionally well to your studies.” Then he looks back up at the prince’s face, and tilts his head innocently. “I will have to admit I am more experienced with the fastenings of ladies’ robes. If you needed any assistance on that front, perhaps I could use my knowledge to your advantage?”

Is Taehyun amused by Beomgyu’s innuendos? He seems to be. As skilled as he is at schooling his face, his eyes seem to betray a small glint of a boyishly jovial emotion. “I believe what little knowledge I have of them has been enough for me to get by so far.”

“Getting by hardly seems like a goal for a prince to strive for,” Beomgyu counters, and Yeonjun takes a decisive step forward – behind Beomgyu, Soobin seems somewhere between amused and uncomfortable, and he himself feels similarly. This should be just enough ribbing for Beomgyu to do; did he not promise Yeonjun not to provoke the prince too much?

Even if he seems so receptive to it this morning.

“Let us go eat, if we have all gathered here to share breakfast, shall we? We can discuss fashion all we want over our meal.”

The whole room seems to be a bit chastised by his decisive words, and he strides off towards the door with perhaps a little more vehemence than strictly necessary. He hears them scramble behind him, and a strange noise from Beomgyu has him looking over his shoulder as he is stepping through the door, only to see his prince offering Beomgyu a hand to help him stand.

It takes Yeonjun as long to process the sight before him as it takes Beomgyu to do the same thing, and accept the assistance, tightening his morning robe around himself once he is on his feet.

“You smell splendid this morning, Your Highness – did you sleep well?”

The words are teasing, maybe a bit too bluntly so, and Yeonjun’s heart tumbles uncomfortably in his chest as he does not wait to hear Taehyun’s reply and enters the tea room instead.

 

.

 

The tea room feels strangely homely that morning – set with a larger table for four, all of them filling the room just enough to make it feel full without being crowded. With food and friendly conversation, tea and a blend of scents so familiar to Yeonjun’s nose by now, spiced wine with citrus with a pleasant tone of amber joining them to create something even warmer and more comfortable. Yeonjun sits at Taehyun’s side for once, Beomgyu and Soobin occupying the other side of the table, and Yeonjun serves Taehyun today without asking if he should, putting food on his plate pointedly whenever it seems like the prince might neglect eating in favor or something else like an overbearing mother, making sure a respectable amount of food makes it past his lips before they leave the table.

Soobin seems vaguely amused by Yeonjun’s hovering, engaging him in lively conversation about the upcoming days of celebration, the two of them reminiscing about the previous years together, about floating lanterns on the ponds in the imperial palace gardens as children, being scolded for running close to the bonfires, watching their peers steal sweets from each other’s baskets to eat on their own away from the watchful eyes of their chaperones instead of giving them away to the servants and common folk like they were supposed to. Beomgyu listens to them talk with naked curiosity, clearly interested in learning what the imperial celebrations entail, and Yeonjun feels a little pinch of guilt as he realizes that they will not be able to share the festivities with him.

“I am afraid we will have to be seen around the palace as much as possible the next three days,” he brings up carefully, eyes attentive to any shift in Beomgyu’s relaxed expression. “We might only show our faces here at night or in the morning. But I will make sure Kyunsang makes your New Year as comfortable as possible – I will have him bring you some festive dishes to enjoy, perhaps some wine?”

“What would I not give, to get to sit in the prince’s warm rooms all day drinking sweetwine instead of having to parade myself out in the cold,” Soobin says ruefully to his cup of tea, and Yeonjun covers his mouth to suppress a laugh.

Beomgyu opens his mouth to respond, but he is cut off by the prince speaking up instead.

“Omega Beomgyu may join us.”

It is obvious Taehyun expected his words to be startling to the rest of the room, because he seems altogether unfazed by the three nearly identical expressions of shock and confusion that follow his suggestion. He picks up his tea for a perfectly polite sip, then sets it down with a decisive click.

“May he?” Beomgyu sounds equal parts mocking and delighted.

“Yes,” Taehyun responds, plainly and firmly, as if his word was beyond question, but they all know better than to think it is.

“Do you think that is prudent, my prince?” Yeonjun hates to be this way, but Taehyun’s confident words seem so preposterous. “With everything that is going on?”

“I believe it is prudent because of what has been going on,” Taehyun replies, and picks up a bite of food without bringing it to his lips. “And because I find keeping Omega Beomgyu confined here while the rest of us make merry unnecessarily cruel.” He puts the bite down again without eating it, turning to Yeonjun as fully as he can without shifting in his seat. “They expect me to act a coward in the face of their actions. They want me to scramble to save face, and make a fool of myself while doing so. But what do I gain, by playing their game? The respect of the lords who have never respected me? Who have never approved of me? Should I strive for that, instead of Omega Beomgyu’s comfort?”

Yeonjun bites his lips. “They are not the only people at this court.”

“Who else is there, then? The Jungs, the Seos, the Yeuns, the Na Family – they all owe their current influence at the court to me. The old families would have never even given them a seat at their table, and I had their children appointed to the Emperor’s Council. What would they gain for speaking up against me? The disfavor of their benefactor? The rest of the Council would also never take my side either way, if only to keep the Kang from ousting the other families from matters of government altogether should we grow too powerful. And not even they can speak up against an alpha of the Kang too openly. And nobody else at this court matters. If I lose the favor of a master woodcarver, of some military officers, so be it. Those I wish to have on my side stand firmly by it – and my title and name will keep the others from bothering us. Let it be a show of my power like any other.”

“There is still the Emperor,” Beomgyu points out, and there is a challenge to the jut of his chin. “He may reprimand you at his leisure, may he not?”

Taehyun shifts towards him, to face him more directly this time. “And you were right to scold me when I failed to shield you and my wife from his displeasure last time. I will not let him use the two of you against me again – if he takes issue with your partaking in the celebrations, then he can say those words to me directly, without involving you. And I can tell him what I told you, and what I will tell whoever questions me. I think keeping you confined to my rooms is cruel and unnecessary. What the rest of the court thinks of it is unimportant. I take care of my omegas the way I choose to, and what I choose is for you to walk through the palace at our side today, should you wish to.”

Beomgyu’s pointed chin lowers slowly as he takes the words in. Yeonjun fights with himself silently – he wants to protest, because the whole idea is asinine. The prince taking his concubine on a stroll around the palace? To have him mingle with the other courtiers? To do it with his head held high? It would ruin their reputation, it would stand against everything that the prince has represented to his people – the strict, narrow, focused, courtly mind. Thrown away for a frivolity. For an omega; for the compassion for one.

Myeongjin and Iseul looked askew at Yeonjun for only having Beomgyu share his carriage – and Taehyun wants to proudly keep him at his side during a time where they are the most expected to put up appearances?

“I am afraid our prince has lost his mind, my ladies,” Soobin says jovially before taking a bite of food as if he is altogether disaffected by the prince’s strange resolve.

Taehyun narrows his eyes at him, offended. “If this is the product of madness, my friend, then I believe it is a madness I have always been afflicted with.”

Soobin looks towards Yeonjun as he chews on his mouthful, before looking at Taehyun again and speaking impolitely through the food in his mouth, “Perhaps so, but I have known you to have a better grasp on its effects on you.”

The prince’s hands clench into fists, loosely but surely. “The ladies seem to believe that my restraint has little benefit for them – so maybe I can learn to wield my madness in a way they would find more helpful.”

“I would certainly feel helped, by not having to sit in your rooms like a bird in a cage all day,” Beomgyu pipes in, and his voice is firm, and free of mockery.

Soobin’s eyebrows rise, but Taehyun only lowers his head in Beomgyu’s direction in acknowledgment. “Then please join us. But I am afraid you will have to dress up, it—”

“It would behoove you, if you are to show off your other omega as well, to be showing off a pretty one?” Beomgyu sounds amused by it more than anything.

Taehyun gestures at Soobin, the only one at the table already dressed up. “As you can see, everyone is expected to look their best for the New Year’s celebration.”

“We are expected to mingle with the common folk today,” Soobin says with barely concealed amusement. “They cannot assume that the people of the palace are ordinary.”

“That, as well,” Taehyun concurs with a sigh.

Beomgyu’s mouth pinches, even as the corners of it rise, his attempt to hide a smile too obvious. But then he looks at Yeonjun, and his expression grows more serious. “And what does His Grace think of all this?”

Yeonjun looks Beomgyu in the eyes, and there is no doubt in his mind that his desperation shows in them. His fear, his apprehension, his confusion. Could this not cost them their position at the Court? Could this not undo everything Taehyun has strove for? Is he expected to stop caring now, because his husband has decided to? Taehyun promised him everything again, just to gamble that everything on… what?

Seeing a smile in Beomgyu’s eyes? On his lips? To get to see his childish excitement at seeing more of the world than he has before?

That should be worth the world to Yeonjun as well, should it not? But is it?

“I think the prince speaks nonsense,” Yeonjun says quietly through numb lips. “I believe nobody in their right mind would see this as a decision worthy of their respect. It is a show of debauchery at best, and childish petulance at worst. The Emperor’s ire might ruin us completely.” It hurts, to see pain and disappointment bloom in Beomgyu’s eyes, but he is right. He knows he is. “But he is the prince, and not I.” He does not look away from Beomgyu – he needs Beomgyu to understand how he feels, more than Soobin, more than Taehyun, even. “It is not my place to question a decision he has already made, only to follow his guidance to the best of my ability.”

“You do not believe that,” Beomgyu says, perhaps too softly – sounding too much like they were speaking alone, intimately, and not with two alphas right there next to them.

One of Taehyun’s hands covers his own, and Yeonjun looks at him sharply. “Let go of my hand.”

And Taehyun does, promptly, his lips thinning out and jaw clenching, but he does so.

“If I disagree with you – if I say I do not wish for Omega Beomgyu to spend today at our side, will you relent? Will you give in to me?”

The prince does not answer immediately, and the longer he stays silent, the more Yeonjun thinks he understands his words for the challenge they are. A test in their own right. One Yeonjun is not sure about the correct answer to.

“No,” is what Taehyun responds eventually, but instead of firm, his tone is soft. Similar to Beomgyu’s. Intimate. “No, I would not. Because I have made my decision.”

Yeonjun nods. “Then you are the husband I thought I married. I will follow your guidance.”

Taehyun inclines his head in acknowledgment, and Yeonjun gives him a small bow before turning back to his food. An uneasy silence settles over their table, but Yeonjun ignores it.

He is not strong enough – not yet, and perhaps not ever. There are too many fears clouding his mind, that will not let him sacrifice his reputation just for a few days of Beomgyu’s happiness and comfort. But his husband is strong enough for him, and he can follow his instruction. It is what he was taught to do. What is expected of him.

 

.

 

Yeonjun has always helped his husband prepare for the New Year’s celebration, and today they do not do any different. They leave Beomgyu and Soobin in the front room, and Yeonjun takes out a long strip of white silk and pieces of silver jewelry, politely turned away from his husband as he sheds his morning clothes and dresses in the heavy, splendid, silver and purple ones suited for the occasion.

“Where should we head to first?”

The prince’s voice startles Yeonjun out of the meditative calm he managed to sink into while laying all the necessities out, and he has to clear his throat to find his voice – it is not easy for him to speak up, after the odd silence he caused at the breakfast table.

“I believe most of the court should be gathered in the front courtyard by the time we set out.”

Taehyun hums, and Yeonjun listens too attentively to the rustling of fabric as he adjusts his clothes. “Most likely. Is that where we should make our first appearance then?”

“It seems prudent,” Yeonjun replies, prim and awkward.

“That it does,” the prince concurs without much conviction. “Very well. I believe I am ready.”

With a small nod, Yeonjun picks up the strip of silk, carefully folding it before turning around. The prince is dressed properly, with another strip of white silk not unlike the one in Yeonjun’s hands hanging loosely off his neck. Silver and white are the proper festive colors, but Taehyun is supposed to make an appearance in purple as the emperor’s son. The colors compliment each other well enough regardless, in Yeonjun’s eyes.

He steps close, and lays the silk across his husband’s forehead carefully, reaching around him to tie it behind his head with practiced motions. Yeonjun used to do this for his alpha cousins back home in the south, and was asked perhaps too many times to retie the headbands of young alphas of the Imperial Court who only asked him to do so as a flirtation. Taehyun used to have his headband tied by his mother – he told Yeonjun, the first time Yeonjun offered to do it for him on the first New Year they spent as spouses, that he reminded Taehyun of his mother when he did it, right before bashfully backing away from his hands and changing the topic when he no doubt realized how strange it might sound, to say such a thing to his wife.

Taehyun says no such thing today, not when Yeonjun finishes tying the headband, not when he hangs the pendants off of it, or slides a single silver, tiger-shaped pin into the hair at the back of Taehyun’s head. He does not say a word, only watches his wife work, careful and practiced. There is a strange emotion in his eyes, but Yeonjun decides not to pay it enough attention to be able to fully decipher the meaning of it – if Taehyun wishes it to be known, he can speak up for himself.

He helps Taehyun hang a silver chain around his neck, with a massive circle pendant hanging off of it, cast in the shape of the Kang family name, so it could hang low, nearly on top of his stomach, to remind everyone who he is, should they overlook the purple dye of his robes.

The prince sighs as it drops into place. “I have prepared Kyunsang’s New Year’s money already – the envelope is in the jewelry box.”

Yeonjun nods, and goes off to retrieve it while the prince shrugs on his coat by himself. It is a thick enough envelope – the prince has decided to be generous with his head servant.

“I would like to give my head servant more money this year. More than I usually give her for the New Year,” he says carefully as he hands the envelope off to his husband.

“Haewon?” Taehyun’s eyebrows rise, and Yeonjun waits for the questioning of his decision. He has a neat line prepared, about her exceeding expectations. Being incredibly discreet and helpful during a difficult time for their household. But none of that sort comes. His husband nods. “You may. As much as you deem appropriate.”

Yeonjun bows, a little too formally. “Thank you, my prince.”

 

.

 

In some ways, Yeonjun envies the alphas, as much as he enjoys indulging in beauty, in pretty clothes and sparkly jewelry. Taehyun took hardly any time to get ready, but as he and Beomgyu start on the process of finessing themselves into proper ladies ready for a grand celebration, it occurs to him that they will, most likely, make the alphas wait for them a torturous amount of time.

With stockings and paint, and layers upon layers to make themselves look bountiful enough to honor their alpha, there are so many steps to getting ready that by the time Beomgyu turns to him as Yeonjun finishes tying a lace behind his back, and they end up face-to-face, perhaps entirely too close to one another, Yeonjun has managed to forget that they are finally alone together.

“You have not been honest with me,” Beomgyu says, his voice a whisper yet stark and blunt. His eyes are not accusatory, but demanding enough.

“How so?”

“You knew what had the prince as upset as he was, did you not?”

Yeonjun purses his lips. He fists a hand in the layers of fabric covering his legs. “Perhaps.”

Beomgyu raises his eyebrows, demanding without saying a word, and Yeonjun lowers his eyes before his sharp gaze like a boy.

“I told you I refused to coddle him. He asked me for comfort, for my approval, to tell him he is a good alpha, that he has not wronged me, or you, by taking you on, by seeing us the way he does. I did not do so.”

“Why not?” Simple, free of judgment.

“Because I did not believe he deserved it. Not after everything he has put me through, Because even though I have grown to be fond of you, Beomgyu, I should have never had to accept you in my home.”

Beomgyu nods, then reaches out and loosens Yeonjun’s grip on his clothes, so he can slip his fingers through the gaps between Yeonjun’s instead. “And why would you not tell me that earlier?”

He feels an itch in his eyes, but he blinks it away quickly. This is not something to cry over – not for him to cry over, anyway. “Because it was my behavior that had him acting coldly with you. That made him a danger to you and your sense of safety – I was as responsible for that as he was, and the thought of having to admit as much to you pained me.”

“So you did something out of a sense of resentment,” Beomgyu says carefully, and squeezes Yeonjun’s hand before coming closer, to hold his jaw with his other hand. “And you expect me to fault you for it? For letting your alpha feel the consequences of his actions? I thought you knew me better than that, Yeonjun. Did you think I would blame you for his petulance? For his lashing out? The way he treats me is his responsibility, not yours. Even if he had killed me out of spite for you, the weight of it would rest squarely on his shoulders.”

Yeonjun clutches Beomgyu’s elbow with his free hand. “Beomgyu, do not.”

With a sigh, Beomgyu lowers his hand, but keeps his fingers intertwined with Yeonjun’s. “Aside from dramatics, I believe you understand my point.” Yeonjun nods meekly, and Beomgyu swings their joined hands between them gently, back and forth. “Did you go to his bed last night out of guilt as well? Did you try to get him to ease up on me again?”

Perhaps having done so would have absolved him from the guilt of causing Beomgyu that pain in the first place – but that was not why, was it? He did not do it for Beomgyu. He was not so selfless.

“I needed reassurance myself – that I am a good wife to him. That I chose my side wisely. That he would stand strong enough for all of us.”

Beomgyu’s mouth pinches, but his expression is a bit ambiguous. Disappointed, maybe. Pitying. Melancholic. Somewhere along those lines. “And what impression did you come away with?”

That his wife’s derision has the prince react in ways no alpha with self-respect should feel when talked down to. By an omega. By his own wife. By anyone. That he is a weak man who desires so ardently to be strong for their sake.

“I believe it does not matter anymore.” Yeonjun lets go of Beomgyu’s hand, and Beomgyu seems unhappy at the gesture. “I have made my choice – I am not leaving you just to go brush the hair of Prince Iseul’s wife for her. It is up to the prince now.”

“You seem to not have much faith in him,” Beomgyu points out, gently, and Yeonjun shrugs. “Do you really not trust his judgment regarding me?”

Yeonjun frowns. “Do you? It is hardly a wise decision. He is letting his heart guide him instead of his mind. Showing weakness.”

“Is he?” Beomgyu challenges, light, but with another prideful jut of his chin. “Because perhaps this court does not fear him sufficiently for the same reason I did not. That he seems so afraid of exercising his power openly. You say he wields much of it, but he will only do so by whispering words in his father’s ear? Those are the actions of a boy, not a man. This seems like an open enough acknowledgment of his own position. Of his power.”

“If the Emperor—”

“If the Emperor fails to scold him in front of his court, even if he screams until the prince’s ears bleed in private, then it will be an endorsement – it will show the others how firm he stands in his father’s eyes. Just like your courting – the silence will be enough to convince everyone his father sanctioned it.”

“What if he does scold the prince openly?”

“Would he? Or would he rather save face? Would the old man in his last days on this earth want his court to believe he had raised his only heir poorly?”

It makes sense. Yeonjun finds it difficult to find a flaw in Beomgyu’s reasoning. The anxiety that had been pushing down on his chest since breakfast starts to slowly loosen. He breathes out shakily.

“And it might be a lesson to the Emperor as well – that the same leverage he has against the prince as his father goes the other way as well – they need each other, just like you and the prince do. They need each other to look strong, to look strong themselves.”

Yeonjun breathes out incredulously. “Appearances upon appearances.”

Beomgyu smiles. “Indeed. Your specialty, is it not?”

With an offended snort, Yeonjun bats at Beomgyu with the fabric of his inskirt. Beomgyu only smiles wider.

 

.

 

The front courtyard is indeed overflowing with people when they arrive – there are fires blazing on either side of it, with enormous pots on top of them, keeping the soup inside the pots warm as they give it out to whoever makes their way through the open gate of the palace, children and the elderly, dirty or clean, men and women, alphas, omegas and betas of all ages, shapes, sizes, of all trades and ancestries. The crowd is a strange mixture of commoner and noble, as children with baskets weave through the throngs of people, giving out sweets and envelopes of money, much more modest in their generosity than the one Yeonjun and Taehyun handed over to Kyunsang before leaving for the day. Most nobles who send the children of their houses to do this duty barely put enough in their envelopes to be seen as alms, much less as generous gifts.

Taehyun usually has Yeonjun giving out a smaller number of more generous offerings. Not enough to leave them financially destitute after a New Year, but enough for receiving the prince’s New Year’s blessing to be seen as a true honor. Yeonjun keeps a similar philosophy about the money his ladies distribute in his own home. New Year’s money is not meant to be about throwing scraps to the poor – it is about showing magnanimity.

Their little retinue of four stops at the mouth of a passage coming from one of the inner courtyards – all the paths leading further into the palace from the front courtyard are heavily guarded, to make sure no commoners try to slip through into parts of the palace that are forbidden to them, and they find themselves flanked by guardsmen as they observe the commotion before them.

“Are there always this many people?” Beomgyu asks, his nose scrunching a little, adorably.

“The numbers will thin out over the next two days,” Taehyun responds, his shoulder shifting as he stands up a little straighter, now that they are in the fray of being on public display. “The first day is always the busiest. Everyone knows to come the first day to get the best and most generous blessings.”

Beomgyu makes a little, disdainful noise. “So they are here for the money and the food?”

“It is what is expected of them,” Soobin chimes in. “The New Year is a time for the poor to be greedy, and for us nobles to be humble.”

Yeonjun turns his head towards Beomgyu. “Was it any different in the Golden City?”

“Oh, much different,” Beomgyu says emphatically, narrowing his eyes at the crowd as if it personally offended him. “The New Year is a time of splendor and revelry. The best our poor had to hope for was to catch a glimpse of a spectacular parade of the lordship going through the city, showing all of them how much more grandiose their own celebrations were to be behind the closed gates of the palace.”

Taehyun snorts through his nose where he stands on Yeonjun’s other side. Yeonjun bites his lips. Opening the doors of the palace was not a custom they observed at the Choi estate, either – in his home, they would dress up in the traditional garb, and go out into the nearest town themselves to give their blessings. The first time he has seen the northern custom of letting the commoners into the palace for the occasion, he found it startling as well. Not as distasteful as Beomgyu did, maybe – to him, it seemed wonderfully exotic. Amazingly magnanimous. Imperial.

“There is splendor and revelry to be found here as well,” Soobin allows mildly. “Just not now – now is the time for giving.”

Beomgyu sighs, as if bothered by the idea. “What is expected of me to do, then?”

He has a basket of his own, except his is filled with rice cakes of all kinds of shapes instead of the neat envelopes of money Yeonjun is holding. Beomgyu holds it against his hip with a sort of apprehension Yeonjun finds endearing.

“Walk through the crowd and give cakes out to whoever will have them, whoever does not have any just yet, or whoever catches your fancy.” Taehyun turns to Beomgyu, a bit more serious. “It would be good if you stayed close to my wife and I – but if we get separated in the crowd, Soobin will stick to you and make sure no one bothers you.”

Soobin confirms with a nod, and Beomgyu huffs a little through his nose. “Very well.”

“And keep a close eye on your basket,” Yeonjun adds with a smile. “Even noble children have sticky hands when it comes to sweet things.”

His words finally bring a small smile to Beomgyu’s lips, and he nods his head. “I will.”

Stepping through the crowd is not as difficult a task as it may have seemed from their previous vantage point. Soobin’s height and Taehyun’s royal purples and imperial insignia make sure that the crowd parts before them politely more often than not. The commoners and nobles alike bow formally before them, and Yeonjun and Beomgyu bestow them with gifts whenever fancy strikes them. Yeonjun notices, and carefully ignores, Beomgyu giving sweets out to the children more often than anyone else, including the obviously high-born ones.

It takes them a surprising amount of time to run into someone important enough to have to pause in their rounds today – perhaps, despite them taking so much time to leave the prince’s rooms today, they are still one of the first people among the highest-ranking in the court to come bestow blessings this year.

But when they do, it is obvious enough – people give the older alpha and his pretty wife and a gaggle of children a wide berth, just like they do to the prince and the three of them. They approach each other with the air of territorial animals running into each other where their hunting grounds abut, and Taehyun stands taller than he ever did as the older alpha and his whole family bow before him, before he gives a small princely bow of his own, and Yeonjun, Soobin and Beomgyu give them all a proper, formal one.

“Bright and early as always, Your Highness,” the other alpha notes, perfectly gregarious and friendly.

“The earlier we start it, the more of the day we have to enjoy, lord councilor.”

“Indeed so, Your Highness.” The lord councilor looks at Yeonjun, then to Soobin, then at Beomgyu, where he lingers before turning his attention to Taehyun again. “I see you keep your usual company.”

Is it a jab at Taehyun’s continued friendship with Soobin? Is he not entitled to keep a childhood friend of his close, even if he does not hold a high imperial position?

“Why repair what is not broken, lord councilor?”

The older man lets out a grunt, before nodding his head in Beomgyu’s direction. “I do not seem to recall this omega being introduced to court this season.”

There it is. Taehyun does not show any obvious reaction. “He was not – he is a courtier in my own household.” He reaches out, towards Beomgyu, then the lord himself. “You may acquaint yourselves – lord councilor, this is Omega Choi Beomgyu. Omega Beomgyu, this is lord councilor Lee Changho.”

Beomgyu bows properly, obviously careful, a bit stiff but not as pale as he might have been, was this meeting happening behind closed doors.

“A relative of your wife’s, then?”

“No,” Taehyun responds easily. “A coincidence.”

Lord Changho narrows his eyes at the prince. “Why is he here, then?”

“On an invitation from His Imperial Majesty.”

“Just some noble omega from your court?”

“My omega, lord councilor.”

It still lands oddly on Yeonjun’s ears. His omega. Taehyun’s omega. Since when is Beomgyu any of that?

The other alpha’s face shifts. “The concubine?”

Yeonjun fights to keep his face level and eyes raised. Do not budge. Do not give them an inch. By showing shame, he would imply he has something to be ashamed of. He does not. He does not.

He can see the lord councilor’s wife’s face take on an expression of horror – he has not had the strict education Yeonjun has.

“Indeed.”

“What is he doing here, Your Highness?” The lord’s tone is weirdly strangled. He sounds like Yeonjun felt when Taehyun suggested this.

“He is here on an invitation from His Imperial Majesty,” Taehyun repeats, his tone mild and kind.

“Here in this courtyard?”

“He is here, to keep me company, and give out blessings in my name.”

“Why is he not in the quarters?”

“Because I asked him to keep me company today.”

“How—” Lord Changho stops himself. He takes in a long, deep breath. “You parade him here, in front of all these children?”

Taehyun looks over at Beomgyu, who has been getting progressively paler, the tenser the conversation gets, but keeping his back as straight as ever. “I see nothing about his appearance children should not be seeing.”

Beomgyu seems to lift his chin just a breath higher – as if to show off his unsullied body – free of bruises, of any signs of use. Pristine and pure like the freshly fallen snow capping the palace walls.

“I believe you understand as well as I do that it is not his dress that is at issue.”

“Is there any other issue you would wish to raise, lord councilor? Here, in front of all these children?”

The look Taehyun earns himself with his words is positively disgusted. Yeonjun thinks he hears a sound of amusement come from behind them, where Soobin is standing.

“If there is nothing more you wish to discuss with me at the moment, lord councilor. I am afraid me and my companions have spent an awful lot of time out here in the cold already – I believe it is time for us to warm up with some tea, if you would excuse us?”

It is obvious that the lord councilor is deeply offended by the prince’s dismissal, but he bows to them regardless as Taehyun leads them away, through one of the guarded pathways into a much emptier courtyard, where he has Soobin go inside one of the buildings to get a servant to bring them tea. They stand under the awning of the building while they wait, hiding from the snow that started gently falling as they went. None of them really look at each other, or acknowledge the situation they were just in.

Two servants come out of the building, to bring out a small, high table and a tray with a tea set, and they set it before them with polite bows before retreating back into the building. Instead of waiting for anyone to do it for him, Taehyun pours four cups and takes one for himself, letting them follow suit at their leisure.

Beomgyu cradles his cup to his face, and Yeonjun watches from the corner of his eye as color slowly returns to his face.

“Are you well, Omega Beomgyu?” Taehyun asks, so politely it sounds awkward, as he sets his empty cup down, without looking at Beomgyu at all.

Beomgyu’s lips tighten, but he nods. “Yes.”

“May I ask—”

“No,” Beomgyu cuts the prince off curtly.

Taehyun nods. Yeonjun wonders if Taehyun had them leave the courtyard for Beomgyu’s benefit more than anything. Perhaps he noticed his paleness and worried about them staying among all those people for much longer.

It warms him, in a way the tea did not manage to. He reaches up to touch the back of Beomgyu’s shoulder, and smiles at him when Beomgyu looks at him questioningly.

He is wearing the silver fur shrug Yeonjun bought for Taehyun – he could understand Beomgyu’s fondness for his usual fur cloak, but he could not stand the idea of Beomgyu representing his family before the Imperial Court while wearing it. The symbolism of them making up Taehyun’s family colors together works this way as well.

When he looks away from Beomgyu, it is to his husband’s thoughtful eyes. He gives Taehyun a smile as well, one the prince barely returns, seemingly lost in thought.

They go back into the front courtyard, and mill about until their baskets are empty. It seems that the lord councilor Changho did not waste any time since meeting them, because most other people they meet – other lords councilor, high-ranking officials and such – do not even comment on Beomgyu’s presence. Those who do, are met with a similar spiel Lord Changho was offered. He was invited by His Imperial Majesty, and is here to keep the prince company. With each encounter, Beomgyu seems to handle the situations better and better. Yeonjun finds himself handling them better and better.

It helps to see the prince as determined as he is. As calm and collected as he stays throughout the whole thing. The first time Yeonjun even wonders if it wears on him is when they retire to a pavilion in the palace gardens to have a brief lunch, more tea and warmed wine, and he sees the prince’s shoulders lower in what looks to be relief at the bit of respite.

Even in the gardens, however, they are not afforded much privacy, with the pavilion’s open structure and the other courtiers milling about it to make themselves seen at the court on this day in their best clothes, showing off how happy and wealthy they are. People stop by them to say their greetings and say a few kind words to Yeonjun if they are well-acquainted with him, and they smile and nod and say kind words in return.

At one point, Ahn Nayoon and her husband approach them in much the same way, and Yeonjun struggles to keep up as the young lady’s sunny expression contrasts with her husband’s look of displeasure as he spots Beomgyu sitting at Yeonjun’s side.

“Ah, is this not a splendid day we are having, Your Grace?” Nayoon chirps happily as she clings onto her husband’s arm. “I was just discussing with my husband how we have not had such a beautiful winter in so long!”

Yeonjun inclines his head politely. “No day could ever be as pretty as you are today, my dear lady,” he offers with a smile, gesturing at Nayoon’s expensive robes and hair overflowing with pearls. “You look incredible.”

“Oh, you are too kind, Your Grace!” Nayoon lifts a sleeve to her mouth, but her eyes are smiling brightly. “I thought it would be good to celebrate my first New Year as an imperial lady in clothes that would befit the title.”

“And these are certainly more than that, Lady Nayoon! They seem befitting of a queen.”

Nayoon laughs girlishly, and gives him a small bow. “I shall have no choice but to believe that, shall I not? With an endorsement from someone of Your Grace’s refined taste.”

Compliments politely exchanged, Nayoon looks around their table, seemingly looking for something more to say, before her eyes land on Beomgyu, and soften kindly.

“I believe we are not acquainted, my lady! Are you Captain Soobin’s companion?”

“That is the omega I told you about, Nayoon,” Myeongjin says curtly. “His Highness’ concubine.”

Hearing Myeongjin calling Nayoon by name in front of other company makes Yeonjun frown slightly. Taehyun would never – but then again, they have always been old-fashioned about their marriage. As informal as it is, it is not necessarily impolite, not of people of their age, not when both Myeongjin and Nayoon consider Yeonjun a friend.

“Oh.” Nayoon’s perpetually sunny demeanor clouds a little. “I see. Well, my dear, the earrings you are wearing are simply wonderful – I believe I shall be envious of you!”

“Nayoon,” Myeongjin says tersely, disapprovingly, and Nayoon lowers her head, pressing her lips together like a child caught misbehaving.

“Do you not agree with your wife, Lord Myeongjin?” Taehyun speaks up for the first time since they greeted each other, level and with just a hint of polite amusement that seems mocking in the context it comes in. “Do you have a different opinion of Omega Beomgyu’s jewelry?”

“I believe a concubine’s jewelry is hardly something for an imperial lady to comment on,” Myeongjin retorts, tense, but polite enough.

“And I believe those earrings belong to my wife – does that change your mind any, my lord?”

“No, my mind is quite made up, Your Highness.” Myeongjin pulls his arm closer to his body, prompting his wife to follow him. “I believe we have caught up with the royal couple sufficiently, Nayoon – we are leaving.”

Nayoon sends Yeonjun a look of embarrassed apology as they leave. Yeonjun sighs.

“I suppose that is our answer as to whether or not we can get Lord Myeongjin to soften up to us.”

Taehyun hums, glancing between him and Beomgyu. “It seems his fondness of you is not great enough to overshadow his bigotry.”

“He was raised the same way as all alphas of this court,” Yeonjun argues, unable to stop himself from defending an old friend. “He reacted the same way anyone else would. The way everyone else has.”

“Soobin and I were given the same education he was, and we do well enough in treating Omega Beomgyu with dignity, do we not?”

“Remarkably, Your Highness,” Beomgyu chimes in, prim and a little amused. “But I believe we all know better than to expect the same from others.”

Taehyun lifts his chin. “Would you prefer me to leave him to it? To refrain from questioning it? I thought that was exactly what you had scolded me for doing before.”

“I scolded you for not defending your wife, Your Highness,” Beomgyu corrects lightheartedly. “Not myself. I believe that expecting respect for myself would be a foolish endeavor.”

Surprisingly, the prince seems to consider his words briefly, before nodding. “Then allow me to make a fool of myself on your behalf, Omega Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows rise so high they brush against the strings of pearls hanging down his forehead. “I suppose you are welcome to do so, Your Highness.”

Taehyun gives him another nod, then pours himself a drink of their cooling wine. Yeonjun, Beomgyu and Soobin all exchange unsure looks, but Beomgyu seems almost amused.

 

.

 

As darkness starts falling upon the palace, they take Beomgyu to one of the inner courtyards, to watch the servants light lanterns and start fires in the fire pits, scrambling around as they set up tables outside for the upcoming feast. Beomgyu watches it all with a childish fascination in his chocolate eyes, and Yeonjun’s chest feels lighter again as they make their way back to Taehyun’s rooms, so Yeonjun can fuss with his appearance a little before they go have dinner with the prince’s family. Soobin and Beomgyu will not be able to join them for dinner, since only Kang family members can share the Emperor’s table, but Beomgyu refuses their offer to stay inside for dinner, and takes happily Soobin’s offer to eat at his side in one of the other courtyards with Soobin’s family instead.

They all gather in the front room, and Soobin jokes with Yeonjun about whether he should join them in the dressing room to see if his headband is fitted properly, and Yeonjun makes a show of adjusting and tightening it for him, rearranging the pendants hanging off of it. Taehyun and Beomgyu watch them have at it for the most part, but then, as Yeonjun is assuring Soobin of his overwhelming handsomeness in a teasing voice, Beomgyu speaks up unexpectedly, startling all of them.

“You did well enough today, little prince,” he says in a voice quiet enough that Yeonjun is sure he did not mean for the whole room to hear it – they all do hear it, anyway.

“Pardon?” Perhaps Taehyun seems the most startled of them all – his perfect princely poise breaks as his eyes widen.

“You heard me – do not make me repeat myself. If you meant to show the others you are not afraid, then I believe you have done so.”

It is still strange to Yeonjun – to see Beomgyu meeting Taehyun’s eyes. His eyes are so much sharper than he should allow them to be, even as his words are unexpectedly kind.

“And?” Taehyun prompts, and Beomgyu’s mouth twitches.

“You do well standing tall before lords and lordlings – can you do the same before your father?”

That was where Beomgyu was going with this. Yeonjun is almost disappointed.

On the other hand, Taehyun looks almost comforted by the confrontation – apparently it is easier for him to accept that Beomgyu would challenge him this way than praise him genuinely. “I would tell you I intend to, Omega Beomgyu, but I believe you would not find my conviction comforting.”

Beomgyu lets himself smile this time. “I just want you to remember that everything you do not owe to me, you owe to your wife, prince.”

“Will you urge me not to disappoint him now?”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows rise again. “You seem eager to rush through the script today, princeling.”

Taehyun seems to waver just slightly at the address. “If you would believe it, Omega Beomgyu, nothing you are saying is new to my ears.”

“It may be so,” Beomgyu allows with a tilt of his head. “But some things are imperative for you to remember.”

The prince sighs. “Is that so, Omega Beomgyu.”

“Indeed,” Beomgyu says in that same prim voice. “So do not disappoint him.”

Taehyun inclines his head in acknowledgment, and Beomgyu leaves for the dressing room without waiting to be excused.

 

.

 

Heat blazes from the large fire in the middle of the courtyard that sprawls in front of the Emperor’s quarters. A group of musicians stationed near it plays music tirelessly, and the air smells like rich foods and whatever the servants have thrown in the fire to give it a more pleasing fragrance for the royal family. Long tables and benches are settled around the fire, the one directly in front of the gate to the Emperor’s quarters already occupied by the man himself and his wife at the center, with his successor and royal brother at his right side. Taehyun’s place is to his left, but they approach the table from the front at first, to make a formal appearance, and give the imperial couple and Taehyun’s uncle formal bows.

“Be welcome, my son, Princess Consort,” are the Emperor’s wheezing words of welcome, and Yeonjun has to fight to not wrinkle his nose at the pervasive rot in the cedar of his scent. It is worsening, then, or his health wavers depending on the day – neither of those are comforting nor reassuring. “You may join us at our table.”

The man raises no fuss, does nothing beyond what is expected of him, and Yeonjun walks a little lighter at his husband’s side as they have to round the table on the Emperor’s left side to get to their seats. Their roundabout takes them past a smaller, less splendid table that sits to the side, away from the rest of the family. This table has benches on either side of it, so the occupants on either side may face each other directly, but all the heads at it turn and backs and heads are bowed as the two of them pass. The table is reserved for the children of the Kang alphas’ concubines – the siblings of Taehyun and his cousins. They are not encouraged to think of them as such, as true members of their family, unless issues of lineage dictate they must, but they share blood nonetheless.

Yeonjun has never really spoken to Taehyun about what he thinks of this – but knowing now what he does about how his husband views the institution of concubinage, perhaps he should, now.

It is easy to tell, in the row of faces, which of them belong to Taehyun’s brothers and sisters – but none of them resemble him in any significant way. Perhaps that makes it easy for them to see themselves as separate from each other. The children of Taehyun’s uncle are quite obviously siblings of Iseul’s. They do not have the cat-like eyes she inherited from her mother, but they have her mouth, or her nose, of the shape of her face.

Without thinking, Yeonjun gives the table a small bow of his own. Taehyun inclines his head jerkily, as if scrambling to follow his lead.

Taehyun offers Yeonjun a hand to assist him as he goes to sit at their place at the table, but as he is making sure he does not make a mess of his robes, a booming voice makes him pause in the middle of his motion.

“Prince Taehyun!” Kang Jeongyul says loudly, voice shockingly warm and friendly for the man Yeonjun knows for a fact has been conspiring against his husband for months now. “You have made a habit of making yourself the talk of the court lately! I thought you to be the discreet type.”

Yeonjun’s husband seems to take a moment to consider his approach – Yeonjun sees the Empress’ curious eyes on them, and resettles his robes, choosing to remain standing while Taehyun stands, even as his palm remains resting in the prince’s.

“I do not force the court to speak about me, Uncle,” he says eventually, measured. “That is a choice they make entirely on their own.”

“Ah! But you give them ample reason to talk, do you not?”

Taehyun’s lips tighten slightly, and his uncle seems to notice it despite the minuteness of the reaction, laughing loudly.

“But we can talk about all that over some wine later, can we not? You will join us to drink after this, will you not, Taehyun?”

“I heard my honorable cousin has done quite a bit of drinking yesterday! Mihee saw his servant escorting him home last night,” Iseul pipes up from her father’s right side, jovial and with laughter in her voice. “Perhaps he is tired of drinking for the season.”

“No such thing, cousin,” Taehyun raises his voice to respond, and it almost sounds like lighthearted bickering between relatives. “I could hold my stride with the lords councilor, I will do just as well keeping stride with you.”

Iseul laughs again and toasts him with a cup of what is almost certainly wine. “We will see, honorable cousin, will we not?”

Yeonjun finds himself sighing. The prince will not be returning to his rooms until late again, then. At least Yeonjun will not be required to stay until he does, and can retire on his own.

Taunting seemingly done for the moment, Yeonjun finally sits himself at the table, followed by his husband, and he busies himself with fixing Taehyun’s plate while Taehyun makes polite conversation with the Empress, praising this year’s decorations, the smoothness of the running of the celebrations. The older omega accepts all his words with polite nods of her head, only smiling mildly when Yeonjun chimes in with compliments of his own, making sure to note the cascade of precious stones flowing down the empress’ back and tangling in her hair, making it glitter with every motion of her head.

She calls Taehyun ‘prince’ and Yeonjun ‘child’. It has been this way as long as Yeonjun can remember.

 

.

 

If judgment is to come down upon Taehyun’s head from his father, then it really is to happen in private, Yeonjun concludes while watching the majority of the Kang alphas leave the courtyard to go up into the Emperor’s quarters, to continue the night’s merriment by drinking in a warm room with a roof over their head rather than stay outside. It leaves the omegas and the children sitting at a half-deserted assortment of tables, picking at morsels of food and leading much more hushed conversations as the evening winds down. The children of the concubines leave in waves, but eventually, they all leave as well.

Yeonjun pecks away at a bowl of injeolmi, trying to decide if there is much socializing for him yet to do before he leaves for the night, and watching the children as their mothers slowly allow them to leave the table to go running around the courtyard, to chase each other around the fire to their mothers’ horror, dance to the music or simply stretch their legs.

Next to Yeonjun, the Empress seems lethargic and thoughtful. He chooses not to bother her by trying to make conversation.

To some extent, he is familiar with all the other Kang wives – from the Empress, to the wife of the crown prince, the wives of Iseul and her siblings – but he has never grown very close with any of them. The younger wives were all imperial courtiers while he was, but they hardly ran in the same circles, or rather, they would not associate with a noble of Yeonjun’s modest background. They are all ladies of the wealthy families, the politically influential ones, the Lees and the Songs and the Hwangs of the court, who knew they were likely to marry into the royal family as soon as they took their first breaths in this world.

The Kangs only took good wives, after all. The sensible matches. The ones promising dowry and loyalty and the continued support of the great families of the Empire to the great house of Kang.

Except for Taehyun. Taehyun took what many considered a diamond in the rough, and raised it to the title of Princess Consort.

To what end? So he could give out rice cakes to the children of his cousins when they came to Yeonjun’s side of the table, looking for sweets nobody has claimed yet? So he and the Empress could politely ignore each other, so that none of the wives would come to his side as they slowly gathered themselves to leave?

The Empress leaves Yeonjun’s side, assisted promptly by a servant as she gathers her robes to rise, and invites two of the wives of Taehyun’s cousins for tea before they leave.

Yeonjun takes it as his cue to leave as well – the servant is slightly less prompt with assisting him than he was with the Empress. He tries not to hold it against him.

 

.

 

When he arrives at the prince’s rooms, Beomgyu is already there, reading at the tea table. His face is bare, hair down, and he has undressed himself already.

“Soobin said it is customary for the alphas to spend the night of the first day drinking in the circle of family, so he brought me back here before he went to partake,” he says by way of explanation when he sees the appraising look Yeonjun gives him. “We were given very little trouble – Soobin surrounded himself with family, and they all seemed content enough with indulging him when he said keeping an eye on me was something he was doing for the prince.”

Yeonjun nods, and takes his shrug off to hand it to Kyunsang, who has come to take it from him already.

“I assume that is where His Highness went as well?”

He sighs. “Yes. He was invited to share drinks with His Imperial Majesty and his other relatives.”

“And he went?” Beomgyu sounds amused.

Yeonjun narrows his eyes at him. “Of course he did.”

Beomgyu just shakes his head and lowers it to his book again. “The best of luck to our prince, then.”

He cannot bring himself to disagree with that – he may yet need it.

Unexpectedly, Beomgyu lifts his head again, expression oddly pinched. “What are the omegas to do on the first night, then? If the alphas are to drink all together?”

Yeonjun huffs through his nose in amusement. “Oftentimes, they drink too, if they do not have small children to attend to. But in smaller groups, less… dictated by blood.” He bites his lip, and looks to Kyunsang, who is waiting at the servants’ door for further instruction. “Shall we partake as well? The prince will not return for quite some time.”

Beomgyu gives him a little smile. “We may – it has been quite some time since the two of us drank together, has it not?”

“I suppose so. Kyunsang – please bring us wine and some cups. We will entertain ourselves while the alphas are away.”

 

.

 

By the time the front door of the prince’s rooms opens again, Beomgyu and Yeonjun are both half asleep, quiet and sullen over empty cups of wine. Their conversation has petered off a while ago, but both of their limbs are so heavy with all of the day’s walking and the wine that neither of them is in any rush to get up from the tea table and retire to their beds. They lift their heads sluggishly to watch the door, as Taehyun gives the guard who opened it for him a nod of thanks before coming inside and the door closing behind him.

He seems… lucid, this time. A little pink in the face and bright in the eyes but not so intoxicated Yeonjun would worry about him finding his way home on his own.

Kyunsang comes in to greet the prince and take his coat, but Taehyun just assures him he does not need anything and sends him away to rest for the night.

“My ladies. I am surprised to see you here this late.”

“We are surprised to see you this steady on your feet this late,” Beomgyu murmurs, obviously too weary if not too loose from the wine to speak clearly.

A small look of amusement comes over Taehyun’s face. “I am not above employing some underhanded tactics to best my cousins in a drinking contest. I owe them no sincerity.”

Beomgyu huffs, amused as well. Taehyun looks between the two of them, hesitating briefly.

“May I join you for a moment?”

Does he feel the need to ask? They are in his accommodations. He is hosting them, graciously, in these rooms.

Beomgyu gestures at the table easily. “Suit yourself, prince.”

Taehyun gives Yeonjun a questioning look, waiting for his nod before approaching and sitting down at Yeonjun’s side.

“I see you two have had something to drink as well – perhaps I should have asked Kyunsang for one more cup before dismissing him.”

“Here.” Yeonjun fills his own cup and sets it before the prince.

Taehyun picks it up, but inspects it carefully instead of raising it to his lips. “Are you sure?”

“Yeonjun is your wife, surely you two have done more scandalous things than shared the same cup.”

Perhaps Beomgyu is intoxicated to some extent, as he seems to hardly realize his own mistake even as the prince looks at him with eyebrows so high it looks uncomfortable to maintain. “Yeonjun is?”

Beomgyu’s mouth pinches, but he seems determined to push through – it is not unusual of him to forego politeness, after all. “Yes, little prince, I believe that is his name.”

Finally, Taehyun drinks the cup of wine down, before leaning on one of his knees, sitting askew, impolite. “Does my wife not get his own name from you?”

“I have no need for a nickname for him,” Beomgyu responds primly, pouring himself wine in a way that makes it seem like he is only looking for something to do with his hands. “Yeonjun suffices.”

Yeonjun huffs, and they both look at him – the prince seems amused, and he raises a sleeve to his face to cover his reaction up.

“I believe I am better off without one,” he says, reserved.

“Perhaps so,” Beomgyu allows and sips at the wine before setting it back down. “We both have things we prefer to call you, do we not, prince?”

“Pardon?” Taehyun seems relaxed, unbothered by the quip.

“I seem to have picked up on the fact that other husbands address their wives by their names quite openly, especially in more… informal settings. How come you do not?”

“It is polite of the prince to not use my name in front of other people,” Yeonjun speaks up without letting the prince explain himself. “Not all couples follow this rule of etiquette, but we do.”

“It is also simply a personal choice on my part,” Taehyun adds, his voice firm but not chiding towards either of them. “I have seen other husbands call their wives by their names, and more often than not I have found the practice disrespectful.”

“Is that so?” Beomgyu tilts his head curiously. “I understood it to be an expression of affection for most of them – perhaps except for the case of the lady Nayoon.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together at the mention of her. Beomgyu’s words ring truthfully enough – when Myeongjin called Nayoon by name, it sounded to Yeonjun as sharp and demeaning as when Taehyun called his name in front of his father.

“And perhaps it is, in the eyes of young couples, but I was brought up in the company of alphas of more antiquated sensibilities, and believe me, Omega Beomgyu, I have never heard them call their wives’ names with affection.”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows raise in curiosity. “Perhaps they keep such displays to more private settings than you would be privy to.”

Taehyun’s chest falls and rises with something bordering on a sigh. “Perhaps – but I have my doubts.”

“How so?”

The prince reaches for the bottle before him, and Yeonjun rushes to take it before him, pouring both his and Beomgyu’s cup full before nodding at the prince. “How come?”

With a little huff at their curiosity, Taehyun sips the wine before explaining, “As a boy I have indulged in the bad habit of eavesdropping on my parents often enough – to Minhyuk’s great horror.” He smiles as the words bring a smile to Yeonjun’s face, then grows more serious. “I think I have heard enough of their private conversations to know what my mother’s name sounded like on my father’s lips in private.”

Beomgyu chews on his lips, thoughtful. Yeonjun watches as Taehyun finishes his cup, and pours him another. “You have never told me of this.”

Taehyun nods, and lifts the cup, staring intently at the candlelight fluttering on the surface of the wine. “Purposefully so.”

Again – his husband seems to have made so many deliberate decisions with him, that he has never found necessary to disclose to him. Keeping things from him, keeping him away from things. Pushing him as far away as possible and calling it care and protection.

“Why?”

“Because I do not wish to talk about my mother with you,” Taehyun says simply, downing the drink and setting the cup down with a click that sounds too loud in the quiet room. “Or Omega Beomgyu. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

The words… surprise him. Something lurches in his chest. He did not know the Empress Mother well – he only ever got to see her from afar as a courtier of negligible significance. When she passed, it was of no real consequence to him. It was sad, of course, as those affairs tend to be, but her funeral was but a simple, somber but brief enough occasion, and the Court was not expected to ostentatiously grieve for her for any prolonged amount of time. Life moved on at the Court, without her. There was simply an empty space at their Emperor’s side, until the current Empress claimed it for herself.

But she was Taehyun’s mother, and he was old enough when she passed to have had the time to become attached to her, and not the time to grow apart with her yet. Perhaps his relative silence on the matter was not so much a sign of its lack of significance to him, as it was a sign of how deeply he was affected by it.

He drops his eyes to his own lap.

“Not even Soobin?” Beomgyu prompts, his voice a bit gentler now but still curious.

“Soobin knows enough already,” the prince dismisses, not unkindly. “My lips were much looser when I was young.”

Beomgyu acknowledges Taehyun’s words with a small sound. Yeonjun stays looking into his own lap.

“Would you kiss me?”

Suddenly startled, he looks up, and feels foolish when he finds the prince looking at him instead of Beomgyu. Of course the prince would not – Yeonjun knows him better than that.

“Excuse me?”

“I have had quite a long day today,” his husband says carefully, but stays looking Yeonjun in the face with sincerity written all over his own. “And I believe I would find my wife’s kiss comforting before I go to sleep.”

Yeonjun can see Beomgyu rolling his eyes before picking up the wine Yeonjun poured him earlier and drinking it. His heart flutters in his chest – the prospect of kissing his husband in front of Beomgyu, in a setting as intimate as this, makes him feel dizzy and restless. Taehyun has no idea what he is asking him to do, does he?

Taehyun sighs as Yeonjun takes too long to answer and begins to gather himself to stand up. “I understand. Please enjoy yourselves, ladies.”

He stands up, but pauses when Beomgyu leans back to look at him as he speaks up. “You did not say how your evening has gone, prince.”

If he is surprised at being interrupted in his polite retreat, Taehyun does not show it. “Well enough, Omega Beomgyu. I believe my wife must have told you that he was hardly in need of my protection during dinner? I believe there was no disappointing for me to do tonight.”

Beomgyu scoffs. “And what of your time of merriment with your kinspeople? Did any scolding come down upon you behind closed doors?”

Yeonjun watches Taehyun look at him carefully before responding. “Hardly. Mockery, from my uncle’s side of the family, mostly. Father was remarkably quiet today. If I were a man of more optimism, I would say he may have been impressed enough by my boldness to forgive my transgression.”

“Would that fill you with pride, little prince?”

“No,” Taehyun responds simply, and leaves them for the dressing room.

Beomgyu lets out another quiet scoff, then a nearly soundless laugh. He extends a hand across the tea table in Yeonjun’s direction.

“You could have done it.”

“What?”

“Kissed him.”

Yeonjun looks away from Beomgyu’s eyes – they have a strange light to them. He seems honest, and that makes Yeonjun feel almost worse than seeing jealousy on his face would. “I did not want to.”

“In my presence?”

His chest rises and falls a bit faster. “He may hear us – he is only a door away.”

“So?” Beomgyu tilts his head. “I believe I did not say anything untoward.”

“This entire conversation is untoward, Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu sighs. “Is affection towards your husband forbidden now as well? It was not this morning, was it?”

Yeonjun purses his lips. “If you—”

“No. Whatever you are about to say, I assume my answer to it would be no. No I do not, will not, did not.”

He meets Beomgyu’s eyes again. They implore him to understand something, but he does not understand a thing.

“I am not here to interfere with your marriage, Yeonjun.”

“You have already done so,” Yeonjun hisses as quietly as he can.

“I was trying to make you understand the position you were in—”

“Is that all you meant to do, Beomgyu? What all this has been? You opening my eyes?”

Beomgyu’s face pinches with an emotion he is obviously attempting to restrain. “You are being unkind to me, Yeonjun.”

He huffs through his nose. He is, because of the anxiety gripping at his chest. The feeling of uncertainty he feels so often when it comes to his husband, the vertigo of the ambiguity in their relationship.

“I apologize.”

What he gets in response is a quick twitch of Beomgyu’s shoulder, barely a shrug. “It has been a long day for all of us.”

Yeonjun nods awkwardly. The door to the dressing room opens, and the prince steps through, ready for bed, pausing right outside the door to give the two of them an appraising look. Yeonjun finds himself meeting his eyes, more because he forgets himself in his pensiveness and does not realize he should look away when Taehyun’s eyes meet his than of any desire for a challenge.

“This has been quite a successful day,” the prince says, his eyes shifting to Beomgyu as well when he turns to look at the prince. “Thank you both for making it possible.”

They give him small bows, and he nods before stepping towards his bed room without looking back.

“Good night, ladies.”

They do not offer him a word of good night in return, and Beomgyu sighs before rising in his seat, leaning over the table impolitely to press a kiss to Yeonjun’s cheek.

“Good night, Yeonjun. Please give this more thought.”

Give what more thought? Yeonjun fails to ask, but by the time it occurs to him to do so, Beomgyu is already gone.

He sinks against the wall behind him, improper and ill-composed, and stays that way for a long time before picking himself back up to go to bed.

 

.

 

Yeonjun’s forehead presses into the backs of his hands, the jewels he has adorned himself with for the day digging into his skin. It is his punishment for his own vanity, and he lets that thought amuse him as he continues to hold the bow politely, as still as a statue. The carpet underneath him is much more comfortable to kneel on than the stone floor of the Emperor’s dining room – but perhaps that is deliberate. This bow is welcome, and is not meant to punish or degrade anyone.

It is a sweet little New Year’s tradition, like all the others.

“Many blessings upon you and your wife, my son. May your house be prosperous, and your fortunes plentiful.”

"May your wisdom grow as bountiful as leaves in the spring, and may all the fruits of your labor ripen with time.”

The sound of a bell rings out above them, and they slowly rise. Yeonjun stays kneeling while Taehyun picks himself up and approaches his father, handing him a ceremonial, dulled sword with a bow and receiving a red coin pouch in return. He steps up to the Empress and bows formally as well, and the woman touches the top of his head before handing him a single silver coin.

Yeonjun’s husband returns to his side, and he rises to approach the royals instead. He has no sword to renew his vow of loyalty to the Emperor with, so he only bows and extends both hands, for the man to lay a silver coin in them as well.

“Happy new year, Princess Consort.”

Yeonjun holds the coin between his palms, straightens his back and bows again with his joined hands at his chest, then steps over to the Empress to do the same.

“Happy new year, child.”

She gives him a coin as well, and he repeats the same bow before returning to his husband’s side. They bow all the way to the ground again, briefly this time, then a servant brings over a painted bowl of a milky wine with dried flowers floating atop it, and he hands it to the Emperor, who takes a sip, before it is taken to Taehyun, then the Empress, until Yeonjun is the last one to drink of it.

The bell rings again, and Taehyun takes a deep breath next to him.

“Taehyun.”

They will not be dismissed immediately, then. Yeonjun tries not to look too much like he has just realized this. In fact, he tries to pretend to not be present at all.

“Yes, Father.”

“You have been gambling with the name I have given you.”

Taehyun says nothing. His father leans to one side, letting his weight rest on one of the arm rests of his chair.

“I foresaw your path as a man leading in directions I might not understand, but I did not expect you to attempt to give the Kang family name a reputation for hedonism.”

“I am doing no such thing, Father.”

“No?” The Emperor rests his jaw in his own palm, looking at his son with eyes that so clearly try to figure the prince out, even as Taehyun is obviously trying to keep composure the best he can. “What is the aim then, Taehyun? Of showing off to the whole court what should be hanging off your cock behind closed doors?”

Taehyun closes his eyes for a little too long; wavers. Yeonjun wonders where Taehyun’s father fits into all of this – does he know what his brother is doing? Does he endorse it, even as he continuously talks to his son about wanting the best for him? He was the one who sent Iseul to bring Yeonjun and Beomgyu to him, not Taehyun’s uncle. If Taehyun was at least partially honest with him, if he told him he meant it to be a show of strength before his enemies, would he relent? Would he approve of it?

“I believe Omega Beomgyu would be wasted on the walls of my rooms, Father,” he says instead, and Yeonjun cannot believe he is hearing it. Taehyun’s voice is not the firmest he has ever heard it – but it comes out clear enough.

“Is he,” the Emperor sounds somewhere between amused and incredulous.

Taehyun lifts his head from having it politely lowered, addressing his father even more directly. “Indeed. You have granted me the service of a former statesman, of an omega with a keen mind and looks both worthy enough of representing my name when I choose them to. And I chose to have them represent me, yesterday.”

“So you believe yourself too good to put a child in him, but not too good to have him at your side in public?”

“I do not believe the matter of me siring children has anything to do with this, Father.”

His husband is actually doing this. Actually saying these things to his father’s face. Yeonjun cannot stop himself from biting his lip, and he hopes that his bowed head hides it sufficiently.

“It has everything to do with this, Taehyun – it is the only thing you have him for.”

“Why?” Now, Taehyun’s voice is firm. “He belongs to me, does he not? If I want him to do other things as well, then he will.”

“As well implies that you would also be taking advantage of his body, Taehyun. Are you?”

The prince cocks his chin. “In due time, if I have to. But for now I would prefer to conceive with my lawfully wedded wife – would you not find that more prudent? One heir by my wife means more than a household full of children born of concubines, does it not?”

It feels like a jab, and the Emperor shifting in his seat implies that Taehyun’s father saw it as such as well.

“You find this new year a proper occasion to talk back to your father, Taehyun?”

“I find this new year a proper occasion to rise to my promise as your heir, Father.”

“I would have never spoken to my father this way.”

“Yes, you would.”

The Emperor laughs. The Empress raises a sleeve to her mouth, but she does not seem to be laughing herself.

“Taehyun.”

“Yes.”

“You are embarrassing the both of us with your behavior.”

“I may be.”

“But?”

“I believe I know what I am doing.”

The Emperor tuts. “Do you not always?”

“Now more than ever,” Taehyun replies.

A silence follows. The old man’s fingers drum on the arm rests of his chair. Yeonjun’s lip stings from him biting it too hard. Taehyun stands tall, and the Empress never lowers her sleeve, her body strangely rigid. She reminds Yeonjun of Beomgyu in that moment in a terrible way.

“Get out of my sight, Taehyun.”

The prince gives the Emperor a formal bow that Yeonjun scrambles to mirror. “Happy new year, Father.”

 

.

 

The prince’s face gets more and more stony as they leave the Emperor’s quarters, his body as rigid as a piece of wood as Yeonjun holds onto his arm. There is not much he can do in the middle of a courtyard, but he smooths his thumb over the inside of his husband’s arm, hoping to soothe him. They come to a stop in the courtyard, and Yeonjun studies the prince’s form carefully.

“We could go back to your rooms,” he suggests quietly.

“We should go receive blessings from Madame Choi and her husband,” Taehyun retorts, but he sounds distracted. Lost in thought.

Yeonjun squeezes his elbow. “I do not want to see my aunt today, certainly not any more than you do.”

It would be impolite, but not unthinkable. Yeonjun pays his dues to his aunt like he would to his own mother out of a sense of gratitude, rather than any obligation. Including her in this tradition has been a concession Taehyun has been making to Yeonjun’s personal feelings on the matter for years now. Perhaps not visiting her this year would be enough of a display of Yeonjun’s opinion of his aunt’s offer, of her behavior, of what it said about her morals, if not about her love for Yeonjun as her nephew.

“We should see her, wife,” Taehyun insists, finally breaking out of the thoughtful mood he sunk into. “My uncle and the rest of them might yet believe I know nothing of what she had said to you. If you take me to see her, and I treat her the same way I always have, it might make them wonder, and it might be to our benefit.”

Yeonjun frowns. “You want them to believe that I have kept this from you? That I might yet consider betraying you?”

His husband shrugs, too easily for his liking. “They might grow complacent if they see you as an asset they can pull at whenever they wish to.”

He cannot believe what he is hearing. “My prince, I will not have them thinking so lowly of me, I—”

“For your own benefit, my wife. For mine. It is their foolishness, if they believe you to be a man you are not. Let it be to our advantage that we know better, and their detriment.”

“And behind closed doors, how will they talk of me?”

Taehyun reaches up, towards his face, and Yeonjun flinches back, making Taehyun drop his hand towards the hand clutching at his elbow instead, covering it. “If we handle this correctly, then the only way anyone will ever speak of you will be as the imperial advisor Prince Taehyun’s wife.”

Yeonjun swallows heavily, pinching his lips together tightly. It makes sense, but he dislikes the whole notion.

“Your aunt may yet believe you have told me everything she has told you, and that I have come to pay respects to her anyway. She may simply see me as unafraid – which I am.”

He watches his husband’s sincere expression with a frown on his own face. “You told him what you told Omega Beomgyu you would.”

Taehyun lowers his head, as if this was what made him bashful, rather than the idea of dangling the promise of his wife’s betrayal in front of his enemies. “Not quite. But I hope it was close enough to honor my word, anyway.”

“Do you wish for his approval?”

His husband looks up at him again. “I wish to be a man of honor – with or without his approval.”

Yeonjun nods. “Very well.” Maybe Yeonjun is the one wishing for Beomgyu’s approval – and Beomgyu would approve of this, would he not? He would find this strategy amusing. Compelling. Worthwhile. “Let us see my aunt, then.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun’s younger cousins are all in the room with them, as Yeonjun and Taehyun bow to his aunt and uncle. There is no bell here, no silver coins. Yeonjun’s uncle gives Yeonjun’s husband a pittance of real coin, a gob of spit in the ocean of his husband’s wealth. An insult, really. Instead of a large painted bowl, there are simply his aunt’s best cups of sweetwine that they each drink on their own. Yeonjun gives each of his little cousins envelopes of money stamped with his husband’s name, and kisses them on the head with the wish of a happy new year while Taehyun holds a polite conversation with Yeonjun’s uncle. His aunt is quiet nearly the whole time, aside from the scripted words she is to say when giving her blessings, but she usually is – she believes she should be, while the alphas are talking.

He is holding the hands of the youngest, listening to her tell him all about her studies in a hushed voice so as not to bother her father and the prince, when the conversation between the two obviously peters out, and his aunt finally speaks up.

“You may join us for lunch, if you would like, Your Highness. We could have another table set – unless you are headed directly for the temple?”

Yeonjun looks to Taehyun for guidance, still holding his cousin’s hands – perhaps that makes it too obvious how much he still relies on Taehyun; but even that could be something he does for show, rather than out of true devotion.

“We can stay a while longer,” Taehyun says in Yeonjun’s direction, before giving his aunt a smile and a slight bow. “It would be an honor to share your table – and my wife seems quite interested in catching up with your lovely children, either way.”

“Ah, they talk of His Grace all the time when he is not here,” Yeonjun’s uncle chimes in, perfectly politely gregarious. Yeonjun would have never guessed that he runs in circles where the prince’s name probably equals a curse. “Perhaps they will be quiet for once if they get their fill of him.”

“Ah, you speak so ill of them, uncle!” Yeonjun gasps in offense, playing by the same script he does. They might not share blood, but it may be they are one and the same. “Surely these sweet things would never give you a hard time!”

At least it makes his cousins genuinely smile. He hopes they will never have to face the same things they do – that they will never have to smile in the face of a relative who means them harm.

 

.

 

After lunch with Yeonjun’s family, that somehow becomes less tense than Yeonjun worried it would be as both he and Taehyun end up paying most of their attention to Yeonjun’s cousins instead of their parents, they go to the temple at the back of the palace gardens together, to pay respects to Yeonjun’s parents since they will not be able to visit them, and to Taehyun’s late mother. A servant is there, to ring a bell for them to rise, and to bring them wine in a single small cup that they share before pouring out the rest onto the altar. It feels strange now, to bow to the memory of Taehyun’s mother, knowing what he does. That there is more he may yet not know – to her story, and Taehyun’s. That Taehyun might not tell it to him, perhaps not ever, even if he were prompted to.

The thought makes him somber as they walk arm in arm back to Taehyun’s rooms, so Yeonjun can pretty himself up again before the evening’s festivities. A part of him does not even want to go – another part almost looks forward to getting to spend time with Beomgyu again. Today’s tradition, they may as well observe together.

Almost unsurprisingly, Soobin is there again when they arrive. He has taken his headband off and laid it across his lap where he sits opposite Beomgyu at the playing table, and somehow it makes him look more jovial than ever as he smiles at them when they enter.

It brightens up Yeonjun’s mood a little, and he gives Kyunsang a small smile while handing him his shrug.

“I have taken the liberty of inviting Captain Soobin inside when he arrived a little while ago – I believed making him wait in the cold for you, Your Highness, would have been quite cruel of me.”

Taehyun gives Kyunsang a smile as well. “Indeed it would – you did well, Kyunsang, thank you.”

“Will you be needing anything else?”

Taehyun looks questioningly at Yeonjun, who raises his eyebrows and looks at Beomgyu, who seems a little confused if intrigued.

“Well,” Yeonjun starts hesitantly. “I believe the two of us will have to start dressing now if we are to make it to the festivities before midnight,” he says as lightly as he can, and it makes Soobin chuckle if no one else. “So I think Omega Beomgyu and I will retire now – if you have eaten, darling?” Beomgyu gives a nod of his head, and Yeonjun gives Taehyun and Kyunsang a nod in turn. “We will not have need of refreshments or assistance, I believe, we will assist each other if necessary. So unless our honorable alphas are in need of refreshments?”

“We have wine and fish cakes,” Soobin points out, and Yeonjun huffs through his nose.

“Which you will be careful in indulging in, will you not, Captain? Since I will need my husband on his feet tonight.”

Soobin bows at the waist promptly. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun turns to Beomgyu. “Will you need much more time to finish your game? I jest about taking a long time to get ready, but I will most likely go ahead if you choose to linger here.”

“I believe that will not be necessary,” Beomgyu says sweetly before directing a beatific smile in the captain’s direction. “Captain Soobin will be more than happy to forfeit this match to me, will he not?”

Soobin juts his chin out, but it looks comical when he does it. His face is too gentle; his tone too jovial when he speaks out. “Are you afraid you would lose it to me had we played it to its conclusion, Omega Beomgyu?”

“Oh, not at all, Alpha Soobin – I only worry about the time. After all, you like to take your time making your moves, do you not?”

“I believe that is the recommended strategy, Omega Beomgyu,” Taehyun chimes in with a hint of amusement, taking a few steps closer to the playing table to study the match in progress. “As students of the game, we are encouraged to take our time choosing our next move rather than act rashly.”

Beomgyu looks up at the prince, tilting his head cutely. “It may be the way you were taught, Your Highness – but given the games I have played against Alpha Soobin, I cannot help but wonder if that is truly the optimal way to play.”

Soobin makes an offended sound, squeezing at his own knees tightly. The prince tilts his head in response, as he looks up from the playing table and at Beomgyu’s pretty face. “Perhaps I should be your opponent, one of these days.”

When Beomgyu raises his sleeve to his mouth, Yeonjun cannot help but see it for the mockery of politeness it most likely is. “Oh, Your Highness, you would do me that great honor? How generous of you.”

To his credit, Taehyun hardly lets himself be shaken by the theatrics – if anything, he seems to suppress a smile. “I believe I may yet learn something if we play against one another.”

Beomgyu drops his sleeve at the same time his eyebrows rise on his forehead, and his expression is equal parts intrigued and sly. “It may be so, Your Highness.”

 

.

 

“How was it?”

Yeonjun sighs to himself as he readjusts his earring. He knew Beomgyu might want to speak with him directly in private, but he was also hoping for a moment of respite while they dressed. “How was what?”

Beomgyu gives him an unimpressed look with his half-painted face. “Facing the beast, Your Grace,” he says dryly.

“Which one? The one that is my aunt or the one that is the prince’s father?”

Beomgyu snorts, but he looks away from the mirror again to give him a curious once-over. “You did go to see her, then?”

Yeonjun nods. He informed Beomgyu this morning that he would tell the prince they need not go on his behalf, thinking the prince would simply accept his decision, but… “The prince insisted we do.”

“To show her how little he cares about her machinations?” If anything, Beomgyu sounds delighted. Of course he would approve of this decision.

“Or make her think that he is not yet aware of it.”

Beomgyu narrows his eyes. “With the way you spoke to her when she was here, I struggle to imagine she would think you would do anything but run straight to your husband with the news.”

Yeonjun bites his lip – his lip paint is a mess at this point. “It may be.”

“Do you think it worked?”

He shrugs. “I do not know – my aunt would not be eager to let it show either way. And my uncle was as polite to us as ever.” With a sigh, he presses the fingers of one hand to his jewel-covered hairline. “At least I got to see the little ones.”

“Your cousins?”

Yeonjun hums an assent and nods. Beomgyu hums vaguely as well. Yeonjun wonders if Beomgyu has any siblings, or cousins to speak of as well. He hardly ever talks about the family he left behind, and Yeonjun is not sure how much of them he remembers.

Perhaps it would be insensitive of him to inquire – or Beomgyu would find it endearing. Today he does not have the strength within himself to find out.

“What of the Emperor, then?”

Yeonjun shrugs again. “I suppose his judgment came upon the prince belatedly, but it was not as bad as it could have been.” He could have punished them, banished them, made an example of them, but he did not. “Perhaps he understands he cannot have complete control over his son anymore.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No – I think Taehyun spoke loud enough to draw his attention away from me sufficiently.”

A look of absolute mirth overtakes Beomgyu’s face. “Did he raise his voice at his father?”

“Of course not,” Yeonjun denies emphatically, and unsurprisingly, Beomgyu looks disappointed. “But I believe he spoke clearly enough to make himself understood – that he has made a decision about how he wants to make us of you.”

Beomgyu sighs dramatically and turns back to the mirror. “Ah, and to say I almost forgot about my burden for a moment.”

Yeonjun’s face falls. “Beomgyu—”

“I jest,” are the words Beomgyu interrupts him with, turning around again to look at him with a sincere expression on his face. “Do not feel guilty on my behalf. This is the life we lead, we both know that.”

He nods jerkily, and Beomgyu nods back, sighing quietly before turning away again.

Yeonjun watches him paint for a moment, but another thought that comes to his mind unbidden has him breaking the silence between them once more.

“Have you done any celebrating of the new year of your own?”

Beomgyu blinks at his own reflection in the mirror. “Excuse me?”

Yeonjun fusses with his robes, feeling bashful. “There must be some tradition you could engage in even this far from home.”

“Hardly,” Beomgyu says a little curtly, obviously dismissive. “I have no ancestors to pay respects to here, no great parades to participate in, no ocean waves to throw rice into.” He huffs a little, and it sounds childish; petulant. “And I would not sit at your tea table eating melon seeds by myself.”

He bites his lips. “Here in the Empire, we pay respects to the family we cannot go see at the temple – I could take you to it tonight – there should hardly be anyone there at this hour. If you wanted to.”

“I have never done that, Yeonjun, and I do not wish for this to be the first time I do. I am not an imperial courtier, and I do not wish to become one – I will participate in your traditions, for you and for the prince, to get out of these quarters, but I will not adopt them. They are not mine. They are yours.”

Yeonjun nods jerkily. It makes sense, even if he does not enjoy hearing it. It is Beomgyu’s right to preserve his identity as much as he desires to.

Beomgyu sighs at himself in the mirror. “I spoke rashly. It is not meant as a slight against you.”

“I know,” Yeonjun responds quietly. “I will respect your wishes.”

“I know you will,” Beomgyu replies, and gives him a small smile through the mirror. Yeonjun returns it wanly.

Beomgyu finishes his paint, and Yeonjun replaces him at the mirror to refresh his own while Beomgyu goes to put his overcoat on. They tend to themselves in silence, on other sides of the room, until Beomgyu speaks up one more time.

“Have you given it any more thought?”

Right – his words from last night. The ones Yeonjun barely understood. “I did not know what you were talking about.”

Beomgyu sighs. “About letting your husband touch you, Your Grace. If you are determined for the two of you to conceive, are you certain you wish to do so with a husband you have been denying your touch to for weeks?”

Yeonjun frowns. “What do you mean?”

“That you are setting yourself up to be an omega in heat in the arms of an alpha who has been repressing his appetite for you time and time again,” Beomgyu says simply, plainly. “If you wish for your coupling to be a practical matter—”

“I do not.”

The thought of his husband taking him perfunctorily, coldly, out of obligation, makes him nauseous. He will allow it if he has to, of course he will, but that is not what he wishes for. He wishes his husband to hold him as passionately as he ever does – as he did on their wedding night. As he did the morning before. With desire and desperation and a need for his body, not the single-minded thought of siring an heir.

Beomgyu looks at him with surprise, but a relative lack of judgment. “No?”

“No.”

He all but expects the flirtatious tilt of Beomgyu’s head that follows. “Do you deny him to drive him mad for you, then? To heighten his desire?”

Yeonjun purses his mouth. There is a flush to his face, but Beomgyu’s words are not true, as much as he wishes for the prince to want him. “I denied him because he angered me. Because he continues to frustrate me. Because I am not convinced he deserves me.”

Out of all the things he thinks Beomgyu might do or say, he does not imagine he would laugh, but that is the reaction he gets – a high, entirely too loud, girlish laugh.

“Oh, you are so cruel sometimes, Your Grace – he has taught you well, hasn’t he?”

 

.

 

Even as the sound of flutes permeates the courtyard they are standing in, the sound of drums carries over the palace, from the city and some other courtyards alike, mixing with distant strings, with the sound of loud conversation and singing, creating a dizzying cacophony of festivity. Before them, some servants throw powder into the large bonfire the people are gathered around, and it briefly bursts into color, to the shrieking of children and laughter of adults. Beomgyu clutches at Yeonjun’s sleeve at the sight, but he does not make a sound. It seems they did not employ tricks like these in the Golden City.

They stand together, drinking spiced wine that makes Yeonjun’s head a little fuzzy with the familiar smell of it, and watch the commotion in relative peace. Every now and then, someone wanders over to their side, to make small talk with the prince or with Yeonjun, and they exchange simple new year’s greetings before they go their separate ways. A few of them are Soobin’s relatives, and those always stay the longest, and speak to the two of them the warmest. Every one of their brief visitors politely ignores Beomgyu.

Beomgyu seems delighted to see the dancing that takes place, his eyes glowing with the firelight as he hardly takes his eyes off of the flowing skirts and fluttering sleeves while it is going on. He pulls at Yeonjun’s sleeve, and asks him in a hushed voice if he had ever performed anything like this. It makes him blush, even though he assumes Beomgyu does not realize the tinge of shame Yeonjun feels when he admits he has. He was not too good to dance before the court. Just honorable enough, just poor enough to dance with other young omegas who were almost of age at the spring festival, to show himself off as a beautiful maiden with prospects, the promise of the Court. Even though he was all but held by the prince already.

But it was a beautiful memory for him, even though his aunt hated to see him do it. Even though it probably hurt the prince, to see his future wife flaunt his unclaimed status in front of everyone. Yeonjun danced with precision and grace and the lighthearted abandon of someone who could see his own future forming right before his eyes – blooming with the spring. He danced a maiden’s dance for the wife he could see himself being. With the joy of a newlywed.

“You must show me sometime,” Beomgyu implores, and he seems as simple as a child, and Yeonjun thinks he loves him dearly in this moment.

“Maybe,” he says hesitantly, but Beomgyu nods as if he answered with an enthusiastic yes.

At some point, Yeonjun sees a group of young omegas linking arms as they leave the courtyard together, and simply out of a passing fancy, he leans towards his husband.

“I wish to take Omega Beomgyu to the gardens – may I?”

Taehyun looks taken aback by the request. “Why so?”

Yeonjun finds himself smiling. “I believe it may amuse him to see their divinations.”

The prince gives Beomgyu a doubtful look. “Do you think he will be much interested in having his fortune told by them? He does not seem to be in dire need of a husband.”

Yeonjun pouts. “We will observe – we need not participate.” Then an amusing thought comes over him, and he narrows his eyes at Taehyun. “Does the thought make you jealous, my prince? Of your omega divining himself a future in the arms of another alpha?”

His husband seems adorably offended by the notion. “Ah, just go, wife. Enjoy yourselves. Soobin and I will stay here.”

He laughs, despite himself, and brushes his hand against his husband’s arm briefly. “Thank you, my prince. You are most kind. Come with me, Omega Beomgyu.”

 

.

 

They stand on a bridge together, a polite distance away, so as to not disturb the children in their activity. The omegas they are watching are young, perhaps too young to have any concrete idea of which alpha they are to marry, but Yeonjun understands the sentiment. From a young age, they are taught to aspire to the hearts of alphas the same way alphas are taught to aspire to titles. Young alphas might try to divine which position they are to hold at court one day, if it is not already preordained to them by birth, and young omegas try to divine the face and the name of the husband they are to take. It is as simple as that.

“What is the point of this one, then?” Beomgyu asks a little skeptically, as they watch the children carefully set their lanterns on the water of the pond. Unfortunately, he does not seem as interested in these traditions as Yeonjun was hoping for him to be – but his obvious apprehension is amusing as well.

“They put a little strip of paper with the name of their beloved in the lantern,” Yeonjun explains, having to suppress a small laugh as one of the omegas slips on the shore of the pond, his foot slipping into the water, making the little boy shriek sharply enough to startle the whole garden. “If it remains afloat, that means they are to marry one day. If it sinks, or if the fire in the lantern burns the paper up, that means they are not meant to be.”

Beomgyu frowns, a pout curving his lips. “Is this not what you and Soobin talked about doing together? Was he divining the name of his husband as well?”

Yeonjun laughs quietly. “Of course not. He was asking whether he should leave court and live with us.”

“And his lantern floated?” Yeonjun nods. “Did you put the prince’s name in yours?”

He nods again. He remembers his hand trembling with the careful strokes of the name Kang Taehyun. He was so childish, even at that age.

“And I assume it floated as well.”

He bites his lips. “It stayed afloat, but the fire burnt the paper up as I was setting it on the water – I think Soobin did not notice, and I did not tell him. He seemed… joyful, about the prospect of serving me and the prince as a royal couple, and I have never truly believed in these divinations, anyway.”

“They are ways for children to pass the time,” Beomgyu says quietly, barely above a whisper. “Kai used to believe them, he would—”

“Lady Yeonjun.”

They startle, and Yeonjun straightens up from where he was leaning some of his weight on the railing of the bridge. The two of them drop into formal bows, when the dim light of the garden reveals the familiar form of Kang Iseul.

“Your Highness.”

As they straighten back up, Iseul looks in the direction they were looking before, and smiles. “Are you here to have your fortune told, my lady? I believe this activity is more suited to the maidens of the court.”

Yeonjun does his best to smile back. “We are only here to look, Your Highness. I will admit I have taken to reminiscing.”

“Ah, did you partake as well when you were a child?” Iseul leans her head to one side. “It must have only given you signs of good fortune for your marriage with my honorable cousin if you have chosen him in the end.”

It did not; indeed it did not. Did she hear? She could have. He thinks she must have, because she does not wait for him to answer before continuing.

“It certainly was a great fortune to him, to be able to take you as his wife. Not every Kang gets the benefit of a wife quite as graceful as you.”

Yeonjun can feel his expression stiffening. He hopes it does not show.

“You have always held your head higher than others, Lady Yeonjun – illustrious lineage or not. It is no wonder the prince took notice of you. Many did.”

He nods stiffly. His mouth grows drier with every breath he takes.

“But what are boons of fortune to us, should we squander them? What becomes of them?”

He hopes the collar of his robes hides his nervous swallow, but he doubts it does. Iseul must see right through him. Must be well aware of what she is doing, of how aware of what her words mean Yeonjun is.

“I have been nothing but careful with my own fortune, Lady Yeonjun. I hold my blessings carefully, and with dignity.” She looks at Beomgyu, and her eyes narrow before she turns then to Yeonjun again, and they widen, sharp and catlike even with a sincere expression in them. “I am judicious with how I treat what belongs to me – the way Kang alphas are taught to.”

Yeonjun breathes carefully as she stops talking. Beomgyu does not move at his side. Iseul stands tall, with her hands behind her back, dignified and royal. Everything Yeonjun has ever strove to be.

“I have not had the pleasure of meeting your wife tonight,” he says eventually, and his voice is too thin, but it comes out regardless. “Have you left her behind when you came here?”

Iseul huffs through her nose, and Yeonjun cannot decide if it is a sound of amusement or disdain. “She is quite comfortable in the company of the wives of my siblings, thank you for your concern, Lady Yeonjun. You are as compassionate with other omegas as ever. Where might your husband be? My honorable cousin.”

“He is quite comfortable in the company of the captain Soobin,” Yeonjun retorts, as kindly as he can. “Thank you for your concern, Your Highness.”

“He would not accompany you?”

He did not expect her to try and continue the conversation, and it makes him waver. “I believe he is not much interested in observing children’s games, Your Highness.”

“Or in children in general,” Iseul quips, too good-natured for the dig at Taehyun’s dignity it is.

“We both know he has bigger things to worry about.”

Iseul smiles fully, and her cat-like eyes give her a predatory air. “Indeed we do, Lady Yeonjun. As do you, do you not? Perhaps you should have your fortune told. In this time of change. One can never be careless with their future.”

Yeonjun’s hands clench. “It is all we have, after all.”

“Indeed, Lady Yeonjun. Nothing else lies before us.”

There is a moment of silence, and Iseul seems to take it for the end to their conversation it probably should be, as she gives Yeonjun a bow.

“In any event – happy new year, Lady Yeonjun. May it be one of wise decisions, and a bountiful fortune for you.”

“Not for my husband?”

Iseul’s eyes scrunch with her smile – she looks handsome like this, to Yeonjun’s chagrin. “You are meant to wish me a happy new year in return, Lady Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun bows slowly, ostentatiously. “Happy new year, Your Highness. May your house remain wealthy and prosperous.”

With another huff, this time certainly of amusement, Iseul thanks him before leaving them, crossing the bridge to the other side of the garden. Yeonjun chews on his lips as they watch her go. He wishes this new year could have been a time of peace for them, rather than this.

 

.

 

Beomgyu is in preheat.

It strikes Yeonjun unexpectedly, as they sit in the front room at the end of their day, Yeonjun and Soobin sharing cups of cinnamon punch that makes Yeonjun crave for his husband's lips in a terrible way, and the prince and Beomgyu sitting opposite each other at the playing table. It is their second game of the night already – the first one ended in a draw, after Beomgyu tried to win it simply by making his moves quickly and seemingly carelessly, obviously hoping for his boldness to make the prince waver and doubt himself enough to give him the opening to win. But Taehyun seems to have withheld well enough, and now Beomgyu is obviously taking this second game much more seriously. He is quieter, not as full of taunts and disparaging little comments as he was before, and he makes his moves more deliberately now. Yeonjun wonders if Taehyun notices it – if he realizes the no doubt grudging respect it betrays. He may just be too focused on the game. Soobin seems to notice, either way, if the amused looks he keeps giving the table are anything to go by.

The scent hits Yeonjun unexpectedly between one breath and the next. One moment his attention is on Soobin as he tells Yeonjun about how his siblings are doing, and the next, his breath catches in his throat as it fills with the smell of sweet citrus. At first, he believes it to be the smell of Beomgyu's arousal, and looks to him in shock, only to be met with Beomgyu's placid face, his lips drawn into a pout. But then he realizes that rather than a persistent tinge of honey weaving through the usual sharp citrus, there is a richness to the scent Beomgyu's arousal does not carry. A mouthwatering ripeness, that nips at the teeth, that unsettles the tongue with the desire to taste it. Beomgyu's heat scent.

He studies Beomgyu for signs of preheat, but if there was a flush to his lips or cheeks, a glow to his skin, a plumpness to his usually lithe figure, it would now be carefully hidden behind layers of paint and clothing. Did they take an omega in preheat into public? Or did his scent ripen this way while they were sitting here? Yeonjun hopes it is the latter – he could ask Beomgyu, later, when they are alone in the dressing room, but the thought of it makes his heart stutter. Inquiring about Beomgyu's heat, like a hungry alpha who cannot wait to taste it. It should not carry this weight for him, for a fellow omega, but it does – in his own heat, he imagined burying his own face between Beomgyu's thighs countless times. Some things he cannot come back from.

The prince licks his lips, and the gesture seems thoughtful more than anything, but Yeonjun wonders anyway. Can he taste it on his lips? The sweetness of Beomgyu's citrus. Does it move him? Does it stir his loins? Does it set him alight in some way? Would it drive him wild to taste it off of Beomgyu's neck? To drink it from the lap that warms itself for him in this way?

He is unsure which answer he would hope for – which one would ease his mind. It should be no, if he truly loves Beomgyu. It should be yes, if he were a good wife. A good omega. A good packmate.

But they are not a pack, nor will ever be. That is not something imperial nobles should strive for.

 

.

 

Beomgyu won his second game with the prince. Taehyun was a good sport about it, perhaps to Beomgyu’s disappointment, as he made sure to rub his victory in as much as possible, but then again, there was a kind of delight on his face even as Taehyun continued to fail to rise to challenge even when deliberately provoked. Perhaps the prince’s composure was as amusing to Beomgyu as his petty anger would be.

Now they are in the dressing room together, and Yeonjun brushes his hair while he watches Beomgyu undress – he should not be looking, but he is. His eyes search hungrily for a softness to his curves. To a familiar roundness of his breast.

“Have you seen your fill yet, Your Grace?” Beomgyu teases lightly, quietly – Soobin has left, but the prince is either in the front room or his study, and they cannot know which. They have to be careful.

Caught, he looks down at his own lap, and drags the comb through his hair more roughly. “Are you in preheat, Beomgyu?”

“Am I?” It sounds like it is as much of a surprise to Beomgyu as it was to Yeonjun, and he lifts his own wrist to his face to sniff at it. “… I must be. I believe the scent was not there this morning.”

Yeonjun chews on his lip, unladylike. “I only noticed it now, when you were playing.”

Beomgyu frowns at his own scent gland. “Then I suppose it only changed now.”

“We are fortunate to be leaving soon, then.”

Will there even be time? If Beomgyu’s preheat lasts a tenday, and they have to spend another day at the Court before they can leave, and they need to make the journey back to their estate… will they have arrived by the time it comes in full force?

“Yes,” Beomgyu nods distractedly. He seems to pause, half-undressed.

“I will have our escort make sure the journey goes as swiftly as possible – so you may be safe and comfortable.”

But Beomgyu only offers him a similarly distracted smile. “Thank you.”

Yeonjun clears his throat. “Beomgyu, I—”

“Will I have to hide my scent for the journey?”

Ah. Yeonjun has not thought of that, yet. “Well. For the day of our departure, almost certainly. One’s preheat scent is not something the court should have to endure. But for our journey…” It will be just the two of them. Him and Beomgyu, and Beomgyu’s incredible scent, enclosed together for days. “I suppose I can endure it well enough. We will cover your scent glands at our accommodation, and make sure no alphas guard you, just in case.”

Beomgyu nods, looking a little pale. “Thank you, Yeonjun.”

He hates having to suppress his scent as much as anyone else – he can have compassion with Beomgyu in this matter. “Of course.”

 

.

 

The dawn of the third day of the New Year’s celebrations does not bring with it Soobin’s company for once, but it introduces a whole host of decisions for him and Taehyun to make. On the first day of the New Year, they are expected to make and accept visits and exchange gifts with people outside of the circle of family, and choosing when to stay home and when to go out, who to visit and who to leave out and which gifts to grant them is always a careful balancing game. There is only so much time in the day, missing someone’s visit to their rooms would be awfully awkward, even if they could always send a servant with their gift afterwards, and the complex art of gift-giving sometimes has so many rules even Yeonjun’s well-educated head spins with it a little as he tries to give Kyunsang careful instructions to the best of his ability.

Beomgyu watches them with open amusement, as the both of them virtually forgo their breakfast in favor of organizing their day carefully. They will spend the morning in their rooms, to give a chance to the less important courtiers who wish to ingratiate themselves with the prince by visiting them, then visit the lords councilor around lunch, when they will most likely be at home and not too busy to accept them. Then they can go see Soobin’s family, and the allies and friends of the prince’s who do not come see them themselves in the morning. Usually, they would take Kyunsang on their rounds with them, to carry their gifts for them, but since Beomgyu would have to cover himself in scent dampening ointments just to step outside the doors of Taehyun’s rooms and nobody including Beomgyu has any desire to make him do so, they will need him to stay back and care for Beomgyu, and receive gifts on their behalf.

Taehyun offers Beomgyu his study as the room for him to occupy and entertain himself in while he all but hides from their guests to keep his scent as contained as possible, and he laughs in the prince’s face.

“I would rather get stepped on by your servants hiding in that nook than smell alpha all day,” he says with his nose scrunched, eyes narrowed.

The prince looks chastised, and lowers his head with deference. “I only thought it would be more comfortable for you. It has books, a table, and a more comfortable seat for resting.”

“Omega Beomgyu could have my bedroom for the day,” Yeonjun finds himself suggesting before he can think better of it, and Taehyun looks at him curiously. “It would be comfortable enough as well – he can take his books with him, and rest on my bed. I would not mind.”

His husband seems to study his face carefully – sometimes Yeonjun truly wonders how much he knows, how much of his relationship with Beomgyu he understands. “Would you find an omega’s scent more acceptable, Omega Beomgyu?”

“Infinitely,” Beomgyu responds shamelessly, so blunt Yeonjun almost expects him to add that he would prefer Yeonjun’s scent most of all. But he does not – only watches the prince carefully for any hint of weakness he might end up showing.

Taehyun gives him nothing, only a nod of his head. “Then you may have my wife’s bedroom at your disposal.”

Yeonjun takes a shaky breath at the idea of sleeping on sheets soaked in the sweetness of Beomgyu’s preheat. He only hopes his scent does not shift enough to make it noticeable what direction his thoughts have taken.

It seems it does not, because the next few moments pass entirely peacefully, Beomgyu eating and the prince drinking tea while Yeonjun struggles to tame his mind again and think of his responsibilities instead. Then the prince closes his eyes and lowers his cup, only opening his eyes back up once it hits the table.

“I have a request to make of you, Omega Beomgyu.”

He seems entirely serious and sincere, but Beomgyu responds with his usual air of mocking lightheartedness.

“What is it, Your Highness?”

Taehyun meets Beomgyu’s eyes, and perhaps the intensity in the prince’s ones is enough to curb some of Beomgyu’s appetite for jokes, because his face sobers slightly as well. “Your heat is approaching.”

Now Yeonjun sobers as well. Beomgyu visibly swallows.

“Yes.”

The prince takes a deep breath. “Would you let me visit you during it?”

Beomgyu lets out an aborted laugh, or a scoff, or something in between. “Pardon?”

“I would like to see you during your heat,” Taehyun repeats with a surprising amount of conviction in his voice – where it comes from, Yeonjun has no idea. “Not during the… worst of it. When you are well. I will not touch you or even come near you. I will not even speak to you if you do not wish me to.”

Beomgyu squints at him in confusion and obvious distrust. “Then why would you come at all?”

Responding obviously takes a bit of conviction on Taehyun’s part, with how much his face moves without making a sound for a long moment, but then he answers nonetheless. “To get used to omega heat scent.” He swallows, and Yeonjun’s eyes follow the jump of his Adam’s apple. “I have not… experienced it since the heat my wife shared with me when we married – aside from… the traces of your scent I was given during my rut. But that is different from the scent of an omega in heat who would be present before me, and I…”

“You?” Beomgyu’s voice sounds ambiguous – as if he himself does not know how to feel.

The prince looks down at the table between them. “I feel like I cannot predict my own reaction to it. I fear it might be…”

“Strong?” Now amusement finds its way back to Beomgyu’s voice, but Taehyun shakes his head.

“Not necessarily. Undesirable in any event.”

Yeonjun thinks about the morning he spent with the prince. About his lack of reaction to him insinuating the two of them spending Yeonjun’s heat together. Is that what he is talking about? The lack of excitement, the fear. Is that what he is hoping to cure with lungfuls of Beomgyu’s heat scent.

“No, this is not what you will be doing. Neither of you.” He tries to speak firmly, but he hardly does. Beomgyu looks at him curiously, and Taehyun looks at his shoulder instead of facing him. “You will spend my heat, at my side, and whatever reaction you have, I will handle. Suffer it, if I have to.”

Finally, his husband looks at him, and his eyes are surprisingly imploring. Soft, where he expects them to be firm. “I fear it will be worse if it is you.”

“So you want to ride it out with the omega you care about less?” Beomgyu sounds more amused than offended, but that is hardly surprising.

“I think you understand, Omega Beomgyu, that I feel stronger about my wife than I do about you.”

“Oh, certainly,” this time, Beomgyu’s voice sounds a bit sharper, but his tone clears up quickly enough. “Do you think you could control yourself around me then, if not him? You give big promises for a man who does not trust himself not to be rash around me in heat.”

“I do,” Taehyun says, firmer this time. “And if I fail to do so I trust you not to let me do anything to you that you would not wish me to.”

Beomgyu cocks his chin. “And you do not trust your wife to do so?” His mouth twitches when Taehyun takes too long to answer. “Because you know he would do nearly anything for you out of a sense of duty.”

Yeonjun feels bile rising up into his throat and presses a sleeve to his mouth tightly. The prince seems to smell his distress, because he reaches out a hand towards him and says Beomgyu’s name sharply at the same time.

But Beomgyu seems too focused on the prince right now to worry about him, because he leans closer to the alpha instead. “If I were to have to fight you off, I would not care what became of you when I was done. If you made me rip your throat out, I would.”

Taehyun nods, a bit pale but earnest, and Beomgyu snorts.

“Have you learned nothing, princeling? I told you your wife needs you, not that you need to run yourself through with a sword for him. Do you have his future figured out yet? Do you know what will become of him if you die? Or are you really so eager to see it happen that you are unable to think about that properly?”

The prince drops his eyes to the table. Yeonjun still feels like he might vomit, should he take his hand off his mouth. His blind devotion, and the prince’s lifeless body. Beomgyu covered in blood. The welcoming embrace of Prince Iseul, if he is lucky. A life of living off the kindness of his relatives, most likely. Or the arms of a different husband. One who would never have let an angry omega rip their throat out for him. Who would demand of him everything he chooses to do out of devotion now. Who would not temper his anger for him. Who would use his name carelessly in front of others. Who would be reckless with his body, and indifferent to his heart.

When the prince fails to argue, Beomgyu scoffs and straightens back up. “Let me make you a counteroffer, prince. One that may benefit both of us.”

Taehyun nods without lifting his eyes. Beomgyu’s lips pinch together briefly before he continues.

“I hate the smell of alphas.”

That makes Taehyun look up at him. Beomgyu catches the prince’s eyes as if he were enchanting him, as if an invisible thread made him follow Beomgyu’s eyes wherever they moved.

“It may be that I feel the same way about it as you do about the smell of heat. I do not know what I would do, if I were subjected to it during my heat. I like to think I would be able to keep my wits about myself, that I would react the way I have for all the years I have been married. That I would be able to quiet my mind and do whatever was expected of me. But perhaps I would not. Perhaps I would attack you. Perhaps I would freeze up in fear, and when you lost control of yourself, I would not be strong enough to fight you off – and then we would both have to live with the knowledge of what happened.”

The prince nods again, still mute. Beomgyu’s chest rises and falls at a more rapid pace.

“Let me have your wife, prince.”

Yeonjun finally drops his hand off of his mouth. Taehyun blinks, obviously uncomprehending.

“Pardon?”

“Have your wife be there with you when you see me, and let me find comfort in him. The smell of alphas agitates me, but I find his soothing. I believe it would help you as well – you might not be strong enough to control yourself for my benefit, but I think you would be for his. And if you failed, he would be there to stop you, he would be there to stop me if I were to fail myself. He could stand between us. And neither of us would let him come to harm, would we?”

Taehyun shakes his head. Beomgyu nods. Yeonjun slams his fist into the table, making the dishes atop it jump noisily.

“No.”

And again, his husband looks at him so pitifully. A little boy begging for a treat.

“Are you insane, Taehyun? No! Either take his heat or don’t! Take mine or don’t! Do not involve me in this! If you cannot give me a child, say that. If you cannot bring yourself to take my heat, own up to it! We will do what is necessary – but do not play games with us.”

“Yeonjun—” Beomgyu speaks up, but Yeonjun ignores him, turning his ire towards him instead.

“And why are you indulging him? Encouraging this? Do you not know better? Does this not disgust you? For you two to hold me between you as leverage against each other because you do not want to touch one another? You are an alpha and an omega – I will not stand by while nature draws you into each other’s arms in front of my eyes. I am willing to allow much, but not this. Not like this.” He looks at Taehyun again, sharply, disdainfully. “You may be afraid of yourself, but I am not afraid of you. Whether you are limp against me or leaving me bloody, I do not care.”

He barely knows what he is saying at this point, all he knows is that he does not want this. He will not allow this. No. No.

“Yeonjun.”

It is spoken by Beomgyu, but to his ears the tone says alpha. Husband. It says to listen. To submit.

There are tears in his eyes he did not notice gathering. He nods.

“It is my heat. And it is your prince’s to claim if he chooses to.” Beomgyu leans closer to him, reaches out to touch the fabric covering his folded legs. “If he chooses to see me, in all politeness and chastity, do your morals say I am to say no? You have no qualms with him taking me and having a child with me, but you fuss about him standing in the doorway watching me suffer like your ladies did during my last heat? What difference does it make if it is the prince instead of them? At least he has a real claim to being there, unlike them. You came to me during my heat, and I came to you during yours. We said there is a bond, between you and I and the prince, that is calming to all of us. If you are there, with your scent, we will be calmer than ever. Nothing has to happen. So very little would have to change, from my previous heat. Just one more face at my door, same as the others.”

His chest rises and falls, stuttering. “What will our household think of us?”

Beomgyu’s fingers close in the fabric of his morning robe. “That your prince is as strange as he ever is. Staring longingly at what he should be taking by fistfuls. It is his shame, not yours.”

But it has always been his shame, and now Beomgyu’s as well. Not good enough, to be taken the way nature dictates. Not good enough for the prince to fight his weakness and conquer it for their sake. Never good enough to have things come to him easy, to not have every blessing come chased by a curse. Always more words to swallow back for his husband’s sake, injustices to look away from, time and time again. Indignities and spit upon his name and his devotion, and over, and over, and over again.

“Whatever burden comes with this, I will bear it.”

He looks at Taehyun, who looks stricken, but determined.

“If anyone says anything, blame me. Say it was my decision, mine alone. That I forced Omega Beomgyu to accept this – that I forced you to. If you let me have this, then I will give you everything you want. I do not want Omega Beomgyu’s heat, I want to take yours like I promised to you, and I will do it the way I am supposed to. I will man up, I will… be an alpha, I will be what you need me to be. You need not respect my decision, or Omega Beomgyu’s for that matter. But if we are determined to do this for our own sakes, then all we ask of you is your assistance. To help us endure this as peacefully as possible.”

He shakes his head. “I will not.”

“Would you rather have us succumb to each other against our will?” Beomgyu asks quietly, but his voice betrays that he understands the severity of his own words.

“If my absence makes the two of you think better than to run the risk of it happening, then we will all be better for it,” Yeonjun responds coldly.

“Am I to force you to do this as well, wife?” Taehyun sounds a bit lost; hurt and unsure.

“Who do you think you are, Taehyun? Some nomad king, to have your omegas share their cycles with one another? Making one’s heats our heats? Will your weakness have you sharing mine with Omega Beomgyu? Will it lead you to bringing another alpha into my bed? The thought seems to arouse you enough – will you make me bear their child instead of yours? Will your weakness be satisfied then? Once I’ve given myself to another? You disgust me, Taehyun. Do not ever speak to me of this again.”

He stands up and storms off into the dressing room, entirely childish and ill-composed. But the two of them are children in their own right. Mad children.

 

.

 

The worst part is, when Beomgyu sinks to his knees before him and pulls his head down to rest on his own shoulder, Yeonjun does not fight him. When he tucks his hair behind his ear and shushes him, he does not flinch away. He allows the lips pressing into his hair, the hand smoothing down his shoulder.

He lets it happen.

Beomgyu rolls Yeonjun’s earlobe between his fingers, and sighs.

“Do you believe I have betrayed you?”

Yeonjun nods firmly into his shoulder without a word.

“Why?”

Finally, he lifts himself up into a sitting position again, to narrow his eyes at Beomgyu. “You took his side.”

“Because I saw little wrong with his offer,” Beomgyu responds calmly – his face seems unusually placid for a man of his capacity for passion. “As I said, it could be a small adjustment to make, and if this is what he believes he needs to carry out his duty to you—”

“Should he not just be able to do that?” He finds himself frowning, uncomprehending.

But to his surprise, Beomgyu nods instead of arguing. “Certainly. Just as I should be able to give him my heat without any concern. But I have concerns, anyway. I fear it, the thought of it, willing as I may be to let it happen should I need to.”

Yeonjun shakes his head. “You have good reason to.”

“Do I?” Beomgyu’s voice is surprisingly thin. “Your prince is not my husband. He is not… a careless guard who would do nothing but disrespect me. And who is to say your prince has no reasons of his own?”

“Stop defending him, Beomgyu!” he manages to keep his voice down, but it comes out painful and incredulous nonetheless. “This is not like you.”

Beomgyu reaches out, and squeezes Yeonjun’s hand in his own. “Then let me defend you. Protect you.”

Yeonjun frowns. Beomgyu tightens his grip.

“You may not care how he reacts to you, but I do. If there is any, even the slightest danger of him hurting you, because of whatever weakness afflicts him, then give me the chance to prevent it.”

“By putting yourself in his path instead?”

“By giving him an omega he does not care to take,” Beomgyu says insistently. “Were you not listening, Yeonjun? And if you worry for my safety, then do what we say – be there. Hold him back if you have to. Be strong where we falter – and then, once we have steeled ourselves with this experience, we can be strong for you in turn.”

His lip wobbles; his eyes fall down to their joined hands. “What if I cannot be strong? What then?”

With a sigh, Beomgyu lifts his other hand to his cheek to caress it. “Then I will not fault you for faltering. And if he tries to, he will hardly have a leg to stand on.” He shakes Yeonjun’s hand, still tight in his grip. “And I will bite his tongue off myself rather than let him speak ill of you.”

He cannot suppress the watery laugh that escapes him. Beomgyu lifts their hands, and kisses the back of Yeonjun’s.

“But I believe it will not come to this – not if you are with us. Please trust me, if you will not trust him. Or at least consider our words.”

Yeonjun nods weakly. Beomgyu kisses his hand again, then rubs his cheek against it, his determined expression softening, into something thoughtful and melancholic.

“Thank you.”

 

.

 

“Your father will never allow this.”

Taehyun looks up at him, as Yeonjun ties his headband carefully. “Excuse me?”

Yeonjun has not spoken a word towards him since he entered the dressing room. Now he frowns at him strictly, like a disapproving parent. “You said your father demands your presence at his side at all times. If you are to do… whatever you intend to, with Omega Beomgyu’s heat, then you will have to come home with us. There is not much time left.”

His husband’s mouth tightens, but he nods as Yeonjun finishes tying his headband and he is free to. “I will speak to him – and if he questions my decision to leave, then I will make it clear to him that he is to let me go if he ever wishes me to give him a grandchild.”

His eyebrows raise in surprise, and his shock only continues and the prince fails to waver completely.

“Let him decide which is more important to him – exercising his power over me, or our future.”

Yeonjun’s teeth sink into his bottom lip. “And if it is the former?”

Now Taehyun takes a moment to think, but it is not a long moment at all. “Then he can send as many letters berating me as he chooses to – we will need fuel for the fires to keep us warm in our house for the remainder of this winter, anyway.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

just because it comes up in this chapter, please imagine that if Beomgyu and Yeonjun were to write their family names, they'd be different characters TT they're just pronounced the same so it confuses people TT

Chapter 12

Notes:

please accept this token of my good will while i do my best to create more of this lmao

i hope you guys are ready to love txt through the hiatus, too.

thank you for all the engagement on c11, I had mixed feelings about how it came out so it was great to see feedback \o/ love you.

“We are leaving the Court?”

The words carry through the tea room, even though until now, Soobin and the prince were carrying their conversation out in hushed voices, mindful of Yeonjun and Beomgyu having a quiet conversation of their own over the table overflowing with new years’ gifts in the center of the room. They strike the peace in the room oddly, resonating through the muted atmosphere in an awkward ripple of motion. Beomgyu’s fingers clench into the bough of fabric he is holding. The pendants decorating Yeonjun’s hair clink together too loud as he holds himself still, trying not to acknowledge the other conversation going on. Taehyun’s shoulders shift slightly before he answers.

“Yes – we will accompany the ladies on their journey back to our household.”

“I thought you said we were stuck in here until after the spring celebrations at the earliest.”

It is obvious the alphas are trying to keep their voices down again, but now that he and Beomgyu have stopped speaking so suddenly, they have to know that they are listening in on their conversation regardless; but if they wanted to talk privately, they would have taken this to the front room instead, would they not? Or retire to the prince’s study together. There is no good reason for Soobin to be lingering in the door of the tea room like this, if they wanted for this talk to be confidential.

“There has been a change in circumstances.”

Yeonjun watches Beomgyu’s face shift, his mouth pinching in an expression of distaste.

“What made His Imperial Majesty change his mind?”

There is a pause as Taehyun hesitates. Beomgyu’s eyes meet Yeonjun’s, and the expression in them is inscrutable.

“He has not changed his mind. I did.”

“What?”

Another pause, and away from Soobin’s eyes, Taehyun’s hands clench tighter behind his back. “I have things to tend to in my household – father cannot try to stop me only because he wants to feel like he has control over me again.”

Yeonjun cannot see Soobin’s face from his vantage point, but he can hear the incredulity in his voice. “But he is not just your father, he's the Emperor.”

“What can he do, if he disagrees with my choice? Be angry with me? He is already angry for a dozen other reasons. He will not strip me of my titles or disown me because I chose to spend a few days in my home instead of at his side. Besides, if I do not give him the time to move against me, if I announce my intention tomorrow morning and we leave before noon, there will not be time for him to make a scene, unless he wants me to leave with the court in disarray while I am not there to run his errands for him and keep his courtiers placated.”

“Say that all makes sense, my friend – what good reason could there possibly be to take this kind of risk? What business is there at home that cannot be taken care of without you?”

Before Taehyun can formulate an answer, Beomgyu drops the fabric he is holding and rises to his feet, crossing the room to get to the door followed by silence and three stunned pairs of eyes, until he reaches Soobin and bluntly, impolitely, incredibly inappropriately, in fact, shoves his wrist in the alpha’s face. Yeonjun has to admit the gesture would have seemed much more impressive had he not had to reach his hand up so significantly – either way, it makes him gasp, and the first sound to break the silence is his scandalized hiss of Beomgyu’s name.

“Do not worry, Your Grace,” Beomgyu says lightly, his eyes narrowing in amusement as Soobin’s nose scrunches and he flinches away from Beomgyu’s wrist. “We all know that Alpha Soobin is hardly going to be affected by me – I could strip myself bare before all of you right now, and he would remain as limp as ever, would you not, Captain?”

Soobin looks at Beomgyu altogether unamused, but he gives his sweet-smelling wrist a wary, contemplative look. For Yeonjun, it is a strange sight, but one that serves to help him further understand Soobin for who he is more than anything. This is what he means by not being stirred by omegas in the slightest. What he means when he says he could never possibly take a wife, even for appearances. Beomgyu quite literally dangled an omega approaching heat in front of his face, and Soobin acted as if someone held a piece of overripe fruit under his nose – as if the scent was more of a bother by the virtue of its potency rather than something that could titillate, no matter how unlikely he would be to act on such arousal. He seems to feel no arousal at all.

Still, Beomgyu’s action is incredibly inappropriate, and a flush rises to Soobin’s face in embarrassment. “I would prefer if you did no such thing, Omega Beomgyu.”

“Only proving my point, Alpha Soobin,” Beomgyu responds primly, but brings his hand back to fold it neatly in front of himself like he should.

Soobin shakes his head, and gives Beomgyu a wary once-over. “You are going into heat then.”

Beomgyu shrugs. “Soon enough.”

Then Soobin looks at Taehyun instead, and his brows lower into a frown. “And since when is that of concern to us? Our men will make sure he will arrive home safely even if the convoy does not make it to the palace on time.”

The prince’s jaw twitches. He seems incredibly reluctant to answer, but Beomgyu seems expectant – it is clear he wants to hear Taehyun explain himself to his oldest friend about this; Yeonjun cannot deny a certain level of curiosity on his own part.

“I will be taking advantage of Omega Beomgyu’s heat,” are the words, the incredibly misleading words, which Taehyun chooses to describe his asinine plan to acclimate himself to a heat scent with.

Soobin’s eyebrows, unsurprisingly, shoot up in surprise and confusion.

The prince clears his throat. A smirk twitches at Beomgyu’s mouth. “To… resolve some of my… issues.”

“Your issues?”

Taehyun nods, and to Yeonjun’s surprise, Soobin’s confusion slowly seems to melt into a look of understanding. For whatever reason, he briefly looks at Yeonjun, of all people, before looking at the prince again. “What exactly is bedding Omega Beomgyu supposed to help?”

Beomgyu snorts, obviously startling Soobin, before Taehyun speaks up instead.

“I will not be bedding him. Only—”

“Enjoying my scent from a safe distance,” Beomgyu cuts him off with, his voice light, flirtatious, amused. “All in perfect courtliness and chastity! No such disgraces as scenting or knotting will be taking place! His Highness would never!”

There is a clear tone of mocking to Beomgyu’s tone, but Taehyun does not reprimand him, only watches him with eyes a bit too intent to come off as calm as the rest of his demeanor suggests he is. Yeonjun wonders, terribly, if the prince imagined it happening, if even for a brief moment, as Beomgyu uttered the words. Burying his face in Beomgyu’s shoulder to scent him. Burying his cock in Beomgyu’s body, stretching it to the point of discomfort, until he could not escape if he wanted to. Holding him through it, as pleasure becomes pain becomes pleasure, becomes peace, becomes comfort, as his instincts guide him to stop fighting and melt, as that bone-deep satisfaction takes over and pulls a curtain of blissful mindlessness over Beomgyu’s consciousness. Touching him while it happens – carding through that brown silk hair, skating fingers down soft gold-tinted skin. Flushed with heat, hot with fever. Slick with sweat, sweet-smelling, panting giving way to deep, even breaths as the desperation gives way to a restful afterglow. Beomgyu would be so beautiful like that, giving himself over to pleasure, to that most base bodily satisfaction…

The scent of crushed fruit wafts to Yeonjun’s own nose and he shifts in discomfort and embarrassment, looking away from the three of them to hide the flush in his cheeks should anyone look in his direction. He thought ill of the prince, just to give in to his own desires himself. What right does he have to look down on his alpha, who is meant to be thinking of Beomgyu this way? It would only be natural for him to do so – it would be right of him to do so, even though he refuses to. But perhaps there is no helping one’s instincts. Yeonjun should not be having these thoughts either, would have preferred to never have them at all, but he does.

What a strange assortment of alphas and omegas they are, truly. All defective, in their own ways.

“I still do not understand how this could possibly help anything.”

Neither does Yeonjun. Beomgyu barely does as well, Yeonjun suspects. But he seems willing enough to let this happen. Let it happen to him. For Yeonjun’s sake? He still finds it all so—

“Soobin, as dearly as I value your friendship, I have little interest in explaining myself to you about this issue.”

“Did your wife agree to this?”

Three sets of eyes no doubt come to rest on Yeonjun’s back. He hopes they find it impressive; he hopes they find it fascinating – he surely will not be providing them his face to study instead.

Nobody asked him, so he does not bother answering, and leaves it to Beomgyu to chime in with a, “He did,” that sounds as reluctant as the agreement Yeonjun gave to the whole thing.

“You agreed to this?”

“I did, Alpha Soobin, for my own reasons. Do you have any reason of your own to object to it?”

“I—” Soobin pauses, and Yeonjun wishes he could see the expression he is making, but he does not want any of them to see his face. Not now. “Are you certain this is the right course of action, my friend?”

“Yes.” Taehyun sounds so shockingly confident. Whatever his reasoning, he seems unshakably convinced of its validity.

But Soobin sounds as reluctant as Yeonjun himself feels. It feels validating, to have him push back this much, after feeling all but betrayed by Beomgyu taking Taehyun’s side so vehemently. They do not understand, but Soobin does. Someone does. Yeonjun is not unreasonable in his reservations.

He reaches out, towards a basket of meager blessings they received from the Moon family matriarch, the kind of gift that would be much more common in Yeonjun’s native south than here at the Imperial Court, of dried fruit and fish, and picks up a handful of dried persimmon. How courteous of them. Dried persimmon for the tiger. What a lovely appearance of favor they are making.

Yeonjun gave them such expensive porcelain in exchange – truly a waste on people who barely attempted to return their gesture of courteousness. He should have given it to Soobin instead, or one of his relatives. Soobin’s family surely deserves more of their favor than anyone else at the Court – appearances be damned.

“I suppose if this is a decision you have already made, and are sure of—” there is a pregnant pause, surely meant for Yeonjun to take advantage of it should he decide to protest; but he will not, will he? He is too dutiful to speak up against his husband’s utter conviction. “Then my orders are what they are.”

“Then I will see you tomorrow – before noon, for our departure.”

“Are we leaving without ceremony then? Is this more of an absconding than an imperial prince’s grand departure?”

It takes a moment for Taehyun to respond. “It might be – and it would be for the best. If we are to be lucky, then my father will not show his face at all before we leave.”

“If anything in this palace can occur without him knowing.”

It cannot, can it? Therefore he has to know what his brother is doing. He must have a stance he is not showing. But who else should he show it in front of but his own son?

“Father rarely leaves his quarters these days. If I do not offer myself up to him, I doubt he would do so just to catch me before I leave.”

Soobin hums thoughtfully. Yeonjun lets the persimmon rattle loudly as it slips out of his palm.

“Let us hope, then.”

 

.

 

They have no such luck. Of course they do not. They hardly gather in the front courtyard near the gate before the palanquin carrying the Emperor is brought in, and everyone stops in their preparations for the departure to drop to their knees and bow, despite the cold, hard ground of the courtyard. That morning’s dusting of snow still clings to the ground, and Yeonjun watches it melt under him as nobody is prompted to stand.

Taehyun remains on his feet – the only one of them who can afford to.

It feels as if the whole courtyard holds their breath – it is empty enough, this time of day, this time of year, but even if the only ones present are servants, that would hardly make any sort of scolding the prince might receive a private one. It is a public courtyard – many servants are more loyal to the coin than the Sun Throne itself. The news would spread, in the Emperor was to show disfavor here overtly.

“I was saddened to receive the news of you leaving so close to your departure, Prince Taehyun.”

His voice is as measured as ever – livelier than it was at dinner, perhaps even when he gave them his new year’s blessing. Perhaps he is angry enough for it to mute the signs of his illness – but then again, the Emperor used to make journeys such as this on his own feet, when he was a younger man.

“I apologize for not letting you know ahead of time, Your Imperial Majesty. The circumstances necessitating my departure have come as a surprise to all of us.”

“The circumstances.”

“Yes.”

Yeonjun instinctively breathes in, searching for the familiar note of sweetened citrus, but there is none. The only thing he can smell is quickly bittering spice, amber, and the faintest hint of rotting cedar in the distance. Beomgyu looked as nauseous this morning with his scent glands covered in ointments as Yeonjun remembers being when he had to do so himself. Such a cruel thing, for politeness to dictate them to cover up the most natural, the most intrinsic part of themselves – their own scents.

“Your missive to me made it sound like the issue at hand was one of progeny.”

“By design, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“Is the Imperial Court not comfortable enough for you to resolve such matters here, Prince Taehyun? Have we not made our household welcoming enough for your tastes?”

The Emperor brings up a good point – as much as they would all prefer to engage in their oddities away from the eyes of the Court, it is similarly odd for them to do so. The prince could seal himself in his rooms with his heat-afflicted omega if he wanted to. Could have taken advantage of the imperial concubine’s quarters, if he required more privacy.

But Taehyun caved, to Beomgyu’s comfort, to Yeonjun’s comfort, and forewent his father’s directives while doing so. He chose the option most comfortable for him and for Beomgyu, the one least bruising for Yeonjun’s reputation, by letting the consequences of this choice pummel his own. In front of both his father’s eyes and the Court’s.

“Of course it is, Your Imperial Majesty – you know better than most that I am as much a son of this court as I am a son of your name. But this court is not home to my wife, or my concubine. They belong at my court, and I will see to it that they arrive there safely.”

“So that you may concern yourself with progeny?” The Emperor nearly sounds amused, but there is a cold undertone to his voice. Taehyun tries to make himself sound as self-assured and practical as he can, but the truth is he is not that way at all, is he? He is weak, to his omegas, before his father, he is an ardent statesmen more than a skilled one. Outspoken and decisive, but are his decisions always wise ones?

“For a brief time – before returning to your side, of course, to carry on with my imperial duties.”

“The journey to your court is not a brief one, Prince Taehyun – much can occur in your absence.”

“As I am well aware – but I believe I leave the council with enough wise men to advise you accordingly. I have utmost trust in the keen minds of my fellow lords councilor.”

“All of them, Prince Taehyun?”

“Indeed – just as I have utmost trust in you and your judicious mind, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“You have developed such a habit of speaking to me in this way, Taehyun – I do not believe this is the tongue I have raised you to wield.”

“This is the tongue I was born with, Your Imperial Majesty.”

There is a long pause, and Yeonjun’s knees ache – he must be getting his robes dirty like this.

“It is in your blood, after all.”

Bitter spice permeates the air. Yeonjun itches with the need to soothe, even as he is not sure he truly desires to do so. “We may hardly know the origin of it.”

More silence follows, and more snow kisses their heads as the skies begin to spill out again. The icy morsels sting at Yeonjun’s ears – he tries to find comfort in the discomfort of it.

“Promise me one thing, Taehyun.”

“Yes, Father.”

“If I let you leave now, you will never bring him to my court again.”

Who? Yeonjun cannot raise his head to see who the Emperor speaks of – it has to be Beomgyu, but if it were not, Yeonjun might never recover from these words. This court is his home, his greatest aspiration, his—

“You have brought him here yourself, Father – if it were up to me, I would have never done this to you.”

Taehyun is not incorrect – it was not their choice to bring Beomgyu to the court. Yeonjun would have never asked Taehyun to do so. He would not dare. And none of this would have had to happen. Taehyun would have never chosen to see Beomgyu during his heat, he would let Yeonjun leave the court, alone, and Yeonjun could spend Beomgyu’s heat peacefully, comfortably, at their home, missing the honey-sweet citrus whenever it was not around.

Without his husband there to complicate things. To be a threat to Beomgyu, potentially even to Yeonjun, to whatever relationship has blossomed between the two of them during this time.

“Rise, all of you.”

Yeonjun rises to his feet along with the servants, along with Soobin and Beomgyu and their guards. Beomgyu looks faint, and his hair is sprinkled with snowflakes. His lips are white – Yeonjun wishes he could detect his scent so badly.

“A safe journey to you and your wife, Prince Taehyun.”

Despite himself, Yeonjun allows his shoulders to loosen at the words. This is what is to happen, then – Taehyun is to follow them to the household, and carry out his plan, whatever it will entail.

For better or for worse.

 

.

 

It is odd to share a carriage this large with the prince – usually it is only the two of them, sharing it on their way to the Imperial Court, or back from it on occasion. Now Beomgyu is there, opposite Yeonjun, so stark and unforgettable, even as he remains silent, his pale lips tightening every now and then in obvious discomfort. Yeonjun feels terrible for him, but he cannot reach out. It would not be appropriate to comfort him where Taehyun can see.

Nobody speaks – usually the prince or himself finds some topic to discuss, safe enough for a married couple to go over together to pass the time. When Yeonjun traveled with Beomgyu alone, they spoke nearly the whole time. This time, nobody seems sure what to do – how to conduct themselves. The prince stares off into space, seemingly lost in thought, nearly motionless. Beomgyu seems too busy battling his nausea to do much of anything. Yeonjun is well, his mind is clear, but he has nothing to say.

The carriage clatters along silently for most of the day.

They come to a stop hours after nightfall, taking the risk of traveling in the dark in the pursuit of reaching their household as soon as possible. Soobin seems tense as he helps him and Beomgyu disembark, perhaps as a consequence of having to keep them safe despite the unfavorable circumstances. The four of them eat together this time, away from the rest of their entourage, but few words are exchanged over dinner, either. Beomgyu seems eager to retire for the night, so he can scrub all of the scent-dampening ointments off of himself again, and barely eats. Taehyun seems determined to ignore his discomfort – even Soobin sends the omega a few worried looks as they eat. Taehyun does not look at either of his omegas at all.

 

.

 

Yeonjun feels almost like sobbing in relief, when Beomgyu takes his seat next to him at breakfast the following day, and even through the shawl tightly wrapped around Beomgyu’s neck, despite the bandages on his wrists, he can smell the familiar hint of citrus again. Muted, as politely as he can without the use of ointments, but still there. Comforting and sweet. They keep up a hushed conversation about the gifts they are bringing back to the household with them, and which ladies might find which of them the most charming. The prince is late to breakfast, and the two of them go spend some time in the fresh air while he eats before boarding the carriage before him.

Beomgyu unwinds the shawl from around his neck, and his scent glands immediately begin to shed his sweetness into the air, all but filling the whole interior of the carriage with it by the time the prince climbs inside. It is immediately obvious that the prince is not indifferent to the smell – if Yeonjun had any lingering doubts about the legitimacy of Taehyun’s attraction to omegas, then his stricken expression as the takes his first few breaths in the carriage, the sting of pepper that follows it as the prince’s body freezes, even as his hand comes up to press his sleeve against the bottom of his face convinces him of it. Taehyun is affected. Taehyun’s body responds with the scent of arousal nearly immediately. There is no visible stirring in his lap yet, but the uncomfortable shift in his body might suggest it could be soon to follow. His eyes are narrow, where Yeonjun expects them to be wide.

“Excuse me.”

Yeonjun’s eyebrows rise. Beomgyu’s eyes narrow, and they are pointed. Predatory.

“I will…” Taehyun’s hand reaches for the door blindly – he cannot take his eyes off Beomgyu. “I will… travel separately today.”

He manages to get the door open before Beomgyu moves towards him. Comes too close. Too sweet. Too beautiful.

Honey answers pepper and they swirl together, and Yeonjun suppresses the urge to squirm himself. The two most delectable scents he has ever got to taste – the two most comforting ones. Sweet citrus, warm spice and pepper. Mingling, molding. Making wetness seep between his legs, as Beomgyu reaches out and tugs at Taehyun’s sleeve – as the prince allows him to remove it from his nose.

“No.”

And the prince seems so small; so afraid. As his eyes go wide at the proximity. As he takes his breath unobstructed. As the citrus sharpens even as it remains so pleasantly sweet, Beomgyu’s scent oddly potent. Heavy. Like an alpha asserting their dominance.

“You said you wanted to get used to heat scent.”

Taehyun nods silently. He has gone pale, and his spice takes on a bittered note, even as the pepper remains nipping at Yeonjun’s tongue, at his nose, calling out to him.

“Then get used to this, first. If you cannot control yourself around this, I cannot trust you with my heat scent. Do you understand?”

He nods again. Beomgyu licks his lips and swallows. It has to be drawing him in, as well. Every inch of the omega in Beomgyu’s defiant body has to desire the prince’s proximity. His body. His scent. Must want to be sinking into his embrace with every moment he denies it that privilege.

Beomgyu closes the door of the carriage again, then withdraws to his seat, further away from the prince. Now he covers his face with a sleeve, obviously trying to seem nonchalant, like the gesture is merely a thoughtful one. The prince remains frozen, and only slowly, by small increments, does he begin to melt the longer they remain in the carriage. At some point, Soobin knocks on the door and asks if they are ready without opening it. Taehyun’s answering yes is deep and husky. His pants fit oddly, too obvious to Yeonjun’s eyes, even as the fabric of his jacket pools in the prince’s lap to provide him some privacy – some plausible deniability.

It is that which Taehyun catches him looking at – the obvious, undeniable proof of his arousal. By Beomgyu. By his preheat scent. By another omega.

Yeonjun looks his husband in the eye. Taehyun looks pained. Bitterness still swirls with the pepper. Guilt, or pain, or fear. But there is, nonetheless, a pervasive comfort in the air, as Yeonjun’s arousal mixes with theirs. Crushed fruit, pepper and honey. Arousal, fear, and apprehension. A shared pain.

The prince’s eyes lower on Yeonjun’s body – over his chest, to his lap, which has grown sticky and slippery away from view. It is only normal – in response to his alpha’s arousal. The fact that Beomgyu is there, and he is sweet and ripe and flushed and ready, has no bearing on it. Taehyun has to believe it. He needs to. He must, if Yeonjun is to make it through this. As his wife. As his mate. As his…

“Behave yourself, alpha.”

Has the prince leaned closer to him while they were so caught up in looking at one another? He must have, because the space next to Yeonjun feels empty when he withdraws from it. Taehyun retreats to his side of the carriage, and closes his eyes. Beomgyu’s eyes are so intense they almost scare Yeonjun when he meets them. His citrus is so sharp it almost stings as much as Taehyun’s pepper does; Yeonjun withdraws into himself as well.

 

.

 

Watching the two of them tiptoe around each other is a strange experience. Sometimes, Taehyun forgoes the carriage in favor of a horse, not even giving Beomgyu the option to mock or scold him for taking the easy way out. Sometimes, Taehyun boards the carriage, but the usually sweet citrus bitters to the point where he disembarks again without a word and rides with Soobin instead. Yeonjun thinks Beomgyu is grateful, even though he never says so. On the days where he bitters at the slightest whiff of Taehyun, he is usually the quietest, and will not even speak to Yeonjun much once they are alone. He responds to Yeonjun’s questions about the cause of his distress with a shrug.

Perhaps the distress is simply there – perhaps on some days more than others. Just like Taehyun cannot always stand the scent of Beomgyu. On some days when he joins them, he smells so bitter Yeonjun winces with every other breath, and on others, he is so warm Yeonjun’s mouth waters. Sometimes he is as white as a sheet and sometimes Yeonjun catches his hand absentmindedly traveling to his own lap, before the prince catches himself and clenches his fingers in the fabric of his pants instead. Their pain seems to come and go, in patterns Yeonjun finds inscrutable but the two of them find an almost natural affinity to handling. They tiptoe and they dance, and Taehyun keeps his hands to himself, and Yeonjun and Beomgyu do not touch at all, not even when alone. The longer the journey is, the more difficulty Beomgyu seems to have holding long conversations, sometimes trailing off, his head lulling to the side. His scent is riper with every day, and Taehyun’s difficulties with it seem to gain in intensity until he stops eating with them for the last couple days of their journey.

On the last day of it, he does not even attempt to enter the carriage.

Soobin is frowning as he helps Beomgyu board it in the morning. Beomgyu is unsteady on his feet. Even through a shawl and bandages, he oozes citrus into the air around him. Yeonjun denotes in it the first hints of ginger. Nearly to breaking – they might not arrive in time after all.

Once Beomgyu is seated, Soobin hesitates to offer Yeonjun his hand. Yeonjun takes a deep breath.

“We won’t make it.”

He shakes his head minutely. They are not likely to.

“Do you think it is because of the prince’s presence?”

It has not occurred to Yeonjun yet, but Soobin has a point – smelling his alpha nearly every day, aroused and ready to have him, might have expedited Beomgyu’s heat inadvertently. Especially after the two of them failed to consummate their mating. Their bodies might have needed it more than they had realized. Their instincts crave it, even if they might not. There is a bond to be sealed, and the longer they ignore it the more consequences it might have for them.

“It may be.”

Soobin sighs. Yeonjun tends to agree.

“You will hold the prince back if you must, will you not?”

Soobin frowns down at him. Yeonjun hopes he sounds as determined as he wishes to be. “Omega Beomgyu does not wish to be touched, then.”

Yeonjun shrugs. “It was not the agreement.”

Soobin nods. “And you agreed to this.”

He swallows, and shrugs again. “Our prince promised it was the last sacrifice he would ask me to make before letting me have his child.”

The expression that overtakes Soobin’s face seems pained. He does not agree with this – that makes two of them, then. “This is not the couple I wished I was to give my service to.”

And it makes Yeonjun laugh, the blatant distaste in Soobin’s tone. He is not mad – someone here sees reason. “It is not the husband I wished to give my service to, either.”

When Soobin helps him into the carriage, he seems sad. Yeonjun feels vindicated, until he settles opposite a Beomgyu who is sunken into his seat listlessly, and all he can bring himself to be is worried.

 

.

 

Ginger grows through the sweet citrus like a root through the earth as the day goes by, until it permeates, until Yeonjun cannot smell one without the other. Beomgyu, and Taehyun’s imprint upon him. Beomgyu’s desire, and the need for his alpha within it. One and the other and one and the other. Yeonjun helps Beomgyu eat his lunch in the carriage instead of them making him stand up and risk him taking it outside, with his scent on display. He smooths his fingers down Beomgyu’s cheek as he feeds him with his own hand, and it is too warm, blooming with fever. Worry tightens his gut with every hour they spend on the road with Beomgyu’s fever deepening. He switches to sitting next to Beomgyu, and lets the other omega lay on his shoulder, taking comfort in his scent. It feels so cruel, to keep going without stopping, but it is the best they can do for him. He needs to be safe, in his quarters, in his bed room. He needs to nest, and undress, and relieve himself.

Soon. Soon enough.

 

.

 

Beomgyu’s robes are damp with sweat by the time they arrive. The interior of the carriage feels hot and humid despite the cold weather – Beomgyu’s face is nearly nestled in Yeonjun’s neck, and Yeonjun is uncomfortably wet between his thighs.

Soobin is there to open the door to the carriage, and Yeonjun is grateful for it, even though that still leaves him at a loss as to what they are to do – he will need to get Beomgyu out of the carriage, but Beomgyu seems barely with it at all, and Soobin cannot carry him – even if both he and Beomgyu know that Soobin could hardly be affected by Beomgyu’s heat, even if Taehyun knows, it would still be preposterous for Soobin to touch Beomgyu in front of the household in this state. Impossible. Unthinkable.

But Taehyun will not be here to do it, either – Yeonjun has very few illusions on that front.

So he does the only thing he has left – tries to coax Beomgyu into disembarking on his own. He coos and rubs at Beomgyu’s jaw where his head has sunken into Yeonjun’s shoulder, says his name over and over again until Beomgyu lifts his head slightly. Noise carries in through the open door from the outside – the voices of the lord steward, of the prince. Boots on the ground of the courtyard, shouted commands –but Soobin’s presence shields them from all of it – his frame fills the door and keeps them safe; Yeonjun feels confident that nobody can see this odd scene in the carriage, where Yeonjun guides Beomgyu’s head away from his neck as gently as he can, pets at his too-hot cheek to keep him as aware as possible.

“We need to get out. You need to help me.”

“Carry me.” The words are whiny and thin and worn out, with the lustfulness, the desire like a crust of sugar at the edge of them. Stark only when Beomgyu follows his words up by wrapping his arms around Yeonjun’s neck, shuffling over as if to allow Yeonjun to actually slide his arm under his legs and gather him up in his arms.

Yeonjun watches him do it with incredulity, his mouth dropping open with surprise until Beomgyu whines again, curling closer to him, their legs brushing together as Beomgyu murmurs into his ear, hopefully too quietly for Soobin to hear, and it becomes clear enough what is happening. Why Beomgyu could possibly expect to be carried. To be held by him, by another omega.

“Kai, please.”

And Yeonjun’s heart breaks for him. He is too warm – delirious with the fever. With the need. Weak and barely conscious. He needs to rest, to cool down. He needs to get to the quarters, as quickly as possible.

But Yeonjun is not strong enough to carry him – is he? Could he be? Beomgyu looks so light, but he cannot actually be. Yeonjun has never carried anyone in his life – he has been carried, on others’ backs and in their arms, but he has never had to be the one strong enough to hold someone else.

Now, as he pulls Beomgyu’s face up to try and make him look into Yeonjun’s eyes again, he almost wishes he did. Wishes he could be this for Beomgyu. Someone who could carry him to safety, the way he needs him to.

Instead he pinches Beomgyu’s cheek lightly, to try and make him pay attention, and says, “Beomgyu. I need you to lean on me, okay?”

Beomgyu’s eyes, to his shock, to a growing ache in his chest, are brilliant with tears. “Yeonjun?”

He nods, and then pinches Beomgyu’s cheek again. “Lean on me.”

Sluggishly, Beomgyu nods, and despite all odds, and with the assistance of Soobin, who holds Yeonjun’s weight while Yeonjun holds Beomgyu’s, they make it out of the carriage. Yeonjun steps out first, then lets Beomgyu all but fall into him, and then for the briefest, almost breathtaking moment, Yeonjun gets to hold Beomgyu the way he wishes he could, taking his weight for just a moment before he lowers him to the ground. Beomgyu seems reluctant to unwrap his arms from around him once his feet hit the ground, and if they were not surrounded by the members of their household, Yeonjun would not have the heart to even attempt to do so. The courtyard is strangely quiet once they actually step out, as if everyone is frozen, watching this strange scene. A prince’s wife, assisting his husband’s concubine, like a lady-in-waiting, like a friend. Like his alpha should be doing. Soobin stands a few steps off to the side, looking wary and unsure.

They might have to make some sacrifices, to get Beomgyu to the quarters. Soobin might have to risk the household questioning his honor again, because Yeonjun all but knows now that he will not be strong enough to carry Beomgyu there. Not strong enough to allow a servant to touch him, either. There is no other option.

“Allow me.”

Except there is.

The words are a courtesy more than anything – Taehyun does not wait for anyone’s permission, perhaps because the only one whose permission matters can hardly give it. Beomgyu makes a loud noise as he is picked up, as he is gathered up by a pair of lean, deceptively strong arms, cradled close to a black-clad chest. Yeonjun watches with a frown as Beomgyu trashes in the hold, citrus and honey and something bitter and pained spilling into the air, as his head lunges forward to the prince’s collarbone and grabs a mouthful of fabric, only nearly missing the prince’s flesh with his teeth, listens with a painful wince as Beomgyu’s piercing scream is muffled with the fabric. He kicks his legs, and wails, and screams. Tears stream down his face. But the prince’s hold on him stays steady, as he begins to carry him through the courtyard. Bile rises to Yeonjun’s throat but he follows them blindly, almost startled when his sleeve is caught in a firm hand.

“Your Grace.” The lord steward hands him a ring of keys – of course; in Beomgyu’s absence, they would lock the quarters up instead of posting guards in front of the door. Yeonjun takes them in a grip too weak at first, and his lord steward catches them when they slip out of his fingers, and presses them into his palm more tightly. He is holding a sleeve up to his own mouth – he, too, is just an alpha.

Yeonjun shivers with it, but he nods in thanks and rushes after his husband.

The two of them smell awful - -of pain and fear and distress, and Yeonjun feels dizzy and nauseous having to breathe in the air behind them as they make their way to the gardens, the walk to the concubine’s quarters feeling even more torturously long than usual. All servants give them a wide berth – most of them look at them strangely. Yeonjun tries to keep his head down, but Beomgyu will not stop crying, and Yeonjun cannot help the urge to look up and look at him, reassure himself that he is not being attacked. He is not being hurt. This is the best way for this to happen. It is for the best.

He rushes ahead of them as they cross the bridge that leads to the quarters and unlocks the doors for them, flings them open, then continues to the corridor leading to the bed rooms to push open the one leading to Beomgyu’s one as well. His room looks empty and deserted, and smells like nothing at all. That will change soon.

From the front, the two are almost an even more miserable sight – the prince is place-faced and grim, his jaw set so tightly it looks painful. Beomgyu stopped kicking, having worn himself out, and his hand so weakly scrambles at Taehyun’s chest that he barely tugs at the fabric of his coat. His back heaves and shivers as he hiccups through sobs. Sweat beads on his skin where his clothes have been jostled out of place, where his hair has slid to the side to reveal it.

Taehyun looks at Yeonjun briefly as he passes by him and into the bed room. His eyes are completely devoid of any emotion Yeonjun can decipher.

Yeonjun stands at the door as Taehyun lowers Beomgyu into his bed. His coat is stained with Beomgyu’s sweat, or maybe with traces of slick where he held onto the omega’s thighs. There is a wet patch left behind by Beomgyu’s mouth when he lets go of it, as he sinks into his sheets with exhaustion. For a brief moment, the prince hovers over him, and they stare at one another. Yeonjun is afraid. Beomgyu’s bottom lip wobbles, and he reaches down, to grab at the underside of his own knee and pull his legs open. Taehyun straightens up, and marches past Yeonjun, out of the room, out of the quarters altogether, as the front door slams shut behind him. There was wetness on his face, but Yeonjun does not let himself think about that, as he rushes into the bed room, to tend to Beomgyu.

Beomgyu cries and shivers, twisting and turning on the bed and murmuring nonsense as Yeonjun undoes his robes and helps him strip, the omega’s body so horribly hot and heavy in his arms as he does his best to maneuver him by himself. Somehow, none of it is erotic to his mind in the slightest – even as he peels layers of damp clothing off of Beomgyu’s body, revealing stretches of beloved, soft, golden skin, even as the scent of lemon and ginger makes it hard to see straight as Yeonjun reveals the mess Beomgyu has made of the bottom part of his underclothes, pressing his lips to any of it, touching it, taking it, are the furthest things from his mind. He feels like a fussing mother, letting Beomgyu’s hair down and dabbing at the sweat covering him with his own sleeves, caressing his face to comfort him. Watching him pant and squirm and rub at his lower abdomen in a mix of want and pain.

The only thing on his mind is that Beomgyu needs to feel better, Yeonjun needs him to be well, he needs him to stop crying, to not be in pain. Needs his fever to go down so Beomgyu can say something insolent again, so Beomgyu can tease him about how badly Yeonjun wants his body, so there is a flush in response to Yeonjun’s lips pressed into his cheek instead of a red-hot blush already there that he tries to cool with his touch.

Stripping him seems to help, slowly but surely. Beomgyu becomes less delirious and aching and more still, more worn out again. On someone’s orders, an omega servant comes in, just a child of no more than fourteen. She seems stricken by how unwell Beomgyu looks – Yeonjun hopes her mother can tell her that not all heats are like this. He does not have the heart to, even as he thanks her for the cool water and towels she brings, the fresh change of underclothes. In a hushed voice, she tells him she was told to help Beomgyu change, but Yeonjun has her take the furs Beomgyu nested on the last time out of the chest in the corner instead, and roll them out on the floor before dismissing her. It only takes a few minutes for her to come back, just to say in the same hushed voice that the physician is here to see Beomgyu. Yeonjun sends her off again with a message to the master physician to wait outside.

He holds Beomgyu’s hand, and watches with pained eyes as Beomgyu looks at him through unfocused, cloudy ones. He squeezes his hand and kisses his forehead.

“I’ll be back.”

Beomgyu’s mouth opens but no sound comes out, and Yeonjun has to take the barest squeeze of his hand as agreement. When Beomgyu’s eyes shift to the wall next to him as Yeonjun stands from his bed, it takes everything in him to be able to leave the room. All his strictest education. Everything he had just forgotten, in the fit of… whatever this was. Whatever this is. Protectiveness. Compassion. Love or madness, whichever it is more akin to.

The physician looks at him with concern, and Yeonjun feels suddenly naked, out of Beomgyu’s room, no doubt disheveled, sweat-stained, smelling like omega in heat, wild-eyed. What did he do? How did he get here? What is he supposed to do? To say?

“Your Grace,” the physician says hesitantly. He clears his throat. “I was sent here to check on him.”

Yeonjun nods. He does not step out of the beta’s way. “He is better. I believe we put too much strain on him with this journey.”

The man eyes his face, as if trying to figure something out. “That is most likely.”

He should let the physician see Beomgyu – it is what is done, what is always done. The master physician observes their symptoms, and recommends the same remedies as always. Rest, and tea that numbs pain and helps bring about sleep, a peace of mind. Ointments for wounds, should they need them. That is all he ever does.

And Yeonjun does not want anyone to see Beomgyu right now. Not when he finally seems able to rest.

“Have you brought the tea?”

With a hasty nod, the master physician produces a box from somewhere in his sleeve. “Of course.”

Yeonjun nods firmly in response. “Then leave it in the tea room and leave. You are not needed – Omega Beomgyu is sleeping.”

The beta looks at the door doubtfully, but he bows and backs away anyway. Yeonjun tries not to collapse into the wall as his nerves give out. He reaches out a hand to brace himself against it.

Everything smells like lemon and ginger and pain. He needs to change, or wash himself. Or preferably both. He helped Beomgyu drink some water earlier, but he needs some himself. It has been such an… arduous journey.

He stumbles all the way to the waiting room, where he comes to a stop, half-leaning on the wall. Taehyun is there, standing with his arms folded behind himself. He has discarded his coat, and is wearing a soldier’s one instead of it – one of their guards must have let him borrow it. It seems strange on him; Taehyun was never a man of the military disposition.

To Yeonjun, he looks as lost as Yeonjun himself feels. For the longest time, they just look at each other, Yeonjun undignified, collapsed into the doorway, and Taehyun composed but pale. There is no more trace of tears on his face.

“I took care of everything,” Taehyun says quietly. Too quiet. Too meek. Not alpha-like in the slightest, despite his solid stance. His firm body, and an alpha’s scent. The strong arms that carried Beomgyu to safety where Yeonjun was too weak to do so himself.

He sent the physician then – and the servant. Beomgyu’s things are gathered here, in the waiting room, ready to be taken into Beomgyu’s bed room when convenient. Everything is taken care of; as if the absolute mess they have shown themselves to be in the courtyard never happened.

“I sent your ladies to wait in your rooms – they are quite worried about Omega Beomgyu.”

Yeonjun nods slowly. “He is better. I took care of it.”

Taehyun jerkily nods in response. “Thank you.”

He did not do so for Taehyun’s benefit; not in the slightest. “Are you here to see him again? He is resting.”

But the prince shakes his head firmly. “He has had enough for the day.”

“Then why—”

“As have you. You should rest.”

Yeonjun bites into his lip hard enough for it to hurt. His whole body aches. His head hurts. He wants to go back to Beomgyu and melt into his side, instead of whatever is waiting for him outside. Whoever his household wants him to be today. He does not want to; he does not have the energy to.

Foolishly, he imagines crossing the room to find solace in his husband’s embrace. Imagines those strong arms that held Beomgyu, holding him instead. Holding him up; letting Yeonjun lean on him, like the pillar he is to be for his wife. Embracing him, like a lover, like someone who cares for him. The comforting scent of his alpha, bringing peace to his mind. Maybe Taehyun would scoop him up into his arms as well, and take him to his rooms, instead of making him make the journey over on his own tired feet. Perhaps he would undress him, like Yeonjun undressed Beomgyu, kiss his forehead and pour water past his lips with utmost care. They would curl up next to each other, in Yeonjun’s too-large bedroom, in his too-empty bed, and they would rest together, alone, away from their household, away from everyone else. Somewhere where they do not have to keep up any appearances, where there are no responsibilities to tend to. Taehyun would hold him, because he wanted to, because he loved him, because Yeonjun needed him to. He would be the alpha Yeonjun needs so badly.

Some other husband. Another husband would do this for him. Hold him, have him.

“Someone should make Omega Beomgyu his tea.”

Taehyun nods. “I will have it arranged.”

That is not what Yeonjun meant. He meant to make it himself. But why? This is not something he does. He is a lady; he does not do things like this on his own – not anymore.

“Taehyun.”

The prince looks stricken at the sound of his own name. “Yes?”

And Yeonjun should curse him, should hit him and bite him and claw at him for making Beomgyu cry, for making Beomgyu suffer, for putting all of them through this, through all of this.

Tears gush out past his lashes unexpectedly, and tumble down his cheeks. So ill-composed again.

You hurt him, you hurt him, you hurt him.

Thank you for carrying him. For taking care of him when I could not.

Why would you put an omega of yours through this? Why are you not at Beomgyu’s side, soothing his pain?

Why do you never soothe mine?

Will you? Soothe me, if you will not soothe him?

He swallows with difficulty. The prince looks afraid. He looked afraid before as well. So terribly scared of whatever they represent to him. Coward – even when he stepped up to help his omega in need, he remains a coward.

Yeonjun’s lip tears open under his own teeth.

“Yeonjun—”

“This better be worth it, Taehyun. It better be worth the pain he has gone through today.”

The prince nods. It seems reluctant. It should not. This is where Taehyun should be firm – where he should not waver. Where Yeonjun should be able to rely on him as his wife.

“I wish I could take all his pain and give it to you – so you would know the burden of it.”

He nods again. Yeonjun closes his eyes.

“You truly care for him.”

He opens his eyes again, and looks at his husband emptily. There is a look nearing wonder on Taehyun’s face. Yeonjun is disgusted by him, so terribly repulsed. “Unlike you, I am capable of caring for omegas.”

And Taehyun has the gall to look hurt. “He does not want my care.”

Perhaps. But Yeonjun does. Always has. And unlike Beomgyu, he never got to have it.

Is that what this feeling is? Jealousy? Of which one of them? Taehyun, because of his strength, that he was able to use to Beomgyu’s benefit? Or Beomgyu for his weakness that was able to prompt Yeonjun’s recalcitrant alpha into action?

Does he have to debase himself just for a shred of his alpha’s attention? Of his gentleness? In Yeonjun’s weakest moment, Taehyun wiped Yeonjun’s paint off his face with his own hands. Is he only worth the alpha’s time if he is falling apart?

“If you have no more business with Omega Beomgyu, then why are you here? Leave.”

His alpha’s eyes lower to the floor. “I wanted to make sure you would arrive at your own quarters safely once you were done here.”

And that is what he wants, is it not? This is care – misplaced care, Taehyun’s need to protect his omegas in overdrive after today’s ordeal. Caring for Yeonjun, since Beomgyu will not have him. It is exactly what he has always wanted. A display of gentleness, of care, unprompted. Nobody asked Taehyun to come here, nobody expects him to care. Least of all Yeonjun.

With difficulty, he straightens himself up. His lip sluggishly drips blood onto his chin. The prince does not look up. Yeonjun breathes shakily through his mouth.

“Do you know how to prepare tea, my prince?”

Taehyun nods.

“Then prepare some tea.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun’s ladies are a flock of colorful, unsettled birds by the time he arrives alone at his own quarters. They were scattered around the waiting room when the door opened, but as he enters, they flock around him, and where sometimes he finds their attention so comforting, today their eyes are piercing on his skin as they no doubt take in his dishevelment. His broken lip, the remains of blood he tried to wipe off his chin. His dirty clothes that smell like road dust and heat. The sweat on him, the smell of dried slick clinging to his skin. He looks like a mess, smells like a campsite prostitute. Everything about him is disgusting.

And yet, the first words spoken in the waiting room are, “Is Omega Beomgyu well?”

They come from Dayeon and her pocket of bitter nutty scent where she came to stand the closest to him out of all of them, nearly at his side. The one who has always seemed the fondest of Beomgyu of them all. Yeonjun stares at her face as if seeing it for the first time. It feels as if they have not seen each other for years – so much has changed, since he has seen her last.

Slowly, he brings himself to nod, bringing forth a cacophony of relieved noises, even as Dayeon frowns. “He is taken care of, we gave him medicine, and he has fallen asleep.”

Yeonjun helped him drink down his tea and ran his thumb over the back of his hand until his breathing evened out, while the prince remained in the corridor, leaning on the outside wall of the room with his eyes closed. Then he thanked Taehyun in an empty voice and they left together, Yeonjun all but ignoring his husband once they made it out of the building – he is quite sure Taehyun followed him all the way to his rooms, but he paid no attention to him.

“His fever seemed severe,” Dayeon says hesitantly, with obvious worry.

He shakes his head. “It was the strain of the journey. He will be better with some rest.”

Somehow, she does not seem convinced, and he startles her by reaching for her sleeve to take hold of it. This time, he does not withdraw even as she seems surprised by him initiating contact, even if he holds the fabric of her clothes rather than her hand itself.

“I promise you, Dayeon, he has a servant ready to assist him whenever he wakes, and he was much better when I left him. I am as sure as I can be that he will be able to spend this heat in peace, just like any other.”

Even if the prince arrives, as often as he will dare to, to agitate him again. Will Beomgyu cry more? Will he scream? The prince’s touch seemed to cause him so much pain, even as it was meant to comfort him.

“And the prince—”

“Should be on his way to his own quarters by now. He needs to eat, and bathe, and sleep, as do I.” He looks at the rest of his entourage, their reluctant, frowning faces. “I hope you will all understand, my dears, if I do not join you for the rest of the day. We have had the most wearisome journey, and I will need some time to recompose myself.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” It is Soojin who answers for all of them, but the rest of them are quick to nod in agreement. Yeonjun is briefly deeply thankful for him, and he gives his ladies a nod as he lets Dayeon’s sleeve go.

“I will see you tomorrow for breakfast.”

They all bow before him, and Yeonjun briefly feels a little better – even this disheveled, they show him respect. Perhaps they simply could not imagine acting any different towards the master of the household they live in, but it still comforts him. Here, he still commands some respect. Between the walls of his own quarters, he is still the master of his own fate.

 

.

 

Every step of his evening between when the ladies leave him and him falling into bed at the end of it feels wrong somehow. He drinks water, bathes, dresses in sleep clothes and combs his hair, eats dinner and absentmindedly looks through his correspondence without really taking any words in. He gives orders about where to put things he has newly brought with him from the Court, and he falls into bed feeling exhausted, if refreshed.

And the whole time, the lack of familiar scents in the air hurts. No one brings news from the concubines’ quarters, which should be comforting, but is not. Taehyun does not come to see him, which should be a relief, but is not.

As she helps him re-dress himself after his bath, Haewon asks about Beomgyu’s health in a tone of genuine concern, and it should melt Yeonjun’s heart, but it does not. It only creates a shell of worry around the soft, vulnerable core of it. Is Beomgyu okay? If he was not worried about Beomgyu not getting the peace he needs as well, he would have sent someone to check. Perhaps, at the back of his mind, the whole evening he was hoping that once night falls on the palace, he will find the resolve within himself to go see him in person, sneak out through the servants’ entrance like he used to, to see Beomgyu under the cover of darkness.

But that would hardly be appropriate, would it not? And he has no idea who is guarding Beomgyu’s door now – how likely they would be to tell on him, to Soobin or the prince. If he is reasonable, he recognizes how fruitless of an endeavor it would be to visit him. Beomgyu is either sleeping, pleasuring himself or getting well-deserved rest after his journey, perhaps building his nest if he found the energy to do so, and he does not need Yeonjun around for any of those things. If anything, he would do better at them without Yeonjun there to distract him.

But he does not feel reasonable, does not wish to be. He wishes to be there with Beomgyu, for the pain and the pleasure of it both, to hold him, to kiss him, to soothe and to arouse. To see him shake in pleasure and writhe in pain. Everything in him says he should be there.

And yet, he lies in his bed. He stares at the ceiling and imagines Beomgyu’s face instead of going out and seeing it for his own. Because that is what he is to do. Hold back, for the sake of the two of them. To keep himself and Beomgyu safe from rumor and scrutiny. To rest, so he can take care of everything in the household properly, so that Beomgyu may return to a well-run household once he is better. Because Yeonjun’s lot is to take care of the household, for the ones he loves, instead of giving in to his urges. He makes the home for his loved ones to enjoy. For the ladies, for his husband, and now for Beomgyu. A duty he can never escape – and maybe he does not really want to, if Beomgyu is to be believed in his assessment of Yeonjun. Maybe it only feels like it sometimes. That he would rather abandon all reason just to be with him. With Taehyun. Seeking comfort. Seeking pleasure. Seeking relief from the weight of the world.

On this night, he does not visit Beomgyu, and maybe that makes him a coward. The same distasteful, despicable creature he accuses his husband of being.

 

.

 

In the morning, Yeonjun stops Haewon before she can start brushing his hair, and goes to retrieve her new year’s money instead. The envelope is thick with his generosity, and he thinks that maybe, in his sentimental state, he has overdone it, but his servant looks at him with startled gratitude before bowing, and is so exceedingly careful with his hair that it nearly feels like being taken care of by his childhood nurse, or having his hair fashioned by his mother. His heart, on this day, feels several sizes too large for his chest to contain.

He receives a messenger who came from the concubines’ quarters in front of all his ladies, and his shoulders drop in relief at the news that Beomgyu slept through nearly the whole day, and could feed himself when he woke up just around the time the servant left to go inform him. The news seems to encourage Yeonjun’s ladies, and the awkward quiet they received him with before dissolves into the chatter he has grown used to from them over the years – as they help him dress to go share a breakfast with the household so they could go through all the ceremony of their arrival they had to forego yesterday, they talk to him about the new years’ celebrations, all the news among the courtiers, about how dreadfully dull their days were behind him. Chaeyoung and Eunbi manage to list off every gift the household has received from a town councilor or a minister between the two of them, and Miyeon gossips about their lord steward’s son all but courting the daughter of one of Taehyun’s ministers. They talk about the terrible faux pas that was Master Hwang showing up to the new year’s feast without a headband on, and how similar Madame Seo seemed to her military commander husband when directing the young omega courtiers of their household in preparing rice cakes for the celebrations.

In some ways, it is a welcome distraction. Between one story and the next, he is painted, he is dressed, and he is halfway to the dining room. He still misses Beomgyu, his face and voice and scent, but it is somewhat more bearable. Most of his ladies are good storytellers – and those who are not, Yeonjun can find something sweet about in their clumsiness.

Taehyun is already there when they arrive, of course, and Yeonjun feels so odd letting his husband scent him in front of everybody. It never felt this strange – but then again, Yeonjun has never withdrawn his scent from his husband deliberately for this long. The prince seems to share the sentiment, or perhaps he simply wishes to respect Yeonjun’s wishes for the two of them to maintain a polite distance within the confines of their marriage, because he barely lets Yeonjun’s wrist kiss his neck before pulling it away – there is hardly any note of spice left behind on it as Yeonjun takes his seat next to him. If Yeonjun lets his wrist rub against Beomgyu’s skin later, then he can easily replace the stale spice of it with delectable citrus. If he dares.

Their lord steward comes to bow before them, and they thank him for his service together – Taehyun for overseeing his household in their absence, and Yeonjun for the successful carrying out of his plans for the celebrations. They wish each other a happy new year, and they gift the alpha with a symbolic offering of money. He presents them with expensive wine and some fabrics in return, and with the most important formalities out of the way, all that is left for them is to wish a happy new year to the household at large, watching backs bend before them as they do, as the entirety of their court pays them respect in answer to their blessing, before they are able to give their full attention to the spread of food before them.

Almost as soon as they start eating, Yeonjun’s attention is stolen away by the lord steward who engages him in a lively conversation, asking about the celebrations at the Court, about his health and his family. He seems so genuinely interested in Yeonjun’s affairs, he nearly does not notice how carefully Beomgyu is not brought up in the slightest. As if yesterday’s events did not occur at all.

Yeonjun only gets to ask about the celebrations in their household once the breakfast has almost wound down, and the lord stewards smiles at him warmly, and invites him to lunch to discuss it further, along with some budgetary issues he wanted to discuss with Yeonjun. It is an invitation like any other, the same one he receives all the time, at least once every four to five days without fail, and he opens his mouth to agree without thinking, when it is his husband’s voice that rings out instead.

“My wife will be joining me for a private lunch today,” he says, although the two of them have made no such plans previously, even though they hardly ever eat together privately while the prince stays in his household. “Perhaps the two of you could continue your conversation at a later time? At dinner, or tomorrow?”

He has to battle the urge to speak out against his husband – if he wanted Yeonjun’s company, he could have asked for it politely, properly, instead of speaking over him this way. Instead of inserting himself into his wife’s busy schedule thoughtlessly. Eventually, he manages to put a pleasant smile on his face, and look at his lord steward warmly.

“As my husband said – I am afraid I will be preoccupied at lunch, but I would love to share dinner with you tonight, should your responsibilities allow for it.”

The lord stewards seems as taken aback as Yeonjun was, and he scrambles to lower his head politely a bit too late. “Of course – Your Highness, Your Grace. It will be an honor to spend some time in your presence, Your Grace, no matter the time of day.”

“Ah, the honor will be all mine, my dear lord steward.”

They exchange polite smiles, before Yeonjun shifts his attention to his husband, whose eyes are cast into the room at large, not turning to Yeonjun even when he himself turns towards Taehyun more fully. There is no explanation – no excuse for why he did this. Yeonjun wonders, not without disdain, if he simply felt the need to exert his control. Perhaps this is what the smell of heat makes out of him.

If so, then Yeonjun would have to grant him this – Taehyun was correct in that Yeonjun prefers the husband he usually has to this one.

 

.

 

Today, Taehyun does not follow him to his rooms, does not insist on waiting for Yeonjun in his rooms or anything of the sort. Had Yeonjun not known that the prince joining them in the gardens for their walk is a deliberate action on his part, it could have seemed like such a simple coincidence – he was already there when he and his ladies arrived, walking peacefully under a canopy of a leafless willow tree. For a while, Yeonjun watched him out of the corner of his eye as he kept up conversation with his entourage, but then he lost sight of him, until he sidled up to them while they were walking towards the bridge before the concubines’ quarters, easily greeting the ladies and asking about their health, wishing them a happy new year. As usual, the ladies welcome the prince’s presence gladly, happy to engage him in conversation, indulge his questions even as they near the bridge, and some of them start casting unsure looks between Yeonjun and the prince.

Yeonjun should have told them Taehyun might join them at the concubines’ quarters, to soften the blow – but then again, if he did so privately, they might have questioned him, whereas this way, they have little choice but to accept it as it is while Taehyun crosses the bridge with them. He sees some of them exchanging looks, mostly vaguely perturbed ones, except for the two omegas, who seem quite alarmed as the prince shows no signs that he intends to leave them anytime soon as they approach the building. Even the guards posted in front of the door seem taken aback by his presence, glancing at each other nervously even as they open the door for Yeonjun and bow deeply.

Yeonjun’s entourage rearranges itself, all of the beta ladies prepared to wait around for him, Dayeon and Soojin to return, but instead of following the protocol they have managed to establish during Beomgyu’s previous heat, Dayeon steps forward and toward Yeonjun, bowing her head slightly for politeness’ sake, even as she speaks up to say:

“Your Grace, may I have a word, before we go inside.”

This change to their routine cannot go unremarked upon, then. Yeonjun nods, then raises his head to Soojin and Taehyun, who stands off to the side but makes it obvious that he intends to follow them inside nonetheless. “Please excuse me and Lady Dayeon for a moment.”

The prince regards them curiously, if not suspiciously as they step aside, to the questionable privacy of the shade of a camphor tree nearby. Dayeon’s eyes are imploring as they walk towards it, as is her voice, quiet but almost impolitely direct, as soon as they are out of earshot of the rest of the group.

“Will His Highness be coming in with us? He seems to have all but joined us.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together, but nods. “Yes, Dayeon. He is here to visit Omega Beomgyu.”

Dayeon searches his eyes, seemingly hoping to find an explanation in them she would find comforting. “You knew he was coming today, then.”

“Indeed,” he says, glancing over towards the prince, who seems to be straining himself in his effort to let him and Dayeon have their privacy. “We have agreed on this in advance.”

“Did this we include Omega Beomgyu?”

Yeonjun’s cousin is being nearly insolent, but at the same time, her nutty scent blazes warm and protective. She worries, about a fellow omega in heat who she has grown to care for in such a short time, and Yeonjun cannot begrudge her that. Certainly not when his chest is overcome with a similar need to protect. Beomgyu is so vulnerable now – and the prince is such an unpredictable variable to introduce.

“Yes, Dayeon. The prince spoke to him in my presence.”

“And he agreed to this?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Was he afflicted by heat while doing so?”

Should Yeonjun take it as a slight that she assumed he would allow that? Or should he scoff at her for thinking that it matters? Beomgyu’s heat belongs to Taehyun. He is to do with it as he pleases. She has to understand that; as an omega. But perhaps the strange rules of this household have made them all complacent – it made even the omegas feel like they have rights they are otherwise not to be afforded. To choose whether they wish to see their alpha during their heat; to choose when they want to be scented, when they want to give up their sex. The prince has created such a strange world for them in this household. He has made them so weak.

“No – Omega Beomgyu was completely lucid when he and the prince spoke about this.” He wishes he could reach out, to hold her sleeve or lay a hand on her shoulder, but he just squeezes his hands together instead. “He had his own reasons for agreeing, Lady Dayeon.”

Despite his reassurance, Dayeon still seems hesitant. It is true; Beomgyu’s hate for alphas, his discomfort with their scents and his strange behavior around them were so stark they were so hard to look past. But perhaps that is the very reason Beomgyu agreed to let Taehyun come. To fight this weakness of his, while Taehyun fought his own.

“Do you believe I would lie to you about this?”

Dayeon looks at him as directly as she can while staying polite, and her mouth purses in obvious discomfort with the question. It is a valid one nonetheless – while Beomgyu remains indisposed and unable to answer her himself, she has to rely on Yeonjun, and his dedication to keeping the omegas of his household safe, as he has done with Dayeon for many years now. He gave her a home, a comfortable court, a life blissfully free of strife. All she has to do is believe that he would want the same for Beomgyu.

Slowly, she shakes her head, and her shoulders loosen. Yeonjun nods in response.

 

.

 

Beomgyu clenches his thighs together tightly, but the air is sticky and sweet with his arousal nonetheless. He keeps his eyes on Yeonjun, and on Yeonjun only, as he helps Beomgyu drink, then holds his hand as Beomgyu pants into the air helplessly, squirming and curling up into himself as he battles the desire that wracks through him. There is so much ginger in his scent today, calling to his alpha begging for his alpha, even as Beomgyu himself barely says a word beyond whispered thanks and assurances that his pain is not too severe. Yeonjun wants to…

He wants to taste his scent off his skin. Pull his underclothes up, and watch his body beg with his own eyes. But he holds Beomgyu’s hand instead.

Taehyun is by the door, along with Dayeon and Soojin. The two omegas look unhappy and bothered – outside of Beomgyu’s nest, the smell of the prince has to be overwhelming; and there has to be arousal in it. If there were not, then they would have no chance of conceiving at all. The two of them have to watch, as their prince lusts after his omega, wantonly, uncontrollably. Mutely. With his sleeve pressed tightly to his mouth and nose. Today, he does not dare breathing Beomgyu in directly – maybe that is for the better, with all the ginger permeating it.

Eventually, the prince slips away from the door before Yeonjun and the ladies leave themselves. Beomgyu looks relieved, but there is a bitter hint to all his sweetness as Yeonjun wraps his shawl around Beomgyu’s shoulders. Taehyun abandoned another omega – how can he not be ashamed of himself? The two of them hold hands again briefly before Yeonjun leaves. He looks at Beomgyu wishing he could kiss his forehead, or his mouth, or his fingers, and Beomgyu looks at him like he wishes the same.

Once they leave, they encounter the prince in the waiting room – despite what Yeonjun thought, he did not leave the quarters completely. He bows to them, and says he will accompany them back to the main building. As he does, his sleeve shifts out of the way to expose his hand, and Yeonjun can clearly see the blood smeared on it. The room stinks of stinging spice and pepper.

 

.

 

Yeonjun does his best to catch up on household matters before lunch – he reviews records, reads and responds to correspondence and starts tentatively drawing up plans for the inevitable arrival of the spring celebrations. He plans a trip to the town with his ladies, partially to look around the markets and partially to visit the town councilors and see how much they seem to know about the goings-on of the Imperial Court. Taehyun might not require him to make moves on his behalf, but that does not mean that Yeonjun cannot make them out of his own initiative. He was taught the basics of the alpha’s game, after all – and can now appreciate the advantage of approaching one’s enemy from multiple angles at once.

If Taehyun is certain he can handle the Court itself on his own, then Yeonjun will keep a keen eye out on attempts to destabilize his position in his own principality. Quietly, as a wife is wont to do most of their duties. Discreet, and tireless.

The prince himself seems far from tireless when he arrives at Yeonjun’s quarters to share lunch with him – he looks exhausted again, sullen and withdrawn, yet he still insists on them sharing a table with one another, still without explanation. Yeonjun dismisses his ladies, letting them join the household for the meal, and the two of them retire to share a smaller table in the tea room. It makes little sense that they would eat in Yeonjun’s quarters, either – unless the prince wanted a more private, intimate setting for their meal. His own tea room is much more splendid, much more… appropriate for an imperial prince. Yeonjun’s own is shabby in comparison, comfortable and well-decorated as it is.

Haewon comes to assist them, and she reaches for the prince’s plate before she is dismissed, curtly but not necessarily rudely. Taehyun is short and clear that he does not wish to be served, but Yeonjun is not in the mood for games, and lets his servant prepare his food and pour his drink before dismissing her. It is his right to have a servant do this for him – his husband’s personal choice need not be his own. To his credit, the prince does not seem perturbed by it in the slightest, and merely watches Haewon work before nodding at her in acknowledgment as she steps aside to leave them to their relative privacy.

Oddly, Taehyun continues not to say anything – but he pours himself a drink before even picking up his plate.

Politeness dictates Yeonjun is not allowed to touch his food before the prince touches his – he wonders if Taehyun expects him to break etiquette and eat anyway, or if he takes his time finishing a cup of wine first deliberately before starting to load things onto his plate.

“Was there something you wished to discuss with me, my prince?”

Taehyun looks at him, and his eyes are not quizzical, or surprised, or searching. They just seem empty. “No.”

Yeonjun takes in a deep breath through his nose, his lips tightening. If he has nothing to say, then why on earth did he stop Yeonjun from inviting the lord steward? He only got in the way of Yeonjun catching up on the budget promptly. Of him enjoying the company of one of his favorite subjects. Of him having a peaceful day while he aches to see Beomgyu’s face again.

“Haewon.” His voice is so carefully neutral, but his husband seems to know what is coming, because he sighs and looks away. “Please leave us.”

The servant bows and walks away, while the prince finally picks up a bite of food to chew on. Once they are finally alone, Yeonjun just stares at his husband, no doubt too sharp and accusatory than he should ever allow himself to be, trying to think of the right words to confront him with.

But then, instead of letting judgment rain upon him, Taehyun speaks up before Yeonjun can say anything.

“Will you accompany me to the concubine’s quarters? To see Omega Beomgyu?”

Yeonjun only watches him in disbelief, as his husband looks up to expose the sincerity in his own face. It is a genuine question – something he wants to do. To see his omega during his heat. To taste some more of his scent, or to check if he is well, to betray both of them and take him. Whatever it is, Yeonjun wants to hear none of it. The prince does not deserve this; he deserves nothing of the sort. To care for Beomgyu when he would not care for his wife, to get to taste Beomgyu in the air when Yeonjun has been denying himself his company so diligently. Yesterday, and during the previous heat. Always. Yeonjun has made so many sacrifices, just for the prince to get to do whatever he wants?

It is his prerogative – as the prince, as an alpha, as their alpha. Taehyun risks so preciously little by visiting his concubine whenever he chooses to, while Yeonjun may be risking everything. It is unfair. It should not be this way. Yeonjun cannot allow it to be this way.

“No,” he says simply, bluntly, sharply. He reaches for his wine to take a sip of it.

He is quite sure he has never seen true disappointment cross the prince’s face before, but it seems to be the emotion that overtakes Taehyun’s face now nonetheless. Some kind of disappointment. A melancholy. “Very well.”

To his surprise, his husband continues to eat after his denial, instead of fighting him, instead of arguing and asking why. Relenting. Submitting.

Yeonjun watches him choose every bite with exceeding care – it is obvious he does not care to eat even as he strives to fill his stomach anyway. He wants to boil with anger on the inside, but the prince’s lack of resistance makes it hard for him to hold onto his resentment. His easy acceptance almost makes it feel like they are facing the same fight – wanting so badly to take their place at Beomgyu’s side yet knowing they should not do so.

He bites hard into his lip and drinks more wine. He should eat, but he is hardly in the mood to. The prince continues to chew his own mouthfuls without much enthusiasm.

His cup hits the table with a click. Taehyun’s eyes flick up to his face, seemingly involuntary.

“How do you think you are faring? With… getting used to the smell of heat.”

Instead of raising the next bite of food to his mouth, the prince looks at his own hand – it is the one Yeonjun saw blood on before, and it is wrapped in a bandage now. His husband seems to be weighing his words for the longest time, and Yeonjun is almost afraid to hear what is coming. Taehyun’s words are spoken softly, however, and to Yeonjun he sounds altogether like a child as he answers.

“I… suppose it has been easier than I expected.” Easier was not a word Yeonjun expected his husband to use. The prince worries at his lip. “I was the most concerned about the blood, but… there has not been any yet, and in its absence…”

He trails off while Yeonjun stares at him uncomprehendingly. Blood?

Taehyun looks directly at him again, his face surprisingly open and curious. “When does the bleeding come? Does it only come when you are further along in your heat?”

For a moment, Yeonjun sits there speechless. Blood. Bleeding. Heat and slick and blood. What is the prince talking about?

“Excuse me?” Are the words he is eventually able to get past his lips, and they sound a bit tight and shrill to his own ears. “I… my prince. Were you not taught anything about an omega’s heat?”

Who told him they bled during their heats? Was it a foolish rumor going around the Court, started by young alphas who did not know any better and which the prince took all too seriously? Was this a misconception he has been holding all this time? Was that why he did not want to touch his wife? Because he was afraid of his blood? Because he did not want to smell it? Was he simply squeamish, so weak he could not stomach blood for the sake of doing his husbandly duty?

Taehyun frowns slightly. “I was taught very little – not much beyond the fact that it was my lot to take advantage of it when the time came to father a child.”

Of course; he needed not know, nor care. Oblivious to their pain and fever and lust. To the constant wetness between their thighs, the painful note of their alpha in their smell – he did not know how painful enduring a heat alone could be. He did not care to find out.

“The little I know I have gathered over the years from gossip, and overheard conversations.”

He purses his lips. “There is no natural bleeding during a heat, my prince. Of the many things an omega’s body has to go through during this time, bleeding is not one of them.”

To his surprise, his husband looks less taken aback and more disbelieving, suspicious even. His frown deepens. “That cannot be true.”

Would Yeonjun not know? As an omega? He scoffs. “I believe I am more well-versed in this topic than you, my prince.”

“But…” he sounds like a boy again, strangely desperate. “But you always smell of blood after yours, just like my mother did. And you are given medicine that helps staunch bleeding.”

Yeonjun freezes. He feels a tremble in his hands, numbness in the tips of his fingers. He smells of blood. Of his own blood. Through gashes in his own skin, past the bandages, it seeps out of him. And his husband smells it, and he deems it natural. Yeonjun rips his skin in desperation, and to his husband, the solution seems simple. This is simply the way things are.

“There is no natural bleeding.”

“But then—”

“I bleed because of the pain.” His own voice sounds so strange to him – like it does not belong to him at all. If there is an emotion in it, he cannot decipher it. If the prince reacts with an expression, he cannot see it. “I…” And the words fail to come. I scratch until the pain is stark enough that I forget to miss you. I bite until my skin breaks because I am convinced I will taste you in my blood. “My heats are extremely painful. I cannot always stop myself from…” Hurting myself. Inflicting wounds that ooze and ache as a reminder of my shame. Of the pain you have caused me. I have given you all of me - my service, my loyalty, my maidenhood. I have given you an untouched body and with every season of rejection it grows more mangled, more hurt. As I rip it open all over again.

He has been lucky, that any scars he has given himself have faded quickly – they were tended to obsessively until they were gone. Until no evidence remained, and he could strip before his husband, before his ladies without shame. The only scar he keeps, the only one he nurtures, the only one he loves, is the one above his heart.

“Breaking skin.”

Seeking comfort, he lays a hand over his mating bite, and it feels like it pulses under his touch although it more likely than not is no more than the pounding of his heart in his chest that causes the sensation. He should be ashamed, but that is not what he feels – he feels overwhelmed; exposed, perhaps. Strangely raw. Like an open wound.

“You injure yourself?”

There may be tears in his eyes. His servant tended to his wounds so carefully, and his ladies always ignored them so tactfully. Everyone has been so gentle with him, when it came to this. And Taehyun knew. Taehyun smelled the blood on his mate through his clothes, and he did nothing.

And today, he does not do anything, either. As Yeonjun nods, the prince grows quiet, and neither of them eats as color drains from Taehyun’s face.

Then he leaves without a word.

Notes:

as a little culture note, the line "Dried persimmon for the tiger. What a lovely appearance of favor they are making." is a reference to a Korean folktale about a tiger who is scared of dried persimmon, you can read about it more here

 

also because i forgot to add this to the author's note before and i assume not all y'all follow me on twitter. if you love taking quizzes, you can take a little one that assigns you a character from this story! it's very short, very silly, but there for you to check out and have fun with!

Chapter 13

Notes:

i think that seeing biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig numbers in my in-progress chapters stresses me out, so i'll try if i like updating this way a bit more :') I hope you guys don't mind the pacing :')

thank you so much for the feedback :') I really appreciate it.

Everything feels so strange afterwards. Yeonjun eats alone, then tries to seem jovial when his ladies return so they can all refresh themselves for the afternoon, but he seems to fail to do so, as they all seem to joke around just a bit louder than usual, as if trying to cheer him up. More than once, he notices Dayeon’s eyes on him, strangely appraising, and he wishes he could somehow avoid the scrutiny, but he has no such luck, and he has to do his best to stay composed as she seems to scrutinize him for the slightest hint of weakness. But he will not give her the satisfaction.

He is well – his husband knows now what he does with himself behind closed doors, and he is well. He wants to bury this reality, this knowledge, his memory of the words he spoke to the prince, in Beomgyu’s graceful neck, in his omega’s scent, and he is well.

They get good news of Beomgyu’s good health, and relative lucidity. The guards have heard him singing to himself in a language they could not recognize during the few hours of peace he got.

Yeonjun takes his ladies to the library, and spends half of the afternoon searching it for any southern books they may own, but it seems that they do not own any. He remembers a thin black book, and ends up picking up a treatise on game strategy instead. At some point while he struggles through it, Miyeon wanders over to peek over his shoulder, and ends up engaging him in conversation about it. It turns out she has been an avid observer of many matches before, when her father played, or when the previous lord of this estate would use the music room to entertain his guests and she would be able to watch them play. Rather than display much curiosity as to why exactly Yeonjun was taking interest in an alpha’s game, she simply seems excited to have someone to speak about it with comfortably. Yeonjun promises himself that he will tell Beomgyu about this as soon as possible – perhaps, if his ladies would allow, he could even let Beomgyu and Miyeon play together when resting in the music room. Perhaps Miyeon would be the one to finally defeat Beomgyu at it – she certainly seems sharp enough to manage it.

They go back to tending to the household, until it comes time for dinner, and Yeonjun holds Chaeyoung and Dasom back while he dismisses the rest of them – if the lord steward is disappointed to not be in a room filled with beautiful ladies for once, he does not show it. He accepts Dasom’s service gratefully, and chats with Yeonjun as warmly and pleasantly as ever. With Yeonjun’s ladies around, he makes sure to praise their contributions to the celebrations, and they blush and bow accordingly, and the whole dinner ends up altogether a pleasant affair. Something about it feels so comfortingly steady – as much as things shift and change, some things stay the same. Their lord steward remains an incorrigible flatterer, and he worries incessantly about the budget. Dasom laughs the same laugh behind her sleeve, unable to contain her reaction as Yeonjun jokes about how the pittances imperial lords give the common folk during the New Year at the Imperial Court makes it look like the whole country is on the brink of ruin, and Chaeyoung loads her own plate carefully, avoiding the foods she does not enjoy, a picky eater as always.

This is his home – as much as the Imperial court is in its own right. Everything about this household, aside from his husband, aside from Beomgyu, who is so much more, is something of such indescribable comfort to him. The gardens he walks through every morning, and his courtiers who he loves for all the quirks of their personalities, for their oddities and ambitions, the gilded plates and his favorite rice wine, Haewon and Minhyuk and the sweet servant children, their guards and all the lunches, the dinners, the tea-time visits and silent feuds with Taehyun’s ministers and town councils – if Yeonjun were a fish, then they all would make up the sea he inhabits, the sea he thrives in and could barely survive outside of. These are his waters, his domain, his home.

Their dinner is almost done by the time Haewon peeks through the door of the tea room, bowing hastily as she notices everyone on their feet, in the middle of exchanging goodbyes already. They were taking too long, exchanging friendly compliments and reassurances that they enjoy each other’s company immensely, and Yeonjun is in an altogether good mood as he regards his servant.

“What is it, Haewon?”

The servant’s eyes seem to shake with hesitance, as if trying not to wander towards the lord steward. “Your Grace, His Highness is in the waiting room, to be seen by you as soon as possible.”

“Ha,” is the first response anyone in the room gives, and it is their lord steward himself, jovial and good-natured. “I see His Highness finds himself in dire need of your company today, Your Grace. I cannot begrudge him this, of course – a companion like Your Grace is not easy to come by.”

Yeonjun lets out a breathy laugh through his open mouth, almost welcoming the joking words just so he does not have to react to the news genuinely. Taehyun is here. He is here now. To say what? To do what?

“One would think he would tire of it after I have spent so many days at his side during the celebrations at the Court.”

The lord steward laughs heartily. “Oh, certainly not. There is no such thing as too much good company.”

“I feel I should congratulate your wife on finding a husband who finds himself so inclined, my dear lord steward.”

“Ah!” The man waves a hand through the air. “Better not speak of it in her presence, Your Grace – she sees it as a great detriment of my personality.”

He sees Dasom cover her mouth in amusement – at least someone is enjoying themself.

“Oh, which wife would not wish for a gregarious husband, my lord?”

Yeonjun wonders if Taehyun can hear them from across the hall with the door still open – he hopes he does.

“I am afraid the answer is my wife, Your Grace – she would so prefer a husband with an appetite of spending more time in his own rooms.”

“She must know you only work so hard for her benefit, my dear lord steward. A good standing is such a double-edged sword sometimes.”

“Indeed, Your Grace – but I believe I am denying His Highness the privilege of your time by taking it up myself. I will go now, and leave you to your matters. I am most grateful you took the time to dine with me today, Your Grace.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Lord Steward.”

With a deep bow, he leaves the room without turning his back on Yeonjun, and Yeonjun watches as Haewon opens the door to the waiting room for him, stepping through after him before shutting it after herself. Muted voices carry across the corridor – he must be exchanging pleasantries with the prince.

Yeonjun turns to his ladies, and the both of them look like they are trying not to think anything of the sudden presence of the prince. They and him both, then.

“My dears, I believe the matter our prince will wish to discuss will be a private one – perhaps it would be best if the two of you retired for the night? I can undress by myself tonight.”

They accept the instruction without question, and bow to him before following the lord steward across the hall. Yeonjun stays by the open door, listening in as a different set of voices rings out, until it is silent again. Until there is no excuse to not go see his husband.

Where have the times gone when he did not dread this? When he was not afraid of his husband in the slightest? Of the things he could do to him? The ruin he could bring? His life was so peaceful, hard as it was at times. And now it is… full of such painful tumult.

He is unsure of the state he expects to find his husband in – angry, perhaps, or plaintive in the worst way that makes Yeonjun feel so cruel when he rejects it. Instead he looks… shaken. Haunted. Like he has just awoken from a nightmare and is searching desperately for the comfort of reality.

Yeonjun has a hard time facing him like this – he feels like he should not be witnessing this, seeing his husband this vulnerable. The air smells of bitter spices and wine. The prince must have been drinking again, but he seems lucid enough. Perhaps he has only now sobered up from whatever he drank after dinner.

“Will you please accompany me to the concubines’ quarters?”

Pathetic. He sounds pathetic. Like a boy, like a weakling. Begging and pleading. He deserves none of Yeonjun’s respect. None of his mercy. He does not deserve the comfort of Beomgyu’s presence.

But does a kind man only give to those deserving? Is Yeonjun a heartless creature under his facade of benevolence? Taehyun disgusts him, but does Yeonjun hate him? Enough to deny him while he asks such a questionable favor so nakedly before him? Is he blinded by his hurt enough to ignore the pain in his mate’s eyes?

Perhaps he is just tired. Perhaps, somewhere in the deepest depths of himself, he has some compassion for his husband. Perhaps he is simply the kind man he has wished and hoped himself to be.

Because he relents; because he agrees. Because he mercifully looks away while the prince looks like he has been able to take a breath for the first time this whole day after he says so.

 

.

 

“Check him for wounds.”

Beomgyu blinks uncomprehendingly, eyes going from Yeonjun to Taehyun in the doorway, and back to Yeonjun who is kneeling over his nest on the floor.

“What?”

Yeonjun bites into his lip; Beomgyu looks over at Taehyun again. He is still wrapped in Yeonjun’s shawl, and seems almost too lucid for how hard his heat seemed to hit him earlier – perhaps Yeonjun’s scent is helping more during a regular heat, or, terribly, the scent of Beomgyu’s alpha brings comfort as well even when it has to waft over across the room faintly once a day.

“Please, Omega Beomgyu. Let my wife look over you.”

He thinks he might cry, when Beomgyu looks at him with worry in his glassy eyes – he should not be worried about anything but himself in this state. They are doing him such a terrible injustice.

“What is he—” Beomgyu starts to whisper, when Taehyun raises his voice again.

“I will give you privacy. Please make sure he is unharmed.”

The prince steps away from the doorway, and Beomgyu grabs at Yeonjun’s elbow, squeezing it almost painfully, eyes wide. “No one came here except for the servant while you were gone. I’ve been safe this whole time.”

Yeonjun nods, and Beomgyu’s expression softens in confusion. “We know.”

“Then why…”

He leans down lower, and Beomgyu shifts to lift his chin up, as if expecting a kiss. It seems he is barely conscious of doing it, and that makes something squeeze at Yeonjun’s chest. “He wants me to make sure you have not harmed yourself.”

Beomgyu’s lips twitch with unspoken words, his eyes widening again. “Yeonjun, I never have, I—”

“I know,” he says, rushing to nod, lifting a hand to cover the one still clutching at his elbow. “I believe you.”

“Then…” Beomgyu frowns.

Yeonjun nods.

“You told him?”

He nods again. Beomgyu’s lips press together so tightly they go white despite the fever.

“What did he—”

“Nothing.”

Beomgyu scoffs. Yeonjun feels vindicated, somewhere deep inside. Some of the tension seeps out of Beomgyu’s body, and he seems to slump into himself, his hand loosening where he had grabbed onto Yeonjun before.

“Feel free to strip me in your search, then. You better be thorough to ease the prince’s mind.”

When Beomgyu meets Yeonjun’s eyes next, it is with a dry, reluctant amusement. Yeonjun sniffles and tries to smile. Beomgyu glances at the empty doorway, then lifts his hand to caress Yeonjun’s cheek.

“I am all yours, Your Grace.”

Does Taehyun know how cruel this is to him? To beg him to touch Beomgyu’s heat-warmed skin, to look at it, not glance at it as if it were as bright and searing as the sun, but to inspect it, force himself to face the reality of it. Every sweet curve of it. Without anyone there to observe them. To judge him. To see him succumb to himself, to his own depravity.

Now he looks down, at the body that haunts and comforts him at the same time. Sweaty and wet with slick; honey, citrus and ginger. His hand shakes as it reaches for Beomgyu’s exposed ankle, and his fingers circle it loosely, the best they can. Beomgyu’s breath shudders out of him but Yeonjun keeps his eyes on his body, on his bare, gold-kissed legs. Fingertips smoothing up his calf, to find purchase in the underside of his knee. Blemish-free. Scar-free. Soft and warm and without a single bit of harm. Beomgyu’s hand clenches in the fur somewhere at the edge of Yeonjun’s vision, as his hand starts its inevitable descent down the back of Beomgyu’s thigh. His bare thigh. His exposed skin. Yeonjun’s breath heaves out of him as the thought overwhelms him, as his hand disappears up the bottom hem of Beomgyu’s underclothes. He is touching him, touching Beomgyu, in a way so far past appropriate, while his husband agonizes just outside the room. He is doing something so terrible, under the worst of circumstances.

And it feels heavenly. Heat pulses between his legs just at the barest touch of his skin. Beomgyu is too beautiful. Too soft, too good, too sweet.

His hand reaches the end of its descent, and his fingertips meet the sticky wetness covering Beomgyu’s thighs there. He is so warm. So starkly alive.

Beomgyu moans, too loud, too obvious, and they both look at the doorway that remains as empty as it was before.

“I apologize,” Beomgyu rushes to say, his tone choked off, as if he cannot quite catch his breath. “I… my heat is…”

Yeonjun nods, even though Beomgyu is obviously saying this for the prince’s benefit. Beomgyu nods back, then moves away from Yeonjun’s hand, who withdraws it abruptly, moving it to his lap then regretting it when the wetness on it hits the air not trapped under Beomgyu’s clothes. He must have gotten Beomgyu’s… Beomgyu’s slick on his clothes. He…

Beomgyu starts to undress before Yeonjun’s startled eyes. He rucks the bottom hem of his chemise up, then pulls the whole garment over his head, letting it drop onto the fur carelessly as he lays back down, letting his legs fall open. Yeonjun can’t look. He cannot. So he stares at Beomgyu’s face in fear instead.

“You have to look, Your Grace,” Beomgyu says, and Yeonjun does not want to listen, but then Beomgyu’s own hand lands between his collarbones before dragging down his body, and it draws Yeonjun’s eyes with it. Down his chest, past the dark, wrinkled mess of scar tissue that remains of his former mating bite, between the swells of his breasts, fuller and softer than ever now, over his stomach, until his fingers spread as they reach his hips. “You have to make sure.”

Dizzily, Yeonjun follows the jut of Beomgyu’s hip bone down, over his unblemished, untouched, slick-stained thighs. There is not a single stain, not a wound, not a hint of a bruise on either of them. They are perfect, and muscled, and slender and Yeonjun knows now what they feel like under his touch.

Beomgyu’s hand slips down the juncture of his hip and thigh, and Yeonjun’s eyes are drawn between his thighs instead, where he is reddened, swollen, glistening with his arousal, and he wishes he could will himself to be disgusted – even ambivalence would be more merciful. But he is none of the sort; he is fascinated, he is compelled. All the things he can hardly afford to be, he should hardly be, in this moment, under these circumstances. Looking at an omega, at Beomgyu of all of them, the one he ought to always share with his husband, if he is to have him at all.

“Beomgyu, I…”

“See? I am well.” Without warning, Beomgyu then flips himself over onto his stomach, letting Yeonjun see the plane of his back, the swell of his backside. Not a single red mark, no blood – just the flush and glow of heat. Shivers and soft skin. “Untouched – to his liking. Tell him.”

Then he rolls back over, not waiting for Yeonjun to respond, and sits up abruptly, leaning all too close to Yeonjun’s face.

“Tell him that if he wishes to see me hurt, he has to do it himself.”

And Yeonjun’s face scrunches in such reluctant pain. The blood on his husband’s hand, and the paleness of his face. The pain in his voice when he begged Yeonjun to come with him here. “He does not.”

Beomgyu scoffs through barely parted lips, and the hot breath brushes Yeonjun’s own face. How easy it would be to kiss him – to betray his husband while he sits a thin wall away. “Oh, the betrayal of you taking his side – it seems he will always stand between us.”

He sounds like his words are meant in jest, but they still ache in Yeonjun’s chest – they are true, are they not? Now that Beomgyu is not the enemy, that he does not stand between him and his husband, his husband stands so firmly between him and Beomgyu. A hindrance to their peace; to their indulgence in each other.

Despite his state, Beomgyu seems to see the distress in his face, and his own expression softens, as he brings a hand to Yeonjun’s cheek, stroking it briefly, giving him a thin smile as a reassurance. That their bond stays unbroken, perhaps – that no imperial princes could keep them from finding comfort in one another. While not true, the thought is certainly pleasant – Yeonjun lets himself be fooled for a moment, just briefly, while he still has to remain strong, before he can fall apart once more in private.

“Run along now,” Beomgyu says then, warmly and much louder than any of his previous words, clearly meant to carry all the way to wherever the prince is awaiting Yeonjun’s report. “Go soothe your alpha.” Yeonjun frowns, but Beomgyu keeps smiling, and his fingers trail over Yeonjun’s jaw before he lays back down. “While I make myself modest again – even though you have both seen my body by now.”

Yeonjun’s eyes stray to Beomgyu’s wrist that carries Taehyun’s mating bite – it looks just like his other wrist, aside from the scar adorning it. It is not pinker, or rubbed raw, there are no bruises on the skin around it – Beomgyu is not desperately worrying at it to get at his alpha’s scent – he does not need to. It was there this morning, and it is here now. Perhaps that is all there is to it – or perhaps there is something to Beomgyu, that allows him to quell his own thirst for an alpha’s touch with so much more dignity than Yeonjun himself ever did.

He wants to kiss Beomgyu so desperately, but the other omega is focusing on untangling the mess he has made of his underclothes himself, so he rises to his feet instead, to walk over to the doorway while barely registering the floor under his feet. His entire body feels hazy and unreal. When he looks out into the hallway, he finds the prince sitting on the floor, with his knees drawn up, sitting like a commoner, so uncouth of an alpha of his standing. Taehyun looks so unimpressive like this – as if he were just a man. Just an alpha, completely consumed by worry which haunts him mercilessly.

“He is unharmed.”

The prince looks up at him with glassy eyes and nods before looking back ahead of himself unseeingly. When he blinks, tears brim over. “Thank you, wife.”

Yeonjun hesitates in the doorway. A good wife would go over to him and comfort him. A cruel wife would rub his pathetic nose in the mess he had created. It makes him wonder what kind of wife Taehyun hoped to foster with his behavior – wonder what kind of wife he had wanted, when his eyes settled on Yeonjun in the first place. What did Taehyun want from him? What was his expectation? That they would live at different courts until their dying days, never having produced an heir, in a state of amiable yet distant friendship? Was all Taehyun was truly looking for a wife to keep his estate? A decoration for his royal arm? How could he do that, if he truly believed in an omega’s worth as more than a mother to an alpha’s children? More than something beautiful for him to look at?

He steps back, and turns around to face Beomgyu, who looks up at him curiously from where he resettles his chemise on his thighs. To Yeonjun, he looks a bit worn out, as if the burst of energy he had displayed showing himself off was only short-lived, and has left him drained in its wake. Perhaps they should leave, and let him rest. Now that Taehyun has made sure Beomgyu is not a danger to himself, maybe he would—

Wet sobs, and a bitter, burnt smell. So startling to his ears, to his nose, to his perception of his husband. Because it is Taehyun, crying inconsolably outside of the room.

Yeonjun wishes it felt good to hear him break, to smell his despair in the air. But it hardly does. Beomgyu’s curious eyes on him narrow slowly, and his nose wrinkles. It makes Yeonjun wonder what the scent makes Beomgyu feel – he does not seem bothered by it in his usual way; there is no quickly spreading fear, no paleness of face that would betray the distress that a strong alpha scent tends to inspire in him. To Yeonjun, the expression that overtakes his features seems the closest to a displeased confusion – perhaps he is as taken aback by the alpha’s breakdown as Yeonjun is. Does he feel the same natural nagging urge to soothe that Yeonjun does? Or is that reserved to an alpha’s mate? Nobody has ever truly explained to Yeonjun how bonds like those Beomgyu and Taehyun share work – only that they are not equal to the bond of marriage. The mating bond. In a situation like theirs, the omega holds no power over their alpha – they leave no mark of their own, and the alpha does not owe them the same care. They belong to the alpha, but the alpha does not belong to them.

And yet. Taehyun is here, right outside Beomgyu’s room, desperately making sure his toy is unbroken. Beomgyu has no claim to him, and yet he has him.

“Yeonjun…” Sobs trail out into gasps, but it is Beomgyu’s voice that addresses him.

Their eyes meet, and to Yeonjun’s surprise, there is a note of sadness in Beomgyu’s ones. He reaches out for the door, to close it and protect Beomgyu at least to some extent from the smell of the alpha’s anguish, but Beomgyu stops him with the door halfway shut with a shake of his head.

He reaches out a hand. “Please help me stand.”

Yeonjun’s eyes widen. “What? Why?”

“Please, Yeonjun – I can crawl to him on my hands and knees, but I believe it would be more dignified if I walked.”

“What do you intend to do with him? You do not want this, Beomgyu, it is simply—”

“I will not as much as touch your prince, Yeonjun. That is not what I intend to do. Now will you do me this kindness or not?”

He presses his lips together. This is wrong, is it not? But making Beomgyu suffer indignities just to cling to some foolish, childish sense of propriety… is there anything proper about this? About any of this? None of this is the way it should be, and in the absence of etiquette Yeonjun must… he can only remember that he loves Beomgyu, enough to be kind to him even if the method makes little sense to him.

Like Soobin said.

So he steps forward, lends Beomgyu a hand, and does not let him go even as Beomgyu tries to stand up on his own two feet, lets him lean on his own frame as they walk, Beomgyu unsteady on tired, weakened legs, to the door, into the hallway, where the prince stares at them in horror while Beomgyu pushes away from Yeonjun a bit more forcefully, and sinks to the floor next to the prince, their backs against the same wall, both heaps on the floor, one bitter, one sweet. Taehyun scoots away from Beomgyu, who snorts tiredly, breathing heavily through his mouth once he comes to rest.

“What are you doing?” Taehyun sounds betrayed, eyes shifting between the two of them – his eyes are red with tears and his sleeves wet with his own tears and snot. He sounds terrified and tired and hurt.

“Do you believe one is responsible for the actions of others, prince? Or are we only ever to be held accountable for that which we have done ourselves?”

The alpha’s pained eyes dim, and he looks down, at the stretch of the floor that separates the two of them. Yeonjun stands frozen in the doorway, as Beomgyu reaches up to his own chest, and pulls the neckline of his underclothes down just enough to partially expose his old mating bite.

“Look at this,” he prompts, and the prince looks up again to take it in, reluctant as he seems to do so. “This body belonged to a man I hated for four years, and in all that time I have not raised a hand to it in harm. I am more than who owns me – I take what I want, not what any master of mine allows me. I will never hurt myself for you, and you cannot stop me from harming myself if I wished to.” The prince frowns, but Beomgyu shakes his head as vigorously as he can despite his obvious fatigue. He holds his wrist out now, the one the prince had marked. “This is the only harm you have ever truly caused me – the only blood of mine you have spilled.” He closes his hand into a fist and shakes it. “I have allowed this – because I knew it was for the best, whatever kind of man you would prove yourself to be in the end. That I might as well let the prince take me peacefully.”

Taehyun seems to swallow with difficulty – Yeonjun has no idea what it must feel like, to have your omega in heat dangle your mark on himself in front of you, while speaking words he seems to find so imperative that you hear. It must be hell on the prince’s frazzled mind, and yet he does not make a single sound, a single untoward move. He seems to focus on Beomgyu’s words as intently as he can. Perhaps Yeonjun should be impressed – or maybe it is easier for alphas than he was ever led to believe, and making omegas think otherwise was nothing but a ploy to make them complacent towards alphas’ excesses. The thought makes him nauseous.

“You avoided me during my mating heat – during your mating rut. I have never gotten even a single taste of your scent during the whole of it, except for this wretched ginger all over me.”

It must have been so strange for Beomgyu – to smell an alpha in his heat scent again. To smell a different alpha than the one who had left his mark on it before. Was Taehyun’s more pleasant to his nose? Did he abhor it less than his late husband’s?

“I apologize,” Taehyun whispers, his voice rough and tight with pain.

“No,” Beomgyu retorts sharply. “I require no apology – if anything, I owe you my thanks. To you, and your wife. Think whatever you may about this, but I was so terribly afraid, the first few days. In my worst moments, in the heights of my fever, I could not help but imagine you coming to my rooms, barging in in the middle of the day, or sneaking in under the cover of the night, to usurp for yourself what I genuinely believed no alpha to be strong enough to deny themselves. Your wife gave me all these heartfelt assurances I did not trust you to be able to honor.” Then their eyes meet, one set glassy with fever, the other reddened with some sort of grief, “But you did – you held back, due to whatever fear or madness or weakness prevents you from doing what is expected of you. And although I wish all I felt towards you were disdain, I cannot help but feel gratitude.”

Slowly, the prince nods. He does not say anything in response, but he also does not argue back, and no fresh tears spring up in his eyes.

“But I am not your wife.” Beomgyu brings his hand to his chest, and the prince’s eyes come up to Yeonjun who avoids them. “And should you, out of all the alphas out there, with all your modern ideas about how we should be treated, not understand that not all omegas are the same? We do not all want the same things, we do not need the same things. I needed your restraint – he does not.”

“I understand that now,” Taehyun says, and he sounds desperate to get that across.

Beomgyu shushes him with a sharp hiss. “Do you? Do you understand where you erred now, then?”

Taehyun nods vehemently, his face tight and determined. “I have used my fear as an excuse to neglect my duties, when I should have fought it from the start.”

“No,” Beomgyu scolds again, surprising Yeonjun and Taehyun both. “Are you daft? That is not what I am saying. If you had done so, and you would have tried to take me, you could have hurt me so much that I would have never forgiven you for it. Even if you were the kindest alpha to ever grace an omega’s nest, my pain, my fear, would have seen your gentleness as an attack all the same. Because I am me, and to me, your fear is a blessing.”

This time, the prince nods slower. “But you are not my wife.”

And this time, Beomgyu nods back.

“And he is not my mother.”

A hesitance crosses Beomgyu’s face, and this time he is the first to look away, dropping his eyes to the space between him and the prince, and he reaches out, across that gap, to rest his fingers lightly on the back of Taehyun’s hand which rests on the floor by his hip. Yeonjun watches his arm twitch, as he fights the urge to flinch away. Beomgyu makes no further effort to make the contact more intimate – it is nothing but a gentle pressure of the tips of his fingers.

“I do not know what you have seen, to make you the way you are, of her suffering or others’. But her pain is not my pain, and it is not Yeonjun’s, and if you continue to look past us and upon her instead, then all you will continue to do is perpetuate the same pain that drove you to this. And you will father a child who will be just like you, and make the same mistakes.”

Only then, Beomgyu’s hand shifts, until his palm covers the back of the prince’s hand.

“I have made the same mistake you have, prince,” he says in a gentler tone, and looks up to Taehyun’s face, who seems transfixed with whatever expression there is on Beomgyu’s. “I saw myself in your wife, and I assumed his pain to be the same as mine. I saw my husband in you, and saw the same black intention in every action you have taken. I thought every wife was like me. I thought my pain was a universal pain; I thought that suffering was what a wife does. What a wife is. That everyone wanted to be free the same way I wished to be. But then I spoke to him. And I learned, of a life so… different from mine. A view so unlike my own. And it seemed strange and unfamiliar and preposterous to my ears. A wife who finds power in their station? Who seems so eager to fulfill their duties? Who wishes for all the things I was made to have and never learned to want? Who takes pride in their marriage?” He scoffs, but it is so light-hearted it almost feels affectionate. Yeonjun almost feels shy. “How could there be such a creature? And what world, what circumstance could allow for it to flourish this way? To fill the empty gaps of agency with gold. To find pleasure, and joy, and pride in this small world we are allowed to inhabit. To have strength, so unlike my own, but perhaps mighty in its own right, in between the bursts of pain he cannot stop himself from experiencing? The pain you inflicted, with your own shrouded eyes?”

The hand Beomgyu is touching closes into a fist, but Beomgyu does not remove his own from the top of it.

“You were given the same blessing I was, prince – you were given a lover with the gift of speech, lover with a mind of his own. If you wish to have an open mind then strive to have a set of open ears as well. The way to ensure you do not hurt him with your actions, that you truly do give him the life he wishes to lead, is to let him tell you about the life he wants.”

“I thought I did,” the prince says, weak and hushed, but clear enough for it to reach Yeonjun’s eyes as well. “He has always seemed so… outspoken around me, especially once we married. I thought he knew. That I was willing to listen, if he had something to say. If there was something he wanted.”

A weakness overtakes Yeonjun, leaving his legs unsteady, and he drops to his knees in the hallway, slow enough to not be overly dramatic but enough to draw the eyes of the two of them towards himself. The prince only looks at him briefly before looking away, but Beomgyu studies him, searching.

For a moment, he feels lost, shaken by those words. But then a memory comes to him, and another, and another, until a fire ignites in his chest all over again.

“You liar. You disgusting, despicable, poor excuse of an alpha. All I had to do was ask?! Was it truly that simple, my prince? When I begged you to see me. For just a moment. To get a shred of your scent, to not feel so terribly alone, during my first few heats – before you managed to teach me to not expect you. Did you respect my wishes then? Or did you do whatever you wanted, whatever you found comfortable?”

Taehyun stares at him mutely, with his mouth slightly open, and more tears gathering in his eyes – but he does not deserve to be the one crying now, does he? He is the cause, not the one who suffered. “You only ever asked for me while in the middle of your heat, you never complained of my absence outside of it…”

“Are you joking, Taehyun? You must be an idiot. A dim-witted fool. If I had never felt you against me I would have thought you were no alpha at all. When else would I have need of you? When else would I want you then when my instincts beg for you the loudest?”

“But you did want me even when your instincts were not loud enough to drown out all sense. And you showed me when you did, and I listened, and I gave you what you needed.”

Now Yeonjun’s lips twitch without a sound coming out for a moment. Passion – he would never respond to instincts, but he would always respond to passion. “Surely that must have been enough for you to understand that I was not disgusted by the thought of you sharing my bed. The thought of you…” Shame, and courtliness and a strange shyness chokes the last words out of him. Inside me.

The air around them is still sweet with the most ill-fitting of arousals, with Beomgyu’s honey he cannot help but shed into the hallway. Between them, Beomgyu’s jaw clenches and his eyes slip shut, the back of his head hitting the walls as he squirms in place – with a wave of pain or with the thought of them, they cannot know.

“It is different.” The prince insists with a strangled conviction, bringing his fisted hands into his own lap, obviously slipping from under Beomgyu’s touch. “I may not know much about an omega’s heat, but I experience ruts, and I know the kind of desire that comes with them. The kind of…” He swallows heavily. “Vulnerability that comes along with it. The loss of control, the… the illogical thinking that it leads one to succumb to. Was I to let your instincts get the best of you? Let my instincts get the best of me? And cause us both pain we would have to carry for the rest of our lives?”

Beomgyu lets out an ugly sound, part snort, part laugh, part squeal of some sort of amusement, of frustration, perhaps. At least Yeonjun knows he feels overcome with frustration most of all – is the thought so beyond the prince’s comprehension? That Yeonjun would be ready, would be happy to, even, give him the most tender parts of him? The most intimate of experiences, giving his mate his heat – he would have granted the prince the privilege of it without a second thought. Because he knew it was something that came with the lot of marriage. It was the sacrifice he was to make for the wealth he desired, the comfort he was promised, the status and respect he had dreamed of – debasing himself in front of his alpha, letting him have all his body had to offer. He was never taught to expect anything else. That anything else was an option afforded to him. When it became clear that giving up his heat was off the table, he…

“Oh you little puppy,” Beomgyu coos, seemingly to himself, his eyes still closed, body undulating as he readjusts himself against the wall, perhaps seeking more of the coolness of it. “You have such a romantic view of this all.” He rolls his head to the side, to look at Taehyun through squinted eyes. “Were you charmed by tales of romance as a boy? Were you told one too many? What words made you think you would not get a choice?”

If it were possible, the air sweetens even further, and it joins and intertwines with a sting of pepper. Beomgyu is getting worse again.

“Pardon?” A flush rises to the prince’s cheeks. Yeonjun recognizes it. He knows it.

“Do you want me, prince? Do you desire me bodily? Am I beautiful to you? Do I tempt you?”

Beomgyu rucks up the bottom of his chemise as he speaks, perhaps to emphasize his point, perhaps because his body urges him to shed it, to expose himself before his alpha, to escape the terrible ache of the fabric scratching at skin that is already so sensitive to any touch it receives. The prince’s eyes follow the motion of his hands helplessly.

“Do you?” Beomgyu insists, and Taehyun nods his head, looking away from Beomgyu’s bared thighs with his face twisted with shame. “Then why have you not taken me yet? Why have you not forced yourself upon me? If we are so helpless in the face of our instincts.”

Yeonjun watches Taehyun’s lip turn pale under the pressure of his own teeth. “Because I am older now. Wiser. More in control of myself and you…”

Beomgyu’s head rolls over to gaze at Yeonjun instead, and there is want in his eyes, lust and amusement and pain as he rubs at his lower abdomen. “I am not your wife.”

And Yeonjun cannot look away from him, even as his husband concurs with a clipped, “Yes.”

Beomgyu’s chest heaves, and Yeonjun knows what it looks like under his clothes. Knows the swell of his breast and the softness of his stomach, knows how his thighs feel under his own hands – and Beomgyu knows it is all on his mind, can see it in his face, in the hand that so restlessly moves, trying not to stray too low in its movements.

“Because you want him, in ways you do not want me.”

And it is the prince’s silence more than anything else, that makes Yeonjun tear his eyes away from Beomgyu’s to look at his husband’s. He is aroused; he is not unaffected. But he does not move to satisfy himself in any way.

“… you could say so,” Taehyun responds, quietly, barely a breath, looking Yeonjun directly in the face.

Yeonjun felt unwanted; he felt ugly. Helpless and disgusting to himself, empty, wrong, unanchored, floating freely through such dark, unfamiliar waters.

After his husband rejected him, time and again.

What does he think he feels towards Yeonjun? And how could he possibly?

“Do you think whatever you feel would prevent you from showing restraint? That you could not want him and love him at the same time? Desire and respect him – do you think that if you shared a bed, and he bared himself before you, if he was flushed and wanting, if he was so deep in his heat that he could not help but pleasure himself before you – do you think you would not be strong enough to stop yourself from touching him?”

Yeonjun looks at Beomgyu, and sees it before his eyes again. Beomgyu, smelling of lust and want but frozen, doing nothing more than looking on as he himself lost control, over and over again, because he knew Yeonjun would have never forgiven himself if they did anything else than that.

“… yes.”

“If you held him in your arms through the night, and you woke up to him in need, to him wanting your touch so badly you could taste it in the air, if he pressed himself against you just to move away again, if he asked you not to touch him while he looked at you as if he wished for anything but – do you think you could resist?”

This time, the prince does not reply, and Yeonjun imagines he is in the same sweet trance Yeonjun himself is, completely taken, enchanted by Beomgyu’s words, by his voice, his scent, the strain in his tone, even though the images haunting Taehyun’s mind could never be as vivid, as potent, as real as Yeonjun’s, because to Taehyun they are far-fetched stories, but to Yeonjun, they are memories.

“Do you know what I would be doing right now, alpha, if there was no restraint to be had during a heat? If I were not in control of my actions?”

“Omega Beomgyu…”

The prince’s rough, low, hushed voice trails off as Beomgyu lifts his hand to Yeonjun’s face. He pets at Yeonjun’s painted cheek, then reaches for his ear to play with his earring. “I wondered. Many times now. If you had any idea of my predilections.”

Yeonjun’s eyes widen but he cannot look away from Beomgyu’s flushed face. As much as he speaks of control, it is clear that his mind is slipping, as another peak approaches. He needs to return to his nest; he needs to be away from his alpha, before the worst happens.

“They are of no concern to me.”

Beomgyu laughs, breathy and tired, chased by a groan as his hips shift with another rush of honey that has the prince shuffling away from him somewhere at the edge of Yeonjun’s vision. “What if they concern something of yours?”

“Then I…”

Finally, Yeonjun looks over at his husband, who is in the middle of the hallway now, held up by his arms where he shuffled away inelegantly, with his scent bitter and full of pepper, face flushed and unreadable, red-eyed and tight-lipped as he stares at his wife unblinkingly for a long moment before nodding.

“Then I have learned my lesson, Omega Beomgyu. I will listen to my omegas, when they tell me what they want. I will let them choose for themselves.”

Yeonjun bites his lips. The prince does not look away, not even when Yeonjun’s eyes shift away from him to focus on Beomgyu instead.

Beomgyu smiles at him, and it seems odd around the edges, tainted with the heat, with fever and pain and whatever else goes on in his mind, but he scoots closer, and cups Yeonjun’s cheek. “You heard alpha. Choose, Yeonjun.”

His words sound so teasing; so light-hearted. As if this did not matter, and perhaps it does not, to his addled mind, perhaps to Beomgyu it is a game like any other. Another push and pull of desire, secret and consequence-free. Except this time, there is nothing but consequence to it. It is a choice, a true one.

Something perhaps more intimate, than giving his husband his heat. Something worse than the hate he has been developing towards him. Something bigger than them, than courtly machinations, something more important to Yeonjun than lineage, than the respect of his court, than honor.

This kernel inside his chest that cares for Beomgyu. That has become so addicted to his touch, so used to his company. The part of him that thinks of his voice when it is not there, that imagines his face in his absence. That. Is he to show that to a man he knows now cannot be trusted? To a man who he is growing to despise? To a man who has shown him so little kindness, who keeps falling apart where Yeonjun needs him solid, who has left him in this free fall that has landed him so securely in Beomgyu’s arms instead?

Can he trust the prince with this truth? With his heart that belongs to another now?

When their lips slot together, Yeonjun wonders if it looks practiced to the prince’s eyes; if he can see that it is not the first time. When Beomgyu winds his arms around Yeonjun’s body to pull it close to his own overheated one, like a smoldering ember pushed mercilessly against his chest, when Yeonjun’s fingers find purchase in Beomgyu’s sweat-matted hair, when Beomgyu abandons his lips to bury his face in his neck instead, mouthing at his scent gland and Yeonjun closes his eyes as he fights to suppress a noise of pleasure at the feeling of it, trying to escape the burning attention of his husband’s eyes – he wonders what Taehyun thinks of it. What his alpha feels.

All he feels is pleasure, and heat, and a flutter in his chest as Beomgyu’s hands undo the sash of his robes. As his hand slips under the fabric and Yeonjun’s fingers clutch at Beomgyu’s sides. As he forgets himself, in the smell of him, the feel of him, the smothering warmth.

Until no bitterness remains.

He is so taken by it, so lost in it, in the sudden rush of peace and pleasure, that he barely registers any motion until there is another body next to them, and instead of the overwhelming scent of Beomgyu’s heat, the air shifts into something so pleasant, so smooth and comforting, that it has him sighing into Beomgyu’s hair as if in the greatest relief of all, as his muscles loosen where they tensed, his lungs fill where they could barely take in air.

Spiced wine with citrus. Crushed fruit, honey and pepper.

Beomgyu’s fingers tremble on his thighs. His lips find Yeonjun’s mating bite, and press against it gently. He lets out a strangled sound at the feeling of someone else’s touch on the scar; his eyes open just enough to glance to the side, where the prince kneels next to them. Still flushed, but it feels like something has changed. Only a hint of staleness remains in his scent. His scent is so potent, so alpha-like, and perhaps he means to intimidate with it, but all it does is bring comfort to Yeonjun’s hazy mind. The tip of Beomgyu’s tongue kisses his chest, and he shivers, fingers squeezing at Beomgyu’s waist even harder.

“This is…” the prince’s words come out clumsy, as if his tongue felt heavy, and his voice is deep the way Yeonjun knows it gets when he is overcome with desire. And yet, he kneels next to them with his hands on his thighs. “This is not safe. Please let… he needs…”

Beomgyu withdraws his tongue to nod, shifting his head so his cheek rubs against Yeonjun’s skin with the gesture. “Yes. Nest.”

Taehyun looks at him with such a loud yet unreadable expression in his eyes, then looks at Yeonjun. “Allow me.”

The same words, but this time there is pause for an answer. And Yeonjun, in all his suddenly reclaimed lucidity, rubs a hand up and down Beomgyu’s side. “May he?”

Beomgyu reacts by pushing himself away from Yeonjun, leaving the front of his body cold and exposed, as his body withdraws from where it was keeping Yeonjun modest despite his state of undress by being pressed so tightly against it. He immediately pulls the fabric tightly around himself again, covering himself up, even though he does not reach for his sash to tie his robes properly. He watches as Beomgyu offers himself up to be picked up, stares in wonder at his arms winding around the prince’s neck with ease. Yeonjun stands to free the doorway for the two of them, as Taehyun lays Beomgyu back down on the furs.

Once Beomgyu is on his back, with the alpha hovering above him, once again it feels like the entire room holds its breath – just like the day before, when Taehyun brought him here from the courtyard. Their need to come closer must clash with their need to separate. They both breathe heavily, and Beomgyu licks his lips, and the prince watches his tongue caress what should be his by laws of nature, by the law of the empire his ancestors built.

Then, to Yeonjun’s surprise, instead of the prince’s resolve breaking, instead of him running away from the need Yeonjun can feel, can smell Beomgyu awaken in him, it is Beomgyu who crosses a line. So innocently, so lightly, with the gentlest of touches to the prince’s cheek.

“Thank you, alpha,” he says so quietly Yeonjun barely hears it, but he sees Taehyun’s shoulders slump in response, as his face shifts to bring his nose closer to Beomgyu’s wrist – the marred one, with Taehyun’s mark on it. Yeonjun can so easily imagine Taehyun’s lips parting, his teeth digging in to renew the bite. Reseal his bond with his omega.

But instead, his eyes shut, and he breathes, even as Beomgyu’s fingers clench the fabric barely covering him now as another wave of pain and lust overcomes him. Taehyun does not make a move, neither to aggravate nor to soothe. Beomgyu’s fingers slip down to the side of his neck as his arm weakens. Yeonjun comes further into the room, and Beomgyu looks at him with desperation and pain in narrowed eyes.

Yeonjun touches his hand to the back of Taehyun’s shoulder, and the alpha’s eyes fly open, startled, the muscle tensing under Yeonjun’s palm before it relaxes again as his husband recognizes his touch to be a safe one. His alpha looks at him with such strange eyes – like those of a newborn animal, seeing the world for the first time. Open, and vulnerable, and despite all the derision in his heart, Yeonjun feels like he will regret his next words, somewhere in his chest. Beomgyu’s hand lowers further, skims down past the prince’s mating mark that matches Yeonjun’s to fall down on the floor limply. Yeonjun squeezes Taehyun’s shoulder firmly.

“Go, alpha. You are not needed.”

And Taehyun nods, but then does not move, but his mouth drops open, like there are words stuck at the back of his throat that he cannot get out.

And usually, Yeonjun would have left it at that – he would not have done anything the prince did not openly prompt him to do. But perhaps Beomgyu’s affections have made him think too highly of himself, of his body, of the worth of his touch. They may have made him vain, because he comes to believe that what the prince needs, what he is asking for without finding the words to say it out loud, is to be kissed.

And perhaps he is not wrong, because when he leans in to do just that, Taehyun rushes to meet him halfway like it is imperative their lips meet as soon as possible.

Yet despite that, the kiss is nothing like the kisses of urgency they are used to exchanging while overcome with passion. It is brief, and firm, and reassuring, and Taehyun sighs against Yeonjun’s lips in the wake of it as if he was granted the greatest of reliefs. His fingers find their way into Yeonjun’s hair, and he cannot help but hold his breath, waiting for something to come. An explanation, a plea, a promise. Perhaps the prince could beg him to stay pure for his sake, to not give in to any temptation that he could face once he leaves the two of them alone again.

But once again, he says nothing, except this time, the lack of words feels comforting. Taehyun’s nose skims his cheek, and he takes a deep breath against Yeonjun’s jaw, breathing his scent in along with the sticky scent of Beomgyu that is so pervasive in the air at the moment, and then he lets go of him, stands up, and leaves.

Yeonjun watches the door shut behind him silently, then startles when Beomgyu whines, moving again, squirming, shuffling closer to him on the furs. He tugs at his open robes that Yeonjun is still holding closed with a loose grip, exposing more of his skin, biting his lips as he reaches out for Yeonjun with his other hand.

All the reasons not to heed his call cross Yeonjun’s mind – loyalty, and honor, propriety and his education, the tiny little part of him which still believes he has love for the prince, locked away somewhere behind all that hurt that he has been cradling to his chest so dearly, like it could protect him from any more harm.

And still, he disregards them. He lets his robes fall open under Beomgyu’s insistent pulling, leans down to let their tongues brush against one another in a caress that makes him shudder. Beomgyu clutches at his neck, keeping him close with one hand while the other takes Yeonjun’s, to guide it between his own legs, and Yeonjun allows it. He lets it happen. Because despite all the reasons he should not, despite everything it means for his future, for his perception of himself, what it could do to Beomgyu, to Taehyun, Yeonjun wants this. And as strong as they all hope themselves to be, as strong as they attempt to be, desire is… sometimes the most powerful natural urge of them all. Stronger than any of them could hope to be.

“I feel I have so much to show you,” Beomgyu breathes against him, brushing his hand down Yeonjun’s front, pausing to cup his breast before he lowers his hand to his waist. “But I need you to help me, first.”

His voice is so warm; affectionate. Like all that follows can only be an act of love. Despite everything; all the murkiness of the world around them. The world outside that closed door. And Yeonjun wants to believe that it can.

He nods, and their noses brush together, and Beomgyu smiles at him tiredly with cloudy, unfocused eyes, before he kisses him again with too-warm lips.

 

.

 

If Yeonjun did not know any better, he would have believed that Beomgyu’s heat somehow awoke his own, with how warm he feels everywhere, with how all-consuming the sweet stupor of them indulging in each other’s bodies over and over again is. Nothing exists but warm, sweaty skin, a searing hot mouth that tastes of honey, then of crushed fruit and hands with trembling, clever fingers that intertwine with his own atop the sleek silver furs Beomgyu has made his nest on top of. It feels like heat, and Yeonjun wonders terribly if it was always supposed to feel like this, if the dizzy intoxication of the smell of pepper was just a pale imitation of the real thing, this searing hot, mindless inflammation of flesh, of the mind, that leaves him helpless to do anything else until Beomgyu is sated enough to calm down, and Yeonjun can hold him in his arms, Beomgyu’s back to his chest, both of them bare, with nothing to protect their modesty.

Under any other circumstances, Yeonjun is sure this state would be so deeply uncomfortable to his mind. He would be cold, embarrassed, restless with the thought of someone seeing them like this, worried about all the citrus and ginger still clinging to his skin even after he had scrubbed them both clean the best he could – but like this, he is none of the sort. He is warmed by Beomgyu’s mild fever, happy to protect his modesty with Beomgyu’s naked body pressed as tightly into his as it can go. With his face in the nape of Beomgyu’s neck, and his fingers painting maps onto the planes of Beomgyu’s stomach, he feels content. Safe, and at peace.

Beomgyu breathes against him steadily, although Yeonjun is sure he is not asleep yet – he may require the physician’s tea to sleep, even after Yeonjun tired him out with all his… affections. Heat is such a cruel thing.

His mind threatens to travel in a dark direction, the thought bringing with it memories of his husband’s ignorance, his lack of care, his…

He presses his lips to the back of Beomgyu’s shoulder, and Beomgyu brings Yeonjun’s palm to his lips, to kiss the center of it as if in response to his touch, and threads their fingers together again before bringing their hands to his own warm cheek.

“I have to admit I am disappointed,” he says, and his voice is warm, and Yeonjun feels his cheek tighten as he smiles under his hand.

Disappointed – Yeonjun’s heart would sink, if there was not obviously some sort of joke to it all. Something teasing Beomgyu wishes to say just to get a rise out of him. Yeonjun buries his face in Beomgyu’s neck just to hear him sigh in satisfaction. “Are you?”

Beomgyu lets go of Yeonjun’s hand to play with his hair. “Yes. I was hoping to show you a new world of pleasure, but you did not seem as unfamiliar with it as I had hoped.”

Yeonjun presses his face into Beomgyu’s skin tighter, face warming with embarrassment. “I…”

“You. And this prince of yours. So naïve to some things, yet so well-versed in others. He seems as much of a conundrum as you were.”

He does not wish to speak about his husband; not when holding his lover in his arms – but Beomgyu seems to have different ideas, as he squirms away from Yeonjun’s hold just so he can turn around and come close again, winding an arm around his waist and lifting a leg over Yeonjun’s hip, his legs parting with a rush of ginger and honey in the air. When Beomgyu leans in to kiss him, for a moment Yeonjun hopes that is all he means to do now that they are face to face, but Beomgyu disappoints him by pulling away when Yeonjun leans in for more kisses.

“Although it seems fitting of a man like him, to enjoy putting his mouth on you.”

Yeonjun’s face is on fire with shame. As pleasant as the prince’s attention is, and as heart-stopping it was to see Beomgyu in the same position, similar yet different yet still so terribly satisfying, and as grateful as he was to have shed his shame of having lips pressed against the most intimate part of him years ago, in the safety of his husband’s bed, under his careful, patient, so sincerely innocent attention, it feels so wrong to speak of it. Some things should remain unsaid. What his husband does with his mouth, what he so clumsily tried to replicate with his own to help ease Beomgyu’s pain, the touches they have exchanged, as precious as they are, it should all go unspoken. The silence keeps the truth from becoming too much of a reality – the things that remain unsaid need not be acknowledged.

“A man like him?”

Beomgyu reaches out towards his face, and he squints in confusion, as the pad of Beomgyu’s thumb touches the place between his eyebrows, just to trail a line down to the tip of his nose before tapping at it. “One so afraid of giving you anything but pleasure, perhaps. Or a husband who spoils you.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes. Beomgyu holds his jaw and kisses him. “He may be both of those things.”

With a hum, Beomgyu lays a hand on Yeonjun’s waist, then trails his hand to his stomach. “Have you ever used your mouth for his pleasure?”

Confused, Yeonjun blinks his eyes open to frown at Beomgyu, whose face is perhaps a little too delighted by this turn of conversation. Curious, and a little aroused – they are treading a fine line, with Beomgyu still in the throes of heat. At any time, he could be overcome with fever again just because they dared speak of sex so brazenly. “Pardon?”

“What?” Beomgyu laughs and his hand slips lower. “Did you think a mouth can only be used for an omega’s pleasure? Did he lead you to believe so? It cannot be. As sweetly innocent as you can be, Your Grace, you must have—”

“That is not…” Yeonjun swallows, suddenly nervous. Warm. Too warm. “Perhaps… I have heard of such a thing, in the most hushed of voices, but…”

“But?”

Beomgyu’s palm rests warmly on his pubic bone, and Yeonjun finds it hard to stay composed. “That is not for a lady to do – it would… it would not…”

The thought is so… distasteful. Dirty. Wrong. If he… if he were to press his tongue against his husband’s cock – would he be disgusted? What would he taste like? Would it just be warm skin like any other? Would his mouth taste of pepper? Of warm spices? Would he enjoy the sight of his husband in a state of helpless pleasure, the same he himself feels with a mouth on him? Would he take pride in it? Would he take pleasure in it, like he took in every sigh he wrung out of Beomgyu’s throat earlier?

Beomgyu laughs and grabs at Yeonjun’s hip, pulling him closer then pushing him away, nudging Yeonjun to lay back on his back, so he can climb into his lap, shameless, the dim of the room doing nothing to hide the sheer decadence of him, golden everywhere, slender, elegant, flushed, wet where he brushes Yeonjun’s own exposed skin.

“Spoiled – you are so spoiled, Yeonjun.” He reaches down to cup Yeonjun’s face. “But I like you this way. You are wonderful this way.”

“I—” desperate to argue, Yeonjun clings onto Beomgyu’s wrists. “I reciprocated your affections?”

“Indeed,” Beomgyu agrees easily, and dips down to press their lips together. “You were good to me.”

Then he takes his hands off of Yeonjun’s face to brace them next to his head, looming over him while his hips swivel and twist, spreading slick on his abdomen with every motion.

“Will you be good to me some more now?”

 

.

 

He comes to wonder if this is what heat is supposed to be like. Moments of heat and pleasure, interspersed with moments of quiet, warm affection, holding Beomgyu in his arms, feeding him water and washing his body, kissing his skin while they rest and speak in hushed voices. It seems so perfect – like the respite he has been craving so desperately. Just one night of it, perhaps, but respite nonetheless. Rest. Satisfaction. A brief moment of complete contentment.

“I am such a dirty liar.”

Beomgyu speaks into the furs, turned onto his front while Yeonjun sits next to him and paints made-up images onto his back with the tips of his fingers again, unable to stop touching him. Beomgyu is holding onto his ankle, perhaps for no reason at all, perhaps because he feels the same.

“How so?”

“I preach control, I tell your prince how much choice we get in what we take, and then I give into myself, anyway.”

Yeonjun lets his nails graze Beomgyu’s skin the next time his fingers skim down Beomgyu’s spine. “I allowed this. With as clear a mind as I can have around you.”

He sees Beomgyu’s face shift as he smiles, even though he cannot quite catch the expression in its entirety. “Perhaps. But that is not all I speak of.”

His palm comes to rest on the small of Beomgyu’s back. “What else is there?”

To his surprise, there is a long stretch of silence, and for a moment Yeonjun wonders if Beomgyu has finally fallen asleep – instead of that, however, Beomgyu shakes his head against the fur he is resting on.

“I let an alpha take care of me – I thought I never would.”

Yeonjun bites his lips. “What do you mean?”

Beomgyu shrugs, and Yeonjun watches the muscles of his back ripple. “I let him carry me to safety – and as… painful as the first time was, as… terrified as I felt… somehow I still… trusted him not to fail me.” His voice is thin, barely there, and Yeonjun is grateful, as painful as the words are to hear. “Before him, I only ever let Kai tend to me this way. He would… always be the one to bring me to my nest, to… to take me back to where it was safe.” Beomgyu rolls over slightly, rising on his elbows, to look at Yeonjun properly. “Despite being an omega, he was strong enough to do so – and I used to think, since it made him so perfect for me at the same time as it might have made much less desirable for others…” He swallows with his jaw clenched tightly. Yeonjun can feel the next words, even though he cannot yet know the exact shape of them. “That it meant that he was made to love me.”

Yeonjun can hear himself breathe in the ensuing silence. This terrible weight bears down on him, and he does not know what to do. What to say.

“But I also believe my fate led me here so I would love you – and your arms are much less solid than his, so perhaps…” Beomgyu’s voice breaks and Yeonjun’s eyes itch with tears. “They were just foolish musings of a child.”

He reaches up to run his fingers through Beomgyu’s hair, and feels his head lean into his own palm. “Or perhaps you were brought here to give me a reason to gain the strength to hold you myself.”

Beomgyu laughs with closed eyes, wetly, sadly. “Ah, will you take up duties of carrying heavy burdens just for me? Oh, the romance of it.” He reaches for Yeonjun’s hand and kisses his knuckles, then nuzzles against the back of it. “No, that should hardly be the solution – and I think this shall scare me, should I let myself think of it too deeply.”

“Why?”

Before replying, Beomgyu presses another kiss to the back of his hand, and speaks his word with lips still brushing against it. “Because of how easy it was for me to trust him today. If the answer were to be that it is his strength I should rely on, then perhaps we are all better off in the dark.”

Yeonjun sighs shakily. “He is your alpha, Beomgyu – and he has not hurt you, like Jaehwan did. There is no…” his voice chokes off and he has to clear his throat before continuing. “No reason for you or your instincts to distrust him. He has not given you a reason to doubt him yet – it is only natural you would be inclined to rely on him this way.”

Beomgyu closes his eyes, and presses his forehead into Yeonjun’s hand. “It feels like a betrayal – of me, or the man I used to be, and of you.”

And perhaps it feels to Yeonjun like a betrayal as well. Or it should, even though it never did. Never at the moment. When Taehyun was bringing Beomgyu to safety, Yeonjun was never anything but grateful for him. Only afterwards did the resentment set it. But it was never…

“I do not feel betrayed by you.” Because… “He failed me, not you.”

Beomgyu sighs. “I would have hated myself for this, in my youth. Feeling so cared for in an alpha’s arms.”

“Do you hate yourself for it now?”

“No,” Beomgyu says simply, shaking his head, his hair brushing Yeonjun’s skin, so much less silken than it usually is. “Not yet. And that perhaps… hurts in itself.”

Yeonjun lifts his free hand to run it back and forth across Beomgyu’s shoulder blades, and the muscle seems to loosen under his touch almost immediately. Beomgyu sighs again.

“I believe I could sleep now, if I tried. Will you stay with me?”

Instead of replying, Yeonjun extricates himself from Beomgyu’s grasp, so he can lay down next to him, and gather him in his arms, with Beomgyu’s suddenly damp face pressed into his neck, right by his scent gland. He rubs Beomgyu’s back until his breathing evens out into the peaceful rhythm of deep slumber, and then he finally lets himself relax as well.

 

.

 

They drifted off together, but Beomgyu is still asleep when Yeonjun awakens. His face is the most peaceful Yeonjun believes he has ever seen it, the sleep evening it out into something tranquil, soft and beautiful. There is still a flush to his cheeks, and a sheen of sweat to his skin, and yet, he looks like he is exactly where he wants to be, and maybe he is, with Yeonjun’s arm still wound around him, if he is vain enough to assume so.

Helplessly, Yeonjun presses a kiss to his chin before pulling away, but Beomgyu does not rouse in the slightest.

He stands up and putters around the room naked, something so impossible he feels a kernel of childish delight doing it. Being so open, so shameless about his bare body. Marred with Beomgyu’s teeth and his scent that he reluctantly washes off of himself with the help of the water basin on Beomgyu’s vanity. They need a change of water direly, and to refill the pitcher of water Beomgyu was given in the evening.

With the sight of the nearly-emptied pitcher, reality starts sinking in, and Yeonjun considers his situation carefully as he walks around the room with a slightly less confidence, picking up his discarded clothing. He has no idea what time it is, but it must be nearing morning at this point, if it is not already. He does not know where the prince has gone, what his servants know, if his ladies have arrived at his rooms yet. He has spent the night with Beomgyu, even though he did so with his husband’s blessing. The only ones aware should be the night guards of the concubines’ quarters, and Soobin by extension, if he has a reason to question them. He may be as safe as he can be from the consequences of this decision, or he may not be.

He redresses himself, but leaves his hair down, and cleans his face of any trace of yesterday’s paint. Then he arranges all of the things that need changing on a tray and picks it up to carry it out of the room.

As soon as he steps into the hallway, he is startled. The entirety of it smells of spice, and there are voices in the waiting room. Something in his bristles at the sound of it. His husband’s scent only strengthens the closer he gets to the waiting room, until his nose is overwhelmed with it as he steps in – it smells like a mix of authority and arousal, so strange and unfamiliar that Yeonjun squints at the onslaught of it, as if narrowing his eyes could make it assault his senses less sharply.

Almost unsurprisingly, the source of it is still there, in the middle of the room again, but facing the door this time, standing tall and imposing and smelling like sex and violence. His robes are undone again, exposing his chest and there is a flush to it not unlike the blush on Beomgyu’s skin. Yeonjun forces himself to look away, and towards the open door, where Soobin stands with his gloves pressing against the bottom of his face tightly, no doubt trying to block Taehyun’s scent, bent over at the waist in a bow Yeonjun has never seen Soobin lower himself into outside of formal occasions.

He cannot even smell Soobin at all with how strong Taehyun’s scent is. The potency of it makes him feel on edge – he has no idea what another alpha must feel like around it.

“I said no alphas in the building during Omega Beomgyu’s heat,” he says firmly, and both of the alphas look at him – Taehyun is frowning, and Soobin seems wide-eyed and relieved. “The prince can be forgiven, but I do not believe you have the same privileges, Captain Soobin.”

“I am not letting him in,” the prince hisses, and it sounds childish, but perhaps the better word for it would be thoughtless. It is instinct-driven. That is why his scent is so aggressive – to ward off another alpha from approaching his vulnerable omega.

Yeonjun raises his eyebrows at him. He is so ill-composed. It is such a strange look on him.

Before he can say anything, however, Soobin speaks up first. “I don’t wish to come in – can you please calm down?”

His voice is strangely tight, strained. Perhaps it takes all his composure to not answer with hostility of his own. Or perhaps…

The room smells of Taehyun’s arousal, and the prince is half-undressed, and acting like more of an alpha than ever, and Soobin, with his… nature… perhaps feels something different than aggravation, when faced with all of it. Whether he wants to or not. The thought makes Yeonjun feel terrible for him.

He sets the tray he is holding aside on a cabinet, and crosses the room to his husband to grab at his arm, to wind his own around it, as if they were going on a walk together. Taehyun is trembling. It is almost amusing, how upset he seems by Soobin’s presence anywhere near Beomgyu. Is this normal? Should all alphas feel this way? Yeonjun has to admit to himself he has no idea. But it seems natural. The same way Beomgyu would feel agitated by having strange alphas around, his alpha feels the need to keep him safe from them. Not as pragmatically as Yeonjun felt about it when making the provision to only let betas stay around the quarters and only allow omegas inside, but in a more… base way.

Thankfully, Yeonjun’s touch seems soothing to the prince to some extent, and his tense posture loosens somewhat. Still, he seems to not be in the mood for conversation, so Yeonjun takes it upon himself to speak for him.

“Why are you here then?”

Soobin squints up at him, still bent in a bow in a way that has to be uncomfortable. Should Yeonjun tell him it is okay to stand up properly, or would that only worsen Taehyun’s discomfort with his presence? Perhaps Soobin knows what he is doing, robbing himself of the advantage of his height, and making himself look like less of a threat in the process. “I came looking for the prince – and for you, by extension. He did not come back to his rooms last night, and Minhyuk was confused to not find him in his bed in the morning – he knew he went to see you, so he spoke to Haewon, just to find out the two of you left your rooms together, and neither of you returned. We thought we might have to alert the whole palace to find out where the two of you went, when the guards I stationed here finally came back, to tell me this was the last place anyone has seen you enter.” He looks over at Taehyun briefly, before looking at Yeonjun again. “You gave all of us a terrible scare – you told no one where you were going.”

The prince’s head lowers, even as he keeps his eyes trained on what he perceives to be the threat. Yeonjun chews on his lips.

“We did not… expect we would stay the night,” he says carefully, and something in Soobin’s expression shifts as he glances between them again.

“Is he well?”

Taehyun’s jaw tightens as he seems to struggle to not bare his teeth, and Yeonjun pets the inside of his arm almost absentmindedly, to try to soothe him. He tries to calm himself as well, just to try and make his own scent gentle enough to calm his husband down further.

“Yes, Soobin – he is well, and he is resting.”

“Did—”

“That is none of your concern,” Taehyun grits out, and Soobin frowns at him, moving to raise himself from the bow just to lower himself again at the prince’s threatening growl – that answers that question, then.

“If you have done anything—”

“He did not,” Yeonjun interrupts him then, firm and maybe a bit too loud. Hopefully Beomgyu sleeps soundly enough that their conversation will not bother him. “The prince did nothing untoward. I had my eyes on Beomgyu the whole night – he is unharmed, he is well, and he is resting.”

Slowly, as if ruminating on whether the two of them can be trusted first to Yeonjun’s chagrin, Soobin nods.

Yeonjun sighs out shakily, then pulls at Taehyun’s arm. It has no effect, so he does it again, and when the prince barely budges, he does so again, with the firmest “Alpha.” that he is capable of. It feels appropriate, unfamiliar as the sound feels in his mouth.

And thankfully, it seems to be exactly what the prince needs to stop bearing holes into his friend with his eyes, because it finally makes him look at Yeonjun instead. “Yes.”

“Omega Beomgyu needs clean water, washcloths, his tea and something to eat.”

The prince nods mutely, and Yeonjun suspects he is not taking in any of Yeonjun’s words at all.

“And you need to tie your robes and bathe.” Somehow, the last word comes out as teasing as it usually would. Mocking in a playful way.

Taehyun’s eyes lower to his lips, and Yeonjun feels a small prickle of something in his chest. “Does the smell of me bother you?”

It does now, hostile as it is. But that is not what Yeonjun says. “It will bother the household if you smell like you bathed yourself in heat scent.”

His husband looks him in the eye again, and his own eyes narrow slightly. “Then you will have to bathe as well – I can hardly smell you past the scent of him.”

He purses his lips, and Taehyun does not waver. He does not seem accusatory, or jealous – perhaps like he wants Yeonjun to know he knows what he left his omegas in that room to do with each other.

“Certainly,” he says lightly, quietly. “Once his needs are taken care of.”

This time, Taehyun clearly hears him, because he nods. “I will have a servant come and take care of everything. Will you come with—”

“We will go our separate ways. We need to compose ourselves.”

To his surprise, his husband frowns unhappily. “I think I would prefer if—”

“Why?” Yeonjun says, perhaps a bit too blunt. “This is not what we do.”

“I know, but… if I lose sight of you now…”

“Then what?” His heart flutters in his chest. Is this what is happening? Is this what they are doing? Is the prince so desperate to stay close to him? Why? Why now? Why so suddenly, and why does a part of Yeonjun feels so girlishly giddy about it even as his sense tells him it is such a childish request to make. The prince is not taking his exposure to heat well at all, is he? Breaking down in tears, clinging to Yeonjun, growling at Soobin, doing whatever the hell he did in this room to make it smell like this.

The more he thinks about it, the closer he studies his husband’s face, and the cracks in his visage of a glowing, seething alpha start to show. Yeonjun wonders when he last ate; if he had slept at all while he himself rested with Beomgyu in his arms. Who fed him water? Who will clean him up?

He is frustrated with himself, with the compassion he is starting to feel. Taehyun is a grown man, an alpha, who is suffering from no such affliction as Beomgyu. Who has not known the same pain as Beomgyu. Who has been blessed with such an easy, care-free life. Why should Yeonjun worry about him? Because they are married? Because as his wife, he needs a strong husband to stand tall himself? Can he only ever allow himself to be kind to him in a self-serving manner now? Would that be fair of him?

“I feel it would drive me mad.”

“Why should it? I am not in heat – I am in no danger.”

The prince’s hand rises, as if to touch him, then lowers without ever reaching him. “I cannot believe that anymore.”

Yeonjun frowns at him. “What?”

“I always believed you to be safe, and you never were, and I… I should have always been there to make sure.”

Goosebumps rise on Yeonjun’s skin, and he slips his arm away from the crook of his husband’s. Is this not what he wanted? His husband’s care. His attention. His concern. But the sound of it hits his ear so strangely. The same voice that has always told him not to trust his husband’s lies, his pretty words, the voice of his aunt warning him against alphas making promises they cannot keep, tells him not to trust any of this as well. As sincere as the prince seems. As helpless as he seems against his own nature when it comes to this. No. Yeonjun cannot trust him. He should not believe him. He should know better than to ever put his faith in him again.

“You… do not wish for this.”

It sounds like Taehyun has trouble getting the words out. Yeonjun swallows and shakes his head. This makes it easy. All he has to do to deny both of them is shake his head.

“… very well. I will…” The prince grits his teeth, closes his eyes and shakes his head, lifts his hands to rub at his temples. Like it physically pains him to say it. Like he can barely get the words out. “I will respect your decision. I will… stay away. But will you, please…” He looks at Yeonjun with the same earnest eyes he looked at him with while begging to see Beomgyu last night, and Yeonjun already knows he will agree to anything he says. “Will you let Soobin take you to your room? I… it would ease my mind. If the both of you would not… mind doing so.”

Yeonjun nearly forgot Soobin was there at all, and now he looks at the captain who looks back at him with an apprehension in his own eyes. “I… suppose that I would not mind this.”

“Neither would I,” Soobin responds, and Taehyun nods quickly.

“Good. Then. I will… go to the garden, and you two leave together. Then I will… take care of the rest, and go show my face to Minhyuk, if he misses me so.”

Soobin huffs in amusement, but Taehyun’s lips do not even twitch with his own joke. He turns around and walks to the door to the garden stiffly, slips through it, then stands right outside it for a long moment, his shadow still visible until he steps away, and Yeonjun’s shoulders fall. Soobin stands up properly again.

For a moment, the two of them are silent and unmoving.

“Is this why he wanted to be there for Omega Beomgyu’s heat, then?”

Yeonjun blinks at Soobin. “I thought you knew why he wanted this.”

After all, when Taehyun spoke of his issues, it seemed the phrasing was not new to Soobin’s ears at all.

Soobin shrugs. “To some extent. I knew he had witnessed some… strange occurrences regarding it when he was young, and that he was afraid of what he might find himself doing…” His eyes narrow. “But I thought he would be battling his own tendency for violence, not… hovering.”

“Tendency for violence?”

The captain’s lips tighten, dimples marring his cheeks, the sight so lovely despite the grimness of his expression. “Many would say gentleness is not inherent to our kind.”

Yeonjun nods slowly. “That is what I was taught as well.”

“Then we need not elaborate, do we?” Soobin shifts his feet. “I think we should go. Let us not make this any more difficult for the prince than it has to be.”

 

.

 

Soobin is only quiet for as long as it takes Yeonjun to gather himself and for the two of them to cross the bridge into the main part of the gardens. As soon as their feet hit the pebbles on the other side of it, the captain speaks up in a reluctant voice.

“Were you honest with me?”

And Yeonjun stops dead in his tracks to look at him with startled eyes. “When?”

“Just now – when you said Omega Beomgyu came to no harm last night.”

His eyes are completely sober, and it scares Yeonjun a little, but he nods firmly. “Yes. I swear on my life, Soobin. The prince only touched him once to assist him, and he made sure Omega Beomgyu would not mind him doing so.”

Soobin stares at him appraisingly for a moment, then nods. “You both spent the night with him, then?”

Yeonjun bites his lip, and turns his head away slightly. “Just me. The prince was… where you found him this morning, I believe.”

The captain hums, and Yeonjun hopes he is not investigating the matter in his mind any deeper. If anyone would understand their need for each other, it would be Soobin, and yet…

It still feels so fragile in Yeonjun’s chest. And now his husband holds it. He has knowledge of it – to do with as he pleases. If now he ever wished to toss Yeonjun aside, for whatever reason, would it not be so simple for him to do so? He betrayed him, for his own concubine, right in front of his eyes. Making him wait outside the door as he did so.

They start walking again, and as they amble through the gardens in the thin light of an early winter morning, slower than they probably should if Yeonjun is to avoid scandalizing his ladies by returning to his rooms after they have already arrived, Yeonjun finds himself pondering, the same way he might when taking his morning walk.

“Captain Soobin?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“What do you know about heats?”

Soobin falters in his step, and Yeonjun comes to a halt by his side, giving him time to compose himself as his ears visibly redden. “I… pardon?”

“Were you taught much about it? By your tutors, or your parents?”

The captain coughs, and rubs the back of his hand over his own cheek. “I… is it imperative that I answer, Your Grace? I would greatly prefer not to discuss this with you.”

Yeonjun bites his lips. “And I promise you I would not make you if I did not think it was important for me to know.”

Soobin looks at him doubtfully, but Yeonjun meets his eyes as earnestly as he can. He has to know, does he not? To understand his husband better, to… better make up his mind. Soobin seems to slowly come to understand how serious he is, because he ends up sighing instead of refusing him.

“I… was told it is not dissimilar from a rut? In that there is…” He clears his throat awkwardly. “A need one cannot quite control. And that pain is involved, especially if one has no one to share it with.” He looks at Yeonjun oddly, as if he may be realizing why he would feel the need to ask him this. “They say it is the time when an omega is the most fertile, and conception is the most likely. And that, um…” Soobin winces, as if it pained him to keep talking. “You… slick up, to receive your alpha better. I know my omega sibling found that… to be the greatest source of discomfort when first presenting.”

“Is that all?”

Soobin blinks at him. “I suppose? Is there much else to it?”

Is there? Perhaps not. Perhaps that is all there is. Just need, and slick and pain and young, if they are so lucky.

“Ah. Nesting. You meant nesting, no? You need a… a safe place to be. An enclosed place you can protect, and… I suppose that your alpha is to protect as well.” Soobin snorts. “As our good prince demonstrated.”

Our good prince. A good alpha, protecting his mate’s nest from another alpha. Sitting in the waiting room, perhaps sleeplessly, making sure his omegas are safe in their nest. Keeping watch, and stewing in his own arousal alone. Perhaps touching himself to the sounds of their pleasure. Unable to stand the thought of leaving them, of not keeping an eye on them, taking Beomgyu to his nest when he was about to be unsafe during a peak. And Beomgyu taking that so gracefully, so happily. He needed his nest, and Yeonjun himself did not even realize.

Soobin looks at him so openly, so earnestly – he is obviously proud of himself for thinking of nesting. It is almost adorable. Yeonjun finds he does not begrudge him this, and is not sure why he feels this way.

“Do you know that we carry a different note in our heat scent after mating? Our heat scent takes on… some of the quality of our alpha’s.”

The captain’s face scrunches as he seems to think hard about it. “I did know that heat scent is different from a regular scent in quality, even before Omega Beomgyu made me all too aware of it—” Yeonjun huffs in amusement, and Soobin smiles wanly. “But I suppose. That was not something I was taught – but then again, my education never took into account that I could touch an omega at all without mating them. I suppose my tutors assumed I need not know, if they even knew themselves.”

“And your mother never…”

“My mother never spoke about heats. Much like here, the omegas in my family simply became indisposed sometimes, until they were better again and could rejoin us.”

“And your father spent his heats with him?”

Soobin shrugs, obviously not terribly excited to be thinking about this aspect of his own parents’ lives. “As is usual. She would spend time with us as well, but she’d spend most of the day with mother.”

Yeonjun nods awkwardly. His breath shudders out of his chest.

“Your Grace, I…” Soobin hesitates when their eyes meet accidentally, impolitely. “I apologize for allowing this to happen.”

He blinks rapidly. “Allowing what to happen?”

Soobin lowers his eyes to the path between them. They stand far apart, as polite as they can be while so impolitely walking alone, with just the two of them the only witnesses to their conversation. It is still the least improper thing Yeonjun has done this day, and it has barely even started. “All of this. I should have been a better advisor to him. I should have been firmer with him, when we disagreed, and… more… I… I feel I should have done more.”

Yeonjun’s chin trembles slightly. Soobin apologizes to him, with such sincerity. And there is no voice in his head telling him to disbelieve his words. Soobin is an alpha that can be trusted – and Beomgyu knows this. He has perhaps always known this. “You believe you should have changed the mind of the prince Taehyun of the House of Kang?” He forces a smile on his face. “I believe, out of all the things I could have asked of you, making miracles happen is not one of them.”

The captain presses his lips together tightly again. A part of Yeonjun wishes they were allowed to touch one another – that he could embrace Soobin, and tell him he forgives him, just like Soobin forgave him his apprehension, when he had learned about his nature. That even if they have done each other harm, they remain dear friends to one another.

“Thank you, Soobin. For answering me. For everything you have done for me.”

Soobin shakes his head, but Yeonjun nods his own vehemently.

“You are a good friend to me, my dear Soobin. Always have been.”

Chapter 14

Notes:

sorry this took a while ( i have no excuse whatsoever :) )

if youuuuuuuuuuuuu read this still. thank you for your patience :)

The morning progresses so oddly. Soobin leaves him at the door to his rooms, bowing deeply and politely before Yeonjun goes in, only to find the waiting room empty. Before he can even think to call, Haewon steps in through the servants’ door, to inform him in a hushed voice that the ladies are in the tea room already, waiting for him to join them. He is ready to panic, but she leads him through the servants’ door to his room, and helps him wash himself to dampen the scents of the prince and Beomgyu all over him, then brings him fresh clothes to change into and fixes his hair while he makes sure they are put into place properly. Then she hesitates while tying his hair back, her hands pausing mid-motion.

“I hope I did not say anything you would have preferred me not to when Master Minhyuk came asking. I thought… surely you were with the prince.”

And Yeonjun swallows past a lump in his throat. “I was, Haewon. You did what you were supposed to.”

He hears her sigh of relief, and bites at his lips. Sneaking around with his husband behind everyone’s backs? And for what?

His ladies welcome him like nothing is wrong, and he sits at the head of the table with an abundance of smiles for everyone in the room, hoping he does not look too worn out, hoping that they cannot smell the foreign scents on his skin. He does his best to listen to them, to talk to them, to be as friendly and present as they are used to him being, and the fact that even Dayeon seems to address him the same way she always does tells him he succeeds to a reasonable extent.

They help him dress in warm reds, and Yeonjun specifically selects a shawl he thinks Beomgyu would find pleasant to the touch, ready to leave it behind with him during this morning’s visit. Only as they are stepping out of his rooms does it occur to him to feel a bit guilty – he left Beomgyu behind, to tend to things, without saying goodbye, to let him wake up alone. Perhaps this was cruel of him – he did not even think of it in that moment; the whole situation was so… unusual to him, perhaps he had failed to take all matters into consideration when it came to it. The thought fills him with such boyish embarrassment – he always considered himself so tactful, so thoughtful… yet even he neglected a lover he believed he loved in the privacy of his own mind. Pride is truly the undoing of all men, at the end of the day. None of them is above making mistakes, beyond reproach.

Yeonjun’s eyes skim over the garden as they step out into it, searching for a familiar silhouette, yet they fail to find it. The gardener is there with his apprentice, hard at work, and a servant cuts through the gardens while rushing somewhere, but the prince is nowhere to be found. Somehow, this unsettles Yeonjun, and he finds himself a bit distracted again on their journey to the concubines’ quarters, struggling to pay attention to what his ladies are saying.

But then they cross the bridge, and the prince is there. Hands folded behind his back, spine straight and avoiding his wife’s eyes as he greets Yeonjun’s entourage warmly. He must have heeded Yeonjun’s appeal and bathed thoroughly, because he smells of nothing but himself now – only warm spice remains of the smell of him. No honey, no citrus, and no pepper. Yeonjun notices with a startle the lack of a stale note in it as well – something changed. Perhaps something in it was settled, last night, or this morning. Something improved.

“Will you be joining us today as well, Your Highness?” Dayeon asks carefully, her voice so perfectly measured that it comes off as awkward.

“Not today, Lady Dayeon,” Taehyun responds with a polite bow of his head. “I was only hoping to speak to my wife briefly this morning, and this seemed as good a place to intercept him while he goes about his day as any.”

It sounds like a lie, and it may be, given that the prince had a dozen other places to wait for him to appear, and only one of them was near an omega in heat that Taehyun clearly felt so compelled to protect. Either way, Yeonjun is left no choice but to pretend that he believes him – there is no reason for him to doubt his husband openly after all, is there? There is nothing to be gained.

“May we step away for a moment, my wife?” The prince says so clearly, so firmly and fearlessly that Yeonjun somehow struggles to reconcile him with the husband he had woken up to this morning, the husband he heard sobbing just the night before. Is this only a mask? A coat of paint much like his own, a facade of composure and invulnerability? He had never considered it. He had never tried to set those two faces of his prince next to each other, and tried to find sense in the existence of both of them at the same time. Perhaps one of them is truer than the other. Perhaps they are both true at the same time – and perhaps neither of them is, and the truth is even more terrible, hidden somewhere even deeper.

“… of course, my prince. Please.”

They go to the same questionably private place he took Dayeon, under the camphor tree, and Yeonjun hopes that his ladies have enough discretion to not watch them as they speak, as the two of them struggle to even look at each other.

“Why are you not coming with us today?” He asks before the prince can say anything, and he curses himself immediately for how accusatory he sounds, withdrawing into himself guiltily.

Taehyun takes a surprisingly long time to answer. “I could hardly get myself to leave earlier. I do not believe I can manage to do so twice in one morning.” While Yeonjun struggles to process the words, the prince clears his throat and shifts on his feet. “If it seems that my absence aggravates Omega Beomgyu’s symptoms… I will arrange to have my scent brought to him as soon as possible, just send the word.”

Oh, it sounds so simple, coming out of his lips like this.

“… if that is what Omega Beomgyu would want, of course.”

Yeonjun nods mutely. Of course. The prince would just give his scent freely.

“He does not always seem to find it soothing,” Taehyun adds, his tone a bit strange.

Yeonjun nods again. “He does not.”

And finally, his husband looks at him, although Yeonjun cannot get himself to look at him in turn. He simply watches the branches sway in the cold breeze of the morning. “Do you believe you would?”

The words are so startling, he finds himself blinking rapidly, and Taehyun clears his throat before he can get a single word past his lips.

“I apologize – this is not a good time to discuss this.” He shifts again, the fabric of his clothes moving with him as his posture grows tenser. “I suppose that was my main point I wished to discuss with you – I know you would prefer me to keep my distance from you, but I believe that in the wake of yesterday’s events, we have some things we should discuss privately.”

His mouth falls open. Now he simply cannot look away from the canopy of branches that embraces them. A flush rises to his face under his paint, and he is grateful for it once again. What could they possibly discuss? Everything, is the answer, the reason the prince’s offer seems so terrifying.

“Would today be a suitable day for us to do so? I am unsure what provisions you have made for the day, and I do not wish to interfere with your duties.”

He is so polite. What prince speaks to their wife this way? One who is afraid of giving them anything but pleasure? One who spoils them?

“I intended to spend most of today outside the palace.” He planned a trip to town, a route that would let him pay pleasant visits and keep informed in the mood among the town council – and he intended to tell the prince nothing of it unless he found something of concern.

“Ah,” Taehyun sounds genuinely disappointed, nodding. “You will surely be worn out by the evening, then.”

Yeonjun nods awkwardly. “I assume so.”

“I suppose the matter is not so pressing. Tomorrow, then?”

“Will you join us again tomorrow?”

The prince hesitates. “… perhaps. It might be prudent of me to do so. To become… accustomed to… this feeling.”

For the first time, Yeonjun’s eyes find his husband’s face. “Have you never felt it before?”

Taehyun does not avoid them. “Not like this.” He may see a melancholy taking over Yeonjun’s face, because he adds. “It was different, after our wedding. No one interfered then. No one ever asked me to leave you.”

Ah. Yeonjun’s chest rises and falls so delicately. It is as if he has to force every breath past some sort of emotion he cannot quite name. “Do you remember much of it?”

The prince looks away then, shifting his weight between his feet. “I remember how it felt, more than… the actual events of it. There are… some memories. At least I believe there are. Sometimes I find them hard to tell apart from…” He trails off and swallows. “I suppose I am unsure if my mind does not deceive me. I believe it might. Simply to… soothe itself. Bring me comfort.”

It felt like being allowed to hold the moon itself in my arms, the prince told him a lifetime ago, words so romantic that Yeonjun never wasted his time believing them. But perhaps that might be what the prince is getting at – instead of the sweaty, desperate, imperfect reality of it, his mind conjured up images of a charming romance, a fairy tale in which the tiger admired the moon so long it finally deigned to reach out a dainty strand of moonlight down towards him. A story in which something wonderful landed in his lap in a stroke of luck he could hardly believe, and he partook in it gratefully, in such hungry handfuls.

Maybe just like Yeonjun, he cradled the fragmented memories of that night to his chest fondly, even though he spoke to Beomgyu about mating ruts with such disdain. A hypocrite, just like everybody else.

“But we should not get carried away with conversation – I am keeping you from your duties.”

Yeonjun wonders if he himself had made up any of it – the heated words or sensations, his husband’s caresses. The words this is what it feels like to be yours.

Perhaps he did. He has always had a tendency to harbor such childish thoughts at the back of his mind, feeding his boyish fantasies in secret.

If it is so, and the prince was not lying when he spoke about his memories of their wedding night, then it may be that they deserve each other. That they are so much more alike to one another than Yeonjun believed. Both so… taken with their own imaginations, always staring past each other, at whatever their tendencies for romance conjured up instead of the real thing, right before them.

Thinking this way unsettles him, and he shakes his head. “Yes, we… I need to go see Omega Beomgyu.”

The prince nods stiffly. “Yes. I hope he is well.” He takes an obviously long and deep breath before nodding again, this time to himself. “We will speak tomorrow, then.”

Yeonjun nods. “Of course.”

But then Taehyun begins to walk away from him, and something tugs at his chest painfully. “My prince.”

And the prince spins around so promptly, so readily, that it startles him. “Yes, wife?”

In the absence of anger, of disgust, of a grudge to hurl into his prince’s, into his husband’s, his mate’s face, Yeonjun simply feels… strangely empty. Possessing of that freedom that he found so uncomfortably weightless, back at the Imperial Court. He desired a weight, something to carry. Like the burden of marriage. Of a wife’s duty. If he can be anyone, then he will need someone to be, a role to fill.

And what he chose was to be the prince’s wife again.

“You have not scented me yet today.”

The prince’s mouth falls open slightly, and he looks away from Yeonjun’s face, at his neck that is presently all covered up to keep the cold out. “That is correct.” Then he looks into Yeonjun’s eyes, hesitant. “Do you wish me to?”

Instead of responding, Yeonjun bares his wrist and offers it up, letting it hang in the too-large space between them. Thankfully, the prince does not leave him waiting, stepping up to take it, hesitating with it near his face for a moment before baring his neck, so he could press it to his scent gland.

He sighs as skin touches skin, and their scents blend together pleasantly. The prince’s lips tremble.

Taehyun speaks up with Yeonjun’s wrist still at his neck, and Yeonjun feels his throat rumble with the words. “Thank you for your kindness, wife.”

Yeonjun. Should his husband not call him Yeonjun, in a moment like this? His lips part to tell the prince that he is not doing this for his benefit, not entirely – for both of them, perhaps, but no words leave his throat. The prince lowers their hands but does not let go.

“Or did you wish me to mark you so Omega Beomgyu can have my scent?”

Beomgyu. Yeonjun should have thought of Beomgyu. If he would appreciate smelling the prince on Yeonjun’s skin – if that would not agitate him. If it would not sadden him to be so starkly reminded that Yeonjun does not belong to him, not entirely, right after he got to have so much of him just the night before.

But he did not. He only thought of himself, his own comfort.

Taehyun lets his hand go. “Forgive me – I do not mean to interrogate your intention.” He folds his hands behind himself again. “You are free to do as you wish.”

Yeonjun nods slowly. The prince nods back, both stiff and awkward.

“I will see you tomorrow, then.”

He bends at the waist slightly in a polite bow. “Yes, Your Highness.”

The prince inclines his head in acknowledgment, and walks away.

 

---

 

Beomgyu’s fingers intertwine with his, and he brings their joined hands to his burning cheek. Yeonjun watches helplessly as his pupils widen at the blend of fruit and spice that must assault his senses all but immediately. His eyes drop to Yeonjun’s lips.

“He is not here today.”

Yeonjun shakes his head minutely, as if afraid to move too fast, too much. “He may come tomorrow.”

Beomgyu breathes in deep, and lowers their hands to a more appropriate position. “Will you?”

Perhaps he is not asking about Yeonjun’s morning visit – but there is no other question Yeonjun can answer with Dayeon and Soojin watching them. “Of course.”

Beomgyu squeezes his hand. Yeonjun looks away. He wishes they could speak; strategize. That Beomgyu could tell him to be bold, during his inevitable meeting with the prince. To be fearless. Speak up for himself, for what he wants, for what he needs. He wishes Beomgyu could give him a bracing kiss, for courage.

He can already see himself, tossing and turning in bed, hating himself for not spending the night in Beomgyu’s presence. For not giving in for his lover’s sake. For being a hypocrite.

“You seem worried.”

Yeonjun sighs, his head lowering as his shoulders slump, and he closes his eyes. “I wish you would not concern yourself with me in this state. You are unwell – you should focus on yourself.”

“Unwell?” Beomgyu huffs. “Heats are not a malady – the lack of them would be.”

He finds himself blinking at Beomgyu uncomprehendingly. Beomgyu raises their hands into the air between them.

“My body functions the way it should, but the world around me, oh…” He smiles tiredly. “The world around me seems to have flaws in its running.”

“It feels like an illness though, does it not? With the fever, the fatigue…”

The both of them look to the side and Dayeon who just spoke up – even Soojin is staring at her in surprise – for the most part, the two of them were satisfied with pretending they were not there at all during these visits, but not today.

Beomgyu laughs. “If we waste the best of it rolling around in bed on our own, certainly.”

Dayeon’s eyelashes flutter – Yeonjun does not doubt that her paint hides a flush to her face. Soojin looks down, his posture tense. “Then…”

“It feels much less torturous when you take advantage of your heat the way you are supposed to,” Beomgyu confirms, altogether bluntly, and looks at Yeonjun with sober eyes. “For better, or for worse.” Then he looks at the ladies again, eyes narrowed. “You are not allowed to take husbands, are you?”

Dayeon covers her mouth, and Yeonjun takes mercy on her. “They could, lawfully, if the prince, or I with the power vested in me by him, gave them our blessing. But it would be quite…”

“Inappropriate,” Soojin fills in firmly.

“Against tradition,” Dayeon corrects in a voice much thinner than before.

Beomgyu’s eyes flicker back and forth between them. “Were you resigned to the lives of spinsters when you came to this court, then?”

“Omega Beomgyu,” Yeonjun hisses, chastising. “Leave them.”

It cannot be comfortable, to speak of this – the life of an omega lady-in-waiting is charmed, but it also means all but taking a vow of chastity for the rest of one’s life. It is the best some of them can do – if they are barren, or too poor to marry, or widowed like Beomgyu, without a family to take care of them. Yet still, it is perhaps not a situation to be worn like a badge of honor. It means there is something wrong with them, lovely as they are. Dayeon’s family was too poor to have her marry, and Soojin—

“Yes,” Soojin replies. “I was quite at peace with this fate.”

Dayeon lowers her head. She – she was forced into this life by circumstance. Just like Yeonjun could have been, had he not been taken to the Court. Raised by his aunt’s kindness to greatness. The same aunt who… seemed to betray all her teachings of him for…

For his benefit.

Beomgyu hums. “At least your heats must be easier. Mating makes it all so much more gruesome.”

Yeonjun drops his eyes to the floor. Indeed – he never used to make himself bleed, the first few years he spent after presenting without an alpha stamped onto him. There was some pain, of course – perhaps there was more pain involved in Yeonjun’s own heats than most other omegas’ from the beginning – but it did not drive him mad, there was no torture of an alpha who felt so close and so distant at the same time, no pain of undesirability that only exacerbated his suffering. There was warmth and need and the distant thought of perhaps one day letting some dashing alpha have him like this. Of taking this glow and granting the privilege of it to another.

It has been a long time since he thought about this – he had come to believe that he had always thought of heat as something terrible, something unendingly painful and troublesome. But that is not true, is it? Even though imperial etiquette makes it all sound like some terrible affliction that takes an omega once a season, a sickness so terrible it is impolite to even speak of it too openly, he took some pleasure in his heat, when he was young. Some kind of pride. It used to make him feel beautiful, sensual. Omega-like in the most exquisite way. Another reason why he earned his title of the jewel of the court – a healthy, fertile, beautiful, sensual omega.

“Ah, it is so unfair – the life of a concubine.”

Yeonjun bites his lips. He has a feeling the prince would not disagree with Beomgyu about this.

 

---

 

As unimpressed as most town councilors seem with Yeonjun’s visits despite the generous gifts he brings, it seems to him that the mood among them is much the same as it was before the New Year. Either they are not terribly well-connected, or they are hedging their bets, not willing to start distancing themselves from the prince governing them until the prospect of him losing hold of the princedom becomes more real. Perhaps they are biding their time until the Emperor’s seemingly inevitable death. It would probably be the wisest of them – Yeonjun is disgusted with the thought at the same time as he cannot help but understand the solid strategy behind it. Is this how the prince feels about his uncle’s distasteful political flourishes? His tactic of attacking the prince on such personal a level, going after his marriage, his relationship with his father, his worth as an alpha more than his standing as a statesman.

Yeonjun thinks he can see now the wisdom in it – in all his years of juggling court and regional politics, the prince has found a peaceful equilibrium, an acceptable balance of passion and composure, and he knew well when to employ which to get what he wanted while keeping his reputation intact. But in all his years as a son, as a husband, he seems to have learned so very little. He certainly seemed quite well-versed in pushing against his father without having his careful house of cards rain down onto him, but that all hinged so delicately on no outside force interfering with the balance. And perhaps the same went for his marriage with Yeonjun – the peace he perceived, the strange marriage they had, was the same. What Yeonjun perceived as a bridge over troubled water was a tightrope, and this whole time, all that had to be done to plunge them into the depths was give them a nudge.

If all they needed was a nudge, however, Beomgyu seems more like a flood. A monsoon, high winds and rushing water, a natural event of cataclysmic consequence. A storm that sweeps the land so cruelly, then in its wake leaves the scenery so strangely clean, renewed, rejuvenated, as if somewhere in the devastation, everything wrong, everything unseemly, everything dirty and old and imperfect was washed away, leaving only freshness behind. Poor harvest and the purest sunlight. Despair and the smell of damp fertile soil.

There will be a great harvest next year – if they make it through the winter. Everything lost will come back twofold, is what his grandmother used to say.

They are nearing the end of winter, are they not? Spring must be around the corner. And in spring… they will make it all right again in spring.

Yeonjun will get to reap all the sadness he planted this winter as the fruit of his contentment in the spring.

He has to believe that.

 

---

 

In the morning, the prince stands among the chrysanthemums with snow dusted on his shoulders – today, instead of addressing mainly Yeonjun’s ladies, he walks at Yeonjun's own side as they follow the winding paths to the bridge.

“I have received word from the Imperial Court, from Lord Councilor Na Hyunwoo.”

Yeonjun inclines his head in acknowledgment of his words. The pendants hanging from the pins in his hair jingle pleasantly.

“The lords councilor have been putting forth petitions for this spring’s new courtesans,” Taehyun says carefully, and Yeonjun looks over at him, his curiosity piqued. “There were multiple petitions with the endorsement of His Imperial Highness attached – including those for members of the Choi family.”

Momentarily frozen, Yeonjun only remains walking out of sheer force of habit. His husband looks at the path in front of them.

“I have advised him to not raise any opposition to these – my father should have no reason not to accept them…” he pauses, for just a moment, before looking at Yeonjun again. “But I thought I should inform you.”

Yeonjun nods mutely. It is solidified now, then – his family, his aunt and uncle, and he by extension, are now indebted to the crown prince – to the future Emperor. Explicitly in his favor. More of his kin will now be introduced to the Court, afforded the same opportunities he was – and perhaps they will not be able to rise as high as he could, but even becoming or marrying an imperial official like his aunt would be a great accomplishment.

It is something Yeonjun himself could never accomplish – the prince’s petitions were often refused, simply out of spite of the other lords councilor, unless the name attached to them was properly splendid, or belonged to some sort of great master of one art or another, or a scholar of renown. Raising poor nobles to the Imperial Court was not something the prince could accomplish – they thought, perhaps this season could be the season for them to attempt it again. Taehyun now had four lords councilor on his side, surely it would be enough to pass through such a trivial suggestion as this.

But it seems they need not do any of the sort. The problem took care of itself – one of the few alphas at the Imperial Court more powerful than his husband took care of it for them – with a flick of the wrist.

His Imperial Highness would be such a… good friend to have… especially knowing he was to become Emperor soon.

If only Yeonjun were wiser. If he were not so ruled by emotion. If he were not such a weak man. If he were not raised the way he was. If only.

 

---

 

Taehyun and Beomgyu cannot look away from each other. Yeonjun has sat down by Beomgyu’s side and taken his hand just like always, but Beomgyu’s eyes keep straying to the door. To the alpha standing in the doorway with the omegas, this time with his mouth and nose uncovered. Smelling so strongly of warm spice with just a hint of pepper. There is something sweet about the way he smells today, staring at Beomgyu, whose heat finally seems to be waning. A strange note, for an alpha’s scent. Soobin smells mildly sweet as well, but in his scent, that is a quality inherent to it. The way Taehyun smells now… it feels unfamiliar. Strange. Yet pleasant.

And Beomgyu cannot stop staring at him.

Yeonjun thinks this makes him jealous. He covers Beomgyu in the shawl drenched in his scent a little less gently than he usually does, but Beomgyu smiles at him just the same. There is a strange contentment in the air that still unsettles him. How could there be peace in the air? Under these circumstances?

Everything goes all too smoothly, until it is time to leave the quarters, and the prince lingers on the threshold of the waiting room after he and his ladies have already crossed it before him. Yeonjun notices immediately that he is not following them, overly attuned to his husband’s every move, and pauses mid-stride, twisting around to look at him while his ladies belatedly come to a stop, now a step ahead of him.

“My prince.”

Taehyun’s lips are tight and shoulders rigid – he is clearly exercising all the self-control he has. The air in the room fills with heavy spice, and Yeonjun sees a sleeve flutter at the edge of his vision, as one of the other omegas no doubt covers their mouth to keep the scent out. The prince does not reply. Yeonjun sighs.

“Lady Soojin, Lady Dayeon – please go ahead of us. We will join you in a moment.”

They both bow, and Dayeon lingers just a moment too long before she slips out the front door after Soojin. Yeonjun presses his lips together tightly. His entire body is drawn to the doorway, to Taehyun, to alpha.

“You are struggling.”

The prince nods, his eyes on the floor ahead of him instead of anywhere near Yeonjun’s face. “My body believes I should not leave him.”

Yeonjun takes a careful breath. “And your mind disagrees?”

Taehyun lifts a hand to rest it on the door frame. His sleeve shivers slightly. “My mind understands it is for the best.”

He watches the prince’s fingers tighten on the wood, and he takes a step into the waiting room. The room seems alight with spice. Almost too potent again, on the verge of becoming unpleasant.

“Do you require assistance?”

Now, his husband looks at him – he looks strangely wary, measured despite his scent being so uncontrolled, betraying his distress. “Not… direly. But I suppose if… you would not mind.”

Some part of him wants to laugh – should his assistance not be demanded? Expected? “What do you need me to do, my prince?”

The prince looks over his shoulder, down the hallway, towards the citrus and ginger that has to be calling out to him so strongly. Then he looks at Yeonjun again with even more apprehension than before. “I will admit this is not a predicament I am familiar with. But I think I might find your scent helpful.”

Yeonjun presses his hands into his abdomen, neatly folded. His skin feels taut with such strange nervousness – he is not sure why. “I should scent you, then?”

Taehyun lets go of the door frame finally, and folds his hands behind his back; his tongue flits out to wet his bottom lip before he answers carefully. “Would you mind giving me your hand?”

He blinks in confusion at the sheer innocence of the request. “My hand?”

“Yes,” the prince says simply, but it seems even the single syllable costs him a measure of control to get out.

“… you may have it.” He steps closer, leaving a polite amount of space behind them, standing a little further away than he would for a greeting, and reaches his hand out, palm up.

Taehyun’s own picks it up strangely, cradling the back of it with his own, fingers curling around his palm with the lightest of pressure, barely holding onto him. His eyes slip away from Yeonjun and fixate on his palm, and he takes a few heavy steps towards him, until he is just close enough for scenting – he lifts Yeonjun’s hand as id that is what he intends to do, but then lifts it higher, nearly to his face, and his chin turns as if he intended to lay his cheek in Yeonjun¨s palm, before he seems to think better of it and simply takes a deep breath in.

Yeonjun wonders if some of Beomgyu’s scent still lingers on his skin – perhaps he smells like the combination of his omegas Taehyun found so comforting in his rut.

But it seems they are not so lucky, or the scent of them together has lost its luster, because the prince seems barely soothed. With the same tight expression, he lowers their hands again and steps closer, then even further, until his nose must be able to take in Yeonjun’s scent even through the potency of his own, even through his clothes, with no scenting necessary. Yeonjun’s body feels oddly warm. They are not usually this close without a purpose.

The prince seems to be struggling with what to do next, and in the absence of instruction, Yeonjun’s mind amuses itself with all sorts of thoughts – of embracing him, kissing him, striking him. In this moment, none of them seem beyond the pale.

Then Taehyun says, “Let me walk you to your rooms today.”

He forgets to ask, and Yeonjun finds it amusing. So courteous, until his mate is right before him. Yeonjun’s reticent prince until he comes close enough to be nothing but an alpha.

“Actually, I am headed to the quarters of the lord steward after this – I have matters to discuss with him.”

His husband’s eyes raise to his, and his expression is so obviously full of distaste that Yeonjun has to bite his lip to stop himself from reacting disrespectfully. “The lord steward? Again?”

That is it then, is it not? The reason Taehyun stepped in the day before to stop Yeonjun from having his private lunch with their lord steward – it was a slip of composure, a brief flash of jealousy he could not control. Struggling with his alpha instincts that are suddenly tearing through him, like a freshly presented young boy; like a puppy. Growling at the alpha who wants to borrow his toy.

Warding alphas away limply before letting Yeonjun see them, anyway. Leaving Yeonjun alone with Beomgyu all night, but frowning at him because he has business to discuss with a member of their household. Laughable. Childish.

“Yes.”

“You spend much time with him.”

“I do, my prince. I am usually the head of this household, and he is my steward.”

Taehyun’s jaw tightens. “Privately.”

His eyebrows rise. His husband is being ridiculous. “In the presence of my ladies – in all propriety.”

Somehow, this does not seem to be of any comfort to the prince, and Yeonjun huffs, perhaps with more contempt than he should allow himself to show.

“If you do not believe me, my prince, you are free to join me – the lord steward always has many opinions of how you use your wealth that I am sure he would love to discuss with you instead of relaying them to me for once.”

“Oh, I am sure he concerns himself with what belongs to me quite a bit.”

Yeonjun scoffs louder this time, and takes a step back that makes the prince’s eyes widen in what seems to be panic. “My prince.” There is a strange, shaky kind of confidence in his chest, as he raises his hands in the air between them. “You know where these hands have been, do you not? You know what the hand you held just now did last night. Do not make me laugh, Taehyun.”

The alpha’s shoulders drop, but it does not seem like they do so out of relief this time. “It is not just omegas, then.”

His chest burns. Could the prince believe he has been betraying him this whole time? With just whoever was available? In mind or in body. Both make him equally incensed, even though he did betray him. He was unfaithful; he wanted to be. Only with Beomgyu, only ever with Beomgyu, but he was. And the prince cannot know what goes in in his head; not unless he tells him.

And Yeonjun taunted him with this – in a haze of desire, of the reckless need to drive his alpha wild, he spoke so shamelessly of taking on other alphas. Should he be offended now that Taehyun sees it as a possibility? As something Yeonjun would actually do to him? Perhaps not – but he wants to be.

“Would that be where you would draw the line? Is that a choice you will not allow me to make?”

He is not sure why he says it – to taunt, perhaps; to mock. Or simply to push against the boundaries of the prince’s benevolence, to see how far it could go. How true it is, or if it is a facade like so many other things about him seem to be.

Either way, he comes to regret it. In part, if not entirely. As the prince’s eyes leave him, and hurt crosses his face before his expression clears completely. He takes so long to answer, Yeonjun has ample opportunity to take it back, but perhaps he is too awfully curious of what his response will be.

“Of course not,” he says eventually, voice devoid of emotion, but looking back into Yeonjun’s eyes as if to prove his sincerity anyway. “You are free to act as you please – but I would hope you would consider the risk in such an action; although I trust you to handle most matters with the utmost discretion.”

Oh. Staleness snakes through Taehyun’s scent, marring it, making Yeonjun’s nose twitch. The prince looks away again.

“I believe I can leave by myself now – thank you for your assistance, wife.” He takes a deep breath that heaves through his shoulders mightily like a wave, and in its wake comes such perfect princely composure, Yeonjun finds it startling. “I hope your meeting with the lord steward is quite successful. You look beautiful today – I hope he notices.”

The last words seem almost unnecessarily cruel – but perhaps Yeonjun deserves them. When he bows before Taehyun leaves him alone in the waiting room, his hair jingles again like a wind chime.

 

---

 

Yeonjun feels a bit unsteady on his feet for the rest of the day – like his mind is constantly elsewhere, bringing a strange vertigo with its distraction. He almost walks into furniture multiple times, trips on his robes like he never does otherwise, mixes up his ladies’ names and dips his brush in the wrong pot of paint while touching himself up after lunch. Dasom inquires politely if he feels ill, and he has to admit honestly that he does not think so.

It is entirely an issue of the mind, he is sure, and just as entirely self-inflicted.

When his hand finds his mating mark distractedly while entertaining Madame Seo over some tea, he knows exactly the source of it.

He cannot get the prince off his mind – cannot stop thinking about him, about the stale note in his scent, his acquiescence to Yeonjun’s… bold, inappropriate insinuation of indiscretion. Is he in his rooms right now, ruminating on his words? Analyzing every time he had seen his wife and the lord steward together, wondering if he had missed the obvious signs of affection they had towards one another? Does it hurt him, or arouse him, like Yeonjun accused him of before? Would he truly be able to stand it, knowing his wife would replace him with two lovers, but would not even let the prince scent him? How painful is it – does he deserve that? After how accepting he was of his affection towards Beomgyu, unthinkable in its own right. To desire yet another.

Yeonjun knew himself to be a man with a greedy heart, but perhaps that would mean a greed too excessive even for him.

He should let the prince know. He should know. If Yeonjun is to be honest about what he wants.

As sick as the thought makes him sometimes, he does not want another alpha. Not that he wishes for no alpha at all, if he is to take any, it would…

It must be the prince.

Even in the privacy of his own mind, the thought seems. Vulnerable. Shameful, if he examines it too much. He will learn to love the prince again, or he will not love any alpha at all. How terribly childish of him. Beomgyu would have laughed in his face if he heard it – but perhaps he should hear it, if Yeonjun is to be open with his lover as well.

His lover.

His alpha, and his lover – two roles who the men holding them might not know are predetermined in his mind. Exclusive to them. They are the only two people he could ever see fulfilling them.

Perhaps he never grew out of his romantic notions – perhaps he should. Perhaps it would do him some good.

 

---

 

When he returns to his rooms in the evening after dining with the household, Soobin is there in the waiting room, sitting at a tea table that he immediately abandons as he walks in with his ladies, to grace him and his entourage with a deep bow. Haewon stands to the side, and gestures to him while still bent in a polite bow.

“Your Grace, the captain has been waiting for you.”

And Yeonjun cannot decipher the cause of his presence from Soobin’s nervously pursed mouth, so all he says is, “Yes.”

“Your Grace, I was hoping for us to speak privately – very briefly. I will not take up much of your time at all, I promise.”

It is not any more of an explanation than Soobin’s presence in general, but Yeonjun acquiesces anyway. He nods, and gestures to the door. “Very well. My dears, please feel free to go ahead into the dressing room. I will join you shortly. Haewon, please stay here.”

His servant bows, and his ladies make their way out of the room. Soobin shifts from foot to foot, his posture strange and unfitting of a soldier.

Yeonjun sighs. “What is it, my friend?”

Soobin’s eyes wander to Haewon, as he no doubt wonders how to say the words he wants to say as discreetly as possible. “Your Grace, I have spent this afternoon in your husband’s company.”

Ah. Yeonjun’s shoulders loosen. Of course – Taehyun needed his oldest friend to discuss this with.

“He told me about your discussion this morning.”

Yeonjun nods without responding. He wishes he felt more brazen about it, but he feels a bit shameful instead. He should not have said it – he should have made himself clear afterwards. He should have said something, to ease the prince’s mind.

“I am sure he must have misunderstood.”

He breathes carefully. “… he may have.”

Relief seems to wash over the captain. “So you—” he pauses, clearly unsure how to say what he means without saying it. “Have you…”

Fallen in love with your lord steward. Been unfaithful to your husband with another alpha.

Yeonjun shakes his head – he cannot believe he has to clear this up, but he had caused this himself.

“Would you?”

His eyes pin onto Soobin’s which remain carefully averted. His skin prickles. Does Soobin know? About him and Beomgyu? Did Taehyun tell him about that as well?

He shakes his head.

“… perhaps you should let His Highness know, then.” Dimples dig into Soobin’s cheeks again as he weighs his words carefully. “I know we have both been… frustrated with his actions, as of late, but…”

He does not deserve this. To think that it is true. To think he has lost you so completely to other people.

“This topic is quite serious to him. I believe it would be good if you remained… as clear as you could on this front.”

Yeonjun frowns. What is sensitive to him? Losing his omega to other alphas? Of course it is. “I will explain myself to him. I understand that as an alpha, he—”

“As a man, Your Grace.”

He pauses, unsure. “Pardon?”

“He’s not… His Highness is…” Soobin blinks hard for a reason Yeonjun cannot quite fathom. “I feel it is more complicated than simply saying he is an alpha, and disregarding the rest.”

“What else is there? His title of a prince?”

“Nearly a decade?” Soobin says the word a bit forcefully, and Yeonjun is taken aback by it. “You cannot disregard it, no matter the arrangement the two of you have come to.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together, suddenly feeling defensive. “Six years of marriage is not quite a decade, Captain Soobin.”

“I am not only speaking of the years you have been married for, Your Grace. A year of engagement, a year of courting – and… all the time before that. You have been at the forefront of his mind this whole time. Alpha or not, a man cannot spend all this time with you and yet have no regard for you – even I have grown fond of you, in my own way. I am not saying you must comfort your husband, Your Grace, or promise yourself to your mate all over again, all I am asking you is to find some compassion in your heart for a man who has been… who has cared for you for a long time now.”

He averts his face; he is not sure of his own expression. Is not sure how to feel about those words, or how to act upon them.

“Please consider it. Even if you disregard my words in the end.” Soobin sighs. “As a friend of His Highness, and a friend of yours, Your Grace, I believe it would… be best for everyone, in the end.”

Yeonjun nods. Soobin clears his throat.

“I believe that is all I wished to say.”

Yeonjun nods again. “Thank you, Captain.”

Soobin straightens up to his military posture again. “I will let you enjoy your evening now, Your Grace.”

He bows, and Yeonjun dismisses him more out of habit than consciously. He barely notices him leaving before the door is closed behind him.

Once he is alone in the room with Haewon, he takes a deep breath. His servant is looking at the floor, politely pretending she is not there. Yeonjun wishes she would say something – some older woman’s wisdom that would cut through Yeonjun’s muddy mind with a sharp clarity, that would help him make sense of all this.

But she says nothing, of course – she was not prompted to speak. Yeonjun asked no question of her.

“You are free to leave for the night,” he tells her instead, and she bows deeply.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

---

 

Standing in the prince’s waiting room dressed down and with his hair let down feels strange, nearly inappropriate, but there is not a trace of distaste or displeasure on the face of his husband’s head servant, and Yeonjun lets that comfort him, even as he plays with the ends of his sleeves like a nervous child.

“I thought His Highness would have dismissed you for the night already.”

Master Minhyuk clears his throat a bit too loudly before answering – he is in decent health for a man his age, yet the years have taken their toll on him nonetheless. “Well, His Highness seems to be determined to stay up late on this night, Your Grace – it would not do.”

Yeonjun worries at his lips briefly – usually, Taehyun would dismiss Minhyuk as early in the day as he could, to go easy on the aging man’s body. He has other servants he could depend on, after all. “Is he quite busy with his duties?”

The servant’s hesitation tells him it might not be the case. “Perhaps it would be best if I spoke to the prince about your presence here first, Your Grace.”

Too loyal to tell on the prince outright – Yeonjun should have known. Minhyuk is not Kyunsang; he is much gentler with the prince, having served him since he was a boy. Enough to protect his pride as well as offer him good service.

He lets go of his sleeves in favor of squeezing at his own elbows. “Please inform him that I think it is quite important that we speak as soon as possible.”

Minhyuk bows politely, bending down all the way, perfectly practiced still. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Then Yeonjun is left alone, lingering in the waiting room, feeling like a commoner waiting for an audience with a king. Without most of his layers on, he feels bare despite his proper state of dress, and he shifts on his feet as he looks around the room, hoping to find something that he could entertain himself with while he waits. His eyes stray to a tapestry hung on the wall that looms over the tea table, depicting his husband’s ancestor in a cart drawn by a dozen leashed tigers that ripple and weave as they stalk and leap like golden waves. Yeonjun remembers Taehyun receiving it as a wedding gift from representatives of his mother’s family – it was meant to depict Kang Taeyang, who raised the Kang nobles from kings to emperors, and founded the great empire they now inhabit.

With the tapestry hung in the prince’s waiting room like this, Yeonjun hardly ever had to look at it while they were married – he only ever had to gaze upon his own family tree, which spoke of his own rising above the expectations put before him. He wonders how his husband must feel, walking past the noble face of his great ancestor every time he enters his own rooms, knowing deep down that he can never rise to the same heights – the empire has been built; all the great wars have been fought. All that is left for Taehyun is court politics and minor, petty expansion efforts. Like the taking of Beomgyu’s home.

A strange fear comes over him. Six years, the prince has been serving as his father’s advisor. Two years ago, the Golden City was taken. It has never occurred to him to think of this, and today as well, he pushes the thought away as he averts his face towards the ground.

The door to the waiting room opens again, and Minhyuk bows deeply in the doorway.

“Your Grace, His Highness has agreed to see you in his study.”

“Thank you, Minhyuk,” Yeonjun replies politely, inclining his head in acknowledgment before he steps towards the door to the corridor, only to come to a halt when the servant does not immediately clear the way for him.

“Your Grace. You should know that His Highness has been drinking heavily – he is not beyond conversation, but perhaps it would be prudent if you simply used this opportunity to have him hear you out at a different time.”

Of course he has – that is all he seems to do these days. Drink and cry and feel sorry for himself. Yeonjun immediately regrets thinking of him so poorly, but it agitates him. If Yeonjun can bear his crosses with grace and composure, why cannot the prince do the same? Why does he have to resort to drinking his days away?

“Thank you for the warning, Minhyuk. I will go now.”

The servant gives him a smaller bow this time, and backs out of his way gracefully, well-trained and even better practiced. Yeonjun steps through the doorway, and follows the corridor into the study.

It is larger than his study at the Court – with more shelves bearing books, and more furniture to accommodate the visit of his steward, or his captain of the guard, his ministers or whoever else the prince makes time for in his busy schedule. This time, instead of even pretending at being hard at work at his writing desk, the prince sits in a reading sit, made for him to recline on, but either for Yeonjun’s benefit, or due to his mood, he sits on it upright instead, with his hands folded in his lap, gazing up at his wife with unhappy, stony eyes.

Yeonjun bows as politely as is within reason when greeting his royal husband. “My prince.”

“Wife.” When Yeonjun straightens back up, Taehyun extends his hand towards him, and when Yeonjun hesitates to act on the gesture, the prince’s mouth twitches as if suppressing a smirk or a smile. “Not today, I see.”

The words sting in his chest, and he takes a few steps forward, crossing the room halfway. “I will let you scent me. I do not mind.”

Taehyun’s hands flex in his own lap. “I believe that as strong as I strive to be for you, my wife, there are limits to what even I can stand without breaking.”

Yeonjun purses his lips. “You lied to me, then.”

“No,” his husband retorts without hesitation. “But there is a difference between knowing something to be true and having evidence of it stamped onto my scent gland for the rest of the night.”

He comes even closer, and extends his wrist towards his husband, who eyes it with a surprising amount of coldness. Perhaps Yeonjun was really too harsh towards him this morning. “Scent me.”

The prince holds gently onto his wrist, but instead of bringing it towards his neck, he only presses his lips against the inside of it briefly, leaving just a peck behind when he lets Yeonjun go again. “Not tonight.”

And Yeonjun is incensed; he is unsure why it makes him feel so irrationally angry, the thought that his husband would not jump at the opportunity to scent him like an eager puppy. That he would choose not to indulge in him. That the careful grip he has had on his prince this whole time would be slipping.

“You cannot smell any other alphas on me, can you?” He asks a bit too sharply, and his husband only shakes his head with his eyebrows raised. “And you never will, if I have any say in it.”

His husband lowers his eyes, looking at his own hands, then reaching over to the table next to him, where a cup has been resting this whole time. He only takes a small sip before responding. “That differs from… everything else you have said to me lately.”

Yeonjun grits his teeth, but he has made his own bed. Taunted his alpha until he snapped. “You asked me if it was only omegas – it is not. It is only Omega Beomgyu.”

Taehyun’s head tilts to one side, and he looks up at Yeonjun again. “He is the only one on your mind, then. The only one you want.”

Suddenly feeling his own throat growing tight, Yeonjun nods silently. It feels like a chill goes down his spine as he admits it.

His husband nods, then presses the edge of the cup to his lip, seeming to ponder something before downing the rest of it. “Why did you have me believe you would take another alpha as well, then? If you are this devoted to Omega Beomgyu.”

Yeonjun swallows past the lump in his throat. The prince looks down again.

“Just to upset me?”

He says it so simply, like it would not surprise him; like he would attempt to understand it, if he did.

And Yeonjun has nothing to say to defend himself except for the truth. “I wanted to see if you were honest – to what extent you would keep your word.”

Their eyes meet, and the prince’s still seem strangely empty. “About letting you have your freedom.”

If that is how he chooses to put it. Yeonjun nods.

Taehyun takes a deep breath, and picks up the flask from the table next to him to refill his cup, doing so impolitely in mid-air, obviously a bit clumsy from the wine he already drank – some of it spills over onto his robes and the floor. The prince seems not to care very much. He does not drink his cup immediately, and holds it out precariously instead as he puts the flask on the floor instead of returning it to the table. “I cannot help,” he says while still in the middle of the motion, not looking at Yeonjun at all. “But think that there were less cruel ways of ascertaining my sincerity.”

Yeonjun sees his point now. “Must have been.”

The prince stares at his overfilled cup that shakes in his unsteady grip. “I suppose that, sadly for me, letting you do as you please is a large part of letting you do as you please.”

Then he looks up and smiles at Yeonjun before upending the cup into his own mouth. He sighs as it goes down, then laughs to himself quietly.

“Perhaps my father was right – a man as young as I was could not be trusted to choose himself a wife.”

Yeonjun hugs himself tightly. “Pardon?”

Taehyun flips the cup in his fingers, to look into it, as if it cradled the answers to all his worries somewhere at the bottom of it. “Perhaps I have made a mistake more fundamental than either of us even realized.”

He stands before his husband, frozen. “You regret marrying me?”

The prince licks a droplet of moisture off the corner of his lip. “To some extent. As much as you,” he gestures at Yeonjun with the cup, meeting his eyes again. “Must regret having married me.”

He does not regret marrying the prince. Does he? Sometimes. Perhaps. To some extent. But the prince has given him so much grief over the years. Yeonjun had a good reason.

But perhaps Taehyun now has a good reason as well.

He huffs, unhappy, frustrated. The prince’s eyes are wide and attentive as they watch him, unblinking. Waiting for him to only attempt to lie – to say he has no regrets about their marriage.

“My marriage to you is what brought me here,” he says eventually, because it is the only answer he has. It led him here, it led him to meeting Beomgyu, so it is worth it. It must be worth it. “And I would say this is a good place to be.”

Despite the chaos, the stress, the tears and the pain. Beomgyu. There is Beomgyu. Would there be him otherwise?

Taehyun blinks slowly, then sets his cup down on the table. “For practical reasons, or sentimental ones?”

He sounds playful. Yeonjun feels strangely off-balance. “Both, I suppose.”

His husband nods. “I suppose I would expect nothing less from you.”

Yeonjun looks him up and down warily. “What do you mean by this?”

“You have always kept your feet on the ground – I have always appreciated that about you. Not unable to dream, but always so aware of all the realities your dreams would entail.”

He blinks rapidly. It feels strange, to hear the prince say something about him that does not feel untrue. Like having Beomgyu see right through him, even though being understood on some level by the prince does not make him feel as safe as Beomgyu’s understanding does. If anything, it seems dangerous. Precarious. Yeonjun should always be aware of how much of himself is on display. He is a lady.

“You dream of a child as well.” The prince steeples his fingers in his own lap, nonchalant. In control of himself.

Yeonjun nods, because it is true.

“And you are ready to face what that would entail?”

He frowns. “Yes. I told you, my prince, I am hardly disgusted by the thought of you sharing my heat with me.”

The words make Taehyun tilt his head at him again. “Will you need Omega Beomgyu to be present?”

Yeonjun’s mouth runs dry, and he opens it and closes it without a sound before finding his voice again. “I did not consider that as a possibility.”

His husband’s eyes seem intent enough to make him want to step back with their intensity. “You may consider it, then.”

Pepper snakes through the air, betraying Yeonjun’s husband’s carefully blank expression. It makes Yeonjun feel a bit less like he is constantly on the back foot, struggling to defend himself. “For my pleasure, or yours?”

Taehyun’s fingers flex again. “During heat, one comes inevitably with the other, does it not?”

A cycle of pleasure – one feeding into the other. One’s arousal awakening the other’s. Want leading to want that leads to want that will lead to conception, if fortune smiles upon them. All they need is for Yeonjun to take a knot – multiple, if possible. Give his husband’s seed a chance to take. The rest can be… whatever he would wish it to be. It could be the same as those… strange heats Beomgyu used to have that Yeonjun did not enjoy hearing of. Sating himself with Beomgyu until a peak, then taking his husband so they may try for a child, then his husband leaving again so that Beomgyu’s arms could envelop him again. Practical.

“I suppose.”

“There you have it, then.”

Silence follows – Yeonjun does not assume the prince expects him to answer immediately, but his mind is in so much turmoil, and his body warms with the thoughts of the two of them, intertwining strangely, in all these brand new ways in Yeonjun’s mind, that he finds himself unable to say anything.

“Is that all?”

Yeonjun knows what will follow, if he says yes. Taehyun will tell him to get out, and for all he knows he will do so without a second of hesitation, with all the coldness that he is capable of. But despite everything, Yeonjun does not want to be free of Taehyun. He wants him close; he wants to wrap himself up in his husband until he finds some new meaning to what it means to be his wife. He wants to cling; he wants to beg and cry like he always does until his husband does not take mercy on him again.

“No.”

“No?” Taehyun lifts his chin, as if rising to whatever challenge he is about to bring.

Yeonjun strives to make his voice as gentle as possible. “You should sleep.”

His husband’s eyes widen in what seems to him as amusement. “Should I? I believe I enjoy sitting here drinking a little too much to do so.”

He feels the disgust ripple through him, and perhaps that was the true intention behind the prince’s words – to make him waver in his affect of care. “You have not given Minhyuk leave yet – it is late. He must be tired.”

“Then I will dismiss him once you leave.”

An outright challenge – the prince sees right through him. He is sure of that now. But it only makes him more stubborn.

“I will not be leaving.”

“How come?” the prince asks lightly without his expression shifting at all.

“You said I am welcome wherever I wish to be.”

Taehyun’s lips part silently. The tip of his tongue traces his upper teeth. “I believe that is something I said, yes.”

And Yeonjun is overcome with such terrible conviction. “I wish to be in your bed with you when you go to sleep tonight.”

A dry little ha escapes between the prince’s lips. “I do not intend to sleep tonight.”

It sounds to Yeonjun like he says it only to hear Yeonjun’s reply. To drive this conversation forward – this argument, this little battle of theirs. A game of wit and rhetoric. “Then just come to your bed with me.”

“Drinking in bed seems so improper for a prince to do.”

“Then don’t drink,” Yeonjun says simply, surprising himself with the plainness of his speech. He did not mean to.

But it makes his husband’s lips twitch again. “If I do not sleep, and I do not drink, what is there to do, then?”

“Would it be such a bother to you, my prince, to hold your omega in your arms for the night?”

“Of course not – any omega of mine would be welcome in my arms anytime.”

Yeonjun’s fingers dig into his own arms as he crosses his arms in front of himself. “Then come hold me, alpha.”

He can see the prince struggle against himself to keep his composure steady after he says it. It brings him satisfaction – exactly the kind he was craving. “Would it not bother Lady Beomgyu? To have an alpha hold his omega for him?”

Lady Beomgyu – again. Yeonjun tries to fight back the flush he can feel rising to his neck and face. “You are still my husband.”

The prince raises a hand, lifting fingers one by one as he speaks. “And you still have my fortune, my estate, my protection, and you will have my child.”

“But I may not have this?” He takes a step forward. “You said you would give me anything I asked for.”

“That I did,” Taehyun allows, looking him up and down. “But I did not expect you to take advantage of my kindness to be unkind to me.”

He closes his fist again, and brings it to his lap. Yeonjun struggles to find words to say. Perhaps them being straightforward with one another for once puts him at more of a disadvantage than he thought it would.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do – uses the only asset nobody can ever take from him, the one his prince has always been weak to, no matter what the situation was.

He bares himself. Slips the sash of his robes open, lets them slip from his shoulders, and pool at his elbows, until they frame his body, barely covered in the flimsy fabric of his underclothes.

“Let me be kind to you, then.”

And his husband’s eyes lower on his body, as he seems to not even attempt to look away. Gazing at his unimpressive breast, the hint of waist tastefully hidden by the drape of his underclothes, his bare legs. Then his gaze fixates, somewhere at Yeonjun’s abdomen, whatever reason there is for it.

“Is this what your kindness entails?” The prince’s voice comes out thin, much less confident than before. It always has an effect on him – perhaps that should mean something to Yeonjun. His husband has always been weak to his body. Showing it to him has never failed to make him feel powerful. “Bedding me to do what? Lift my mood? Get me to fall asleep? Soothe my ego?”

To his surprise, the next thing the prince does is rise to his feet, stepping so close to him that Yeonjun almost covers himself back up, suddenly shy, with the prince’s breath nearly brushing his skin. He is warm, and smells of wine and stale spice. Yeonjun’s eyes flicker between the prince’s in near panic, as he tries to catch up to his intention.

“If you wish to have a bedfellow tonight, my wife, if you wish to take advantage of me, then you know what to do.” Taehyun lifts his chin, defiant, and warm spice strengthens in the air, pushing some of the stale note away. “Ask me to take you to him. To give you the excuse to spend another night in his arms. I will make sure no one questions you – that Soobin does not barge in on you in the morning again. I will not ask where your hands have been. What they have done to him. All I will ask of you in turn…”

Yeonjun shivers as the prince’s fingers brush the bare skin of his arms, but there is barely any contact at all, as the prince takes hold of the fabric of his robes, and draws them back up over his shoulders, making him more modest again. Covering him up. Resisting.

“Is that you take mercy on me.”

His heart hammers in his chest. Beomgyu. He is offering him another night with Beomgyu – but this was supposed to be the night where he reaffirms his loyalty to his husband. Taehyun was supposed to want him; to cave. To always break under the careful pressure of Yeonjun’s undivided attention. Until Yeonjun felt his again.

But he is not – Taehyun is making that more than clear. Whatever he thinks of Yeonjun now, he does not think of him as his.

And that hurts, does it not? If Yeonjun was more… if he was less in control of himself, he would have attempted to make his husband kiss him, but he knows better. He is better than that.

“And what will you do? While he holds me in your stead?”

The prince draws back, stepping further away from him, biting at his lip hard. “I will drink, as I was planning to. This night was to be sleepless for me, either way.”

“You did not sleep that night.” Yeonjun suspected it, but did not know it to be true.

“Of course not,” Taehyun says it as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “Someone had to make sure you were safe.”

Yeonjun’s hands clench into fists. He was being the perfect alpha, just outside that door. Stalwart and protective, sacrificing his own comfort for his omegas. What was Yeonjun doing? What is he doing?

“And you would stay up all night tonight as well.”

The prince shrugs. “You are not any safer on this day than on any other.”

He wants to grit his teeth. He does not deserve to. “Or you want to be awake so you can pleasure yourself to the sounds of the two of us again.” Yeonjun takes a step forward, for the step Taehyun took away from him, bringing them too uncomfortably close again – he wants to be the one in control. The one pushing. Intimidating. “The whole waiting room smelled of you – I assume that is not a coincidence.”

Then Taehyun does it for him. Grits his teeth, as he tilts his head back slightly, to look at him in a more dignified way than his stature would naturally force him to. “Does the thought make you jealous, wife?” His tone is strange, tight and gruff. “That I would take pleasure in the sighs of your lover. That I would imagine his face stricken with ecstasy, while you could do nothing about it?”

Does it? He did not let himself think of it too long, each time it came to his mind. Did not let himself wonder what exactly it was that fueled him, what was in his mind’s eye, whose hands, whose body, whose insides he thought of while out there by himself. Would it hurt if it were Beomgyu? He always thought Beomgyu would be irresistible to the prince – too beautiful, too seductive, too infuriating, too perfect of an omega to pass up on. But those were his thoughts, were they not? Yeonjun could not tear his eyes away from his body; could not think straight around his heat scent; Yeonjun found him too incredible to stay away from.

Taehyun seems to be doing all too well on that front.

“You do not need to answer me,” his husband says, his tone much softer now. “But if you do, Yeonjun…”

He closes his eyes at the sound of his name. The sound of it echoes in his ears.

“Then know that you get to feel a shred of the sacrifice I am making for you. And I hope that through it you find it in you to forgive me just enough to let me live in peace.”

By the end, Taehyun’s voice is but a whisper. Yeonjun shivers, even though it is not so cold that standing with his robes open should bring the same kind of chill to his bones that the prince’s words do.

He pulls his robes closed over his front. He lowers his eyes. His shoulders, which remained so tense and proud, loosen, into something more conciliatory – more vulnerable.

“What is peace, then? What do you want, Taehyun?”

They might as well call each other by name – if they are not mates now, not spouses, not a prince and a noble.

He watches Taehyun swallow, and for the first time, he seems nervous. Yeonjun knows the words at the tip of his tongue – anything you are willing to give. He would have said it, perhaps even the day before. He was always so ready to say it. But today he does not want to. Perhaps today would be the first day he would not mean it. The thought hurts him, so he pays it little mind.

His husband breathes out, and Yeonjun thinks he heard a tremble in his sigh.

“We will live the way we have – and if you need to be satisfied, you go to him instead. I will scent you, for propriety’s sake, unless it would actually cause you distress to have to carry my scent mark that day. I will spend most of my time away, so I should not interfere with you life much. I will take your heats, until we conceive, or until I father an heir – whichever it ends up being. I will be as respectful as I can, but I suppose it cannot be avoided.” He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. “I will keep you wealthy, and safe, and I ask that in turn you keep my house well-kept and do your best not to let too many people know about the goings-on between you and Omega Beomgyu. And that is all.”

Yeonjun frowns. “So what you mean to say is that nothing will change at all.”

His husband looks down at the ground, then steps back until he sits back down in the reading seat heavily. “Not for you, no.”

“And for you?”

Taehyun looks up at him, and he looks strangely upset. Like he cannot believe he is being made to say this. “For me, this changes everything.”

Yeonjun breathes shallowly. He holds his robes tightly to his body, the sash forgotten somewhere on the floor. “Taehyun, it does not have to be this way.”

“I think it should,” his husband responds firmly. Too firmly. “For Omega Beomgyu’s sake, if not for either of ours.”

He chews on his lips. He wants to find something to say. Some way to slip out of this. This is not right – is it? Cannot be. “He told me he does not wish to interfere with our marriage.”

“Well, he has,” Taehyun says simply, mercifully devoid of malice. “He fell in love with you, and you fell in love with him. I believe that amounts to interference.”

“But…” I’m still yours? Body and soul? It is not true anymore, is it? Not since he let Beomgyu grow roots in his mind. Not since he gave him his body.

He cannot have it both ways. He cannot be Taehyun’s and not his at the same time. He cannot love Beomgyu while acting as if he loves his husband as well. If Taehyun is to know of his relationship with Beomgyu, if he is to help them get away with it, then Yeonjun cannot ask him to forget it whenever he feels like being held by his husband instead. It is one or the other. Taehyun or Beomgyu. And he has made his decision already, has he not?

He chose Beomgyu. So he has to keep choosing Beomgyu. No matter how… badly he…

He misses Taehyun. His touch; his lips; his embrace. He kissed him the same night he had Beomgyu for the first time, but he still longs for the sensation of it. He misses him already.

Like a quickly hollowing part in his chest next to the bundle of warm that Beomgyu is. Digging into him uncomfortably. Urging him to reach out. To hold. To keep.

But he cannot do that, can he? It would not be fair to Taehyun. Someone who has cared for him for the better part of a decade. To keep him wrapped around his finger while he devotes himself to someone else. It would be heartless; cruel.

But it is all he wants to do.

“You should go.”

Yeonjun blinks hard. “Pardon?”

“You should go and see Beomgyu. I will stay here and make arrangements – I will send word to Soobin and make sure the guard stays quiet, and tell Minhyuk to keep the servants’ entrance open, and to tell Haewon you have spent the night with me if she asks. In the morning, you should come here through the side door. Minhyuk will take care of you. But you should come early, just in case.”

He feels so strangely cold – his husband speaks so plainly of how he intends to make it easy for him to spend the night with someone else; his tone is so painfully calm – resigned, perhaps. “You are not coming?”

Taehyun reaches for his cup, and the flask he put beside himself. “I think it would not be wise of me to.”

“You do not feel the need to make sure he is well?”

The prince does not look at him while filling the cup. “Of course I do – but I believe I can trust you to ascertain it. You know where I am, if either of you has need of me.”

I have need of you. Right now. And all over again, you withdraw yourself when I need you the most.

Yeonjun nods. Taehyun drinks more wine. He cannot bring himself to move.

“Leave me, Yeonjun,” Taehyun says to the ground beneath himself, not looking up again.

But it is not enough to make him move.

“Please.”

Then. Only then, Yeonjun finally steps back, away, picking up his sash off the ground and backing out of the room politely without even retying his robes. While he does it in the corridor instead, tying the sash closed with numb fingers, he regrets not having bid his husband good night.

 

---

 

Holding someone in his lap is something so unfamiliar, something he could never imagine before being this comforting, feeling this peaceful. Beomgyu's damp bare chest against his still clothed one, Beomgyu's thighs pressing into his hips. His arms holding Beomgyu so close, so tightly against him as if he could ensure they would never part again if only he held Beomgyu firmly enough. Beomgyu's slick stains the fabric of Yeonjun's underclothes, and he barely takes note of it, trying to focus on the soft hair he buried his face into. The ginger is waning in Beomgyu's scent – his heat is slowly but surely going away again.

And once it is gone, so will the prince be, and then they can, once more, live in peace. Yeonjun can come to Beomgyu on every fourth day and they can exchange as many kisses as either of them have to give. Yeonjun can hold him like this, just like this, wishing the same way he does now that the sun would never rise and they could stay this way forever.

It will be beautiful, and Yeonjun will not mourn. There will be nothing to mourn – nobody to miss but the pleasure of Soobin's company. And the news from the Imperial Court will be good again, and one day they will come with the notice of the Emperor's passing, and everything will change for the Empire, but the palace will stay the same. Always the same, with the same routine, the same faces, and they will look like they have always looked, and Yeonjun will find peace in that again. He will raise a happy child with the man he loves at his side, and one day send them to the Imperial Court, to live the same charmed life he himself used to. Yeonjun will be so proud. Of himself, of his child, of everything he has accomplished, and Beomgyu will be right here, in the concubines’ quarters in the middle of the night, rubbing his back in slow languid circles that threaten to soothe him to sleep, and he will be proud of Yeonjun as well.

There is no mourning to be done. No black clouds on the horizon. Only a sweet life of love and luxury ahead of him. His future looks so golden, so perfect.

So why is he not happy?

“I did not know the life of a mistress could be this troublesome,” Beomgyu says in a tone so light-hearted that Yeonjun does not even think to feel guilty at first.

He lets out a questioning hum into the bed of brown silk he refuses to lift his face from. The softness of it makes everything feel so much simpler – this is worth anything he might have to give up to have it, is it not? This feeling. It would be worth all of Yeonjun's wealth, if it came down to it.

“Holding my lover in my arms, knowing his thoughts are anywhere but with me – what a hard lot I've so willingly put myself before.”

The words sting in Yeonjun's stomach. He tries to hold Beomgyu even tighter, although at this point his grip might be almost painful. “My thoughts are with you, Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu sighs delicately, and his fingers run through the hair at the back of Yeonjun's head, urging his tense shoulders to loosen under his tenderness. “Are they now?”

“I am imagining our future.”

Beomgyu's nails scrape the base of his skull. “Is it truly so bleak in your eyes? You seem so terribly tense.”

Yeonjun breathes out, and attempts to melt into Beomgyu's arms as best as he can. “It is beautiful, I assure you.”

Beomgyu shifts in his hold, and Yeonjun is forced out of the warm sanctuary of his hair and into the chill of the room around them as Beomgyu moves away, taking his hands off of Yeonjun's body just to curl them around Yeonjun's jaw, looking him in the face with a serious set to his own. His mouth is so solemn, and his eyes sad as he studies Yeonjun's face.

“Then why did you seem so upset when you came here? Why did you come at all?”

He frowns. “I came to see you – spend the night with you.”

“Of your own accord? I know you – and I know only of one man more skilled at denying himself than you.”

Yeonjun averts his eyes, and he knows without Beomgyu having to say a word that it says more than he can express in words. “I would spend every night with you if I could.”

Beomgyu squirms in his lap, huffing in frustration in a way Yeonjun helplessly finds a little endearing. “It may be so. But I understand that you and I have very different ideas of how much you can do.” He leans in closer to Yeonjun's face, making himself impossible to avoid through the proximity. “How come you could see me tonight? If your husband is not with you – is it not that you could, but that you were unable to do otherwise?”

Yeonjun sinks his teeth into his lip that threatens to wobble; he readjusts his grip on Beomgyu and brings him even closer. Holding someone in his arms like this is so new, but it feels right when it is Beomgyu he is holding. His lap might not be ample enough to hold most people, but it is ample enough for pretty, honey-sweet, slender Beomgyu. “I got permission.”

“From whom?” Beomgyu scoffs derisively. “Your alpha?”

Your alpha – not husband, not prince. Alpha

“Yes.”

As much as a command – but one Yeonjun wanted to heed so badly Taehyun must have felt comfortable giving it.

Beomgyu adjusts his grip on Yeonjun's jaw, pushing the heel of his palm into Yeonjun's chin uncomfortably until he lifts it, forced to meet Beomgyu's eyes again – it feels too reminiscent of when Yeonjun straddled Taehyun just like Beomgyu straddles him now, in the prince's bed room at the Court. Forcing his chin up, playing with him. Disrespecting him. Pushing and pushing and pushing, tugging at his leash, testing the give of it. How far could he go without it tearing completely? How much can he pull at it from his side before it breaks?

It is broken now; that is certain. Yeonjun's golden leash.

“He told you that you could spend the night with me?”

Yeonjun nods against the pressure of Beomgyu's hand, and Beomgyu lets go immediately, cupping Yeonjun's cheek instead.

“Where is the catch, then? There has to be one – as kindly as he has let me have you before, certainly he must have something to gain here.”

It would make sense, would it not? For this to be calculated on the prince’s part – for Yeonjun’s night of revelry with Beomgyu to be a bargaining chip he would intend to use against his wife down the line. To ensure Yeonjun does whatever his husband wants him to in the future. But he does not believe it is. As skeptical as he has always been of the prince’s intentions, of the meaning and veracity of his words, of his actions, tonight he cannot bring himself to doubt him; to think that he is just an alpha playing a game to manipulate his omega into obedience.

Sacrifice – Taehyun called his decision a sacrifice.

“There is no catch.” He has no need to whisper, and yet he does – some things should only be spoken of in hushed voices. “I am yours now, Beomgyu.”

Tears well up in his eyes. He wishes he could say this with a smile on his face. With endless relief in his heart. But he cannot.

“What?” Beomgyu’s face pinches in confusion, and he tilts his head as if Yeonjun’s words would make more sense if heard from another angle.

Yeonjun does not blame him – it makes no sense; it should not happen. Mates should not be able to give each other up like this; but he and the prince were never a couple quite like any other. His hands shift on Beomgyu, until they rest on his sides lightly, and both of their next breaths come out shivery. Honey, citrus and ginger coil around them. Tears brim over and rush down Yeonjun’s face, and Beomgyu’s eyes lower to follow the path of them, until they meet Beomgyu’s fingers still gently holding onto him.

His own scent bitters, and he grows to hate the smell of himself in the air. The unbearable stench of fermented fruit.

“He has decided to give me up to you. To let us be together.”

Beomgyu’s eyes do not meet his – if anything, they drop further down, into the sliver of space between them; his hands lower to Yeonjun’s shoulders instead, tear-stained and curling against the line of his shoulders with what feels like hesitation.

“What does that mean?”

Desperate to have Beomgyu facing him again, Yeonjun is the one to reach up this time, to guide Beomgyu’s head up and bring their faces close.

“He will stay away from this house, he will not touch me unless it is for us to conceive and you can have as much of me as you can get without us causing him trouble by making it too obvious and undermining his position.”

His voice is too choked up, but he tries to make his breathlessness sound like the sound of elation. Of freedom.

But Beomgyu’s eyes narrow at him, and his hand slips down to Yeonjun’s mating mark that aches under his touch. “Is this what you wanted for us? For yourself? Have you asked him to do so?”

Yeonjun’s lips shiver. Without Beomgyu’s fingers to intercept them, tears linger at his jawline then languidly drip down, one by one. “It is more than we could have ever asked for, Beomgyu. It is perfect.”

Away with Taehyun and his contradictions, his secrets, his lies. The storm of Beomgyu has washed it all away. He is the only one who remains. The only one Yeonjun can let himself truly love, as more than a friend, an acquaintance he respects. There should be such passion behind thoughts like these. Freedom should not only bring with it vertigo.

Beomgyu’s thumb brushes over the scar above Yeonjun’s heart through the fabric. He breathes slowly, and Yeonjun feels his breath on his own face. “Then why won’t you stop crying, Yeonjun?”

Perhaps he made a mistake, being so insistent on looking into Beomgyu’s eyes. He cannot hide the pain from him – the fear, the hesitation, the nausea. It hurts, to lose his mate. No matter how painful their marriage was at times, no matter the disgust that has been building within him towards the prince for such a long time. His embrace still felt safe – his scent still soothed Yeonjun like little else could. His kiss still felt precious and reassuring. Yeonjun was not ready to let him go – never considered it a true possibility.

And now he was torn away from him, so suddenly, of his own free will. And Yeonjun misses him already.

His voice is so thin Beomgyu might not have heard it at all were they not so close to one another. “I have been his since I was a child.”

Beomgyu’s palm presses tightly against his mating mark, then lets it go in favor of finding his cheek again. “You did not wish to be let go.”

It feels like a betrayal – it is Yeonjun’s turn to disappoint; to let both of the men he has given himself to down. As much as he strives for perfection, he can never quite achieve it. Everything he has to offer always comes with a but, a however.

But he is married to another man. However, he could not stay faithful.

“I did not ask him to do it – he has made that decision himself.”

Beomgyu bites down on his lower lip, and his eyes narrow, and as much faith as Yeonjun has in Beomgyu’s love for him, he braces for the judgment that is inevitably coming – the derision Beomgyu must feel towards Yeonjun for clinging to his husband this way. “How fitting for him – what a noble deed on his part.”

He did not expect the judgment to be towards Taehyun.

“He has learned nothing, then – cannot stop himself from making your choices for you.”

Yeonjun can hear Beomgyu winding up, can see the anger overtaking him, and he clutches at the side of Beomgyu’s neck insistently. “No; that is not what happened. I do not think he did it for me – not this time, not even in his own mind.”

Beomgyu stares at him in blatant disbelief. “You think he wanted to give you up? He did?”

“Yes, Beomgyu. Because he seems to understand that… that I…” he is the one to drop his gaze now, to avert his eyes. A rush of blood to his head brings a boyish flush to his skin. “How fond I am of you. How fond you seem to be of me, in turn, and…”

“What consequence is our love to his claim on you?” Beomgyu does not force him to look up – he sounds like he regrets saying the words he is saying, even if he may consider them important to voice nonetheless. “This makes no sense. It changes nothing.”

“He believes it should.” Now, Yeonjun once again feels brave enough to face him. His tears have dried up – perhaps it is better this way. It has to be better this way. “He wants it to.”

He keeps holding lightly onto Beomgyu as the omega shakes his head, over and over, until he seems to grow frustrated. “And he still means to spend your heat with you?”

Yeonjun nods, and Beomgyu lets out another sound of frustration before pressing their foreheads together tightly.

“I should have never let him see us together.”

“No. You had to. I needed you to. It is better this way, Beomgyu – it is perfect this way. He cannot stand sharing me with another, but he is willing to let you have me for the sake of our happiness instead of tearing you away from me. We could not have asked for a more flawless conclusion. The two of us can be together, and he will not stand in our way.”

“But what will this cost you, Yeonjun? This sadness is the least of the price you might pay.”

Yeonjun bites his lips. He trusts Taehyun, does he not? To keep his word – to make sure nothing changes. “I do not know him to be a vindictive man. He is many things, but not that. And this…” Yeonjun holds Beomgyu’s face, tightly, like the precious thing he cannot afford to let go that it is. “This is a passing pain. It will leave with time – I will bury the wife he has made of me, and all that will be left, Beomgyu, is someone who…” he pauses, swallows. He has to say it now. Nothing remains but to say it. “Someone who loves you.”

Beomgyu closes his eyes and kisses him. Yeonjun kisses back with his eyes open, until he relaxes into the pressure of Beomgyu’s lips, and they slip shut, little by little.

 

---

 

Yeonjun falls asleep with his hand pressed to the knobs of Beomgyu’s spine, and wakes up alone in a bed of furs. Everything in him becomes fraught with panic immediately – Beomgyu is gone. Beomgyu is still in heat, and he is not in his nest, he is not by Yeonjun’s side, his scent lingers all around him but it is not present, and Yeonjun stumbles to his feet, pulling his discarded robes around his naked body without bothering to tie them, holding them close with his hands as he rushed barefoot into the corridor, and follows the lingering scent of honeyed citrus into the waiting room, peeking his head into the tea room to make sure Beomgyu is not there before coming to a stop finally, unsure of what to do – if Beomgyu is not in the quarters… if something… someone…

His mind goes to the darkest place, but his eyes stray towards the door to the garden. There is that, and other rooms he has not yet searched. Beomgyu would not leave the quarters during his heat – the prince would not allow him to. He would not let any harm come to Beomgyu, no matter how distraught he was about losing his wife, he would not.

The door comes open with too much force as Yeonjun all but bursts into the garden.

Beomgyu looks up from where he is sitting at the edge of the fountain again, on a perch swept free of the snow, barefoot just like Yeonjun but wrapped tightly in his fur cloak. The night is nearly moonless, but what light there is makes the snow glow, plunging the small garden into a strange sort of twilight. Beomgyu’s hand comes out of the cloak to wipe at both of his cheeks.

“You’re awake.”

Yeonjun nods, and takes a few steps towards him – the ice-cold path stings his feet with every step. “You ware not at my side.”

Beomgyu looks away, somewhere off to the side, then up at the cloud-streaked night sky. “My fever woke me. I thought the cold air would soothe it.”

He comes to a stop right in front of Beomgyu. “You were well enough to walk?”

Beomgyu looks down at him and nods. “Yes – there might be little reason to keep me contained in here soon. Perhaps by dawn, even.”

His heat is going away. Yeonjun reaches out to touch his forehead, warm despite the freezing air enveloping them, then Beomgyu’s cheeks, the remains of icy tear tracks he tried to wipe off of them. “You should come back to your nest, Beomgyu. You will catch your death in this terrible cold.”

Beomgyu’s breath is hot on Yeonjun’s wrist. He licks his lips, a flash of something glistening passing between his lips. “Perhaps.”

Yeonjun sighs, and lifts his hand again to run his fingers through the hair at the top of Beomgyu’s head, as gentle as he can. “You did not come here because of the fever, Beomgyu. Do not lie to me.”

He startles when Beomgyu’s hand grabs onto his, but he allows Beomgyu to bring it down towards his face, so Beomgyu can press his lips to the scent gland in Yeonjun’s wrist. “Sometimes I think that the more I have of you, the more I miss him.”

And the words lay heavy on Yeonjun’s chest. Beomgyu rolls his lips against Yeonjun’s wrist, like he is trying to stamp himself into it as permanently as he can.

“I wish he were alive, so he could meet you himself – so his voice could tell me that he likes you as well, instead of the memory of it saying it in my dreams. I wish I did not have to try and read the stars to figure out if he would have wanted me to be happy enough to be content with this as well – with me, sharing all the things only he used to have with you. ”

His eyes close, and his tears glow in the reflected moonlight as they spill over and rush down his face, Beomgyu kisses his knuckles, then presses his forehead into them.

“I never thought it could be like this – that it would end this way. That the prince would…” his voice trails off, choked up. “You were beautiful to me, since the start. And then you were someone I thought I could save, from the same pain I have felt. And then you were fascinating. And then you were comforting. I never for a moment thought you could one day be mine.” He looks up at Yeonjun again then, and his eyes are brilliant with the tears. “It came so quickly, did it not? And we have spent so much of our lives belonging to other people. I still grieve for Kai, every day, no matter the comfort you bring me – and you still wished to belong to your prince, you still do.”

And it hurts, to have Beomgyu say the same words Yeonjun was thinking himself out loud, knowing that he is known so thoroughly by someone who is not ready to surrender to him just yet – and that he is not ready to dedicate himself to him wholly, either. They have not even seen spring bloom together. And as much as Yeonjun wants to dismiss his own melancholy, it still exists – the pain of something that could have been, a flower cut before it blossomed. So many wasted opportunities.

He could have loved Taehyun, if Taehyun let him. If he let himself be loved by his wife. But it seems he never wanted that – that he never intended for that to happen. And if there was a chance, if all of their marriage was leading to an opportunity for the two of them to fall in love, then it is gone now. Washed away. All of Yeonjun’s best-guarded dreams, his childish ideas of them growing old together. This is the real world – without all the wishful thinking, beyond Yeonjun’s romantic view of the world, there is this. Two barely clothed omegas crying in the middle of a snow-covered garden, mourning the loss of their lovers who they never quite got to hold the way they wished they could. Perhaps in love, if they allow themselves to be. Infatuated beyond all doubt. Barefoot on the icy ground.

“It did.”

“I wish to be there for you, Yeonjun. I promise I do.”

Yeonjun nods.

“But on this night, I miss him more than ever.”

He sits on the ground while Beomgyu stares up at the sky as if it would speak to him if he looked at it pleadingly enough. As if it could answer him. As if he could see Kai in the pale face of the moon, in the shifting of the stars. On this night, Beomgyu does not tell stories about him. He does not say anything at all.

 

---

 

His whole body hurts when he comes back to the prince’s quarters. He made sure to slip away from Beomgyu before the break of dawn, early enough to avoid running into their servants as they get ready for the nobles to start their day, and his head aches with the lack of sleep, while his limbs protest after being exposed to the winter air for so long without anything to warm them properly.

It was foolish of him to sit out there with Beomgyu as long as he did – it was foolish of him to let Beomgyu sit there himself. But he could not leave him alone; and he could not take his night of grieving away from him. Yeonjun cannot imagine even a shred of what Beomgyu feels – he does not get to dictate what Beomgyu does to ease his own mind.

Minhyuk is awake when he arrives, because of course he is, and he bows to Yeonjun deeply and politely once he steps into the waiting room through the servants’ entrance. He gestures at the door to the hallway without a word, careful not to alert the guard outside the front door, and Yeonjun follows him into the corridor just as silently, expecting the man to lead him into the dressing room, but he opens the door to the tea room instead, and Yeonjun has no option but to step in.

Despite the opulence of the room, it seems strangely empty without its usual table spread – Yeonjun remembers kneeling on the same floor he now steps on, begging for forgiveness. It feels as if it had all happened to someone else, or in a past life. Yeonjun is different now. The prince is. Everything is.

“I have been instructed by His Highness to offer you his bed to rest in, should you arrive being tired, Your Grace. Likewise, he wished me to relay that you are free to spend as much or as little time here as you might see fit. I can bring you a change of clothes immediately, or serve tea, or have a bath prepared for you.” The old man bows deeply. “I am fully at your service, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun lifts his sleeve to his mouth, an old habit from his youth having him pull the fabric of it between his lips as the takes the words in. He imagines laying in his husband’s bed alone – the bed they have only ever shared, in a room he has never been to before without his husband being present. His own bed feels empty enough without Beomgyu or the prince to share it; to have Taehyun’s sheets envelop him, without the warmth of him, with nothing but a trace of his scent in the air…

Like the trace of spice in Yeonjun’s heat scent – pure torture.

He would like to rest, but he cannot take the prince up on this offer.

“Is our prince asleep?”

Minhyuk’s lips remain set expressionlessly. “You may not speak with him at this moment, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun takes a deep breath through his nose. He has always appreciated Minhyuk, if for nothing else then for his diligent service to the prince, and for the flawless discretion he showed every time Yeonjun spent the night in the prince’s rooms. But he was never quite sure if his appreciation of the servant was reciprocated – and now, under these circumstances, he cannot help but think it never was, as much as his dismissal of Yeonjun’s question is surely prompted by wishes the prince himself has expressed. Taehyun does not appreciate his wife wondering if he is sleeping at the moment. Where he is. What he is doing. If Yeonjun remains in his mind while he does so.

Perhaps he believes Yeonjun does not deserve to stay as privy to the goings-on in the prince’s day-to-day anymore. After all, they have agreed to keep their distance in their marriage.

As much as he wishes that he found that distance comforting, he finds himself despising it instead. How dare he?

He closes his eyes and readjusts his shoulders. Composure. He needs to regain his composure before he goes back to his rooms, to wallow in this feeling in his own bed. Not even Haewon can see him like this – nobody should. Including Minhyuk, but at this point, he supposes that cannot be helped.

When he opens his eyes, the servant’s face is as impassive as ever. Yeonjun looks at the imperial banner hanging above the prince’s opulent seat instead of facing the disdain his own foul mood projects onto the blank canvas of his face.

“I will have tea here, and I want hot water and fresh clothes set out for me in the dressing room. Please see to it, M—” his lips stumble on the servant’s name. It is Yeonjun’s right to speak to him dismissively, without a single shred of respect or regard. He is a lady, and Minhyuk is nothing but a commoner raised among his lowly fellows by the simple virtue of his prestigious appointment.

But he is an old man, a loyal man. He is more important to the prince than perhaps even the Emperor is, certainly more important than Yeonjun ever was.

And Yeonjun is a poor man, raised from mud through luck, for reasons he has never quite understood. He is an omega who has lost his virtue; the only thing he was taught he would have, once beauty and riches faded. Stripped bare of titles, of fineries, of a pretty face, he is an adulterer. A rejected wife.

“Master Minhyuk.”

The old man’s face does not shift in the slightest before he bows again. “Your Grace.”

Then he leaves, and Yeonjun is left alone, an ugly, rumpled, profane thing standing in the middle of an opulent room. He wants to sink to his knees, just like he did back then, but instead he approaches the prince’s seat, gazing down at it, recalling him lounging on it with the sting of rut still clinging to his skin. Yeonjun used to think the ultimate honor would be to one day press himself against that scent again; to taste it.

Now he is coming to understand that perhaps those who he has always thought to be depraved, those he was taught to see as awful and despicable, may not have been born with black hearts and dark intentions. Their parents and tutors and mentors may not have instilled within them a taste for decadence, for overindulgence, for transgression.

Sometimes men like them – men like him – experience a failing on a scale so immense, their entire world may shatter in its foundations. Sometimes they experience events so cataclysmic that the direction they have been heading their entire lives suddenly becomes nothing but a blurry mirage on the horizon, and at some point they may lose faith in the destination ever being there in the first place. Perhaps there is nothing; perhaps all they have been striving for is nothing that has never existed at all.

Perhaps dreams are just dreams.

 

---

 

Dressing by himself feels strange at this point – his body looks so strange to himself in the prince’s mirror when he bares it so he can wash and redress himself. He touches his own skin with such hesitance – it was kissed so affectionately, so adoringly by Beomgyu’s touch such a short while ago and yet, in his absence, in the prince’s small dressing room, it somehow looks so undesirable. It is wan and without luster, stretching in such an unseemly way over limbs he would call lean on days when he would feel beautiful. Slender and graceful. Now all his angles and curves look so odd to his own eyes – he has always looked more youthful than ample. More like a maiden than a mother.

Some would say his body was made for a mistress, not a wife. Some did. From some, it was meant as flattery.

He was made to be adored, to be lovely and not plentiful.

A pretty doll; a decoration.

A jewel.

Yeonjun looks away from the mirror even as he dresses himself, as he ties his hair back. He does not look at it as he steps out the door, as he pauses right outside of it.

The same smell that had hit his nose with such an unusual sharpness the other day – but this time, he hears no cries accompanying it. He can only smell it, poisoning the air, making it hard to focus. The smell of his husband’s pain.

Taehyun chose him over others – and whatever expectation there came with this wonderful chance he had presented Yeonjun with, he failed to meet it. He sees that now; understands it.

And as hard as it is for him to find compassion with his husband’s pain… he still finds it difficult to cross the threshold into the waiting room instead of barging into the study as he wishes to.

The prince might not even be there at all; this might be nothing but a scent mark left behind by him passing by the door of the dressing room – perhaps he has left a long time ago, and Yeonjun is fighting nothing but the dark recesses of his own mind. He is no stranger to that.

Eventually, he brings himself to do it – only to find himself face to face with Minhyuk, who informs him politely that Haewon has come looking for him, and was given the information the prince wished to be given to her, as instructed. Yeonjun bows his head in acknowledgment.

“His Highness also asked me to inform you that he may not join you at the concubines’ quarters this morning.”

In some ways, Yeonjun expected that – if for no other reason than for the pain the prince will surely feel after drinking as heavily as he must have through the night. It would not surprise him if the household didn’t see hair nor hide of him until dinnertime at the earliest.

And yet… it does not help ease his mind.

 

---

 

And neither does it seem to soothe Beomgyu, the one person Yeonjun would not blame for finding comfort in his absence. He accepts them sitting up again, talking with them calmly yet tiredly with a closed book in his lap, and nothing about his posture, or speech, or the way his attention switches easily between Yeonjun by his side and Dayeon and Soojin at the door, betrays any kind of uneasiness of mind.

But his scent betrays what his poise manages to obfuscate, this odd, unpleasant, sour note snaking through the waning ginger and much milder honey, sharpening his citrus scent. Beomgyu’s fingers tighten just slightly on the book he is holding when his eyes meet Yeonjun’s, and the silent question in them is only answered by Yeonjun averting his own.

He has love bites on his skin he will let his household assume came from his husband’s mouth, but were worried into his skin by Beomgyu’s sharp, insistent teeth. He is listless and exhausted by a night of sitting with Beomgyu in the cold, when his ladies chalk it up to the prince keeping him up all night. There is little more explanation he has to offer Beomgyu than that.

Once they leave the quarters, they return to a quiet household. Things progress, once more, as if the prince has already left. The only information Haewon has to offer when Yeonjun inquires about him is a vague notion that one of the servants may have seen Captain Soobin entering his rooms sometime after lunch, but with the guards as tight-lipped as they can be about Soobin's whereabouts when they wish to be, even that is uncertain. Minhyuk has been turning away visitors all day with only the vaguest of platitudes.

No doubt the prince is sulking; drinking and fuming, about what, only the bottom of his cup may know. Interrupted plans, or his alpha's pride, or the wasted chance to share his bed with his wife.

The longer Yeonjun spends alone, the stronger his conviction becomes – the prince made the bed he lies in. Every decision, every mistake, every whim he failed to suppress – that is what led him here. Not Yeonjun, not Beomgyu, not cruel fate. His own upbringing. His own philosophy that so often had him overlooking Yeonjun's own desires. His own failures, his own moment of cataclysmic change. That is what made this man of him, and will continue to. Whether he broke as a boy, or as a man under Yeonjun's careless pressure, it was a predetermined destination.

It was always going to end this way.

By the time he is undressing in his rooms for the night, he feels confident again – his face loses the monstrous quality he saw in it that morning. He is him again. The way he was always meant to be. He drapes his slender, elegant shoulders in a shawl to keep out the cold as he makes his way to his bed, and he looks at his own reflection as he arranges his hair on top of it vainly.

He bids his ladies goodnight, and they leave him one by one. Then Haewon opens the door.

Yeonjun has learned to take a hint by now – the strange times he has been going through lately have taught him well enough to expect the unexpected; or rather, to never be overly surprised, when an uninvited guest shows up to his rooms at a strange hour of the day.

“Your Grace, Omega Beomgyu arrived while you were getting ready – I took the liberty of bringing him into your bed room, rather than having him stay in the waiting room.”

He clutches at the folds of the shawl on his chest. Beomgyu. He, of all people? In Yeonjun’s bed room… still reeking of heat, certainly, even though he seemed much less worn out this morning. And Haewon made sure he would not cross paths with Yeonjun’s ladies. So… practiced she has gotten, at covering for Yeonjun’s indiscretions.

“Thank you, Haewon.” He purses his lips, and brings both of his hands together at the center of his chest. “Whatever would I do without you?

She seems taken aback by his reaction; her eyes widen, and she does not reply except to bow to him deeply, the only polite reaction she always has at her disposal – and Yeonjun thinks of nothing more appropriate to do than to return her bow – nowhere as deep or as polite as the one she offers, but a bow nonetheless.

Haewon stands silently for a moment, then inclines her head, and to Yeonjun’s eyes in that moment, she looks no less regal than the empress acknowledging one of her subjects.

“Do you need anything else, Your Grace?”

“No, Haewon, thank you – you can go.”

She bows again. Yeonjun cannot help but think of Minhyuk and his unbreakable poise – he thinks he prefers Haewon to him; that to some extent, he enjoys the fact that her humanity seems to shine through the careful veil of servile neutrality much more often. Perhaps a good servant is a reflection of their master – the reserved Minhyuk and the dignified Kyunsang for the prince, and the kindly Haewon for Yeonjun.

Or perhaps their servants make up for their faults instead.

Yeonjun watches her close the door to the dressing room, and he is left without an answer. With a sigh, he steps towards the other door that leads to his bed room, and he opens it and steps through without his attention fully shifting back to the news that have prompted his musings in the first place.

Which is why he is oddly surprised to see Beomgyu sitting on top of his sheets, even though he was just alerted to his presence. Beomgyu’s beloved fur cloak is spread over the top of Yeonjun’s bed, as Beomgyu undid the clasp of it carelessly after sitting down and let it fall behind him. He is otherwise dressed in the floral robe Yeonjun remembers so vividly from their time at the Imperial Court, and his hair is pulled back, the sweat-matted locks pulled into a simple, practical bun that keeps it out of the way, only a few stray locks kissing the sides of Beomgyu’s face when he turns towards the dressing room door.

He stays standing where he is. Beomgyu, on his bed, sweet and real. They could have this. It could look just like this.

“Omegas truly do take such a long time to get ready,” Beomgyu says when Yeonjun does not break the silence. It is perhaps not the greeting a pair of lovers should exchange, when meeting in a bed room they have shared before under the cover of darkness.

“Why are you here?” It is the most pressing question; Yeonjun should not, cannot get his hopes up before he hears Beomgyu’s answer to it.

But Beomgyu only pouts his lips instead of responding, like a petulant child. “Is that any way to greet a lover of yours?”

Yeonjun could argue that Beomgyu’s words were hardly a lovely greeting either, but instead he says, “You are too far away at the moment to give a proper greeting to.”

And Beomgyu smiles with his lips pursed, a little impish, and a little coy. “Ah, and whose fault is that, Your Grace? In the eyes of your household, I am a sickly man at the moment – taken with such a terrible ailment.”

He bites into his lip. Beomgyu’s scent carries all the way to the door – citrus and honey and the slightest bite of ginger still left at the edge of it. “You were well enough to make it all the way here.”

Unsurprisingly, Beomgyu reacts to his words by throwing himself backwards, flattening himself to the top of Yeonjun’s sheets. “And now I am so worn out, Your Grace. What an arduous journey it was.”

Yeonjun finds it in himself to smile – and perhaps that should be reason enough to think that he has made the right decisions. Smiling comes so painfully easy to him in Beomgyu’s presence. He does end up crossing the room, under Beomgyu’s watchful gaze, until he comes close enough for the edges of his robe to brush against Beomgyu’s legs.

“What sort of greeting do you demand, then?”

With a satisfied smile, Beomgyu sits up again, arms spread wide for him to hold himself up while he raises his chin in a familiar challenge. “Only the one I am due to receive,” he responds, light and playful.

And it is the simplest thing in the world, the least intricate of vices, to press a kiss to Beomgyu’s waiting lips – and the greatest of challenges to pull away from those lips afterwards.

“Why are you here, Beomgyu?”

He hates to ask. But he has to; needs to.

Beomgyu closes his eyes, and Yeonjun understands that he will not like the answer immediately. Not even when it is delivered with Beomgyu’s pretty dark eyes turned up towards him with a mixture of pleading and determination swirling behind them.

“I need to see your husband.”

Yeonjun’s shawl almost falls off his shoulders when he raises both hands to press his fingers to his hairline. Is there no peace? Can there not be a night of peace?

“Yeonjun.” Beomgyu’s fingers curl into the fabric of his robe. “It is important, and I cannot go see him by myself. I need you there, to preserve your honor if nothing else.”

“What is so terribly important, Beomgyu? What could you possibly have to say to him?”

He sees Beomgyu’s jaw set, firm and defiant where before he was so obviously trying to appeal more to Yeonjun’s fondness of him. “He has much to say to me,” Beomgyu retorts, and while he does not look petulant anymore, now he sounds that way. “He cannot grant me to his wife without saying a word to me.”

Yeonjun lowers his hands with a sharp sigh, crossing his arms in front of himself. “Yes he can – and you know it as well as I do.”

“Then he should not – and he knows that as well as we do.”

“What is there to say, Beomgyu? Do you want to receive his blessings for our affections?”

“Yes,” Beomgyu pulls at the fabric of Yeonjun’s clothes. “I want to know why he would do this. Why he would allow it.” When Yeonjun does not follow the guidance of Beomgyu’s hand that urge him to come closer, he lets go, lets his posture relax completely. “I want to know what sort of madman would let go of you this way. I could not sleep thinking about it. About what strange machinations must be afoot in his mind.”

Yeonjun opens his mouth to say it does not matter. It never mattered why. And it never will. All that matters is what the prince does with it. But in his heart of hearts, he does not believe that. So he says, “I doubt he would accept either of us at the moment. He seemed to wish to be alone today.”

Beomgyu purses his lips, but nods. “Then I will accept that coming here was foolish. And I will pay whatever price you ask of me for interrupting your night. If he refuses us.”

Frowning, Yeonjun studies Beomgyu’s determined expression. “You do not believe he will.”

Beomgyu shakes his head without hesitation.

 

---

 

“His Highness is asleep, Your Grace.”

Minhyuk’s voice is not unkind, but at the same time, it lacks any warmth. Yeonjun casts a brief glance towards Beomgyu, who keeps his eyes politely on the floor. He made a promise. He might as well strive to fulfill it.

“Please tell him that Omega Beomgyu is here to speak with him.”

There is almost a hint of an expression on the old man’s face when he looks at Beomgyu, but Yeonjun has not seen enough expressions on Minhyuk’s face to place this one too closely to any one emotion. His eyes lower to the floor, flicker back and forth, then he bows deeply and leaves.

Yeonjun tries to breathe. Beomgyu shifts from foot to foot restlessly. His heat is nearly gone, but he must still feel so painfully exposed, parading himself around the palace – Yeonjun cannot understand why he would possibly subject himself to this discomfort. To this kind of risk.

Much quicker than Yeonjun would have anticipated, Minhyuk comes back with another polite bow.

“His Highness has agreed to receive Omega Beomgyu in his study.” He straightens up and stands as tall as his age allows him. “Only Omega Beomgyu.”

Yeonjun is wholly unsurprised – Beomgyu takes a step forward.

“Does His Highness know I am still in heat? That may not be the wisest decision.”

For a moment, Minhyuk does not react, and right when it seems like he will, the door to the waiting room opens instead, stale spice rolling into the room with it like a thick fog that settles over all of them. Beomgyu sweetens, ripens in the air anyway.

“Neither is coming here during your heat in the first place. What were you thinking?”

The prince aims the question at Yeonjun instead of at Beomgyu, and Yeonjun feels the shame cut deep. He is letting his affection for Beomgyu allow for such… preposterous things. He is aware of it, and yet, it is not enough to stop him from allowing it to happen over and over again.

“I pressured your wife to accompany me here,” Beomgyu says firmly, obviously determined to not be shaken by the prince’s sudden appearance. Taehyun’s eyes shift to him, so unusually stony and cold – for once, they remind Yeonjun of the Emperor’s. He is not used to being looked at this way. “Leave him out of this.”

“I was hoping to, Omega Beomgyu, but you seem to insist we do not have whatever conversation you have come here to have with me in private. What do you suggest then – would you prefer us to discuss it in front of my servant? Should I call in guards to keep me at bay should I lose control of myself in your presence?”

Yeonjun watches out of the corner of his eye as Beomgyu squares his shoulders defiantly. He should not be acting this way in front of Minhyuk; he should not be acting this way towards the prince in front of anyone. “Are you mocking me, prince?”

He should not be calling him that, either.

For his part, Taehyun seems completely unshaken by Beomgyu’s attitude. He does not seem terribly intoxicated tonight, either. Perhaps Yeonjun misjudged him somewhat – or he is freshly woken up after having passed out in a drunken stupor that morning; Yeonjun would not put it past him.

“I am pointing out what seems to be a series of poorly thought out decisions on your part, Omega Beomgyu.”

Yeonjun’s nose wrinkles with the strange mixture of sourness and staleness in the air, the unpleasant notes in both scents dampening the usual calming nature of all their scents coming together in the same space. He thinks this might be a good time for him to intervene, but he cannot think of anything to say. This is Beomgyu’s audience with the prince – Yeonjun has nothing to say to him; nothing to admit to but how foolish it was of him to come here with Beomgyu in the first place.

“I may have let my passions get the best of me,” Beomgyu says so lightly, that Yeonjun feels the next jab coming before Beomgyu’s lips even begin to curve around the words. “But you would know how difficult that is to avoid sometimes more than most, would you not, little prince?”

Out of all of them, the one to be struck by Beomgyu’s words the strongest is Minhyuk, whose head turn towards the prince at the sound of the disdainful nickname. Referring to the prince without the proper respect is one thing, but openly mocking him to his face is another. Both are punishable, certainly coming from someone as lowly as a concubine, if not by death, then by copious amounts of suffering.

And yet, Beomgyu feels free to do so, without fear of reproach.

How terribly spoiled they are.

How terribly lenient the prince is to them, when instead of even scolding Beomgyu, instead of saying a word in his own defense, he returns his head servant’s horrified look with a placid one of his own, and says, “Minhyuk, you can leave us. Your work is done for the day.” And when the man bows deeply, following the command without a second of hesitation, because he comes from the old Imperial Court, where a servant would hardly think of doing anything else, he turns to Beomgyu and Yeonjun and adds, “Follow me into the tea room. Both of you. We are not having this conversation here.”

Minhyuk disappears through the servants’ door, the prince slinks back into the hallway, and then they are alone in the waiting room, and their eyes meet briefly before either of them moves.

“Beomgyu,” Yeonjun starts, intending to say something serious, something significant. To warn Beomgyu about overstepping, about pushing the prince too far again – they know now he is capable of being cold if they provoke him, and it would be good if they stayed well aware of it tonight.

But instead of letting Yeonjun say his piece, Beomgyu only meets his eyes briefly before walking past him, completely improper, following after the prince without a word.

Leave him out of this – perhaps they both intend to; it may be that Yeonjun has put himself in the middle of a clash between forces he is not yet so skilled at handling. One between an odd, omega-like alpha and a similarly unusual, alpha-like omega. And Yeonjun is to be held between them, like a guarantee, like a hostage for two sides of a conflict to negotiate over.

He finds he does not enjoy this position in the slightest – but he follows Beomgyu into the hallway nonetheless.

They enter the tea room together, only to find the prince on the floor by his royal seat, cleaning up a table of refreshments he must have abandoned before following Minhyuk to the waiting room. There seems to be no wine anywhere in sight, and Yeonjun finds himself unusually pleased by that.

The prince carries the table away to one side without saying a word to either of them, and Beomgyu watches him the entire time with a strange, pinched expression on his face. Then the prince stands up once his busywork is done, turns towards them, and folds his hands behind his back politely.

“Let us make one thing clear – and I say this to both of you, as sincerely as I can.” He looks at each of them in turn, and Yeonjun finds himself once more so strangely reminded of Taehyun’s father. “The two of you cannot conduct yourselves this way. If I am to allow you the freedoms you both desire, then what I require in return is utmost discretion on your own part. Not only for my benefit, but for your own. I know you understand this, wife, but I hope that Omega Beomgyu comes to appreciate it as well, that every little stain there comes to be on my honor will reflect back on the two of you. We can argue all day about how separate we may be as people, but at the end of the day, in the eyes of the Empire, and of every court under its rule, my wife is an extension of me, and I am to be held responsible for every action he takes. I do not feel burdened by this responsibility, but you must understand that there may be a circumstance where the safety of the both of you hinges on me being seen as strong by those around me. And an alpha who cannot get their wife to remain completely faithful cannot be trusted to keep the loyalty of his allies, either.”

Yeonjun lowers his eyes to the floor. He understands this; he does. He always has. It was part of the entire reason why he never wanted to end up like this; keeping a lover, falling in love with another. It would complicate things so terribly. It would reflect on his husband so negatively, and he never meant to be of any trouble to the prince. He was too grateful for the opportunity to raise his own status to consider betraying him this way.

“What about an alpha who abandons his wife? What would they think of him, Prince Tae-Hyun?”

Yeonjun sighs. Once again, Beomgyu rushes to his rescue, but this time, his intent feels… misplaced.

Taehyun seems to think the same, because his face shifts only to express a measure of polite confusion. “I am afraid that if my wife relayed my intention to you in a way that would imply any sort of abandonment, then there must have been some sort of misunderstanding. Perhaps the language barrier is at fault?”

Beomgyu replies something in the southern tongue, and Yeonjun does not understand the words themselves, but he understands the hissing intonation to be one of derision. The prince is being more than unkind, after all.

But, to his surprise, the prince responds to him in kind, even though it is obvious from his careful speech that he is nowhere near fluent. He says one thing, then looks towards Yeonjun and says another. Beomgyu looks at Yeonjun as well, and there’s something strange in his eyes, like a realization. Almost like whatever the prince said sounded different to his ears when spoken in a language much closer to his heart than the imperial one.

Then Beomgyu looks down at the floor, then snorts derisively, without much fire behind it. “You sound like a child.”

“Foreign tongues are not something required of an imperial gentleman,” Taehyun responds mildly.

Beomgyu lifts his eyes to the prince’s. “Then where did you learn those words?”

“From the master keeper of the Great Library.”

Yeonjun blinks hard. When? Since when does Taehyun speak the southern language?

“Why would you learn words no one expects you to speak?”

“Why should I not? With a southerner in my care, it felt appropriate.”

Beomgyu huffs through his nose, his lips tight in displeasure. “What use is there? If all you can say are a few clumsy words, then we can hardly hold a real conversation, can we? We might as well speak the language of your ancestors.”

But Yeonjun thinks he understands – in the same way that Yeonjun hoped to one day learn a few words himself, to grow to understand Beomgyu better, to one day read the same poetry with the same tone and flourish it evoke in Beomgyu’s own mind, perhaps Taehyun wanted to feel closer to Beomgyu. Even if he did it so that he could be a more gracious jailer. So he could pick out curses from compliments. So he could so effectively disarm Beomgyu’s anger with a few simple words, spoken in a language Beomgyu was not aware he spoke at all.

“Is the only measure of the worth of knowledge the breadth of its usefulness to us? Do you not believe in knowledge for knowledge’s sake, Omega Beomgyu? Should one not know, just to know? If all I wanted was to learn how to say yours; how to say mine. Would you find my approach flawed?”

Beomgyu looks away dismissively. “How alpha-like of you; to find such interest in those words in particular.”

“They are the words at issue, are they not? These are the words you are here to hear.”

Beomgyu purses his lips; his thick cloak hides his body from view completely, and Yeonjun thinks that the appearance of stillness makes him look so much more composed than he might otherwise. To Yeonjun, his posture seems nervous, as aloof as he obviously strives to appear. “You pronounced the word incorrectly – the word for yours.”

He repeats something Yeonjun knows was spoken while the prince’s attention was on him, despite the slight shift in the sound of it, and Taehyun repeats it, this time much closer to the way it sounds from Beomgyu’s mouth.

Beomgyu nods firmly, like a strict tutor would, then faces the prince again. “If him being mine does not mean he is not yours, then what does it mean?”

“It means I remain bound to him by husbandly duty, and he to me through his obligations to me as my wife. I still need him to tend to the palace – he needs my income. I need an heir, and as you have so gracefully pointed out many a time before, Omega Beomgyu, he needs a guarantee of his safety. So we have agreed to provide those to each other, for what I believe to be an undeniable benefit to us both.”

“And you expect me to believe that you would so kindly let your wife go this easily? That you would just give up your right to his body, to his company? You, of all the alphas there are?”

The prince shifts, and when he speaks up he once again looks just as defiant as Beomgyu. “I expect you to believe that an alpha would so selfishly expect his wife to remain loyal to him, even as he intended to become as much as a ghost in his own household. To serve him well, even when he becomes a stranger. It seems to be a request not so unfamiliar, does it not? A few brief kisses. A handful of shared nights. That is what I give up.”

“To gain what? What do you get out of leaving us alone?”

“An answer,” Taehyun responds simply, and Yeonjun cannot help but stare at him as he continues, even though the prince does not look away from Beomgyu at all. “To a question I could not bring myself to conclude for all these years, although the answer to it has seemed… quite clear, for quite some time now.”

“A question of what?” Beomgyu takes a step forward, and the gesture seems so aimless; there is nowhere for him to go. He will not approach the prince, and the prince has nowhere to back away to. “If your wife prefers the company of omegas?”

The words feel like a hot brand on Yeonjun’s chest, and he feels oddly hurt by Beomgyu voicing them so carelessly – and the glance his husband sends his way seems oddly compassionate, as if he understands, to some extent, how strange and uncomfortable it must be for Yeonjun to hear them.

“Omega Beomgyu. We both know this is not at issue. So please—”

“Because of Alpha Soobin?”

“Because he is my wife, and the only company I must wonder about him enjoying is my own. The rest was always to remain to his discretion.”

“How generous of you.”

Taehyun’s shoulders heave. “Nothing about my convictions is changed by you mocking my intentions, Omega Beomgyu. I hope you realize that.”

“I hope you realize I find your convictions laughable, Prince Taehyun.”

“I do – is your mind changed in any way by this?”

Beomgyu scoffs, and looks away.

“Let us be frank with one another, Omega Beomgyu. Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

It is obvious that Beomgyu is reluctant to be straightforward with the prince. Despite his penchant for bluntness, when given free reign, his eyes only stray towards Taehyun briefly and hesitantly before turning away again. He worries at his lip, and shifts in his stance again. Then slowly, his shoulders drop. He wanders over to the tiger statues at the door, and Yeonjun and Taehyun watch him, as one of his hands leaves the comfort of his warm furs to stroke down the head of one of them.

“I fear how easy you two make this sound. I fear the consequences of letting myself believe you when you say this is something we can have, without fuss. Without repercussions from your side.”

Taehyun seems to relax as well, to Yeonjun’s surprise. He sighs, and shrugs his shoulders. “Affairs are not uncommon – rarely out in the open, but not unheard of. Many an alpha has turned a blind eye to their wife’s dalliances.”

“Do many alphas care about their wives as much as you care about yours?”

Beomgyu’s voice is to light an innocent to be either of those things. It is accusatory; it is a provocation. Yeonjun looks at his own feet; the prince takes a little too long to answer.

“Perhaps not,” he says eventually, reluctant and halting. “But that changes little.”

“Does it?” Now, Beomgyu’s voice sounds more sincere.

“Yes.”

“Does this decision not pain you in the slightest?”

“I never said anything of the sort, Omega Beomgyu.”

A sacrifice. He called it a sacrifice.

“Then how am I to believe you will not take that pain out on one of us?”

Taehyun breathes in, and breathes out, and the sound of it feels so loud in the quiet room. “I suppose you will simply have to trust me – the man you have come to know me to be. Or you may not – if you are too afraid to take advantage of the opportunity I am giving you, you may choose not to. I do not intend to get in your way in either event.”

Yeonjun sees from the corner of his eye as Beomgyu’s hand slowly slips off the statue. He looks off at the prince, with a strange expression, slightly pained, slightly thoughtful, slightly something entirely different.

“I have known selfless men before, little prince,” he says, and for once his voice is not mocking in the slightest. Nothing but genuine. “Fortune has not been kind to any of them.”

Finally, Yeonjun raises his eyes, first to Beomgyu, then to his husband, whose expression betrays a measure of grim determination.

“A truly selfless man would not be swayed by that, would he?”

Beomgyu slowly shakes his head. “No.”

Yeonjun wonders if Beomgyu is thinking what Yeonjun assumes he is – if his mind is still so firmly on his late lover, barely letting Beomgyu see the prince’s face past that of Kai’s, promising to love Beomgyu regardless of who else he belongs to. Who he gives himself to, if required. Who holds the leash that binds Beomgyu so tightly, that restricts his enjoyment of the world so cruelly.

In most ways, the two are nothing alike, and maybe in a small, infinitely significant way, they are the same.

Slowly, Beomgyu comes to Yeonjun’s side, and Yeonjun looks at him in surprise when he does not stop at a polite distance, but comes close instead, wrapping both hands around Yeonjun’s elbow, looking up at him for a long while before looking away, towards the prince again.

“Thank you.”

The prince seems strangely bashful as he looks away. “Like I said, Omega Beomgyu, it is a decision I have made for my own sake.”

“You have allowed this before you have chosen to leave yourself out of it. You know what I was referring to.”

Taehyun shifts his eyes to the other side of the room, still away from the two of them. Beomgyu’s fingers flex on Yeonjun’s arm. The air suddenly smells strangely sweet again. “I suppose there is a meaning to your words more likely than others.”

Beomgyu scoffs. Yeonjun almost expects him to say something blunt. You let me make love to your wife. You let your omega share my bed. You let your omegas become lovers, under your own roof, with your own blessing.

But he does not. Instead, something like a smile plays on his mouth briefly.

“If I were not in heat, I would embrace you in gratitude.”

And it makes the prince look at him, his eyes narrowed and full of amused doubt. “Even if you were not, that would hardly be appropriate.”

“And yet, it would hardly be the least appropriate thing you would have allowed me to do.”

And strangely, reluctantly, a little sadly, Taehyun smiles back. “I suppose.”

Yeonjun thinks about it – about putting Beomgyu’s words into action – but somehow, it feels as if his husband’s smile does not belong to him. The prince would not smile at him this way. With this ease. With such strange peace in his expression despite the melancholy. With the same sweetness to his scent.

He understands it instinctively, more than he does rationally. It is different. His peace with Beomgyu and the pain Yeonjun brings him are two different beasts entirely.

One omega challenges him, and it makes Taehyun strive to be better, and the other subjects to him, and it makes Taehyun fall ever deeper into his oddities and vices.

Perhaps their marriage was a mistake. Seeing Taehyun handle being Beomgyu’s alpha so gracefully, meeting him halfway every step of the way even as Beomgyu pushes at his boundaries relentlessly, and knowing how long it took the two of them to find ease with each other, to find a rhythm to fall into that the both of them enjoyed. It makes him doubt if they have made the right decision when they agreed to an engagement. It may be that Taehyun was never meant to be an alpha to an omega like Yeonjun. He may have always been destined for an omega just like Beomgyu.

“Perhaps some other time,” Beomgyu says lightly.

“I believe I would prefer you not to,” Taehyun responds just as lightly.

And it is clear that Beomgyu does not take the slightest offense to those words – and Yeonjun knows he would. And perhaps that only proves that he is right.

 

---

 

It is snowing again, when everyone gathers in the courtyard to see their prince off again. The snow has gathered on the prince’s carriage and on the shoulders of his guards. Yeonjun and his ladies stand under the cover of a makeshift shelter. He is dressed in black and silver, and Beomgyu stands behind him in a fur shrug that matches his own. Soobin has been sticking to the prince’s side all morning, and now, as well, he sticks a little too closely to Taehyun’s shoulder as they approach Yeonjun to say their goodbyes.

Soobin bends at the waist while Yeonjun offers Taehyun his hand for scenting. Yeonjun looks his husband in the eye while the prince presses his wrist tightly to his own neck.

They say a few meaningless words; take care of the household in my absence; be well; send my best wishes to His Imperial Majesty and his wife; make sure to write to me in the event of a fortunate tiding; travel safely; and so on, and so forth.

Soobin straightens up while the prince addresses the steward, who has been taking shelter with Yeonjun and the ladies. To his credit, Taehyun shows no sign of disdain towards the other alpha. Soobin catches Yeonjun’s eyes, and Yeonjun understands that the look in them means something, but not what it is. There is uncertainty there, but one Yeonjun cannot afford to remedy. If there ever comes a time where Soobin is to find our about their arrangement, it will not be now. And not like this.

He offers Soobin the briefest of smiles that the captain does not return.

Taehyun’s eyes linger on Beomgyu before he turns to leave, and perhaps they have a silent conversation of their own that Yeonjun will never be privy to. Whatever it is, it ends with Taehyun’s eyes finding Yeonjun’s, and he has to avert his own quickly so as to not be disrespectful to his husband in front of their entire household.

Snow gathers on the prince’s coat as he lingers in his courtyard, and is flung away, light as a feather, when he turns swiftly away, towards his carriage.

He will be back, come spring. And different flowers will have bloomed in this palace by the time he returns to it. Yeonjun wonders if he thinks about it, as he boards his carriage, as his entourage slowly makes its way out the gates. He leaves home frozen, snow-covered and bare, and in his absence, while his attention is somewhere else, it will grow warm, overflow with green, and blossom again, into the beautiful place it always is in the spring.

Without him. Without a single motion of his finger. Under Yeonjun’s palms, his steady, loving, tireless attention. Yeonjun made this house what it now is, for him, or maybe, for a larger part, for himself.

He loves beauty; he loves blooming gardens, and warmth, and opulence, and the sweet smell of flowers.

Yeonjun loves spring.

Notes:

lmk how you like this chapter?

Chapter 15

Notes:

oh my god.

the labor of writing this. the herculean effort. for some reason i keep wanting to make greek references. i have reached the end of my odyssey. something something did zeus father another child?

I might be losing my mind.

thank you to everyone who provided feedback on the previous chapter or has just been supportive of me on twt, retro or wherever :') writing is hard sometimes. y'all help.

hope you can enjoy this well <3

With a poetic flourish, the snow begins to thaw the day after the prince leaves the palace. Ever so slowly, the conversation throughout the palace shifts into discussions about the spring celebrations, with the occasional passing mention given to Yeonjun’s upcoming wedding anniversary as well. Rumors about Beomgyu’s tumultuous heat that Yeonjun learns about only once it has passed come and go, as everyone involved fails to feed the palace rumor mill with anything scandalous enough to talk about for more than a week or two. In private, Dayeon admits to Yeonjun that both she and Soojin were approached by people simply dying to know what went on behind the closed doors of the concubines’ quarters, but that neither of them really had anything salacious to say.

All they could provide to the gossips of the palace was that the rumors about the prince’s lack of passion were wrong; the both of them could tell, could smell, that the prince was passionate enough. If any of them doubted whether the marks on Yeonjun were from the prince before, now they can rest assured that he was more than capable of causing them. A benefit to Yeonjun, who needs now more than ever for the rest of the household to be convinced of his dedication to the prince.

Now that, in reality, it has waned to the degree that it did. Of course, not all by Yeonjun’s choice, necessarily, but just like history books do not question the victors of wars, so do they not question the intricacies of broken marriages; the motivations of unfaithful wives. And neither do those who wish to sow discord into imperial courts like their own.

In the end, the wind blows in a direction that benefits Yeonjun, so he resolves not to question the leeway he is given and enjoy the fruits of it. He spends his time going around the household, strengthening his bonds with his courtiers, granting gifts and showing precious attention, sponsoring projects and hearing out petitions.

Just like at the Imperial Court, the spring is the time for Yeonjun to accept new courtiers to his court, give his blessings to new marriages, courtships and government appointments in his husband’s name, and as a consequence, as the ground slowly softens with the coming of spring, the palace becomes busy with visits and audiences, and Yeonjun’s tea room becomes the most popular room in the palace as people come to put in a good word for their kinsmen and friends. Yeonjun and his steward spend nearly every evening together, poring over the growing list of candidates to choose the ones most likely to benefit the household in the long run. The prince is fond of scholars, Yeonjun is fond of artists, and their subjects need to be appeased every now and then with a beneficial appointment or concession, and the balancing act of satisfying everyone keeps Yeonjun’s mind busy, even as relative peace settles over the palace again.

What keeps the headache of keeping the household in line at bay is Beomgyu. Coming around earlier than Yeonjun’s ladies in the morning, to brush Yeonjun’s hair in Haewon’s stead and press kisses to his burdened brow while Yeonjun complains to him about how convinced everyone seems to be that they are the prince’s most loyal subject all of a sudden when it comes time to accept fresh blood into their court. Waiting for him at the concubines’ quarters in the evening, drinking with him into the night, holding him in his arms on his narrow bed. They never use the room clearly set out to be used when a concubine is to entertain their master; it feels wrong, even though the bed would be more than enough to hold both of them. To put sheets down on a bed meant to hold an alpha and an omega, and then succumb to their own need for pleasure without their alpha present…

Yeonjun does not feel guilty about much these days, but he would feel guilty doing that.

So they share a modest bed made for one, and Yeonjun learns by heart the peaks and valleys that make up the monument to beauty and grace that is Beomgyu’s bare body. Both with purpose and aimlessly, he makes his way through them, takes care to explore them, to remember the paths that lead to the sweetest destinations. From the shell of his ear to the tip of a finger, he searches Beomgyu’s body for a flaw, and his own mind for any sort of hesitation. Perhaps, he thinks, one day he will take a turn, and he will feel a seizing in his chest. His fingers will tremble, and his breath cease, and the reality of his actions will envelop him so painfully that he will be forced to stop. He will blink, and the next time he opens his eyes, Beomgyu will no longer be a wonder to him. Nothing will remain of him but a warm body, one of Yeonjun’s own kind, and there will be no more stir within him at the sight of it. If it will not become ugly to him, then it will become ordinary. And Yeonjun will come to regret all of this; everything he has given up for the privilege of putting his hands on it – the honor of holding it, pressing his lips against it over and over again in private.

But he never does. His lips trace the path down the center of Beomgyu’s breast, and the heaving of it, the shudder in it in response to Yeonjun’s attention arouses a pleasant warmth in the center of him. Beomgyu’s lips curve in a smile while they lay side by side, breaths mingling with how close they are, and Yeonjun sees an infinity he would give the entirety of the world to keep seeing night after night in the candlelight reflecting in Beomgyu’s eyes. He watches the muscles of Beomgyu’s exposed body ripple as he climbs on top of Yeonjun, playful but sleek, gentle in his touch but with a dangerous glint in his eye worthy of a predator, of a wolf, of a tiger, and he feels a flutter of delight in his chest.

Beomgyu is perfect when he is quiet, pulling a brush through Yeonjun’s hair or holding his hand while they share a cup of wine, he is perfect when he is animated, during the day while he keeps Yeonjun company along with the ladies, challenging them to games and arguing with them about the folly of imperial customs, or at night while he so passionately encourages Yeonjun in his studies of just how much pleasure there is to derive from an omega’s body. He is lovely when he discovers something new about the Empire or the palace that interests him, and equally as sweet when he tries to soothe Yeonjun’s worries, whether he does so with his words or gentleness of the physical kind.

Yeonjun comes to adore so many facets of him it begins to scare him, to some extent. He knows he needs to keep his head firmly on his shoulders. He cannot get carried away – but Beomgyu makes it so painfully easy for him to forget himself; stay until late, look at him too long. Give him too many gifts just to see his eyes light up, speak to him too sweetly. Dayeon comes to him in private just to ask if they have grown so close during the New Year at the Imperial Court. Yeonjun agrees just because he has no better explanation to give. His favor of Beomgyu becomes obvious, inevitably. But it seems that most of the household sees it merely as an unconventional friendship – a mildly entertaining closeness between a prince’s wife and the greatest threat to his legacy. Some seem to find Yeonjun’s approach wise, even, in keeping a close eye on someone who might one day try to threaten his position. Even if the threat is as lowly as a concubine.

But the truth is, there is nothing lowly about Beomgyu. He studies diligently in the small amount of free time he is given. Imperial songs, history books, the imperial system of government. Poetry and strategy, even medicine. Not to be outdone, Yeonjun insists they use some of the time they have together to have Beomgyu slowly and patiently guide Yeonjun through the most rudimentary elements of the southern language, and in exchange, Yeonjun takes Beomgyu and his ladies to the music room every now and then, and lets Beomgyu and Miyeon use the playing board to play the alphas’ game. At first, the ladies seem taken aback when Yeonjun suggests it, but as soon as Miyeon and Beomgyu sit on the opposite sides of one another and begin to play, none of the ladies can look away from them, even if they try to keep busy with something else, and it seems to Yeonjun that, much like him, they quickly come to understand that there are no two ladies more suited to challenge each other at this game than Beomgyu and Miyeon are. If ever there were omegas or betas worthy of playing the game, it was the two of them. Watching them play is not unlike seeing two generals at work, the only thing breaking the illusion being the jewelry glittering on each side of the playing board. Even their speech, rather than gentle, refined and ladylike, grows more straightforward, blunt and firm as they become engrossed in the game, to Yeonjun’s fond amusement. Between a gambler like Miyeon and someone of Beomgyu’s ambition, there is very little decorum needed, at the end of the day. Away from the table they may be ladies of an imperial prince’s court, but when sat at the table, they are nothing but opponents in a war of wit.

And day after day, Beomgyu defeats Miyeon, but with each passing day, his victories become less and less assured, until one day, in the privacy of the tea room in the concubine’s quarters, Beomgyu looks across the table and says, “I am afraid I have finally found my match.” just the night before Miyeon defeats him for the first time.

When she does, Beomgyu looks at her with pride, only thinly veiled by vain assurances that it will not happen again, and it seems that Miyeon sees beyond his facade too, because a flush rises to her cheeks as she insists in return that he will never defeat her again.

Neither of them is correct, of course – they toss the victor’s honor back and forth like a hot coal from then on, always devising new plans of surprising each other with a new tactic that the other will not see coming. They form such a fond rivalry, that Yeonjun begins to wonder if they have not become even closer than Beomgyu and Dayeon were. The two of them certainly have more in common – and Yeonjun would be thrilled if Beomgyu found his place among his ladies this seamlessly, so he does nothing to discourage it, only watches from afar as Miyeon begins to gravitate towards Beomgyu during shared meals, their morning walks or while the ladies lounge around Yeonjun’s study while he works. Beomgyu does not seem to mind, and Yeonjun lets a fondness for the kinship between the two of them to bloom inside his chest.

 

.

 

In the prince’s household, the coming of spring is celebrated in the northern custom, with paper flowers and dancing and feasts, rather than the fires and effigies Yeonjun was used to in the south. In the north, it is seen as a time of fertility and joy after the leaving of winter, and people celebrate the blooming of the trees and flowers while the wives take advantage of every superstition they know to ensure they would become pregnant; it is a fortunate time for weddings, for the announcement of courtships and forging contracts and alliances. In the south, it was a time to begin begging to the small gods for good harvests, to thank them for banishing the dead of winter and allowing the land to grow green and prosper again.

In theory, the influence of the Empire has all but rooted out the belief in small gods like these – all the blessing the lands needed was the blessing of the Sun Throne, which would ensure the coming and going of seasons as surely as any gods would – but the people of the south, who relied so entirely on the prosperity of their land, on good harvests and mild weather, were never quite content to leave things up to chance, or an Emperor they have never seen in their lives for that matter. Even as a noble child, who was never raised to believe in the gods in the first place, Yeonjun was taught by his nurse how to make effigies, and told to throw them in the fires just like the common folk would. He used to make them every spring, and burn them over a candle in his own room, until his aunt caught him and forbade him from doing it again. Observing southern custom was such an uncouth thing to do in the north.

And now, as a northerner’s wife, he must lead his household the northern way, so as people gather in the palace for the spring celebrations and to be taken up by the household as courtiers, Yeonjun welcomes them with bountiful garlands, colorful drinks made with flower petals and unceasing music adorning the palace ground with the sound of flutes for three days, while acrobats and dancers amuse the nobles during the day, and drink and games amuse them during the night.

Yeonjun spends most of the celebrations with his ladies, enjoying the merriment in their company rather than giving his attention to anyone in particular, letting those who wish to take the opportunity to show him their dedication to him and his husband come to him on their own, and promising everyone who comes to him disappointed to think of them the next year, when the time for appointments comes. On the third day, he is joined by the steward and his wife during the daytime, and they watch together as the couple’s children play traditional games in the courtyard. The lady steward complains politely about how much work her husband and Yeonjun have put into arranging the celebrations, and Yeonjun equally politely assures her that her husband will have so much more time to spend with her and their children now their work is done. She replies to him with so much veiled skepticism that Yeonjun comes to believe that the lord steward meant what he said about his wife being less than thrilled by his gregarious nature, and despite him himself having a hand in keeping the lord steward away from his family, he is a bit endeared by the lady steward’s woes.

He can relate, after all – to a wife so terribly burdened by their husband’s dedication to everyone but their family.

Watching the lord steward’s children play brings to his mind the inevitable knowledge of what must be done this spring for the good of everyone, and Yeonjun’s mood is dampened somewhat by the reminder. As sweet as the children are – as much as Yeonjun has always dreamed of being a mother. The knowledge that with every day, he comes closer to the day his heat takes over, sinks into his chest with such a terrible weight.

That night, he holds Beomgyu back for just a short moment after he dismisses his ladies, and spends the entire time holding him tightly in his embrace, unable to explain when Beomgyu asks why he is seeking comfort so desperately. He is not sure himself – he is simply... afraid. So awfully afraid. Of the prince, of himself, of how Beomgyu will feel, about what motherhood might make of him, of how it might affect them all, he does not know. Most likely, it is all of these things and then some. Once again, he thinks to himself what a terrible thing it really is, to be an omega. To be a wife and a mother and a mate. To be a lover.

He lies in bed once Beomgyu leaves and he thinks of the prince – of the kindness and the cruelty he knows him to be capable of now. The warmth and the coldness. He wonders what their child will be like – if they grow to be soft-hearted, or firm like stone. If they will be reserved like the prince, or gregarious like Yeonjun. Pretty like their mother, or handsome like their father. Will they grow up a happy child, like Yeonjun always believed himself to be? Or a child pained by their upbringing even as an adult, as the prince seems to have proven himself to be? Will Taehyun be a father their children will fear? Will Yeonjun be a mother they will adore? Will they shun their parents one day, just like Yeonjun rejected his aunt who has made him the man he is today, and Taehyun dismissed his father who tried to mold him in his own image?

Can Yeonjun’s heart take it if they will?

He wishes he could speak about this with the prince – but he knows that most likely, they never will. Even if they are both parents to the same child, they are not to be parents together. Yeonjun’s home is to be in the palace, with the little ones, and Taehyun’s place is at the Imperial Court, to raise nobles worthy of others’ respect once they are older. They will never know one another’s hardships, not really. Even if they tell each other stories about their children over tea as amiably as two friends would, they might find compassion for one another, but never real understanding – just as blind to one another as they always have been. Destined to never quite see one another eye-to-eye.

The thought hurts him, and he falls into a restless sleep. He wishes things were different; that they were different. But at this point, he might be powerless to do anything about it.

 

.

 

The day after the end of the spring celebration, Yeonjun’s correspondence arrives with a letter with a familiar seal. He opens it in his study in the morning to read in the familiar shapes of his mother’s handwriting about the appointment of his kinsmen to the Imperial Court. About the pride she feels, about the great opportunity it is for the members of their lowly house. How proud she is of the diligent work of her sister and her husband, who won the favor of the crown prince through their hard work and humility. What an honor it is, to have such an important member of the royal house put his word in for their relatives. Of her hope that Yeonjun appreciates the importance of loyalty to the throne.

It always pays off, to have the Emperor and his kin on your side. It might not benefit you at the moment, but you will see your dues eventually.

And what benefits you, Yeonjun, benefits our family.

Once he is done reading, Yeonjun puts the broken parts of the seal back together, to look at the Choi family symbol on it. It is his family. His kin. No matter who he marries, he will always think himself to be, and will always be referred to as a Choi. Beyond his own ambition, he has always hoped that any success he will see will reflect favorably on his family in turn, and help them see success as well. He supported his husband diligently, knowing that the more power he gets to wield, the more power Yeonjun can influence him to use to the Choi’s benefit. The more of the advisory council Taehyun controls, the more support for the south the Empire may extend. The more Chois there might come to be at the Imperial Court. The more money they will have, to house even more of Yeonjun’s relatives in their palace – both of them, if Taehyun eventually comes to inherit more land from his father. Everything that benefits Taehyun, benefits Yeonjun, and everything that benefits Yeonjun, benefits the Choi.

Until now.

Yeonjun is not a Kang – never will be. Chances are he will never be an Empress, either. Would it truly be better for everyone if he were to be a lady in Prince Iseul’s care, rather than a prince’s wife? Would the favor of those most likely to be the next two emperors be worth the power he would be giving up? Taehyun’s grip on his influence might slip – he is far from infallible, and he is unpopular in many circles, surely even more now that he has been showing off his concubine in front of the Court so decadently. Show of power or not, it certainly did not make him more likable to the other nobles of the Court.

What benefits Yeonjun benefits his family, but what does the Choi family gain out of Yeonjun clinging to his husband desperately to keep his own lover close to him? To indulge in his lenience? How does Yeonjun further his family’s interest by making his husband less than willing to even speak to him, much less visit his household frequently? They have not heard a word from the prince since he left – even as imperial envoys came and went, bringing orders to the ministers and missives from the families of their courtiers, there was nothing among the correspondence that the prince sent to his wife to inform him of the goings-on at the Court. Not a word.

If the prince refuses to talk to him, if he refuses to let Yeonjun use his body against him anymore, then what is left to him? How is he supposed to influence his husband, if his husband refuses to have anything to do with him?

He wants to believe that the prince’s mood is temporary – that he will still hear Yeonjun out, and keep his ear open to the needs of the Choi family, even as its branch at the Imperial Court has sided with his greatest competitor. But can he trust him to do so? The prince has never let him down in this regard, but there is a first time for everything. Perhaps the prince will grow bitter instead of his passions about the issues calming, and he will grow to resent Yeonjun much like Yeonjun has grown to resent him, and Yeonjun will have failed his family completely. Perhaps, eventually, he will be forced to take the crown prince up on his offer anyway, just to get away from his husband, and he will be able to do nothing but pray that Beomgyu is allowed to follow him to his next house, or that Taehyun will take mercy on him.

He wants so badly to put his faith in his husband, but he is not sure he can – and he knows for a fact that he can hardly have faith in himself.

Perhaps in this as well, Yeonjun will have to look to Beomgyu for the answer. Taehyun seems to like him, to respect him as an equal in a way Yeonjun feels like the prince has never respected him. If Yeonjun makes it possible for Beomgyu to present an idea to the prince as his idea, perhaps he will listen. Soobin might be willing to take Beomgyu to the prince, and the two of them can talk politics behind closed doors in the Captain’s presence, and if Beomgyu is willing to push for Yeonjun’s interest as much as he has proven to be willing to so far, then perhaps Yeonjun can still keep his influence, in this strange, convoluted way.

If Yeonjun is to be Taehyun’s or nothing at all, then he will make his fortune as Beomgyu’s man instead.

When he looks over at where Beomgyu was poring over a book in silence, he is looking at Yeonjun with worry in his eyes instead. He may have made it too obvious just how upset by the letter he was. What a childish slip-up on his part, to let his agitation show like this.

But Beomgyu will not hold it against him – if anything, he might stay back tonight, to run his fingers through Yeonjun’s hair until it goes away again. He might kiss the worry off his lips until it dissolves in his own mouth.

Being Beomgyu’s man is pleasant, he thinks.

He certainly prefers it so vastly to belonging to the prince.

 

.

 

And yet, day after day, Yeonjun finds himself missing him. His eyes catch on a painting of him, or Yeonjun’s mind wanders while he sits alone at the head of the table in the dining hall. Sometimes a gust of wind brings his attention to the willow tree in the garden, making him remember the figure of the prince standing under it, or the hand of an alpha courtier assists him, and Yeonjun cannot help but think of the scent their wrist does not carry. He drinks wine that he knows the prince would enjoy, he eats foods he knows the prince would despise. Beomgyu holds him in his arms, and as peaceful as the feeling of it is, on the cruelest days, he remembers the embrace of his husband. The feeling of his arms, of a firm chest. An alpha’s heavy scent, and the rhythm of the prince’s breathing.

That is when he despises this feeling the most – when his mind will not leave Taehyun while Beomgyu is right there, at his side, being everything Yeonjun should need.

Because Beomgyu is perfect, and yet there are some things he is not, things that Yeonjun misses, now that they feel even more distant than they ever did before.

Beomgyu is perfect, and he holds Yeonjun so lovingly, but Taehyun has always held him with reverence, and Yeonjun is so spoiled by this treatment, he hardly knows how to be loved without it. Beomgyu enjoys his body, handles it with knowledge and experience his husband never had, but he does not ever seem overwhelmed by it. Overtaken by his need for it. Beomgyu’s desire is conscious and deliberate. It is a decision, not a concession. Even when he is playful, he is never forceful with Yeonjun, much more likely to try and pull Yeonjun in than to rise to Yeonjun’s own bait. When Yeonjun challenges him, Beomgyu challenges him back – a push-and-pull that Yeonjun comes to enjoy in its own right.

But it is not the same. And on some days, even if it is rare… he misses it.

The desperation with which his husband would prove him wrong; how weak he was to Yeonjun’s body and how powerful he felt when taking it. The touch that felt like worship, like awe, like reverence. Careful kisses and passionate touches, his enjoyment of Yeonjun’s own pleasure. He may feel it all again once his heat comes, but Yeonjun cannot help but think it will be different. Their encounters were always so aimless on the prince’s part. So mindless – he wanted, so he took, but now there will be a veil of purpose over it all. They will be there to fulfill a duty. Satisfy expectations. Secure their future.

Yeonjun never wanted it to feel like this. He never wanted to be touched by his husband in any way other than passionate. It was never meant to be impersonal; never wanted it to be practical.

But it will have to – if they are to continue their marriage peacefully, Yeonjun has to let go of the way things were, and allow the prince the distance he desires. Trade the child he desired so strongly for the warmth he never imagined he would miss this much. Taehyun was never too affectionate – but it made every time he was so precious.

And a man of Yeonjun’s refined taste perhaps cannot let go of something so rare without at least a certain measure of pain.

 

.

 

But through every obstacle, despite all odds, peace slowly blooms through the palace again as spring takes over, and by the time the blossoms have opened in the trees in the garden, Yeonjun feels like he has learned how to breathe again; like he has relearned himself at the same time as he was getting to know Beomgyu as a lover, that he has managed to collect himself while tidying up the loose ends in the palace. He holds his head high again – he walks around with the self-assurance of an empress. He keeps his problems discreet and flaunts his strengths and his wealth.

Then, while he is taking breakfast with his ladies, they are interrupted by the news of a delegation from the town having arrived at the palace. At first, they are not terribly disturbed by this, as rare as it is for the town council to send someone to them, much less a full delegation – there are many things they could want that would not be the slightest bit of trouble to the household, anything from a formal invitation or a major proposal to the prince to a pressing petition the town council needs Yeonjun to sign off on on behalf of his husband as soon as possible. He is told he can take his time getting ready, so he dresses in his husband’s colors in peace, fully expecting to go through all sorts of boring formalities.

But when they exit the dressing room, Haewon is there, standing before the door to the waiting room. She informs them briefly that the lord steward is waiting to see Yeonjun before he meets with the delegation, and even before Yeonjun steps into the room and sees the man’s stony expression, he understands that he is about to face much more than a formality.

The man drops into a formal bow, and remains that way, startling both Yeonjun and the ladies, who exchange unsettled glances while Yeonjun collects himself enough to prompt the lord steward to speak.

And with a polite clearing of his throat, keeping his eyes politely averted towards Yeonjun’s chin, the lord steward informs him, “Your Grace, His Imperial Majesty has passed away.”

And Yeonjun knew, did he not? Through his husband’s warnings and the stirrings at the Court, the Emperor’s strange scent and his blatant desire to secure his line and legacy. Yeonjun knew to anticipate the event coming, but with everything else going on, most likely for his own convenience, rather than anything else, has chosen to believe that it would not arrive this soon. In summer, perhaps – in autumn, surely. What man would choose to die in the spring?

“Your Grace…” Yeonjun has failed to react appropriately. Now all eyes are on him, silent and anticipatory. “The delegation assumed we already knew, and came to pay respects. Whatever messenger they have sent to us with the news must have been delayed.”

Slowly, deliberately, he nods. The lord steward seems hesitant – if Yeonjun was to see his expression in a light kind to himself, he would think that the man has compassion with Yeonjun’s state of shock; that he wishes the news were broken to him less hastily.

But there is no good way to find out that the foundation your country stands on has been shaken so thoroughly, is there? That your entire world has shifted overnight, without your knowledge. There is no sure footing to gain.

Yeonjun looks down at his own clothes – black and silver; Kang family colors. They belonged to the late Emperor as well.

“I… suppose I must dress in mourning garb, then.”

He sounds so young to his own ears all of a sudden. The lord steward nods slowly.

“It should be more appropriate. I will begin to make arrangements to have the palace prepared for the mourning period.”

Yeonjun inclines his head in acknowledgment. The room is so silent; one could hear a pin drop in the stillness of it.

“Your Grace… I thought it would be better for you to find out this way.”

His lord steward has done him a kindness – letting him show this weakness only to those who have already known him to be capable of it; to those he could afford to be weak before. Giving him time to compose himself before he has to face his husband’s subjects with a suitably royal air about him again.

“Yes. Thank you, my dear Lord Steward.”

It sounds insincere although Yeonjun means it. The words are so empty; any words would be, perhaps – there may be no words to explain the depth of his gratitude at all.

“I will leave you to get ready. I will make sure the delegation is entertained until you are prepared to receive them.”

“Thank you,” Yeonjun responds with a nod, and his voice trails off until it is barely audible at the end.

Instead of leaving, however, the lord steward looks at the ladies behind Yeonjun briefly before stepping forward, closer to them. Yeonjun’s instincts prickle, even though a polite distance remains between them. The man seems to hesitate again, then gives him another formal bow.

“My condolences, Your Grace.”

And Yeonjun feels strange, forced to accept the formality. Kang Taeyul was not his father; he feels so oddly empty, knowing the man has given up his last breath. They barely knew each other, despite Yeonjun marrying his only son. Yeonjun mattered to the Emperor as little as the horse Taehyun chose to ride, or would have, as long as he bore the prince's children. To Yeonjun, his death is barely the death of a man; it is the end of a reign; the end of an era; the end of his life as the wife of the Emperor’s son. He is a Kang wife now, the wife of an imperial advisor for as long as Taehyun can cling to this title of his. A pretty title to wield, surely – a good family to marry into.

But it is not the same – and it might never quite be the same again.

If he has spent this entire time convincing himself he has nothing to mourn, then he does now. What a cruel twist of fate.

 

.

 

They take off all of Yeonjun’s jewelry, and paint his red lips over with white. Yeonjun puts his hair down, and takes off the colorful robes. He dresses in undyed fabrics, covers his hair, and obscures his face with a thin veil. Eunbi, the best of his ladies at calligraphy, writes blessings down the length of his forearms, her lips pinched as she strives for perfection. Then she takes the backs of his hands, and writes two last symbols – tae on his right and yul on his left.

Unbidden, Yeonjun’s mind offers him the image of the strokes on his left hand spelling out hyun. What would he do then? He does not know anymore – he might never have to find out. But he could, and today, the thought pains him.

He finds Beomgyu’s eyes in the swirl of his ladies rushing all around the dressing room, putting on their own mourning veils and draping black silk over their own colorful clothes to make themselves more appropriate, rubbing red off their lips and taking down their hair. Beomgyu seems confused by it all, lost amidst all these people who seem to know what to do – if he feels anything about the Emperor’s passing, Yeonjun does not think it shows.

Yeonjun thanks Eunbi profusely once she is done and dismisses her so she can get ready as well, then picks up a wet cloth and crosses the room to Beomgyu, who has been assisting the others without doing anything about himself. Beomgyu looks up at him with a slight frown on his face, and Yeonjun tries to smile.

“I am sorry we do not have time to explain, Omega Beomgyu,” he says gently, and Beomgyu sighs quietly in response.

“There is never a dull day in this household, is there?”

Yeonjun blinks rapidly, and reaches for Beomgyu’s face. “Not since you arrived – ever since you, they have all been worthwhile.”

Beomgyu rolls his eyes, but he allows Yeonjun to hold onto his chin gently and wash his lips clean of any reddish paint without complaint.

“Red paint is not appropriate to wear during a mourning period. Vibrant colors are discouraged among all of the Emperor’s subjects, not just those close to him, but all of you will be forgiven for today. There should be no drinking, no festivities. All of you will have to stay veiled for as long as the mourning is to last. You should not wear much jewelry and we should not be seen holding too much raucous conversation, or making merry.”

“Who decides how long the mourning should last?” Beomgyu mumbles against Yeonjun’s fingers, and Yeonjun lets him go, done with his work – Beomgyu immediately begins taking his jewelry off without needing to be prompted.

“The new emperor – as soon as he takes the throne. Until that happens, we need to keep the mourning period diligently.”

Beomgyu frowns with his hands buried in his hair, taking the pins out of it. “He does not take the throne automatically?”

Yeonjun shakes his head slightly. “He needs to be sat on it officially by the advisory council first, then there is ceremony to be done before he can officially be referred to as Emperor.”

“Is there a reason for them not to do so immediately?”

Yeonjun shrugs, giving Beomgyu another small smile. “The Emperor is the one who can take away their seats on the council – the past knows of councils who tried to use this position of theirs to negotiate for the safety of their position first, before allowing the Emperor to take their throne.

Beomgyu huffs. “Of course.”

“And the prince is part of the council as well – and he is required by tradition to keep vigil for nine days at the least; the council cannot make a move without him.”

Beomgyu nods, his lips tightening visibly. Taehyun certainly sees this event as the death of a man – what man he sees his father to be, however, Yeonjun cannot tell. Perhaps he feels relief in his chest, knowing his father cannot control him anymore – or perhaps he feels nothing but pain, after being so attached to him for so long, no matter how fraught their relationship may have gotten. Perhaps he feels both emotions, to some extent.

“What about the writing on your arms?”

Yeonjun looks down at his father-in-law’s name, written clear as day on his hands. It will take some getting used to. “They are words of blessing for him in his afterlife, so when his soul visits me, he will know I have shown him respect and wished him well. I bear his name,” He lifts his hands to show the symbols to Beomgyu properly. “So he knows the blessings are spoken to him and not some other wandering soul.”

“Ah.” Beomgyu’s hair spills onto his shoulders, and its luster seems so inappropriate for the somber occasion. “Superstition.”

To some extent – but Yeonjun has heard of those who have fallen ill when they failed to wish their ancestor a peaceful journey to the afterlife. Sometimes, engaging in a bit of superstition is the wise thing to do. “When else to engage in it, than upon the death of a relative?”

Beomgyu looks away with another huff. Dayeon approaches them with a veil for Beomgyu to wear, and Yeonjun steps away to let him get ready.

 

.

 

He accepts the town delegation in the dining room, without most of his household present – everyone still needs to be informed about the death of the Emperor. The delegation turns out to be the entire town council, each councilor having brought their own entourage, so the room is filled with quite enough people, anyway. Yeonjun is almost impressed with the seriousness with which the council has approached this – it would not have been imprudent of them to simply send their representatives with their condolences, but they have all come in person. None of them seems particularly personally stricken by the news, but none of them have a good reason to – it seems that truly, their intention is to show the utmost respect to the father of their prince, out of respect for Taehyun himself. He makes sure to make a note of it to his husband – this show of deference to a man who is not even present, and whose social status has just been lowered significantly, is certainly something that needs to be recognized.

Yeonjun thanks them formally for their condolences, then offers them modest refreshments that he shares with them with only sparse conversation shared between them, before he sees them off again. By that time, the household has gathered in the courtyard, and Yeonjun can tell already, by the looks on most of their faces, that the word has spread through the palace regardless of no official declaration being made. Very few of them seem to be shocked by the sight of Yeonjun and his ladies in mourning garb. Many of them are already dressed in muted colors, and many of the omegas have their hair covered or their faces covered with a veil.

When the gates close behind their visitors, Yeonjun stands with his lord steward in the middle of the courtyard and informs his household of the Emperor’s passing, and puts the household officially under the shroud of mourning. A few of the omegas, those with tenuous relation to the Kang or simply those who think themselves especially dedicated to the Empire, fall to their knees to bemoan their deceased Emperor, their wails echoing through the otherwise silent courtyard.

If they were at the Imperial Court, Yeonjun would have to be among them. He would be expected to show his grief for the Emperor as overtly as he could, to show that he and his husband valued the Emperor deeply. Here, as the master of the house, he can afford to stay as stoic as an alpha would be expected to – and he is grateful for that.

Side by side with the lord steward, he leaves the courtyard and together they begin to make all the proper changes to the household – they have the kitchen prepare more modest meals, they hang mourning banners and have a shrine set up in the Emperor’s honor in the best spot in the gardens. They send word about the cessation of festivities, and the mandatory mourning period. Yeonjun writes to his mother. The lord steward hardly leaves his side all day.

Sometime before dinner, a single imperial messenger arrives – not with the news of the Emperor’s passing, but to let them know that another group is about to arrive at the palace the next day – one coming from the Imperial Court, led by Captain Choi Soobin.

Yeonjun exchanges somber looks with the lord steward, and they begin to make arrangements for Yeonjun to leave the palace. There are not many things the prince would send his closest friend to the palace to do by himself.

 

.

 

When he dismisses his ladies for the night, there are two of them that end up hanging behind, both obviously waiting for the other to leave before giving up and both staying. Dayeon and Beomgyu both stand by the door looking at each other, clearly trying not to make their amusement at the situation show.

“I assume I know what you are both here to say,” he says as lightly as he can, running his fingers through his own hair. Beomgyu huffs, and Dayeon looks down at the floor.

“I wanted to… make sure you are well, Your Grace.”

He nods stiffly, and forces himself to smile. “As well as is appropriate of a man in mourning.”

Dayeon bows slightly with an awkward expression. None of them should be too well at the moment. It would be inappropriate – and yet they have to be. “My sincere condolences, Your Grace. His Imperial Majesty was a great man – and he has given you a great man as a husband.”

“Of course, Dayeon,” he says, and hopes that the doubt choking his voice out of him sounds to her more like grief.

She seems to wait for Yeonjun to say anything else, but when he fails to, Dayeon looks at Beomgyu instead, who motions with his head at the door. Pursing her lips, Dayeon bows again.

“Good night, Your Grace. I will see you tomorrow.”

Yeonjun inclines his head in acknowledgment, and then they are left alone again. Beomgyu does not step any closer, and Yeonjun does not rush to him, either.

“You are preparing to leave for the Court again.”

Yeonjun presses his fingers to his hairline with a sigh. “I believe the prince has sent Soobin to fetch me – it would be good if we spent at least some of the time of mourning side-by-side. The Kang family needs to see me as a part of it.”

Beomgyu nods a few times, but his expression remains thoughtful. “We will have to part then.”

Oh – in all the sudden tumult, Yeonjun forgot about this. He has no excuse to bring an entourage with him to the Court – and even if he did, Taehyun made a promise never to bring Beomgyu to the Court again. Even if a promise made to a dead man may not bind, would it not be the ultimate sign of disrespect to Kang Taeyul’s memory? Yeonjun does not think he is prepared to take responsibility for something of the sort.

“I am afraid so.”

Beomgyu tilts his head back – the veil he still wears clings to the bottom half of his face, drawing his features in such lovely, smooth lines. “Have we been apart since we met?”

Yeonjun drops his eyes to Beomgyu’s feet. “Perhaps not for more than a day.”

“Ah.” The fabric over Beomgyu’s mouth flutters. “And I have grown so used to your face.”

“And I have grown used to your company.”

Beomgyu lowers his head again, and Yeonjun cannot see his mouth clearly, but he recognizes the smile in his eyes. “Hopefully more than that.”

“Anything more than that will surely not be threatened by a few weeks spent apart from each other, will it?”

“One would hope so,” Beomgyu says, carefully but lightly. Yeonjun is unsure of what to say in response, and when he offers Beomgyu nothing further, he looks away. “I suppose I will be forced to learn what a lady-in-waiting does when there is nobody to wait on.”

Yeonjun smiles slightly. “I believe the answer is whatever they please.”

“Then I suppose the question will be…” Beomgyu reaches up, and removes the veil from his face, letting Yeonjun see the full weight of his small, muted smile. “What do I please, if that which I please the most is not around?”

He is helpless against the words; unable to find them anything but endearing, unable to stop the flush rising to his cheeks. “You are a poet indeed, Beomgyu.”

Beomgyu responds in a few words in the southern language, ones Yeonjun vaguely recognizes but which make no real sense to him until Beomgyu explains in the imperial one, “That is what poets are called, in the south. Golden-tongued.”

Ah. Gold is the word Yeonjun recognized. Of a golden tongue, is what the phrase seems to amount to.

“Perhaps if you ever become a great poet, that is what they should call you. Beomgyu of a golden tongue.”

Beomgyu’s eyes are warm when Yeonjun clumsily repeats the phrase he said before. He seems so adoring, and Yeonjun knows he has made the right decision, striving to learn the language for him. Even if he never speaks much more than a few simple words – it will mean something. It already does.

“Ah, but in the southern tongue, it would sound so ordinary – I do not wish to be ordinary.”

Of course not – it is not in Beomgyu’s blood. “What name would you choose, then?”

Beomgyu looks up at the ceiling, his expression dreamy. Then he answers in the southern language, before repeating it in imperial. “Beomgyu of the plum blossom.”

The symbol of perseverance, of hope. The end of winter, and the renewal that comes with spring.

“Of a golden tongue, indeed,” Yeonjun replies, with a warm fondness in his chest.

 

.

 

Soobin indeed arrives the next day with an ample imperial entourage. Yeonjun greets them formally in the courtyard, then takes Soobin to his rooms to speak privately while he sends his suite to refresh themselves with the rest of the household under the guidance of the lord steward. It does not escape his attention that Soobin is not dressed in mourning clothes – that none of the people who have come with him are, but the why of it becomes clear soon enough, once they have set themselves up in the tea room.

“I was not meant to bring you this news at all,” Soobin explains while Dayeon pours him tea. Yeonjun only had her and Beomgyu follow them to the tea room, so they could speak a bit more intimately; the two of his ladies he trusts the most out of all of them. “Of course, we knew that it was a possibility that His Imperial Majesty would not recover from his illness, but nobody assumed that it would take him so quickly. His Highness thought there would be time enough for you to join him and the rest of the family while his father remained bed-bound.”

Yeonjun nods stiffly. Soobin’s expression is pinched and awkward – he seems as unsure of how to feel about the situation as Yeonjun is.

“The messenger with the news of his death caught up to us maybe three days into our journey – and I suppose it would have been wiser if I had let him pass through to the palace by himself, but I thought this news would be better delivered by a proper imperial envoy.”

Trying not to sigh, or show much of anything on his face, Yeonjun reaches out to press his finger against the side of his cup. It is too hot, but he keeps his finger pressed to it a little too long, anyway. “I understand your decision. I do not think it was an unwise one.”

Soobin sighs instead of him, clearly frustrated. “It would have been wiser had we arrived in time. But I suppose it was inevitable that single messengers would travel faster than a dozen men, no matter how much of a head start we had.”

Yeonjun nods mutely. Soobin sighs again. Yeonjun bites into his lip, and Soobin drums his finger against his tea cup. The delicacy of it is in such contrast to his large alpha hands, Yeonjun almost finds it amusing. Soobin might as well hold it between two fingers of his hand.

“How was the prince when you were leaving?”

His voice comes out quiet and thin, and if it were anyone else, he would have cursed himself for it – he already does a little, when Beomgyu casts a curious glance towards him. Soobin’s face grows a bit more solemn. He stares down at the table top between them.

“I suppose the only way a man can be while convinced that his father is dying,” he replies stiffly, his own voice deep and dark and heavy. “No matter how they may have felt about each other beforehand.”

And Yeonjun understands that, but he also does not. He understands that there might be mixed feelings, that the prince would struggle to be both filial, and the man who understands his father’s failings, perhaps more than any other living person would. Someone who may have known the Emperor better than anyone, for better and for worse. But those feelings themselves are foreign to him. Both of Yeonjun’s parents remain alive and well. His aunt and uncle are in good health. He has lost his grandmother, who raised him in the south, and his nurse that cared for him when he was younger – but while he loved and respected both of them, he never saw either of them as a parent. And he remains convinced that the distinction between the feelings he felt when losing them, and the pain of losing a parent, must be altogether different.

“I cannot say that is a situation I find familiar,” is the only way he can think to voice these thoughts.

And Soobin, perhaps unsurprisingly, simply nods. “Neither do I.”

Both of their parents live – neither of Taehyun’s do.

Yeonjun presses his finger to the tea cup again. “Do you remember the passing of his mother?”

“Yes,” Soobin responds without hesitation, then pauses. “But that was… different.”

“How so?”

The alpha’s shoulders ripple awkwardly with a shrug. “An alpha’s relationship to their mother is different from their bond with their father. His Highness’ relationship to his mother was quite different from the way he viewed his father. And the manner of her passing as well…”

Yeonjun swallows with difficulty, then lifts his cup to drink even though the tea remains a bit too hot. “Did she not pass due to an illness as well?”

Soobin nods. “Yes. But she was not an elderly woman, and nobody expected her illness to take her. She was often sickly, bed-bound or otherwise unwell for days at a time, but she always recovered again. That time, like every other, when it seized her, we expected the news of her recovery to come soon – but her condition worsened instead.”

“What was the illness?”

Everyone at the table looks towards Beomgyu, who spoke up out of turn. Dayeon and Soobin look to Yeonjun, waiting to see if he will scold Beomgyu, but Yeonjun just closes his eyes and sighs before nodding to Soobin to answer.

Reluctantly, Soobin addresses Beomgyu, while Dayeon seems to struggle to adjust to Yeonjun’s lack of reaction to Beomgyu’s indiscretion. “I am no physician, but I believe it was said to be a disease of the chest, that caused her to be gripped by fever for days on end. She did not pass on peacefully.”

The last words sound almost like a rebuke, and Beomgyu seems to have heard them as such, because he lowers his eyes and says nothing further. Terribly, Yeonjun thinks he might understand where Beomgyu’s curiosity stems from –they both know Taehyun seems to hold a specific kind of pain in his heart when it comes to his mother. And that has to come from somewhere. If his mother’s illness was caused by his father’s carelessness, perhaps it would make sense why he would be so careful in his treatment of omegas. If it were not an illness in the first place… then it would surely leave an impression on a young prince. But the Empress Mother was taken by the same sickness that any other person would be. An inflammation of the lungs, or of the heart, some sort of hotness of the insides her frail body could not take. One could not write her a death more ordinary; and yet, her son seemed to have been affected by it in such an extraordinary way.

Soobin drinks tea, and Yeonjun breathes so carefully.

“Soon we will write the first year of Emperor Jeongyul, then,” he says after a long moment of silence.

Putting his cup back down, Soobin nods solemnly while Dayeon pours him more tea. “Long may he reign.”

Yeonjun hesitates, but then nods in return. “Long may he reign.”

They both sip their tea. Soobin twists the painted cup between his fingers.

“I believe the age of Jeongyul might be a fortunate one for the Choi family,” Soobin says eventually, glancing at Yeonjun briefly before lowering his eyes again. “I have met some of your relatives that were introduced this spring – charm truly seems to run in your blood.”

Yeonjun and Dayeon both smile awkwardly. “It seems that after all these years spent trying to retain our holdings, we have finally learned how to choose our friends wisely.”

Soobin looks at Yeonjun with sadness in his expression, but Yeonjun does not know what to say. It is the truth – they have been clinging to their titles with all they had, and now imperial money may soon flow into the purses of the Choi, and they can do more than struggle to live. One day soon, they may even prosper, if they stay in favor with the Emperor.

“I suppose it pays to have friends in high places,” Soobin allows, tapping his fingers on his own knee restlessly. “My own family has taken advantage of our acquaintance with His Highness to make sure we found ourselves… better situated for the event of a transfer of power than other families outside His Imperial Majesty’s immediate circle may have.”

“Good. Your family has always been kind to our prince – I am sure he is glad to have been able to assist them with finding themselves in a fortunate position.”

Soobin nods. “Indeed – His Highness has been exceedingly gracious to my family.”

Yeonjun picks up his teacup, but does not raise it to his mouth. “I believe he has always made a habit of repaying people in kind.”

It makes Soobin huff out a laugh, and Yeonjun drinks some tea with a small smile. “I suppose you are correct.”

For a long moment, nothing is done except the drinking of tea. Nobody says anything, every one of them lost in their own minds. Then Soobin huffs again, this time quite a bit less jovial than before.

“It is strange,” he begins, and Yeonjun lifts his eyes towards him, even as it almost seems that Soobin is speaking to himself. “His Highness has been the one preparing for this the longest out of the people I know. He had been making precautions for all of last year, and perhaps even more. And still…” he shakes his head. “I am not sure if he was ready for it to happen at all.”

From the corner of his eye, Yeonjun sees Beomgyu’s chest jump oddly. There is a strange redness in his face. Yeonjun looks away.

“Perhaps there is no such thing as being ready for the passing of someone this close to you.”

Yeonjun always knew he would outlive his grandmother, and yet, when she passed, it seemed so strange to him to no longer write her letters from the court. She has always been there – it made him believe that she always would be, no matter what he knew rationally. Perhaps this is much of the same. The rational mind has little to do with the natural instinct to look for a familiar face; call a familiar name. And all that is, is a stark reminder of an absence which cannot ever be remedied. An empty space which cannot ever be filled again.

“It may be so,” Soobin responds quietly.

Briefly, Yeonjun wishes they were allowed to drink wine or anything else that would numb the senses to some extent – but maybe that particular restriction is the wisest of them all. Yeonjun wonders if the prince keeps it – he seemed so fond of drinking in times of hardship. Perhaps he has drunk himself blind and mute in their absence. He is not sure anymore if he would begrudge him that indulgence of his vices.

Instead, he picks up his freshly refilled cup, and offers it to Soobin for a toast.

“Let us drink to him, Captain.”

Soobin picks up his own cup as well, but frowns in confusion. “To the prince?”

Yeonjun shakes his head. “To His Imperial Majesty, Kang Taeyul.”

Soobin bites into his lip, but then nods. “Yes. Let us, Your Grace.”

They raise their cups, and drink to the late Emperor. His name glares at Yeonjun from the backs of his own hands with every motion.

 

.

 

Soobin seems almost ever-present after his arrival – he joins Yeonjun and his ladies in the garden in the mornings, joins them for lunch and dinner, sits with them in the library quietly when they make use of it and sometimes shadows Yeonjun while he goes around the palace preparing for his departure. Yeonjun cannot tell if he is not sure what to do with himself without Taehyun present, or if he is being kept an eye on.

Would it be beyond the prince to have his closest friend spy on his wife? Perhaps not, if he does not trust Yeonjun and Beomgyu to be discreet in their relationship. But if Soobin knows anything about what had gone on between the three of them before his and the prince’s departure, then he does not say a word of it, and Yeonjun makes sure he has nothing at all to report to Taehyun if that is his intention. In front of Soobin, Yeonjun treats Beomgyu much like the other ladies, except much more as he would a friend. Nothing untoward, or strange, or questionable, is allowed to happen in front of the captain.

Where Soobin is not, however, to observe any untoward actions of theirs, is at the concubines’ quarters, and Yeonjun takes advantage of that the last day before their departure. He comes in the middle of the night without letting Beomgyu know he intends to, and catches him unawares, writing something at a table in the tea room. His eyes widen with surprise, then delight, and Yeonjun lets himself find the solace in his embrace that he had been missing for the past few days. They cling to each other like the days of separation ahead of them have just passed instead, buried in one another’s hair, breathing in each other’s scents.

Beomgyu kisses him like he is Beomgyu’s husband that he is seeing off to war and then they lie, wrapped up in one another, against the wall of the room, with loosened robes and wandering hands, finally as aimless as Yeonjun has found he enjoys being. No purpose to their touches but to get their fill of one another before they part again. At some point, Beomgyu leans his head on Yeonjun’s shoulder, then looks up at him, his face so perfectly innocent as he peers through his lashes.

“Yeonjun?”

He hums in response. Beomgyu turns himself over, until his weight rests on Yeonjun’s chest instead.

“Will you do something for me?”

And Yeonjun knows that the answer romance dictates is to say anything, but he also knows from experience the reality of how impossible that word is to live up to, so instead he says, “What is it?”

Beomgyu looks down, then noses at Yeonjun’s collarbone and huffs against it. “I need you to return a book for me.”

Yeonjun swallows dry, reaching up to rub his thumb over Beomgyu’s cheekbone. “The one the prince gave you?” Beomgyu nods against the gentle touch of Yeonjun’s fingers – Yeonjun withdraws them, but with a sigh he says, “Of course.”

“Thank you,” Beomgyu whispers, then smiles sweetly and buries his face in Yeonjun’s chest. Yeonjun pets the back of his head.

“Have you finished it already?”

Beomgyu hums affirmatively, but adds nothing further. Yeonjun’s eyes wander across the room, to the writing tools set out on the tea table. It could not have been comfortable to write there – but there is no writing desk in the concubines’ quarters at the moment. Yeonjun should remedy that as soon as possible.

“What were you writing? When I came in.”

Beomgyu’s hand comes to rest at Yeonjun’s hip, his thumb stroking up and down, bunching up the fabric of his underclothes. “A poem,” he says without lifting his head. “About my husband.”

His head shifts on top of Yeonjun’s suddenly frozen chest, and his hair parts enough to let a delicate ear poke through. Like a moth drawn to a flame, Yeonjun follows the urge to run his fingertips over it, and Beomgyu squirms, ticklish, until Yeonjun catches a glimpse of his face again.

He feels like he should say something, but he does not know what. He does not know the pain of losing a parent, and neither does he know the pain of losing a husband he hated with his entire being.

“Does he deserve a poem?”

“It is not for him,” Beomgyu argues, and his voice is firm and severe, to the point where Yeonjun feels almost intimidated by it. “It is for me. And those like me.”

Yeonjun studies Beomgyu’s face – it seems that the longer he thinks about it, the more upset he becomes, until he starts shaking in Yeonjun’s hold, and he brings Beomgyu tightly to his chest again.

“We did not wear veils in the south,” Beomgyu says. “I had nothing to help me hide how I felt when he died.”

Yeonjun buries his face in Beomgyu’s hair.

 

.

 

Yeonjun and Soobin leave for the Imperial Court without much fuss. If anything, the lack of pomp required by the mourning period makes everything flow much more smoothly than it normally would. They leave quickly and efficiently, only to find the roads busier than they normally would be – many people seem to be headed towards the Imperial City just like them, and in their accommodations along the way, then encounter other nobles from the surrounding areas, who are headed to the Court to pay respects to the late Emperor. Yeonjun spends many evenings taking dinner with other wives, sometimes even with their noble husbands, having hushed, polite conversations that they can hardly let stray much further from reminiscing about the rule of Kang Taeyul. They become dull after only a few days, but Yeonjun prefers them to the solitude that rules most of his days on the road.

Soobin does not travel in his carriage with him, so Yeonjun is left to his own devices for most of the day, made to be alone with his own thoughts. He grows so tired of his own company one day, he resorts to pulling the little black book he has been keeping safe in the folds of his robes throughout his travels out of its hiding spot, and flipping it open.

It falls open too easily – there is loose paper stuck between two of the pages, and the book unravels before him like a bundle. Beomgyu told him nothing beyond that he wanted to return the book, nothing about a message he wanted delivered to the prince, or having written down his thoughts about the contents of it.

Yeonjun’s fingers tremble as he pulls the papers from between the pages – the way they are folded, he cannot see the writing, only that the pages are not blank. They could simply be notes that Beomgyu took and forgot to take out of the book before handing it over. They could be his poems that he might have written while shadowing Yeonjun during the day and had nowhere else to put.

Would Beomgyu mind the prince reading his poetry? Would it come too close to baring his heart in front of a man he did not trust?

But Beomgyu does trust the prince, to his own chagrin. Has more faith in him than he would prefer to. Beomgyu already bared himself before the prince so shamelessly, admitted to things Yeonjun himself struggled to admit to, even though he always thought himself to be someone who trusted his husband for the most part.

For them, it really all seems so easy… trust comes to them almost too naturally; if they are attracted to one another, it seems to cause both of them little issue; they push each other in ways they find easy to forgive – they understand each other, in a way Yeonjun does not understand. They are different, yet similar, and the blend of them seems to create something better. Something beneficial to the both of them, at the end of the day.

And Yeonjun thinks he is jealous of this – not of either of them, but of this ease. The simplicity of it. He wants to be someone who would have not clashed with Beomgyu the way he did at the beginning, who would not have been shaken as deeply as he was by Beomgyu’s constant insinuations. He wants to be someone his husband finds easy to hold; to care for; to love. At the same time, he wishes he were both of them, so he could be to both of them what they are to each other. But he knows he cannot; that is not how these things work.

But it surely is a tough mouthful to swallow, a bitter one. Searching for what he could be, between his lover and his husband, he only keeps coming upon more roles he cannot fulfill.

With a hesitation Yeonjun knows Beomgyu does not deserve on his part, he puts the papers back between the pages of the book without unfolding them, and opens it to another page instead.

What Beomgyu does not intend to be his business need not be his business. As a wife, Yeonjun understands this. And he thinks he trusts Beomgyu enough to adhere to this wisdom.

 

.

 

When the door of Yeonjun’s carriage opens to the front courtyard of the imperial palace, Yeonjun thinks he is ready for most eventualities. He could be helped out of his carriage by Soobin, or Myeongjin, or the lord steward of the Imperial Court himself. If there is chicanery afoot, it could even be the new crown prince, or one of his husband’s many enemies.

The hand Yeonjun expects to be offered to him the least is that of the prince himself – and yet, that is the hand that greets him upon the opening of the door. A familiar firm hand, carrying the equally familiar, unpleasant smell of stale spice. Yeonjun takes it without hesitation, but allows his surprise to show on his face – and as soon as he steps out, he sees a matching look on the face of the captain.

Taehyun lets Yeonjun go, and steps back to keep a polite distance between them. His expression is rigid and difficult to read, but the look in his eyes seems to soften as he looks them both over. He seems glad to see them, at the very least.

“Welcome.”

Yeonjun bows to his husband politely, Soobin simply inclines his head.

“Is your vigil over?” Soobin asks in lieu of a greeting. “How long have you kept it?”

The prince’s mouth tightens in what is surely annoyance. “No – the Empress dowager is keeping it for me at the moment.” He looks around them – the courtyard is not busy, but far from empty. It seems he has more to say in a setting less public than this. “I told her of your imminent arrival, and we agreed it would be best if I took my wife to pay respects to Father myself.”

Yeonjun bows his head. Soobin looks at him with his eyes narrowed, and Yeonjun realizes that he is being perhaps too polite. Much more polite than he was the last time they were here, at least. The prince seems undisturbed by it – it seems he understands Yeonjun’s need for decorum between them at the moment.

“Let me walk with you,” Soobin offers, glancing between the two of them. “I will pay my respects in front of the Emperor’s quarters.”

Taehyun nods his agreement, then looks at Yeonjun, who rushes to nod as well, unsure why his input would be required.

“Of course. We would love to have you, Captain,” he rattles out, polite phrases perfectly practiced. Soobin scoffs.

His husband presses his lips tightly together as if he were suppressing a smile, then offers Yeonjun his arm.

As Yeonjun takes it, he realizes that they forgot to scent each other in greeting, but hesitates to point their mistake out.

 

.

 

The Emperor’s quarters are covered with white banners with words of blessings on them, adorned much like Yeonjun’s own arms, to make sure the Emperor’s soul does not attempt to make home in the building and leaves it peacefully instead. A fragrant fire burns in the courtyard when they step in, after having left Soobin in front of the gate to pay his respects the way someone outside of the family would. A group of child servants are gathered around it, to feed it with wood and herbs and keep it stoked and blazing. They all wear hats with veils to cover their faces, and their little arms are covered with symbols. Under the lone tree in the courtyard sits a solemn-looking tutor with a switch carefully laid in his lap, watching over the servants with tired eyes. When he sees the prince and his wife, he lets himself fall onto his arms in deference, and the children follow him, dropping to the ground as they pass.

They stay that way as the two of them ascend the steps to the main doors, which are draped top to bottom with a heavy white curtain. Behind the curtain, the door opens without them needing to announce themselves, and Taehyun disappears through the curtain, then reaches his arms out to bring Yeonjun through it after him, holding both of his hands in his own, exactly according to protocol.

Some traditions like these are not always kept – but the Kang family has always found strength in keeping to tradition in their conduct while bringing progress in policy. The prince himself was always the type to pick and choose which customs he took seriously, and which he did not.

Jungsik is there to receive them once Yeonjun crosses the threshold, and they waste no time rearranging themselves to walk arm in arm again as he leaves them to the Emperor’s resting place. The vast hallways that intimidated Yeonjun so much seem even more oppressive now, that the building is so unnaturally still although it is the middle of the day. There is no movement, no people around, and aside from their own footsteps, the only sound that echoes in the walls is the noise of grief. Crying and wailing. Screams and sobs. The air smells strange and pungent with the herbs used to wash the building clean of the smell of death, and Yeonjun’s nose wrinkles with it. He holds onto his husband’s arm a bit tighter, and Taehyun taps his knuckles with the tips of his fingers, as if to provide at least a little reassurance.

Their eyes meet briefly, but the prince quickly looks away. Yeonjun drops his eyes to the floor before them.

The sounds of crying only get louder as they get closer to their destination, and the wave of sound slowly dissolves into a multitude of distinct voices. Before the doors of the Emperor’s death chamber, there is a group of people on the floor of the hallway, dressed in mourning clothes and with covered hair, crying and wailing. None of them are the Emperor’s relatives – they are hired people, servants, commoners or especially lowly nobles for someone as important as the Emperor. Wailing women, they call them. They cry for the Emperor in the Empress’ stead, so someone may mourn her husband while she rests. So the halls of the quarters might always ring with the sounds of grief, urging the soul to leave the house for good, and so people outside the building may hear the crying carry through the windows throughout the day and know that the Emperor is being mourned diligently by his family.

Yeonjun has never had to take part in anything like this – he was never required to scream and cry performatively, to keep up appearances – that will change now; at the funeral, at least, he will be required to cry as the wife of the Emperor’s only son. He has no idea how he will manage it.

They have to step over the wailing women to make it to the door, and Taehyun has to carefully help Yeonjun keep his balance multiple times, offering him his other hand to keep himself steady. Strangely, it feels almost comforting for the two of them to handle a tiny hardship like this with the ease they do – Yeonjun hardly stumbles or has to appear undignified before they reach the door of the death chamber.

But then Jungsik pushes that door open, and Yeonjun’s small comfort dissolves with the gust of sweet smoke that greets them, as the reality of the situation sinks in. Taehyun leads Yeonjun inside the room, and then they kneel before a casket together, with their foreheads touching the floor. The casket that holds Taehyun’s father.

He is swathed in fabrics within, so even when they stand up, there is not much of him on display. Still, his frame seems strange in its bed of silk. Inhuman and too human at the same time. Frail. Mortal.

“Empress dowager.”

The woman looks up at them from her perch at the south wall of the room. Instead of her usual resplendence, she wears simple clothes of rough-hewn fabric, her beautiful hair is covered up and her pretty, small face covered with a mourning veil. Through the veil, Yeonjun can see the strip of fabric covering her mouth with the Emperor’s name on it – Yeonjun heard on his way to the Imperial City that the Empress has taken a vow of silence during her mourning, and it seems they were right. Much like when her husband was alive, she was content to stay quiet after his passing as well. It seems to simply be in her nature.

She cannot respond, but she inclines her head. Yeonjun wonders if it bothers her that the prince no longer has to refer to her as Her Imperial Grace. Yeonjun thinks he himself would be bothered. How troublesome, to go through the trouble of marrying a reigning Emperor just to one day be spoken down to by his son.

“Thank you for keeping my vigil for me. You can go.”

She bends at the waist in a bow, then moves to rise – Jungsik rushes towards her to assist her, but the prince is faster, coming forward to offer his stepmother a hand as she rises to her feet. She bows to the prince politely, surely to thank him. Jungsik stays hovering, in case the Empress needs to be walked to the door, but once again, the prince seems to surprise everyone present by walking the Empress to the door personally. Jungsik is left standing by the door, his polite stoicism betraying his loss at what to do next.

Taehyun turns to him without hesitation. “Jungsik, you can wait outside. You will see my wife out once we are done here.”

With clear-cut orders, the man bows and leaves, closing the door behind himself. Once they are alone, Taehyun breathes out as if he had been holding his breath the whole time. His eyes are on the casket, on the covered face of his father.

“Thank you for coming, wife.”

Yeonjun bows his head stiffly. “You called.”

Taehyun’s lips tighten, but he nods. “I should have sent someone after you to make it clear you were free to wait until the invitation to the funeral.”

Perhaps, if that was what the prince would have preferred – but Yeonjun is not sure he would not have come, anyway. Whether they like it or not, Yeonjun is part of this family. He needs to go through things like these with them.

“What is a few days of difference?”

Finally, the prince looks away from the casket and at him instead. “It may be longer than that – this court is full of talk about my lack of filial piety these days. I am afraid we find ourselves in a position where excess may be the wisest option.”

If Taehyun is still keeping vigil now, he must have already exceeded the traditionally required nine days significantly. But if what he now needs is to show how deeply he honored his father…

“How long do you suppose might suffice?”

With a small sigh, Taehyun looks towards his father again. “I was more than ready to stay here for a month – but now I am unsure. With you here… it complicates things.”

Yeonjun shifts uncomfortably. “I apologize if my presence contributes to your burdens, my prince.”

Taehyun shakes his head. “Please do not speak this way. You have done as I requested, that is all – I am aware I have put us in this situation myself.”

“What situation is that, my prince?” Even if Yeonjun has to stay at the Court for longer than expected, there would really be no harm done to anyone – their court remains in good hands in their absence.

The prince looks at him, unblinking, for so long it almost unnerves him. “One in which I am tempted to shirk my duty. Without you or Soobin around, I might as well spend my days here in solitude with Father. Now that you are here… the alternative shakes my conviction.”

Yeonjun lowers his eyes to the floor. It sounds like the husband he knows – the husband who would act as if Yeonjun’s presence is an honor, even as he would so rarely seek it out himself. He did not expect to hear that husband of his today. Or ever again, for that matter.

“But perhaps we could use this to our advantage,” Taehyun says immediately when Yeonjun looks away from him, firm and resolute. “The longer I keep vigil, the longer the politics of the Court remain at a standstill – and with you here, it can be more than me letting my enemies conspire with one another while I sit here pondering the Empire Father has left behind him. There are people that need to be spoken to, before the Council hands the throne to Uncle Jeongyul, if we are to find ourselves in a favorable position upon his ascension. I cannot be the one to do it, if I am keeping vigil – but you could.”

Yeonjun’s eyes stray to the casket, before rising to the prince again. Having this conversation before the corpse of the late Emperor feels so strangely cold and jaded. As if his death means nothing but a political change to the both of them. As if he were nothing but the Emperor.

“Me? You would let me speak on your behalf?”

“I have always let you speak on my behalf,” Taehyun replies simply, with a hint of confusion in his tone, as if it should be obvious. And to some extent, it is, given that he allows Yeonjun to keep his estate with little oversight, but still—

“Within the bounds of your princedom, yes. I thought you intended to keep me as far away from the politics of this court as possible.”

“That I did,” the prince allows, and turns away again. “It has always been my ambition. But in the light of what I have learned about how your kind should be treated… please do not see this as a command, or anything of the sort. It is a request you may or may not heed at your leisure. The burden of imperial politics is…” he pauses, and his eyes flick back and forth as he thinks through his words. “It is a heavy one, and not one I have ever wished to place upon my wife – be it you, or anyone else. I have always hoped to shield them from the pressures of it. But I know you to be ambitious, and skilled, and well-spoken. If you wish to make use of these assets as my ally in this game of court… I think I am not in a place where I could refuse you, even if I wanted to.”

Silence stretches between them, and sweet smoke keeps stinging Yeonjun’s nose – he cannot smell anything beyond it, not his mate, not the Emperor’s body, or even himself.

“I have always wished to be an ally to you, my prince.”

Taehyun nods jerkily, and takes a deep breath. “Unfortunately we are to forge this alliance under less than joyful circumstances, it seems.”

He wanted to help. He wanted Yeonjun to be comfortable. To live an easy life. A careless life, while he toiled away at the Imperial Court. While he applied himself and choked and heaved under the burden of an imperial official on his own. Letting his wife play petty provincial politics while he pushed his pawns into place on the imperial level. Out of kindness. Out of care. To be nice.

Yeonjun closes his eyes. In his mind, their alliance was forged the moment Taehyun’s teeth broke the skin above Yeonjun’s heart. When Taehyun allowed Yeonjun to break his own. The day they scarred each other permanently, became marked as one another’s. Became mates. Became spouses.

How can he be a wife, but not an ally? It seems so absurd – for a difference to be drawn between the two. Body and soul. They were to be partners in everything, from intercourse to politics. Taehyun had such a… such a ludicrous view of marriage.

“I would rather we were to see this as a reaffirmation of a partnership we already had,” he says quietly, somehow bringing himself to voice his own thoughts as he blinks his eyes open again.

The prince bites into his bottom lip briefly before letting it go again. “We can simply see it as an extension of your duties to me – in exchange for those I have recently rescinded.”

It makes Yeonjun feel a little sick. His whole time of being a wife, he strove to see his body as something valuable and his sharing of it with his husband as a sacred exchange of power, if not something they did to produce a child. To see it reduced to a chore he could make up for by making a few visits in his husband’s name…

“No. I refuse to.” His voice comes out steely, in a way which seems to startle the prince. He drops his eyes to the floor bashfully.

“Forgive me – I did not mean to offend.”

“Yet you did.”

“And I admit I have been careless with my words – I will not allow it to happen again.”

Yeonjun does not believe him, but he nods. Taehyun nods back.

“Perhaps it would be best if I let you return to my rooms and rest for now,” the prince continues, looking thoughtfully at a fire blazing in the corner of the room that is in dire need of stoking. “I will think over what needs to be done, and I will send word to you once I have decided. If I fail to get a message to you by tomorrow evening, please send Kyunsang here under the pretense of him bringing me some of my things, so he can deliver it instead. I am being watched here quite thoroughly – and while I am unsure which side the Empress dowager favors, I know she is keeping a close eye on me. I would rather she remained blind to any machinations on my part.”

The remedy to Taehyun hurting his feelings is more business, then. Of course. He nods. “I will do so.”

Taehyun nods, then swallows, and he seems briefly so terribly young and unsure. “Yes. This will be best.” He looks at Yeonjun again, and his eyes seem awfully wide. “Before you go – what of our home? Is everything in order?”

The question seems strange. Yeonjun hesitates, but nods his head. “Yes, my prince. We have left it quite prosperous and peaceful, even in this time of mourning. Our subjects have been amazingly gracious on this occasion – I believe they have shown incredible loyalty to you.”

His husband barely blinks at all, listening to him speak before adding, “What of Omega Beomgyu? Is he well?”

Ah – that is where he was headed. How goes his wife’s dalliance? Yeonjun squares his shoulders. “As well as he can be – he was, of course, devastated by the news of your father’s passing.”

Taehyun huffs through his nose, his eyes narrowing in what Yeonjun cannot tell is either amusement or offense as he looks away again. “I see his way of speaking has somewhat reflected upon you.”

The prince has no idea. “I have been a diligent student of his bluntness as of late.”

“Speak bluntly with me, then,” Taehyun prompts then, eyes back on Yeonjun’s face, and he cannot bring himself to avert his own politely. “Have you spent your time in my absence in good spirits?”

Have they been? In good spirits. They had good days and bad – easy and hard. But they held onto one another through all of them. And they have achieved a peace. Despite Yeonjun’s longing and Beomgyu’s grieving, they have found peace.

“We have been happy,” he says, and the words come out quiet and thin – he barely dares to say it. So dangerous it feels to even think it. Contentment is a double-edged sword that every moment of joy only sharpens, makes it ever more precarious to handle.

“Good,” the prince responds just as quietly, and silence fills the room again as the sound of it trails off. They do not meet each other’s eyes. Yeonjun thinks about the sweetness in Taehyun’s scent, the last few days of Beomgyu’s heat, the odd note he had never noticed in it before – he wonders if he would smell it again, were he to bury his nose in his husband’s scent gland to get away from all the smoke in the air around them.

He reaches into the folds of his robes, and the prince’s eyes follow the motion of his hand immediately. Recognition dawns on his face as soon as Yeonjun’s fingers pull out the small black book.

“Omega Beomgyu gave me this, to return to you. Perhaps it could keep you company here while you keep your vigil.”

Something about the prince’s face brightens, and Yeonjun feels jealous again as he hands the book over, and Taehyun flips it back and forth in his hand with a softness in his eyes. “I am sure it could. Thank you, wife.”

Yeonjun thinks about the papers again – the words they could contain. The way they could make Taehyun feel – the way their presence in itself might make him feel. If Beomgyu really left him a message… if he cared to.

“Taehyun.”

His husband looks up from the book, wide-eyed and startled.

Yeonjun swallows past a dry throat. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Taehyun’s eyes become solemn again, and then he smiles. There is something cold in his eyes when he does that Yeonjun finds he hates to see on his own husband’s face. “I know of souls which will rest easier knowing he is gone from the land of the living, and I believe this brings me great solace.” He lifts his chin, challenging, as if waiting for Yeonjun to scold him for not respecting his father properly. “Perhaps I am to come to understand that not every absence is a cause for pain – some absences are a cause of great peace.”

The prince brings the book to his chest – he and Beomgyu have always been similar, in the strangest of ways.

“But thank you, wife. You are most gracious as always.”

 

.

 

On his way out of the palace, Yeonjun is politely informed by the head servant that now that he is present to participate in the family’s mourning, he is expected to take over all the duties the Empress had been carrying out in his stead. Had there been any younger children not born of concubines, the eldest alpha’s wife’s duty would fall to the second youngest’s wife, but in a small family like theirs, the Empress had no choice but to do everything herself. Yeonjun hears in Jungsik’s voice a severity he does not understand; none of them knew the Emperor would pass so quickly – how was Yeonjun supposed to be present to do his familial duties, when he did not know there would be any?

Is he now to be blamed for not living at the prince’s side at the Court all the time, when such an arrangement was never an issue to anyone involved?

At the end of the day, Jungsik’s opinion is of little consequence to him – especially if he is to be dismissed as the head of the servants at the Emperor’s quarters upon Jeongyul’s ascension. Even if he stays employed in the service of the Empress dowager, he will have little agency to turn his low opinion of Yeonjun into any actual trouble for him or the prince.

And yet, the disdain obvious in the servant’s voice hurts him – Jungsik never took that tone with him, even when he visited the quarters as a young man with little money or flashy reputation. He did not take that tone with him in front of the prince – and despite their change in standing, Yeonjun believes he never would.

But walking with him like this, just the two of them crossing the empty hallways, the servant makes it clear what he thinks of Prince Taehyun’s princess consort.

Yeonjun thinks he should fume about this disrespect all the way to the prince’s rooms, but as soon as he steps through the gate, he is joined by Soobin, who was apparently waiting for him by the gate this whole time. At the sight of the alpha, Yeonjun’s tense, frustrated shoulders loosen again. He can see the guards posted by the gate looking at the two of them suspiciously the longer they regard each other with silent looks of obvious relief, so he strives to quickly gather himself enough to speak.

“Have you paid your respects, Captain?”

Soobin rushes to incline his head politely. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun tilts his head prettily. “Would you walk with me to my husband’s rooms, then? I am not in the mood to walk alone today.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Accepting Soobin’s polite bow, Yeonjun sets out in the direction of their accommodations, and the captain follows him at a carefully polite distance, staying slightly behind him, even, just to make exceedingly sure they cannot be accused of any kind of impropriety. Not for the first time, Yeonjun finds himself somewhat annoyed by the laws of politeness. He wishes he could lean onto someone right now; he thinks Soobin’s arm would be a pleasant place to rest his head.

“I have spoken to the prince about his vigil,” he says while they walks, casting a careful glance around them. Surrounded by people, they need to be careful with their words – Yeonjun can always clarify once they arrive, if they are forced to be too vague under these circumstances. “He seems determined to keep to it. For another tenday, or more.”

Soobin takes his time answering, and Yeonjun wishes they walked side-by-side so he could appreciate his expression better. “It seems proper.”

Perhaps he was simply searching for a properly vague way to answer that did not consist of this court would have his head if they felt like he shirked his responsibility to his father any more.

“It does,” he agrees simply. “The prince is showing a great deal of respect for His late Majesty.”

“As he ought to.”

Yeonjun smiles to himself, knowing he is at least slightly obscured by the veil. “It seems that I have mostly come here to be a second set of his limbs, while his own remain bound by filial piety.”

Soobin makes a strange, thoughtful sound. “Is that so?”

Yeonjun looks at Soobin over his shoulder. “Yes.”

He hopes Soobin understands; he seems to, his expression shifting somewhat before he nods. “Is there any way I can assist you in assisting him?”

Once again looking straight ahead, Yeonjun takes a deep breath. “There may be.”

He could use support while he supports his husband – he thinks now, he should have brought at least a few of his ladies with him, even though he could not take Beomgyu. Doing errands for the prince alone would feel so terribly vulnerable in these precarious times. At a different time, perhaps he would have taken his aunt with him, or one of his cousins. As it is… perhaps he is better off risking askew glances by keeping an alpha a little too close to himself.

“Well… with His Highness safe and sound in the care of the Emperor’s guard – it would be an honor to dedicate myself to your safety in the meantime, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun inclines his head, knowing that Soobin will see his gesture clearly. “Thank you, Captain Soobin – you have always been most kind to us.”

 

.

 

To his pleasant surprise, Soobin seems immediately dedicated to his new role of keeping Yeonjun company. Once they arrive at the prince’s rooms, he all but invites himself to some tea while Yeonjun goes to refresh himself, then makes no real effort to leave once he returns, drinking his tea opposite him in silence until Yeonjun strikes up conversation. Here, in private, they can speak clearly, and Yeonjun describes his conversation with the prince a bit more bluntly.

“He asked me to make contact with his allies here at the court in his stead – he said he would try to send word of what our message should be by tomorrow evening.”

Soobin glances up as he refills his own teacup, his expression a bit sly. “He has given up, then. Willingly?”

“You knew that he did not want to involve me in these matters at all?” It does not surprise Yeonjun, although he has never really given it much thought. It makes sense – the two of them are too closely entwined for Soobin to not be aware of it. He is, after all, the prince’s confidante as far as Yeonjun is aware.

“Indeed – it was hard not to be. In your absence, he has made himself quite clear on the matter – both before me and anyone else who would urge him to…” Soobin pauses, tilting his head in tone direction before blinking hard and finishing with. “Take advantage of you politically.”

Yeonjun huffs. “And in my presence?”

Soobin shrugs, taking a sip of his tea. “In your presence, he preferred to leave this fact to your inference.”

“But why?”

“Perhaps he did not trust himself to win an argument about the wisdom of this decision were you to start one.” Soobin smiles at him mirthlessly. “And I think he expected an argument to come, were he to make himself more clear.”

Yeonjun folds his hands in his lap carefully. “He did not believe I would simply submit to his decision?”

Would he? He would have to. It would be expected of him. Perhaps he would give the prince a piece of his mind before he did so, but he would do so. He has done so. Submitted to his whims, to all of them, no matter how strange or personally humiliating.

“I suppose not – as much of a dutiful reputation as you have always had, Your Grace, His Highness has never really considered you to be meek in any way.”

Yeonjun is not sure how to feel about that – should his husband not consider him meek? Mild-mannered? Quiet and dutiful? Should that not be the persona he should show his husband, the only face of himself he should offer, and the one his husband should appreciate the most?

But it is none of those things – Yeonjun talked back, taunted, played games and used his body boldly. He did all the things a wife should not if they were to be seen by their husband as dutiful and submissive, the way they ought to be.

But Taehyun still… cared for him. Enjoyed his company. Valued it. Despite all that.

“If he wanted a meek wife, then he should have married one,” he says without any fire behind his voice. His fingers come up to fuss with his hair, restless.

“I am not sure the prince knew what kind of wife he wanted, beyond knowing he wanted it to be you.”

Soobin says it so easily, with a tone of fond exasperation, but Yeonjun pauses with his fingers buried in the hair near his nape, suddenly hesitant.

“I am sure he had a good reason to choose me,” he says carefully. “I do not know him to be someone to do things without a good reason – even when we were still children.”

With a huff, Soobin leans backwards, looking at Yeonjun more intently. “It may be you think too highly of him, Your Grace. Or perhaps it is because you did not know him as well as I did when he was younger. It may seem now his actions are careful and deliberate, but I assure you, as a young man, he was more prone to making rash decisions which he then used his wit to carefully justify once he had already carried them out, rather than thinking them through in advance.”

Yeonjun snorts, and Soobin smiles; Yeonjun drops his hand to his lap again, then picks it back up to drink some more tea, wishing it was wine instead all the while.

“Marrying me was an impulse decision on his part as well, then?”

Soobin shakes his head, but does not say no. “How much has he told you about the story of his courtship of you?”

Yeonjun pouts. “Is there a story to tell? I believe I was present for it.”

“Were you there for the arguments with his father?”

It is obvious Soobin does not expect him to say yes. Yeonjun blinks rapidly. “He argued with his father about this?”

“Of course he did,” Soobin responds bluntly. “He came to him, having made up his mind to take a wife with no land or property to his name – and for that matter, with hardly any name to him at all, other than the jewel of the court.”

Embarrassed by Soobin’s straightforwardness, Yeonjun shifts in his seat. “There are benefits to taking a wife with my lack of… significance.”

Soobin nods easily. “Yes – so His Highness argued.”

Yeonjun frowns. “But that was not the reason he chose me – just the reason he gave to get away with it?”

“More or less,” the captain retorts with ample amusement on his face. “I’m sure, in some ways, he needed his own decision to somehow come to make sense to himself, as well. But he also needed to present his father with a proposition which could not be easily dismissed. Being His Imperial Majesty’s only son, he knew he could not appear as if he took the issue of his own marriage less than seriously.”

That sounds like the Taehyun he knows – making foolish decisions he comes to believe are so perfectly justified, because he has pondered them in his own head until they come to make sense to him. Stubbornly defending choices he has made for less then legitimate reasons. Trying so hard, to be taken seriously, even though he behaves himself childishly.

“Why would he do it then? Because I was pretty?”

It seems preposterous. Taehyun, of all of them – of all his suitors, with all their talk – could he have been the one to be the most sincere in his desire to pursue Yeonjun’s beauty all the way to the marriage bed, even though he was the one to bring it up the least? Did he not say so only to ensure Yeonjun would take his intentions to be true? Even though they were not? Or they were, just not… the way he was led to believe. Ever led to believe.

“Would that be so strange to you, Your Grace? For an alpha to fall in love with a beautiful omega?”

Is it strange? No – but it is uncomfortable. Knowing what he knows about Taehyun – about their situation. If Taehyun was in love with him as a child… if Yeonjun was, in some capacity, his first love, much of their relationship would surely make sense. Taehyun’s fondness of him. Indulgence of him. His appreciation of Yeonjun’s beauty and physical charms, his willingness to prioritize Yeonjun’s pleasure over his own. All sweet sentiments the prince would hold towards an omega who at one point conquered his heart, for one reason or another.

But then what would that make him? As an adulterer, as someone who the prince gave up on loving. Would that mean he crushed the heart of the young man he married? Of the grown man who still held some gentle sentiment towards him? Would it absolve him of all fault, to say that he did not know the prince had hopes that he was capable of dashing?

“Alphas fall in love all the time – but they get married so rarely.”

“Well, Your Grace,” Soobin taps his tea cup against the top of the table, a bit impolitely. “Not many of them have the means and the eloquence to secure themselves the wife they desire.”

“No matter who they are.”

Soobin nods. “No matter who they are.”

“He never told me he held such sentiments towards me while courting me.”

“He thought that a confession of that sort would be inconsequential – that you would be unimpressed.” Raising his eyebrows, Soobin leans further towards him, mouth set near a smile. “Being in love with you would hardly set him apart from other alphas – but his title would; his wealth, his potential.” He clicks his cup against the table again. “He approached you much the same way he did his father – with a sensible proposition he knew you would find hard to dismiss outright.”

Yeonjun drums the tips of his fingers against his own tea cup. Somehow this feels worse than the idea of the prince having married him out of keen political sense, for utilitarian reasons. It was never a good idea, Yeonjun was never a good marriage prospect. Just one the prince personally enjoyed. He was not exceptionally dutiful, or charming, or gentle, or intelligent. He was pretty from afar. He was good enough for the prince’s boyish sense of romance. He did not earn his marriage – he was born with all he needed to secure his husband. A pretty face and a lean body.

And the prince loved him for a while, for superficial reasons, clearly, as his sentiments must have waned quickly after their engagement came to fruition. A man in love could never be as cold with his wife; Yeonjun refuses to believe that. But now they are to be little more than allies to one another.

It is absurd. Inane. Just…

Yeonjun huffs in frustration. Soobin laughs, but Yeonjun does not feel as light-hearted.

“I understand now why he would say that our marriage was a mistake.”

“His Highness said that?” Soobin sounds wholly disbelieving – perhaps even Taehyun’s confidante is not as well-informed as Yeonjun thought – or feared – he would be.

He shrugs. Kyunsang is in the room as well, because he has to be – perhaps this information is too private to be put out there in the open like this. Even if Kyunsang and Soobin are both devoted to the prince, making them aware of fissures in his marriage might be… he would not appreciate that, as understanding as he seems to strive to be of Yeonjun¨s indiscretions.

“He said it once, in a fit of passion,” Yeonjun dismisses quickly, rushing to remedy his mistake. “A long time ago – but the petty heart of a wife hardly forgets words like these.”

“I am sure he did not mean them as a slight towards you, Your Grace,” Soobin implores, and Yeonjun suddenly feels guilty for causing his friend to try and comfort him so sincerely in response to his own lie. “He has always found marriage difficult to navigate from his own end – certainly he only meant to express his frustration at his own failings.”

Perhaps – perhaps that is what Taehyun meant. Their marriage was a mistake, because Taehyun could not be a good husband to him – because if they never married, Yeonjun would never know the same pain of abandonment and constant rejection that the prince subjected him to. Because if they never married, Yeonjun could be living a comfortable life right now, the mother to some middling imperial officer’s children, living off a good salary at the Imperial Court that still sometimes whispers about how charming he was in his youth.

Now he drowns in money while evil tongues speak ill of his husband left and right for reasons too legitimate for comfort, while the same tongues speak ill of him for reasons that are not his fault. Childless, away from his husband’s family in their time of need – he allowed all this. He let this happen to him. If the point of failure was not accepting the prince’s marriage proposal, then there have been dozens of points of failure since. Yeonjun not pushing his husband on the matter of their issue, not demanding a permanent appointment at the Court when they learned of the Emperor’s illness, not guiding his husband to be more filial, not insisting they never show Beomgyu’s face in public – he has not done this, and he has not done that. Over and over and over again they fail each other.

And still. Yeonjun did not lie when he said he was happy before the news of the Emperor’s passing broke. Despite all their failures, Yeonjun was able to find a kernel of happiness, and perhaps… perhaps that somehow justifies it all.

He doubts it does – it seems foolish to think so.

Yet the thought would bring him comfort.

“He may have,” Yeonjun admits quietly, a little too late with his response.

But it takes two to fail at marriage so thoroughly.

“I am sure he is glad to have you now – and that he will not regret changing his mind on the issue of your involvement here.”

Yeonjun nods slowly. “We will certainly strive to convince him it was worth the trouble, will we not?”

Soobin nods firmly. “Of course, Your Grace.”

He gives Soobin a small smile which the captain returns widely, and Yeonjun’s chest loosens again.

 

.

 

He receives a surprising number of visitors on his first day at the Court – the new courtiers from the Choi family are among them, and if Yeonjun worried before that he would not be accepted by his relatives well after refusing to give his husband up for the sake of his family, his concerns are quickly dismissed, as every single one of them, from cousins he has not seen since they were children to ones so young that he has only heard of their names in letters before, greets him as warmly as he could have hoped from people of the same blood with whom he does not share much closeness. He thinks maybe they do not know about his decision at all, the longer he entertains them over tea and sweets – nothing of the sort seems to ever come up, and if anything, they all seem, to some extent, consider Yeonjun to be part of the reason the Choi family name resonates so well at the Imperial Court these days.

It seems strange – he is all but sure that his mother knows what he has done, and the trouble he has caused to his aunt, uncle, and their standing with the incoming Emperor. But perhaps his aunt held back from spreading the news throughout the rest of the family. She may have thought it would reflect dishonorably on them all, were they to share the whole story of what happened. Or she may have understood that at the end of the day, it would be Yeonjun who would, to the nobles of the south unused to imperial underhanded politics, seem to be the one making the wiser decision. After all, they both married into other families – everything they did for the Choi, they were doing out of the kindness of their heart, not by obligation. They belonged to their husbands, and their husbands belonged to their own families. Yeonjun owed his husband loyalty above any obligation to the house that raised him.

Either way, as a consequence, most of his day is spent rather pleasantly, surrounded by Soobin and his kinsmen for the most part – it seems almost inappropriate, given that they have come here to mourn, and yet he welcomes the respite; chances are, he would not be afforded much more of it in the coming days.

Near dinner time, while Yeonjun is preparing to see his latest visitor out, Kyunsang comes in to announce the arrival of Lady Nayoon. Yeonjun’s eyes go to Soobin, who looks just as taken aback as Yeonjun himself feels. Their guest, obviously blissfully unaware as to the standing between Lord Myeongjin and the prince, happily launches into a warm endorsement of the lady and her exceedingly agreeable demeanor, and Yeonjun uses the opportunity to compose himself before making it known that the two of them have been friends as children, and have been acquainted for quite a long time. The flattery of Lady Nayoon so fluidly shifts into flattery of himself that Yeonjun finds himself impressed, and the tension in the air dissipates somewhat by the time they walk the guest into the waiting room, where Lady Nayoon stands politely, wearing properly bland robes and with her hair covered.

She and their guest exchange a few polite words of greeting and mutual respect before the visitor is ushered away, and then it is just the three of them and Kyunsang at a polite distance, Nayoon bowing deeply as Yeonjun, with some regret, regards her hesitantly.

“My dear lady – we were not expecting you.”

When Nayoon straightens, she seems much less sweet and jovial than Yeonjun is used to – instead there is a measure of nervous solemnity to her that he finds unfamiliar on his old friend’s lovely face. “It seemed wiser of me to arrive unexpectedly, Your Grace – especially as I must ask a strange favor of you, if we are to speak here much longer.”

Nayoon? Dealing in favors and calculated moves like these? It is not something Yeonjun has ever known her to be well-versed in – and she hardly seems confident, even as she clearly has come with a plan in mind. A child playing at a game she has observed from afar for years now, it may be. “What would that be, my lady Nayoon?”

With a pursing of her mouth, Nayoon responds, “If my husband were to inquire of my presence here later, I would ask of you to deny it.”

For a moment, Yeonjun stays frozen by the request. To lie to Myeongjin about his wife visiting him? It makes sense – and yet, the thought of Nayoon, so sweetly taken with her husband, now here in Yeonjun’s waiting room, claiming to be going behind his back? It seems odd – and yet, with his knowledge of Nayoon’s temper, perhaps not too hard to believe.

“Lord Myeongjin still does not think highly of my husband, then?”

When Nayoon shakes her head, she seems genuinely regretful – this, Yeonjun can believe. That Nayoon would be quite displeased by the notion that their two families could not simply get along by the virtue of their old acquaintance, just because of politics, or a differing view of what is proper. “No, Your Grace. He remained quite offended by His Highness’ actions during the New Year, and since then, the company he keeps has only set him further at odds with His Highness, I am afraid.”

The Moon, and the crown prince. Such continuous sources of such bothersome situations. “That is quite regrettable.”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Nayoon says with a surprising amount of conviction.

Yeonjun glances briefly at Soobin, who is looking at Nayoon thoughtfully – he was there as well, for their meeting with her and Myeongjin. He must remember it, awkward as it was. The lord’s severity and the lady’s sweetness that was so sharply rebuked. “Do you disagree with your husband’s opinion of the prince?”

Nayoon swallows, and looks down at her feet. “I would not dare, Your Grace. My husband makes his assessments with knowledge and good sense that I myself hardly possess.”

That is the right answer, is it not? The only one a wife should express when asked publicly – they may have opinions, but they are foolish, childish, rudimentary opinions that could not rival their husbands’. That is why they defer to them, why they are to obey and follow their husband’s guidance. Because what do they know, as wives? What wisdom can they possess, in their small minds?

To make one’s opinion known in front of others – it is just one’s poor judgment reflecting on their husband’s reputation.

“But?”

Lady Nayoon raises her eyes again. “I presently keep the company of a few other wives of imperial officials – ones much more well-informed and well-versed in these matters than I am.” Her delicate fingers flex where her hands are carefully folded. “They have told me stories of the concubine’s taking, of who he was before he was given to His Highness, Prince Taehyun.”

Yeonjun lifts his chin slightly. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she rushes to nod, strangely eager. “Is it true that he held the title of Lady Regent? That he is the child of a sovereign?”

“That is what I was told,” he responds carefully.

Nayoon’s expression then becomes strangely pained. “Then he is nobler than most of us, is he not? Most of those who walk the pathways of the Imperial Court have never known as high a standing as he has. Neither you nor I have – yet he is to be treated as lesser to us?”

“The Empire does not recognize foreigners’ claims to nobility, Lady Nayoon – much less of those who would refuse to accept imperial superiority,” Soobin points out, obviously taken aback by the views the young lady is expressing. “Omega Beomgyu lost his right to be treated like a noble when he refused to surrender his city.”

At first, Nayoon looks chastised, almost childish, as her eyes lower and shoulders curl inwards, before she looks towards Yeonjun again, as if she could find purchase again if he were to agree with her. “I do not say he needs to be treated as our equal, Your Grace, Captain. But it simply seems strange to me that a man who was once a lady possessing of land and influence, one born to much the same status as the prince himself, even if he was born an omega, would be given less right to enjoy fresh air and a bit of merriment than a servant would – less than a common free man, less than a slave. And if it seems strange to the prince as well, and he means to challenge this notion, then, even if my husband believes it would be improper of him to let his omega step even a foot outside of an accommodation suitable for a concubine, I would find his position difficult to argue with.”

Yeonjun stands there mutely. Was Nayoon able to justify the prince’s actions to herself where he was not? And while these were not the same justifications the prince gave for his decision in the first place, they still sounded so sensible. To be seen in the company of a former lady regent, one born to a sovereign ruler. Educated, well-mannered when he pleased. Of noble blood. How could that be dishonorable?

“Do the two of you not agree with him?” Nayoon’s voice is thin – she seems surprised, less than pleasantly. Her hands draw up towards her chest protectively. “Were you forced by His Highness to spend time in his company?”

And the truth is, Yeonjun was – he refused wholeheartedly the prince’s attempts to justify taking Beomgyu outside of his rooms with them. He forced the prince to force him, because of his own indecision. His own… rigidness of thinking. The same rigidity that Lord Myeongjin shared, that Nayoon seems to have made her way past with such grace and ease. Her thinking always seemed to Yeonjun so simple, and childish – but perhaps some things can only be understood properly in simple terms. What right did petty lords and officers have to tell the child of a prince that he was not to stand next to them while they watched the fires burn? That his eyes were not noble enough to see the splendor of the court, if a slave employed in the kitchens could walk through its gardens every day?

He tightens his folded hands. “I would not dare to, Lady Nayoon.”

Soobin glances in Yeonjun’s direction with obvious surprise, but does not say anything. Nayoon seems to sigh silently through parted lips, as if trying hard to make it seem like she had no obvious reaction. “Of course, Your Grace.”

After a pregnant pause, Yeonjun asks, “Have you brought this conviction of yours to your husband’s attention, Lady Nayoon?”

Nayoon swallows visibly before nodding slowly. “Yes, Your Grace – I brought up something to the effect of what I have told you just now, some time after our meeting in the garden, after I have gotten the chance to think on the matter and come to the conclusion that I did.”

Yeonjun looks her up and down – her nervousness, her lack of her usually sweet demeanor. It worries him. “Was Lord Myeongjin receptive to your point of view?”

She looks away from them completely, and it makes Yeonjun quite sure of the answer at once. “One could not say so – if anything, he made some arguments which I found myself unable to counter with nary a word of my own.”

“Such as?”

Nayoon brings a sleeve up to her mouth. “That I have not bore him a single child yet. That I am not the mother of his children, and as such, he does not see it appropriate to value my opinion over that of his elders, allies and mentors, who are surely much better versed in imperial etiquette and politics than I am.” She shakes her head almost imperceptibly. “I suppose I was too bold for so young a wife. I am sure that if you were here to guide me you would have told me to keep my thoughts to myself. But believe me,” Nayoon lowers her sleeve, and looks towards Yeonjun again with a surprising amount of self-assurance, even though she seems hurt. There is obvious anguish in her face. Yeonjun feels awful for her. “I have been thoroughly scolded by everyone and made to answer for my failure. My husband, my mother, even my mother-in-law have made it clear to me that I overstepped the bounds by expressing myself to my husband this way. There is no need to do so anymore.”

“My dear—”

“Your Grace, I have come here to express my sincere condolences to you and His Highness the prince,” Nayoon interrupts him with the same surprising firmness, although her voice wobbles as she does so. “And to express to you my regret that it seems our husbands are not likely to find common ground anytime soon. I have always greatly valued your friendship when we were young, and I was hoping we may remain on friendly terms with one another in the future despite the marriages we have found ourselves in.”

She sounds like she is expecting her offer to be rejected, and that hurts Yeonjun more than anything else – that she would expect Yeonjun to dismiss her over this. Over any of this – as if they could not be anything more but extensions of their spouses, as if a disagreement over what is proper could cause a divide between them that a childhood spent in one another’s company could never bridge.

“Nayoon, my dear, I would love nothing more than to remain a friend to you, as long as you would have me,” he rushes to say, taking a step forward in his need to express himself.

In his mind’s eye, he sees Beomgyu’s defiant face. What would he say? He would sure think of something supportive to say. Something that would make Nayoon feel more justified in her upset and frustration. Something she needed to hear.

“If your husband is not willing to have his views challenged by you, Lady Nayoon, then you are always free to challenge mine. And perhaps if we engage one another in enough conversation, perhaps you will find yourself a skilled enough conversationalist to find an answer to Lord Myeongjin’s arguments next time.”

This. Beomgyu would appreciate this, would it not? Encouraging a young wife to speak her mind. It is dangerous, it is so dangerous for them to foster this kind of thought, but one day, they might find themselves in a position to act on it. To speak their minds to those who need to hear it. Like Beomgyu did to Taehyun, like Yeonjun hopes to, if not to their husbands, then to their children.

“You do not believe I should keep these thoughts to myself?” Nayoon sounds shocked, and Yeonjun squares his shoulders with newfound conviction.

“To the extent that it is wise sometimes to keep our beliefs limited to company which is ready to hear them,” Yeonjun allows.

Lady Nayoon stands a bit straighter herself, looking between him and Soobin with apprehension. “Am I to consider present company to be such?”

Soobin nods silently, and Yeonjun gives a single incline of his head himself. “I would hope so.”

She presses her lips together tightly, suppressing the visible tremble to them, then bows. “Then thank you, Your Grace. I am grateful.”

Her voice wavers on the words. Yeonjun exchanges a long look with Soobin, who looks vaguely disturbed by the conversation. Yeonjun is not sure how to interpret his reaction, but he resolves not to assume anything negative of it, as reluctant as he seemed to participate. He knows Soobin, and he knows him to be a good man. Surely he understands.

“Darling, would you like to join us for dinner?” He asks as gently as he can, noticing the tears gathered in Nayoon’s eyes as he straightens back up.

But she shakes her head vigorously. “I am afraid I cannot do that, Your Grace. I am to share dinner with my in-laws today, and I have already lingered here too long.” She clears her throat slightly, to make her voice less fragile than it sounded just now. “I must go. But thank you, Your Grace, for listening to me.”

Yeonjun bows his head. “Thank you for giving me the privilege of your continued friendship, Lady Nayoon.”

He thinks her eyes are strangely beautiful, as full of emotion as they are. Brilliant with tears. “It would be my honor, Your Grace.”

 

.

 

The first day passes with no news from the prince, and Yeonjun dresses to take up his duties at the Emperor’s quarters the next morning without any messages reaching him, either. He takes a meager breakfast of a few bites of fruit, and sets out for the quarters while there is still barely any light in the sky. Despite him making sure he arrives sufficiently early, Jungsik is standing at the top of the stairs already, waiting for him when he arrives. In the courtyard, the fire is still blazing, and a few of the children tending to it are sleeping in heaps on the floor while others keep to their work. The man keeping an eye on them seems to be dozing off, but he lowers himself into a bow as Yeonjun passes him, nonetheless. Jungsik welcomes Yeonjun with a brief, coldly polite greeting, then ushers him inside without much fanfare. They head in a different direction than they usually would, and Jungsik leads him down a flight of stairs to a part of the building much less elaborate in appearance, with lower ceilings and bare walls. It seems it is meant for the servants of the palace, if Yeonjun were to guess. Here, they encounter a few people on their way, who all bow to Yeonjun in perfect deference.

Yeonjun can tell which door they are headed for as soon as he sees it, because it is the first door they encounter which is flanked by guards. Jungsik knocks on it, waits a few long moments, then pushes it open, stepping through and holding it so Yeonjun can enter after him.

It leads to a relatively small, poorly-lit room with a large table in the center of it, laden with various foods. Pots of broth, chopped vegetables, bowls of fruits, meat, honey and rice. On the other side of the room, the Empress sits sternly and silently, her mouth still covered with cloth, her eyes sullen but severe as they regard him from under her veil.

He drops into a proper formal bow and holds it until he hears the Empress clap. Then he wishes her a good morning and sits at the table at a vague gesture of her sleeve. She cannot speak to him to instruct him, but Yeonjun is well-educated enough to know what he is meant to do without needing to be prompted. As the wife of the eldest, he is to prepare food every morning of his husband’s vigil – some of it will be left for the deceased, and a few bites of it will be the only food the prince will be allowed to eat today.

It is a tradition even the nobles have to keep, as they have to show respect to their deceased just as sincerely as a commoner would. Even the Empress had to dirty her delicate hands filling rice cakes for her deceased husband and his only heir. And now Yeonjun’s noble hands will have to make an effort for them as well.

He is not unfamiliar with the work – when he was a child, he took part in preparing the rice cakes they would then give out at New Year’s, and making the dumplings for the soup they would honor his late grandfather with during special occasions. It was all such a long time ago, and yet, as Yeonjun reaches for the dough which was pre-made for him by the servants, he believes his hands will take to it like to an old craft he had already mastered. In his mind’s eye, he can recall with perfect clarity the heavy southern accent of his grandmother as she instructed the children sternly in their work, the sharpness of her fan hitting the backs of Yeonjun’s hands when he did not do something to her liking. Her narrowed, discerning eyes as she inspected their work, and the precise, graceful nod of approval that would signal they were done to her satisfaction.

To Yeonjun, the memory is sweet and peaceful, and despite the unusually early hour and the somber occasion, he takes to the work with a nostalgia that envelops him in a feeling of overwhelming serenity. His hands know their task, and his mind stays still instead of wandering. He treats every press of his fingers as the stroke of a brush, measured, unhurried and precise.

He prepares a plate of filled rice cakes, and raises his eye towards the Empress carefully as he sets it to the side – she did not make a sound while he was preparing them – he took that to mean she had no issue with his offerings.

But to his surprise, as soon as he sets the plate aside to move on to another dish, the Empress rises from her seat, leans over the table and picks up the plate, bringing it over to herself. Then she tilts her head, the veil obscuring her face from Yeonjun’s view nearly completely from his new angle, and begins picking the cakes up one by one, and throwing them to the floor. She does it to nearly all of them, until only three remain, then returns the plate to Yeonjun’s side of the table. Jungsik, still in the room with them, does not make a move to clean the mess up. When Yeonjun hesitates, the Empress gestures to the plate with her sleeve.

Yeonjun nods, and remakes all of the cakes she discarded. She takes it again, and throws another handful away. Yeonjun remakes them. She throws even more to the floor this time, including some that she left on the plate previously.

Yeonjun knows that a good wife is a perfectionist – it is something that his aunt has always tried to instill in him, ever since he was young. Nothing other than perfection is worth striving for.

And yet, there is something senseless about the way the Empress behaves. In her lack of attempt to explain where Yeonjun has done wrong in preparing the rice cakes in her eyes. In the obvious disregard for the food she is ruining by throwing it to the floor. It seems childish – but perhaps it does so only in the consequence of her silence; and the silence has nothing to do with Yeonjun, or any intent to disrespect him. She is not silent out of a disdain for him, but out of respect for her husband.

So Yeonjun remakes all of the cakes, again and again, until she is satisfied, then does the same with the dumplings, with peeling the pears. He tries over and over and over again, until the Empress gives a stern nod of her approval. And it feels earned, if futile. A sincere effort, for a petty victory. The floor of the room is covered in food waste by the time they are done. The Empress sits in the middle of it, disaffected and regal.

 

.

 

Taehyun’s eyes follow him with keen attention when he comes into the death chamber with his offerings. He is sitting in the same seat his step mother occupied the previous day, cross-legged, the shadows of sleepless nights framing his attentive gaze, his posture slumped, shoulders loose and tired. He looks exhausted. The little black book is resting between the fingers of his one hand, the corner of a folded piece of paper peeking out from between the pages.

Yeonjun’s arms are tired from carrying the heavy table filled with food all the way from the lower floor, and he sits it down before the casket gratefully. Along the way, he was given no assistance, not by Jungsik or any other servant, as must be the imperial custom – back home, the children or servants would often carry these offerings for his grandmother or his mother, so they would not have to strain themselves to carry them – or perhaps, this too was done with some sort of intention. The only words Jungsik spoke to him on their way to the chamber was that he had left the Empress waiting this morning, and if he did not arrive earlier from now on, it would not be tolerated. Demanding seems to be the overwhelming mood at the emperor’s quarters.

And it may be that the prince feels the same, because he does not let Yeonjun out of his appraising sight until he makes sure the room is once again filled with that familiar sweet smoke, and kneels before the table again, to bow deep enough for his forehead to kiss the floor.

Only then, his husband rises to kneel next to him in the same way. They bow together, then Taehyun rises by himself to say traditional words of respect before rejoining Yeonjun in prostrating himself before his father’s casket. They rise together, and make a small offering of wine before bowing one last time.

They remain kneeling once they are done. Looking straight ahead, for the longest moment without a word.

Then the prince quietly says, “You are here early.”

And Yeonjun tilts his head to the side. “Pardon?”

“The Empress dowager usually did not arrive with the offerings until late morning.”

Yeonjun stops himself at the last moment from biting his lips and ruining the white paint covering them. “Ah.”

The prince looks down at the offerings on the table. Yeonjun wonders if they seem perfect to him – worth all his effort. “I have a letter for you.”

He nods. The prince does not move to retrieve it, and does not say anything else. Outside the door, the wailing women do their grim duty, and the sound of it carries all the way to them. Yeonjun wonders how the prince fares, with the unceasing noise of crying outside the single room he is all but confined to day and night. He opens his mouth to inquire, but no sound comes out.

Before he can force himself to speak, the prince turns to him.

“Perhaps we should start with the washing.”

Yeonjun nods, and dismisses his concerns for the moment. He stands up and knocks at the door, behind which Jungsik is ready with a basin and a washcloth, which Yeonjun takes inside the room, setting them a ways away from the seat, suitably far from the casket, and sits with them on the floor.

It is easy enough to clear his mind of what he knows he will be required to do, while he dips the cloth in the water and wrings it out, all the way until his husband kneels next to him, now bare-chested. Since he has been keeping vigil, sharing a room with his father’s spirit, his husband needs to be cleansed every day, lest he become possessed or have his father’s remaining bad fortune cling to him.

He struggles to imagine the empress dowager carrying out this duty for him, as he raises a hand so unsure it becomes deathly steady to his husband’s naked shoulders. Washing his arms, his chest, his neck, keeping his eyes on the skin he brushes over gently so he would not have to look his husband in the eye. He thinks he would not mind washing his own child this way, had they no wife to do it for them, but if it were not his own child? Just his husband’s heir he would have no choice but to tolerate?

Yeonjun feels so terribly strange already, touching his husband in ways that feel like they should be intimate, even though they are nothing but a simple ritual. He has touched this body before; he has seen it, held it, tasted it. And still, every stretch of skin he touches feels as if it were found anew; as if Yeonjun were washing the body of a stranger.

He wets and wrings the washcloth again before he brings it to the prince’s face, and he finds himself forced to confront the two dark eyes he has been avoiding this whole time. There is a flush to the prince’s cheeks but his expression is solemn. Yeonjun struggles to keep his own face under control as he washes his husband’s cheeks, dabs his forehead as if tending to a feverish man. As his fingers come to rest over the prince’s lips.

Yeonjun drops his eyes to the prince’s jaw, and drags the cloth over both sides of it. He sighs without thinking.

“I can do it myself tomorrow,” Taehyun whispers when Yeonjun turns away to drop the washcloth in the basin. “They do not have to know.”

He shakes his head vigorously without looking at him. “I am your wife. Do not insult me.”

“It is no slight to you.”

“It is to me.” Now he looks at Taehyun, frowning. “I have a duty to you. Let me fulfill it.”

To his surprise, Taehyun nods without making a sound of fuss. Yeonjun turns away again to rinse the cloth to busy his hands, and Taehyun rises, to retrieve something from his seat. Still half undressed, he hands Yeonjun the letter, who tucks it into his robes quickly before he gets the chance to soak it with the water clinging to his fingers. The prince stays standing next to him, his mouth working thoughtfully.

“You will have to be careful in carrying my instructions out. Making too many visits right now would be…”

Seen as frivolous, during their time of deep mourning. “I know. I will make sure.”

“Thank you, wife.”

Yeonjun nods to the water in the basin instead of to his husband. Taehyun steps away to dress himself again, and Yeonjun closes his eyes to sigh deeply in his few precious moments of privacy.

 

.

 

Yeonjun is led out of the quarters by Jungsik with precise instructions to return at last light, and resolves to come at sundown instead. He may not be the brightest person in every room he steps into, but he learns quickly.

He returns to the prince’s rooms, where Soobin is already waiting for him to arrive. Yeonjun has Kyunsang bring him tea while he refreshes himself, and then they sit down together to open the letter Taehyun gave Yeonjun earlier.

It contains nothing much by way of surprises – a list of names, most of which are familiar to Yeonjun, and those that are not, Soobin is able to put faces and titles to immediately. The councilors Taehyun had appointed, and some of their family members. Influential scholars who, if not on friendly terms with the prince outright, have been supportive of his cause or especially favored the political stability afforded to the Empire by a continuity in the advisory council. The few officials that rose to their appointments thanks to the prince’s faction of the council. It seems to be, the prince would ask of Yeonjun to split his attention between reassuring his allies, to make sure none of them make any hasty decisions, and urging those with influence, and those close enough to the other branch of the Kang family, to favor at least the appearance of stability over any sort of upheaval. The prince does not need to regain his uncle’s trust immediately, it seems, or does not think he needs to, in either regard. All he needs now is for the current council to not be dissolved the minute the new Emperor ascends.

And at the bottom of the letter, in much less neat handwriting, speak to your aunt and uncle if you can. Ask Soobin to assist you, if necessary.

Yeonjun does not read the words out loud, but when he lays the letter on the table between them, Soobin picks it up to reread it by himself, and obviously reads the last words himself, before giving Yeonjun a long, appraising look and setting it down.

“Neither Madame Choi nor your uncle came to see you yesterday,” Soobin says carefully. Yeonjun nods.

“Yes. I believe they do not hold me in high regard at the moment.”

All the other courtiers from his family found their way here – except for his aunt.

“Still, your father-in-law just passed away.”

Soobin is not wrong – one would think an event like this would transcend any moral or political disagreement between them. That his aunt would at the very least find it appropriate to visit the family grieving the Emperor who has been granting her a comfortable life this entire time.

“Quite uncouth of them, is it not?”

The captain does not seem to disagree. Yeonjun sighs.

“I believe there are arguments we could make that even my aunt’s ears might be open to. I would not deem it a lost cause – but even if I manage to convince her, and uncle by extension, I struggle to see what good might come of it. I doubt that the crown prince would be open to the opinion of a mere official.”

Soobin shrugs. “The crown prince need not listen to just one official – he need not agree with any one man. What we would hope for is a consensus wide enough that he would hesitate to go against it, despite having powerful allies urging him otherwise.”

Yeonjun worries at his lips. “It seems to me that the prince’s strategy of allying himself with those who hardly have anyone else in a position of power to ally themselves with is a flawed one.”

This tactic left the prince with a loyal faction of allies who owed much to him personally, and were therefore always inclined to act in his interest, yet in times like these, when breadth mattered more than depth, having dedicated, poorly-connected allies seemed like such a weak arm of power to wield. He was not widely popular as a man, either. He spoke well, and treated everyone with respect and politeness, but he had strange habits and predilections, preferred the company of a noble of minor prominence from a family of illustrious history but little current influence, took little interest in omegas, in flaunting his wealth, in excess, or in war, on in arts on any level that the court would find impressive. Those who cared enough about administration or scholarship to appreciate his dedication to his work and studies did, but at the end of the day, those were few and far between. Dedication to one’s work gets one but a passing sort of respect – it hardly makes one beloved. Virtuous, but not illustrious.

It means little, in times like these.

“It may be,” Soobin allows, picking up the letter again to skim the words one more time. “But we have an important fact on our side.”

Yeonjun raises his eyebrows. “And what is that?”

The captain begins to fold the letter carefully, his gaze focused on his own hands as he does so. “Many people are afraid of change – especially those who have lived comfortably under His late Imperial Majesty’s rule. It might not take a man of exceptional diplomatic brilliance to convince a considerable amount of people that the current council could keep the new Emperor at bay, should they be allowed to keep their seats after his taking of the throne.”

“But many of those who are unhappy with the current status might see this as their only chance of shifting the balance of power swiftly and efficiently, instead of having to work behind the scenes for years like our prince was forced to,” Yeonjun points out, dragging a finger around the rim of a tea cup.

Soobin shrugs his shoulders again, and taps the neatly folded letter on the top of the table. “Certainly. But the prince always says that complacency is a politician’s greatest ally – for many, it is easier to do nothing than to contribute to change.”

“Then all we need to do is to urge enough imperial officials to be cautious?” he says with some amusement. On many occasions, he got to hear his husband complaining about the caution of ministers, the constant hesitation to act on the part of the advisory council. They lacked decisiveness, lacked vigor, and that is why Taehyun pushed so hard to have more young men like him involved in the council, to breathe fresh air into an institution frozen solid with concerns and customs and the way things always were, all things so inherent to old wise men. “However should we manage that?”

The captain laughs quietly, and they exchange amused glances. Even if their work were to be as simple as Soobin suggests, it will take careful maneuvering. Yeonjun feels exhausted already.

 

.

 

They elect to begin their efforts with the lords councilor and set upon the strange task of attempting to find ways to meet with them without attracting unwanted attention from the rest of the court. The two of them come to feel as generals as much as politicians, pondering the lords’ positions and movements to find the quietest and most efficient ways to approach them. With some, Soobin was close enough to pay a brief visit and urge them to come under the pretext of paying respects to him. Others could be intercepted while going about their day, and invited or taken aside. Some had wives who liked to be seen at the same places at the court every few days, and who could be trusted to relay messages to their husbands should Yeonjun run into them by way of a carefully curated accident. The prince’s prolonged vigil leaves them with ample time, and they make sure to approach their task with all the patience it is due.

They end up being so patient in their actions, in fact, that before Soobin even leaves the prince’s rooms for the first time to give a friendly suggestion to visit Yeonjun to one of the councilors, they are interrupted by a visit by Lord councilor Yeun Dongseon, who has decided to come of his own accord without needing to be prompted. It is as good a time as any for Yeonjun to get his practice handling imperial lordship, so after receiving the lord’s respects to the family, Yeonjun informs him carefully that his husband asked him to have a word with the lord on his behalf.

To his mild surprise but much greater frustration, Lord councilor Yeun seems skeptical – Yeonjun chooses to believe that his doubt stems from how vocal the prince has apparently been about keeping his wife out of Imperial Court politics, rather than a lack of faith in Yeonjun’s loyalty to his husband, or in an omega meddling in alpha business in general. Thankfully for him, the lord’s unexpected arrival means that Soobin is right there with them, and when he sees Lord Yeun hesitate, he wastes little time before stepping in.

“I assure you, Lord Councilor, that we are acting with His Highness’ full endorsement. He would have spoken to you in person were he not dedicated to honoring his father.”

Yeun Dongseon narrows his eyes at the both of them – he is a young man, surely not more than a few years older than the prince or Yeonjun himself. He keeps a thin beard worthy of an aspiring philosopher, and he rubs at it with his fingers as he considers them. “What says His Highness, then?”

He is looking to Soobin rather than Yeonjun, but Yeonjun clears his throat and speaks up himself. The words next to the lord Yeun said, lean on familial connections.

“He believes it would be good if the people of the court kept in mind the importance of a stable government,” he says lightly, conversationally, hoping the lord will catch onto the veiled meaning of his words. “Any sort of great changes made with the ascension of the new Emperor would surely not benefit anyone. Your siblings are well-situated at the Court, are they not?”

Married off into prominent families – no doubt the elders of those families only allowed it to gain leverage on the new lord councilor, should they need to, but bonds like these were double-edged swords if one knew how to use them.

Lord Yeun’s face seems just as apprehensive as before. “Indeed they are, Your Grace.”

“It should not be difficult to have the right words reach the right ears.”

Then, the lord’s expression finally shifts, but instead of opening up, it seems to grow cold as the man straightens himself up further. “This is His Highness’ plan, then?” He looks at Soobin again, and his face is screwed up with an expression of distaste. “He finally deigns to make use of his wife now, to get me to make use of my own family for his sake? Is he only now appreciating the precariousness of his own position? Is he taking this seriously, now?”

Yeonjun speaks up himself, even though the words are not directed at him at all again. “He is not the only one whose position is precarious, Lord councilor. Most of your siblings are omegas, are they not?” Despite posing a question, letting it sound like a question, he does not give Lord Yeun the privilege of a pause for him to answer in. “Their marriages were beneficial for them, certainly, but what did you gain through them, Lord councilor? What good did marrying them off into wealthy families did to the house of Yeun? Giving away brides does not bring dowry, or increase your own prestige. Unless you keep your own seat on the council, what guarantee is there that your name will not soon fall out of prominence again? The families you have given your siblings to do not owe you a thing – you owe them, for granting you the favor of taking care of your kin so well. You owe the prince, for securing your appointment at the council. If you are not lord councilor anymore, what will you have to repay all your debts with, Yeun Dongseon?”

In some ways, Yeonjun can understand the lord councilor’s position, because it is not unlike his own – it is not unlike his aunt’s. The poor can only incur more debt, whether by loan or by being raised from poverty thanks to someone’s charity. The lowly can only ever be the junior partners in every alliance. The ones who need their allies more than their allies need them – the ones whose power hinges on those around them allowing them to wield it. Even if the Emperor retains his current council after he rises to power, ousting Lord Yeun and reducing him to nothing more but a noble of minor influence again would be the matter of the prince removing the protective hand he has kept over the young lord councilor. And then he would be a nobody, with siblings indebted to other families so completely that they would be powerless to extend themselves in his defense, and his short stint as a man of influence would be over.

Just like that.

The distaste on the lord’s face turns into barely concealed anger, and Yeonjun thinks that were he a man of less confidence, he would cower at it. Had he held the lord in higher regard, he would think twice about adopting this attitude. But as it stands, and with Soobin at his side to support him if need be, Yeonjun holds his head high even as the alpha seethes visibly. “Are you threatening my position on the council, Your Grace?”

“I am turning your attention to the fact that your position on the council is threatened at this very moment, Lord councilor, by forces and attitudes in this court that are not favorable to you, and never have been. It would take no effort on my part to strip you of your current privileges – all the both of us need to do to see it happen is nothing at all.”

From the corner of his eye, Yeonjun sees Soobin watching him with a startled expression. Yeonjun has possibly never been this outspoken in front of anyone who was not his family, Soobin or Beomgyu. He has never been this scathing, this… insolent.

But it makes him feel powerful, to speak this way in front of an alpha, in front of a lord of the Emperor’s Council. Knowing he is right, knowing that the man before him might have no choice but to listen.

Is this how Beomgyu feels? When he is antagonistic; when he is insolent. Yeonjun has always made his way through these kinds of politics with pretty smiles and veiled words. He made things more with pretty gifts and gentle suggestions – but Lord Yeun hardly seemed receptive to his gentler approach. To his omega-like approach. So perhaps borrowing a page from Beomgyu’s book, adopting a much more alpha-like demeanor…

It seems to make his words land on Lord Yeun’s ears so much more starkly. He strokes his beard again, this time more anxiously. “And what his prince suggests we do to prevent it is to spread rumors among the court’s wives?”

Yeonjun tilts his head. “Wives. Aides. Officials. Scholars. Artists, artisans, philosophers, whoever you can get to speak the words you need the right ears to hear. The new Emperor will need the Imperial Court on his side when he takes his throne, lest he had to worry about being undermined, or worse, being plotted against by his own people. If the entirety of this court seems in favor of stability, if it seems the majority of the Court worries about the consequences of him acting against you and the prince’s faction, he would be a fool not to listen. It might not earn you a life-long appointment to the council, but it buys you time. And at this point, this is the best any of you can do.”

Next to Yeonjun, Soobin leans forward slightly, his posture more intimate, more familiar. He speaks with a softer inflection, as if pleading with a friend. “Lord Yeun, you know as well as us that the great families will be disinclined to side with the Yeun on anything. Even if they make use of your support now, by raising your family to prominence, they would only stand to lose their exclusive standing at this court. There is nothing for you to gain from allying with them – what the prince offers is a long-standing partnership. You know that His Highness cares about the future of your family. He always has – and he is not afraid to share his own power, unlike the Lee. Unlike the Moon. Unlike the rest of them.”

For a long, drawn-out moment, the lord councilor stays silent, his eyes shifting between Yeonjun and Soobin while the offended flare of his nostrils slowly dies down as he considers their words. His expression never adopts any sort of openness or a genial attitude. Even as the anger seeps out of him, he still seems quite unhappy with his situation – and to some extent, Yeonjun cannot quite hold it against him.

“I hope His Highness realizes that this is a position he has found himself in entirely of his own accord – and he has brought all of us to this end with him. If he ceased to act against his family’s own interests so openly, perhaps he would have never found himself at odds with his own uncle.”

“The position you hold now, Lord councilor,” Yeonjun say, his tone measured and pleasant again. “Could have just as well been filled with another descendant of the Kang. It would, after all, be in the Kang family’s best interest. I hope you realize that.”

Lord Yeun regards Yeonjun with open contempt. Yeonjun does his best to meet his eyes fearlessly.

“I believe I understand now why your husband wanted to keep your hand out of imperial politics, Your Grace. Its touch seems much less delicate than I was led to believe.”

That hurts to hear. And yet, Yeonjun cannot help but believe that no sort of delicate approach would have broken through the lord’s unwillingness to hear them out.

“Not all dogs can be led around with sweet words, Lord councilor – some require a firmer grip on their leash.”

“Is that what you think me to be, Your Grace? A dog?”

Yeonjun lifts his chin proudly. “I thought you to be a friend to my husband's cause – and I sincerely hope that is what you will prove yourself to be, for both of our sakes.”

The lord huffs in distaste, but after another long moment, he nods. “I will speak to my family members, if that is what His Highness requires of me. But if the two of you deceived me, I will know – and so will the prince.”

Yeonjun only responds to the threat with a nod and a polite bow. “If you manage to get word to His Highness personally, I am sure he can confirm – but you should be careful. The Empress dowager will know of every move made towards the prince within the walls of the emperor's quarters – and her intentions at the moment seem impossible to ascertain.”

Lord Yeun frowns. “Perhaps we would have known more of her opinion and temperament, had the prince not stowed away his asset with the easiest access to her at his provincial estate.”

It is true – but Yeonjun cannot let his husband appear weak by admitting that he agrees with the lord, and not his husband. “Perhaps so, Lord councilor – but such abstractions are of little use for us now, are they not?”

“I hope this teaches His Highness an important lesson,” Lord Yeun says sharply, then follows it up with a politely deep yet somehow ironic bow. “Long live Emperor Jeongyul.”

 

.

 

In the wake of the lord's visit, Yeonjun and Soobin are left slightly shaken by the encounter. The captain, who was preparing to leave, sits by the tea table instead, while Yeonjun remains standing, his eyes straying to Kyunsang who watches him with a slight frown on his face. Yeonjun sighs.

“You were quite sharp with him,” Soobin says after a moment.

“I lost my temper,” Yeonjun responds quietly. “He hardly treated me with the respect I am owed. He did not seem interested in pleasant chatter.”

Soobin, to his surprise, only nods. “He rarely is. And he rarely seems enthusiastic about any plan that requires him to do anything but make friends of people in high places. The prince has also taken to being quite… straightforward with him in their negotiations.”

“Is he equally as contemptuous with our prince?”

“Of course not,” the captain dismisses immediately. “That would require a spine he does not possess.”

Yeonjun huffs in amusement, and slowly walks over to join Soobin at the table, pouring them both cups of tea. “I was not aware that you were in possession of such keen political acumen,” he teases over the rim of his cup, sending Soobin a smile. “You argued quite well.”

Soobin shakes his head vehemently as he picks his own cup up. “I possess nothing of the sort – but I have been to enough meetings at His Highness’ side to know what he says to keep the lords in line whenever they get cold feet about aligning themselves with him.”

“That nobody else would ever even come close to viewing them as equals.”

The captain nods his head. “It is no deception – and everyone born to a family like ours knows it to be true. The great families have grown accustomed to their privilege, and are so hesitant to grant it to anyone else.”

Yeonjun takes a careful breath. “Yet His Imperial Highness decided to share his own privilege with my family by bringing them here.”

To his own advantage, but still – the most powerful families would rather burn than acknowledge the nobility of the lesser houses to be the same as theirs.

“Perhaps only the most powerful feel secure enough in their fortune to consider charity,” Soobin posits, obviously half-serious, given by his jovial tone.

Or perhaps only the house of Kang values utility over prestige. “That would make our prince wholly unremarkable then, would it not?”

His tone is joking as well, but Soobin's responding frown seems quite genuine. “That was never really the reason why I found him remarkable myself. Was it your reason?”

The question takes Yeonjun aback. Is it? Is there even such a reason? There must be – he admires his husband, does he not? He used to. For his skill as a politician and as an administrator. For his courteous treatment of Yeonjun, and of the others around him. For his mild temper and composure. For his… willingness to indulge those like Yeonjun? Like Soobin? It has to be, to some extent – although his view of the prince's indulgence of Yeonjun's lowly origins was always tinted by the fact that it was him who was being indulged, who was being paid attention to, who was being courted.

But it seems his origins were ignored for the same simple reason everyone else elected to ignore them – out of simple fondness for him, personally – so perhaps rather than his view being skewed, it was accurate this entire time. There was nothing complex, nor noble, about the prince's taking of him as a wife. He wanted something he knew he could get, and he got it, the easiest way he knew to secure it. By appealing to Yeonjun's ambition, and desire for opulence.

It may be that it is admirable in its own right – remarkable – how easy Yeonjun was to deceive. How skillfully the prince did so. In the end, his aunt was correct about him and his ulterior motives; it was Yeonjun who was the fool after all.

 

.

 

The rest of the day proceeds much more according to plan. Soobin convinces councilor Seo to visit Yeonjun, and she hears them out much more willingly than Lord Yeun did. Just like him, she seems quite taken aback by Yeonjun's involvement, but she seems much more receptive to the explanation that it is an arrangement born out of pure necessity. At present, Yeonjun is the only one with unrestricted daily access to the prince, and as such, he has to be his mouthpiece. Certainly in times of need such as these.

He uses Lord Seo to perfect his explanation, and by the time he heads to the Emperor's quarters with Soobin at his side to keep him company, he feels quite confident in his ability to carry out their plan to the prince’s satisfaction again. It puts him in quite a pleasant mood, and he lets himself indulge in light chit-chat with Soobin as they walk, even though they still must be careful to not look too merry during the mourning period. They talk about the beauty of the sunset and the children of Soobin’s siblings, and Yeonjun’s heart is set at ease for the moment.

“Perhaps you could join me?” he jokes in Soobin’s direction as they near the gate. “Wait for me in the courtyard with the others?”

Soobin snorts. “I do not think anyone would appreciate that, Your Grace. Including the prince – I have arranged to meet with some of the other officers tonight; now that I have orders, I can make myself more useful than to partake in ritual offerings.”

Yeonjun gives an exaggerated sigh. “Ah, you and your good reasons to abandon me; you are just like my husband.”

“Your Grace—”

“Go, Captain Soobin,” Yeonjun says firmly when he hears the hesitation in Soobin’s tone. He should not overdo it with his playfulness – especially when there might be a kernel of truth to his teasing. “I will see you again tomorrow. We shall make sure we are not sick of each other by the end of this.”

“I think we are hardly at risk of coming to that point, Your Grace,” Soobin says mildly, and they part ways as Yeonjun comes to stand before the gates of the Emperor’s quarters.

This evening, the courtyard is filled with people. They line the pathway to the palace, and all rush to bow as Yeonjun enters. All of them are dressed in mourning clothes, but none of them ostentatiously – they are all commoners or slaves, every single one of them in employment of the Emperor’s household. All the people keeping the quarters as well-kept as they are.

Yeonjun passes by them to the staircase, which he ascends under careful observation of Jungsik, who bows to him deeply and properly as soon as one of his feet hits the last step. He makes no comment about Yeonjun’s early arrival, only beckons him through the white curtain and into the building proper.

To his surprise, he is neither led back downstairs nor brought all the way to the mourning chamber. Today, they make a shorter trip into what seems to be a smaller audience chamber, where a small group of servants stand holding the offerings he made this morning, divided onto smaller trays. They stand in a small semi-circle, and in the middle of them stands the Empress herself, her eyes piercing even though the veil. Yeonjun has to bow deeply before her, even as he servants bow to her as much as they can without jostling their trays. If he were inclined to read much into this, he could think it to be a calculated move, to have him bow in front of all the servants which are meant to defer to him today. In theory, the Empress has no reason to be here, and with her vow of silence, she is not obliged to explain her presence, either. Yeonjun simply has to tolerate it, as he makes the rounds around the servants, checking that everything is in order.

He pauses in front of a young woman holding a tray with bowls of dumpling soup, and reaches out to touch one of the bowls. The soup seems congealed, and when he touches it, it is as cold as he expected.

“Please have this warmed before we give it out.”

It seems like it would be quite the faux pas to give away offerings in such pitiful condition. The servant bows, and as he steps aside, she moves to have his order carried out, only to be stopped by the arm of the Empress suddenly extending in front of her. She stumbles to a stop, and her eyes flicker between the Empress and him, wide and startled.

Jungsik steps forward from where he stayed behind at the door before. “The soup will be given out as-is.”

Yeonjun turns around to look at him directly. The servant remains completely unaffected. “On whose orders?”

The answer seems obvious, and becomes even more clear when Jungsik first looks towards the Empress before opening his mouth to respond. With his assumption confirmed, he cuts the man off before he can respond properly.

“Unless I am mistaken, Jungsik, as the wife of His Imperial Majesty’s eldest son, the duty of sharing these offerings is mine, and not Her Imperial Grace’s.” He turns towards the Empress with a small bow. “And as grateful as I am to Your Imperial Grace for fulfilling my duties in my stead, and being as helpful as you have with assisting me in carrying them out now that I am present to tend to them, I believe it is ultimately my choice how I do so. And I say that the soup is to be warmed. So if you would allow this servant to carry out my order, I would greatly appreciate it, Your Imperial Grace.”

For a long moment, the Empress does not move a muscle, and with the way her head is titled, Yeonjun cannot even see her eyes through her veil. There is nothing for him to assess, not the slightest hint of a visible reaction, until her arm, eventually, surprisingly gracefully, lowers again.

Yet, the servant does not move, obviously shaken by the sudden confrontation between her two masters. Yeonjun squares his shoulders.

“From now on, if there are any preparations to be made here without my supervision, I want the soup warmed every day. Is that understood?”

All of the servants, not just the one carrying the tray, rush to bow in acknowledgment.

“Perfect. Now go – let us not keep everyone waiting outside. It is much too cold today to have them stand around too long.”

With those words, the servant scurries away. Yeonjun lifts his chin, and looks at the rest of the trays before nodding in satisfaction. Now, it is immaculate.

 

.

 

To his surprise, the Empress does not follow him and the servants down to the courtyard. She stays at the top of the stairs with Jungsik as Yeonjun and the others descend, looking down on the rest of them.

The ceremony itself is a simple one, and minding the weather, even with the fire still blazing in the courtyard thanks to the children, Yeonjun makes sure to make it a quick one as well. He is to distribute what is left of the offerings among all the loyal servants of the deceased Emperor, so he walks through the lined up rows of servants in the courtyard, distributing fish, meat, rice, vegetables and rice cakes to each of them. The more people he presents with the food, the more sure he becomes that he will need to prepare even more the next day, if the servants are to feast every night in the Emperor’s honor. He hardly knew it took this many people to tend to a single building at the Court – it seems to him they would make up nearly all of the staff he has to tend to the main building of his own palace, the building which houses most of the members of his household.

He was never quite in danger of making his own household too illustrious for a provincial estate, then – he simply underestimated the real opulence of the Imperial Court. How childish that was of him.

As a consequence, he has to be careful to make sure he has enough for everyone, and embarrassment fills him the longer the ceremony goes on. He always found it so crucial for him and the prince to show generosity. Generosity shows wealth which shows status, and it shows humility which is so incredibly crucial to keep the favor of others despite their high standing. If they were not willing to share their wealth with others, what would that make of them? All the other families, throwing the common folk scraps as New Year’s money? It would be shameful. This is shameful.

When he gets to the children who have been tending to the fire all this time, they are all shivering, curled in on themselves even as they try to stand in a way respectful of the royal stepping up to them. Yeonjun takes all the prepared bowls of warm soup, and distributes them between them. The children look at him through their veils with mute gratitude, and Yeonjun nods at them in acknowledgment. He is unsure if the children are ever allowed to leave the courtyard – he assumes they are not.

Once he is done, he comes back to the middle of the courtyard, to give the servants who have assisted him this whole time their share of food and some money for their help. He looks around himself as he steps away from them, and finds himself in the middle of a dark courtyard surrounded by shivering servants. It gives him an idea.

“Master Jungsik!”

He turns sharply around, to see the head servant stepping up to the top stair.

“Every one of them is to be hosted with warm tea tonight. Please see to it.”

Jungsik turns around to look at the Empress, who obviously cannot say a word in response, before bowing deeply in Yeonjun’s direction. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun looks around, and gives each side of the gathered servants around him a nod and a smile. Perhaps this can ensure they don’t come out of this thinking him to be stingy, or anything less than gracious.

 

.

 

The next day, Yeonjun arrives before daybreak. Jungsik is still there, by the entrance, waiting for him. With hands clumsy with fatigue, wholly unused to waking up so early, Yeonjun prepares a veritable feast this morning, even asks for more ingredients to be brought in, all while the Empress undoes half of all progress he makes at any given time. He does not argue and he does not let his frustration show. He bows his head and he does better next time. Like an imperial wife should, like Yeonjun knows he can.

By the time he steps with the table into the death chamber, his arms are nearly giving out under the weight of it. Once again, he is offered no assistance, and once again, his pride stops him from asking for it – still, when the prince jumps to his feet when he steps in, and takes the table laden with food off his hands, Yeonjun cannot find it in himself to be anything but grateful, as his husband lays it down by himself.

Taehyun stays standing by the table while Yeonjun tends to the fire in the corner, adding herbs to the pan above it that keep the sweet smoke around them potent. He watches Yeonjun silently as he does so, then joins him in kneeling before the table, to do their offering of wine and show of respect.

“You have brought much more food than yesterday,” he finally points out as they sit next to each other, both yet unwilling to rise.

“There are many servants in these quarters,” Yeonjun replies curtly.

His husband hums and nods, then his fingers flutter restlessly on his own knee. “Were you successful yesterday?”

“Somewhat,” he allows. “We managed to speak with two of the lords – Lord Yeun and Lord Seo.”

The prince looks at him in surprise, somewhat breaking the odd decorum Yeonjun thought they had established. “You have spoken to Lord Yeun?”

Yeonjun cannot help a small sardonic smile rising to his mouth. “Yes.”

Obviously assessing his expression for a moment, Taehyun takes some time before responding with, “I hope you were prepared for him when you did so.”

And he cannot help but look at his husband as well, his own face surely betraying the wry amusement he feels thinking about the whole affair. “Not quite – he arrived unannounced without any prompting from our side – Captain Soobin did not get the chance to warn me about his… quirks of personality.”

The prince lets out a small sigh. “I suppose I should have warned you myself via the letter – but I trust that you handled him with your usual grace.”

Did he? He was effective, but perhaps not quite graceful about it. “I settled the situation the best I could.”

Taehyun gives him a small nod. “Soobin is assisting you, then?”

“Yes – I brought no entourage here with me, and if we want to avoid seeming too obvious or disrespectful… I needed someone who would be more free to wander through the palace than I.”

“Of course – as always, we owe much to Captain Soobin’s loyalty.”

“Indeed,” Yeonjun agrees with a small bow of his head.

Then Taehyun looks at him strangely, his eyes wandering across Yeonjun’s face before he adds, “I am glad the two of you remain in good standing with each other.”

And Yeonjun can barely decipher what those words mean – if they are sincere or double-edged, if the prince has done something to drive a wedge between them that Yeonjun is not yet privy to, but he finds he does not want to know. He does not wish to confront this. He and Soobin are now as close as they ever were, and that feels good. That feels right. Yeonjun does not want to lose it.

He looks down, and away, then says, “I believe it is time for us to move on to the washing.”

And perhaps wholly unsurprisingly, the prince does not say a word against his suggestion – instead he gets up and retreats to one corner of the room while Yeonjun fetches the water and washcloth. Today, Yeonjun watches his husband strip out of the corner of his eye, and his gaze catches on the neat scar on his chest. By now, it feels to Yeonjun like an integral part of his husband’s body, present whenever he gets to see it bared this way, but perhaps it is odd of him, to take it for granted the way he has. It means something, and he should not forget that.

He avoids Taehyun’s eyes again while he washes him, but this time the prince seems constantly on the verge of speaking up, until Yeonjun himself cannot help it but glance up to meet his gaze, upon which his husband immediately starts speaking, as if it were the cue he was waiting for this entire time.

“I have had a lot on my mind while confined in here,” he whispers, eyes searching Yeonjun’s for a reason he cannot ascertain before dropping to his lips. “I hope you know that I do not resent you.” Then he looks up again into Yeonjun’s eyes. “For falling in love with someone else.”

Yeonjun finds himself gritting his teeth. Falling in love with someone else.

He presses his hand to the prince’s mating mark, squeezing the washcloth against his skin until water pours in rivulets down his chest, like a wound gushing blood. “Soobin told me you courted me because you were in love with me. Is that true?”

The prince’s eyes shake in response. He takes hold of Yeonjun’s hand, and takes it gently off of his chest. “I married you for many reasons. Personal affection may have been one of them.”

His voice is nowhere as firm as it should be. It is hesitant. Reluctant. He does not want to say this to Yeonjun’s face, but Yeonjun wants him to. Needs him to, perhaps.

“What were your reasons, then?”

Yeonjun abandons the washing in favor of his interrogation, and lays the hand with the cloth on his own thigh carelessly, letting water seep into his own robes before he finally regains the mind to remove it, and discard it into the basin again.

The whole time, the prince seems to be weighing his response, and he bides his time until Yeonjun is paying his full attention to him again before responding, “This is not the right place to discuss this, wife.”

“How so?” Yeonjun retorts sharply. “Because we must keep our voices down to avoid being overheard?” He shuffles closer then, until the insides of his knees touch the prince’s, and their faces are close enough that Yeonjun has to do as little as breathe his words out to be heard. “I can come close so you need not trip any curious ears outside while you are finally honest with me.”

Taehyun’s expression seems pained, and he leans away the best he can without actually moving away from him – Yeonjun cannot find in himself any compassion with his predicament today. “That is not the only issue, Yeonjun.”

This time, somehow, the sound of his name does not hit him like a slap in the face. Today, it sounds like a concession. Like the prince is giving in, bit by bit. Willing to speak to him, instead of his nebulous idea of his wife, who he needs to keep all this decorum around. Not mates, not spouses. Yeonjun and Taehyun again – for better or for worse.

Yeonjun only tilts his head in response – he need not voice his question to express it.

“My father is here with us,” the prince says then, and his eyes narrow as his expression pinches. “And he never approved of our union. If it were up to him, you would have never been the one here with me now. Honoring him with me. He never thought you were worthy.”

He swallows. The words hurt, even though, at the end of the day, he was never led to believe otherwise. The Emperor never seemed to respect him much, or lead his wife to respect him. He never seemed thrilled to have him as a son-in-law. But Yeonjun, to some extent, hoped that was simply his nature. He was just as reserved with his son, with his wife, with everyone – but it may be, nobody was truly worthy in his eyes. Perhaps none of them quite reached his lofty expectations.

Taehyun and him never produced an heir. The Empress could never give him another child. His son valued his ideals over political power, his son-in-law was poor and lowly no matter how well-dressed or educated he was. His wife never amounted to much of anything – she remained a quiet, passive presence in the household, never a mother, never an influence, never a useful political tool. Just a warm body filling out an empty space that tradition required the Emperor keep occupied.

“Do you agree with him now then? Do you not see me as worthy anymore?”

“Of course not,” his husband spits, obviously offended. To Yeonjun’s shock, he then reaches out, under Yeonjun’s veil, pressing his palm to Yeonjun’s painted cheek, and where he had been leaning away before, now he comes closer. “You have always been worthy, Yeonjun. You were made to have only the best – and when I decided to court you, it was to ensure that you would get it. The most expensive clothes, the finest jewelry, the most comfortable life in the most beautiful of places. I knew my family’s wealth would be able to provide it to you. And I knew that my name would ensure that nobody could disrespect you again. Nobody but the royal family itself could ever touch you.” His fingers tighten slightly on Yeonjun’s cheek, and yet he is not afraid - even as his husband trembles minutely with repressed emotion. “Father tried to dissuade me from marrying you by continuously humiliating you before us. Treating you like a pet, like a songbird for his amusement.” He shakes his head. “But it only strengthened my resolve. I knew that as my wife, you would be shielded. I could shield you. And then nobody would ever speak to you that way again.”

But somebody did. The Emperor did. Taehyun did. Because when Yeonjun needed him the most, his husband faltered.

“I think…” Taehyun pulls his bottom lip through his teeth, his eyes lowering on Yeonjun’s face seemingly more lost in thought than with a real destination. “That much like Omega Beomgyu, I hoped, in some way, to save you. From a life I myself deemed unworthy of you. Because… you were. Brilliant, and ambitious, courteous and beautiful. Because you seemed so kind even as you seemed to consider your own future shrewdly. Because you did not allow this court to break your gentle spirit.” Slowly, he lets his hand fall off of Yeonjun’s cheek, and he misses the point of contact between them, inching closer as if to make up for the sudden lack of it. “I hoped to preserve it, with all the fortune I was born into. Because I have seen omegas broken by this court. By politics. By the pressure of those who did not treasure them the way they deserved to be treasured. The need to produce heirs. The need to stay silent. The need to be responsible while not being allowed any agency of their own.”

The prince takes in a shaky breath, and Yeonjun tilts his head down to catch his eyes. His husband looks exhausted; broken-down. Vulnerable again. His fingers brush over Yeonjun’s knees gently, in just a ghost of a touch.

“I watched it kill my mother, and so I resolved to save one life – just one, if I never gained the power to save many. And you—”

It always comes back here – to the Empress mother. To how badly Taehyun seemed to not want to be the same husband his father was. The royal couple, standing so squarely between them that they were never quite able to make contact past the prince’s memory of them.

“You loved me.”

Taehyun’s shoulders rise and fall with an air of helplessness. “I was young, and you were lovely – but there was not a single bit of you I thought would be unworthy of being my wife, whether I held affection for you or not.”

“I had no money, Taehyun.”

“I did not need more money, Yeonjun. I did not need you to be wealthy, or illustrious. I wanted you to be easy to care for. Easy to be selfless for. I needed someone I could sacrifice every bit of hunger I had in me for, because I knew my own want would always be my greatest detriment. That I would desire too badly, and hurt you as a consequence. And I was right.”

Yeonjun huffs in frustration. “I—”

“You did not need my sacrifices. You needed my care and attention. I know that now.”

“And you would still withdraw them from me, I—”

His husband shushes him urgently, and Yeonjun cuts himself off, suddenly aware that he raised his voice too much. As if meaning to soothe him, his husband takes his hands gently, too gently, and runs his thumbs over the backs of his hands.

“If you understand now that I married you out of love for you, then you must understand my decision as well. You belong to someone else, Yeonjun. I cannot pretend that is not true anymore, not even for your sake. To hold something precious for years, to be able to imagine it is mine, just to have reality come down on me this way, to remind me that it has slipped through my fingers long ago. It is nothing less than painful. It is the truth, and yet it pains me.” He squeezes Yeonjun’s hands a bit more tightly. “The more I come to understand, the more it hurts. The depth of my own failures. And the artifices, the little moments of fantasy you have always let me indulge in, when you pretended to love me, to want me, to want anything else from me but the security my favor provided you – they are nothing but salt in my wounds. To be forced to see how sweet it would be, to be really loved by you…”

He seems at loss for words, and Yeonjun, whose heart has clenched into something tight and painful, rips his own hands out of the prince’s grip.

“I always wanted to love you…” Taehyun. Husband. My prince. “Your Highness. But you have never done anything but put obstacles in my way to that end. I wanted to understand you, I wanted to share your burdens with you, I wanted to give you everything I had. But you were the one to prevent me from doing so. I always wanted to marry an alpha I could grow to love. And you were respectful, pleasant and more handsome by the year. It could have been you. If only you have wanted the same.”

If he refused the prince… whose arms would he have ended up in? Lord Myeongjin’s? Girlishly giddy about his well-connected, good-looking young husband, just like Nayoon, perhaps just as hurt one day when he made it too clear that he did not pluck him out of poverty just to listen to the opinions of someone lowly – having to win his respect by giving him children. But Yeonjun wanted children; he wanted to be a mother so he could respect himself, so he could then demand respect from his husband. Perhaps he and Myeongjin would have understood each other better – wouldn’t that have made the union perfect? Then Yeonjun would never have to wonder about the things that have plagued him lately. He would never need to understand his own attraction to omegas; he would never have to ponder the worth of a wife; the burden of loyalty, the burden of power. He would have lived a true carefree life. Happily producing children for the imperial courtiers to be envious of, wearing the latest fashion, knowing nothing of keeping his own household or balancing the favor of a temperamental town council. He would have never had to wonder whether to betray his husband for his own advancement or not. He would have never questioned a thing.

Does he want that? Should he?

His husband nods. He does not speak a word in his own defense. Today, he does not cry, and through the sweet smoke, Yeonjun can barely smell any bitterness or staleness on him.

“I apologize for wasting your time, Lady Yeonjun.”

And it is the address, the simple mimicking of Yeonjun’s own cold speech that breaks through Yeonjun’s frustration, through his anger, and ruptures the tightness in his chest into an overwhelming, aching melancholy. Instead of further tearing himself away, he comes closer, presses himself into Taehyun’s chest, buries his face in his husband’s neck, until finally, his nose comes upon the only thing potent enough to make his pain bearable again – his mate’s warm, spicy scent. The first breath he takes of it is just as stale as he expects it to be, but the closer he burrows into the prince’s arms, the more it warms and sweetens. His husband shifts against him, and the longer Yeonjun clings to him, the more obvious it becomes that he is forcing himself to be calm for Yeonjun’s sake. Trying to make his scent as soothing as it can be. As warm and pleasant as Yeonjun needs it to be.

His breath catches in his throat, and his eyes well up, as he licks his lips, fighting the need to taste it, to get closer to it, until he can think of nothing but the warm spice and the safety it provides. The assurance it feels to be, to the most base parts of his mind, that everything will be well again.

He presses his forehead to the prince’s collarbone, needing to get away from his scent again before he does something unwise, and breathes heavily, too rapidly. Blinking his eyes hard, he stares at the water-stained fabric of the prince’s trousers.

“You frustrate me, Your Highness.”

“I apologize, Lady Yeonjun.”

The prince’s tone sounds strained. Yeonjun realizes he is gripping at his arms hard, digging his fingers in, while his husband holds him by the sides gently. He loosens the grip of his fingers, slowly, deliberately.

“Please do not call me that again.”

“Understood.” Yeonjun feels the prince’s chest heave under him, once, twice, thrice. “Please do not call me ‘Your Highness’, either.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes and nods.

Taehyun’s fingers, unusually gentle, run up and down one side of his back, both ticklish and calming. “I hope you found my explanation sufficient.”

He fears it was made to make him smile, and it almost succeeds, making him huff out a tired breath across his husband’s chest. When he blinks his eyes open, it is to a stretch of skin he cannot help but bring his own hand to, brushing his fingers across it just to feel its texture against the pads of his fingers. Cruel, maybe, but not more than the soft touches to his own back the prince will not cease.

“Why did you never tell me you loved me? I was your wife.”

“It felt childish, once we became spouses. What is love to marriage? To a physical bond which would always have us needing each other? In comparison to giving myself to you as an alpha, confessing my love to you felt… trite.”

Those words are finally what make Yeonjun lift his head again, to face his husband more directly. Meeting his eyes through his veil, the somber reminder why they are here like this in the first place, his hand still braced against his husband’s chest. “Is that still what you think? That love is trite in comparison to marriage? To a mating bond?”

Taehyun frowns. “If I felt so, then I would have never given you up to Omega Beomgyu just because you loved him.”

Yeonjun presses his hand against the prince’s chest tighter, but today, the prince does not let himself be pushed away – perhaps he understands that it is not what Yeonjun means to do this time. “What difference is there, then, between his love for me and yours? Why is love not important when you are the one feeling it?”

Knowing his husband as well as he does now, he does not expect to hear and answer, so he is not surprised when instead of one, he feels the prince’s hands pulling away from his body.

“That seems to be a question I should be able to answer,” the prince says measuredly, almost too calm. Too reasonable. “Perhaps I should use my time here to consider it.”

Yeonjun’s palm on his husband’s chest closes into a fist. “I believe you should.”

His husband looks away, and Yeonjun can see whatever door was opened between them closing again. Whatever window he was allowed to peer into his husband’s innermost thoughts, it is gone now. “I fail to understand why you would not simply assume that I loved you. Who has ever been able to do otherwise?”

Feeling exhausted, Yeonjun moves away from his husband without gracing his words with a response. To his credit, he does not seem to expect one.

 

.

 

With his visit to the Emperor’s quarters as exhausting as it was, Yeonjun does not rush to get to work as soon as he returns home. He changes clothes to get rid of the water stains on his robes, and carefully repaints his face which was smudged by his husband’s touch, then he sits sullenly for a long time over tea, first with Soobin who has once more come to assist him, then alone when Soobin leaves to speak to a few people on his behalf. Once he feels more refreshed, he steps out for a stroll through the gardens, where he carefully intercepts a pair of wives who are taking a walk together, doing his best to convey through veiled speech his need to speak to their husbands discreetly. One of them seems to understand his message better than the other, and as he walks away from them again, he sees them huddle together to speak about the conversation they have just had. Hopefully, his message will ultimately be clear to both of them.

When he returns to his husband’s rooms, Soobin is not yet there, and Yeonjun has to apply himself not to grow nervous and restless. He uses Kyunsang to this end, engaging him in conversation about the events at the court while he was not present, and making the man help him make some minor adjustments to the prince’s rooms, taking down some of the decor to make them look more modest and suited for a family in mourning.

Once a visitor finally comes to their doorstep, Yeonjun finally lets his shoulders drop in relief.

It is only a brief reprieve, however, as chamomile wafts in Yeonjun’s direction from the open door. His spine straightens out of pure habit. His hands come up to adjust his hair, to make sure it is perfect. When Kyunsang needlessly announces his aunt’s presence, Yeonjun nods for him to allow her inside.

And despite everything, his aunt bows to him impeccably as always, and does not rise until Yeonjun acknowledges her with a small bow of his own.

“Your Grace.”

“Aunt Misoon.”

“I have come on behalf of my family to express our sympathies in your time of mourning.”

“Thank you, Aunt Misoon.”

His aunt stares at his collarbone sharply, with her eyes narrowed. She does not dare to impolitely look him in the eye today. “How unfortunate that you were not present for His Imperial Majesty’s passing.”

Of course. “The news of his illness unfortunately did not reach our estate until after His Imperial Majesty had succumbed to it.”

“It seems His Highness put off calling for you needlessly.”

“None of us could have known that his illness would take him for good, Aunt Misoon.”

She scrunches her nose, as if she disagrees, but says no such thing. “It seems quite disgraceful to have Her Imperial Grace do your duties for you.”

Yeonjun lifts his chin. “Which is why I have taken charge of my duties as soon as I have arrived.”

That seems to startle her, to Yeonjun’s own surprise. “Have you?”

“Yes – I have been visiting the quarters every day to tend to them.”

“Ah.”

She did not know this – does Yeonjun need to be louder about his actions? If most of the court remains convinced that he has not been doing anything to take responsibility as the prince’s wife, then this could be ruinous for his reputation.

The news seems to genuinely shake her somewhat – and perhaps Yeonjun cannot blame her for thinking poorly of a child she raised who would not do his filial duty so flagrantly.

“I have been overjoyed by the news of our relatives coming to court. They have come to visit me recently, and it was so pleasant to see them.”

Misoon looks at him strangely as he says this – as if she would expect him not to acknowledge any kindness given to them by the man he refused to ally himself with. “Certainly. His Imperial… Highness has been most kind to us.”

“Indeed,” Yeonjun acknowledges with a bow of his head.

His aunt’s apprehension melts into some sort of conviction. “It seems that the time to act is upon us.”

He takes a deep, careful breath. “Is it?” He can take advantage of this; he can show his husband that he will not let the gears of imperial politics grind him down. He can show his aunt that he is her equal now. He understands just as much as she does. “Perhaps it is time when it would be best to idle.”

Misoon visibly hesitates, and her eyes flicker towards Kyunsang, who is politely standing by the servants’ door. “Pardon?”

“It will soon come time for a new emperor to ascend, will it not? A time of tumult, for many, as titles change hands and alliances are redrawn. It would surely not benefit the situation if one were to act hastily. At such a chaotic time for any realm, any great shifts could easily erode the foundations of this empire. If any volatile elements were to find themselves in a less than firm position, would they not be compelled to act?”

The look of horror his words conjure upon his aunt’s face both amuses and pains him. He should not be making these insinuations before the woman who raised him. But she was the one warning Yeonjun of an uprising. And now she would dislodge the man who would lead it from his position of power? So he would have nothing to lose were he to incite a civil war? It seems absurd.

“If you want to avoid a tiger’s jaws, the safest place for you is on its back.”

“But if the tiger is only a cub—”

“War is war, Aunt Misoon. And I believe I know you well enough to know for a fact that neither of us favor it.” He shakes his head slightly. “Who would it benefit? When the victors’ spoils are divided, do you think the Choi name will be among the chosen? Our house knows no great commanders – only loose ends that need to be cut, once the prince’ fate is spun.”

His aunt purses her mouth tightly, her chamomile scent growing burnt at the edges of it, like biting smoke.

“We should think wisely about the future we want for ourselves, auntie. And what we do to ensure it.”

It sounds like so many of the lessons his aunt painstakingly instilled in him throughout his entire childhood – and yet, it feels insolent to repeat those words to her face. To remind her of what she taught him. To do it all over again.

Today, however, something in his aunt’s eyes tells him she heard him, in a way she did not before.

She truly fears the thought of war. Of an uprising. Yeonjun hardly knew anything of the one that took place when he was a boy – he heard embellished veteran’s tales that sounded to him as real as children’s stories. He knows it was quashed quickly, and brutally, but he was not made to see any of the repercussions. If there was a lesson to be learned from the way it had gone, Yeonjun had not learned it. Perhaps he should have – then he would come to understand the urgency of his aunt’s distress. Perhaps then they would have never driven this wedge between them.

But perhaps there are too many differences between them in the first place.

 

.

 

Soobin only arrives at lunchtime, with lord councilor Jung Yunbok at his heels. Somehow, the first thing Yeonjun notices as he leads the alphas to his tea room to host them, is how pleasant their scents are together. Soobin’s pleasant note of amber, and the lord councilor’s similarly gentle sandalwood – they seem to blend together like a perfume, mild and soothing in the air together as they follow him side by side.

The next thing he notices is how friendly the lord acts towards Soobin. It reminds him more of the way his own husband treats the captain than the behavior of any of the other lords councilor. He seems to have no qualms walking side-by-side with an alpha of lower standing, smiles at the captain openly, and when they sit down at the table and Soobin visibly hesitates where to sit, he openly gestures at the seat next to himself with a warm look in his eyes.

Yeonjun intentionally makes no gesture of his own, looking towards the captain questioningly. There seems to be a dynamic at play he is not privy to – surely nothing he noticed the few times he had met lord councilor Jung before. He wonders if it is the reason why Soobin took so long to return to him – if whatever this behavior means had Soobin spending more time convincing Lord Jung to come than he intended to.

It certainly comes as a surprise to him when Soobin follows the lord’s gesture, and sits next to him instead of at Yeonjun’s own side – and even more when he so stubbornly avoids Yeonjun’s scrutiny as he does so. Embarrassed and meek, like a boy.

Seemingly satisfied with their seating arrangement, Lord Jung bows slightly as he sits with a surprisingly kind look in his eye aimed at Yeonjun as well. “Before we say anything else, Your Grace. I would like to extend deepest sympathies towards your family from the entire House of Jung. Sincerely, Your Grace, I am sorry that both you and His Highness are forced to play this game of politics in your time of mourning.”

The words shake him somewhat – they sound so genuine, and kind in a simple way he was not expecting. It is obvious that the lord genuinely wants to sympathize with him and the prince – and that he assumes that they are both feeling the loss of the Emperor bitterly. He feels almost ashamed of his own lack of genuine grief – he may have barely known the man, but he was Yeonjun’s father-in-law. He may have caused much of the pain tearing his husband apart, but his eventual tolerance of their marriage made Yeonjun into what he is now. They were family. Yeonjun owed him so much. And he feels almost nothing at all.

He raises a shaky hand to his own chest and bows in response. “Thank you, Lord councilor. I am afraid one can never quite shed the royal cloak, even when they don the mourning veil.”

“That is quite beautifully put, Your Grace,” the lord says gently. “Is it not, Captain?”

Soobin seems surprised to be suddenly addressed, but he rushes to nod. “Yes, Lord Jung – His Grace has always been skilled with his words.”

Now Yeonjun is the one startled by the sudden showering of praise, and he covers his mouth with his sleeve modestly. “Not at all, Captain, my lord – I speak idly. You know what the habit of my kind is.”

“If you speak of a pleasant manner, then certainly! I should hope that we all could adopt it – sometimes it seems to me that my kind assumes a rough manner pointlessly. It is something I have always admired about your husband – he always seemed to me to understand that some flies are better caught with honey.” The Lord turns towards Soobin then, his eyes glancing up and down the captain’s form. “Our good captain as well – rarely have I seen a military man capable of such sweetness.”

To Yeonjun’s delight, the words seem to fluster Soobin terribly , and he glances wide-eyed between the two of them before clearing his throat loudly. “Lord councilor, we have grave matters to discuss.”

“Oh, of course!” the lord exclaims, and the noise hides the small breath of a laugh Yeonjun cannot quite suppress before lowering his sleeve. “I apologize, Your Grace.”

“Oh, it is no trouble, Lord councilor. Thank you for bringing such a pleasant air to our rooms on this day. We have been in such dire need of it.”

“Ah, it is my pleasure then, Your Grace,” the lord assures him warmly, and Yeonjun finds himself so thoroughly at ease that perhaps he goes on to run his mouth a little too easily. They share much of everything with the lord Jung, from their previous encounters with the other lords of the council to some of the people they are yet to contact whose names were on the prince’s list. Lord Jung offers to speak to Lord Na on their behalf, as well as multiple of the less important courtiers, and by the time the lord councilor leaves the rooms, they have not only enjoyed their lunch in his presence, but also made arrangements to meet with him another day, to exchange news of their individual progress

When they are seeing the lord out, he pauses to ask Soobin if he would walk with him to his rooms, which Soobin hastily yet politely refuses. Still, it does not seem to lessen the Lord’s pleasant nature even a bit, and he leaves just as amicably as he arrived.

Once the door closes behind him, Yeonjun looks at Soobin questioningly, and the captain lowers his head immediately.

“Please do not come to any conclusions about this, Your Grace.”

“What conclusions would that be, my dear Soobin? That Lord councilor Jung considers you a friend?”

The captain looks at him with his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is that the conclusion you are partial to, Your Grace?”

Yeonjun shrugs. “It may be the only conclusion I consider, if you would prefer it that way.”

Soobin clears his throat awkwardly. “Perhaps I would.”

Feeling oddly careless, thanks to the lord’s welcoming attitude, Yeonjun reaches out and lays a hand on Soobin’s arm, who all but startles at the touch. “As you wish, my friend.”

 

.

 

The morning after that goes even better than the previous one did – Yeonjun still feels exhausted by the Empress’ dedication to pettiness, and he still refuses to ask for help with his heavy burden on his way to the death chamber, but he feels altogether much more well-composed than on any of the previous days. He tends to the fire, pays his respects, and tells his husband the news of his aunt’s visit and Lord Jung’s offer to assist them while they sit side-by-side. Taehyun seems worried by the former and amused by the latter, and Yeonjun offers him both reassurances that he had handled his aunt’s presence well and the gossip about his favorable treatment of Soobin. It almost seems as if nothing strange, nor impactful happened the day before, unless his husband is stripped down to his waist again and Yeonjun’s hand once more comes to rest over his mating mark.

He misses Beomgyu, he realizes then, with such strange, stark clarity. Misses the comfort of his arms and his blunt words. Beomgyu would cut through this ambiguity like a knife. He would know the words to say, to make all this make sense again.

Except he would not, would he? Not even Beomgyu could make sense of the mess of contradictions that Taehyun has proven himself to be.

“Wife,” his husband says gently once Yeonjun has paused in his motions too long, his hand frozen over the scar his own teeth have carved. “Are you well?”

Blinking rapidly, he nods, sweeping his hand down the way he was supposed to. “Yes.” He clears his throat, and for the lack of other topics to discuss, says, “When you were courting me, you said you stood to inherit an estate.”

Obviously surprised by the topic, the prince nods. “Yes – there is a palace in one of my father’s holdings. Although I suppose… they are my holdings, now.” He seems oddly reluctant to correct himself. Yeonjun does not blame him.

“Is it under stewardship?”

“Yes,” Taehyun answers a bit emptily – Yeonjun feels bad, but he committed himself to this conversation already. “Nobody lives there permanently at the moment.” Then his eyes shift to Yeonjun, and they are so strangely tender that it worries him. “Perhaps we should visit it, after the funeral.”

He frowns. “Would that be wise? To leave the court hastily after the new emperor’s ascension?”

“It may be – it would show everyone we do not intend to make any more politics. That we do not wish to be disruptive. That we simply want to mourn solemnly, in private.”

Yeonjun ruminates on the thought as he drags the washcloth over his husband’s face. “Or perhaps they would worry about you choosing to leave the eye of this Court. They might take it as an assurance that you are planning something.”

An uprising of the lords, perhaps – a civil war.

Taehyun hums thoughtfully. “You may be correct. I will give this more thought.”

Yeonjun nods with his lips pressed tight. Perhaps the prince has been given too much time to think.

 

.

 

When he steps out of the gate of the Emperor’s quarters after tending to his husband, there is a tall figure bent over in a formal bow waiting for him, dressed in an alpha’s mourning clothes. He comes to a startled stop as it stands in his way, and covers his mouth to hide his reaction just as the alpha rises from the bow into a perfect gentlemanly stance, before offering him an amiable smile that seems out of place when framed by garb that suggests deep mourning. Catlike eyes narrow and the familiar scent of woodsmoke reaches his nose, so distinguishable in its notes from the real smoke rising from the fire still blazing in the courtyard.

Prince Iseul tilts her head at him. “Good morning, Lady Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun bows politely. “Good morning, Your Highness. You startled me.”

“Oh, I apologize, Lady Yeonjun. I did not intend to.” Something about her tone makes Yeonjun believe otherwise, but she does not leave him much space to wonder as she looks around them a bit too theatrically to not be pointed. “I came here hoping to meet the good Captain Choi. The talk of the Court is, he is hardly to be found anywhere but at your side these days, my lady Yeonjun.” With the same odd joviality, she looks directly at Yeonjun again. “That does not reflect upon either of you very well, does it? To be seen so often in one another’s company, conversing privately in your own husband’s rooms. That is hardly appropriate, is it not?”

He has to struggle not to let his jaw tighten or his expression falter. He offers the prince a smile instead. “Captain Soobin is an old family friend – he has been at my husband’s side since before I have even come to this court. I have found his presence at this difficult time for our family an indispensable source of comfort.”

Iseul hums, then huffs through her nose with a nod. “Certainly – in your husband’s absence, you must be in need of a source of comfort.”

“Unfortunately, our prince’s filial piety dictates that we remain separated for now – his duties as a son come before those of a husband.”

“Ah – are those the ones that Captain Choi has so gracefully chosen to fulfill in his good friend’s stead, then? How stellar of a friendship those two must have.”

The wind is knocked out of Yeonjun’s chest at just how brazen the prince’s obvious accusations are. Is this the way she has decided to treat Yeonjun now that he rejected her offer? Now that she is but a formality away from being the crown prince of the Empire?

Prince Iseul laughs quietly, obviously more than pleased with Yeonjun’s agitated state. “Oh, I jest, Lady Yeonjun, please do not worry. Why would I make up stories, when there are already so many much more well-substantiated ones abound? I have actually come here with an entirely friendly intention.”

Everything in Yeonjun wants to freeze up – to curl into himself, wilt in front of the alpha who is so openly toying with him. Everything but his pride, and thankfully for him, that always remains the strongest part of him. So he lifts his chin proudly instead. “And what would that be, Your Highness?”

Out of anything he could prepare himself to face, he does of expect to be offered Iseul’s arm of all things. But it is there, perfectly gentlemanly. And it would be so perfectly strange of him to accept it.

“To walk you to your husband’s rooms today. If Captain Choi is afforded the pleasure of accompanying you so readily, surely you will not refuse the company of a relative? I lost an uncle the same day you lost your father-in-law. Surely we can seek comfort in each other, Lady Yeonjun.”

He looks down at her arm instead of looking at her face. “I am afraid I do not make a habit of walking arm-in-arm with alphas I am not married to, Your Highness.”

“Ha.” Iseul tilts her head coyly again. “Now, that is not what I have heard, Lady Yeonjun.”

“Then you have heard wrong,” Yeonjun responds firmly. “I have not done so since I was an unmarried child.”

But still, the prince does not lower her arm. “For the sake of old times, then.”

“What you are asking of me is inappropriate, Your Highness.”

Without blinking an eye, Iseul leans closer to him. “Do you know what is inappropriate, Lady Yeonjun? Defying the crown prince.”

He purses his lips tightly, giving into the need to let his frustration show somehow. “You are not one quite yet, are you, Your Highness?”

Iseul only raises her eyebrows. “Soon enough.”

“Who knows how soon it will be,” Yeonjun says so carefully lightly.

And finally, the prince’s arm lowers just a little bit. “I assume you may, Lady Yeonjun, as the timing of my promotion rests in the hands of your royal husband.”

“I may,” he responds primly, and smiles.

The prince lowers her arm completely, and looks him up and down appraisingly. “You never quite cease to amaze, Lady Yeonjun.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Yeonjun bows in gratitude politely without asking if it was meant as a compliment. “May I leave now?”

“No,” Iseul says curtly, and folds her hands behind her back. “Walk at my side.”

Deciding that this version of events is innocuous enough for him to accept, Yeonjun relents, and steps up to walk back to Taehyun’s rooms at her side. He tries to ignore her pleased smile at his acquiescence.

“Our Taehyun has shown himself to be unexpectedly filial recently,” she says conversationally, looking over at him with insincerely warm eyes. It feels so strange, after encountering Lord Jung, to see the prince adopt such similar amicable manner, just to lack every single bit of the heart the lord councilor imbued his manner with. “We hardly knew he was capable of such deep respect for his father.”

The jab is obvious, but Yeonjun sees it coming from the start, and it hardly makes him falter. “He has found himself regretting quite bitterly not being more open with how highly he regarded His late Imperial Majesty – he is hoping to remedy his mistake through this vigil.”

“Oh, I am sure he is. But I am not sure if the old man will appreciate it, long overdue as his respect is,” she peeks at him again, and offers him the same coy tilt of her head as before. “I would not be surprised if he haunted your honorable husband with nightmares every night as retaliation for all the scorn he has shown him throughout his life…” Despite her somber words, her tone remains light, and Yeonjun finds himself a little perturbed by it. “Has my honorable cousin been sleeping well?”

Yeonjun has to swallow before responding. “Yes, Your Highness. I believe so.”

Iseul hums. “Curious.”

They walk a few more steps in silence, before the prince speaks again.

“Have you given any more thought to my offer, Lady Yeonjun?”

It is her offer now, then? Openly?

“No,” he responds curtly.

“How so?” she asks in turn, her lips protruding into a pout as she peeks at his face again. “Do I seem so terrible to you, Lady Yeonjun? I assure you I take exceptional care of all those of the gentler kind in my care.”

For a moment, he struggles to find the familiar lack of sincerity in her question. Somehow, to him, she seems genuinely surprised by his lack of interest in joining her household. “What I find so terrible, Your Highness, is the notion of being less than loyal to my husband.”

“Ah.” Her pouted lips part, and her tongue flicks past them briefly to wet them before her face shifts into something more thoughtful. “Is it the plight of the ever virtuous Lady Yeonjun, then.”

Yeonjun scowls at her, probably more openly than he should allow himself to. “The plight of a wife with dignity, yes.”

“A wife with dignity,” Iseul repeats, as if she was trying to find the true meaning of the word through hearing it in her own voice. “What about a wife of a future pariah of the court? The lovely wife of a provincial lord, who only so happens to cling to his title of a prince?”

Does that mean that their plan is hardly working yet? If Iseul still seems convinced that Taehyun will be stripped of his position at the Court, that he will be sent away, disgraced?

Despite his resolve to stay calm, unrest flutters with his chest, and that, combined with the way their conversation has gone so far, somehow emboldens him to say, “Are you sure that is wise?”

And to his brief but complete delight, the prince falters in her step, so completely taken aback. “Pardon?”

They come to a halt in the middle of a pathway. Courtiers and servants alike amble past them. Like this, their conversation attracts too much attention.

Holding his breath, Yeonjun slips his hand under Iseul’s arm, and the gesture alone prompts her to keep walking.

“Are you sure that is wise, Your Imperial Highness?” he restates his question, with a little additional flourish, without looking at her.

As if attempting to shift the balance of the conversation in her favor again, the prince pulls him a little closer. “What are you suggesting, Lady Yeonjun?”

“Nothing untoward, of course – other than…” he lets his words trail off, until he hears Iseul huff in annoyance. “It seems like such a loss of a perfectly good opportunity.” Finally, he looks at her, so impolitely lifting his eyes to her own narrowed ones. “An heir is not their father, are they? A crown prince is not the Emperor. An ally of the sovereign may not be an ally of yours. And the policies they push for may not always benefit you.”

Iseul laughs breathlessly, looking away from him. “Ah, of course. And you would have me believe it would be so terribly beneficial to me, were I to ally myself with my father’s most despised imperial advisor.”

His uncle truly hates Taehyun, then. It seems quite a feat – to make an enemy of his own flesh and blood. But then again, Yeonjun has nearly managed much the same.

Yeonjun does not look away from the prince’s face. “My husband holds half the council in the palm of his hand, Your Highness. He has four lords councilor at his beck and call – ones with little leverage, unlike councilors like Lord Lee or Lord Song. With the power of the crown prince behind them, much like your father did, you could swing the council votes in whichever direction you would want.” Entirely deliberately, although he means to make it seem as inadvertent as he can, he squeezes her arm. “And once you are Emperor yourself, the council you have been controlling this whole time will be there at your disposal, to push for whatever laws or policies you will see fit.”

Iseul narrows her eyes, biting her lips as he looks so intently at the ground before them for a long, silent moment, before looking at Yeonjun again. “And what policies do you believe I would wish to implement, Lady Yeonjun, that would benefit me and not my father?”

Yeonjun lowers his gaze and turns his face away, before looking at the prince again with his head girlishly tilted to one side. “That I would not dare assume, Your Highness. I am not an alpha – I would not presume to know much about these matters.”

The prince’s eyes shut completely as she laughs. “Ah, Lady Yeonjun. You would have been such a wonderful addition to my wife’s entourage. What an honor it would have been, to be able to see you every time I returned to our ancestral home.”

“You may yet see me every time I have occasion to join my husband at this court, Your Highness,” Yeonjun responds lightly, giving her arm another, this time deliberate, press of his fingers. “The choice is yours.”

They come to a halt in front of the building Yeonjun and Taehyun are housed in, and Yeonjun lets his hand slip away from Iseul’s arm before stepping away. The prince gives him such a long, searching look, that Yeonjun feels almost uncomfortably bared under the weight of it. “You drive a hard bargain, Lady Yeonjun,” she says, before her eyes lower as her head tilts to the side. “I will consider your offer. In the meantime—” Their eyes meet again, and she gives him another odd smile. “Please be careful. There are many evil tongues at this court who would do nothing rather than speak ill of you. Be careful not to feed them too much truth for them to spin their stories out of.”

 

.

 

Strangely, Yeonjun hesitates to tell Soobin about his encounter with Prince Iseul when they meet again. He only tells him that for the sake of propriety, they should probably take care not to spend entire days together like they have, and after going over their plans for the day over breakfast, they decide to part, and Yeonjun accepts his audiences and approaches his targets alone for the rest of the day.

Somehow, the duty is much more dull and monotonous without anyone by his side, and Yeonjun takes to amusing himself by writing letters for the people back home at the palace whenever he is given a moment of quiet, and holding idle conversations with Kyunsang between visits. To his surprise, he learns that the man has a family – he is a widower, and has multiple adult children, most of them in employment with other members of the Court. The new knowledge startles Yeonjun, who never quite thought to wonder about these things – to think too closely about his servants’ families. Does his Haewon have any siblings? Are there relatives old Minhyuk left behind at the Imperial Court as well, when he followed the prince to his palace? There are many children at all imperial courts, but their heritage is never a particular issue. Commoner children are nothing to worry about, and children born to slaves with no right to marriage are not spoken of in polite company. But they all must have families – siblings and parents, and one day they might grow up to find suitors and spouses.

It seems a strange thing – if neither side has name nor title, perhaps they choose their match through the station of their master. After all, the head servant to an imperial prince must seem a better prospect than a stable hand, even though his employment has him hardly ever spending his time with his family. It might be that at the end of the day, nothing much changes, as one climbs down the social ladder of the court. There are haves and have-nots wherever one goes. The more and the less fortunate.

Still, what an odd thing for him to ponder, while trying to have his family cling so desperately to their own station at the Court.

 

.

 

The next time he sees his husband, Yeonjun looks at him across the room while tending to the fire, before they have even paid their respects to the Emperor for the day, and with a reluctance he still does not understand, he says, “I have had occasion to speak with Prince Iseul.”

And his husband’s languid demeanor stiffens at once. “How come?”

“She all but cornered me on my way home.”

Taehyun’s brow lowers in obvious concern. “What did she want with you? Did she extend her offer again?”

Yeonjun inclines his head to one side. “She made sure to restate it. I refused again, of course.” He presses his lips together tightly. “Then I… offered her an alternative.”

The prince blinks hard in his peripheral vision. “Come again?”

Hesitantly, Yeonjun steps away from the fire, and closer to his husband, so he could lower his voice further. “I told her she may benefit from your friendship – or your gratitude, should you somehow manage to find yourself still on the council by the time her father becomes Emperor. Or by the time she becomes Emperor.”

“Wife, that is…” Taehyun’s face tightens strangely, as if he has to fight with the very thought of an alliance with his cousin. “That is a dangerous offer to make. Especially to someone who was hardly ever led to be a friend to me.” He shakes his head vigorously. “I doubt she would ever entertain the idea. Surely she despises my ideas about governance as much as her father does.”

Yeonjun lowers his eyes to the floor. “I spoke hastily, out of a desire to benefit our situation. You need not forge any pacts I suggested – you can always say I acted of my own accord, and nothing else.” He reaches out, and adjusts a lapel of his husband’s robes carefully. “But for what it is worth, she did not seem to find the idea preposterous. Unattractive, perhaps. But not impossible.”

His husband looks at him doubtfully, and Yeonjun simply shrugs.

“I did what I needed to, to preserve my dignity.”

And with a nod, his husband accepts this.

 

.

 

They meet in the garden, in a carefully arranged chance meeting, him, Soobin and Lord Jung, and they retire to a pavilion together to have tea while they exchange news of their latest activities. Speaking about everything openly is tricky in a place as exposed as they have met in, but an open meeting like this seems more preferable to speaking in private repeatedly and arousing suspicion. So instead of talking about delivering the prince’s orders to his faithful and those who favor him, Lord Jung jovially speaks about a lunch he shared with Lord Na Hyunwoo, the amusing conversation he had with a court scholar of repute, and the strange manners of the head tax official. In exchange, Yeonjun and Soobin tell him about all the people they met with recently, and about how pleasant – or difficult, in a few notable cases – their encounters were. The longer they speak, the more it becomes obvious that they have approached nearly everyone they could already, the work much swifter between the three of them now that Yeonjun and Soobin decided to spend their days separately.

All the groundwork has been laid. And all that is left, is to wait to see if it bears fruit, or if it proves to have no effect at all.

The knowledge seems to come down upon the trio as their conversation trails off. Now, there is not much else to be done. They placed their bets and rolled their dice, and it is up to fate which way they fall.

“I wonder how long His Imperial Highness will keep the court in mourning,” Lord Jung says thoughtfully, even his joyful demeanor dissipated into a thoughtful melancholy. “I have always found the mourning affect so unnatural.”

“Have you experienced much of it, Lord Yunbok?” Yeonjun asks carefully, studying the alpha’s face.

The lord keeps his eyes cast away from them and into the garden, at the still pond just outside the pavilion. “The head of my own house passed within my lifetime. My grandfather.”

Yeonjun nods solemnly in acknowledgment. Next to him, Soobin shifts uncomfortably.

“As my father is lacking in other alpha siblings, once she passes, the title will pass onto me.” Now, Lord Jung looks between the two of them before smiling without much mirth to his expression. “Therefore, she was overjoyed when His Highness Prince Taehyun offered to have me raised to the position of lord councilor. If the head of the House of Jung were to hold such lofty a title…”

“It would bring great honor to your family,” Soobin finishes, and earns himself a more genuine smile and a nod from Lord Jung.

“Indeed. I believe you understand now why I feel a sort of obligation to cling to my title – even if I am on the council only to be the echo making His Highness’ words resonate more loudly.”

Yeonjun is taken aback by the honesty. The lord councilor seems to hold no resentment towards his position – or he is an actor brilliant enough to hide it. He might hold an illustrious title, but he is powerless. A puppet held up by Taehyun’s strings of influence.

He did not lie to Prince Iseul – if she were to become their ally, she and Taehyun could easily have the entire council dancing to the beat of their drum. If they could ever move past their need to see each other as rivals.

“All of us here are in his debt,” Yeonjun says carefully, drumming his finger on the rim of his cup. “Those of us who are needy…”

“Can so easily find ourselves dependent,” the lord finishes for him with another rueful smile, before huffing and sitting up straighter. “Ah, Your Grace, how terrible it was of your husband to keep you away from all of us so ardently. I find your company delightful.”

And Yeonjun, needing the change in topic just as much as the lord councilor, glances at Soobin who sits next to him before responding, “My good lord Jung, is that perhaps because I find myself accompanied with our good captain so often?”

To his delight, the words seem to fluster the lord just as much as he is able to fluster the captain. “Oh, nonsense, Your Grace. As much as I value our good captain’s company, I believe you are just as lovely.”

Yeonjun cannot help but wonder what Beomgyu would think of Lord Jung – whether he would find him pleasant and delightful, or strange and untrustworthy by the virtue of his harmless affect alone. If he would tease, just like Yeonjun continues to do, until both of the alphas conspire to change the topic just to get him to stop.

He cannot help but wonder how Beomgyu is, while Soobin tells him and Lord Jung about Lord Jung’s nephew, who is training to be an officer of the military. His mind drifts at the mention of sword fighting and map reading, and towards a pretty omega, who likes writing poems and playing games made for alphas. Who could surely win a sword fight with his will to win alone if he had to; who languishes at Yeonjun’s home court while he plays politics here.

And again, he misses him. The thought irks him, like a persistent itch, and it does not leave him alone for the rest of the day.

 

.

 

The arrangements for the end of Taehyun’s vigil are somewhat awkward in their execution. The prince lets Yeonjun know, with express permission to spread the news through less than secretive means, so messengers are sent out from the prince’s rooms on that day to all lords councilor that he intends to end it within a day or two. Some of them send word back asking for a longer time frame to make arrangements, which Taehyun accepts with obvious frustration, but acquiesces to, and extends his stay to three days instead. Within those three days, he seems to grow increasingly restless with his isolation in a way he has not before. Whenever Yeonjun comes to see him, he is pacing the room, and fusses over Yeonjun during the ritual washing, asking if he has been resting well, eating well, if he has written back to their court, or received condolences from his family in the south. He asks about the arrangements made in their home, about the town council, about his ministers. He gives Yeonjun letters to give to Kyunsang so he can keep them for the prince until it is proper to have them delivered, and there are so many that Yeonjun struggles to hide them under his modest mourning clothes.

To Yeonjun, his husband seems close to losing his mind, and by the time he ascends the staircase of the Emperor’s quarters to Jungsik’s stern announcement that, “High Highness is ready to end his vigil,” he is nothing but ready for the prince’s vigil to end as well.

He is once again taken to a room he does not recognize, one where all the wailing women seem to be gathered along with the Empress, and given a soft broom. They are then made to wait, sharing the space in a strange silence, until Jungsik comes to fetch them again and brings them to the death chamber, where six younger alpha members of the Kang family are gathered, including Prince Iseul, who seems to catch Yeonjun’s eyes deliberately before narrowing her own playfully. Yeonjun lowers his head politely and ignores her, as he should.

Among the gathered Kangs is the youngest member of the family capable of walking, the child of one of Taehyun’s cousins, who is given burning incense and made to stand at the head of the procession, followed by the other five Kangs and the prince carrying the Emperor’s casket, with Taehyun and Iseul at the head of it. Behind them is Yeonjun’s place, who sweeps the ground behind them lightly to dissuade the spirit of the Emperor for clinging to the familiar paths of his own house, made to walk in a bow the entire time, and behind him, at the end of the procession, the Empress walks with the wailing women, crying and lamenting.

Yeonjun tries to find some sort of peace in his repetitive task; tries not to think too deeply about what his action symbolizes – chasing away the spirit of the man who never wanted him to walk the halls of this building like he belonged here. It seems ironic.

The procession carries the casket out of the house, and into a semi-enclosed structure in the gardens, where it is set to remain until the proper funeral, where the Emperor will be laid to rest in the tomb he has built himself outside of the Imperial Palace. Yeonjun and Taehyun bow to his father one last time. Strangely, not because of any sort of tradition, Taehyun lays a hand on the lid of the casket before they step away.

Yeonjun joins the rest of the procession, gathered outside the building, while Taehyun stays standing in the entrance alone. There are a few onlookers gathered around, watching the ceremony they are not required to take part in, noble and commoner alike.

“The Emperor is dead,” the prince announces, the words, in some way, only meant to be true to the rest of the court now that his immediate family has finished their most sacred time of mourning.

And everyone, perfectly on cue, lowers to their knees in feigned despair.

 

.

 

The first day after his vigil, Taehyun disappears into his study as soon as they return to his rooms and does not come out. Not for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Yeonjun sits in the front room, trying to amuse himself as best he can, without any companion or pressing matter to occupy his attention. He sees Kyunsang entering the study with wine, completely against the laws of mourning, but he does not speak up, only spends his time idling away more sullenly.

After dinner, which the prince also fails to join him for, Yeonjun takes off his mourning clothes to sleep, washes his face clean, and comes to stand in the middle of the front room. He and Kyunsang successfully stripped it bare, until it looked more or less ordinary – aside from its size and fine furniture hardly more splendid than the rooms of his uncle or Lord Myeongjin. Proper of a family in mourning.

A family in mourning.

He steps into Taehyun’s study unannounced.

His husband is at his writing desk, with a cup full of wine at his elbow, bent entirely over a single sheet of paper laid out in front of him, covered in neat handwriting that Yeonjun recognizes from a single glance does not belong to his husband, who is a poor calligrapher at best.

When Yeonjun enters, he only lifts his head enough to direct his wide eyes at him.

“Yes?”

“I thought you were fed up with the solitude of your vigil.”

Taehyun swallows visibly, then finally rights himself, sitting up, propping both hands on the top of his writing table. “I will have more than enough company tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, the council finally meets. Yeonjun shifts on his feet.

“But…” the prince says the word lightly, quietly, as if he wants the option to pretend he never uttered it should Yeonjun not hear him say it – but Yeonjun raises his eyebrows in question. “If you wish to spend some time with me.”

And Yeonjun is unsure of what he wishes, but he is almost sure he does not want to be alone, so he comes further into the room, to occupy the prince’s empty reading seat. Taehyun’s eyes lower to the text he was reading again.

Instead of asking what it is, Yeonjun tucks his hands under his own arms and asks, “Are you drinking?”

Taehyun looks at the cup resting next to him, and his teeth briefly dig into his lip. “Will you scold me?”

“Spirits are forbidden to people as deep in mourning as we are meant to be.”

“I am aware,” the prince allows, and looks at Yeonjun directly. “And I believe you are aware that I am aware.”

“It is disrespectful to your father.”

Taehyun nods firmly, then picks the cup up without looking away from Yeonjun, and downs it.

Yeonjun purses his lips, frowning. “What has he done to deserve this?”

The prince puts the cup down with a loud noise before leaning heavily on the table again. “Disrespect my wife. My omega. Raise a hand to my mother. Break her spirit. Use her memory to hurt me, to remind me of my place. Do whatever he has done to the Empress dowager that I have been hardly privy to. Allow his brother to sic his children against me, his only heir, convinced as he was that if I were not to rise against adversity, then all it will be is a confirmation that I have been born of poor stock. Of a fragile mind. Like my mother.”

He cannot find the words to say anything in response. He can only watch, as his husband lowers his eyes to the page again.

“I never knew if he meant to be cruel only to ensure I would be driven to aspire to greatness, or if in some way he really did despise me. His actions and his words never quite seemed to align. He plied me with generosity, with favor, with title and honors and gifts, and at the same time he would remind me that I continue to be a disappointment. That I am soft, and unfit to rule over anyone. That in my veins runs the blood of cowards and madmen and I prove only that this impurity of blood cannot be overcome.”

Yeonjun frowns in confusion. “What impurity of blood? Was your mother not a daughter of the great families?”

Taehyun shakes his head. “Of course she was. Lady Song of the West White Palace.” He lays his forehead in his hand and sighs. “Her father was a madman, and her siblings disgraced deserters. Her mother killed herself in shame when the news reached them of her children’s desertion. All once she was already securely betrothed to the crown prince, of course. Everyone regarded her as the golden child – the only one untouched by the curse so obviously placed on her line, that nobody was truly rueful about seeing die out with her father’s passing.”

“Was she?” he almost regrets asking once the prince’s dark eyes come to regard him. “Untouched by the curse?”

His husband shrugs his shoulders in what seems to be resignation. “Perhaps. If the curse was one which promised an unhappy existence. She may have inherited her father’s madness – I am not sure. I was never quite made privy to what it entailed, and my father kept a strict embargo on any talk about dishonor in his wife’s family unless he was the one hurling it in my face. But she was… strange. She would spend entire days at a time without leaving her bed room. She would be quiet and listless, and then suddenly she would come out, and her temper would be fiery, and she would clash with my father. Argue with him bitterly. Talk back, disobey. She would take up all sorts of causes, but my father was never willing to hear her out about any topic. Not about the household, or the realm, or me, rarely as I came up between the two of them. I never quite understood if her sullen moods were part of her nature, or simply a response to how harshly father would treat her whenever she would try to do anything that was not sitting quietly by his side or busying herself with wifely duties. If she had been different before she married my father… I did not know her to be any other way.”

Yeonjun drops his eyes to the floor. He always carried his memory of seeing the royal family for the first time so fondly. The splendor of them. The opulence. The majestic Emperor, his dignified Empress, and the young alpha boy who would one day be their heir. And young Yeonjun, so taken by the sight of them, that he wanted to be just like them.

Miserable. Haunted by a somber past. Compelled to strive to greatness under the unbearable weight of great expectations. Produce an heir. Be a good and judicious ruler. Add to the splendor of the Empire. Behave yourself well. Honor your ancestors. Bring only honor and good fortune to your family, to your house. Be a good wife. Do not make too much fuss, lest the people on the outside notice. Lest they take advantage.

You might lose everything.

“At least the curse seemed to have died with her,” the prince says, pushing away from the table to pour himself another cup. “I do not believe myself to be subject to any sort of curse.” He looks to Yeonjun thoughtfully once his cup is full, and puts the carafe down. “Despite my somber boyhood, as a man, I have been given naught but blessings. Your hand in marriage, and Soobin’s oath of loyalty. My own land, and a seat on the Emperor’s council. The company of Omega Beomgyu, and the strict lessons he came to teach me.” He looks down at the page before him again, and Yeonjun wonders. “The service of Kyunsang, and my lords councilor. If I was born weak, then these are my strengths. All of you.”

He sips at his wine. Yeonjun swallows at the same time he does, but his throat remains dry.

“Perhaps a man is only as strong as his house is. Perhaps believing so is another failure of mine.”

Taehyun reaches out to the paper, dragging a finger across it.

“Whatever happens after tomorrow, we must persevere.” He looks at Yeonjun, and his expression is perfectly solemn and serious. “Perseverance is the only choice we have left.”

Unsure of how to feel, Yeonjun nods in agreement. His husband nods once in acknowledgment before sipping at his wine again.

He licks his lips, and his affect seems more neutral when he speaks up next. “If we make the decision to visit our new palace, you should send for your entourage to join us, or have them arrive ahead of us.”

Yeonjun clears his throat, a bit taken aback by the sudden change of mood in the air. “I… all of my entourage?”

Taehyun shrugs. “Whoever you would like to join you – I will leave it up to you to extend the invitations.”

With a small nod, Yeonjun shifts in his seat. “You have decided for us to go there, then?”

“I believe that if it is politically viable, it could be a shrewd decision on our part. It is closer to this court than our other palace, so if we are needed here, there should be less trouble with the journey. And as spring progresses…”

Right. It is spring. The spring Yeonjun has put so much of his faith towards.

“Perhaps it would be a good place for me to…” the prince pauses, as if to think carefully about his next words. “Fulfill my obligations to you.”

A place unburdened by foul memories. By courtiers who know them too well not to find it strange to see them sharing their cycles. A breath of fresh air.

Yeonjun has never been to that palace – he wonders if Taehyun has, but does not ask.

Instead he lifts his chin and asks, “May I have a drink of your wine?”

And his husband pours a full cup and extends it towards him without hesitation. “Of course.”

Yeonjun comes to sit next to the writing desk, and they share the cup in silence, drinking together until Kyunsang comes to check if they have fallen asleep. He decides to take the interruption as his cue to retire for the night, and he leaves his husband with a last lingering touch to his shoulder.

Their entire world might be upended soon – but whatever will befall them, will befall them together.

 

.

 

The next day, Yeonjun wakes too early, too well-trained to wake up before the crack of dawn by the past few days. He startles Kyunsang in his morning preparations by exiting his room in his sleep clothes, and he quickly brings Yeonjun’s robe and some refreshments while he finishes getting everything ready to wake the prince so he can attend the morning council meeting.

Yeonjun sits in the front room with his cup of tea, mouth pouted in his fatigue, with all the concerns swirling about his mind. Kyunsang enters the prince’s room through the door in the front room with his robe and toiletries in hand, but does not come out through the same door. Instead, after a surprisingly long wait, the prince comes out, somewhat refreshed and half-dressed. He seems startled by Yeonjun’s presence, but only bids him good morning before leaving for the tea room to have breakfast. Yeonjun considers joining him, but decides against it.

Only when his husband comes out into the front room again, he rises to his feet. Taehyun pauses halfway to the dressing room, looking at him questioningly as he simply stands there silently.

“Is something the matter, wife?”

Yeonjun clears his throat. “Will you let me assist you today?”

The prince hesitates, his mouth hanging slightly open in response. Usually, Yeonjun only assisted him on special occasions. During celebrations, where it was customary of him to do so. On days of ceremony.

But this surely is a day of ceremony.

His husband seems to have come to the same conclusion, because he nods eventually. “Very well. You may.”

Yeonjun bows in thanks, and follows him to the dressing room. He helps Taehyun lace up his trousers, like he is a child. Helps him put on his jacket and fasten it, helps him into his coat, tidies his hair for him. Attentive and motherly, finding some sort of peace he was missing in doing his part.

Then he offers his husband his wrist, and Taehyun accepts his scent with a sigh.

He does not let go of Yeonjun’s hand.

They look at it together, the joining of their hands.

“I believe this is when I would have asked you to kiss me for courage,” Taehyun says, not devoid of humor. Yeonjun looks up into his face and finds it so unfamiliar.

He kisses his husband on the cheek, and squeezes his hand before letting it go.

“Be brave, my prince.”

 

.

 

Soobin comes mid-morning with a basket of food, courtesy of his mother, and they sit in the front room together, picking at her gifts and making sparse, hushed conversation. Neither of them is in the mood to speak of anything serious, so they stick to banal topics, from flavors to weather to fruit that is coming into season. Yeonjun tells Soobin about the newfound rivalry between Lady Miyeon and Beomgyu, and Soobin listens to it with obvious interest. He wonders if Lady Miyeon could beat Soobin at the game – surely she could.

As the morning grows late, the two of them get quieter and quieter.

By the time the door opens and Taehyun steps through, taking his hat and coat off and handing them to Kyunsang before even acknowledging the two of them waiting there for him, the room is perfectly quiet. Kyunsang stands at attention with an armful of the prince’s clothes, as he turns towards the tea table. He looks at Yeonjun first, before shifting his attention to Soobin.

He wastes no time with greetings, nodding his head as if he were asked a question.

“It is done. It is now the age of the emperor Kang Jeongyul.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter 16

Notes:

trust the process??? part 725

shorter chapter this time bc i like. being alive?

love you. appreciate all the feedback immensely, you have no idea.

CHAPTER WARNING for mentions of suicidal thinking and self-endangering behavior

“We should have stalled the vote.”

“To what benefit to our cause, Lord Na? To antagonize the man who will be our emperor for at least another decade?”

“To negotiate, Lord Seo. To use the last vestiges of our power to our advantage, instead of simply handing it over to the man who will surely strip us of it.”

“Lord Seo is right – if His Imperial Highness was already disinclined to let us keep our posts despite all the work we have done to convince him otherwise, then all we would have done by refusing to pass the vote would be to draw his ire unnecessarily.”

“Exactly, Lord Jung. Have you gone mad, Hyunwoo? Even if we somehow got to keep our seats by standing in the Emperor’s way, no doubt we would all be dead within the year for daring to do so.”

“Lord Yeun, you are speaking nonsense.”

“Am I, Lord Seo? It would not be the first or the last time an Emperor had his subjects executed for trying to extend their power over the Sun Throne.”

“The Emperor is not going to execute his own nephew, Dongseon.”

“Perhaps not publicly, Hyunwoo, but we both know better than to think that death warrants are only ever signed in full view of the court.”

“Even if you were correct, is it not more difficult to kill a lord councilor than to kill an insignificant noble?”

Taehyun breathes out sharply. The hand he had resting on the table, clenched into a tight fist, loosens suddenly into an open palm. Lord Jung, who sits on the prince’s left side, visibly notices, and closes his mouth where he was about to add to the debate. The rest of the room clearly misses it.

“The Emperor—” Lord Yeun spits, tone still fiery, anger and fear clearly painted across his face as he accosts Lord Na, whose expression seems just as unsettled, even though their causes for concern seem so diametrically opposed to each other.

“Gentlemen.”

Lord Na and Lord Yeun turn their flushed faces towards the prince. Lord Seo, much more composed, looks toward him as well with some hope in her own eyes. Soobin, who has been sitting at Taehyun’s side silently this entire time, continues to study the untouched plates of food before them. They gathered under the pretense of sharing a lunch, but the meeting soon devolved into… this.

Yeonjun cannot see his husband’s face from his seat, settled behind him, away from the alphas. His husband offered he could join him and the lords for lunch, no doubt knowing that the conversation would turn to politics more likely than not, but there was no place for him at the table – and the eyes of both Lord Na and Lord Yeun seemed to indicate he would hardly be welcome at it.

So he sits behind them, with a similarly untouched plate of food in his lap, watching the alphas argue bitterly. Nobody is happy. Everyone is worried; scared. Alphas as powerful as them are unused to this feeling of helplessness, bothered by it. Their entire lives rest on another alpha’s whim – and they have done whatever they could to steer his mind in the direction they wanted it to go, but at the end of the day, all they can do it sit in a tea room, chattering away, while their fates are determined elsewhere, by other people.

Beomgyu would love this, Yeonjun thinks. Seeing alphas scramble this way, pathetically squabbling over decisions they have already made, scared little children, animals in cages attacking each other since they are unable to turn their anger towards those who have sealed them inside. He would hate the air in the room, heavy with the scents of angry alphas and egotistical posturing. Even Soobin’s scent has gone heavy in response, the alpha inside him, strange as it can be, not to be outdone by those around him. Yeonjun himself would be unsettled, he thinks, by so many distressed alpha scents calling to his instincts for comfort, if the scent of his mate was not among them, warm and clear to his senses too attuned to the smell of it, steady like an anchor in the middle of all the turmoil. He smells a little bitter, and a little stale. Out of all of them, he smells the least in charge. The least overwhelming – his scent has not raised to the challenge.

“The vote has been passed. If the emperor-to-be sees us as a nuisance that stands in his way, he has much less drastic measures at his disposal than executions.” Taehyun shakes his head. “We have no reason to believe your lives are threatened. Not at the moment – and should it come to that, I assure you I will expend everything I will still have at my disposal to make sure neither you nor your families are harmed. You and your elders have put your faith in me when you agreed to follow my lead as lords councilor – and I intend to repay your loyalty with my own. If what will have to be done to ensure your safety is for you to hand me over to my uncle’s executioners then so be it.”

Yeonjun’s own hand clenches into a fist. So be it? His husband might simply be full of grand gestures now that he needs his lords calm more than anything else, and he does not plan on ever going ahead with what he says, but what if he is not? Will he walk to his death peacefully, just to save his lords? Is he willing to leave a defenseless widow behind? Make Beomgyu’s future uncertain again? So many people depend on his favor, on him being alive; so many. And he claims to care about all of them – but he cannot just throw his life away for just anyone if he wants to take care of everyone.

Soobin seems to be thinking much of the same – he finally raises his eyes to the prince, and his expression is startled and unsettled. Lord Jung’s happy face pinches into a look of worry on the other side. Meanwhile, Taehyun’s words seem to make a much better impression on the three lords on the opposite side of the table. Lord Seo, who seems to be the most convinced of the prince’s wisdom out of all of them, seems nothing but in awe of his willingness to sacrifice himself for them. Lord Yeun seems vaguely appeased; Lord Na seems more confused than anything else – as if he cannot believe the prince would say this.

“It is good of you to take responsibility, Your Highness – since we would not have found ourselves in this predicament, were it not for you.” Lord Yeun glances over Taehyun’s shoulder, and his gaze catches on Yeonjun’s briefly before Yeonjun looks away first. “You seem to have the least to lose out of all of us, anyway. Childless as you and your wife are.”

“Lord Yeun,” Lord Seo hisses, appalled, while Taehyun does not move a single inch.

“That does not seem to be a very astute analysis of the situation, Lord Yeun,” Lord Jung chimes in before she can continue to berate her fellow lord councilor, joining in with a much more conciliatory tone to his voice. “The prince stands to have his line die out upon his own passing, and you deem this to be a simple matter to consider?”

“You speak as if this man ever cared any about his line, Lord Jung.” Lord Yeun squares his shoulders, jutting his bearded chin out. “No alpha with any self-respect would let the matter of his issue lie unsolved for this long without action. His father had to all but force him to take a concubine to replace this frigid wife of his—”

“Lord Yeun.”

And again, the room falls perfectly silent. Yeonjun sets his plate next to himself a little too loudly, and the eyes of the alphas follow the sound of it and the sharpness of his voice to his face, which he keeps as carefully composed as he can manage. His lips must tremble, but hopefully none of them are close enough to notice – not those he would worry about noticing, anyway.

“You are speaking out of turn, about matters you know nothing about – I would suggest you restrain yourself to topics you are better versed in.”

“If you aren’t barren, then he is – and he should have let someone—”

The prince raises a hand – closed in a fist, but not as a threat. It hovers next to his head, and Lord Yeun’s voice trails off with its motion. For the first time during this whole meeting, Taehyun’s spice swells and flares up – growing stronger, heavier. It chokes Yeonjun, if not Lord Yeun, with its authority. “Lord Yeun. If you want to keep your seat at this table, I suggest you stop. Talking. Now.”

Instead of cowering, however, the other alpha brings his own fist down onto the table, the scent of bitter black tea rising to meet the prince’s warm spice. “Why should I listen to you? Why should any of us? To some worthless alpha who has done nothing to earn respect but be sired from his father’s loins. Who parades himself around this court with whores on his arms, and expects us all to accept his shamelessness silently, all because—”

“You have now disrespected two of my husband’s omegas, Lord Yeun,” Yeonjun cuts in, and to his own horror, unable as he is to stop himself, he rises from his seat and comes closer to the table, finding the gap between his husband and Soobin and settling into it. “You came to our rooms, to enjoy our hospitality, only to disrespect us this way. How do you expect us to respond?”

To Yeonjun’s surprise, the fastest answer to his words comes from Lord Na, who reaches out to clutch Lord Yeun’s forearm – over the last few days, Yeonjun came to find out that the two are quite close. Born the same year, mere weeks apart, they have maintained their close relationship until adulthood, even as their temperaments grew in opposing directions; as they developed differing views of politics – almost more like brothers than merely friends; not unlike the way Yeonjun has always seen the relationship between Taehyun and Soobin. Even despite not always seeing eye to eye, they were connected by a thread of care that seemed to transcend philosophical matters like these.

“You need to calm down, Dongseon,” Lord Na says firmly, with his eyes flickering in the direction of Yeonjun and the prince briefly, skittishly. “You are going too far.”

“You agree with me, Hyunwoo – don’t pretend that you don’t. They all do, even the omega. You’re all just too scared to lose favor with this man to say it.”

With these last words, Lord Yeun shakes Lord Na’s hand off of himself and rises to his feet, followed by all six sets of eyes in the room as he attempts to storm out, only to come face to face with Kyunsang, standing straight-backed in the doorway. To Yeonjun’s surprise, the alpha does not shove the servant aside, but instead pauses in his stride, all but tripping on his own feet. Boyish despite the raging storm of alpha scent he trails after him.

“Kyunsang – what is it?”

Taehyun speaks almost too calmly, as if wholly unaffected by the confrontation that just took place. Yeonjun thinks he knows better, but not even he recognizes a trace of disquiet in his husband’s countenance.

If the prince’s composure is impressive, then it is only rivaled by Kyunsang’s – face to face with a seething alpha still, the beta only inclines his head politely towards his employer. “A visitor has arrived to see His Grace.”

To see Yeonjun? Now of all times? It has to be his aunt – and if Yeonjun knows what is good for him, he will dismiss her quickly.

He rises to his feet swiftly, determined to go see her and return as promptly as possible.

Soobin scrambles to offer him a hand to help him stand, but instead of doing the same, his husband tilts his head and asks, “Who is it?”

And Yeonjun opens his mouth to voice his conviction that it is Madame Choi, only for Kyunsang’s answer to have him stumble on previously steady feet.

“It is Prince Iseul, Your Highness.”

All eyes in the room turn to him, and Yeonjun clutches at the fabric of his own robes as he swallows heavily. Iseul. Here? Openly? In his husband’s rooms? To see him? Without a single attempt to hide it from anyone, including the company she must know they have at the moment?

Perhaps he should be angry, but he is frightened instead. His husband’s eyes are stuck to him, but Yeonjun does not look down to inspect the expression in them. The other lords look either startled or suspicious – Lord Yeun looks derisive. Soobin’s hand that was raised to help him falls limply next to the captain’s body.

“To see my wife,” Taehyun says without looking away from Yeonjun.

“Yes, Your Highness. She asked for him specifically.”

“I will go,” Yeonjun says through a tight throat, quietly, unnecessarily.

His husband nods, and Yeonjun finally looks at him. He does look apprehensive, at least a little bit. But he does not seem very afraid, or distrustful, or jealous. Something about that eases Yeonjun’s mind somewhat.

Needy for the comfort of his husband’s touch, Yeonjun reaches his hand out, just for his husband to hold onto the tips of his fingers without hesitation, bringing Yeonjun’s knuckles to his lips to kiss them. Overly affectionate for the present company, but Taehyun seems to understand that Yeonjun needs this. Needs some kind of contact. A shred of his husband’s scent clinging to his skin as he goes to face his cousin.

“I will be back as soon as possible.”

“Do not rush on our behalf – as you can see, the conversation here is less than productive either way.”

Taehyun looks pointedly at Lord Yeun, and Yeonjun’s lips twitch with a wry smile. He gathers himself, and crosses the room to the door, brushing past Lord Yeun who, to his surprise, returns to his seat as soon as Yeonjun reaches the doorway. With one last look into the room, making brief contact with Soobin’s curious scrutiny and Lord Jung’s eyes narrowed in obvious worry before holding his husband’s gaze for a long, steadying moment, Yeonjun crosses the short corridor to step into the front room.

The room smells like an open fire. Just like in the tea room, where all of the alphas’ agitation drove all of their scents into a nigh unbearable potency, Kang Iseul’s woodsmoke scent has settled into the room so thoroughly Yeonjun wonders if he will have to have the cushions cleaned to get it off of them.

Despite her considerable status, the prince is waiting for him on her feet, her arms folded behind her back, mouth quick to smile as he comes into view.

Yeonjun bows with utmost politeness. The prince inclines her head.

“Lady Yeonjun.”

“Your Imperial Highness.”

He clearly sees a shiver of joy go through her at the address. That coveted title of a crown prince – all hers now, just a small formality away.

“Not yet, Lady Yeonjun. Soon.”

But she liked it. She wanted it. She acted like someone who deserved it, even though she yet does not – Yeonjun was owed a bow she did not offer.

Iseul takes a deep breath, as if she needs to recover from the sound of her future title – maybe she does; maybe it is simply so thrilling, to have the Sun Throne within one’s grasp.

Yeonjun would not know.

“I wonder, Lady Yeonjun,” she says then, tilting her head coyly in a manner Yeonjun has come to regard as so characteristically hers. “If you know why I am here.”

Yeonjun holds tightly onto his own wrist as he folds his hands politely in front of himself. “Surely not to ask me if I have changed my mind about your offer.”

She smiles a little wider, and lowers her head for a moment before holding it high again. “I will have you know that were it not for my intervention, I would not be here at all. Were it solely up to my father, you would not have been given so many chances to accept it.”

He purses his lips. She could be lying to him, painting a pretty picture in his mind, pretending to care to lure him in. Or she could be honest, admitting openly to… what? Fondness of him? She always seemed to view him with the same disdain most of Taehyun’s family seemed to regard him with – he was a novelty, a stupid pretty thing their relative happened to own. And Iseul has never been kind to him – she never seemed to care. If she held any positive sentiment towards him at all, it seemed to be her unending amusement at his attempts to keep composure, no matter how hard she pushed him, no matter her mockery.

Is he to believe now that she would fight for his chance to save himself? Just so she could toy with him some more once he was at her mercy?

“I was hoping I made myself clear enough as to why I was unwilling to do so, Your Highness,” he says eventually, as measured as he can, chin up and hands clasped so tightly that they will not tremble.

“Duty is one thing, Lady Yeonjun,” Iseul responds, and the longer he waits for her to elaborate, the narrower and more predatory her eyes get.

When it finally sinks in that she will say nothing more, Yeonjun lowers his eyes to the floor. To his surprise, Iseul moves without prompting, thankfully not towards him, but towards the tables to the side of the door, inspecting the playing table and the pots of playing pieces her father gifted Taehyun with a truly undue amount of curiosity – Yeonjun wonders if she means to give him space by moving further from him, or to assert her dominance by wandering around his and Taehyun’s home without permission.

One seems to him more likely than the other.

The prince bends down to pick the pot up, tracing her own family name with the pad of her thumb. “I am sure you are aware of the talk around the Court, Lady Yeonjun.”

And Yeonjun allows himself the smallest of cracks in composure, clearing his throat slightly before asking, “What talk, Your Highness?”

Iseul cradles the pot to her chest and looks at him directly. “That your husband will not stand down, even if my father strips him of his position at this court. That he does not believe in my father’s rightful claim to the throne, and he will not be appeased.” She lets the words linger in the vast space between them, then looks away from him. “I am sure you understand why my father and I cannot bring ourselves to ignore these sentiments.” She takes the lid off the pot and fishes out a few pieces before setting it aside, letting the pieces rattle in her fist. “One way or another, Taehyun has to be taken care of.”

Her hand poises to throw, and Yeonjun moves to catch out of pure instinct. A white clamshell piece lands in his own hand. Iseul holds another one up between two fingers.

“I favor some solutions over others, Lady Yeonjun – surely you understand.”

Yeonjun could give assurances – tell her that Taehyun means them no harm, that he is not plotting against them – but it would mean nothing, would it not? Iseul might not believe him. She might not believe that Yeonjun is aware of the whole breadth of his husband’s plans, even if she thinks he is being honest. And, most terribly, perhaps the greatest issue is that it does not matter at all, at the end of the day, whether Taehyun wants to act against his uncle or not. The rumors are there – and ignoring them could be a sign of weakness the new Emperor might be disinclined to show.

This whole insane story of an uprising – will that be their undoing? Taehyun had his allies preach caution, only to make everyone believe they had a reason to fear doing anything but appeasing him.

Or getting rid of him altogether.

“Who would follow a disgraced prince?”

Yeonjun. Yeonjun should. Has to. No matter what. No matter where. Taehyun is his husband.

His fist closes around the piece, and he tosses it back to the prince, who catches it easily, lowering her head again as she clearly understands what he means to say before he has even said a word.

“I will not be one of your playing pieces, Your Highness.”

With a sigh, she lifts her head again, tossing the piece up into the air and catching it again. “Madame Choi.”

For a moment, Yeonjun is confused, thinking that Iseul is addressing him strangely in another attempt at playing with him, but to his almost greater surprise, she continues speaking, folding her closed fists behind her back.

“Has been going around court defending you from the accusation of you shirking your duties the past few days.”

Yeonjun shifts on his feet. It was widespread, then – everyone thought he had been a terrible wife to his husband; a terrible subject of the Kang family. A bad omega. And his aunt, despite all their recent disagreements…

“Assisted, of course, by the lovely Princess Consort Hwang Hyemi.” She tilts her head, and it seems less coy this time, and much more deliberate. “We both know they were unfounded, after all, do we not? I saw you leaving the Emperor’s quarters in the morning – surely you were not there to watch others do your work for you.”

He shakes his head. “I have done my duties every single day I have been here at this court.”

Iseul nods. “I would not expect anything less from you, Lady Yeonjun. I have heard much of your sense of duty.”

It feels like a jab, but Yeonjun does his best not to take it personally. In any other context, this would be a compliment, so he takes it as one, lifting his chin proudly. “So you had your wife speak up for me.”

The prince responds with a twitch of one shoulder, casual, careless – helping preserve his reputation, the easiest thing in the world, for a woman with nothing to lose by doing so. “I explained to her the lack of foundation to the slander going around, and we agreed that we would simply not let it stand. We have no interest in made up stories – not when there are real ones which serve us just as well.”

That is it, then – her show of kindness. It feels so limp, next to all the accusations and little jabs she has thrown his way recently. She may joke about his supposed infidelity, his lack of nobility, mock his kindness, but she would not allow the Court to gossip about his lack of diligence in his wifely duties?

It is laughable that she would think he would be swayed. But this is exactly what he expected, is it not? She has finally learned that you can catch flies with honey as well – and there is a special kind of satisfaction in an omega’s mind, a special response to being protected. Or there should be. There has been, in Yeonjun, for the longest time, until he realized how terribly smothered he has been under his husband’s loving and terrible wing.

Protection can be such a nebulous thing. So often it is nothing but a gilded cage. Loving and patronizing. Thoughtful and dismissive. Should he roll over at the thought of Iseul speaking up on his behalf? Or should he demand to be heard himself instead?

To be supported, while he stands tall himself. To have someone he can lean on when he falters. To have someone to hold his hand when he is afraid. Perhaps that is the kind of care, the kind of safety, that he would want. That he would enjoy.

He presses his knuckles to his lips; breathes in the trace of warm spice still clinging to them.

There is a point to all this turmoil. A reason for him to keep refusing all assurances, all guarantees. Somewhere in the peace his mate’s scent still offers him.

“We are hardly asking you to lie, Lady Yeonjun, we only need—”

“Your Highness.”

Horribly, awfully uncouth of him. To cut off someone of a higher status than him. An alpha. Iseul’s eyebrows raise and her lips hang open, taken aback, but her expression seems to spell curiosity rather than offense.

“We both know of a better way, do we not?”

With a laugh, Iseul brings one of her hands in front of herself again, shaking her fistful of playing pieces. “Lady Yeonjun.”

She is still obviously pondering how to answer when suddenly, both of their senses are stirred by a familiar scent that distracts them from their conversation completely. Yeonjun’s eyes travel to the doorway first, followed closely by Iseul’s, who hides her hand behind her back again.

Announced by his scent if not by a single word, Taehyun steps into view, looking between the two of them carefully before offering a polite nod to Iseul, who seems to reciprocate purely out of habit.

“Cousin.”

“Cousin.”

Taehyun gives Yeonjun another searching look, before focusing on Iseul again. “Kyunsang told me that you requested him to not be present when you meet with my wife, Prince Iseul.”

Yeonjun startles, losing composure momentarily as he glances around the room. He did not notice Kyunsang leaving them alone together at all – he was so used to the servants’ presence whenever an alpha was visiting, that he did not even consider that he might not have stayed. But perhaps he should have, knowing the words they have exchanged so openly. If they said them in front of his husband’s loyal servant, even if Yeonjun did nothing but refuse Iseul’s offers, it would be a liability.

And of course Kyunsang turned around and told the prince of her request – Taehyun values his head servant for a reason.

“That I did – but if he told you this right after your wife came to meet me, how come you only came here now, honorable cousin?”

It seems a prudent enough question to ask – is it because Yeonjun assured his husband he would not take long? They must have been talking for quite a while now. Or he was pushed by the lords still gathered in the tea room – Yeonjun knows which option he would prefer to believe.

“Did you grow jealous while waiting? You seem so slow to passion when it comes to your wife – it is a bit unfair to our lovely Lady Yeonjun, would you not agree?”

From one voice insulting their marriage to another. Yeonjun almost wishes they could stand united against any other common enemy. But perhaps Iseul’s father is exactly that. If only they could talk about him, instead of matters of their marriage bed.

“I would not call it jealousy, cousin, as much as worry. I trust my wife with you, but I do not trust you with my wife.”

Iseul unfolds her hands from behind her back, raising them defensively in front of herself. “I assure you, cousin, I have never laid a finger on your wife.”

A strange swelling within Yeonjun’s chest pushes him to say, “That is not quite true, is it, Your Highness? We walked arm in arm just the other day.”

He watches with some amusement as Iseul’s face breaks apart in surprise, her mocking confidence eroded for just a moment as she glances warily towards Taehyun before laughing, a bit forcibly this time, obviously just to regain her composure. “I have to admit, Taehyun, that I have found the loyalty you seem to inspire in some people quite fascinating.”

To Taehyun’s credit, he hardly seems shaken by Yeonjun’s admission – perhaps the bluntness with which he admitted it was enough to convince him that it was not something he needed to worry about. “I am not convinced my wife required much inspiration, Prince Iseul. But thank you – I happen to believe that repaying the honesty of others with candor of my own pays off in ways not all politicians seem to appreciate.”

Yeonjun almost scoffs – how boldly Taehyun wields a lesson which he, to Yeonjun, only seemed to have learned so recently. But then again – for how long has he been honest with his husband? He may have no leg to stand on here. The benefits of their honesty, however… they seem almost undeniable.

Iseul seems to think about his words, then shifts her stance again – one hand behind her back, keeping it ramrod straight as a proper Kang alpha, and the other, once again, tossing a playing piece up into the air. “If you truly believe in this philosophy, Taehyun, then let us test it in practice. Let us speak honestly.”

Taehyun looks between the playing piece, Iseul’s eyes, and Yeonjun’s carefully neutral face before nodding. “Let us.”

The playing piece disappears in the prince’s closed fist, and her head tilts to one side. “Do you know the kind of pictures your wife has been painting me? Of this…” she gestures widely with the hand not tucked behind her back. “Cooperation between you and I.”

“I am aware, yes.”

Iseul seems somewhat surprised. She takes a moment to think, bringing her hand in front of herself, flicking the playing piece up from her closed fist to hold it up between her fingers again, in full view of all of them. “Did you tell him to say it?”

Taehyun shakes his head, almost more honest than Yeonjun expected him to be. “He only told me afterwards.”

Yeonjun takes it to be his prompt to be frank as well. “It was my suggestion, Your Highness. Mine alone – my husband had nothing to do with it.”

Sighing, Iseul clicks her tongue and tucks her other hand away as well. “It was nothing but empty words then, was it not.” She looks at Yeonjun with her eyes narrowed, and in the absence of amusement, mocking or derision, Yeonjun cannot read her expression – her tone, for one, sounds resigned. Regretful? “You made promises on your husband’s behalf you knew he would not keep.”

“That is not what I said, Iseul,” Taehyun steps in, his own tone firm and decisive. “And it is not what I told my wife when he informed me, either.”

No, but he did not sound inclined to go through with it regardless. But then again…

“What did you say then, Taehyun?”

“That you would never agree, Iseul. Because I know the way we were raised. But…”

Iseul looks at him, devoid of playfulness, and as their unblinking gazes meet, Yeonjun cannot help but notice a family resemblance between the two. “But?”

To Yeonjun’s surprise, Taehyun takes a few steps forward, further away from Yeonjun and closer to his cousin, who draws herself up even taller in response. Smoke and spice clash in the room uncomfortably, and Yeonjun curls into himself instinctively.

“I have had a lot of time to think about our family while keeping my vigil – and I believe I have realized something important.”

Finally, a familiar sentiment crosses Iseul’s face, as her lip curls with derision. “And what is that, Taehyun?”

“That we need not be just reflections of our fathers, Iseul. They decided to drive a wedge between our families when they grew apart, but we need not let the distance between them separate us as well. Why should we be enemies? Why should there be rivalry?”

Iseul leans forward, her eyes narrowed and scent flaring. “If you think you can get me to turn on my father, Taehyun—”

“No.” Taehyun cuts her off sharply. “Listen to me, Iseul. Does the House of Kang stand to be stronger if it stands united, or if we continue to insist it stay divided? You do not need to love me, Iseul. Neither does your father. I will be your reluctant ally or a beloved one – it does not matter to me. What matters to me is that our house remains strong, and this Empire along with it.”

His cousin rears back then, standing up tall again. “Father believes you want the throne – do you know that, Taehyun? He thinks you’d do anything to get it – just like your father before you.”

“This is exactly what I am talking about, Iseul – what have I done to make him believe so? Why must I bear the burden of how he felt about my father? I am sure he felt helpless – despising a brother who was untouchable for so many years while his grievances piled up – but to take it out on me? It seems childish of a man of his age and intelligence.”

Iseul scoffs, and looks away – but she does not seem to immediately find the words to refute him. She drags her lips through her teeth, one by one, then shakes her head. “You have been acting against the interest of this family for years, Taehyun. We have no reason to trust you.”

Something cracks on Taehyun’s face, and his usual composure breaks as the sourness of frustration blooms in his scent. “Everyone always says that, as if it was carved in stone – but tell me, Iseul, how have I hurt our family with my actions? Everything I did as a statesman was in the interest of our house and this realm. How does it hurt us, to have the power at this court dispersed between more families instead of always making concessions to the great houses? How does it hurt us, to let many people have scraps of power instead of letting our subjects amass as much of it as possible in as few hands as they can? The more influential the most powerful of our lords grow, the easier it is for them to threaten our position, the more say you give to the great families, the less say we get in the running of our own realm.”

“The tax reform—”

“We are the wealthiest family of the wealthiest empire known to man, Iseul. What do we care about scraps, if they keep our people appeased? If they keep this empire in one piece? There has been no rebellion in this country since I took my seat at the council. There would have been no war in my time, either, if it were not for the hunger of the great families. But now I have them pacified. We have them in the palm of our hand, Iseul. I hold them in mine. And all you and your father are doing by acting against me is pushing that hand away, instead of making use of it.”

Iseul looks at Taehyun as if she can hardly recognize him, but to Yeonjun, this Taehyun is more familiar than any other. The same Taehyun who complains bitterly about his ministers, who complained about his father, who is so desperate to have those around him see the world the same way he does, as thoroughly convinced as he is of his own righteousness. If nothing else, he believes his own words – and the longer Iseul studies him, the more Yeonjun wonders if she is starting to believe them as well.

“You would just hand all that influence to Father.”

Taehyun’s hands clench into fists – his anger smells so odd to Yeonjun. It prickles at his skin, makes his head spin. “I would keep that influence in the family – the way it has always been.”

Iseul’s teeth capture her bottom lip and cling to it. She glances at Yeonjun, some curiosity glinting in her eyes before she looks at Taehyun again. “Some people on our side of the family think that Father’s belief in the inevitability of your betrayal is nothing but paranoia.”

Taehyun’s teeth were so tightly clenched Yeonjun believes he hears a noise as it moves when he speaks. “What about you, cousin? What do you think?”

“I do think he is paranoid – because I have always thought you were a coward, Taehyun. Ever since we were children.”

“What does that make you then, Iseul? If you believe he is wrong but do not act against him? Are you nothing more than your father’s puppet? Why? Because you are afraid of his disfavor? Because you are not enough of an alpha yourself to stand on your own two feet? If I am a coward, what are you?”

Iseul takes one hand away from her back to point at Taehyun’s chest. “Your mouth is full of bile for someone who claims to want to be my ally, cousin.”

“You said we should be honest,” Taehyun replies with a choked lightness to his tone. “I am being honest, and asking for your honest answer, if you have one, cousin. Do you have no interest in stepping out of your father’s shadow? Do you just want to cower behind his back until it is your time to seize the throne? Is that the kind of alpha you want to be?”

They stand still, as if frozen in time, and then Iseul withdraws her finger. She drops her hand, sighs and shakes her head. Her eyes go to Yeonjun, but they seem to him unseeing, unfocused. She is not looking at him, she is looking away from Taehyun. Her pupils twitch this way and that, before she shakes her head again.

“You are too late, Taehyun,” she says then, finally truly looking Yeonjun in the eyes before turning her attention back to Taehyun. “Father will never hear you out, no matter what I say to him. When it comes to you, he does not listen to anyone. The best you can hope for is to spare your life, if you go peacefully.”

Away from Iseul’s eyes, behind Taehyun’s back, the prince’s hand is trembling.

“If my wife turns on me.”

Iseul shrugs, but this time the gesture is much more stiff. “If you leave the court willingly, there is no guarantee that you will not return at the head of an army.”

Taehyun takes a deep, long, deliberate breath, then nods. “If uncle needs a guarantee, I will give him a guarantee.”

Iseul’s stance immediately becomes defensive, as an odd air settles in the room at those words – she looks at Yeonjun, obviously assessing his expression to find out if the statement should worry her, but Yeonjun is just as confused as she is. As apprehensive as her, when Taehyun turns around and looks right at him, and sourness dissipates in his scent in favor of the staleness he has come to associate with his husband so strongly. His eyes are sad. Regretful. And Yeonjun is nothing but terrified.

When Taehyun steps in this direction, Yeonjun expects to accept his husband in his arms, but instead, Taehyun walks past him and disappears into his study. He hugs himself instead, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. What could possibly be—

“Do you have any idea what he is thinking?”

He lifts his eyes to Iseul, who seems somewhat distressed herself – her scent as well has taken on a strange, unpleasant note. Yeonjun shakes his head. She clicks her tongue and walks over to the pot of playing pieces, to drop the ones she is still holding onto inside, not bothering to close it once she is done, standing by the playing table chewing her lips instead.

Taehyun does not leave them waiting long – he returns with a rolled up piece of paper in his hand, and he strides without flourish all the way to Iseul, holding it out to her. She inspects it with narrowed eyes, leaning away from it a little as if it were a knife instead.

“What is it?”

“Everything your father wants,” Taehyun says curtly, gesturing with it towards her again. “A guarantee that I will not make a bid for the throne.”

She looks at him doubtfully. “Just like that?”

“You just threatened my life, Iseul.”

She scoffs, but finally accepts the paper he is handing her. “Coward.”

Taehyun folds his newly freed hand neatly behind his back. “I still have things to do in this world before I leave it.”

“Like what?” Iseul sounds more incredulous than curious. Taehyun just gestures with his chin at the piece of paper.

“Take it to your father. Make sure he reads it. And if it changes his mind even a little bit…” he shakes his head. “Then tell him that I was hoping to extend this gesture in friendship one day.”

Then he turns away from his cousin, and walks away with no goodbye, impolite and dismissive. Iseul scoffs again when he is gone, turning her eyes up towards the ceiling and shaking her head before turning to Yeonjun and lifting the paper into view again.

“If Father is not swayed by this, Lady Yeonjun, and believe me when I say I doubt he will be…”

Yeonjun nods, his stomach twisted into knots. Iseul’s eyes do something strange, perhaps they soften for the very first time, but Yeonjun clears his throat.

“Then I will burn in whatever fire you unleash upon my husband.”

The prince’s lips tighten, but she nods in response. “This court is in such dire need of omegas like you, Lady Yeonjun. It will be such a shame to lose you.”

Yeonjun bows to her politely, and hears her sigh.

 

.

 

The front room reeks of alphas. Yeonjun’s head hurts, and he leans it carelessly against the wall, staring down at the playing table that is awash in playing pieces, waves of black and white blurring before his eyes. It is so perfectly quiet, and the only lit lamp in the room barely gives off enough light, but the inside of Yeonjun’s mind is bright and loud and overwhelming. His skin prickles and his fingers tremble when he plunges them again into the pot of playing pieces.

They rattle too loudly in the stillness, and he bites into his lip to stave off the ache the sound elicits between his ears. He picks a spot at random, and puts the piece down.

“Yeonjun.”

He hums without looking up from the playing board.

“If uncle doesn’t take my offer, you need to go to Iseul. I think she would still take you in. She’s never been too cruel to omegas. She might be good to you.”

He starts shaking his head without lifting it from the wall, but the words keep coming.

“I’ll beg her to take Beomgyu in as well, so you can stay together. I’ll give up whatever I need to in return. I’ll make sure you aren’t separated.”

Yeonjun squeezes his eyes shut. “Taehyun.”

Playing pieces rattle too loudly again; Yeonjun winces. “What?”

“What did you offer him?”

Instead of an answer, he hears the click of a playing piece being set down. He opens his eyes to see his husband gathering Yeonjun’s captured pieces off the board. His face seems so peaceful, but he smells like anything but – Yeonjun never felt much of a need to put a name to the staleness that has seemed so prevalent in Taehyun’s scent lately, but now he wonders if he could simply call it misery.

The prince looks at his fistful of slate pieces. His nose flares with a deep, bracing breath. Yeonjun wonders what he smells like, behind all the alpha scents assaulting his scents. Like rotten berries, maybe. Soured wine.

“Why did you marry me, Yeonjun?”

Yeonjun clicks his tongue. To answer a question with a question of his own. How typical of him. Yeonjun tries to conjure up the same image he always does – a flower in his hands and before him, an indomitable wall of imperial purple. The beautiful face of the Empress, the dignified, stern mouth of the Emperor. The attentive eyes and taciturn air of their son. The Crown Prince and his bountiful family, all so stately, so respectable, so impressive to his young eyes.

But now the picture comes out strangely blurred, like a canvas splashed with water, losing all its carefully painted lines until it dissolves into a mess of swirling color. A cruel Emperor, and his disgraced, ill wife. Their soft-hearted coward of a son. A crown prince who holds grudges, his heir who might just be too desperate for his approval to ever stand against him. A splendid family, in black and silver, in imperial purples.

“I wanted to be a royal.” He starts picking pieces out of his pot and laying them down carelessly, with no regard for the game or strategy. “Ever since I came here. Since I first saw you and your family standing before me at the ceremony. I wanted to be like you. I wanted to be…” his fingers linger on the piece he just set down, then he reaches up and starts picking pieces out of his husband’s hand to put them down too, in neat, perfectly even rows. “Untouchable. Perfect. More than what I was, more than human. To me…” he runs out of pieces, and he reaches into the prince’s palm just to find it empty, and for Taehyun to close his fingers around Yeonjun’s, holding his hand while Yeonjun’s eyes finally find their way to his. “None of you seemed human. To me, you were legends made flesh, and suddenly you were right before me, and in that moment, it was so easy to imagine myself among you. Next to you.”

He watches as pain pierces through his husband’s melancholic eyes, and they drop down to the playing table between them.

“We were never perfect, Yeonjun. And the only one who was ever truly untouchable was my father.”

And Yeonjun nods, as their hands fall apart and they withdraw them into their own laps. “I know that now.”

“I apologize for deceiving you.”

Yeonjun shakes his head. It was not Taehyun who deceived him, but his own youth; his naïveté. Taehyun thought he could make him untouchable just as much as Yeonjun did. They were both too young and foolish to really understand. And now, six… well, now seven years later, they pay for the folly of their youth. Finally getting their comeuppance.

The truth is the bitterest mouthful to swallow.

But also the most important.

“What did you do, Taehyun?”

He catches his husband’s eyes, and Taehyun seems afraid where Yeonjun only feels somber – and perhaps the truth is the reason why they do not quite feel the same at the moment. But they can remedy that, can they not?

“What did you offer him?”

The prince’s mouth does not open to speak. Yeonjun’s lips purse, and he fights not to clench his jaw. It would be so unladylike. And he is a lady. A good wife. A good omega. And he will not run. To Iseul’s house, or anyone else’s. He could not live with himself. He could not.

“Tell me, Taehyun. You have to tell me.”

And Taehyun breathes out rapidly, and his shoulders sink, and he turns in his seat to press his shoulders to the wall as he collapses in on himself – it is a familiar sight. Yeonjun remembers him like this. Crying outside Beomgyu’s room, ill-composed, vulnerable, undignified. The great alpha he thought he married, small and weak and pathetic.

But he nods. He does not sob, he does not cry, and he does not run. For once, he hears Yeonjun, and he listens.

 

.

 

The day of the funeral is unusually warm. Yeonjun sweats under his plain robes, and flutters his fan near incessantly whenever it is proper. When it comes time to kneel before the gates of the Emperor’s tomb as they close, to remain shut for all eternity, the black stone is so heated it seeps through Yeonjun’s clothing, and aches against his bare skin wherever the robes do not protect him. But he has to stay motionless, pressed against the floor, sobbing with the other omegas while a master of ceremony seals the tomb shut.

If he lets himself think about it, he thinks he could find some humor in it. Shamans are forbidden at the Imperial Court and yet, here the master of ceremony is, doing the exact same thing a shaman would in any far-off corner of the Empire. Saying the same words, doing the same motions, using the same seals. Ridiculous.

But Yeonjun cannot laugh, so he tries to think about things that could move him to tears instead. Surely, he has more of those than anything else.

His husband is there to help him stand once they are finally permitted to rise. All the most important people of the Imperial Court are gathered here, in front of the tomb – the crown prince himself, his wife, all his children, their spouses and issue. The Empress dowager, all lords councilor, the lord steward of the Court, the master of ceremony, and the highest ranking of all imperial military officers. In the warm, humid air, in their uncomfortable mourning clothes, none of them seems particularly dignified. Sweat gathers at their brows, the alphas red in the face, the omegas fluttering their fans restlessly. No servants could follow them up here to the tomb, as it would be inappropriate, so there is nobody around them to ease their discomfort for them. Some of the mothers are fanning their children, fussing over them, or their husbands. Yeonjun keeps his fan pointed towards himself.

For a moment, everyone seems to be gathering their bearings before they descend the stairs separating them from the crowd of people waiting below. They seem to have parted down the middle inadvertently, the crown prince’s family on one side, while Taehyun and the dowager stand with the court officials on the other. It seems oddly symbolic. Yeonjun wants badly to grip onto his husband’s arm, but it is not to belong to him right now – he should offer it to his stepmother, so they can descend the stairs together with Yeonjun in tow, unaccompanied or with some official or another by his side, should they deign to walk with him, and assist him if he stumbles.

After a moment, Taehyun steps away from him to do exactly that, and start the procession down the stairs according to custom – but, as he steps towards the Empress dowager, and they come to stand face-to-face, a polite distance away, and Taehyun bows politely to her, instead of calling for Taehyun, the Empress unpins the veil that has been covering her mouth since her husband passed away, extends an arm to her side and says, “General.”

And to the horror of everyone present, General Moon Eungjun strides confidently to her side, letting her settle her small, gentle hand in the crook of his elbow. Slowly, Taehyun rises from his bow, stiff-backed and obviously barely clinging to his composure, and looks at both of them in turn, uncomprehendingly.

It seems they offer him little by way of explanation, before the General begins to lead the Empress towards the top of the stairs. Most of the people gathered exchange startled, confused looks. Not all of them. Not Lord Councilor Lee, a relative of the Empress, or the master of ceremonies, also a member of the Moon family. Yeonjun’s gut tightens in discomfort. Taehyun turns around to look at his uncle and Iseul, something desperate on his face that dissolves into helplessness when he is not met with a triumphant look on either of their faces. This is not part of their game.

Yeonjun glances at the Empress’ face as she and the General pass by him, and sees a familiar look of grim satisfaction on her face. Her plan, then. Surely.

Taehyun rushes to his side so they can maintain at least some decorum, and they start descending the stairs behind the dowager, arm in arm, followed closely by the crown prince and his own wife. No words are exchanged, and only for a single moment, Taehyun looks back at his uncle before looking ahead again. Yeonjun holds his arm a little tighter afterwards.

Down below the stairs, the funeral crowd accepts them solemnly and once again the company present at the tomb splits into all-too-obvious groups. The future emperor’s family gathers around him, Taehyun’s loyal lords councilor gather around him, and the rest of the council stands together, while the dowager is swallowed by a suite of Moon nobles that seem to attempt to shield her from view. Perhaps to protect her from the consequences of her own actions – spurning her own son, in law if not in blood, on the day of her husband’s funeral.

“I told you, Your Highness, that not keeping an eye on the Empress was a foolish move.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes at the sound of Lord Yeun’s voice and fans himself a little faster. Finally, servants gather around them to help, but it feels like an insufficient remedy for the headache that Lord Yeun has proven to be. Yeonjun wishes he did not understand why Taehyun bothered with him at all.

“This means nothing, Lord Yeun. Her acting out now…” Taehyun shakes his head. “It is pointless. It will not help her in the slightest.”

Why would she do it, then? Out of pettiness? Yeonjun leans away from his husband slightly, just to try and see her past the sea of nobles surrounding her. Perhaps for the same reason she was so antagonistic towards Yeonjun. Why she never invited him to spend time with her and the other wives.

But then again… the future Emperor’s arm was right there, as was Iseul’s. She had options, options that were not attached to the name of the greatest rival of her husband’s house.

From what Yeonjun heard, Taehyun’s uncle tried to mend the rift between their houses – seeking allies outside his family rather than reconciling with his nephew. He thinks he understands Taehyun’s anger at those actions. Especially from someone who would not stop accusing Taehyun of betraying his name.

This, however, seems like anything but a gesture of civility between the families. It may even be the exact opposite.

Yeonjun’s eyes leave the gathered Moons, and wander over towards the rest of the Kangs. His gaze catches on Iseul’s, who was already looking in their direction, and he quickly averts his eyes, leaning closer to his husband’s arm again.

“An alliance between the Lee and the Moon…”

“Is nothing new under the sun, is it?” Lord Seo sighs. “There is no need for dramatics, lord councilor. The great families extend their hands to great families who extend their hands to great families. They all have vested interest in each other’s success.”

“So they can keep their boots as firmly on our necks as they need them,” Lord Na adds, obviously in a sour mood. He shifts on his feet restlessly, readjusting his wide shoulders before addressing the prince directly. “I am not needed here, am I?”

Without responding verbally, Taehyun gestures with his free hand, and with a nod and a small bow, the lord councilor leaves them to join his family instead, immediately leaning his head on top of his wife’s as soon as their arms interlock. Yeonjun glances at Taehyun, who has not looked at him once since they came down the stairs, but his look is not returned. He drops his eyes to the ground beneath them.

“You seem terribly flushed, Your Grace, are you well?”

A small smile coming to his lips easily, Yeonjun lifts his head to nod at Lord Jung, who is watching him with some genuine concern. “Yes, my lord. But is the weather not terribly warm today? I can hardly say if His late Imperial Majesty blessed or cursed us with such a sunny day.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Lord Yeun roll his eyes.

“Ah, I believe he is testing our loyalty to him as he ever would! Asking us to honor him no matter the weather.”

Yeonjun huffs, suppressing his amusement for propriety’s sake. “Oh, perhaps you are right, Lord Jung. How terribly fitting that would be of a man like His Imperial Majesty.”

Now, Taehyun looks at Yeonjun, with some sort of odd curiosity. Yeonjun ignores him as he and Lord Jung smile at each other.

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

They are interrupted by a clearing of a throat, and their little circle parts to reveal Prince Iseul, who apparently came towards them while Yeonjun was not looking. She gives each lord flanking them a narrow-eyed, amused look, cocky as ever, before settling her eyes on Taehyun, some of the mocking air of superiority fading when she looks at her cousin.

“I am terribly sorry to interrupt what was surely a riveting conversation, my lords, but I came here to speak to Prince Taehyun and his lovely wife, if I may.”

Yeonjun tightens his grip on Taehyun’s elbow. Lord Seo glances at Taehyun, who gives a small nod, and she bows politely.

“Of course, Your Highness. We were just leaving.”

Iseul gives Lord Seo a lovely, artificial smile, and the lords councilor disperse, until the three of them are standing alone.

“What?” Taehyun asks bluntly, impolitely. Iseul scoffs.

“Is that how you speak with the future crown prince, Taehyun?”

“It is how I speak with you.”

With a sigh, Iseul drops her shoulders and ambles closer to them, smoothly coming to stand at Taehyun’s side instead of standing opposite him. Yeonjun feels Taehyun tense up.

“Let us not make a scene, cousin. There has been enough of that today.”

“Did uncle put her up to this?”

“No,” Iseul respond, her tone implying how foolish she finds the whole notion of it. “Father is fuming.” She folds her arms in front of herself. “We expected her to act foolishly, but General Moon…”

“Why would you expect her to do something like this?”

Yeonjun sees her turning towards Taehyun, and turns towards her instead, while his husband keeps his face forward, visibly unbothered even though his tone implies he is completely lost.

“Because she hates us, Taehyun,” she says, once again as if she cannot believe Taehyun would not already understand this. “She has always hated us.”

Those words are enough to make Taehyun look at his cousin fully. “Us?”

Iseul shrugs. “The Kangs. Your father, my father, you, me, whoever she comes to associate with us too strongly.”

Yeonjun presses his lips together. Taehyun must seem confused, because Iseul scoffs again.

“You really did not know. Unbelievable.”

“That must be why she treated me the way she did during the vigil,” Yeonjun says quietly, and both of the alphas look at him curiously, for a brief moment looking more related than ever. “She seemed to be overly demanding of me on purpose. I was not sure why – I thought her dislike of me was more… personal.”

With a quiet laugh, Iseul looks ahead again. “She must have been hoping for you to falter, or to give up altogether – give the rumor mill something real to gossip about.” Her words trail off oddly, and she aims her narrowed eyes in the direction of the Empress. “Come to think of it…”

Yeonjun looks in the same direction, frowning, then shielding his eyes with his fan to mask his slip in expression as squinting in the sun. “Do you think she was the one to start the rumors?”

“I would not put it past her, she…”

“What rumors?”

Both Yeonjun and Iseul turn towards Taehyun, whose own brow is furrowed in confusion. They exchange looks, and Iseul scoffs.

“You really do not know, cousin? What kind of a husband are you?”

Taehyun obviously bristles at the words, and Yeonjun tugs at his arm slightly to distract him.

“A husband who has spent the past month confined to the Emperor’s quarters, Your Highness, under Her Imperial Grace’s careful supervision. My husband had other things to worry about than courtly rumors.”

Iseul rolls her eyes with a smile. “Ah, of course. Too busy with his filial duties to tend to the marital ones, I forgot.”

Taehyun looks at her with a stony expression on his face. “What rumors, Iseul.”

“That your pretty wife was a useless one, Taehyun. That he has been shirking all his duties to your father and your poor grieving mother. Hosting tea parties in your rooms and taking strolls with other alphas while our family was in mourning.”

His husband looks strangely stricken when he looks at Yeonjun, and Yeonjun feels oddly hurt by it. Whether by the idea of his husband thinking there is a kernel of truth to it beyond him carrying out the plans they agreed on together, or by the thought that Taehyun might pity him for someone trying to smear his reputation, he is not sure.

“But do not worry, cousin,” Iseul says jovially, leaning towards him. “I took care of it.”

“You and my aunt,” Yeonjun corrects, his own voice coming out flatter than he intended.

Iseul looks over at him with a nod. “Of course – the good word of Madame Choi cannot be understated.”

“You helped my wife.” Taehyun sounds confused and incredulous. Yeonjun cannot tell if he is fooled by her machinations, or cannot believe the lengths she would go to, to get between him and his wife.

She clasps a hand onto Taehyun’s shoulder, and Yeonjun is jostled as his husband bristles immediately at the contact. “The point is, Taehyun, she has been tormenting all our wives for years now behind closed doors – Lady Yeonjun has been spared up until now, either out of respect or disdain, we may never know – but now she seems to have little qualms about shunning us in public.”

Taehyun shrugs widely, and it shakes Iseul’s hand off his shoulder. “She is just another widow now. It does not matter what she does anymore.”

“She is your father’s widow, Taehyun. The Empress dowager. She is your mother.”

The look Taehyun sends her way is unexpectedly withering. “She is not the Empress Mother, and you know that.”

Iseul rolls her eyes again. “Certainly, Taehyun. But my point stands. Even if she only takes a small dowry out of your father’s inheritance, she remains the dowager. It might be a symbolic title, but it has a ring to it with the right people.”

“And her greatest bartering chip,” Yeonjun finds himself adding, eyes once again on the sliver of the Empress dowager’s head that is visible from his vantage point. A widow, left behind by a cruel husband, with a symbolic title, up for grabs for those who would wish to use her as a puppet for their political needs. As someone to hide behind while they pursue their own agendas.

A familiar story.

“Indeed,” Iseul agrees, sounding pleased. “If she is barren like the people say, or if the court believes it enough… how is an omega like her to find someone to care for her?”

Taehyun looks at her with another deep frown. “She will be in my care, obviously. I will give her whatever life she will prefer.”

“Oh, now she is your mother?” Iseul asks mockingly, then shakes her head. “Do you think she will agree? She already refused my father. He was offering her everything she could possibly want. Rooms at the Court; an estate outside the city, a pretty holding out in the provinces. I agreed to have her at my court in the ancestral home.” She looks directly at Taehyun, imploring him to listen with her eyes alone. “She would have nothing we offered her.”

“He wanted to undermine me by taking care of my mother for me?”

“He wanted you gone, Taehyun – he was just making arrangements for what would come afterwards.”

The hand of the arm Yeonjun holds onto closes into a fist, and Yeonjun stops fanning himself long enough to cover the fist with his hand. For some reason, Taehyun sends him a hurt look in response, and Yeonjun lets him go, turning away from both of the alphas as he resumes his fanning.

“She has to accept my care – it would make no sense for her to remarry.”

“She also had to take your arm just now, Taehyun,” Iseul points out. “You are free to make your offer to her, of course. But if she does not take it…”

Both Yeonjun and Taehyun look at her. Her face looks a bit too solemn for Yeonjun’s liking.

“Then what, Iseul?”

She shrugs, folding her arms behind her back. “She will have to be taken care of somehow. Father hates to see a loose thread left hanging this way. Especially if the Moon do not seem to have enough respect for him not to encourage it.”

“I thought they were your allies,” Yeonjun says, his voice choked up enough that he is not sure if she will hear him.

But she does, giving him a warm, conspiratorial look. “So did we, Lady Yeonjun. So did we.”

“So you have no plan of dealing with her,” Taehyun says firmly, as if there were no aside in the conversation at all.

Iseul sighs. “We thought the matter was not so pressing – we thought we had time until she found someone to sidle up to.”

“You underestimated her.”

“While you, cousin, were not even aware there was anything to estimate.”

Yeonjun covers his mouth with his fan, and Iseul glances at him with a smile.

“I will take care of it.”

Iseul tilts her head. “Will you?”

“Yes – if uncle wants reasons to trust me, then I will give him those. Leave the matter of the dowager to me.”

“She will not simply trust you because you are her son, Taehyun.”

“I know that – if I thought the solution would be simple, then I would leave it to you.”

Iseul laughs, as if the sound was punched out of her chest. “You said we did not need to be rivals, Taehyun, remember?”

“Yes – not because of our fathers. And yet I seem to have found my own reasons to dislike you.”

“And what are those, Taehyun – because I know more than you? Because I cared for your wife in your stead? Because your wife likes me?”

It should be the moment for Yeonjun to intervene and deny at least the last claim of hers. He does not like Iseul – does he? She was dismissive of Beomgyu like everyone else. Dismissive of him like everyone else. Manipulative. Mocking. He does not enjoy her company. She always tries to get under his skin.

But maybe she always manages to, and that is the point, because he keeps his fan over his mouth as he looks away.

Spice flares in a familiar way, and it prickles at Yeonjun’s skin. His husband rises to the challenge.

“Because you still care about these things, instead of treating me like an equal – like the friend I wished you to be, to both me and my wife.”

Iseul clicks her tongue. “Do you want me to be like Captain Choi? A loyal puppy at your heels that warms your wife’s lap while you are away?”

“A friend, Iseul. Surely the notion is not entirely unfamiliar to you.”

“We are the royal family, Taehyun.”

“It is, then.”

Iseul scoffs, and walks away without a goodbye. Yeonjun watches her stride back towards her family, immediately going to her father to speak to him, over the edge of his fan.

He catches his husband’s eyes on him, and only meets them briefly before turning the other way, closing his eyes and resuming the fluttering of his fan.

 

.

 

The crown prince declares the mourning period to last for the rest of the year. Everyone seems surprised, Taehyun included, when the declaration is made – with the animosity between him and his brother and his obvious desire to take up the throne, it feels strange that he would be willing to honor his older brother this solemnly, especially since the ban on festivities in the time of mourning means that he will not be able to ascend officially for another year, even now that he has taken over as Emperor in all but name.

After the funeral is done, Yeonjun and Taehyun part, with Taehyun heading to a meeting of the Emperor’s advisors, now to be held temporarily at his uncle’s estate outside the city, and Yeonjun heading home, to finally wipe the words of blessings off of his arms, now that the soul of his father-in-law has been laid to rest for good.

He does not know how to feel about never being visited by his spirit, neither in his dreams nor otherwise. When his grandmother passed away, she came to see him multiple nights in a row, invading his sleeping thoughts, but Taehyun’s father never did. Perhaps it speaks to something he already knew – that Taehyun’s father never took him seriously as a son-in-law. To him, he was clearly never any better than a concubine. A pretty thing to amuse oneself with, a vessel for Taehyun’s children.

He weeps genuinely while washing his arms, more for himself than for the man they buried in the morning. He might be selfish for doing so.

Once he is clean, he sits in the front room and writes letters to send to their home court, asking for his ladies, Haewon and Beomgyu to be brought to the estate Taehyun wants them to spend Yeonjun’s heat in. The prince promised to express his desire to leave the court for the duration of Yeonjun’s heat to his uncle, to make sure they do not make any sudden moves that would worry anyone at their court. It is humiliating, but necessary.

They are already on thin ice – they need to be careful, at the cost of letting Taehyun’s uncle in on their dreary marital business.

Yeonjun’s cousins come to have lunch with him, and linger all the way until his husband arrives back from the meeting in the late afternoon. They exchange pleasantries before they leave, but Yeonjun can tell the exhaustion in his husband’s shoulders, and rushes his relatives out the door as quickly as he can. His husband seems to appreciate it, sinking to the seat by the tea table with his coat still on, dropping his face into his palms.

He asks Kyunsang for fresh tea and sits next to him, laying a hesitant hand on Taehyun’s shoulder.

The prince’s face turns towards him, only partially coming out from between his hands. He looks at Yeonjun, searching for something on his face he does not seem to find. He closes his eyes and lowers his hands, aiming his gaze at the backs of them atop their tea table.

Yeonjun bites his lip. “So—”

“Uncle introduced my law today. He wasted no time.”

He lowers his hand, from Taehyun’s shoulder to his back, letting it fall away from his body completely. “Good.”

Taehyun clenches his hands into fists. “Perhaps.”

“Did he force a vote?”

The prince shakes his head. “The other councilors would not let him. They were full of excuses, first and foremost that he does not hold the throne quite yet. They want time to think on it and scheme.”

“But they cannot outvote you.”

“No. And even if they could convince one of my lords, my vote remains the same, and that might be enough for uncle to keep trusting me.”

“How did the lords react?”

Taehyun lifts his head, staring at the wall ahead of himself instead of turning to him. “They were… shocked. Lord Yeun, however, was of course overjoyed.”

Yeonjun huffs through his nose, and a smile tugs at Taehyun’s mouth.

“Lord Lee seemed less than pleased.”

Yeonjun tugs at his own sleeve. “He seemed in on the dowager’s plan today.”

Taehyun nods, and looks down at his hands again. “They probably built their plan on the idea of a split house of Kang. They expected uncle’s ascension to go less smoothly than it did.”

“They expected you to stand in his way.”

“Or for him to come after me either way.” He looks at Yeonjun then, finally, and his face is so somber, his scent so stale, that Yeonjun feels vaguely guilty about his failure to comfort him. As his omega, he should… ensure his alpha feels good. Taehyun’s eyes glance down at Yeonjun’s lips for the briefest of moments. “We have his permission to leave.”

Yeonjun’s chest seizes oddly, as if unsure whether to tighten in fear or erupt in a delighted flutter. “Oh.”

Kyunsang steps into the room then, and they look away from one another to watch him set the tea set down. They thank him, and he leaves with a bow. Yeonjun quickly moves forward to make Taehyun tea, before his husband gets a chance to do it himself.

“But.”

Yeonjun makes himself a cup of tea as well without prompting Taehyun to continue, or reacting beyond a rise of his eyebrows.

“He wants to send someone with us, or after us, to ensure we plan nothing nefarious while we are there.”

Of course. Yeonjun sighs. “Maybe we should stay until I enter preheat, so he can make sure why we are leaving.”

His husband’s eyes are on him, and there is an edge of guilt to them that he hates. “He finds it difficult to believe that I intend to spend your heat with you, when he knows now that I never do.”

“Did.”

“Did.”

Yeonjun nods firmly. “I suppose that makes sense.”

He finds it difficult to believe sometimes as well. Taehyun… in his arms? While the air smells of sugar-coated fruit and a sting of spice? His alpha, between his thighs? And a child… he may leave this spring burdened with a child.

Their child.

“I think I should… spend time with you.”

Yeonjun blinks the thoughts away, turning wide, surprised eyes at his husband. “What?”

“During your preheat. Like I did with Omega Beomgyu. To get used to it.”

“You barely spent time around him,” Yeonjun dismisses, the thought making him restless. Uncomfortable, maybe. His mate’s scent in the air while his body prepares for heat? It must be…

He should remember it, but he does not. Taehyun got too skilled at avoiding him over the years.

“And I need not spend all my time with you,” the prince says defensively, picking up his tea to drink, as if it could put distance between them even as they remain sitting so close together. “I do not want to intrude on your life, wife, I simply…”

“You still do not trust yourself around me.”

Taehyun presses the cup tightly to his bottom lip before putting it down again. “I have given myself no reason to.”

Yeonjun huffs, pressing both of his hands tightly into his lap. “I told you, Taehyun, that it did not matter to me how it happened. All that matters is that you are there, and what comes of it.”

“And what if it matters to me, wife? What then?”

He rolls his eyes, turning his head away. It does not matter how Taehyun feels. He owes Yeonjun this. For all those years. He promised him this, when they married. It is Yeonjun’s right. He should get this, no matter what. Just like he was ready to give himself over no matter what, just like he is ready to give himself to his husband, no matter how painful, how uncomfortable, how terrifying it might be. If Yeonjun can do this, why cannot Taehyun?

“What could you possibly do to me that you have not already?”

“You do not understand.”

“Then explain yourself, Taehyun.”

Their eyes meet, both narrowed and confrontational. The prince’s hand closes into a fist on top of the table.

“You know what it is like to lie with me. The bruises, the soreness. The… devastation I would wreak upon your body.”

To Yeonjun’s delight. Overwhelming and thorough. He takes wholly, is what Yeonjun has always liked to say. Because that is how it always felt. Cleansing and claiming at the same time, making him perfect, making him feel wanted. Needed. Aware of his body and outside of it.

And only after that glow would fade he would feel… useless again.

He hums in response. To his surprise, his husband reaches for him, and a warm hand lands on his thigh. They should not make contact now; they should not be touching. They should not be looking at each other. They should…

“That is what I am like with all my restraint intact. Mind unclouded…” His eyes drop then, to the hollow of Yeonjun’s throat. “To the extent that it can be so around you…” He huffs, and his eyes fall away from Yeonjun as he withdraws completely, lifting his hand from Yeonjun’s leg and leaving the spot feeling uncomfortably cold in its wake. “In any state of undress, anyway.”

He could mock his husband for this. He should. But he does not want to – not today.

Today, he wants to do this – pull all the fabric off of his shoulder, exposing it completely, pulling down the lapel in such a practiced, coquettish way. Baring his skin while his husband purposefully does not look.

“Really? I thought you were unaffected by me now. You acted so chivalrous, the last time I showed myself to you.”

Taehyun turns his face away completely. “Out of respect for you and Omega Beomgyu.”

“No.” Yeonjun leans forward, into the small space between them, resting one hand on top of the cushion the prince sits on. “If you had respect for me, husband, you would have taken this body the way it is meant to be taken – but you left that honor to Beomgyu.”

Finally, the prince looks at him again, hurt and offended, and Yeonjun does not feel any guilt, not even when the prince’s scent flashes with anger. “Out of respect for myself, then.” When he leans in, Yeonjun stops breathing, and he shivers when his husband pulls up his robes over his shoulder again. “I do not make love to other people’s omegas.”

And the words hurt when they fall from his husband’s lips, even though Yeonjun has told them to himself a hundred times by now to soothe himself. That he is Beomgyu’s now, that he…

“I am not yours anymore, then.”

Taehyun huffs and puts more distance between their faces again. “You are my wife. My partner in this mess my family has made of this court.”

“But not your omega.”

His husband shuts his eyes. “Not my omega,” he repeats, as if the words were a punishment he had to bear, not merely a repetition of something he just said to his own mate’s face. Then he opens his eyes and nods. “Not my lover.”

And there is something detached in the way he looks at Yeonjun that Yeonjun despises. An acceptance he cannot bear.

“If you do not make love to what is not yours, what do you intend to do during my heat then?”

His words are sharp and confrontational, and Taehyun starts shaking his head before he is even finished asking. It enrages Yeonjun for reasons he does not quite understand, but he sees red nonetheless, and surges forward, gripping onto his husband’s leg instead of the cushion and gripping at the side of his jaw.

“What, Taehyun? Tell me.”

Taehyun jerks his chin out of Yeonjun’s hold, just for Yeonjun to hold his jaw in both hands instead.

“If you cannot bring yourself to touch me, what will you do?”

The prince takes hold of his wrists, firmer than he usually would outside of fits of passion, and pulls Yeonjun’s hands away from his face. “Believe me, Yeonjun, it will be easy enough for me, once the scent of you gets rid of all my better judgment.”

With his hands still within Taehyun’s grip, Yeonjun leans forward to bring their faces close again. “And what if it does not, Taehyun?” He worries at his bottom lip, stripping paint off of it with his teeth. “What if it is not enough? What if it fails to stir you?” The thoughts he had been keeping private, those terrible, unpleasant, childish thoughts start spilling out of him, unbidden, unwanted. “What if it is not sweet enough? What if I am not plump enough for you? Pretty enough for you? Wet enough for you?”

His husband’s eyes melt, from anger to confusion to something softer that Yeonjun wants to look away from but cannot bring himself to. The pressure on his wrist relents and he is let go, bringing his wrists to his chest self-consciously, before, to his shock, he his gathered into his husband’s arms, as they wind around his waist and pull them close to one another, Yeonjun’s hands locked between their chests, even as his face falls onto the prince’s shoulder.

“When has that ever been true, Yeonjun?”

And the gentleness of the embrace hurts. Yeonjun’s skin prickles with it so uncomfortably. Nobody used to embrace him, and now… he is held by his husband again. Must he always show the worst of himself for it to be so?

He tucks his face into his husband’s neck, and Taehyun’s pulse hammers away under the skin he presses into, and Yeonjun shakes his head.

“When you rejected me. When you kept rejecting me.”

“You know why I did so.”

Does he? Because Taehyun thinks he could not be gentle? Because Taehyun was terrified of omegas in heat? Because his mother bled and suffered?

But a terrible part of him believes none of that should matter. His alpha should want him more than that. His mate should need him more than that. Taehyun should crave his body so badly that no old pain, no fear, no hesitation could ever stand between them. He should be insane with desire.

Maybe then Yeonjun would truly feel beautiful.

He bites into his husband’s neck, hard and careless, and he gasps in pain, but instead of pushing him away, he pulls him closer. Tracks pepper onto Yeonjun’s tongue. Yeonjun squeezes his eyes shut and feels wetness cling to his eyelashes.

He opens his mouth wider and bites down again, laps at the skin trapped between his teeth until Taehyun squirms against him.

“Yeonjun.”

Like a lover’s sigh. Once again. Finally.

He lets Taehyun’s neck go, and pushes against his hold enough to free his hands, wrapping his arms around his husband’s neck and bringing their faces close again, pushing their noses together.

“Show me.”

Taehyun’s arms unwrap from around him, and he misses the pressure at his waist, hating the gentle way the prince’s hands settle at his sides instead.

“What?” He sounds drunk and thoughtless. Yeonjun wants to kiss him, but does not. The smell of crushed fruit swirls between them, twining with the pepper in such a familiar way.

“I don’t believe you, Taehyun. So show me.”

“Show you?” Like a boy. Like a helpless boy. It settles something in Yeonjun’s chest so perfectly.

He tilts his head the way he would were he to kiss Taehyun, right now, but he does not move in to do so, and neither does his husband. “What it would be like, if you lost your judgment.” Then his voice breaks, and this golden confidence he wrapped himself in falters, and he hangs his head again. “If I was enough. If you wanted me.”

And his spell over Taehyun seems to fade with his sudden flash of confidence, because breath rushes out of his husband all at once, and his hands come down to Yeonjun’s hips, but there is nothing desperate about any of it. It sounds like he released a breath he has been holding. It sounds like relief.

Taehyun seems to understand that Yeonjun has run out of whatever temporary madness gave him the courage to keep tempting him. And he is relieved. To have his whore of a wife wilting against him, instead of urging him to do something about his need. Instead of begging to be validated. To be lied to, for his own comfort.

He starts to withdraw his arms from around Taehyun’s neck, suddenly wooden, awkward – but to his surprise, instead of Taehyun pulling back, he leans in, and his lips press into the tender spot under Yeonjun’s ear. Usually he would squirm, but today, he freezes instead.

“Put your arms around me again.”

Yeonjun lets out a tiny, surprised, confused noise. Taehyun’s fingers squeeze at his hips. His voice is suddenly so firm. Solid where Yeonjun suddenly felt so tender.

“Do it.”

He wraps his arms around his neck tightly, and follows the pull of his husband’s hands when he guides him onto his lap. The stale note and anger in the air are gone, and now there is just warmth and pepper, as Yeonjun keeps his face tucked away, his cheek presses into Taehyun’s. His underclothes are rucked up, up his thighs all the way to his hips, so he can kneel wider, so their bodies can come even closer, pulled in by the pressure of his husband’s hands. He sighs when his bare skin comes into contact with the evidence of his husband’s arousal. He himself cannot tell if it is a sigh of relief, or need, or both.

“There.”

It sounds like Taehyun is not even addressing him; he sounds like he is talking to himself. His face pushes against Yeonjun’s, and Yeonjun pushes back. Fingers trails over his bare thighs and make him shiver.

“No.”

The fingers drum against his skin.

“Get off.”

And Yeonjun whines pathetically, sadly, helplessly, only tightening his grip, because he cannot, will not, he will not allow this, he will not—

Instead of being ordered again, he is shushed, and Taehyun’s face lowers to his clothed shoulder, to rub against his scent gland through his clothes. Fingers run up and down his spine in a familiar soothing motion.

“I will be right there. Just let me…” He wraps his arms around Yeonjun’s waist again, and lifts his mouth to speak into Yeonjun’s ear. “I would not take you like this.”

“No?” Yeonjun’s own voice sounds odd; rough.

“No.”

“Why?”

There is a pause. Taehyun squeezes him tighter. “Not good enough. Move. Undo your robe.”

His skin prickles, and he obeys, pushing himself off of his husband’s lap and tugging at the fastening of his robes. Thoughts threaten to rush in, worries, fears, concerns, but then he catches sight of his husband from the corner of his eye, who is tossing away his coat and loosening his own jacket while his eyes trail down the now visible outline of his body, and his mind is clear again.

Holding onto his husband again when he is picked up just enough to be laid out on the floor under Taehyun with a hand so carefully cradling the back of his head so it could settle on it safely, when they both fumble at his clothes so his husband’s hips can fit between his thighs. When Taehyun readjusts him, to bend his back further, to find an angle he likes better. When their fingers intertwine, pressed into the hard, wooden floor. Blank. His mind is perfectly blank.

“Here.”

Taehyun pushes their noses together again, then bumps his nose into his chin. His throat. Between his collarbones. Like a trail of kisses he does not give. Leaning on their joined hands, he presses his forehead into Yeonjun’s chest, and they breathe together.

Somehow, Yeonjun finds his voice again. “Like this?”

“Like that.”

Yeonjun tightens his legs around him. He is still aroused, wanting, and so is Yeonjun. He worries at his lip again.

“Will you?”

“When you need me to.”

“Now?” He cannot help but sound hopeful. He squeezes his legs together so hard they quickly start to ache and he has to let go again.

Taehyun shakes his head, and Yeonjun closes his eyes. The feelings come back before the thoughts do. Tears streak down his temples.

“I told you.”

Yeonjun nods, unsure if Taehyun can tell. He cannot be bothered to find his voice again. Not now.

Taehyun lifts himself up again, tries to rearrange them so they would not be pressed together so tightly, but Yeonjun won’t let him. Not yet.

His husband sighs, and Yeonjun swallows. Whorish. Disgusting. Lacking.

No matter what he says, no matter the peppery note in his scent. Alpha does not want him. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

“Yeonjun.”

One hand slips out of his to wipe at the tear tracks on his temple. Taehyun breathes out so shakily, Yeonjun is not sure if he is not on the verge of them himself.

“Am I hurting you again?”

He nods repeatedly, as if his life depended on it. His chest feels like it might. Like it will burst if handled incorrectly.

The backs of Taehyun’s fingers smooth down his cheek. “I apologize.”

He opens his eyes. Taehyun is flushed above him, sad and apprehensive despite the strange shine still present in his eyes. His hand disappears as Yeonjun opens his eyes, and he looks to the side to look for it, to capture it in his own again. He squeezes their fingers together.

“We should—” Taehyun trails off when Yeonjun looks at him. He is unsure what his own face looks like. Swollen and ugly with emotion, most likely. Repulsive to his husband’s taste for composure. And on cue, the prince looks away.

He keeps his own thoughts shuttered away behind a quickly clearing face, until Taehyun looks at him again with nothing but sincerity in his eyes.

“What do you want?”

Yeonjun swallows with difficulty past a lump in his throat. “You know what I want.”

And instead of avoiding it, Taehyun nods. “Anything but.”

Yeonjun snorts wetly. Finally, his legs loosen around his husband, and he lets himself go limp. It is useless. Always has been. He should learn his lesson.

When he does not say anything, Taehyun seems to slowly catch on, and he extricates himself bit by bit, letting go of his hands, moving away from between his legs. Yeonjun refuses to move, or right his clothes, to do anything.

Taehyun lowers himself to the floor next to him, lying down at his side.

They breathe heavily in the silence.

“I still remember how sweet you were,” Taehyun says eventually, and his voice sounds too deep like this. “It is one of the few things I remember.”

Yeonjun thinks he feels the rumble of his voice, rattling against Yeonjun’s skin through the floorboards.

His husband turns his head towards him, but the gesture goes unreciprocated. “You are sweet enough.”

He shakes his head.

“You have me half mad outside of heat, what more do you want?”

He turns his head finally, to shoot an angry, narrow-eyed stare at his husband, just to find him frowning.

“Did you think this was a calculated decision?”

Yeonjun looks back towards the ceiling, but Taehyun moves closer with a whiff of sourness following as he leans over Yeonjun again.

“No. Answer me.”

He stares at Taehyun instead of speaking, hoping he looks more hateful than pathetic. More hurt than afraid.

Taehyun just leans down closer to his face. “You are not the only one with the ability to compel, Yeonjun. Tell me.”

Yeonjun stares at one of his husband’s eyes, then the other, huffing, fuming, but Taehyun does not let it go. So he turns away, but Taehyun does not move away. He shakes his head, but not even that seems to suffice for an answer.

Because that is the answer, is it not? No matter what Yeonjun’s mind or body tell him, it should be clear enough. Taehyun did not act with a clear mind just now. In flashes of better or worse judgment, maybe, and he clung to his useless principles, but still. Yeonjun wanted to seduce him, and he did. He almost succeeded. If there were no Beomgyu, if Yeonjun never chose another omega over his alpha, he could have had him, right there and then.

Yeonjun was the one who said no. Before they even started. And Taehyun just listened.

“No.”

“No,” Taehyun repeats vehemently. “I simply fell for you, as I always do. And you know this. Well enough to take advantage.”

He huffs through his nose.

“Do you believe me now?”

Yeonjun shakes his head, feeling stubborn still, feeling desperate. He finally closes his legs, and looks at Taehyun again. “I will still be Beomgyu’s in my heat.”

Taehyun bites into his lip so hard it must be painful. “Obviously.”

“So?”

His husband looks down his body, but there is nothing lustful about his gaze. “If I am fortunate, I will forget, if I am not…” he shakes his head. “I will still have the fortune of burying my sorrows in the most beautiful body I have ever seen.”

Yeonjun clenches his hands into fists. “Have you seen many omega bodies, my prince?”

Taehyun looks at him, and something that has been struggling to fit recently snaps back together as he answers, “I have seen two.”

Because it sounds like them. Like the familiar push and pull.

“Were you not impressed by Omega Beomgyu?”

“I am not in love with Omega Beomgyu.”

“Are you in love with me, then?”

The prince’s wide eyes flicker across his face. “It would stand to reason.”

Something moves in his chest. “Have you thought about it?”

“About what?”

“My question. Why you thought your own love to be unimportant.”

“I have.”

“And?”

Something strange crosses Taehyun’s face, and he finally moves away, lying down on his back again. “You do not need to know my conclusions.”

Yeonjun turns his entire body towards him, folding himself onto his side. “I wish to.”

“It will not help anything.”

“It will help me understand you.”

“Perhaps that will not matter soon, either.”

Yeonjun frowns. “Your uncle took your offer.”

Taehyun nods. “He seemed to. But nothing is stopping him from getting rid of me as soon as the law is passed.” He turns his head in Yeonjun’s direction. “I remain a loose thread. Like Iseul said.”

He reaches out towards Taehyun, a lump growing in his throat again. “We will not allow it.”

“Why not?” Taehyun intercepts his hand, catching his wrist again. Not tightly, holding him in place by will rather than by force this time. “By next year, we should have an heir. One way or another.”

“And?”

“You would get to keep everything – all my inheritance would be yours. Omega Beomgyu could stay, as a wet nurse, as your lady.”

“And you would be dead.”

“Knowing that you, my child and Omega Beomgyu are provided for.”

Yeonjun tears his wrist out of Taehyun’s grip. “You are insane, Taehyun. Insane.” He scrambles to sit up, glaring at his husband once he has lifted himself by his arms. “Do not speak to me this way again.”

Taehyun shifts to look at the ceiling. He does not answer.

“You make me sick,” he spits as he stands up, his chest tight, desperate to move the prince to action, but it does not. He does not react at all.

Yeonjun shuts himself in his bed room for the rest of the day. He eats his dinner in bed, and cries into his pillows at the thought of his husband’s name painted on the backs of his hands.

He misses Beomgyu. He needs Beomgyu. As soon as possible.

 

.

 

They share a small carriage on their way to their new estate. Usually, they would hold long conversations, but today, they do not say a word. They have said little to each other since their last interaction – Yeonjun was hurt and angry, and Taehyun was moody and sullen. He spent his time in his study or away speaking to his councilors, with the occasional visit by Soobin. Yeonjun got few visits himself, but he got to see his aunt before they left the Court.

She came to him to verify the things she has heard about Taehyun making a genuine effort to reconcile with his uncle. Yeonjun could tell, the longer she spoke, that she was hoping to hear him say it was somehow thanks to him – that he talked his husband into it. That he talked the crown prince into giving his husband a chance. But that is not credit he is due, is it? He floated the idea of him and Iseul joining forces against her father, not Taehyun mending the rift within his family – but that is where it led, without any prompting on his side.

He could have told her what she wanted to hear; could have twisted the facts to make them sound the way his aunt wanted to hear them – but he did not want to. Somehow, he felt like she did not deserve his soothing. Even if she did take part in clearing his name.

When Yeonjun thanked her for it, she seemed proud that he knew without needing to be told. She might still believe he orchestrated everything that happened, even if he refused to say so to her face.

“This will be good for our family, Your Grace,” were some of the last words that she said to him. “You will see.”

And Yeonjun thinks he believes her – it seems that the Choi truly only stand to gain from this turn of events.

But Yeonjun’s family. His and Taehyun’s family, contained so gracelessly in one small carriage…

Yeonjun braids his hair to pass the time. Taehyun has the thin black book open in one hand, eyes skimming over lines Yeonjun is sure he has read dozens of times before, over and over again.

Recognizing one’s assets, and taking advantage of them. Capitalizing on strengths, using them to shield one’s weaknesses.

A farce. This whole thing is such a farce.

The first day of travel, they do not talk at all until dinner that they share with Soobin before retiring for the night. They both talk to him, but barely to each other. Soobin seems uncomfortable with it, but he allows it.

The next day is hardly better, as they spend their morning in tired silence. They managed to talk Taehyun’s uncle down to sending someone after them in a few days’ time, but the atmosphere feels as if they were watched constantly nonetheless. Too careful, every move and every word too deliberate and meticulously chosen. A deep frown has set into Soobin’s face by the time the prince is helping Yeonjun board the carriage. In contrast, Taehyun’s expression betrays nothing at all.

Once again, Taehyun opens his book to read, but this time, a folded sheet of paper slips from between the pages. Yeonjun watches closely as his husband retrieves it from his lap and returns it to the book, inserting it into another part of it so he can read comfortably.

He bites hard into his lip, but says nothing. The prince does nothing to acknowledge it, much less look at Yeonjun’s reaction. He wants to ignore it as well, wants to be stronger than this, better than this, but he is not.

“It is Omega Beomgyu’s writing, is it not?”

Taehyun looks at him, startled and uncomprehending for a long moment that makes him think the prince was not nonchalant deliberately, until he flips the pages away from what he was reading, clearly to look again at the paper he just hid between them.

“Ah, the letter.”

“So it is a letter.”

“Yes,” the prince replies carefully, then frowns. “Did he not tell you?”

He purses his lips. “No. But I found it accidentally, while getting the book to you. The papers have a tendency to fall out like this.”

Surprisingly, Taehyun huffs with some amusement. “They do.” Then his expression grows more apprehensive. “Have you read it?”

“Of course not.”

But he wants to know what is in it, and Yeonjun can see that his husband can tell.

“There is nothing untoward within it, I assure you. In whichever way you might be imagining.”

Yeonjun looks away. Beomgyu would not write an alpha a love letter. He knows this. A scathing letter, maybe. Full of bile and accusations. But that is not the emotion Beomgyu seemed to hold towards Taehyun. Not at all.

So what is it?

“They are just words of solace in my time of mourning,” Taehyun adds, as if he could read Yeonjun’s mind. “That is all.”

Yeonjun looks at Taehyun again, to look for a sign of deception on his face. “Words of solace? From Omega Beomgyu?”

But he finds none. “It is what they are to me, no matter what Omega Beomgyu intended for them to be.” A smile plays on Taehyun’s mouth, and he looks down at the pages of his book again. “I find the intention behind his words hard to parse sometimes. But these seemed to have the intent to heal, not hurt.” His eyes shift to Yeonjun’s, and he shrugs. “It is the best explanation I can give you without reading the words to you directly.”

“Why don’t you?” He is being too direct; too impolite. But his husband and his lover holding a secret between them he is not privy to irks him to no end.

“It is a private letter, wife. If Omega Beomgyu wants you privy to the contents of it, you can ask him to tell you.”

“What if he tells me that he will not tell me without your permission?”

The prince closes the book, and tucks it away into his robes. He looks tired, and Yeonjun feels somewhat guilty. “Then tell him you have my permission already.”

“I will,” Yeonjun says curtly, and Taehyun gives him a nod that seems more like resignation than anything else.

And again, they sit in silence, this time even without the familiar rustling of pages he has grown so used to over the previous day. It threatens to unsettle him, so he lets his mind wander – starts putting together lists of things to tell his ladies, picking an interesting piece of gossip, a relevant bit of news for each of them. To tell Eunbi that her fathers seems well, to tell Dasom about the time he saw her nieces playing in the gardens, to—

“If you speak to Omega Beomgyu about the letter,” the prince says suddenly, and Yeonjun stares at him wide-eyed as he takes the book out again, snapping it open. “Can I ask you to do something for me, then? I would rather it be done privately, and finding the opportunity to speak to him myself would be…” Taehyun looks at him, then down at the book again. “You understand.”

Yeonjun suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “What is it, my prince?”

Taehyun takes a folded piece of paper out from between the pages, but it is on the other side of the book from where he hid the letter. Yeonjun’s mind runs wildly for a moment. The prince will not ask him to play messenger between them, will he? Surely he will not ask him to deliver a response.

“Could you return this to him? It was in the book as well, but I am not sure it was meant for my eyes.”

He blinks hard. “Pardon?”

Taehyun extends the paper towards him. “There were two pieces of paper in the book. This, and the letter. I am quite confident the letter was addressed to me, but this…”

“What is it?”

His husband’s jaw clenches a little, as he seems to weigh his response carefully. “A poem. It seemed… personal. Perhaps he forgot he put it there as well.”

So did Yeonjun think, when he found the papers in the first place – but they might both be underestimating him by assuming so. Reluctantly, he takes the paper, and considers unfolding it, but something inside him stops him from doing so. The terrible part of him that wants so badly to be worthy of Beomgyu’s trust. Of his love. Would a lover pry into Beomgyu’s private correspondence?

He thinks back to their last night together before his departure – Beomgyu slumped over a tea table, writing diligently, abandoning his work immediately in favor of saying goodbye to Yeonjun properly. His head on Yeonjun’s chest, his trembling body, when he talked about the poem he was writing.

Yeonjun bites into his lip. And he asked Yeonjun to return the book for him on the same night.

“Did you read it?”

Taehyun seems startled by his voice – he may have been lost in his thoughts for a bit too long. “The poem? Yes.”

“Was it about his husband?”

The prince’s hesitation to answer tells him the answer before his voice does. “Yes. Have you read it?”

He shakes his head and lowers his eyes to the folded piece of paper held between his hands. “I am aware he wrote it.” And if he is honest with himself, then… “I believe he did mean for you to see it.”

“But you do not know.”

It is not the answer he was expecting. He looks at Taehyun again, and his expression is strange, inscrutable. Not devoid of emotion, perhaps full of too many emotions for them to be parsed easily.

Taehyun seems to take his lack of a prompt answer for an answer in itself. “Then return it to him, just to be sure. If he meant for me to read it, his message has been heard already regardless.”

Yeonjun swallows and nods. He tucks the piece of paper into his sleeve. Taehyun opens his book and pretends to read – he forgets to flip the pages to make his pretense more believable. Yeonjun does not bother pointing it out.

 

.

 

He spends most of his night trying to write a poem. It is supposed to be a love poem for Beomgyu, but anytime he lets his mind drift, trying to conjure his face before his eyes, his thoughts go elsewhere. Never to the graceful line of his nose, the curve of his smile, the golden tint to his skin. There is Taehyun’s face, shuttered and impassive as Yeonjun curses him out for speaking so flippantly about the threat to his life his uncle poses. Iseul’s sly smile, as she assures Taehyun of Yeonjun’s affection for her. His aunt’s expression of reluctant pride. Nayoon’s gratitude at being listened to. Soobin’s apparent concern about him and his husband. Lord Jung’s expression of compassion, and Lord Yeun’s expression of derision. The Empress dowager’s mask of indifference as she pushed and prodded, hoping to see him break, for her amusement, to her advantage.

Instead of a poem, he begins writing names. Choi Beomgyu. Ahn Nayoon. Lee Seoah. Song Mina. Choi Yeonjun.

All of them are owed something. All of them have felt helpless, were helpless, are helpless.

Seon Jaehwan. Ji Myeongjin. Kang Taeyul. Kang…

Yeonjun’s brush comes to a halt. Does he belong? To Yeonjun’s list of grievances? Of injustices? Of course he does. Of course.

Tae. Hyun.

He cannot help but imagine Beomgyu’s voice sounding the syllables out. He never fails to say it oddly, to bring attention to how improper the word is coming out of his unworthy mouth. Treating it as if it barely fit in his mouth, as if his lips struggled around it. Tae-hyun.

He can manage Yeonjun’s own name without issue.

He tosses his brush aside and burns the paper. There is no point. No point at all.

 

.

 

“You said you wished for no war in your time.”

Taehyun looks up at him, startled. They were intercepted by messengers in the morning bringing letters from the Court. Some failed to make it there before their departure, and some were freshly sent recently – Taehyun got all of two days of reprieve before his work caught up with him again. Yeonjun would pity him, if he did not know that Taehyun appreciated having strict oversight. He delegated, but kept a careful eye on all his deputies.

Except Yeonjun. He never seemed to think his wife needed much oversight.

And it came to haunt him, did it not. It had to.

“Pardon?”

“When you spoke to Prince Iseul. You said there would have been no war in your time were it not for the great families.”

“I did,” Taehyun concurs, narrowing his eyes. He has not put the letter he was reading away yet.

“What does that mean, Taehyun?”

For the longest time, his husband studies him, obviously trying to anticipate what kind of conversation Yeonjun means to have – but to his credit, he seems to figure it out soon enough. He lowers his head, and all but curls around the paper in his hands.

“I did not authorize the invasion happily – neither did Father. We did not wish for war.”

“Then why did you wage it?”

Taehyun looks at him again, intently, unblinkingly. His face is inscrutable again – stuck between expressions. “We had to make a concession. Our hand was forced. Father wanted the least amount of risk, I wanted to make as little damage as we could while keeping the great families appeased. The Golden City was the best option possible.”

Yeonjun opens his mouth to argue, but as soon as he does, the prince jumps in to continue.

“It was small, and barely had an army to speak of. It had alliances with the other cities under lordship, but they were tenuous at best – and the rule of a lady regent rubbed the other lords the wrong way. They knew that if they acted against us, the Empire would surely retaliate – like this, maybe we would be satisfied by culling a single sheep out of their herd. And it worked exactly as we envisioned. They made half-hearted attempts to help, then withdrew. Nobody wanted to contest us and bring the full force of the Empire upon themselves. We took a city, the lords got to divide the spoils, their children got to skim off the top of the treasure that flowed into the imperial coffers. Someone got to install their relative as the new lord of the city – everyone was happy.”

And Beomgyu’s life was destroyed. Upended. His brother-in-law was killed, as was his lover, and he was brought into another foreign land, with another foreign tongue, to be held under lock and key again, to serve as a trophy, as a bargaining chip for alphas again. Taehyun speaks of it so simply, so easily. Of the utter destruction of the life Beomgyu led before this. Of the deaths of dozens, if not hundreds, the burning of a wealthy city. A siege that must have cost the lives of innocents. Servants killed because of their loyalty to their masters.

“How was your hand forced? Your father was the Emperor.”

“And the council was the council. I did not have the same control over it two years ago as I have now, you know that. I had two lords at my side, and a father who wanted to do what he believed had to be done. The great families were unhappy with his unwillingness to consider expansion – for all his faults, my father was no warmonger, he wanted to make his mark on the Empire from the inside, rather than growing it by conquest. He wanted to make it better, not bigger.”

“But he still caved to them.”

“Yes,” Taehyun says curtly. It feels strange, to listen to him defend his father, in any capacity. “His own father gained respect by putting down rebellions, until everyone understood he was not to be trifled with. He did not have the same respect of his lords councilor – what happened with Lord Woo did not bring honor to anyone. The only thing he gained from that was the palace he gave us and a reputation for mishandling his own subjects. He needed to win them over somehow.”

Yeonjun wants to look away, but something in his husband’s eyes makes him afraid to do so. He clenches his hands into fists in his lap instead.

“So we gave them a free city, shrouded in myth and legend, wealthy, politically weak and right on our borders. I knew the prestige of it would outweigh the lack of territorial gain; the lack of titles to divide. It was just enough.”

“And you won yourself a concubine.”

“And I sacrificed an entire city – to my father’s ambition, to my own. To the greed of all those men I have always despised. I fed them to the tigers, knowing they had no chance of saving themselves.” Finally, Taehyun puts the letter down. The gesture seems so petty, compared to the grave words he is speaking. “And the city fell just as easily as I thought it would. Nobody stood up to keep Omega Beomgyu in his position, just as I thought they would. All too eager to strip an omega of even the appearance of power. They executed half his council to make their point and left the rest, but he had to go – he was too valuable to not be thrown atop the pile of gold they would bring back home to boast about.”

He speaks so disdainfully about it. About something he planned. Something he had executed. Something he approved.

“You do not get to act righteous about this, Taehyun.” Yeonjun leans forward in his seat. “You did this to him.”

And for a moment it seems that the prince will argue, but then he nods instead.

“Yes. And I do not deserve the help he has offered me. I do not deserve his poems, or letters of encouragement. Least of all his forgiveness. And perhaps giving him everything I have ever wanted is not nearly enough to make up for what I have done, but what do you want me to do now, wife? Hm?” Taehyun’s face has grown severe – he is angry, at Yeonjun, if he has no shame, at himself, if he is half the decent man he claims himself to be. “If you do not wish for me to die and give all the rest I have to offer. I cannot reinstate him, I cannot give his city back, I cannot unmake him a piece of imperial property.”

“Your soldiers killed the man he loved, Taehyun,” Yeonjun snaps back. He is careless with Beomgyu’s secrets, but it barely occurs to him at the moment. He is too angry to care. Too upset. “For no reason at all. He posed no threat to them, and they killed him nonetheless.”

“Then we are even,” Taehyun retorts, and he never raises his voice, but he does now. “His for mine. The only just result.”

Tears of frustration gather in Yeonjun’s eyes. He curls in on himself when Taehyun slams his hand into the side of the carriage repeatedly, and slowly, they come to a halt, Taehyun stepping out before they have completely stopped moving.

He closes the door of the carriage without another word. Yeonjun cries until they stop for lunch, which he stubbornly takes inside the carriage instead of joining the alphas outside. Taehyun does not attempt to rejoin him.

Only at dinner, when Yeonjun attempts to ignore both of the alphas sitting opposite him, Taehyun suddenly asks, “What was his name?”

And Yeonjun stares at him uncomprehendingly for a long time before the question clicks into place, and his face twists with disgust.

“Now you care?”

But Taehyun just looks at him unblinkingly, silently. Soobin seems completely lost, watching the confrontation apprehensively.

“Kai.”

Then, Taehyun finally blinks. His eyelashes flutter, and keep fluttering. His gaze lowers to the table.

“You do not deserve to know. I should have let you wonder. I should have let the thought torture you all night.”

“Do you think it will not?” The prince’s voice stays quiet, muted. He does not look up again. “Just because I can put a name to an idea.”

“It better. I wish I had a picture of him, just so there is a face that could haunt you as well.”

“I think Omega Beomgyu’s will suffice, wife. Thank you.”

Yeonjun scoffs, and rises from his seat without finishing his dinner. He struggles to sleep that night, trying to conjure up in his mind’s eye the painting of Kai Beomgyu has given him, and he gets out of bed and crosses the room to the door at least a dozen times, determined to torment his husband on his own.

But it is not his revenge to exact. It is not his pain this time, no matter the urge he feels to make Taehyun pay for it. It is an injustice, just another injustice in a long line of them. And it is always the omegas paying for it, never their husbands. Never the ones in power. The alphas die in peace, and leave their omegas with the consequences, or they are driven into an early grave themselves.

He cannot stand this world; he cannot stand it.

Tomorrow – tomorrow he will see Beomgyu, and life will make sense again. It will feel worth it. With Beomgyu in his arms, all the suffering around them will cease to matter. At least for a moment. He just needs… a moment of respite.

 

.

 

In the morning, Taehyun looks as if he has not slept at all. He eats listlessly and does not speak. Yeonjun watches his every move like a hawk, and ignores Soobin’s looks of concern. The prince leaves the table first, and before Yeonjun can rise to follow, to haunt his husband like the embodiment of his guilt, Soobin finally speaks out.

“What happened, Your Grace? Why is he like this?”

And Yeonjun, emboldened by this righteousness that took him over, responds, “Because I reminded him of what he did to the Golden City.”

Soobin’s face falls, and he turns to look in the direction the prince disappeared in. “I thought he—”

“He what, Captain?”

Soobin looks at him with a small frown. “Accepted it.” And after a small pause, he adds, “Years ago.”

Oh, he made peace with it? With his decision to ruin a city for his own benefit? Good for him.

“Years ago, he had no idea who he was causing this to. Now he does.”

He makes to stand, but Soobin surprises him by continuing to speak. “Should that change something?”

Yeonjun lets himself settle back into his seat. “Excuse me, Captain?”

Soobin’s mouth is oddly tight. “If he did not send the armies to the Golden City, he would have sent them to another. Or the other lords councilor would pick a kingdom to attack instead. Set their sights higher – on a war that would cost even more lives. On our side, and on theirs. And there would be a dozen ladies just like Beomgyu, not only one. Given away to alphas as trophies. I do not know who this Kai was, and I assume it is none of my concern, but would there not be dozens of them, wherever we went? They all mean something to someone.”

He puts a clenched fist atop the table, and it trembles with his passion. “What are you saying, Soobin, that we do not have the right to blame him for the pain he has caused?”

“What was he to do?”

Yeonjun’s mouth falls open. How dare Soobin defend him? Yeonjun has never heard him speak well of the military – of the men in it, or in charge of it. He never seemed to care for war any more than Yeonjun himself did. And now he would defend Taehyun starting one needlessly? Selfishly?

“Everyone except for us wanted war. The Emperor was determined to give the council what they wanted.”

“He should have found a way.”

“How?”

“I do not know,” Yeonjun responds curtly, and begins to get up again. “And I do not care. There is always a way, Captain Soobin, has he not proven that yet? Are we not proving that right now? We might not like the consequences, but that does not mean a path does not exist. He was just unwilling to walk it. And Omega Beomgyu suffered as a result.”

Soobin looks at him imploringly, which only makes Yeonjun angrier. “You are not being reasonable, Your Grace.”

He stands up fully, and clenches his hands in the fabric of his skirts. “I am holding him accountable, Captain Soobin. Someone has to.”

He ignores the vigorous shake of Soobin’s head as he walks away. Soobin is an alpha, at the end of the day; he simply does not understand.

 

.

 

Today, their carriage only has a short trip to make before it arrives at the estate – it is three days of travel away at a swift pace for a party of their size; a little bit more at the leisurely pace they chose. Taehyun elects to use it today; Yeonjun wishes he did not, even though he enjoyed tormenting his husband with his scrutiny.

“Do you despise me, Yeonjun?”

He snaps out of his weary daze to look at him. Taehyun looks oddly determined for an alpha who smells as miserable as he does. His head is held high, as if he had anything to be proud of.

“For what, Taehyun?” Out of his myriad of grievances. Of injustices. Which would the prince choose to be the most egregious?

Taehyun looks at him seriously, as if he were ready to hear the worst. “For giving up the throne.”

And Yeonjun snorts. He laughs. Tears spring into his eyes as he laughs in his husband’s face.

“No, Taehyun, I do not despise you for that.”

Seven years of that golden string of awful hope; of temptation. Having to ask himself if that was truly what he wanted. Why he married an imperial prince in the first place.

He did what he had to do. This time, he did what he had to do.

“Then why—”

“That might not matter soon. Is that not correct? That is what you said.”

Taehyun’s eyes narrow slightly. Does he look afraid? Yeonjun thinks he looks afraid. “And you cursed me for it.”

“If you can accept your fate, why can I not do the same?”

Finally, the prince deflates again; his determination wanes. His eyes slip away from Yeonjun, who sits up straighter.

Serves him ri—

“My mother did not have to die,” Taehyun says then, strangely, inexplicably. Yeonjun blinks at him in confusion, until the prince returns his gaze. “Not when she did. Did you know? Of course you did not; Soobin would not tell you.” His hand clenches on his own thigh. “Her illness was not so severe – she was unwell, but not grievously. She could have recovered.”

Yeonjun wants to tell him to stop talking. Wants to. But does not.

“But she did not want to. Life was not worth living to her. Not with all the pressure she was subjected to. Not married to my father. Not having to watch me grow up into a reflection of her husband. She would aggravate her illness, she would leave her bed and throw all the windows open, she would sneak out at night and they would find her freezing outside in her sleeping clothes. And she would scream at them when they tried to warm her up; when they would shut the windows again. She did not want to get well again. She did not want to go back to her duties. To return to us. To live.”

“How do you know that?” His voice comes out thin; barely a whisper.

“Because I would hear her – cursing them out, crying, yelling at her servant. Because she would tell me, when I was allowed to come see her. That she will never get out of that bed. That father is foolish if he thinks sending me will change something. That she did not want to see me. That we should let her go peacefully, that she—”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think I understand her now, more than I ever really did. And I thought your anger before was the same fear I felt at her bedside – but now I am not so sure that it is. It might be that it is more like the anger my father felt when she could not leave her bed anymore. There is relief in it, is there not? Past the rage – the obligatory denial. If I am gone, you get to live peacefully. It is a burden off your chest.”

“Stop.”

“Life was calmer in the quarters, after she died. Quieter. It really was.”

“Is that what you think of me?”

Taehyun lowers his eyes, to somewhere around Yeonjun’s stomach. “It makes sense to me this way.”

“And there is simply no other reason you see for me to feel angry when you speak to my face about dying again when you just earned your life back.”

“I earned myself enough time to get my affairs in order, at least. Perhaps more, if I can take care of the dowager in a way that pleases my uncle.”

“Do you think I do not care about you at all?”

And to his horror, the prince does not reply. He looks away, and his expression is reluctant. Suddenly apologetic.

“Taehyun—”

“You tried to. I understand. You wanted to love me, but I was not there to be loved. And then you wanted to keep me as your lover, to maintain at least that relationship between us, and I refused you selfishly.”

“Why.”

Taehyun looks at him, wide-eyed and unblinking about. “Why what?”

“You never really said why you refused me.”

“I told you I do not lie with other people’s lovers, Yeonjun.”

“Beomgyu does not care. Neither do I.”

“But I do.”

“Because I am Beomgyu’s.”

“Because you are not mine.”

Yeonjun purses his mouth tightly. “By your own choice. I never chose to stop being yours. You chose for me.”

Taehyun’s hands tighten in his lap. “That is what you want to hear then.”

“What?”

“That I am weak – that I am sentimental. That I cannot bear the thought of making love to someone who does not love me back.”

Yeonjun’s fingers clench in his own robes. “You managed well enough for six years.”

“I have been lying to myself for six years. Letting myself be fooled, by the small gestures of affection you would give me. The words you would say sometimes, the way your body responded to my touch. I questioned if you meant any of it, but I was never strong enough to urge myself to find out the answer. I was satisfied with the ambiguity. With the thought that you might. One day. And in the meantime, I tried not to impose myself. I did not want to act as the man you loved, not knowing if that was who you considered me to be. So I resolved to be your husband. Your occasional lover. Your greatest admirer. Your protector and provider. Everything I knew I could be.” He swallows, and leans back, as if to put more space between them in the limited confines of the carriage. “I know now none of it was more than an expression of your loyalty. And I do not begrudge you any of it – but that is not the kind of loyalty I want from you. Not the loyalty I have ever wanted from you. I do not want you to pretend to love me any more than you do. But if it is to be this way, then you cannot ask me to touch you outside of heat again.”

The prince closes his eyes. Yeonjun sits with the words, but they fit oddly in his chest. They will not settle. He cannot… he cannot be at peace with this. He is not at peace with this.

But why should he not be? He does not love his husband – he never has. Has he?

“It does not have to be this difficult, Yeonjun.”

Taehyun says it without opening his eyes. Yeonjun shifts his own to look anywhere but at his husband’s face.

 

.

 

Dark wood and pale stone, ash trees on each side of the courtyard and forsythias in bloom – that is the first impression Yeonjun has of their new estate. It is obviously not new – while well-kept, the architecture implies it has stayed the way it is now, untouched, since before Yeonjun was born. Still, the old-fashioned nature of it seems to give it a strangely dignified air – as the Empire shifted around it, this estate has remained the same.

And it is indeed more of an estate than a palace – more like the houses of wealthy lords they build outside the Imperial City than a real holding, meant to oversee a whole region around it. It is a place to live, for a modest household. It only has a single large building that towers over the front courtyard almost ominously. And at the base of the staircase leading up to its main doors stands Yeonjun’s entire world.

Gathered behind a man Yeonjun does not recognize are all of his ladies, less resplendent than usual in their mourning clothes and with their hair covered, but still bringing a warmth and delight to his chest he has been missing. Haewon stands with them, and at the very back…

With eyes only for him. Still too beautiful in clothes this drab. With too much of a smile in his eyes for the occasion, a bit too glad to see him. So obvious, to Yeonjun who more than anyone knows to look for the signs.

Beomgyu.

Yeonjun almost misses his cue to fold his arm into Taehyun’s, but he makes up for his mistake quickly. Soobin and his men fan out behind them, the captain himself diligently sticking to their heels, a bit too much like the loyal dog Iseul likened him to. He amuses himself with that thought, rather than letting his mind wander.

They come up to the alpha who stands in front of his ladies, and who bows promptly and perfectly politely as they come to a halt.

“Your Highness.”

“Lord steward.”

“Kang Hansu, at your service.”

A distant relative, then. Yeonjun wonders if he and Soojin know each other.

Taehyun inclines his head. “Thank you, Lord Hansu – I trust the news of our intention to stay here for a time arrived sufficiently in advance?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The lord steward glances behind himself, and the ladies all promptly bow – Beomgyu is the last to do so, and Yeonjun’s chest tightens with fondness. “And your honorable wife’s entourage arrived yesterday.”

“You have had time to prepare, then.”

“Indeed – everything is ready for your stay, Your Highness.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Lord Hansu.”

The lord steward bows again. “We have refreshments ready for you or your companions, or I can have everyone seen to their rooms right away.”

Taehyun looks over his shoulder before raising his voice a little. “My companions are welcome to proceed as they wish. They are dismissed for the day – they need to rest.” He turns to the lord steward again with a nod. “Please make sure they are seen to.”

“Of course.”

“I will take a walk around the estate, I have not been here for many years.” His arm slips away from Yeonjun’s, nonchalant and practiced.

“Should I walk with you, Your Highness?”

“No need – I will trust my memory, and ask for directions if I find myself lost. Thank you, Lord Hansu.” Then he gestures at Yeonjun without looking at him at all. A small prickle of pain blooms in Yeonjun’s chest, threatening to burst his bubble of joy at seeing Beomgyu and his ladies again. “I leave my honorable wife in your care. Please do everything he asks – his word is as good as mine.”

Lord Hansu seems confused by the statement, but he bows politely nonetheless. “It will be done, Your Highness.”

Taehyun looks beyond him, at the gathered ladies, and offers them a small, tight smile. “My dear ladies – welcome to my house. I am afraid we will have to exchange stories some other time.”

The ladies titter with polite responses, and Taehyun gives them a brief but polite bow before leaving, followed by the eyes of everyone gathered in the courtyard. He hardly seems fazed by the attention. Yeonjun almost admires it.

“Your Grace.” Lord Hansu’s words bring his attention back to him, and he suddenly feels terribly alone, standing before him without his husband’s arm to cling to. “At your service.”

He takes a long breath, and looks over his shoulder at his ladies as well. “Can my servant see me to my rooms, lord steward? You may tend to rest of my company in the meantime. We will take care of ourselves quite well.”

The lord steward seems taken aback – after all, his loyal service was all but refused by both of his new masters. In their own home, this would be expected, but here…

“Of course, Your Grace. She should know where they are already.”

“Thank you very much, lord steward.”

Lord Hansu bows again, then steps aside to let him pass. Yeonjun looks over at Haewon, who gives him a small smile as she bows deeply before leading the way up the stairs.

The ladies flock around him, but Yeonjun’s eyes go to Beomgyu first.

But Beomgyu is not looking at him – his eyes are cast off into the distance, in the direction Taehyun went. Quickly enough, they turn to Yeonjun, and Beomgyu’s thoughtfulness is wiped away with a smile.

But Yeonjun remembers. His petty heart remembers.

 

.

 

He sends his ladies away after a lengthy, heartfelt series of greetings – he holds their hands, talks to them sweetly, assures them how badly he would like to spend time with them but how terribly tired he is while Haewon prepares everything for him to bathe. They agree to return to share dinner with him after he hopefully sleeps the day away, and then they are gone, Beomgyu included. Yeonjun hardly dared to hold onto his fingers for a moment; look into his eyes for too long. But Beomgyu must understand, does he not? He has to.

Yeonjun washes himself of the grime of the road, and spends too long combing through his damp hair afterwards. He sends Haewon to check on his bedding, even though there cannot be anything wrong with it, and enjoys the brief moment of solitude, as he dresses in nothing but his underclothes and his thinnest summer robe.

His mind stays perfectly, carefully blank the whole time. He is tired, after all – his words were more of an exaggeration than a white lie. But there is a better remedy for his exhaustion than sleep. The one thing more relieving than letting his body rest.

Letting it rest in Beomgyu’s arms.

And of course, Beomgyu understood. Because he is sitting at the foot of Yeonjun’s bed when he enters the bed room, and looks up at him with wide, relieved eyes. Haewon stands aside with her hands folded.

“I assumed—” she starts to say.

“Correctly,” Yeonjun interrupts. Beomgyu smiles and she lets her head hang. “Carefully?”

“Of course,” Beomgyu responds for her. “As soon as we arrived, Haewon and I made sure I had a way to come here unnoticed.” He lifts his chin, as if he is exceedingly proud of himself. “I insisted – it was the only thing worth doing around here.”

And Yeonjun loves him, so terribly much. “And where are you housed?”

To his surprise, Beomgyu looks even happier to respond to that, springing to his feet. His joyful demeanor clashes with his modest clothes awfully, and Yeonjun cannot help but smile. “The same way the other ladies are – I have a very agreeable room of my own.”

“Somehow, everyone failed to tell the lord steward that Omega Beomgyu is not simply one of your ladies,” Haewon explains, and there is the slightest hint of slyness Yeonjun never heard in her tone before.

He breathes out in relief. “Thank you.”

Haewon bows. “You should thank your ladies as well, Your Grace. Nobody said a word.”

Yeonjun bites at his lips with a rush of emotion, and Beomgyu seems to see it before it even happens, because he is embracing Yeonjun tightly before the tears truly well up. He wraps his arms around him in return and squeezes him as firmly as he can, until Beomgyu sighs out a fond little huff.

“I missed you,” Beomgyu says, too quietly for anyone but Yeonjun to hear. Yeonjun drops his forehead onto his shoulder as his chest squeezes painfully.

“You can go, Haewon,” he says with his voice rough with unshed tears. “But thank you. So much. For everything.”

“It was my honor, Your Grace.”

Yeonjun buries his tears in the citrus-scented relief of Beomgyu’s neck, and Beomgyu starts carding through his hair soothingly.

“You trained them so well – you and the prince.”

The prince. Yeonjun does not want to talk about the prince. Still, he sighs and indulges Beomgyu, because he does not want them to argue today. He is tired of arguing. “What do you mean?”

He lifts his head to look Beomgyu in the face directly, and Beomgyu shifts one hand to cradle his cheek. “They really came to see me as one of them. Your ladies.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes and sighs. “You are one of them, Beomgyu. I spoke to Lady Nayoon and she—” Oh, he has to tell him about Nayoon. About how she spoke up to her husband, and came to Yeonjun hoping to be heard. About the good lord Jung, who seems to adore Soobin for reasons Yeonjun is not yet sure of, and the much less good Lord Yeun who seems to despise their every move despite calling himself their ally. He needs to tell Beomgyu about the dowager and Jungsik and their petty machinations. About his aunt’s change of tone towards him. About Iseul and her bold accusations. About…

About the council. About the new Emperor. About their failed plan to entrench themselves on the council. About what they had to do, to save themselves.

“She?” Beomgyu asks the question lightheartedly, but his expression quickly sobers as he takes in the look in Yeonjun’s eyes. “What did she say?”

“Brave things – about how someone of your ancestry should never have been treated like this. You would have been proud of her.”

His words come out sounding empty, and Beomgyu sighs. His hand lowers to the side of Yeonjun’s neck. “And I certainly am – but that is not what worries you.”

He can only bring himself to shake his head. Beomgyu takes a deep breath through his nose.

“Is it the same thing that made the prince act so odd in the courtyard? He did not seem… in his element.”

Yeonjun shrugs. Yes and no. It is everything, most likely. All of it, at the same time. Too much – too much happened while they were apart. How could Yeonjun ever really explain all of it?

“We failed, Beomgyu.”

He has to start somewhere. Beomgyu searches his face, obviously shocked. “What? Did your husband lose his seat at the council?”

And Yeonjun wants to say almost, but the too proud part of him says, “Worse.”

“Did he lose the palace, too?”

“He lost his claim to the throne. Not just him. His children, as well. And their children after them.”

“What? How?” Beomgyu steps away from their embrace, suddenly too animated. “No news like that ever reached us. What… what happened?”

Yeonjun shakes his head, and slowly, one heavy step of his bare feet after another, he walks over to his bed, past Beomgyu who follows on his heels worriedly. “Nothing is set in stone yet – but if he wants to make away with his life, he cannot take it back anymore.”

“Was he disinherited?”

He shakes his head again, and sits down on the foot of the bed. Beomgyu remains standing, and fidgets with his sleeves. Yeonjun watches his fingers fumble with the fabric and tries to find peace in the sight. “He drafted a law which would ensure that the throne would not just go from one old man to another – the kind of change he dreamed about.”

“But if it is passed while his uncle is in power, it cuts his line off from the chain of succession.” Beomgyu has stopped fidgeting.

Yeonjun nods. “All but – a lot of people would have to die for him to even be considered.”

“Why would he just give him that?”

“His life was threatened – his uncle…”

“Was afraid of him.

“Was afraid of rebellion. He convinced himself our prince would not be satisfied with a seat on the council, even if he promised to fall in line. He needed some guarantee that Taehyun had no lust for usurpation.”

Beomgyu drops his hands to his sides. “And his solution was to let the throne go altogether. Give up on ever becoming Emperor.”

Yeonjun looks away, towards one of the small, narrow windows letting daylight into the room. It is a bright day – a warm day. He is wasting it, sitting here on his bed. “Our claim was tenuous as it was – his uncle already has two alpha children older than Taehyun, and they all have children of their own already. Neither Taehyun nor our children were ever likely to hold the throne for long, if at all.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Beomgyu take a single step forward. “But it still bothers you – knowing there is no chance now.”

He turns his head towards Beomgyu, and he is unsure of the emotion that has to be showing on his face. Fear or anger or melancholy, or perhaps a terrible pleading, above anything else. Begging Beomgyu to understand the world he has found himself in. “Of course it bothers me, Beomgyu. I married the Emperor’s son, and now—”

“Now he is just another wealthy alpha.” Beomgyu steps closer until he stands right in front of him, and Yeonjun has to tilt his head back just to look at him. “Did you really want to be an Empress?”

Yeonjun swallows and looks away. Beomgyu lowers himself to his knees before him, and Yeonjun meets his eyes again. “I do not know – but I think this feeling means that I did.”

Beomgyu reaches for his hands, and Yeonjun offers them easily, watching as Beomgyu tilts his head to one side, more thoughtful than playful, his mouth twisting as he considers his words carefully for once. “Nothing would have changed, Yeonjun,” he says eventually, and looks at Yeonjun so seriously it is almost uncomfortable to keep their eyes locked together.

“What do you mean?”

“A lord, a prince or an emperor – it makes no difference.”

“But—”

“You would still be a wife. They would say all the same things, think all the things they used to think about you since you were young. They would just be careful to say them behind your back. Is that something you want?”

Yeonjun blinks rapidly. Beomgyu squeezes his hands tightly.

“When Jaehwan’s father died, do you know what changed?”

He shakes his head minutely.

“Nothing – except now Jaehwan had no one to fear anymore. Nobody to scold him if he lost control. If he acted too rashly. If he left unbecoming marks and had to hide me away from guests because I was not good enough to be a show of his status if I was hurt.”

Yeonjun has to avert his eyes; has to – the idea of Beomgyu’s pretty face bruised or bloodied. He cannot bear it. A limp in his step or bruises on his throat. A swelling of a wrist, fingers that struggle to close. He has seen it before. Rarely on wives, who were taught not to show imperfections, signs of weakness like this. On servants, most commonly, after they were punished for their misbehavior or disloyalty. He never could stand the sight of it. He understood discipline, and he knew well himself how easy it is to remember lessons taught to him by the end of a switch. By the snap of a fan against his skin. A hand striking his face on the rarest of occasions. But it rarely stopped there, with the discipline of servants or slaves. And nothing that was done to Beomgyu could in any way be written off as discipline.

“Taehyun is not like him – you know this.”

“And that is my point,” Beomgyu says lightly, his voice quiet. “He is the man he is – the husband he is. And you are who you are. The wife you are. The man you are. Nothing would change – neither of you would. So what was lost?”

“Influence?” His voice sounds unconvincing to himself. What influence does an Empress really have? The dowager was so helpless in her glorious seat beside her husband, she took her misery out on other wives for years – wanted some measure of influence over her own fate so badly she would shun those who owed her their care and loyalty, just to show that she could. That she mattered. That she had a voice.

She cared for a son who was not hers, because she had no choice and she threw food around because it was the only thing she could do. She could not stop Yeonjun from coming and doing his duties. She could not leave the quarters and abandon her mourning. She could not escape, she could not say no. But she could make it all difficult, for everyone involved.

And all Yeonjun did was slam the door of her cage shut again as she rattled it with all her might. Only reinforcing her helplessness.

Beomgyu sighs. “What influence? Your husband’s? Do you really think it would make a difference?” He pulls Yeonjun’s hands closer to his chest. “I learned one thing in my brief time as lady regent, Yeonjun – that as long as a ruler has need of their subjects, the ruler is bound to them as much as they are bound to the ruler. I was given my title by a council, and I could not as much as sneeze without them knowing, and giving me their opinion on it. Your husband understands this – otherwise he would happily leave that council seat of his if it meant taking the throne one day. But he did not – because he knows he has so much more power on that council, putting pressure on the throne, than sitting on that throne, having all these wise men with their own agendas putting the same pressure on him. If an Emperor truly had all this power, why would his uncle need his law at all to dismiss his claim to the throne? Why would he need his loyalty? Why would he want it? Yeonjun.”

A frown furrows Yeonjun’s brow. “You agree with his choice, then.”

Yeonjun did as well – but only because it felt like they had no choice. As a last resort. He did not think it was wise, by any means. But the way Beomgyu speaks of it—

He shrugs, and gives Yeonjun a small smile. “It seems surprisingly tactical, especially if he was under pressure – if they threatened his life. I would be impressed.”

“If?”

“If he were not an alpha,” Beomgyu finishes with a smirk. Yeonjun huffs.

Recognizing one’s strengths, and capitalizing on them. A strong lord councilor and a weak prince. Yeonjun squeezes Beomgyu’s hands in return, and Beomgyu lifts one to press his lips to it, a bit haphazardly as he does so without ever looking away from Yeonjun’s eyes.

“It might not be enough,” he says then, with the familiar coldness seeping into his chest. “The prince’s cousin told us his uncle’s distaste for him is less than logical. He may still convince himself that Taehyun is conspiring against him and—” he cannot finish his sentence, his throat closing.

Beomgyu’s eyes become somber again as he presses the back of Yeonjun’s hand to his lips – instead of placating him, instead of assuring him he has nothing to worry about, he thinks.

And Yeonjun thinks he loves Beomgyu for that, just a little bit more.

“He has to make himself indispensable,” he says eventually.

Yeonjun sighs. “But how?”

“How should I know?” Beomgyu responds quickly, flippantly, lowering their still joined hands as he raises himself on his knees until their faces come closer together, and he smiles sweetly. “I am just a concubine. I know nothing about these things.”

His chest squeezes with both fondness and anxiety. “Beomgyu—”

With a sigh, Beomgyu nudges their noses together before pulling away. “I will be honest – and know it costs me all my pride to say this. But I really do not know. I am not privy to the goings-on of the court, I do not know what the alphas we are dealing with are like. I do not have enough information.” He rises to his feet then, and smiles down at Yeonjun again. “But you know who does? Who knows much more than me about this?”

Yeonjun bites his lips. Beomgyu lets go of his hands and reaches up, to take off the shroud covering his hair and remove the veil that was already flipped away from his face when Yeonjun came in. That brown silk he loves seems to shine in the sunlight.

“You do. And we have hours for you to tell me everything you think I should know.”

Beomgyu starts taking his robe off, and there is something so free in his movements. Unrestrained. Uncaring. Weightless in a way Yeonjun has not felt in days. It feels unreal to witness. His eyes almost well up with tears again.

He expects Beomgyu to climb into his lap once he has divested himself of his clothes, but he lets himself fall onto the bed sheets instead, sprawling out so beautifully, so indulgently, that Yeonjun does not bother undressing himself before crawling up the bed to settle next to him, face to face.

“And then,” Beomgyu whispers, and reaches out to pet Yeonjun’s chin with his thumb, reaching up higher to brush his lower lip as well with every other swipe. He takes a deep breath that shakes his entire body, and his next smile is not as sharp. It is softer. Kinder. Everything Yeonjun has been missing. “I will solve this for you. And I will save your husband heroically…” He leans forward, and presses their lips together, firm and reassuring, before moving away again. “And you will finally stop frowning.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter 17

Notes:

hey guys! so. i did not mean to leave you hanging with this one :') but I got handed some prime lemons and it takes a while to make lemonade SO lol.

since i am overwhelmingly grateful that i was able to get this chapter written eventually, i would really like to thank a couple people who helped make it happen, because you can't write something this long without some cool people standing behind you helping out. SO. shoutouts to:

- planetsoobin who I believe has not read a word of this fic but is always there for me when I have stupid questions like "what color should this be" or "do you think it's a bad idea to split my chapter up" :') you're the outside voice i need and i appreciate it immensely :) you guys have her to thank for a couple fun bits of this chapter \o/

- beomkaibums, who helped me sort through the metric shitton of lore this stupid fic has to make sure I don't contradict myself (too much). you saved me from an epic freakout over me not knowing my own worldbuilding :') thank you so much.

- littlelovesong who taught me that I can edit by putting my fic into text-to-speech and listening through it (you can edit WHILE YOU DO OTHER THINGS THIS SHIT IS REVOLUTIONARY) which is hopefully bringing this chapter to you in the best form it could possibly be in. everyone thank her for all the stupid typos and missing words she saved you from~

as always, the other shoutout goes to YOU, if you stuck through the little hiatus this fic went on, and to every single one of you who leaves a comment or talks to me about this story on twitter or through retro/neo/whatever (rip tbh like damn they're dropping like flies)

oh also another fair warning for some potentially upsetting content in this one. mainly one brief scene of non-graphic self harm (the context of it is very mild I promise but i feel it qualifies), some blood, non-graphic sexual content and some mentions of deeply questionable parenting -.- nothing crazy happens but please be warned if any of this could be upsetting to you!

love you guys! hope you enjoy this one~

The tea room at the estate is much smaller than the tea room in their palace – the wife’s quarters in general seem much more modest than those he enjoys at home. A narrow bedroom, a cramped dressing room, and a small cube of a tea room that affords a dining experience much more intimate than he and his ladies are used to. Haewon has had the tables set the same way they always are at their home, arranged into the shape of a horseshoe to allow for everyone to see each other comfortably while they hold conversations, but now the distance between him and the ladies on the furthest side of the room is much shorter, and there would only be space for one at his side, instead of the usual two. He opted to sit at the head of the table on his own, disinclined to show too much favor to any of his ladies, as much as he would have liked to keep Beomgyu at his side as long as he possibly could. He still stayed close, in the seat nearest to his right, while Dayeon took the seat to his left, but despite the limited space, neither of them feel close enough to bolster him, to lend him their strength. He feels oddly alone, sitting under the spread wings of a phoenix on the wall behind him, the decoration almost too grandiose for the sober interior of the room. It is painted in shades of blue and green, and it does not escape Yeonjun’s attention that those are the colors of house Song – of Taehyun’s mother’s house.

Despite the relief provided to him by spending his afternoon intertwined with Beomgyu, breathing in his scent and hearing his voice, his thoughts threaten to wander in somber directions, and his ladies seem determined once again in their usual fashion to distract him from his worries with sweet, idle chatter. Perhaps it is less raucous today, mindful of the mourning veils covering all of their faces, but it hardly touches upon any topic less than agreeable. They tell him about the gardener making adjustments to the gardens according to his instruction, about the work being started on some renovations they arranged for, the beautiful fabrics they saw in the markets, about processions of mourners that passed through the town on their way to pay respects in the Imperial City, about the pilgrims they met on their way who hoped to be gifted with gold once they reached the imperial palace, in return for their arduous journey that would show such incredible loyalty to their late Emperor. They tell him about the child of one of his courtiers making his first steps, and about the lord steward’s wife being with child again. It all paints an odd picture of their home – the splendor and bountifulness of spring, people hard at work and nature shaking off the stiffness of winter and over it all like a stifling blanket the shroud of a country in mourning. A bustling market and silent processions to honor the dead. Pilgrims with blistered feet and the first step of the pristine foot of a little child.

What an odd time to find oneself in.

Their enthusiastic descriptions of the azaleas blooming in their gardens make him miss his morning walks terribly, and he offers his ladies to join him for an evening walk after dinner – he makes it clear that they are free to retire for the evening instead if they are still tired after their journey, but none of them take him up on it, choosing to stay with him instead. Perhaps they miss the walks too, or they simply cannot fathom refusing an invitation from the lady they serve. Either way, Yeonjun’s heart feels strangely settled to have them all surround him as they step out of his quarters together. Miyeon leads the way out of the building, assuring them all that she had explored the estate the day before, and knows exactly which way they should go. Yeonjun exchanges looks with Beomgyu and some of the other older ladies, endeared by her enthusiasm to be their guide for the day. Beomgyu takes a few quick steps to catch up to her, and engages her in conversation while they walk ahead of the rest of them. Dayeon steps up to walk at Yeonjun’s side instead, and they speak quietly about their relatives at the Court that Yeonjun has gotten to meet.

The gardens themselves are also much more modest than the ones in their home. Smaller, less intricate, with more trees and fewer flowers and blooming bushes. Grey paths meander back and forth around an artificial pond in the middle, and the sagging branches of weeping willows surrounding the water resemble waves as they sway in the chilly wind of a spring evening. In the falling dusk, a servant is trudging almost sleepily along the pathway, lighting every other lantern as he goes. Miyeon turns to Yeonjun proudly as they step outside, and he thanks her for her assistance with a smile. Before them, the path branches immediately, heading left and right respectively, split by a bed of forsythias, a shock of bright yellow in the sea of green, brown and gray before them.

The lord Kang Hansu must have a soft spot for forsythias – they seem to be everywhere in the estate.

They end up heading to the left, where the lanterns have already been lit, even though it is still bright enough outside for them to walk without their light. The conversation is more sparse than usual, with most of the ladies, Yeonjun included, too busy taking in the new environment to really talk to one another. Every now and then, one of them remarks on something they are passing, and they exchange a few words about it – a particularly old-looking tree, a small fish statue by the pond, a dogwood nestled against one of the walls, covered with waning yellow blossoms. As they slowly circle the pond along the meandering path, a structure hidden from view from the entrance to the main building comes into view, lit brightly by multiple lanterns and candles flickering in the wind – a small shrine with a single golden ritual bowl, attended a waifish girl obviously no more than sixteen years old, standing on the stone floor of it in bare feet, seemingly unbothered by the cold as she clutches a silver bell, her brow furrowed in concentration. Yeonjun watches her attentively as he leads his ladies towards it, and they come to a halt as she rings the bell, the sound of it sharp in the quiet evening.

Taehyun rises off the stone floor to his feet, but stares at it for another long moment before lifting his head and nodding at the shrine maiden, who bows before putting her bell down and picking up a straw broom instead. The prince steps out of the shrine, and watches her sweep the place he was just standing. When he notices Yeonjun and his ladies standing just a short distance away, he seems to startle almost physically, as if he were too deep in thought to take in anything except the shrine and his own musings.

“Wife, my ladies.” He bows to them politely, clearing his throat. “I did not see you there, I apologize.”

Yeonjun and his ladies bow, a chorus of gracious forgiveness of the prince’s indiscretion tittering through the group before they all fall silent again. Yeonjun’s eyes stray to the shrine again, where the shrine maiden stands with her head bowed, doing her best not to pay any mind to any of them.

“Have you come to pay respects to His Imperial Majesty?” He is halfway convinced he knows the answer to his own question, but he feels compelled to ask it nonetheless – if only to give voice to the thought all his ladies must be having, even though none of them risk seeming impolite by speaking to the prince themselves without being addressed directly

Unsurprisingly to him, the prince shakes his head. “I have come here to honor my mother – my mind is with her tonight.”

Still, the words give him pause, and he hesitates with his next words long enough that his opportunity to speak passes without him taking it – instead, Beomgyu detaches himself from the rest of the ladies, stepping closer to the shrine. Taehyun’s eyes leave Yeonjun to study Beomgyu instead, wide with surprise. Even more surprisingly, Beomgyu bows deeply, perfectly politely, before speaking up.

“I would like to join you – unless you would mind my doing so.”

The prince’s lips part silently, and he seems just as unable to speak as Yeonjun was just moments before. In the absence of an answer on his part, more unprompted motion follows – Soojin steps away from the group as well to join Beomgyu, and after only a moment of hesitation, Miyeon does the same. They bow on each side of Beomgyu, in that moment seeming more like his ladies than Yeonjun’s, and then the prince’s attention shifts to Yeonjun, his expression growing more pained than surprised the longer he regards his wife. The remaining ladies turn slightly towards him too without looking at him directly, obviously attempting to be subtle in their anticipation of his reaction.

He is not sure what it should be, should there be any on his part. Offering to join an alpha in his grief, even his own alpha… Beomgyu is not Taehyun’s wife, there is no ceremony for them to partake in – it is Taehyun’s private, personal mourning. Should he scold Beomgyu for offering? Scold Miyeon for showing such obvious loyalty to Beomgyu in front of him? Should he scold Soojin for wanting to pay respect to a distant relative?

Or should he simply allow it to happen?

He remembers the Empress’ funeral again. In the same tomb where they laid the Emperor’s body to rest, she was entombed with little fanfare. The imperial courtiers gathered in the front courtyard as a small group of her closest family members carried her casket out of the palace gates with no one following. Yeonjun wore white that day, forgoing bright colors in reverence. Both the Emperor and his heir wore hats that obscured their faces, hiding any emotion they might have felt from the gathered crowd. It was such a modest affair, compared to the grandiosity with which the Emperor himself was laid to rest. He never even had to cover his hair.

Too conscious now of the veil covering his face, he lowers his head, allowing it to hide his expression even further – he remains torn between what etiquette would require him to do and what his husband, whose word is to be law to him, would surely view to be more appropriate. Taehyun wants him to allow Beomgyu to do this, does he not? He wants Beomgyu’s sympathy – even if he agreed with Yeonjun that he does not deserve it. Selfishly, his husband wants Beomgyu to grieve with him, while being the source of Beomgyu’s grief himself.

And Beomgyu wants to grieve with Taehyun. Does he not realize? Yeonjun should have told him – he should have made that clear as soon as he could – Taehyun. Taehyun was responsible. An incompetent general, a careless commander or a reckless soldier – at the end of the day, it was Taehyun who sent them there. Who let them do it. Who allowed it all to happen.

But Yeonjun grieved for Taehyun's mother as well, did he not? For her and for the dowager, for himself and for Beomgyu. For all the wives who have suffered. Taehyun does not deserve their respect or sympathy, but they do. She does. The lady Song of the West White Palace.

“We will join you.”

He steps forward, followed by the curious gazes of his ladies, and Beomgyu looks over his shoulder at him while the prince's mouth closes again, his chin lifting slightly.

“I have already—”

“I insist, my prince.” His severe tone clashes with the polite bow of his head. Beomgyu and Taehyun both seem to attempt to search his face to figure out what he is thinking, but his veil disturbs their efforts. Taehyun gives a short sigh before bowing at the waist unnecessarily.

“It would be my honor to be joined by you, my ladies. The more respect she is paid, the better.”

Beomgyu looks towards the prince again – now his expression is the one inscrutable behind the veil covering his face. The prince steps towards the shrine again, and Yeonjun and his ladies shuffle to follow. There is obviously not enough space in the small shrine for all of them, so the ladies spread out around it instead, resigned to kneel on the path or the dew-strewn grass that will surely stain their clothes – only Yeonjun and Taehyun will fit onto the pristine stone floor of it.

As he steps carefully into the shrine, the maiden tending to it turns to pick up her bell again, while Taehyun approaches the opposite wall to pick up a carafe of wine to make an offering with. A thought comes to him, and he reaches out a hand, making his husband pause halfway to reaching for the wine.

“Omega Beomgyu will do it.”

Unrest seems to shiver through the group again, as the ladies exchange glances; the prince’s eyes narrow. Before he can protest, however, Beomgyu does.

“I do not know how, Your Grace. I am unfamiliar with the imperial custom.”

He seems oddly hurt – as if he understands that Yeonjun did not decide to do this out of any affection for Beomgyu; out of a desire to include him. He is being difficult to be difficult – to hijack this solemn moment of remembrance, to exclude his husband from it as much as he can. To show him that this pain does not belong to him. It is not exclusive to him. It is their pain. Their suffering.

“Then you will be taught, Omega Beomgyu. Come.”

Obviously reluctant, Beomgyu steps between them, the shrine cramped with four people now standing within it. He fills the entire space between him and the prince, but looks at neither of them – his eyes are fixed to the golden bowl in front of him, which still holds a cupful of wine at the bottom of it from the prince’s previous offering. Yeonjun’s eyes catch on the prince’s as they stray away from Beomgyu’s face. Taehyun picks up the wine and a clean cup without a word, and pours it full, taking the half step that is all he needs to come close enough to Beomgyu to hold up the cup for him to take.

“We must make an offering, then you may step back to bow. You stay kneeling until the bell rings.”

Beomgyu nods shortly without turning in the prince’s direction at all. Taehyun offers him the cup more insistently and he finally turns to pick it up, both of them so obviously careful to ensure their fingers do not as much as brush one another. Beomgyu holds the small cup between both hands, as if it were an artifact in itself and not a simple piece of carved wood.

“You pour the wine into the bowl, in a…” the prince’s voice trails off, choking off into nothing even though there was not a shred of emotion in it before. He spoke matter-of-factly, patiently. Yet he has to clear his throat before continuing, adding a slow motion of his hand to illustrate his words. “In a circular, or spiral motion. And you should,” he halts again, withdrawing his hand. “Say her name as you do so.”

For the first time, Beomgyu turns his head fully towards the prince – Yeonjun cannot see, but he would bet his life that Beomgyu looked him in the eye directly, foregoing all decorum. “What was her name?”

Yeonjun can hear the prince’s voice so clearly – asking what he name of Beomgyu’s dead lover was. The name of the man he killed; the man he allowed to die. The man whose death should forever preclude him from indulging in Beomgyu’s mercy; in his comfort.

And it seems that his husband can as well, because he looks at Yeonjun briefly before answering.

“Song Mina. Song. Mi. Na.”

Beomgyu’s head shifts a little. “I understood you.”

“No, I—” The prince sounds like he is fading with every syllable he speaks. As if he finally understands the grotesque nature of this display, and can hardly bring himself to go through the motions of it anymore. “You have to say it that way. Part by part.” His voice is so quiet at the end, perhaps knowing he can barely be understood by anyone not standing right by him makes him bold enough to say, “The way you say my name.”

And Yeonjun wishes he could see Beomgyu’s expression when the prince says it, but he can only see the shift in his shoulders as they lower where they have tensed before. Beomgyu lowers his head.

“I understand.”

“Thank you,” Taehyun says, as firmly as he seems capable of in the moment, before stepping away from Beomgyu and facing the front wall of the shrine, lowering his head and folding his hands. Yeonjun adjusts himself as well, and Beomgyu looks over at him instead.

Yeonjun gives him a nod. “You may proceed, Omega Beomgyu.”

With a small nod of his own, Beomgyu approaches the bowl, and Yeonjun watches him as intently as he can with his head lowered in reverence, as he tips the cup with exceeding care, making sure the meager amount of wine it holds lasts long enough for him to get the three syllables out.

Song. Mi. Na.

They lower themselves to their knees. Beomgyu strides past them before kneeling as well. The polished stone stings Yeonjun’s palms, the cold clinging to it like a thin layer of ice that thaws slowly under his numbing hands as they rest in the deepest, most reverent of bows.

Yeonjun tries to recall the little he has seen of the Empress Mother over the years – long dark hair and large eyes, complexion so beautifully complimented by imperial purples it was as if she were born to don them. Dignified silence and delicate hands. He looked like her; he looked so much like her. His face was much more gentle than his father's, but they had the same heart. Despite all the pain the prince carried, at the core he is the same. Uncaring. Pragmatic to a fault. Unfeeling.

The prince's form shudders next to him, as if to try and refute his thoughts. Bitterness swirls around them, mixing with the sour note of Yeonjun's anger, the slight tinge of Beomgyu left behind by his presence the only soothing scent among them. Slightly bittered, but as comforting as it ever is. Taehyun feels something, but it is not enough. It has never been enough. Taehyun loves him, but not enough to succumb to him, he understands the horrors he has unleashed upon Beomgyu, upon his city and people, but not enough to denounce his own decision. He pities his mother, but not enough to…

Yeonjun lets his eyes close. He tried; whichever strange method he chose to do so. To not put the same pressures on Yeonjun that crushed his mother. To not be an unkind husband. To not be his father.

But he never denounced him. He served him faithfully, knowing what he did. He never…

The thoughts boil within Yeonjun restlessly. The answers seem so simple to him, but they make no sense. Denounce his father. Leave his family. Give up his title. Not to take a wife if he never meant to have them carry out the wifely duties. Live out the rest of his life as a hermit.

Is that what he would want the prince to do?

All he wants is a husband like any other. One who would take him, passionately or not, be his companion, let Yeonjun serve him to the best of his ability, instead of constantly refusing his efforts outside of such arbitrary boundaries. He wants a husband like Myeongjin. One who would never give him the same respect reserved for mothers until he produced an heir. Who would never let himself be challenged. Who would never let him dally with a concubine. Who would spit at Beomgyu's feet.

He wants Taehyun to grovel at Beomgyu's feet, then never look at him again. He wants Taehyun to come crawling back to him, to make him feel safe again, and he never wants to touch him with affection ever again. He wants his child, and he wants solitude. He wants escape, and he wants the weight of all the world on his shoulders as well, instead of leaving the burden to his husband alone. He wants it all. He wants everything to somehow, impossibly, become perfect in the blink of an eye.

He rages in silence, and the sourer his scent gets, the more bitterness seeps out of his husband. Taehyun does not deserve sadness; he does not deserve to be angry, or contrite, or regretful.

Maybe he does not deserve to live.

The bell rings and as Yeonjun rises, he stares at the backs of his own hands, tries to remember the sadness he felt imagining his husband's name written upon them, the tension in his chest, but he struggles to. Maybe it will not matter soon. None of this may matter. He told Beomgyu everything he knew, and yet it still seemed only one option remained – to clean the new emperor's messes too tidily for him to just dispose of Taehyun. To be the most loyal of lapdogs. Give in to a man who does not deserve their loyalty – hope that in their struggle to save themselves, they can pepper change that matters along the way, a trail of tiny shifts along their futile escape from the maw of the beast. Riding on the tiger's back to avoid its fangs.

A hopeless, helpless situation.

Beholden to a man they do not trust, to a man who despises them. To a man they would rather see deposed.

Yeonjun glances to the side, at his husband whose wet eyes stare unshakingly at the golden bowl. He smells bitter and stale. Old and new misery. He shed one yoke for another. His leash only changed hands. He must feel like Beomgyu felt, with the teeth sinking into his skin. Trapped, yet resigned in some way. Teeth gnashing as he succumbs obediently yet again.

Yeonjun's prince of half-measures.

Maybe Yeonjun should pity him, in the same distant way he pities the harsh lot of an imperial wife – not enough to ease it, but just enough to feel more sadness than scorn when he looks at him. It used to be this way – he had understanding for the kind of life Taehyun led outside their marriage. Wielding his power with as much care as he could – only ever seeming to hold it above the heads of those who deserved his disdain. But he has been holding it over Yeonjun's own head this whole time – careless of his thoughts and feelings; of his needs. Could he ever forgive a transgression of this magnitude? Should he?

Taehyun begins to bow to the maiden and Yeonjun rushes to follow. His husband avoids his gaze as they step away from the shrine – instead, his eyes go to Beomgyu, reddened, wet and hopeful. Pleading. Searching for solace, for forgiveness, surely. Beomgyu's face is stony in a way Yeonjun has come to associate with repressed emotion. Whether Beomgyu is angry or saddened, he will not show it, but his scent stings with a bitter note. Yeonjun's eyes catch on Soojin, who is giving the prince a strange look of pity. Perhaps he knows more about Taehyun's mother and her fate than Yeonjun ever did before today. Even if everyone were forbidden from speaking of her family's history, word may have traveled through the family regardless – perhaps the emperor's brother even spread it among them purposefully, to make them distrust the Empress, to have little faith in Taehyun. He had the blood of madmen in his veins, after all.

“Have you quite finished your tour of the estate, Your Highness?”

The prince tears his eyes away from Beomgyu's face with a startle, looking towards Soojin in surprise. “Yes. Yes I have, Lady Soojin. It is just as lovely here as I remember it being in my youth – your father left it in good hands when he gave up the stewardship.”

Soojin does know this estate then – he might have never lived here, but it holds significance to his family regardless. He bows in acknowledgment with a slight, proud smile – perhaps Yeonjun should ask about his relation with Kang Hansu, as strange as it would be for him not to volunteer it, were it a close one.

“Your Highness used to spend time here when you were young?” Eunbi asks with such innocent curiosity that nobody thinks to scold her for speaking out of turn with anything else but a simple phrase of politeness.

The prince nods with an artificial smile, and Yeonjun wonders if the ladies took note of the redness in his eyes. “Yes, Lady Eunbi – it is part of why the memory of my mother lingers with me so strongly out here. When she had need to leave the liveliness of the imperial palace behind, she would come here, and when I was very young, I would be brought here with her. With her frail disposition, she could not travel all the way to our ancestral home very often, so we would come here instead.” He looks out towards the pond, at the swaying willow branches, the water shimmering with the light of the lanterns now lit throughout the entire garden. “I believe, as little as she said to me on the matter, that she loved it here. She always seemed to walk with her head held a little higher between these walls. I hope this estate can offer the same respite to all of you, my ladies.”

He seems sincere as he looks around himself at all of them, making brief eye contact with each, lingering on Beomgyu only long enough to make it too obvious when he glances away nervously. And again, he does not address Yeonjun.

“You above all, my wife.” Until he does. Oddly firm where he were hesitant before. Looking at him directly, and Yeonjun only belatedly remembers to avert his eyes demurely. “Your support has been invaluable to me as of late. You have done much for me. I hope you can find some peace here once again.”

And Yeonjun knows the words he should respond with, they are at the tip of his tongue, polite and well-practiced, like the sure motions of his paint brush. I wish the same for you, my prince. I hope you can regain your strength during our stay. Words upon words they would both know he does not mean. So he simply nods in acknowledgment instead, and his husband nods back, unshaken by his lack of reaction as he casts a look around again.

“You will have to excuse me now, my ladies – I have not eaten all day.”

They all bow to him as he leaves. Yeonjun searches for Beomgyu’s eyes once they straighten back up, but they have strayed to the prince’s back once more, just like they did when they arrived. Miyeon addresses him, and he seems to startle with her voice, as if lost in thought. Next to Yeonjun, Dayeon clears her throat primly.

“Are you ready to continue our walk, Your Grace?” she asks, and Yeonjun nods without thinking. The ladies seem tired, and so is he. He should dismiss them as quickly as possible.

 

.

 

He spends a restless night, and only really feels refreshed once Beomgyu slips through the servant’s door to embrace him while Haewon slips out through the main door into the hall, taking up his usual pleasant duty of brushing Yeonjun’s hair as soon as they are done greeting each other for the day. There is an odd, nervous energy to him the entire time, but Yeonjun finds himself so oddly reluctant to address it. Beomgyu brings with him such peace, he is disinclined to disturb it. He wants to spend these few peaceful moments of this morning enjoying the sensation of Beomgyu’s careful attention, the touch of his hands, the sound of his steady breathing. But, unaware as Beomgyu is of his thoughts when he does not care to speak them out loud, Beomgyu himself disturbs his morning nonetheless, cushioning his intrusion so cruelly by a gentle kiss given to the top of his head before the words cut through his mind.

“I met your prince this morning.”

Beomgyu’s voice is so quiet and serene, Yeonjun can almost not bring himself to despise having to hear it curl around those words. And still, his chest clenches painfully.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

It occurs to Yeonjun in that moment that they are not currently touching anywhere anymore. Beomgyu hovers behind him, above him, breathing into his hair, but there is no contact. Only the scent of Beomgyu still lingering around him, enveloping him.

“Where? Did he catch you coming to see me?”

They are whispering, even though they should still have relative privacy – why are they whispering?

“In the garden. I could not sleep well last night – as soon as there was enough light in the sky to see, I went outside for some air. And I saw him there – he was at the shrine again.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes. He is tired of thinking about his husband’s grief. To his delight, Beomgyu’s arms come up to wrap around his shoulders, resting against them in a loose, light embrace even as Beomgyu continues to speak into his hair instead of bringing their faces close.

“I watched as he made his offering – but he did not make it to a Song Mi-na. And not to a Kang Tae-yul, either.”

His back tenses. Beomgyu noses at the crown of his head.

“He made it to a Kai instead.”

He breathes in sharply, and Beomgyu continues so quickly Yeonjun realizes it is not his turn to speak yet.

“I told him— I told him that no Kai I knew would understand this imperial custom.” Beomgyu’s fingers squeeze at the top of Yeonjun’s shoulder. “And he told me he knew of no other.” Beomgyu shifts his head to rest his cheek atop Yeonjun’s head instead. “So I said that next time, he should bring with him a mirror, a knife and a bowl of rice.” His thumb runs back and forth across Yeonjun’s shoulder. “I believe he truly means to meet me there next morning.”

Their bodies press together – holding him like this, Beomgyu feels much less delicate than Yeonjun is used to seeing him as. He feels solid, warm and broad, curled around Yeonjun as if clinging to him for comfort, even though there is no desperation in his touch.

“Do you mean to meet with him as well?”

Beomgyu takes a long, drawn out moment to answer. “I do. I will bring paint and a brush, and i will do what I should have long ago,” he shifts his head again, pressing his lips to Yeonjun’s scalp once more. “Make a talisman of him to keep close to me from now on.” He presses kiss after kiss against the skin and this, this sweet gesture of affection comes with the edge of desperation Yeonjun was expecting. “And we will honor him – the way we are meant to. The way his ancestors would – the way whatever is left of his family surely does.”

“He had a family?” He feels foolish the moment the words escape his mouth – just like Kyunsang can be a father to children, so must Kai have been the son to someone. Perhaps a brother. Perhaps, even a wife himself.

“Of course he did,” Beomgyu retorts with dry amusement in his voice. “He did not simply materialize at the palace out of thin air – both of his parents worked there, and his mother was still alive when the siege started, although I do not know what became of her during the storming of the palace. No one told me of her death, but it may have come later, once I had already been taken away. He had siblings as well – two sisters. The older one married a merchant and left the city years before the invasion - but the younger one was still at the palace, working in the kitchens with her mother.” The tip of Beomgyu’s nose brushes through Yeonjun’s hair, ticklish and electrifying. “I can only pray that she were spared - but she was a beautiful girl, an omega like her brother. A terrible fate could have befallen her, even if she did not meet her end at the tip of a sword.”

“Beomgyu—”

Yeonjun should have told him yesterday. He should have told him months ago. He should have told him the moment he was told about Kai’s fate. But he could not bear the thought of it – could not imagine facing a Beomgyu who knew that he was held in the house of the man responsible for the fate of his city. Of all the people he cared about to some extent, tenuous as it may have been. Even if he hated everyone in the city except for Kai, even though the city was not his rightful home, even though the southern tongue was not the language of his ancestors… Beomgyu cared about what happened to it. Reluctantly, frustratedly, with disgust for the care he felt himself. A city that took everything from him, a city that brought him nothing but suffering, and yet its burning was the burning of a part of Beomgyu’s heart in itself. And Taehyun did this to him. Yeonjun’s husband, Beomgyu’s alpha, did this to him.

“I did not tell his name to anyone, Yeonjun. I did not speak his name out loud for more than two years – and no one knew what he meant to me. No one – even his family merely understood him to be fond of me. My captors thought I shed tears for my brother-in-law, that I only mourned for the little one – I did not want them to have the satisfaction of knowing what they really did to me.”

And now, Yeonjun might yet be spared the sight of his face when he is forced to tell the truth. Even as Beomgyu shifts, as he presses his cheek to the back of Yeonjun’s head, he does not allow Yeonjun a single peek at his expression. As his breathing grows ragged, he remains nothing but a mess of sensation with no visual to tie it all together. Wet breath and the firm grip of his arms. Bitter citrus with a sour tinge to it. Soft skin Yeonjun brushes his lips against in silent apology, pressing his mouth to the wrists of one of the hands holding onto him so tightly now.

“I did not speak of him to anyone – not a soul. But your husband knew his name – and I knew. I knew from the look on his face, from his tone, from the… from the way he hardly even blinked at my demand. He knew who Kai was. What he meant. Perhaps not all of it but the name belonged to the same idea in both of our minds. I know this, Yeonjun. Do not try to convince me otherwise. You told him, didn’t you. You told him about Kai. You told him his name, you told him… you told him something.”

Yeonjun reaches up, and clutches Beomgyu’s hand with his own, still curled over his own shoulder. “I told him you loved him, and that he died at the hands of his father’s men. He asked his name, and I told him.”

“Why? He did not need to know. He never had to find out.”

“He needed to, Beomgyu. He needed to understand what he did – he spoke to Iseul about peace, but when he had the chance to prevent war, he brought it upon you instead. He needed to know the price, he needed to—”

“You could have spoken about anyone. The little lord. The people of the city. Me. Why throw my private pain at his feet? Why drag my lover’s name through the mud? I told you of him in confidence. In tenderness. His memory is painful, but I wanted it to stay pristine. It was my haven, and you wished to make it a playing piece in a game against your husband? Yeonjun.”

Beomgyu’s fingers tighten on his shoulder even more, and Yeonjun shakes his head as much as he can without knocking his head into Beomgyu’s roughly. “He needed to know, Beomgyu – he needed to understand the consequences his actions had. He sent the armies to your city; he chose you and your people to suffer – and the death and destruction he had wrought were nothing to him but pieces on a playing board. Death needed a name. A face. A story.”

“Did it have to be his? There were hundreds of names and stories. Mine would have sufficed, would it have not? Or the little lord’s, if you only think suffering matters if it ends in death. If we must die to matter, then a young boy died, Yeonjun – just as senselessly as Kai did. For the same wretched purpose. For greed, and lust for power. You could have spoken of him. But you did not, did you?”

He did not. He did not say a word about a young alpha who never reached adulthood, never experienced a rut, never married. Never truly led the city he inherited from his father. Who buried a father and an older brother, was at the mercy of his city council just as much as Beomgyu was as lady regent. A life wasted, as opposed to Kai’s life lived and lost. Perhaps there is more pain in the young lord’s story – in a story that never quite got to begin in the first place, cut short so cruelly on its first page, where it started with a young man standing up to the people who invaded a city he was born into, that he was born to one day rule over.

“Beomgyu, I—”

“You were careless.” Beomgyu presses their bodies together as tight as they may go, and it feels more severe to him than Beomgyu not touching him at all. “Admit it. Out of passion, out of hate for him or care for me – you were careless with secrets that were not yours to tell.”

He nods his head. “I was. I told him things he never should have heard.”

“Until I was ready for him to,” Beomgyu adds, telling the words to the top of Yeonjun’s shoulder, and he turns his head as much as he can to catch a glimpse of Beomgyu’s pained eyes. Whatever he did not regret before, he regrets now. No righteous satisfaction feels worth the betrayal on Beomgyu’s face.

“His story is yours.”

Beomgyu nods faintly. “Does he know our story? Or is that truly all he holds – that I loved him and that he died?”

“I only told him what he needed to know to understand – nothing more.”

Beomgyu looks away from him then, his grip loosening, and Yeonjun’s own shoulders lower in response. The great tension that has coiled between them starts to unravel again, and Beomgyu’s anger deflates into something somber and resigned. “Perhaps I should be grateful to you, but I am not.”

“I ask for no gratitude.”

Terribly, Beomgyu’s body detaches itself from his, and he turns as soon as he is free to move to see Beomgyu sit listlessly by himself in the middle of the bed. His hands are resting in his lap, palms turned towards the ceiling as he looks at the planes of them thoughtfully.

“I never honored him the right way. Not in my custom, and not in his. Between my taking, my imprisonment and arriving to your household, I never…” he trails off, and his hands curl lightly into fists. “I composed him a thousand poems and songs, in my mind and on paper. I looked for him in stars and in the ripples on water. But I never immortalized him – perhaps it is not even my place to. I am neither his family, nor his spouse – I am bound to him by nothing but love and memory. But perhaps instead it is ample time I did.” He lifts his hands, just to tuck them under his own arms, hugging himself. “If we are laying the ghosts of our pasts to rest, then it is time for Kai’s memory to be allowed peace as well.” Beomgyu shakes his lowered head. “I want to love both of you – I do not want him to overshadow you. It would make me no better than your husband, to only see a reflection of what used to be in you – or what I used to be before his love.”

“You’ve always seen me, Beomgyu,” he rushes to say, but then regrets his own words – it is not entirely true, but true enough. “When it mattered, you have always seen me. You are nothing like him.”

“It may be.” To his relief, Beomgyu does not sound entirely doubtful. He remains thoughtful, and somber, but he does not argue and he seems to believe him as much as his own mind may allow him to at the moment. “But I still wish to lay him to rest – in one way or another. For my own peace of mind. For… closure.”

His voice chokes at the end. Yeonjun bites at his lips. “Then do so. With the prince, or without him.”

Beomgyu shrugs weakly. The citrus in the air is bitter and biting. “It will not mean the same thing to us – whether he is there or not. In the end, it is of little consequence to me.”

Yeonjun believes he understands the sentiment to some extent, and yet it rubs him the wrong way, anyway. To him, the ceremony would be sullied by the prince’s presence. A killer should not kneel in honor of their victim, should they? Or perhaps they should be first in line to do so, as nauseous as the thought makes him. Maybe Taehyun needs to honor him most of all. Be good to Beomgyu in his memory. Be kind to Beomgyu in observance of his legacy.

He reaches out to touch Beomgyu’s leg, just to be interrupted in the motion by Beomgyu’s voice.

“But I would like you to be there.”

His mouth runs dry, and he looks at Beomgyu wide-eyed. As strangely deflated as Beomgyu looks, his prideful face sallow for once, he seems determined.

“If you’ve done this to me, if you’ve brought me here, you will do this for me. Be at my side when I lay his spirit to rest.” Brilliant tears gather in his eyes, and Yeonjun’s hand finishes its journey to his thigh, rubbing at it consolingly. “I do not trust myself to not want to be held afterwards – and you know how distasteful I find the touch of an alpha.”

There is the slightest tint of humor in Beomgyu’s tone, an attempt at levity, but what Yeonjun remembers is Beomgyu’s confession that he found safety in Taehyun’s arms when he was carried during his heat. All the thinks about is Beomgyu, succumbing to his husband’s comfort, like Yeonjun did so many times.

“Do you not hate him, Beomgyu?”

“What?” Beomgyu’s eyes have genuine confusion in them as they narrow in his direction.

“You understand that he is responsible for this, do you not? For Kai. For your brother-in-law. The entire invasion. He was on the Emperor’s council when they decided to wage war on your city – when he and his father decided you were the prey they should seek.”

Beomgyu’s eyes shut again as he shakes his head. A tear rolls down one of his cheeks, but he does not reach up to wipe it. Yeonjun shifts closer to him, leaning in insistently.

“They did not have to attack you. They did not have to attack anyone. They chose to.”

He watches Beomgyu’s throat bob with a swallow. “Did he try to stop it?”

Yeonjun shakes his head as Beomgyu blinks his eyes open. “When he spoke of it, he only said their hand was forced. That they needed to make a sacrifice – and that they chose you.”

Beomgyu covers his face with his hands. “Because we posed nearly no threat to their armies. Because the other cities would never come to our aid. Because we were wealthy and illustrious.”

“Your people did not deserve what was done to them, Beomgyu. This never should have happened.”

Shaking his head, Beomgyu shifts his hand to uncover his eyes, peering at him through the sheen of tears with his own fingers still clutching at his cheeks. “If you believe that a price has to be paid for greed and hubris, then perhaps it did. A penance was paid for my father-in-law’s greed, when he seized the stone quarries, and his wealth grew to overshadow the other lords. For Jaehwan’s contempt of all of them, his disgust at needing them as allies, at needing anyone at all as the lord of a city. For the pride of the council that refused to bow to a lord from outside the city even for the few years it would have taken for Jaehwan’s brother to grow old enough to rule – the other cities looked down on us for the decision from the very moment it was suggested. A Free City could not be headed by an omega.” He shakes his head slightly. “We bared our necks, and your husband, your Empire, brought the blade down upon us. Upon them.” He huffs with scorn, and hides his face again. “We let ourselves become weak, by trying to stand strong on our own - and we paid for it dearly.”

“The Empire—”

Beomgyu shakes his head vigorously. “The armies of the Empire or the combined strength of the Cities. One predator or another.”

“The prince could have stopped it.”

“So could I.” To his surprise, Beomgyu lifts his head again, and his eyes are severe where they meet his own. “With the power of the lady regent. I could have opened our gates to the Empire and gone peacefully, I could have recognized and accepted that no help was coming. I was not ignorant to our situation.”

“You never should have had to make that choice in the first place.”

“Perhaps – but the choice came nonetheless, and do you know what I thought to myself, watching the councilman leave my palace to tell the armies outside the city that we would not bow?” Beomgyu’s hand covers Yeonjun’s, squeezing lightly before pushing it off of his own leg. “That my hand was forced – that I could never stand up to my council on a matter this crucial. And I prayed for luck that we were not afforded.” He takes a shaky breath. “Time comes in the lives of the powerful that they must make decisions that may carry grave consequences – and we have to accept their consequences, we do, no matter the choices of others. That is not a duty that we – that they may shirk. That much is true. But if we are to believe this, Yeonjun, then you cannot wipe my responsibility away with his share of it. We both should carry the weight of the souls lost on our conscience. If your husband disagrees, then he needs to be taught a lesson – but do not tell me to allay all my pain by pushing it onto him. He is not innocent, and neither am I. I made myself believe that I was forgiven – but maybe you are right. Maybe, in face of overwhelming circumstances, we should stand our ground – perhaps that is the lesson we were both meant to learn from this – one of us in a way much more painful than the other. It may be that the fact that Kai felt as trapped in the situation as I did does not mean I get to feel justified, merely because we both refused to look past our own fear.”

Then, finally, Beomgyu looks away and nods to himself. He shifts to the other side of the bed, picks up the veil and shroud he discarded at the foot of it when he came, so he would be ready to don them and join the ladies when the time came. He slips off the bed and to his feet with his back turned to Yeonjun, attaching his veil while Yeonjun watches him in stunned silence. This was not the direction he expected the conversation to take – not in the slightest.

“You should take breakfast without me – tell the ladies I am unwell again. They should believe it – I used the same excuse yesterday.”

“Beomgyu.”

“I need to be alone,” Beomgyu says firmly, and finally turns around, his face partially obscured yet his sincerity shining through regardless. “Will you allow me to have my solitude, Your Grace?”

Usually, the title seems playful on Beomgyu’s lips in private, but today, it feels just as distant as his husband calling him Lady Yeonjun. It aches in his chest with its cold severity.

“Of course, Beomgyu.”

With a small nod, something in Beomgyu’s posture seems to loosen, and he comes forward, climbing onto the bed again, crossing the distance between them to connect their lips through the fabric of the veil. It is silky smooth and the warmth of Beomgyu’s mouth seeps through it too easily, as if there were no barrier between them at all.

“I will return to your side as soon as I am able, I promise. But for now…”

Yeonjun nods. Beomgyu reaches up to run his fingers through the hair at the side of his face. “I understand.”

“Do you? Your expression seems as if you were about to lose me for good.”

His lips part and close again. This is not how things tend to go – usually he is abandoned, with his guilt, with his distress, left hanging to pick up the pieces of himself. But here Beomgyu is, mending him before he leaves him to mend himself as well.

Yeonjun meets his eyes through the veil – the brown of Beomgyu’s eyes is too warm for the pain held behind them. He leans forward to join their lips again, just as brief as Beomgyu did.

And he says the only thing that seems to matter at the moment.

“I love you.”

Beomgyu’s palm cups his cheek, and their foreheads come together as a shaky breath flutters the veil covering Beomgyu’s face.

“I love you too.”

Yeonjun kisses the center of Beomgyu’s palm before he lets him go. Something sits oddly in his chest as he prepares to join his ladies to get ready for breakfast, peaceful yet aching.

 

.

 

The estate, with all its old-fashioned stylings, offers a dining room with a layout much different from the modern ones Yeonjun is used to. At the head of the room, opposite the door, there are not two splendid seats for the head of the household and his wife, but a single resplendent one, with a more ordinary seat next to it, already occupied by the lord steward. Instead, the wife’s seat is situated at the wall to their husband’s right, surrounded by a handful of seats for the wife’s entourage, with a large swathe of empty floor in the middle and less splendid tables and seats for the rest of the household at the other side of the room. There is not even enough seats by the wife’s table to accommodate all of Yeonjun’s ladies despite Beomgyu’s absence – he would have to choose four of them to accompany him while the rest ate separately at the plain tables with their only current occupants: a graying omega with a tired, melancholic face and two children at the brink of maturity – surely Lord Hansu’s family that they failed to get acquainted with the day before in their rush to rest.

He begins preparing mentally to do just that as they reach the center of the room to bow to the head of the household customarily, but as Yeonjun readies himself to bid his husband a good morning, the prince leans over towards the lord steward to speak to him in hushed tones – the sound of it barely carries all the way to them, but Yeonjun catches just enough of the words to assume the gist of it. Why, seats and remedy. Lord Hansu seems to pale as he waves over a servant, probably a head of something or other judging by his surprisingly decorative clothing and an air of superiority only commoners of a high enough position to look down upon others seemed to have, who rushes away to take care of whatever his new orders are – then the lord steward glances nervously at the prince, while Taehyun greets him and the ladies politely, seeming for all intents and purposes composed and disaffected. Not like a man who would be up at dawn making offerings to the victims of his own ambition. Not like a man who regrets a single action he has ever taken.

“You should make the acquaintance of the honorable Lady Oh Sangjun and his children,” he adds when he is done with his greetings, gesturing to his left, where the omega and his children rush to bow in their seats as they are mentioned. “Omega Hayeong and Alpha Taeyul.”

“Named for His Late Imperial Majesty’s honor,” Lord Hansu says a bit too loudly, and Yeonjun pities him. If they were a normal family, this would surely be impressive to them, rather than striking the same awkward note it in fact does.

“We hope that with a strong name like His Imperial Majesty’s he will surely continue the great legacy of his house just as dutifully as His Imperial Majesty had,” his wife steps in to explain, voice muted politely yet with strong conviction behind it. His tone reminds Yeonjun of his aunt. The young alpha in question lowers his head in embarrassment at being made the center of attention, no doubt. He does not add anything to his mother’s words.

Yeonjun nods his head in the wife’s direction. “It is surely a name which will bring your son good fortune, Lady Sangjun.”

He gets a faint smile for his trouble, then everyone’s attention is stolen by the arrival of servants, bearing tables and armfuls of cushions to fashion the modest table for five on the wife’s side into a seating arrangement fit for seven – no, for eight. They set out enough seats to accommodate Beomgyu as well. The sight of the eight seats, knowing Beomgyu is not coming to join them, makes Yeonjun feel somewhat melancholic. Still, he bows politely to the head of the room.

“Thank you for accommodating us, Lord Hansu.”

Obviously surprised to be credited, the lord steward bows in return – the prince’s expression moves only enough for him to say, “Is Omega Beomgyu well? I see he is not with you.”

Yeonjun looks at his mouth instead of at his eyes with a mild disgust – having met him that morning, surely he had to understand Beomgyu might not be in the brightest of dispositions. “I am afraid not entirely – he excused himself from attending me this morning. He might only join us later.”

Taehyun seems to mull the words over in his head before nodding. “I see. I hope he is merely exhausted by the journey and has not fallen ill.”

So dishonest – but they both are, pretending as if neither of them could fathom a reason for Beomgyu to not be present other than illness. “As do I, my prince.”

His husband’s eyes stray away, perhaps nervous and perhaps thoughtful. “I hope you enjoy a peaceful meal this morning, my ladies.”

“Thank you, my prince,” Yeonjun says politely amid the cacophony of gratitude from his ladies, and they bow one last time before gathering at their table to eat. Another flock of servants arrives to bring more plates and food to their table as they figure out their seating arrangements, just as spontaneously as they ever do in private, but ending up in a configuration that seems quite traditional nonetheless – with Yeonjun having the omegas at each side of him, Eunbi and Dasom taking the seats at the edges of the table, and Chaeyoung and Miyeon sitting on the opposite side of it, leaving the empty seat between them, directly opposite Yeonjun. It makes Beomgyu’s absence even starker – every time Yeonjun glances up from his food, he could have met Beomgyu’s lovely eyes, but instead he keeps inadvertently locking eyes with Omega Hayeong, who seems fascinated by them, sending them looks all throughout the breakfast.

Grateful for something else to think about for a change, Yeonjun resolves to offer him to join him and his ladies for their morning walk. If no other good is to come from their visit to this estate, then at least Yeonjun can allow a young omega to enjoy the company of a royal wife’s entourage.

 

.

 

The presence of Hayeong and his mother, who insists on joining them as well when Yeonjun extends his invitation for reasons Yeonjun cannot quite fathom, brings with it the thoughts Yeonjun nearly forgot to indulge in, as engaged as he was in his thoughts of grief, guilt and responsibility. Thoughts about children, their care and their future. Lady Sangjun continues to remind Yeonjun of his aunt, correcting his son’s posture and frowning whenever his son says anything that strays from a pre-approved list of properly demure and deferential things for a young omega to say. He hovers by his son’s shoulder, speaking loudly over him every now and then to answer questions aimed his son himself instead. It makes Yeonjun wonder. While he had certainly put ample amounts of thought into the idea of parenthood, he thinks perhaps he never quite went into enough detail about what that should entail. Yeonjun has, to some extent, known the care of two mothers – the one who gave birth to him and nurtured him as a boy, and of his aunt, who molded out of the gentle child of the rolling green hills of the south an imperial lady worthy of walking the stone paths of great cities. He was raised to be a southern lady who had his ear to the land and a mind as flexible as a spring branch to accommodate the whims of nature, the coming and going of seasons and the unpredictability of a year’s harvest. He was raised to be an imperial lady, stone-faced and rigid, silent and graceful, appreciative of tradition, of rules and customs – of the well-tread paths he was meant to follow.

His experience was much the same as many other young nobles, omega and alpha alike – he was taken from a careless childhood in his ancestral home to be carved into an adult at a different court, in a different home, under someone else’s mentorship. Just like Hayeong, he learns, spends most of his time now at the Imperial Court, going through the same steps of becoming an imperial noble that Yeonjun and some of his ladies did. Once he himself would mother a child, there would have to come a day when he would have to give them up – unless they, somehow, lost all access to the Court. With the very option to have their child study at the Imperial Court itself, they could never justify raising them in the palace at their own court. When their child would be old enough, Yeonjun would have to say goodbye to them, and resign to seeing them only on special occasions. Perhaps they would live at their father’s side, or, if Taehyun was not there to care for them, Yeonjun would have to entrust them into the care of someone else – his aunt, one of his cousins, or rather, more likely, a member of the Kang family he would hardly know. Maybe Iseul would, one day, have Yeonjun’s child in her care.

The thought bothers him – it is customary, and yet, as if he felt attached to a child he never gave birth to already, his heart seems reluctant to accept it. He wonders if his mother felt the same letting him go – at the moment, he cannot recall seeing any distress on her face as she said goodbye to him, but then again, his mother was made of the same steely composure Choi Misoon was. If she cried, she cried in private, like they all did.

Perhaps he should write her a letter – ask about what she had told herself to make herself accept the very thought of letting her child out of her sight. She may have just thought it was what was best for Yeonjun, that she was giving him a better future, that it was an opportunity she could not afford to squander. She would have been right, after all. Yeonjun did not only marry into money – he married into power. Tenuous as that power is.

On their way back to the main building, they run into the prince in what seems to be an almost calculated coincidence – he is near the entrance where the pathway splits, staring thoughtfully at the forsythias and reaching out to caress the bright yellow petals. He greets them with a smile and a quip about the warm weather and lord Hansu’s wife and son watch with obvious surprise the relaxed way Yeonjun’s ladies react to meeting an imperial prince – unlike them, Yeonjun’s ladies were well-used to finding themselves in the presence of someone this high-ranking. Instead of his frustration at the sight of his husband’s face, Yeonjun focuses on the amusement at their apparent confusion.

Eunbi idly says something flattering about the blooming forsythias, and Taehyun’s polite smile seems to grow genuine, all the more surprisingly to Yeonjun when his next words are, “They were mother’s favorite – I am happy to see they are still kept in this garden.”

“My husband was advised that there should always be forsythias at this estate by the previous lord steward,” Lady Sangjun admits, clearly emboldened by the easy conversation to speak up as well, and Yeonjun catches his husband’s eyes turning to Soojin at the same time as his own do.

Unfortunately, Soojin seems as surprised to hear Lady Sangjun’s words as everyone else is – if Soojin’s father meant to honor Song Mina with this instruction, then they are not to know. Not at the moment, anyway.

Taehyun clears his throat. “I am afraid I will have to insist on the same as the master of it, Lady Sangjun.” He looks around at the entirety of the garden grounds. “Is this garden not made so much lovelier by the sight of them?”

“Indeed, Your Highness,” Lady Sangjun replies with a bow, so politely that it is impossible to ascertain whether he actually agrees with Taehyun or not.

Glancing towards Sangjun, Yeonjun’s eyes catch on the doorway to the estate, and he realizes with a start that right next to him, Dayeon was already looking in that direction. Beomgyu stands there politely, silently, obviously waiting for the best opportunity to approach them and rejoin Yeonjun’s entourage. The sight of him brings a small smile to Yeonjun’s face – he does, for one, not seem haunted or lost in thought. He looks like himself, and that brings Yeonjun peace.

Unfortunately, his distraction does not go unnoticed by his husband, who follows his gaze to the doorway.

“Omega Beomgyu,” he raises his voice to say, and Beomgyu takes it for the bid to approach that it obviously is, pausing a ways away from both parties, neither joining the prince nor Yeonjun and his companions. He gives Lady Sangjun and his son a brief look, then bows all the way.

“Your Highness.”

“I heard you were unwell this morning.”

“I am afraid I am yet to recover from our journey, Your Highness.”

It is still strange to him, hearing Beomgyu address his husband with utmost politeness. No mockery in his voice, no disrespect, no challenge. A flat, polite, perfectly proper affect. He does not feign loveliness like a lady may, especially one as young as he, but there is not a hint of animosity in his voice. If Taehyun finds it striking himself, he does not let it show.

“I apologize for making you undertake another arduous journey this way, Omega Beomgyu – surely this will be the last time I ask this of you.”

Yeonjun can see the change in Lady Sangjun’s countenance, the narrowing of Hayeong’s eyes, and it makes him a little queasy. Beomgyu speaks to Taehyun without a shred of impropriety, but the way Taehyun speaks is… caring, even though he maintains a polite tone. His words oddly involved for a prince who is supposed to be speaking to someone who matters to him as little as any other of Yeonjun’s ladies would. Something about his face when he says it warmer than it should be.

It reminds Yeonjun of the way Taehyun would look at him so often during their courtship and throughout their marriage. Polite and detached as he should be, but… warm. Always making him think at the back of his mind, despite the relative lack of evidence to it otherwise, that he was liked. Appreciated. Adored, even.

But that was not it. Taehyun did not just like him, did not just appreciate him, found him more than virtuous and lovely. He loved him – or so he said.

Beomgyu seems to hesitate, his lip twitching as the words Yeonjun knows he is holding back are swallowed back down instead of being given voice – all the things Beomgyu cannot afford to say to the prince in front of all these people, but that Taehyun might enjoy hearing nonetheless. The same gently mocking words Beomgyu would inundate the prince with when they were at the Court together.

“It is no trouble, Your Highness,” he settles for eventually with another bow. “I am sure I speak for all of us when I say we were glad to be able to keep His Grace company again, especially at an estate as charming as this one.”

To Yeonjun’s delight, the ladies around him titter with agreement, and Taehyun bows his head in acknowledgment before nodding towards Lady Sangjun. “It is all thanks to our good Lord Hansu.” As he finishes the gesture, he seems to realize the situation, and seems to straighten up even though he was standing up straight before, his tone losing some of its gentle edge again. “I do hope your stay will continue more comfortably than it has so far, Omega Beomgyu.” Clearing his throat again, he bows to the entirety of the present company. “Now if you would excuse me, my ladies.”

Lady Sangjun takes a bold step forward, surprising most anyone gathered in the garden, seemingly attempting to make up for his boldness with a deep bow. “If I may, Your Highness.”

“Of course, Lady Sangjun.”

He straightens up again, and his already thin mouth thins out further before he continues. “My son is quite a lovely singer, and I was hoping to invite His Grace and the ladies to indulge in his talents in the music room for a while – it would be an honor to both of us if you would care to join us as well, Your Highness.”

Yeonjun’s mouth goes dry with bittersweet memories, and he looks over at the young omega to see his eyes shifting away shyly. He pinches his lips together to collect himself again.

Meanwhile, the prince seems affected as well, even though he stays composed enough to not make the lady wait for the answer for any impolite amount of time. “I am afraid I cannot join you at the moment, Lady Sangjun, but I assure you that your son’s talents will be better appreciated by my wife and his companions – they know much more of music than I do. I may join you at a later time if possible.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Lady Sangjun replies without the slightest hesitation. “It would be our honor.”

“We will gladly spend time with you in the music room, Lady Sangjun,” Yeonjun steps in, firmly but politely, inclining his head in her direction before glancing towards Chaeyoung. “I believe we may have talents of our own to demonstrate as well?”

Lady Chaeyoung raises a hand to cover her mouth modestly, just to startle as she seems to have forgotten her face is already partially obscured by her veil. Yeonjun smiles at her.

“I am sure we can entertain each other,” he concludes, aiming the smile at Lady Sangjun instead.

Taehyun gives them a small nod. “Then I will leave you to it, my ladies. Please do spend your morning comfortably.”

This time, it is Yeonjun who watches his husband leave instead of Beomgyu. He gives the omega a wide, polite berth as he walks towards the door to the main building, and there is not a moment of hesitation in his step. Yeonjun’s gut will not stop churning, twisting in on itself.

 

.

 

Kang Hayeong is indeed a talented singer. Yeonjun sits at his mother’s side while the young omega demonstrates this, and recalls all the lovely things people used to say about his singing at Hayeong’s age to repeat those to Lady Sangjun, whose strict demeanor seems to melt at the sweet sound of his son’s singing, replaced by an affect that simply shines with pride. There is something lovely about it, about the transformation that the lady undergoes, and once again Yeonjun finds himself wondering about parenthood. Would his child inherit his own talents? Would his child have their own, unique skills for him to glow with pride over? Or would his child simply be one of a shrewd and studious mind like their father? He is not sure how he would feel, giving birth to and raising a child that would remind him every day of Taehyun in his boyhood. Surely there would be something painful about it – about seeing his husband reflected in the innocent face of a child. But he would have to face that – in one way or another. Whether the child has his face or his mind, his build or only his name – Taehyun will, Taehyun has to be the father, and Yeonjun needs to accept it.

The thought used to excite him, but he dreads it now; the more he knows his husband, the more he abhors the idea of tying them together this way. They need to have a child together; they have to – they will.

Is that not terrible?

Beomgyu sits off to the side of him and Lady Sangjun, and even though Yeonjun cannot really afford to look at him too often, he is starkly aware of his presence. He knows when Beomgyu is listening to the music, to Hayeong’s singing, Chaeyoung’s flute or Soojin’s skilled fingers plucking out a tune and knows when his attention wavers and he turns to Miyeon to keep up a halfhearted, muted conversation. They keep the music somber on purpose, trying to stay modest even though they’ve resorted to entertainment in a time of mourning. In happier times, sometimes Dasom would recite them poems she wrote while twirling around like a performer telling a tall tale at a town market, or the ladies would join each other in a childish dance. Today, they all stay sitting, hardly moving and keep their voices low. At some point, Eunbi has Soojin play the melody for her while she sings the song of spring the ladies tried to teach Beomgyu in the middle of winter, and the sweet words finally provide some reprieve, doubly so when Yeonjun hears Beomgyu joining the singing from where he is sitting. Hayeong seems taken by the song, and, much like Beomgyu did, ends up surrounded by Yeonjun’s ladies while they attempt to teach it to him.

Unfortunately, their peaceful morning is once again interrupted by the prince’s presence, as he seems to attempt to enter quietly just to have the entirety of the room turn their attention to him immediately. He bows almost too formally as he startles.

“My ladies. I do not mean to interrupt.”

Lady Sangjun looks to Yeonjun to reply, so he suppresses a sigh and acquiesces. “Not at all, my prince. Have you found the time to spend with us after all?”

He realizes, the longer he looks at his husband, that Taehyun seems strangely on edge, and his mild annoyance gives way to genuine concern – one night is enough for bad news from the Court to reach the estate, especially if it is bad enough. “I suppose. I need to speak with you privately first, wife, but then I may join you.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Beomgyu’s head lift curiously. “Shall we speak outside, then?”

Taehyun casts a look into the crowded room. This one is obviously more lavish than anything in the wife’s quarters so it is not quite cramped with ten people inside it, but it is still a quiet room filled with ears. Usually, the ears of Yeonjun’s ladies are treated as no ears at all when it comes to matters of household, but whatever the prince needs to discuss might be much more sensitive – or perhaps, the presence of Lady Sangjun changes the entire paradigm of what privacy means to them.

Then Taehyun’s eyes seem to snag on their path around the room somewhere behind Yeonjun’s shoulder, and he shrugs. “We can speak here if it would be more comfortable for you, wife.”

Yeonjun takes a careful breath. If they stay, the ladies closest to them might listen in on their conversation – but so may Beomgyu, and unlike them, Beomgyu would have the full context of it. “I believe it would.”

“Please have my seat, Your Highness.” Lady Sangjun rushes to stand, shuffling away from the seat to gesture at it with an overly polite bow.

Taehyun gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you very much, Lady Sangjun. You are most kind.”

The lady bows even deeper than Yeonjun thought possible, and retreats politely to the other side of the room. Something about it settles Yeonjun’s mind a little about his decision – he trusts his ladies, and Lady Sangjun not even attempting to stay anywhere near them makes him satisfied to believe that she has no interest in listening in on their conversation, and would rather prefer to be polite by allowing it to be private. He watches her take a seat near where her son is speaking with Eunbi and Soojin, and misses his husband’s approach completely until Taehyun is already lowering himself onto the seat next to him.

Yeonjun glances at him, and up close, Taehyun looks even more unsettled than he did from afar. He looks away once more, at Soojin’s fingers plucking idly at the same string over and over again.

“You received news from the Court,” he says flatly, without the slightest intonation of inquisition. He knows this for a fact, knowing his husband’s mannerisms by now.

Taehyun nods. “The messenger came back with a response from the dowager.”

They are keeping their voices low, to let them blend in with the hum of conversations that seem to start up all around the room as if to mask the sound of their own voices.

“What did she say, then?”

Taehyun attempted to visit her before they left, but she would not accept him. Nor would she speak to Iseul when he tried to get word to the dowager through her. In the end, he arranged for a messenger to bring a letter to her once they left, hoping that it might blend in with the rest of her correspondence if her guard was let down by his departure. It seemed to work, for what it was worth. His letter did what Taehyun never got to do with his own words – make all the offers of care and protection to her that a son was bound to give, that she was bound to expect – and accept, as his widowed mother. Anything she wanted – from the estate they were currently at, to a place in his household in the provinces. Her own entourage, all the staff she wished to keep from the Emperor’s quarters, he would pay for. He would take care of any of her relatives from the Lee family she wished to be provided for, at the court, at the palace, wherever. Appointments, favorable marriages, funding. Appealing to her sense of decorum, to tradition, to politeness. It is Taehyun’s duty to take care of her. The last thing he owes to his father – to care for his widow.

But she already refused every single offer of a man who has much more to give than Taehyun does. And she refused him.

Before his husband can answer, Yeonjun’s view is obstructed by a lithe body, coming to rest before the two of them with a carafe of water in one hand and two stacked cups in the other. Beomgyu makes coy eye contact with him and cocks his head.

Seemingly understanding that Yeonjun means for Beomgyu to hear of their situation, Taehyun does not hesitate to answer. “She refused, of course. She did not send a letter in return, nothing by way of explanation. She simply…” he trails off, his eyes meeting Beomgyu’s as Beomgyu hands him a cup which he holds to his chest instead of drinking from it. “Told a messenger to tell me no.”

Beomgyu’s lips press together in something resembling amusement – perhaps if it were Beomgyu doing it and not the dowager, Yeonjun would assume that the curt answer is only meant to highlight the fact that alphas are so rarely told no. In any situation. Saying no to an alpha is almost unfathomable for a polite omega. And yet, that is exactly what the dowager did, indirectly as she did so.

And perhaps it does not matter that it is not Beomgyu. Perhaps that is exactly what it means – if not aimed at alphas, then surely at the Kang. She thinks they need to be told no. To be refused. To be told that something cannot be bought with their wealth, that someone defies their sprawling influence.

Yeonjun cannot get his eyes off of Beomgyu now. An omega wed to a powerful alpha, who spent an unhappy, childless marriage at his side, now with a mere shred of power that she nonetheless wields viciously, vengefully against her late husband’s family.

Who else would understand? Beomgyu asked him what feels like a lifetime ago, offering a widow’s friendship to an unhappy wife. Who else would understand the mind of an angry, resentful widow?

What does she want? There is a light behind Beomgyu’s eyes as he hands Yeonjun a full cup as well, resting the carafe in his lap. Yeonjun takes a slow, measured drink of the water.

“She does not want money, nor comfort,” he says once he has swallowed his mouthful.

They are both looking to Beomgyu now. He seems so powerful in this moment, with both their hopes aimed squarely at him.

“That seems to be the case,” the prince replies mildly. “But surely she must want something more than she wants to see me and my uncle scrambling to keep her on our side this way. Or to see our power undermined – whatever the Lees and the Moon are truly planning.”

“Something nobody but you can give her,” Beomgyu whispers, barely moving his lips. Yeonjun meant for him to listen in, not to join the conversation – but with him having his back to most of the room and with Miyeon having moved away from them to speak to Dayeon, perhaps this is the better option.

The prince nods slightly without responding out loud. It makes sense, but what does he have that the Moons and the Lees do not?

“She wants to break her own cage open.”

Yeonjun bites his lips. “She does not want to rely on the Kangs anymore.”

Taehyun shakes his head. “But I cannot simply leave her in the hands of her family or the Moons – not after making a promise to Uncle, not if I want to ensure my family is safe from their machinations. Not unless I want the entire court to look down on me for leaving my mother to be cared for by someone else.”

Not if he wants to become indispensable, and live. Taehyun does not say those words – they would make little sense to him, anyway. But Yeonjun hears them, and believes Beomgyu does as well.

“You should stop making promises you cannot deliver on, little prince,” Beomgyu quips before reaching for Taehyun’s cup as if to refill it even though the prince has not taken a single sip. He downs it obediently before handing it to Beomgyu. Beomgyu’s tone was not unkind, yet chiding nonetheless. Too gentle for Yeonjun’s liking.

They watch Beomgyu refill the cup silently – Taehyun only speaks up when he holds a full one again.

“If I limit myself by what can be done, I will never accomplish anything.”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows lift in genuine surprise, as do Yeonjun’s – this is not a sentiment he has ever heard the prince adopt, but he speaks it as firmly as if it were something he always believed. “If you do the impossible for her, prince, she will surely accept your offer then,” he responds with a measure of amusement, if not a bit of approval in his voice.

Yeonjun studies Beomgyu’s expression. He looks for all intents and purposes as if all resentments were put away for the moment, as if the only thing he focused on was the puzzle before him – the logical conundrum of winning back the approval of an unloving mother. A childless omega with nothing to her name. Adrift as she is, as Yeonjun would be, amid the push and pull of the constant conflict between the Kang and the great families. Helpless. Always helpless, at the mercy of others.

“If there were a way to give her agency…”

The prince’s jaw works as he thinks. “I offered her this entire estate – she could be her own master here had she wanted to; I would not have bothered her here in the slightest.”

“But you would be entitled to – have every right to control her nonetheless; you could take her comfort away anytime you chose to. It would still be your house, no matter who ran it day-to-day. Just like your wife running your palace does not mean it is not your palace he manages.” Beomgyu shakes his head. “You are asking her to put faith in you that you have clearly not earned.”

Taehyun looks at Yeonjun as if to confirm, and Yeonjun finds that he has little by way of argument. Their palace is the prince’s, and Yeonjun has always seen it, understood it to be the prince’s. It is his responsibility, but taking care of it is a duty he does for his husband – Yeonjun cares for his property, maintains his relationship with his subjects. He does it all with the power bestowed in him by his husband, in his husband’s stead. He does not do any of it in his own agency. With his own power. He has no property of his own to speak of – no money, no holdings, no title he did not gain by marriage other than a claim to nobility that rang with no luster at the Imperial Court. Surely a daughter of the Lee has something, but what is a small amount of leverage, what is an imperial lady’s dowry against the kind of property an alpha can amass? Land and holdings, estates and palaces, titles upon titles.

He nods slightly. “She would still be at your mercy – even if you kept your word, what guarantee would she have?”

With a little scoff, the prince drinks more water with an expression that clearly shows he wishes it were wine instead. “Everyone always needs a guarantee on my part.”

Beomgyu stares at him intently with a smile playing on his mouth. “A good alpha backs their words up with action.”

And the prince meets his eyes, just as direct and intent, until his own widen, his pupils flitting back and forth as he seems to think almost frantically before setting his cup down carelessly in front of himself, folding his newly freed hands on his lap, on a book Yeonjun did not notice resting there before. “You say the issue is that I would be the owner of this estate.”

He speaks to Beomgyu directly, who shrugs his shoulder. “Without her speaking to either of you, all we can do is speculate – and if she despises your family, then having to rely on your benevolence…”

Taehyun shakes his head vigorously. “Then what if she did not have to. What if she owned it herself.”

Beomgyu blinks slowly at the prince, and he seems intrigued if a little confounded. Yeonjun, for his part, frowns deeply. Omegas only ever hold property in a symbolic way. They hold dowry in that it comes with them into the bond of marriage, they can own sums of money in that they can physically have coin on them to spend, but in the eyes of law, they cannot own anything. It is never quite theirs. They cannot be given land, they cannot inherit. Even if Taehyun wanted to gift this estate to his stepmother…

“There is no law that would allow it.”

But instead of being stifled in his reverie, his husband nods. “Not yet.”

Yeonjun exchanges looks with Beomgyu – he is unsure how to feel, and Beomgyu seems to share his sentiment. Surely, this is taking the part of most resistance to reach a goal that should be simple to achieve. “Your uncle would never sign off on a law that would allow omegas to hold property, Taehyun. That is insane.”

“Then I have to make sure he will,” his husband responds simply, carelessly. Oddly confident, as his chin is held high again. “I have to do the impossible, do I not? I will give the dowager what she wants – a measure of freedom.”

“By convincing your uncle and the entire council that omegas should be allowed to hold property?” He cannot keep the disbelief out of his voice. It is preposterous. Nobody on the council will ever allow this.

Taehyun clutches tightly at the edges of the book in his lap. “If my allies stick by my side, then the task is half done already.”

“They will abandon you the moment you bring this up to them – they will not follow a madman.”

To his surprise, the look his husband aims his way is steely somewhere under the layer of golden determination coating his every word and motion now. “I will convince you as well if I have to, wife. You may be the first judge I measure the worth of my proposal against if you want to.”

“Taehyun, this argument will be impossible to make – and you would be staking your life on it. We are already treading on thin ice with your uncle.” And they need each other. They still need each other.

But the prince just nods. “This is exactly the scrutiny I am going to need – that will do. But you will have to excuse me before the lady Sangjun – I will need a writing desk.”

He makes to stand and Yeonjun watches him uncomprehendingly, looking to Beomgyu again to share his outrage with his lover, just to see excitement painted all over the other omega’s face. Beomgyu seems delighted. Excited. As if Taehyun was not determined to waste his time writing his own death warrant while they could be coming up with genuine solutions. His eyes are bright, with hope or with admiration Taehyun does not deserve. He is being a fool – but that always seemed to energize Beomgyu somehow. He has always seemed to enjoy the sight of it – Taehyun acting preposterously, foolishly, in his attempts to be chivalrous.

“Ah, before I leave.” Taehyun pauses halfway to standing, and the attention to most of the room turns to him, which he seems to note with an awkward wince. He lifts the book he came in with, and extends it to Yeonjun. So familiarly, a folded piece of paper sticks out from between the pages of it. The prince lowers his voice, making sure Yeonjun and Beomgyu may be the only one to hear his words. “This book may be of particular interest to Omega Beomgyu.”

They both blink at him uncomprehendingly, as he bows to them, then the room at large.

“I am afraid I have pressing matters to attend to – I may join you another day, my ladies.”

Yeonjun stares at the book while the ladies and Omega Hayeong bid the prince goodbye. Once again, there is a book and a hidden message exchanged between his husband and Beomgyu that he is not made privy to, simply expected to comply with, to be complicit in the two of them communicating behind his back. His jaw sets.

Once the door closes behind Taehyun, Beomgyu shuffles over onto the seat next to him.

“You may open it,” he says quietly, taking the cup of water Yeonjun is still holding and setting it aside along with the carafe. “I have as little idea of what it may be as you do.”

Yeonjun has never confronted Beomgyu about the letter – nor has he given back the poem Taehyun asked him to return. He needs to, now – the curiosity is crushing, but this is not the time. Instead, he opens the book and unfolds the paper inside, skimming over the single line of Taehyun’s messy handwriting. He frowns.

“It says, I can provide flowers as well.”

Beomgyu looks at him with genuine confusion, and Yeonjun hands him the piece of paper to confirm, just for Beomgyu to shake his head. “I have no idea what he could mean beyond bringing flowers with him next morning – but I did not ask for any flowers. None are needed for the ritual.”

With his brow still furrowed, Yeonjun lets his eyes drop to the pages of the book. It seems to be a memoir of a traveler, from the way it is written. Describing… a funeral the author was allowed to attend, carried out by a folk only described as ‘the people of the island’ on the pages the book is open on. It speaks about wreaths of flowers being tossed into the waves to be carried away by the tide, about mourners rubbing salt into their skin.

“I think he truly meant for you to read the book,” he says once he is done skimming the pages, and offers it to Beomgyu who immediately brings it close to his chest to study it. The more he reads, the more the innocent curiosity on his face wanes into something more serious. An odd expression takes over his face. He reaches the end of the second page, and glances at Yeonjun as he flips it.

“I told him this morning I could not remember clearly the customs of my people. That I only remember the smell of burning oil and smoke rolling over the waves,” he says quietly, and he oddness morphs into something stricken. “But maybe there is more. I think I learned how to make wreaths out of white-petaled flowers, when I was very young. But I do not remember who we were mourning.”

A heaviness settles in Yeonjun’s chest, and he looks up at the door of the music room as if the prince were standing there, waiting to see their reaction. He found a book about the island Beomgyu hailed from, to remind him of the culture of his ancestors that got lost in the hazy memory of a child. Beomgyu spoke so little of his life before the Golden City – remembered little of it. But this book, if it speaks about the island he was born on… it could be the closest connection he has had to the place that gave birth to him in a long time.

“We can bring flowers; oil lamps, whatever you need.”

But Beomgyu shakes his head. “There is no sea here to carry my sorrow away – where his soul could be given over to the waves. I will be content to carry it with me instead, in the custom of his ancestors. It seems selfish of me to mourn him in my custom, instead of his.”

It seems to make sense. But then, perhaps Yeonjun needs to read the book as well. “Would you like to be laid to rest that way?”

Beomgyu slowly closes and opens his eyes. “Do not be so eager to bury me, Yeonjun – or this mad husband of yours. If we have any say, there is time.” He lifts the book again, to continue reading the entry, but then his eyes flicker away from the words, anyway. “But perhaps. If ever you had chance to see the sea.”

Yeonjun never has – only a lake so vast it felt like one. But he has the feeling that the sight of one might be the only thing to settle his soul, were he to lose Beomgyu one day. The only thing as wonderful, as terrifying, as beautiful and as unfathomable as Beomgyu is.

 

.

 

The day passes so peacefully that Yeonjun almost finds himself disturbed by it – after the constant anticipation and worry of his time at the Court, the incessant emotional turmoil that has plagued him along the journey to the estate and at the beginning of his stay at it, the stretch of calm from the moment the prince rushes out of the music room to him dismissing his ladies at the end of the day almost causes him more concern rather than being a time of relaxation – but despite the tension he feels, their peace is never actually broken. Lady Sangjun and his son join them for a pleasant lunch, then they spend most of their afternoon in the library, until Yeonjun is invited to tea with Lord Hansu, who seems both disturbed by the prince’s elusive nature in his own home and eager to ensure Yeonjun that he is completely and devotedly at the service of both him and his husband – the only real ripple on the stillness of their time is the brief mention that Taehyun refused to join them for the tea. But then again, Yeonjun is used to Taehyun spending most of his time working in his study instead of indulging courtesy invitations and making small talk – that has always been Yeonjun’s job: being the public, affable face of the prince and his household.

They take their dinner in private again, and a few of the ladies discuss taking another evening walk through the gardens, which Yeonjun begs off of joining them for. He tells them he is tired again, and if they do not believe him, then none of them let it show – except for Beomgyu, perhaps, who seems to understand his polite refusal as the invitation to join him in his bed room that it is. Instead they insist that he gets as much rest as possible, perfectly polite, and assist him with undressing a bit more than he would usually require of them. He almost feels a little guilty as he bids them good night in his waiting room.

From there, he goes directly back to his dressing room, to retrieve a familiar folded piece of paper. His entire being seems to shiver with the urge to unfold it, to read it, to understand, but he refrains. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and steps into his bed room, to sit at the foot of the bed until Beomgyu arrives.

Beomgyu, for his part, takes a bit longer than Yeonjun would expect him to, and steps through the servant’s door with a frown on his face and his hair and face bare and uncovered. He avoids Yeonjun’s gaze as he enters, and heads for a cabinet set against one of the walls instead of the bed, setting his veil and shroud on top of it before leaning on it with a sigh, finally setting his eyes on Yeonjun.

“What happened?” Yeonjun asks before Beomgyu even begins to explain himself. Beomgyu shakes his head.

“I spoke to Dayeon just now – she said that the lady Sangjun has been asking the ladies about me. About my status, and my relationship with your husband.” Beomgyu crosses his arms, mouth twitching in either direction. “He seemed confused by everyone referring to me as Omega Beomgyu.”

“What conclusion did he come to?” His own voice sounds terribly cold to his own ears, flat with the conviction that he is about to hear the worst.

But instead of an expression of disdain, of anger, Beomgyu’s eyebrows rise in what seems to be surprise, or confusion. “Apparently he believes I am his ward, and I have been entrusted into your care until I marry.”

Yeonjun blinks slowly. “Oh. How… innocent.”

“Indeed,” Beomgyu concurs, reaching behind himself for his veil to run the flimsy fabric through his fingers. “The ladies were taken aback by his interpretation of our situation – that is why nobody quite found the words to tell him the truth.” He pinches his lips together, and Yeonjun slowly comes to understand the frown he entered with. “But if he asks directly, nobody is going to lie to him.”

Yeonjun clenches his fingers in his sheets, then relaxes them again. “Do you believe they should?”

Beomgyu’s shoulders ripple with what is not quite a shrug. “Would I prefer to walk these walls with my head held high and nobody being ostentatiously disgusted by my presence? Perhaps.” He wraps the fabric of the veil around his hand, and clenches it into a fist. “But we should not run from the truth.” His chest heaves with a deep breath. “Unless you are unwilling to demand that I be treated the same regardless of it.”

The words send a chill down Yeonjun’s spine – that Beomgyu would not trust him to shield him in this way; that he has good cause to doubt him. But they have the support of the prince – for all his faults, if Yeonjun steps up for Beomgyu, he knows, he trusts his husband to back his decision with his own voice, without fault. He walked through the imperial palace with Beomgyu at his heels – he will put Lord Hansu and his wife in their place if he has to.

“You are my lady-in-waiting first, Beomgyu, and my husband’s concubine second.”

Something in Beomgyu’s posture loosens – he was uncertain. He did not trust Yeonjun implicitly to shield him with the wing of his own influence. And perhaps he was right not to. Now, he tilts this head, coquettish and playful. “Is that all I am to you, Your Grace?”

Yeonjun is ready for it this time, barely missing a beat. “What you are at my court and what you mean to me are two different matters entirely.”

And Beomgyu smiles with what seems to Yeonjun to be pride written across his face, and abandons the veil on top of the cabinet again as he steps closer to the bed finally. “I would surely hope so.”

“Do you not feel like waiting on me is a responsibility worthy of your time, Omega Beomgyu?”

Beomgyu’s smile widens, Yeonjun’s tone light enough that they both understand their own words to be a game of wit rather than an exchange of true grievances. “I feel like merely calling me a lady-in-waiting disregards all the ways I tend to you, Your Grace.”

“Tend to me?” Yeonjun attempts to sound affronted, as Beomgyu comes so close to him that he has to raise his chin to meet his eyes.

“Tend to you,” Beomgyu repeats, then comes even closer to cup Yeonjun’s cheeks, stroking his thumbs down the sides of his nose. “Care for you. Please you.”

He says it softly, just as tongue-in-cheek as everything else, but it stings, just a little bit. “You make it sound so selfish on my part.”

It sounds to him like a wife speaking about their wifely duties. Tending to their husband, caring for them, pleasing them with their body. Their own pleasure, their own body just a means to an end. Affectionate words, touches, tenderness all just tools to reach an end – a happy, relaxed mate who smells of comfort and satisfaction. An appeased, agreeable husband. A docile alpha.

Yeonjun tries to remember what it felt like – kissing his husband, touching him, speaking to him gently, affectionate or teasing, warm or heated with want. Did it feel like a pretense? Like a necessity? Like something he did to protect himself, or out of a sense of obligation? Was it, like his husband said, just an expression of his loyalty?

Or was there real joy in it? Real warmth? Real attraction? Real affection?

“The only selfish thing about it is how selfishly I indulge in it.” Beomgyu kisses him with a smile on his lips. “How much I enjoy it.”

Needling his husband into kissing him. Seducing him into sharing a bed with him. Taking in every touch of his hand, his compliments, his admiring eyes. Wearing his scent confidently, taking pride in every bruise, in every shred of evidence of his affection.

Yeonjun wraps his arms around Beomgyu’s neck to keep him close, to goad him wordlessly into kissing him more. He closes his eyes and lets his mind float in the waves of sweetened citrus.

“Having your love all to myself,” Beomgyu says against his lips. “So terribly selfish of me.”

Yeonjun enjoyed being loved by his husband – and he surely loves being loved by Beomgyu.

Their faces remain close even as Beomgyu stops peppering his mouth with kisses and reaches up to run his fingers through Yeonjun’s hair, tugging a few strands loose from the braid he helped wind so carefully before. “All mine. For a few days more.”

The thought settles in Yeonjun’s stomach with an unpleasant heaviness. A few days of blissful peace, before he makes the ultimate sacrifice for his future. Before he gets what he always wanted, in a way he never wanted it to happen. He swallows.

“More than just a handful – I am not even in preheat yet.”

Beomgyu’s eyes narrow slightly as he takes in a deep breath. “You smell sweeter to me already – surely it will arrive soon.”

Yeonjun blinks hard as heat overtakes his cheeks. “Surely there are… other reasons for it.” His voice wavers like a maiden’s, like a young boy’s. There is no stickiness between his thighs yet, but he is not unaffected by Beomgyu’s lips and the touch of his hands, surely.

Beomgyu scoffs a little, the huff of breath fanning over Yeonjun’s own lips before he knocks their noses together gently. “Do you think I cannot tell the difference, Yeonjun? That I do not know they do not smell the same? I am not an alpha, Yeonjun, I will not be fooled this way.”

And Yeonjun would say something biting, if the thought of his heat approaching did not fill him with concern. Instead he feels his expression constrict, and Beomgyu’s soften in response, dropping a gentler, softer kiss on his lips as if to calm him again.

“It is just a faint note, still,” he assures Yeonjun, whispering, brushing his mouth back and forth across Yeonjun’s. “A few more days.” This time, the words are a reassurance instead of a painful reminder.

Beomgyu lets him have a few more kisses before moving away so he could join Yeonjun on the bed instead of hovering awkwardly by the edge of it. They rearrange themselves, and in the process of it, a rustle reminds Yeonjun what he meant to do before Beomgyu came in with a topic for them to discuss. When Beomgyu moves closer again to kiss him some more, Yeonjun stops him, and they come to sit together in the center of the bed, with a polite sliver of space between them.

“What is it? Are you afraid?”

And Yeonjun is, but this kernel of curiosity has been growing within him for over a month now, so instead of admitting it, he hands Beomgyu the folded piece of paper.

“The prince gave me this to give to you – he was unsure if he would find a way to give it to you himself without seeming suspicious.” But he managed, did he not? He did perfectly well with the book – Beomgyu spent the entire afternoon reading it without anyone batting an eye.

Beomgyu huffs in dry amusement and takes it. “What, do we exchange notes now like secret lovers?” He unfolds the paper carelessly, just for his jovial demeanor to grow serious as he takes in the writing on the page. His eyes come up to Yeonjun’s face, silently questioning. “He gave you this.”

He is being doubted again – both the letter and the poem went through Yeonjun’s hands. He could have withheld either of them, had he wanted to. But he did not, out of love and out of trust, one of which he was not given when Beomgyu made him an unwitting messenger.

“Yes. He gave it to me to return to you – he said he was unsure if it was meant for him in the first place.”

To his surprise, Beomgyu rolls his eyes and tosses the paper into the sheets before shifting to sit more comfortably, lounging where he sat up properly before. “Fool.”

It was for him, then. A poem about Beomgyu’s husband, meant for Taehyun to see – to reflect on. A musing on a cruel, careless husband, a despicable alpha, for Taehyun to read while sitting by his father’s coffin. Perhaps Beomgyu could not have known that would be the backdrop to his poetry, but it still seemed a bit too macabre.

“Would you have preferred he never told me about it?” It is too taunting – too pointed. Yeonjun can tell Beomgyu can tell that he is hurt.

Beomgyu drops his eyes to the stretch of blanket between them. “I suppose I was hoping I would not be made to explain myself.”

“Not wanting to speak your mind seems unlike you,” Yeonjun points out, and a smile crosses Beomgyu’s mouth.

“I suppose,” he admits, glancing up at Yeonjun with surprising softness before growing more serious again. “Do you know about the letter as well?” Yeonjun nods his head. “Do you know the contents of it?”

“I never opened it when I found it – I assumed you did not want me to know the contents of it, if you were not even willing to tell me it existed. And the prince said he would not disclose it unless you agreed to do so yourself.”

Beomgyu huffs through his nose, reaching over to pick at the fabric of the blanket. “I suppose you were both kinder to me in this situation than was warranted. Thank you, Yeonjun.”

He shakes his head. “What could you possibly have to say to him that you would not be willing to tell me?”

It is strange to him to watch Beomgyu hesitate – to see genuine apprehension on his face, shyness, embarrassment – whichever it is. He drags his bottom lip through his teeth and pulls at the blanket on top of Yeonjun’s bed and he seems strangely youthful, lacking the exuberant touch he tends to have when acting boyish.

“I wrote him words of comfort, Yeonjun,” he says eventually, and his voice is clear despite his obvious reluctance. “I knew you might not approve of me doing so, but I wished to nonetheless.”

Words of comfort – the same way Taehyun described them; Beomgyu’s message, whatever it was, was heard loud and clear.

“I… after we got the news of the Emperor’s passing, this strange mood seemed to take me. I could not keep old memories from overtaking my mind. I could not stop thinking about my time in the City. About the death of my father-in-law. About Jaehwan’s. The way I felt, the way…” He shakes his head vehemently. “The kind words Kai tried to ease my pain with. And there was pain. There may not have been grief the way a widow is expected to feel it, but there was pain. There was anger. At them, at the knowledge that I would never make it right – that there was nobody left to take revenge on anymore.” He looks at Yeonjun, and his eyes are bright with anguish, and Yeonjun regrets bringing the letter up at all. “I could never make them feel the rage I felt, to ease my own suffering by causing theirs. But it would remain with me – it would always be inside me, and I would be the only one to be burned by it, day after day, unless I took it out on someone innocent in the injustices that were done to me. The very thought of it was tearing me apart.” He scoots closer to Yeonjun then, and brings their hands together. “Your husband and I are not the same – we hardly could be, with our station, with our sexes, but in those days I felt a kinship with him I could not bring myself to ignore. The most painful thing about someone doing wrong by you or your loved ones is not always the act itself – but what it makes of you. I became bitter and resentful. I became vengeful, angry – and your husband was made into someone who would be willing to hurt you out of fear of hurting you. Do you understand?”

Yeonjun takes a long, deep breath. It feels overwhelming, the weight of Beomgyu’s honesty. Maybe he understands his reluctance to share it, even though he still wishes he were trusted to understand enough that Beomgyu would feel no hesitation at all – but perhaps trust is earned, not given; and Yeonjun has to make an effort to understand now, so he can be trusted some other day, with some other confession that will sound like it hurts Beomgyu’s throat coming up like bile.

“You think he may have been feeling the same anger you did.” He did, did he not? When he disrespected his father by drinking heavily as soon as his vigil was over. Aimless resentment – but there was also his hand brushing the lid of his coffin before he declared him dead before the court, the sincere carrying out of the funeral rites. He may have had ulterior motives, but he still spent all of a month keeping vigil with his father’s spirit. Eating offerings to the dead, breathing air stained with herbs and death, sleeping in a room with a dead body. He was a good son to a man whose actions he despised openly – he defended his decisions as a statesman in the same breath as he spoke disdainfully of his treatment of his mother. Anger was not all of it – perhaps not even the half of it.

“There’s such a helplessness to losing someone sooner then you were ready for it to happen. Maybe he was angry, or desperate, perhaps he was even filled with grief – but whatever he felt, he felt it alone.” Beomgyu reaches up, and wraps the end of Yeonjun’s braid around his fingers. “I took his wife, his source of comfort – and however self-inflicted that wound might be, it is a wound nonetheless.” They watch together as Yeonjun’s hair slowly slips out of his grasp, as if transfixed, as if it were important for them to see it happen. “And I do not believe pain makes us more noble – it changes us, for better and for worse – and without kindness, no man can change for the better – alpha or omega. You could not be asked to give it to him yourself, nobody including him could ask that of you. But I could offer mine, as little of it as I could convey in writing. Just something to bolster his soul, in this time of change.”

Kindness. Understanding, and love. Another lifetime ago, he and Beomgyu faced each other just like this, on the floor of a dressing room, with a wholly different confession spilling from between Beomgyu’s lips, and Yeonjun, in that moment, believed that love was necessary. That no life should exist without love. That everyone should be extended kindness – that everyone deserved to be understood, no matter what they may have been driven to by desperation.

But he, too, grew resentful – with the vision of all the love he could have been given and never was, with the understanding of all the pain that was caused along the way, he let his heart harden against it all. He stopped believing what he, at that time, thought to be fundamental. Even with all of Beomgyu’s kindness, all his love and affection, he let his pain change him. Maybe it was inevitable. It surely was involuntary. He did not choose resentment – it was what he felt. Was it not? He did not decide to be cold.

Did he?

“What did you say?”

Beomgyu shrugs and shifts, lifting his knees to wrap his own arms around them. “I did not say much – I could hardly think of any words to say. I believe for all I agonized over it, all I said in the end amounted to, I do not know who your father was, but I know that you can do better than he did. You are not him – you do not have to become him. Be strong.”

Yeonjun sits with those words, and more than anything, he wonders if he disagrees with any of it. Taehyun may not be a good husband, but he never hurt him. He strove not to disrespect him in his own eyes, even though their idea of disrespect was not always the same. He was many things, but he was not his father – and even if he came close, he was still a young man; capable of change. And he did not have to follow in his father’s footsteps – he made it clear to much everyone that he did not intend to, in most ways that mattered. And even Yeonjun, with his hurt cradled to his chest, understood that his husband needed to be strong now more than ever. They needed him not to crumble – for his own sake, at a time as fragile as this, he needed to steel himself.

And perhaps that is exactly what he has been doing. Being dismissive of his loss. Holding his head high. Standing his ground. Making concessions that should pain him almost too flippantly. Trying to be strong.

“What about the poem?”

It lays there, discarded in the sheets. Beomgyu said he wrote it for himself, and those like him – but he and Taehyun were not the same. At the end of the day, they did not experience the same suffering. Left to stew in their own unaired grievances as they might have been, their pain was nonetheless not nearly the same. So what solace could Beomgyu's poem have brought, to a man so wholly unfamiliar with a situation like Beomgyu's? Like any omega’s?

Beomgyu looks over at it and picks it up, his eyes brushing over the lines with the dismissiveness of someone who knows every word by heart already. Yeonjun almost expects him to read it out loud, but instead he says, “I thought he could stand to learn from my experience. I told you how Jaehwan was after his father passed – the way the burden of his father's judgment being off his back only made him bolder. If he is to decide who he wants to be, then he should understand the kind of man someone like him may become. He can decide if he wants you to one day write poems just like mine – or if he wants your story to be different.”

Yeonjun breathes carefully. With all the kindness Beomgyu has offered Taehyun, what has he done? Refused Yeonjun again – refused responsibility for razing the Golden City. Spoke so dismissively about the death of a man Yeonjun has in all his love for Beomgyu come to regard as a precious being despite never having met him. But he offered Yeonjun his trust. He was honest with him. He reaffirmed his conviction to keep Yeonjun safe, no matter the cost. He offered to help Beomgyu process his grief. He exposed his heart, knowing that Yeonjun has already rejected it.

He shakes his head. Beomgyu drops his poem into his lap with a small sigh.

“You might not understand this, Yeonjun. I know that in your eyes he had done to me the worst thing he possibly could – and despite it all, I do believe he has wronged you, and no promises from a man who gives them so easily may restore your faith in him. He failed you, and you have handled your pain so gracefully – I wish we could have all been like you.”

Has he? Has he been graceful? Kind? Perfect in his suffering? Was it graceful to throw himself at his husband over and over again to prove to himself that he is beautiful, that he is wanted, regardless of how Taehyun felt? Was it graceful to lie to him about being unfaithful with their lord steward when he already showed grace to him and Beomgyu, just to see him in pain, just to see him have to swallow one more bitter pill. Was he graceful when he raged and spat venom at both Beomgyu and Taehyun when they decided to spend time together during Beomgyu's heat? Was he virtuous, all but spitting on his husband when he said he might not mind dying to his uncle's machinations if he could pass knowing Yeonjun and Beomgyu were safe with one another? Is this the measure of perfection? Does it make him saintly?

“You showed me kindness you did not have to offer me. And I chose to use the peace of mind you have given me to pay it forward, to a man who has in some way given you the opportunity to treat me kindly in the first place – knowing it might benefit you as well in the long run. It might benefit everyone, to have one less resentful soul sitting at the table of the great and powerful.” Beomgyu leans forward, and covers Yeonjun's wrist with his fingers. “Maybe he, too, will choose to be kind where he could be cruel – and he will break the stone this Empire has set its laws in rather than stepping on another omega's neck to put them in line like he knows he could – like we all do.” He squeezes his fingers. “Before I have met you, Yeonjun, I would have said that he should – but now I want to believe that he does not have to. I want to see a world where a son breaks his back to save the dignity of a mother who does not love him.” Slowly, Beomgyu lets him go again and pulls away when Yeonjun offers him no reaction. “If your husband's plan is not viable, we will be the first to tell him so. But if there is a chance, then the dowager need not be the only one to benefit from it – everyone could. You included, and every child of yours born an omega. What if they could hold property one day? What if they could hold land? Without any foreign rulers and emissaries looking down on them, regarding them with disdain, the way the always did to me? Those who cling to tradition with an iron grip view progress as a building wave that need be calmed before it rises and sweeps them away – but maybe that is what it is. What it ought to be. What it needs to be. And if your husband's solution is a ripple in an ocean, if it is a half-measure then perhaps it is only natural that a hundred more will follow in its wake, whether he intends for them to or not. He did not want me treated as a concubine, and now I am treated like a lady. I was served at a table with imperial nobles, like an equal, like a guest. Each choice begets another – and even that which seems preposterous at first might feel inevitable at the end of it. And if this is only the first swelling of a wave…”

Beomgyu bites his lip hard, his voice trailing off. Yeonjun, who was so taken by his enthusiasm, by the wonder in his voice, feels oddly desperate to keep hearing it. It was like a spell being cast – like a vision uttered in a moment of ecstasy, as unbelievable as it was magical. A future of a greater freedom – of an existence so unlike their own. Offered to them by…

“I apologize. I got carried away. But I hope that you understand my choice now.”

Beomgyu worries at the fabric of his robes, rubbing it between his fingers. Strangely, he seems truly anxious to hear what Yeonjun has to say.

“Why would you not tell me this before I left? I could have heard you out then, just as well as now.”

Beomgyu's fingers pluck at his skirt. His shoulder raises in an unsure gesture boyishly. “I suppose I was reluctant. It felt so childish of me to think this way – but it felt imperative that I follow this urge regardless of how foolish I felt, trying to put words to my own reasoning that I could use to make you understand. I know myself to be more cynical than this. More… realistic than this. I thought all of my ideals died long ago – that I learned to accept things as they are, less than ideal as they may be. I thought all rebellion had to be done in secret – behind closed doors or locked within one's chest.” He shakes his head. “But something about the way you and your husband are. Everything that you have done that has seemed to me to be impossible, to be foolish and preposterous, to be disgraceful and disgusting – it has driven me to reconsider. To wonder again – to see the lines that felt firmly set my whole life as boundaries we could learn to see beyond. Perhaps an alpha giving power to his wife is not showing weakness. Perhaps progeny and violence are not the only matters that can bring an alpha and an omega together. Perhaps there may be more, if we allow there to be. Perhaps the only thing an alpha in pain may do is not lash out – perhaps they really get a choice. Perhaps we may do more than hurt one another continuously until one of us finally dies.” Beomgyu's eyes fill with tears again, and Yeonjun is tired of seeing him cry, of seeing him in pain. “You and your husband may not reconcile – perhaps you should not, only you may know, but I think I believe now that a wife and a husband may find peace that is more than a wife giving up all they have for a chance at happiness.”

Happiness. Contentment. Yeonjun used to believe in it, in the idea of it, and thanks to Beomgyu, he came to believe he may achieve it, if not the way he always thought, in the arms of his husband at an obscure time in the future, then outside his marriage, in Beomgyu's own embrace. And now Beomgyu, who thought him so foolish for being a good, faithful wife this entire time speaks to him of reconciliation? Of happiness found between husband and wife?

“It is with this thought that I kept the letter from you,” Beomgyu says, his voice still shaking even as he clearly attempts to speak firmly. “Knowing you would make this expression and I would not know what to tell you to get it off of your face again. I was taken with a fool's disease in all the peace I have felt in your care, getting to experience your affection and the concessions your husband has made for me. He told me once he was willing to make a fool of himself for my sake, so I made a fool of myself for his in return. That is all. I… none of this need matter anymore, Yeonjun. He has read the letter, and the poem, and now you know why I meant to tell him what I did. Everything that could have happened already has.”

Slowly, Yeonjun nods, and Beomgyu breathes out as if out of great relief, his breath still shaking as he does.

“You are to kind to him, Beomgyu.” He says while shutting his eyes, the same sentiment that keeps plaguing him these days. Beomgyu is too forgiving. Too lenient. Too kind.

“And you were too kind to me, even as I barely considered you in my crusade to free your mind of its confines.”

He bites his lip hard as he opens his eyes again. “I do not resent you for it – perhaps the harshness was warranted by how unwilling I was to hear you.”

But Beomgyu shakes his head. “I could have just as well been gentle with you – but I was so agitated, by the circumstances, by the familiarity of the frustration I saw in your face. I was eager to figure you out. I was eager to take my measure of freedom and take it as far as I could.”

“You were well-intentioned.”

“So was he – and yet we were both carelessly cruel to you. I told you, Yeonjun – sometimes I feel more akin to him than I would like to. I understand why I was so much easier to forgive than he was – my mistakes measure in moons where his do in years. But I need you to separate your hurt from mine. I may be outraged on your behalf but I do not hold the same resentment of him for my own sake. Perhaps I could – perhaps he never should have done what any man in his position would, not two years ago if he would not be willing to do so now. But that is not how I feel, and I cannot bring myself to feel that way. Not for your sake, or for Kai's.”

And Yeonjun is so angry – someone needs to be. Someone should be. If Beomgyu believes they can live in a better world, why does he not hate Taehyun for not creating it, by sparing the Golden City all those years ago? Saving Kai’s life? Saving dozens of lives surely, hundreds if every life touched by pain like Beomgyu's was to be seen as lost. He could have prevented all of this. He could have. Yeonjun cannot find his way past it. His mind won't allow it.

“No measure of anger will bring him back. No petty revenge, no pleading with the time to start flowing in the other direction. If I could cry enough for my tears to bring him back to me then I already would have. If I could have raged enough to rip him from death's grip, he would be at my side at this very moment. If I could have hated everyone responsible enough to make them drop dead where they stood then I would have been dead years ago. I have spent two years with little to do but learn how to accept what happened to us. Do not bring me back into that prison, not when I have just found happiness outside of it. If I must resent someone, I may as well resent those who would do the same again without a second thought, instead of your husband who may know better by now. Who we can influence into doing better by everyone, if he is given a chance to. Who has allowed me to find a joy great enough to have me believe my heart may be settled one day. As much as I might want him to be my enemy, as comfortable as that would be for me, as happy as it might make you – I do not believe he is.”

Yeonjun cannot find any words to say – anything appropriate to feel, his anger and resentment aimless without Beomgyu's words to stoke it, to focus it in a specific direction. Beomgyu. Resentful, vengeful, rage-filled Beomgyu – letting his own anger go. Being kind. What is Yeonjun, then? Petty? Misguided? Wrong?

Beomgyu comes closer to him, and perhaps he understands something Yeonjun does not, because he pulls Yeonjun into an embrace, letting Yeonjun's head rest on his shoulder, breathing in the calming note of citrus. Something rotten hangs in the air, and it cannot be anything but Yeonjun's own frustration and misery.

“You can be angry with him if that is how you feel, but for yourself, not on my behalf.” Beomgyu strokes his cheek with his thumb, as if soothing a child. “Perhaps as someone who thought better of him – who had much greater expectations of him than I ever had. In my poor view of his kind, he excels, and in yours, he falls short.” Beomgyu's cheek rubs through the hair on the top of his head, pleasant and soothing. “But perhaps it says something about him that you would even consider the possibility of him acting any other way. That you would expect any better of him.”

“You said a good alpha backs their words up with action – if he claims to be better than other alphas, than other statesmen, then he should be.”

Beomgyu huffs, and his breath ruffles through Yeonjun’s hair in such a familiar way now. “That much is true.” He tucks hair that came loose from Yeonjun’s braid behind his ear, and Yeonjun swallows hard.

Had Taehyun ever claimed that? Perhaps not in so many words – but he talked disdainfully about other statesmen all the time. About other husbands. About the way they saw omegas. And Yeonjun always admired his husband – the way he navigated a world dominated by older men so skillfully from a young age. Too young to be advising anyone, he found his way to gain respect anyway – he took over half of the council, forged alliances, influenced the goings-on of the entire Empire. He took aimless greed and tried to guide it alongside the path that would mean the least amount of needless suffering and destruction. A path that would do less harm – but the modesty of the city did them more harm than good. It was the kindling to the fire that enraged the troops and had them attack the city so viciously. He failed – wherever he tried to do good, he failed.

And Yeonjun used to admire him for trying. For working so hard to shoulder the burden he was given, to live up to his father’s expectations. To do right by everyone, and keep those with questionable intentions in line. To further the legacy of his family. To be a good son. To be a good alpha.

He feels tired. He feels so terribly tired.

“I think I would like to sleep.”

Beomgyu nods against his hair, then leaves a kiss where his cheek rested before. “Of course. Do you want to come with me tomorrow? I am afraid you would have to wake early if we are to meet before the ladies get here to see you.”

“Of course I do.” Beomgyu said he wanted him there, but Yeonjun never promised he would be – he was too desperate to make Beomgyu feel the same anger he did, trying to find understanding. And he did, only not in the way he expected to. “I will be there. Before the break of dawn. I will speak to Haewon, make sure that she will wake me if I do not wake myself.”

“Thank you,” Beomgyu replies under his breath, and the words are tinged with a smile, and come with a kiss pressed into his hairline. Yeonjun rises from his shoulder again, to drop a small kiss on his lips.

“I will be honored to,” he says firmly, and Beomgyu’s slight smile widens just a bit. Yeonjun nudges the tips of their noses together affectionately. “But I wish we did not have an early morning ahead of us. I wish you could stay here a little longer.”

Beomgyu holds his face gently and kisses him again. “I could. I would like to. I can stay until you fall asleep.”

“I cannot ask you to stay up for me.”

Beomgyu shakes his head slightly, stroking down both sides of Yeonjun’s face. “I believe I will get more rest here with you in my arms than alone in my bed tonight, stewing in my own thoughts.”

Yeonjun chest feels warmer with the words – his worries a little less pressing, a little less serious. He reaches out to hold onto Beomgyu’s sides lightly. “Perhaps you can stay the whole night, if we leave the room before morning anyway. Nobody need know that you never made it back to your room tonight.”

“Someone may come looking for me.”

“You can say you were sleeping.”

“Someone may come looking for you.” But he is smiling. Yeonjun knows already that he will not be denied.

“Haewon will never let them in here. I can just go see them on my own while you leave through the servants’ door.”

Beomgyu pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “If we share a bed, we will smell of one another in the morning.”

Yeonjun feels the phantom of a familiar scent flicker through his senses, imaginary but stark in its familiarity. Spiced wine with citrus. It makes his lips tingle with the memory of it. “I doubt he will mind.”

He said the combined scents of them made him feel like they are safe. Rather than inspire jealousy, they were a source of comfort. The thought rests oddly on his tongue, just to be brushed away by Beomgyu’s when he leans close again to kiss him, longer and more thorough this time.

“I will speak to Haewon – so we do not give her a terrible scare in the morning.”

Yeonjun’s fingers tighten around his sides before loosening again. “Good idea.”

 

.

 

He wakes to the sight of sad brown eyes and the scent of sugared fruit laced with citrus. His preheat swims in the air and Beomgyu’s arm is a warm, comfortable weight across his side. In his grogginess, his own forehead furrows with a frown – those eyes should never be this sad. Whatever is making them so needs to stop, whatever is tinging that citrus with bitterness must cease at once. He burrows his face in Beomgyu’s shoulder, to stain him with his sugary scent and erase the bitter note in his.

It seems to work a little, the scent under his nose sweetening, as Beomgyu lets out a fond, amused huff.

“I told you your preheat was coming on.”

Yeonjun pouts against Beomgyu’s skin, then shakes his head. “You smell sad.”

Beomgyu huffs again, or perhaps laughs quietly, petting back Yeonjun’s hair loosened by him moving around in his sleep. “I am. And as sweet as you are for trying to scent it away, today it may be futile.”

Slowly, the reality sinks into his bones. They are together now, because they mean to lay Kai to rest properly today. Because Beomgyu did not want to be alone this morning. As comfortable as they are in their warmth, in their shared scents, that is their mission for the day. To honor a dead man’s memory.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Beomgyu smiles at him as Yeonjun unlatches himself from his scent gland, nudging the underside of his chin with a finger. “Barely awake, your only instinct is to calm me – you could not be sweeter if you tried.”

“I do not mean to—”

“I know,” Beomgyu says firmly, even as his voice stays quiet. He leans forward to leave a peck on Yeonjun’s chin, only barely brushing his lover lip. “I understand.”

He moves away to sit up, and Yeonjun misses the warmth of him immediately – still sluggish with the fog preheat always casts over his mind, he watches Beomgyu from his pillow as he undoes his braid and lifts both hands to run his fingers through his hair, shaking it loose. Warm, comfortable citrus spills into the air. Yeonjun is still so unused to waking by someone’s side. He hopes he never will get used to it – that it will always feel this wonderful.

Haewon peeks into the bed room to see if they are awake, and Beomgyu smiles at her and thanks her while she brings them toiletries and Yeonjun’s morning robe. Yeonjun takes almost too long to thank her himself, but he remembers to eventually. Haewon only acknowledges him with a nod before leaving them alone again. Yeonjun wonders how much she knows about what they intend to do today – if Beomgyu told her about any of it when explaining why he would be staying. Perhaps she can tell that the occasion is somber from the look in Beomgyu’s eyes, no matter how much he strives to keep his face smiling and placid.

Yeonjun cannot keep his eyes off of Beomgyu that morning. Washing his face, combing his hair, dressing, pinning his veil in place – through it all, Yeonjun’s gaze sticks to Beomgyu’s fingers, to the gloss of his hair, to the tip of his nose, to the curve of his lips. They do not say much the entire time – the process of getting ready is a quiet one, but not in a way that would truly bother him. It merely feels strange; he is trapped in his own sluggish mind, and Beomgyu in his own somber thoughts. He follows Beomgyu like a loyal dog as he steps out of the bed room and into the dressing room even though his presence is hardly needed, and watches from the door as Beomgyu stashes one of Yeonjun’s brushes in his sleeve and picks up a pot of white face paint to bring with him. Beomgyu does not bother asking to borrow either, and Yeonjun does not bother pointing it out – Beomgyu told him he would need paint and writing implements the day before – he only brings Beomgyu in for a kiss as he makes to pass by him back into the bed room. His lips twitch in a smile that does not last long.

Together, they slip through the servants’ door and make their way outside, Beomgyu’s steps sure if obviously careful to stay as quiet as possible as he leads him through the narrow corridors. They hold hands even though Yeonjun could hardly get lost with Beomgyu right ahead of him, the lightest locking of fingers just keeping them connected while the cramped space does not allow them to walk side by side – as soon as they step out into the garden, they let one another go again.

Even there, Yeonjun lets Beomgyu lead the way, trailing behind him just slightly, inadvertently taking up the position of an attending lady rather than an equal, much less Beomgyu’s superior. Beomgyu does not seem to mind – the further they get from the main building, the more Beomgyu’s face clears of any expression. He grows paler, and his eyes become distant. Slowly but surely, Yeonjun loses him to the turmoil of his mind.

As they round the pond, the shrine comes into view like a bright beacon of light in a garden otherwise drawn in sharp silhouettes as light only begins to grow in the sky in small increments. The shrine maiden sits with eyes sleepily half closed in the grass near it, tearing blades of grass to bits with slow, heavy motions. At first, the prince is nowhere to be found, but when they come closer, his frame peeks out from between the branches of the willow trees – he stands leaning on a tree trunk that arcs over the water, looking out into the stillness of it. One of his arms rests limply at his side, and from its fingers hangs a wreath of white-petaled flowers. Yeonjun’s chest seizes at the sight of it.

And perhaps Beomgyu’s does as well, because his steps quicken unexpectedly, and he rushes to the prince before Yeonjun’s tired mind is able to urge him to catch up. Taehyun looks at Beomgyu with a startle, and Yeonjun is left to watch their conversation from a distance.

“Did you make the poor girl make that for you?” Beomgyu’s words lack any sort of decorum – any politeness. He does not waste time saying a single syllable of a greeting, and his tone is shockingly sharp. Yeonjun sees from the corner of his eye the shrine maiden lift her head with the same look of confusion that takes over Taehyun’s face.

“Pardon?”

“This,” Beomgyu plucks the wreath from Taehyun’s loose grip to hold it up between them. “Did you wake the girl to make it for you? I do not assume you made it with your own hands.”

The prince blinks at Beomgyu for a moment, still startled, before shaking his head, looking over at the shrine maiden, his eyes catching on Yeonjun with a sharp intake of breath before he turns his attention to Beomgyu again. “No – she woke up of her own accord when I came, and I did not ask anything of her; she even insisted on lighting the shrine herself.” He reaches out, but drops his hand immediately when Beomgyu flinches back, even though it seemed clear to Yeonjun’s eyes he was about to take the wreath rather than attempt to touch Beomgyu himself. Instead, he only gestures at it with his chin. “And I did make this myself.”

Beomgyu’s eyes narrow suspiciously, but Yeonjun, for his own part, cannot find it in himself to be surprised. “Since when do alphas know how to weave wreaths out of flowers, Alpha Taehyun?”

Yeonjun looks over at the shrine maiden, half expecting to see her enraptured by the strange display in front of her, but instead he finds her picking herself up discreetly, taking quick quiet steps to hide in her alcove at the back of the shrine rather than witness a confrontation that has nothing to do with her. He feels a little bad for her – the only reason she got caught up in this was her diligence in carrying out her duties.

“Since they were taught how to do it, Omega Beomgyu,” the prince retorts with a firmness Yeonjun was not expecting – neither did Beomgyu, given the sudden jolt of his eyebrows. “Captain Soobin taught me, after his omega sibling taught him, when we were very young.” With a shake of his head, Taehyun looks off across the pond again. “As boys, we made these for my omega cousins to play with all the time – my uncle’s wife disapproved, but my cousins always enjoyed them.”

With those last words, Yeonjun realizes that he knows this – he has heard this story before, out of both his husband’s and Soobin’s mouths. It seemed to be a cherished memory for the both of them, perhaps for Taehyun especially since he was never very close to his cousins in the first place, even though he was close in age to a handful of them – a quirk of their family dynamic that always seemed so odd to Yeonjun, whose family was much more close-knit than his husband’s. But if their fathers were at odds and never wanted their children to grow close as to not undermine either of their positions and keep the two branches of the royal family strictly separated, then perhaps it all made sense.

“His wife disapproved of two alphas playing with flowers?” Beomgyu’s voice is tinged with a mocking tone. Yeonjun was perplexed as well when he first heard it from his husband’s mouth, but once he and Soobin spoke of it together, he came to regard it in a different way – after all, was it not sweet for two older alphas to do a sweet act of service for the younger children? Even if they debased themselves a bit in the process, doing things so unbecoming of a future military officer and an imperial prince, did it not just make their actions feel warmer? More selfless? With nothing to gain, it was clear that their only intention truly was to make a few children smile.

“His wife disapproved of their children playing with flowers when they could have been playing with gold,” Taehyun replies simply, returning his thoughtful gaze back to Beomgyu’s face. He glances up and down his veiled face, and shakes his head.

Beomgyu’s veil ripples with his huff. He extends the wreath towards Taehyun’s chest, who takes it slowly and carefully as if making sure he would not startle Beomgyu this time. “I did not tell you to bring flowers.”

The prince nods. “You did not – but I was restless, and asked to be brought some regardless. I thought there could be no harm to bringing flowers with me either way.” He looks down at the wreath, nudging at one of the white blossoms with his thumb. “And I arrived all too early – I made this simply to occupy myself. I did not mean it as a gesture or anything of the sort.”

He does not look up when he is finished speaking. Beomgyu stays silent for a long moment, then says, “Can I keep it?”

And despite his obvious confusion, the prince does not make a sound of protest as he looks up and hands it over. “Of course.”

Beomgyu takes it from his hands again, and lays it on the top of his head with exceeding care, settling it in his hair before tilting his head slightly, as if to test if it sits firmly and will not budge, but there is a hint of something in Beomgyu’s voice that tells Yeonjun that his obscured mouth is smiling. “For safekeeping. Now – have you brought everything I did ask you to bring?”

Taehyun nods briefly. “A small mirror, a knife and cooked rice. I left them inside the shrine.”

“Good.” Beomgyu’s voice has smoothed out again – he turns away from the prince and steps towards the shrine, only saying, “Come,” once it is obvious that Taehyun will not take the hint to follow him without prompting. He looks over to Yeonjun to give him a nod as well, and Yeonjun quickly moves to join them.

His husband looks at him briefly with an unreadable look in his eyes before looking to Beomgyu again. “You brought my wife with you.”

“I did,” Beomgyu confirms flatly, meeting the prince’s eyes over his shoulder. “I asked him to be here for my sake, and he agreed.”

To Yeonjun’s surprise, Taehyun only nods in acknowledgment. Beomgyu looks away from them again without another word. They reach the shrine, and Yeonjun and Taehyun step carefully onto the stone floor while Beomgyu goes directly for the shelves lining the side of it. Yeonjun notices the things Taehyun brought immediately – they stand out oddly among the familiar implements, immediately strange and foreign.

For his part, Beomgyu seems to feel none of the apprehension Yeonjun does. He gets to work immediately, ignoring the both of them blatantly while he lights a thick candle off of one of the lamps keeping the shrine lit, then picks up the mirror, bringing both to the center of the stone floor and setting the candle down on it, kneeling in front of it. Only then does he look up at them, with the flickering candle sending shivering streaks of light across the material of his veil, obscuring his face.

“Kneel, both of you.”

He says it so firmly and authoritatively that they both freeze instead of obeying – nobody but the Emperor himself has spoken to them this way for years. And yet, while bonds of vassalage compelled them to obey then, and Beomgyu holds no such power over them, they both seem to feel that he holds power over them nonetheless, because without further prompting, without him needing to explain himself, they do what he says regardless. Yeonjun lowers himself to his knees, while Taehyun lays his upper body on the floor as well. He feels an unpleasant deja vu, a faint memory of kneeling before Taehyun’s father just like this. For a moment, Yeonjun wonders if he should follow his husband’s example and lower himself further too, but Beomgyu’s head moves to take in both of them without remarking on either of their positions, so Yeonjun remains upright.

Beomgyu’s shoulders heave with heavy breaths – he looks to be steeling himself for what he is about to do; Yeonjun cannot find it in him to feel anything but pained compassion.

“Kai,” he says eventually, shakily, before continuing to speak in the southern language, the words sharp and clear in the quiet of the shrine even as his voice continues to waver. The sound of the name makes Taehyun flinch. Yeonjun sets his jaw against a wave of emotion he is not sure he feels for himself.

He is not nearly fluent enough to understand everything Beomgyu says, but to him it sounds almost as if he keeps switching between speaking intimately, as if to Kai, and saying ceremonious, elaborate phrases. He hears individual words – wind; death; spirit. He understands small turns of phrase – you left me; I will remember. Beomgyu bows, rises to clap then bows again – this part of the ceremony seems familiar. Then Beomgyu picks up the mirror – it is made of bronze, intricately decorated along the edges with patterns of flowers, and just large enough to fit snugly into Beomgyu’s palm. He nestles it between the fingers of both his hands and holds it over the flame of the candle. He says a few more phrases that Yeonjun barely understands, except for a single word that he believes to mean stay. The phrase containing it, he repeats over and over again, then he pulls the mirror away from the flame and brings it to his chest.

Then he says Kai’s name. Then he says it again. And then he keeps repeating it as his words dissolve into hiccuping, fragile sobs as he rocks slightly back and forth, staring at the flickering candle as he continues to mumble his lover’s name.

After a moment of it, Taehyun lifts his head slightly to watch Beomgyu with concern, but he does not move; Yeonjun feels equally as frozen – surely this is not part of Beomgyu’s ritual; surely this is pure grief and pain. But neither of them dares to make the wrong move and disrespect the ceremony. Disrespect the man Beomgyu cries over before them so openly.

“Omega Beomgyu,” the prince says under his breath eventually. He seems pained himself – surely his chest feels at least half as tight as Yeonjun’s does, watching Beomgyu in pain. He might not have a lover’s compassion, but he is still human.

Beomgyu stops his mumbling, and his eyes flit over from the flame to Taehyun, who bends his head in a bow properly again once it seems he has Beomgyu’s attention – sobs keep wracking his body even once he falls quiet, obviously helpless to stop them.

“Is it done?”

Beomgyu stares at him as he shakes his head mutely, and Yeonjun prepares to give a voice to his denial when, to his surprise, he continues out loud. “I forgot we needed water – it needs to be cooled in a basin of water.”

Taehyun nods against the stone floor under his forehead. “Will the pond do?”

Beomgyu lets out a little ah and nods minutely. “It should.”

With another nod, Taehyun begins to rise, carefully at first, then more confidently when Beomgyu does not rush to stop him. He stands up, rounds the candle, careful not to disturb its flame with his clothes, and offers Beomgyu his hand to help him stand. Beomgyu looks at the offered hand with tear-filled eyes, almost seeming uncomprehending of the gesture. Yeonjun rushes to follow, standing up himself and coming to Beomgyu’s other side, offering his own hand instead and avoiding the questioning look that his husband gives him.

Taehyun is obviously about to withhold his own offer when Beomgyu reaches out to both of them, and uses their hands to pull himself up onto his feet. As he does so, the bronze mirror’s heated metal brushes across Yeonjun’s hand uncomfortably, and he realizes how hot it must have been, when Beomgyu pressed it into his chest. His brow furrows, but he is unwilling to disturb Beomgyu’s ceremony even further, so he simply follows as Beomgyu steps out of the shrine and towards the pond. Backlit by the blazing lamps and with the brightening sky above him, he cuts a strange, imposing figure. In mourning clothes, with shaking shoulders, with a wreath of white flowers still resting so innocently in his smooth brown hair – the epitome of a mourner, brushing willow branches away as he steps with exceeding care all the way to the edge of the water, holding his robes in his hand to keep them dry and clean. Yeonjun and his husband come after him, Yeonjun with similar care towards his clothes, but Taehyun shows no such qualms, letting dew-stained grass wet the legs of his pants as he rushes to Beomgyu’s side as Beomgyu begins to lower himself onto the stones lining the edge of the pond, tucking his robes under himself neatly to make sure they do not dip into the water. Beomgyu visibly startles when Taehyun kneels beside him.

“You need not be this close,” Beomgyu says, his words shockingly clear, as if the surprise washed his tone clear of both hostility and sorrow.

The prince sets his jaw a little, in a way familiar to Yeonjun – the same expression he always takes on when he is preparing to say something Yeonjun will disagree with. “The water is low. Someone needs to make sure you do not fall in.”

Beomgyu looks over the edge into the pond. Taehyun is not wrong – while the stones may not be slippery, the surface of the water is low enough that Beomgyu will need to lean over the edge to dip the mirror in. Yeonjun stands helplessly in the grass beside them. It feels wrong, to let Taehyun do this, even though Yeonjun would hardly be strong enough to hold Beomgyu back should he begin to tip over.

He seems to consider it briefly, then lifts his chin as he looks towards Taehyun again. “Then hold me, alpha,” he says, his tone light and sharp as if his words were nothing but a joke, but he switches the mirror to the hand further away from Taehyun and offers him the now freed one, palm down and limp, perfectly ladylike. Yeonjun’s husband watches Beomgyu as if entranced, and offers his own, palm up. Like two skittish animals approaching each other apprehensively, their hands come together and lock tightly, neither of them really taking the initiative to cross the space between them boldly. It feels strange, to watch them touch one another so carefully, so deliberately. Yeonjun remembers too well how it felt to hold Beomgyu’s hand for the first time – he cannot help but wonder if Taehyun feels anything akin to what he did. He should not; he could not – and yet Yeonjun fears that he might.

Beomgyu looks away as soon as they grab firm hold of one another, and leans over the water, the hair that slips over his shoulder fanning out and stretching towards the water’s surface, a weeping willow unto himself, as he plunges his whole hand into the pond’s water, dragging the mirror back and forth. He seems stable, and the grip the prince maintains on his hand wholly useless – and yet, he sees Beomgyu’s fingers squeeze tighter briefly, even before he uses the purchase of the prince’s hand to pull himself up more gracefully than he might have otherwise. Taehyun lets him go as soon as he is upright, and both of them act as if nothing happened at all, as Beomgyu wipes the mirror dry with an edge of his sleeve.

“What now?”

Beomgyu only glances at Taehyun briefly at his question, then returns his gaze to the mirror, rubbing at it harder. “Now we inscribe it, and consecrate it again. Then we can make an offering.”

“If you mean to inscribe it, why cool the metal?”

The question makes Beomgyu look up again. He reaches into his sleeve to pull out the brush he brought with him. “Paint will suffice. I would not call myself a skilled metalworker.”

Taehyun looks away in obvious embarrassment – Beomgyu says nothing as he gathers himself up, but Yeonjun sees a shadow of a brief smile cross his face as he starts the brief journey back to the shrine. As he comes closer to Yeonjun, their eyes meet, and Beomgyu’s small smile is reinvigorated as his eyes soften. Yeonjun has felt strangely useless this entire time, but Beomgyu’s eyes are glad. He gives their surroundings a quick look, then diverts his steps and lets go of his robes to wrap his arm around Yeonjun’s shoulders instead, pulling him into an embrace. Even if someone saw it, the gesture could be innocent – even as Yeonjun lets go of his own robes to wrap his arms tightly around Beomgyu’s waist, they could have a hundred different reasons to embrace one another. Only Taehyun knows the true emotion behind the gesture.

They squeeze each other tightly, and Beomgyu lets out a long breath. “It is almost done. Thank you.”

And to Yeonjun, it truly seems that he has not done much, but it settles his heart to know Beomgyu is glad for his presence regardless. He only nods in response.

Then Beomgyu extricates himself from his arms, and they return to the shrine. Beomgyu fetches the pot of paint from where he left it on a shelf, and they all kneel together around the still lit candle – this time, even Taehyun stays upright, and he and Yeonjun watch Beomgyu dip his brush in paint. He hesitates with the tip above the back of the mirror, and glances up at them.

“His parents were not learned – neither of them knew how to write,” he says in such a hushed, reverent tone, that the both of them lean forward to listen. “I might have been the first person to ever write his name, when I wrote him poems about our love.” He swallows, and his eyes narrow with emotion. “Now I might be the last one to do so.”

“He was a commoner?” Taehyun seems overcome with disbelief. Beomgyu’s lips tighten.

“He was nobler than most titled people I have met in my time.”

The prince shakes his head vehemently, and when he says, “I meant no disrespect,” there seems to be enough conviction in his voice to make Beomgyu believe him. “I simply did not know.”

Beomgyu’s chest heaves with deep breaths – if nothing else, Taehyun confirmed to him that Yeonjun did not tell him more than he admitted to. Then he shakes his head. “He was my personal servant. My best friend. The first lover I ever took, and the only one I thought I would ever want.” He blinks hard, staring down at the flowers blooming across the back of the bronze mirror before him. “He was an omega, like me, but he loved me as if that did not matter. He loved me always, despite everything. Through it all.” Beomgyu swallows hard again, the gathering tears reflecting in his voice. “And he died hoping he could save me with his sacrifice. That if he could stall the soldiers looking for me, I could escape being taken or killed.”

“I apologize.” Taehyun’s voice breaks on the word. Yeonjun does not need to look at him, does not need to smell the awful staleness of his scent in the air to understand the pain those words cause his husband. His face is reddened, eyes wet. Beomgyu does not respond.

“I should have demanded he come with me. I never should have allowed him to take that risk.”

“I am so sorry.”

“He would not have let me – I know that now as well as I knew it when I made the choice to leave him behind.”

“This never should have happened.”

“It should not have, but it did.” Beomgyu lifts the mirror off of the floor, and the relective surface gleams almost painfully to the eye with the candle’s flame. “And we will keep that memory, right here. So we know better next time,” he looks over at Yeonjun with those brilliant, pained eyes he has come to despise again. “Not to put innocents in jeopardy for our own sakes – to not put the lives of those we love at risk needlessly.”

Taehyun nods firmly – Yeonjun does nothing, but Beomgyu was not talking to him – none of this was for him. Beomgyu puts the mirror back down, and paints the back of it with a remarkably steady hand. Kai, stark white against the bronze. A common name, with no great family name beside it, painted with the white of a noble lady’s face. The candlelight flickers through Taehyun’s tears when they brim over and rush down his face.

Beomgyu holds the painted mirror over the candle again – this part has to be the consectration. He says something with the word stay again, something with forever. He bows before the candle with the mirror cradled in outstretched, open palms, then kneels with it in his lap before looking up at the shrine’s roof, at the light the mirror has casted up onto it, a circle of light like a false sun resting above all of them. Beomgyu says something else, then brings the mirror up to his lips and kisses it before looking into the reflective surface of it.

The last words, Yeonjun understands in their entirety. I love you.

He stares into the mirror intently even as tears fill his eyes and spill over. He stares until it seems like it pains him to keep his eyes open, then shuts them tightly and brings the mirror to his lips again, before taking a deep, bracing breath and opening his eyes, laying the mirror back in his lap.

“The wisewomen who make these say that when the spirit of the deceased is by your side, you can see them in the reflection,” he says, his tone odd and shaky, and looks between them, his eyes landing on Yeonjun. They are imploring, somehow, but Yeonjun feels lost. Perhaps he just saw his lover’s face again – or he failed to see it, no matter how hard he stared, and he has touched the bottom of his capacity for despair. Yeonjun cannot tell; he cannot presume to know.

The prince turns away to cough wetly into his sleeve. Beomgyu’s eyes leave Yeonjun to stare at the candle again.

“Now we make the offering.”

“Should I—”

“Sit,” Beomgyu cuts Taehyun off curtly and stands up himself. With the mirror still clutched tightly in his hand, he fetches both the rice and the knife. Yeonjun’s stomach swims queasily.

He sets both on the stone floor, then uses the mirror as a lid to cover the bowl.

“You bow, clap twice, then bow.”

They follow the instruction, doing their best to synchronize with Beomgyu’s motions, then watch as he knocks twice on the back of the mirror and says something under his breath. He uncovers the rice and runs his sleeve over the mirror again. Then he looks at Taehyun, back down towards the bowl and towards the prince again as he tucks the mirror into the sash of his robes and picks up the knife. He offers it to him, politely, with both hands and handle-first. Taehyun looks at him confused.

“What do I do?”

Beomgyu’s eyes bear into the prince even through the veil – Taehyun seems unable to look away. “Blood is the most noble of offerings.”

Yeonjun’s heart jumps. This cannot be. “Beomgyu.”

He is ignored; his husband reaches out for the knife as if he wants to do so before Yeonjun can attempt to put a stop to it. “How much?”

Beomgyu hands him the bowl as well. “How much are you willing to give?”

“Taehyun.”

“As much as it takes.” With that, mercifully, his husband looks at him. “Please do not fret. I will tell everyone I cut myself accidentally. It will not be anyone’s place to question me.”

“You cannot just—”

“For Kai,” Beomgyu says imploringly, looking at Yeonjun with wide eyes. Yeonjun feels, once again, surrounded by madmen. The imperial custom does not know blood sacrifice. It sounds barbaric just to the ear. It sounds like something vile; like something evil; like something that should not be done out of love for a soul.

But Beomgyu wants it to happen, and so does Taehyun. Yeonjun feels queasy with the idea that they would both ask it of him as well. Will Beomgyu force him to spill his own blood, too?

He covers his eyes to avoid seeing the blade cut into his husband’s flesh – he only hears his gasp and grunt of pain, and sees the blood staining the rice in the bowl when he finally peeks out past his sleeve.

“Eat it,” Beomgyu instructs, and Yeonjun’s stomach heaves. The prince swallows, but obeys. In the absence of a spoon, he reaches an unstained hand into the bowl to gather a mouthful of rice and push it past his lips. As he chews, Beomgyu moves closer, quick and unexpected, and covers the prince’s mouth with a hand, making him freeze in place. “Taste the blood, and understand what you have done.”

Rather than protest, rather than push him away, instead of spitting his mouthful out, Taehyun nods, and his jaw works as he chews the rice, surely coating the inside of his own mouth with his own blood. Yeonjun keeps his sleeve pressed to his own lips. Taehyun swallows, and Beomgyu drops his hand with a nod. He stands up then, and Yeonjun’s eyes linger on his husband for just a moment more as he rolls his tongue over his teeth. There was not much blood spilled, but to Yeonjun his tongue still seems redder than usual. He looks at Beomgyu instead, who takes off his own veil, then takes a carafe of wine off the shelf to dip it inside. When he comes back, he sits at Taehyun’s side instead of on the other side of the candle, and reaches out to take his wounded forearm to wrap it in the wine-soaked fabric. The prince hisses at first, then bites his lip as his face winces involuntarily regardless. Beomgyu wraps his wound tightly, then cups his hand under it, and brings his other hand to the prince’s wrist – once again, the gesture is too gentle, and Yeonjun feels odd watching it happen.

“For your information, prince – there is no southern custom that calls for a blood sacrifice. I only wanted to see if you would bleed for him. You did not disappoint.”

Yeonjun sees now the tension with which Beomgyu holds himself – poised to attack, or rather repel an attack. To run. To defend himself. But Taehyun remains sitting on his heels with his hands lowered.

“You deceived me.”

Beomgyu nods. “I did.”

The prince’s chest rises and falls – Beomgyu still holds onto his hand. “You too believe I should suffer.”

“It seems to me you already do.”

Finally, Taehyun looks away, and his eyes land on Yeonjun, who never took his sleeve away from his mouth. His eyes are strangely empty. Beomgyu lets go of the prince’s arm to pick up the rice bowl. The remains of blood in it have grown dark and vile, yet Beomgyu does not avoid them as he picks up a mouthful with his fingers, drawing Taehyun’s attention back to him.

“But a man willing to bleed for my Kai is a man I can find some respect for,” he says, then eats his handful and sets the bowl away. “And that is all I needed to know.”

Taehyun looks down at his covered wound, then brings his own hand to his wrist where Beomgyu’s hand rested not long before; his fingers are shaking.

“Do you regret offering to help me?”

The prince shakes his head, but looks up at Beomgyu with questioning eyes – he seems pained, whether out of genuine physical pain or turmoil of the mind, Yeonjun does not know. “Was there any genuine need for the rice at all?”

Beomgyu does not meet his eyes – he busies himself setting the knife carefully atop the bowl, and blowing out the candle. With its light out, the strange magic of the scene wanes – they are still lit by fires, but the ritual is done. It feels like the gesture let the outside world seep into the space between the three of them, and Yeonjun feels his eyes drawn into the garden, suddenly aware of the rustling of leaves and the first melodies of bird song, looking up to see dawn’s colors begin to paint the sparse clouds in the sky.

They got so lost in their own little world – but they will have to go soon if they are to avoid scrutiny.

“Of course,” Beomgyu replies simply. His robes sweep the stone floor as he rises to put the candle back where it stood. “It is an offering of food like any other – like the wine you spilled in your mother’s honor. Everything consecrated with a spirit mirror is eaten in honor of the dead.”

Spirit mirror. Yeonjun returns his gaze into the shrine just to try and catch a glimpse of the mirror still hidden at Beomgyu’s waist, but it does not even peek through the fabric of the sash. A mirror that holds a shred of his lover’s spirit, to remember him by forever. To give to his heirs one day with the knowledge that it holds someone who was once important – bearing his name, so it would not be forgotten.

“Was your lover the kind of man who would enjoy an offering of blood?”

The words are, shockingly, free of judgment – filled with pure curiosity. Without his veil, Beomgyu cannot hide a twitch of his lips as he shakes his head before coming back towards them to gather the brush and paint next. “Not at all. He had a gentle soul, and a distaste for blood and violence. He would have scolded me for this, for making anyone suffer for his sake.”

Taehyun frowns a little, but offers no words of protest. He looks to Yeonjun, and his frown clears up, as if he realized his brow was furrowed and did not want to look at his wife that way. Then he looks away completely. “It was a sacrifice to you, then.”

Beomgyu holds his magical instruments to his chest. “Perhaps it was.”

The prince nods, then his and Beomgyu’s eyes meet again. “Next time, you can ask for more than just rice.”

“Pardon?” Beomgyu’s head tilts to one side adorably.

Taehyun picks up the bowl and knife to hold in his lap and clears his throat. “Plain rice hardly seems like a worthy offering. The next time you wish to make one, you are free to ask for however splendid a dish you please.”

Beomgyu narrows his eyes. “Are you not afraid that I will take advantage of your kindness? I deceived you into spilling your blood for my amusement.”

And once again, inexplicably, the prince’s eyes go to Yeonjun before they go to Beomgyu. “You are free to – you are welcome to.”

Beomgyu scoffs. Yeonjun shakes his head, feeling similar contempt at the words, but then Beomgyu proves again to be unpredictable. He shuffles over to Taehyun, and hovers his hand over the prince’s cheek, freezing him in place as he leans over to leave a kiss on the plane of his forehead. Then he lifts the wreath from his own hair, and settles it on the crown of Taehyun’s head.

“Go in peace, prince.” Beomgyu repeats the same words in the southern language, then stands without waiting for a reaction. The prince looks after him with eyes becoming more of a lost child than a grown man. Beomgyu comes up to Yeonjun and offers him a hand to help him stand, but before Yeonjun can take it, Taehyun speaks.

“I thought you wanted to keep it.”

Beomgyu glances at him over his shoulder – he does not withdraw the offer of his hand, so Yeonjun takes it, and rises to his feet. “I did – and now I want you to have it. You can make me a different one, some other time.”

Taehyun bites into his own lip. Beomgyu looks away from him again, and brings Yeonjun in for another brief embrace, leaving a kiss on his cheek with another whispered thank you. He smooths his thumb down the side of Yeonjun’s neck and takes a deep breath.

“We should go – the sun will rise soon. We are running out of time.”

Yeonjun nods, and their fingers tangle together briefly before they begin to leave the shrine, interrupted once again by the prince, who never moved from his spot on the floor.

“Yeonjun.” When he looks over, the prince has taken the wreath from his hair and holds it between his fingers instead. “Do you think your ladies would appreciate these?”

He considers it – his ladies, his beautiful, dignified, noble ladies, with wreaths of flowers in their hair like spring maidens from some remote southern village. “It seems more becoming of children than ladies.” He, too, remembers making them, back in his youth in the south, going around with his cousins to give them to servants they found to be kind, those who would play with them or give them food or let them touch the animals. He remembers them making people smile – old or young, man, woman, alpha or omega. Some wore them proudly all day, some hung them on the walls where they worked to look at until they dried out. The smallest, most innocent, sharing of joy. “But I think they would – I think they would find them charming.”

Taehyun nods, and sets the wreath back on top of his own head, freeing both of his hands to pick up the bowl and knife and stand up himself. Beomgyu and he begin to head out themselves without another word of goodbye. They come all the way inside the main building, then Beomgyu returns the paint and brush to him to bring back to his dressing room and kisses him briefly before setting out for his room on his own to save time. Yeonjun lingers by the door leading to the garden, and lets the thought of what he just experienced sink in, until he feels ready to return to his own bed room.

Notes:

hi guys, i already wrote the beginning note and i don't wanna rewrite it :D lol. this chapter is accidentally too long to post in one go :') so please just calmly proceed to the next and pretend there was no next chapter button to click skjfhkjsfh okay love you bye see you~

Chapter 18

Notes:

here's pt 2! please don't eat me. enjoy~

The rest of the world spins with a total disregard for the turmoil of the morning the three of them have had. Yeonjun's ladies, blissfully unaware of any controversy, of blood sacrifice, of little acts of common magic, of Yeonjun's contempt and Beomgyu's pain, join Yeonjun for a lovely private breakfast before helping him dress for the second time that day, kindly trying to pretend that there is any vanity to be had while dressed in drab mourning clothes, with his plain white-painted face modestly covered. They compliment the smoothness of his hair, of his skin, the spark in his eye and the preheat-fuelled flush in his face. Dayeon dotes on him and Soojin acts a bit reserved around him – as they are used to. Beomgyu is there, but he might as well not be; for once, he is silent, but today, somehow, his silence feels more calm and thoughtful than a consequence of the stirring of painful memories, of inner pain he strives to hide. Maybe it is his scent that gives Yeonjun the impression – while it is fainter in the air throughout their morning, less bright and present than it usually is, it does not carry a bitter note, no sourness beyond that inherent to it. He smells at peace, even to Yeonjun's nose that grows more and more sensitive to scents by the hour.

It feels difficult to reconcile, but, the longer he spends in Beomgyu's presence without a hint of disturbance, the easier it feels to accept. He hated seeing Beomgyu's tears; lamented his righteous anger – and now, seeing him free of both, he cannot bring himself to be dissatisfied. They walk through the gardens after breakfast again, without any alphas interfering with their business, joined by Lady Sangjun and his son once more, and every now and then, Yeonjun sees Beomgyu's hand cupping the sash at his waist, and his heart seizes a little. He wishes he had thought of this himself, then berates himself for wanting to be Beomgyu's only path to comfort so selfishly. It does not matter who prompted it – he, the prince, or Beomgyu himself. What matters is that it is done, and that Beomgyu has found another measure of comfort in his grief.

Yeonjun watches as Beomgyu sits on the edge of the pond with Miyeon at his side, weaving sprightly willow branches into braids together, and he wills his heart to settle while Dayeon gently inquires about his condition. Thankfully, he has no cause to lie for once – despite the sensitivity and the haze starting to overtake his mind ever so slowly, he feels well. This heat does not come with a painful sense of foreboding – even though perhaps it should, more than any other. Rather than the pain he is used to, he might be subjected to pain of another kind, one he is not as skilled at withstanding.

On their way back inside, Lady Sangjun politely offers to have his other son's poetry read to them for entertainment before lunch, and as aware as Yeonjun is that all his generous offers are nothing but ways to have his children recognized by high-ranking members of the Imperial Court, he finds that he himself would struggle to fill his and his ladies’ days somehow without his usual duties to occupy his time with. Back in their palace, there is always something to do – someone to invite for lunch, adjustments to be done, budget to pore over. Here, he has no documents to read, no political allies to charm beyond Lady Sangjun and his husband themselves. If any documents yet exist regarding Taehyun’s inheritance, they were not provided to him – perhaps he should ask for them, just to have something to do. He might not be in charge of the prince’s other properties, but no harm should come from being aware of them – unless, of course, his husband wishes to keep that information from him; but as skeptical as Yeonjun has grown of his husband's intentions, that much still seems below him. 

So he accepts Lady Sangjun’s offer, and they follow behind him as he leads them to the music room, to wait there for him to fetch his son to join them. Their journey leads them to the inner courtyard, and Yeonjun inadvertently brings his entire entourage to a stop as he hesitates with his next step the moment he spots a familiar face.

With all the events of the day before, Yeonjun all but forgot that Soobin came to the estate with them – he was not there for the breakfast they shared with the household, and they never spotted Taehyun with Soobin on his heels like they usually do. Even now, the prince is nowhere to be seen, and Soobin seems to be headed somewhere in a hurry, without his armor, no less. Since being sworn in as a soldier, Yeonjun has hardly seen Soobin without his uniform on in general – both during casual dinners and festival celebrations, the captain never forewent his fatigues, but today, he is dressed in simple clothes that Yeonjun was not even aware he owned until today, and the sword at his hip is sheathed simply, with none of the tassels and decorations of an imperial officer. Dressed like this, he looks more like a provincial noble than a captain of an imperial prince's guard. Paradoxically, it makes his sword seem less ornamental and more like a threat – wherever he is headed, he might not want to be seen as affluent, but neither does he want to invite any trouble.

His interest wholly piqued, Yeonjun calls out to him – Lady Sangjun takes it as the signal that Yeonjun is not going anywhere for at least the next few minutes that it is, and folds his hands politely to wait for him. Soobin halts in his rushed strides, and corrects his course to approach them instead, bowing deeply as he comes close.

“Your Grace. Ladies.”

He seems harried, even now that he came to rest before them. Yeonjun cannot help but smile.

“My dear captain, we have not seen you at all yesterday, how come?”

“Ah.” Soobin lowers his head sheepishly. “It is unfortunate, Your Grace. I asked His Highness to be excused from breakfast in the morning to speak to my men who have arrived with your entourage to get news of the situation at your home and it appears that we were both otherwise occupied for the rest of the day.”

Yeonjun nods magnanimously. “Very well, Captain Soobin – I will forgive you for the terrible infraction of not providing me your company just this once.”

He says it lightheartedly, and if Lady Sangjun and his son hesitate at all as to whether he meant it in jest, the matching smiles on his and Soobin's faces seem to clear the issue up quite resolutely. Even the ladies titter politely with amusement.

“You are exceedingly kind, Your Grace,” Soobin responds, and Yeonjun lifts his chin playfully.

“I would demand that you make up for it by joining us today, but you seemed to be in quite a hurry just now?”

As if suddenly reminded of his previous destination, Soobin glances distractedly towards a set of doors leading back into the building proper. “Indeed Your Grace, I am afraid that as we speak, I am keeping His Highness waiting.”

Obviously, Yeonjun's expression speaks for him, involuntary as it might be, because Soobin hurries to explain.

“Your husband asked me today at breakfast to accompany him for a brief outing to the nearest town – I believe he is waiting in the front courtyard; he wanted us to set out as soon as possible.”

“Oh.” In the middle of everything, after helping Beomgyu lay his lover to rest, is that what the prince chooses to do with his day? Not that it is any more or less dignified than listening to a poetry reading out of pure boredom and obligation. Perhaps Yeonjun is too quick to judgment this time. “How lovely.” He looks around as all the gathered company stands suspended, waiting for his direction. It fills him with a small feeling of power, a kernel of it curling in his chest as everyone hangs on his lips, and as usual in his greed he grabs that feeling by the handful, to stretch it the furthest he can make it go. “Well then, our dear captain, I suppose we better come to the courtyard with you – surely my husband will not scold you for your tardiness if I take the blame for keeping you from arriving on time.”

Soobin’s face opens up in surprise, the expression so innocent and genuine it almost makes Yeonjun laugh. He does not respond immediately, so Yeonjun turns to Lady Sangjun and his son instead of waiting for his answer.

“My dear Lady Sangjun, you may go ahead and fetch your son while we accompany Captain Soobin – we will meet you in the music room once we are done seeing the prince off.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Lady Sangjun responds and bows so promptly Yeonjun is sure he barely understood the words when he agreed. Omega Hayeong takes a moment longer to react, but he follows obediently his mother’s example.

They do not walk away from him, exceedingly polite, but wait for him and his ladies to depart, him and Soobin walking in front while the ladies flock behind them at a polite distance. He catches Beomgyu’s gaze briefly as they rearrange themselves, but there is no indication that he feels any particular way about this turn of events. Just as well.

As they walk away from Lady Sangjun, Soobin gives him and his son another brief look over his shoulder befor heaving a sigh. Yeonjun looks him up and down, curious about the reaction.

“Is the situation in our home under control, Captain?” Perhaps that is what weighs on his mind.

But Soobin rushes to nod without a trace of deception on his face. “Yes, Your Grace. After you sent me the letter about the commander, I made arrangements to have him replaced as promptly as possible – I was simply making sure the situation was properly settled by this.”

“And it was?”

“Indeed, Your Grace – the guards I have met with had no more complaints to report to me.”

Yeonjun hums, leaning his head from side to side. “Good, then. I am pleased to hear that.”

“They seemed very grateful for your willingness to bring the issue to my attention.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “They did.” It brought him peace as well, selfishly – men in his debt were so much more likely to shield him from his husband if necessary.

Soobin ducks his head briefly. They make it through the inner courtyard and into a hallway that feels dark and stifling after the brightness of a spring morning that embraced them outside, spacious as it is in its own right. After a long moment of silence, Yeonjun turns his head slightly in the captain’s direction.

“You said you were otherwise occupied yesterday – whatever with?”

“Ah,” Soobin lets out a breath that seems too mirthless to be considered a laugh. “I am afraid I was all but cornered by the alpha Taeyul. He seemed quite eager to spend his time in the presence of a royal guard.”

“Oh?”

“But I am afraid he found my company quite disappointing.” Soobin shakes his head. “He seemed to be under the impression that the head of the prince’s guard thwarts one or two assassination attempts a day, rather than busying themselves with administration. He was quite unimpressed with me, and the lack of sword-swinging involved in my day-to-day.”

Yeonjun chuckles. “You cannot fault a young man for a measure of naïveté.”

“I suppose I cannot – certainly not one who was kept from military training in the first place.”

“Is that so?”

Soobin hums, and for all the dryness he spoke about the young alpha with, there is a note of pity in his voice. “Alpha Taeyul is his parents’ only alpha child. As passionate as he is about swordsmanship and tactics, his parents could not afford to have their heir risk his life with a military career. They hope for him to have a brilliant career in politics one day – even if he has to climb his way to it through the ranks of imperial officials.”

Yeonjun purses his mouth, and gives Soobin a brief, searching look. It seems that he and alpha Taeyul are to an extent polar opposites of each other. While Taeyul dreams of a military career and is forced into the position of a paper-pusher by the virtue of being a first-born alpha, Soobin was forced into the military by being the youngest alpha in his family. There was no estate for him to inherit, so he had to make his own way – and he did, in one way or another. It was obvious that becoming the head of the guard and being relegated to an administrative position was the best thing that could have happened to him, to anyone who really knew him. But still – perhaps Soobin used to wish for more as well, when he was Taeyul’s age. For something different. A fate more suited to his rather gentle nature.

He shakes his head. He cannot help but wonder again – now that raising a child seems like a near certainty of his future – will he one day have to do the same thing that Soobin’s and Taeyul’s parents had to do to them? Crush their hopes and dreams with the reality of their situation. They are wealthy, but that does not mean they can do whatever they want. They are powerful, but there are still considerations to be made. An heir should outlive them and not risk their life on the front lines of battles. An omega child must marry. A younger child must find themselves a court to house and feed them, to have something to offer to the world if not a wealth of inheritance. Some things are the same, no matter who they are.

Perhaps the time for him to do that will never come – perhaps, like Taehyun, their child will take to their lot with diligence and passion. Perhaps all the motivation they will need will be their urge to make them proud. Yeonjun thinks he would find that sort of loyalty touching.

He clears his throat lightly, politely. “Surely he will find a way to enjoy the life of a politician as well.”

It occurs to him only now, how brilliant it is of Lady Sangjun to try and ingratiate himself specifically with a prince so well-known for lifting all sorts of people to political appointments at the Court. Of course he wants to show off his children as much as he possibly can.

“We can only hope, Your Grace,” Soobin says mildly, but there is a distinct hint of doubt in his voice. Yeonjun sighs.

“It seems you have a knack for drawing young aspiring politicians to your side, Captain Soobin,” he says jovially, just to change the subject to something less dour.

“Pardon?”

Yeonjun smiles teasingly as the guards at the front doors start pulling them open, the work slow with how weighty they are. Sunlight streams in through the widening gap and paints them both in bright gold. He looks up at Soobin, who politely does not meet his eyes. “I am speaking of the good lord Jung, of course. He seemed eager to spend time in your presence as well.”

Soobin winces and looks away, towards the front courtyard that stretches in front of them. There is a group of people already gathered there, three horses and a gaggle of servants, and to the side of them Taehyun, seemingly lost in thought, frowning at nothing in particular with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Yeonjun’s nose, sensitive from the preheat coming over him, picks up a note of spice from all the way across the courtyard. “Right.”

“He, at least, seemed quite impressed with you.”

Soobin scoffs as they begin to descend the stairs, and he has to stop himself once he makes it down a handful of steps, realizing his pace is much more vigorous than Yeonjun’s, who has to descend carefully with his skirts gathered in one hand. He stops on one stair to wait for him, and lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “I suppose so, Your Grace.” Once Yeonjun makes it to his level, he continues to descend at his side, his pace more leisurely now. “But I believe that should hardly mean much to me.” He pauses briefly, and Yeonjun sees his throat work from the corner of his eye. “We both know that the side of a politician is hardly a comfortable place to be.”

Yeonjun blinks, taken aback by the statement. Out of all the things he expected Soobin to say, this was not one of them. “Whatever do you mean?”

Instead of answering immediately, Soobin casts a glance behind them, as if hesitating to speak openly in front of his ladies. Yeonjun’s heart seizes a little at the sight. He feels as if whatever answer he is about to receive will not be nearly half of the truth.

“You have been married to an imperial councilman for many years now, Your Grace. Surely you understand the precarious situations many people like you or I often find ourselves in.” Soobin pauses again, then adds, “Not to mention all this talk about lawmaking and money. The least engaging topics I have ever been made to discuss.” In a much lighter tone, as if to distract from the main crux of his point. “Believe me, Your Grace, out of respect and love for your husband I bear this burden willingly, but trust that it brings me little joy.”

Breathlessly, Yeonjun laughs through the tightness in his chest. Precarious situations indeed. Maybe Soobin has a point. Especially as an alpha of his predilections, in a world with so little understanding of such things. A world filled with people like Yeonjun himself, who would dismiss him so readily if they knew.

“Oh, your sacrifices are so dearly appreciated, Captain Soobin.”

Soobin smiles in his direction wryly. “I should hope so, Your Grace.”

By the time they finish speaking, they are within a polite distance of the prince, who only now seems to notice their presence, unfolding his arms and folding his hands behind his back instead, giving them a polite bow that they all return, making sure to be at least one dergee more polite than the prince himself.

“Wife. Soobin. My ladies.”

“I apologize for my lateness, Your Highness,” Soobin starts, but Yeonjun takes a step forward, startling him into silence and making his husband’s eyes grow wider as he approaches him to offer his wrist in greeting.

“I am afraid it is my fault, my prince,” he says with a perfectly practiced smile, reaching out a hand that Taehyun takes gently and hesitantly in his own but does not raise to his scent gland. Yeonjun wonders how potent his preheat is in the air. Out in the open air like this, he can still smell himself, sugary and enticing. He wonders how it smells to his husband. How it makes him feel. It surely makes him feel something, as the spice he smelled so faintly before grows stronger in the air around them. “We ran into our good captain on our way from the garden and I kept him from you with my chatter.” He tilts his head to one side sweetly. Taehyun seems confused – perhaps he should be. “I had no idea he was in a hurry to see you. I apologize, my prince.”

His husband studies his expression for a long moment, then nods, stamping Yeonjun’s preheat scent on himself with a barely perceptible wince to his face as perfunctorily as he can before letting him go. “It is no trouble, wife. No need for apologies – we are not in a hurry.”

Yeonjun glances at Soobin, who seems to stand in his spot a bit awkwardly. “Captain Soobin informed me that you are headed to town for the day?”

The two of them watch as one of the servants approaches Soobin, pointing at one of the horses and leading him away towards it.

“Yes – I want to spend some time with the captain, ask for his opinion about the proposal I have been working on.”

Startled, Yeonjun looks at his husband again, and their eyes meet briefly before Yeonjun averts his. “I see. Do you believe this has to be done outside the walls of the estate?”

Taehyun sighs – perhaps it weighs on him as much as it does on Yeonjun that they have to take this into consideration in the first place. “Not necessarily. But to be honest, I am starting to be sick of the inside of my own study.” The prince’s mouth twitches from side to side. “After a month spent inside a single room I suppose I will require a bit more variety to my days for the time being.”

Yeonjun catches his lips between his teeth. He sees the logic in the thought. “I understand.”

“Some other day, perhaps you and your ladies could join us.” There is no hope in Taehyun’s tone – it just sounds polite, like a rehearsed line.

“Certainly.”

Taehyun gives him a short, slight bow. “I hope you spend a comfortable day here in my absence.”

He makes to leave, stepping in the direction of the horses, but halts immediately when Yeonjun speaks up.

“When will you be back?”

The prince hesitates. A servant comes up to him holding out a mourner’s hat, and Taehyun takes it absentmindedly. “We hope to be back by sundown.”

Yeonjun nods. Taehyun waits, as if expecting there to be more to Yeonjun’s question, an explanation as to why he would ask in the first place, perhaps – but there is none. He simply wanted to know.

His husband looks away, nods to himself and dons the hat, his expression immediately obscured by the tassels lining the hat’s rim. He strides over to his horse, and mounts it without hesitation.

“Come on,” he raises his voice at the people gathered around him, and Soobin and another guard dressed in plain clothes mount their horses as well. “We ride.”

Yeonjun and his ladies watch the three men leave, staying all the way until the front gate shuts after them. Yeonjun’s spine tingles uncomfortably, but he is unsure why.

 

.

 

“He’s scared.”

“Hm?” Yeonjun startles from where his thoughts drifted in all sorts of directions, listening to Alpha Taeyul reciting his perfectly acceptable poetry in a calm voice that could make the most alert of men drowsy within moments. “What? Who is?”

Beomgyu meets his eyes from up close – he was already settled at Yeonjun’s side, but he leaned even closer to speak to him at a whisper. “Your husband. Not wearing a shred of imperial insignia, covering his face, taking only one guard with him instead of a whole contingent.”

He blinks – it makes sense, when he gives it the thought. It did seem odd that neither Soobin nor the guard wore their armor today – and the mourner’s hat would do well at hiding the prince’s face, making it difficult for him to be recognized. Perhaps Beomgyu has a point.

“He might only be being cautious,” he argues with little conviction. “These are uncertain times.”

Beomgyu narrows his eyes. “There seems to be little difference between fear and due caution, especially if you have cause to be afraid.”

Yeonjun looks away from him with a sigh. “Perhaps. But in that case, why does it matter that he is afraid?”

“Do you believe he has good reason to be?” When Yeonjun does not immediately reply, he adds, “We seem to be quite far from the Imperial Court.”

He licks his lips. “It can be hard to ascertain exactly how much hostility his father’s presence shielded him from. It might be tha he has more enemies than he is even aware of, who have laid in wait ever since he took up his position, or since he first started making waves.”

“So he has a very good reason.”

Yeonjun bites down on his bottom lip. “I suppose.”

Beomgyu hums, and leans away from his personal space again. The loss of citrus overwhelming his nose feels disappointing, and more out of habit than anything else, he lifts his wrist to his nose. Sugary fruit and warm spice. His eyes water.

On the performer’s pedestal, Alpha Taeyul looks around the room cautiously, resembling a cornered animal. Yeonjun understands how he feels – he believes he thrived off the attention when made to show off his skills, but it is a vulnerable position to be in at the same time. Judged from all sides, watched relentlessly. Perhaps performances like these are crucial for noble children – sometimes it seems their life consists of nothing but the constant scrutiny of others.

He will encourage his child to perform, he decides. Poetry, music, swordsmanship, archery – whatever they take to. So they learn to be proud of their assets, and get used to being watched.

His gaze falls onto Lady Sangjun. He watches his son the most intently of them all – the most critically. The pride Yeonjun saw on his face watching Omega Hayeong perform is hardly present. It makes him sad to see. When he casts a look around the room, none of his ladies seem particularly engaged in the poetry reading. They pretend to pay polite attention, but Yeonjun can tell that they are not enjoying themselves. He hopes that Alpha Taeyul cannot tell.

Beside him, Beomgyu too obviously stifles a yawn. Yeonjun sighs in frustration.

 

.

 

The news of the prince’s return come at the tail end of dinner that Yeonjun shares with the entirety of the lord steward’s family, and so the entirety of the household makes their way to the front courtyard as the gates open to let the three riders back inside. Servants gather around to assist them with dismounting and the bags weighing their horses down. It is still quite cold when the sun comes down, and the servants immediately offer blankets to the three travellers that only ventured out in thin capes that morning. They watch as the prince covers his shoulders with one, nodding to the servant gratefully before approaching the gathering of them below the steps leading up to the main building.

“Good evening – wife, Lord Hansu, Alpha Taeyul, ladies.”

They bow politely. This time, when Yeonjun offers his wrist, the prince takes it without hesitation, but scents him just as briefly as in the morning. There is no twitch in his expression, but the spice unravels around the prince nonetheless. Perhaps it is simply the most natural reaction to his mate’s preheat scent.

“I must admit this is more of a welcome than we were expecting at this hour.”

“We happened to be together when your arrival was announced.”

Taehyun’s mouth opens on a little ah of understanding. “We have not made it back in time for dinner, then.”

“It can still be arranged at your convenience, Your Highness,” Lord Hansu rushes to assure, just for Taehyun to smile politely, raising his hand placatingly.

“No need, Lord Hansu. We should not need more than some small refreshments.”

Lord Hansu bows his head in acknowledgment, not offering a sound of argument.

“But this is a fortunate circumstance after all,” the prince continues, tugging off his riding gloves and tucking them away at his waist. “I thought I would have to ask you all to join me in the morning to give you this.” He turns slightly towards the group still swarming around the horses and raises his voice to call, “Dongchul! Bring the bags here.”

“The bags?” Yeonjun cannot help but ask. The prince is generous, but the matter of gift-giving is usually something left to Yeonjun’s own discretion – usually Taehyun’s generosity extends to the ample amount of money he is willing to let Yeonjun himself spend on himself and others.

But now, the guard and another servant head in their direction with leather satchels in their hands, and there is something bright about Taehyun’s expression, some sort of self-satisfaction to his demeanor that convinces Yeonjun that he comes bearing gifts even before the first bag is opened to reveal a sea of white flowers.

“We stopped by a market,” the prince responds lightly, walking over to the servant holding the satchel and plucking a flower out of the bag gently. “And I was too charmed by these to leave them with the vendor.”

He brings it over to Yeonjun, who slowly recognizes the small white blossom to be a hair decoration, a pin of pure white silk fashioned into the shape of a flower. Free of any gemstones or fanciful touches of color, it sits modestly in the bed of the prince’s palm as he extends it towards Yeonjun.

“I hope you find them as charming as I do – they are not too gaudy, are they?”

His self-satisfaction wavers just a little, just enough to make it clear the question is a genuine one. Yeonjun lifts the pin from Taehyun’s palm to inspect it more closely. His heart beats oddly as he looks at it. The shape resembles a flower one may put in front of a tomb, to pay respects to one’s ancestors. It looks like a mourning flower. Maybe it is meant to be one.

“Far from it, my prince.”

“Good,” the prince responds firmly, and gestures at the servant to step forward. “Because I bought one for each one of your ladies.”

Yeonjun’s stomach jumps. He blinks at his husband as if suddenly blinded. “Pardon?”

“I bought these for your ladies,” Taehyun repeats. “I thought… perhaps these would be proper to wear even at a time like this.” He looks over Yeonjun’s shoulder, at the ladies gathered behind him. “Surely a time of mourning need not be a time for us to turn away from all beauty.”

He stares at his husband, uncomprehending. The words seem so foreign coming from his husband’s mouth, but the tone they are said in sounds sincere, and when he casts a look at his ladies, the little he can gleam of their faces behind their veils seems elated. They love this. They appreciate this gift immensely. Yeonjun should not overthink this.

“It is lovely of you to think of my ladies like this, my prince. I am most grateful, as my ladies surely are.”

A wave of gratitude leaves the mouths of his ladies, Beomgyu’s voice notably absent among them. Still, the prince smiles and bows his head.

“It was my pleasure, my ladies.”

The gathering rearranges slightly, so Yeonjun’s ladies can each approach the prince to receive a pin of their own, as the prince acknowledges each of them by saying their name before handing it to them, giving them smiles and nods in exchange for their words of thanks. Beomgyu approaches him last, and their eyes meet briefly before Taehyun turns away to take another pin out of the bag to hand to him.

“Omega Beomgyu.”

“Your Highness.”

Beomgyu holds the pin a bit impolitely, closing his fist around it instead of cradling it in open palms. In his hand it almost seems like a weapon. Taehyun avoids his eyes and nods to dismiss him even as no word of thanks is offered, but when Beomgyu does not react, the prince is forced to look up and meet Beomgyu’s gaze again.

“Thank you,” Beomgyu says then, and offers a small smile.

The prince does not smile in return, only offering another nod. He seems flustered, boyishly so. Beomgyu’s expression is obscured from Yeonjun as he rejoins the ladies, but he can imagine the smug satisfaction that has probably settled in it at how skillfully he made the prince waver without breaking a sweat.

Yeonjun looks away from his husband, at the pin in his hand, then to the servant who is still holding the satchel open. One pin remains inside, like a single snowflake still clinging to life on the dark leather.

“My prince?”

Taehyun looks over at him, and he seems distracted for a second before gathering himself again. “Yes?”

“Were you mistaken about the number of my ladies, or is that last pin meant for someone else?”

“Oh.” Taehyun turns to take the last pin, and nods at the servant to dismiss him. “Thank you, wife. I meant these last two as a respectful gift for our honorable lady Sangjun and his lovely son.”

To the surprise of nearly everybody, the prince then walks over to Yeonjun’s other side to bow respectfully to the two remaining omegas. They seem unsure of what to do for a moment, then Lady Sangjun comes to his senses and bows deeply, stretching out both open palms, and Hayeong rushes to follow suit. The prince lays a pin in Hayeong’s palms first, before reaching for the one Yeonjun is holding to give it to Sangjun. They both thank the prince profusely before rising, and Hayeong cradles the pin to his chest as if it were more precious than a simple white silk pin. It is sweet, and thoughtful of his husband to think of his new subjects as well as the old ones. Still, now Yeonjun stands in the middle of them empty-handed, and it leaves him feeling odd. Taehyun steps back, and looks over all of them with an air of satisfaction.

“Dongchul,” he says then, and the guard steps forward, the prince meeting him halfway to flip the lid of the second satchel open. Taehyun reaches in with exceeding care and pulls out what at first glance seems to be a wreath of white flowers, just like the one Taehyun held in his hand that morning.

Then he comes closer, and what it is comes into sharper focus. A headpiece, more intricate than the simple flower pins yet nearly identical in style – the flowers seem to have been made by the same hand, no doubt purchased from the same merchant. It is a halo of flowers, imitating a flower wreath but with a solid metal foundation. If Yeonjun wore it now, it would frame the division between the shroud covering his hair and his veil perfectly. The prince holds it by its delicate sharp ends, and holds it out to him.

“This, I purchased for you.”

He does not look Yeonjun in the eye – just like he avoided looking at Beomgyu; but Yeonjun is not much interested in playing games with Taehyun.

“Thank you, my prince. You are most kind.”

He takes the headpiece carefully, and inspects it out of obligation before handing it to Dayeon to hold it for him.

“I am grateful.”

The prince sighs through his nose, then finally meets his eyes for a short moment before casting another look around. “I hope these bring you and your ladies some joy. That is my greatest wish.”

“I am sure they already have, my prince.”

Taehyun gives an awkward smile and bows his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, wife. Now, if you will all excuse us – me and my companions should go refresh ourselves.”

Everyone acknowledges the request with nods and bows. Yeonjun catches Soobin’s eye where he stands a ways behind Taehyun, but he can glean nothing at all from his expression. The gathering at the bottom of the steps parts for the prince and his companions, but Yeonjun reaches out to stop his husband before he can walk away.

“Please – allow me to walk with you. I have something I wish to discuss with you briefly.”

Taehyun looks at him searchingly, but nods without questioning him. “Of course.”

The two of them start to ascend the steps together, and the rest of the household follows at a polite distance. Yeonjun’s ladies engage Soobin in conversation, and the hum of their speech makes Yeonjun feel comfortable enough to speaking openly.

“What is it?” Still, his husband beats him to the punch of speaking up first. He sounds a bit pained, a bit tired. Yeonjun sighs – the confidence and easy civility was a very well-executed act, then. Taehyun shifts so they walk a bit futher apart from one another.

“What of your proposal?”

The prince looks at him silently for a long moment before looking away. “I believe progress has been made. It still needs to be written down, however.”

Yeonjun is too busy considering the answer to respond verbally, so after a long moment, Taehyun resumes the conversation again by himself.

“I may have a draft of it by tomorrow’s evening. If you are interested, we may… discuss it over dinner.”

Now Yeonjun is the one giving his husband a long thoughtful look. “We may.”

Taehyun nods shortly.

“I should bring Omega Beomgyu.”

His husband takes another half-step away from him. “It seems appropriate.”

“But I should bring another one of my ladies as well.” For appearances’ sake, he does not say out loud.

But Taehyun nods, as if he heard it. “I trust your ladies.”

Yeonjun nods in response. They make it to the inner courtyard, and the Kangs part with them with polite wishes of good night. Taehyun remains more than an arm’s distance away from him as they resume walking and pulls the blanket tighter around himself.

“I have a favor to ask of you as well.”

His husband hums, the only acknowledgment of having heard Yeonjun that he offers. Yeonjun swallows nervously.

“I realized I have been given little information about your inheritance. Would it be possible for me to…”

“See the documents?” Taehyun clicks his tongue. “It was an oversight on my part – I apologize. I brought copies with me here. I can have them brought to you immediately.”

Oh. That was simpler than Yeonjun thought it would be. He thought perhaps his husband would question him some, as opposed to not in the slightest. “I would appreciate it.”

They walk a few steps further, before the prince adds, “I did not mean to keep you in the dark about it.”

And Yeonjun realizes he can be completely sincere when he says, “I did not think you did.”

His husband’s shoulders loosen – and perhaps, unless Yeonjun is seeing things, comes that half-step back closer to him.

Out of topics to discuss, Yeonjun falls silent, and Taehyun seems content to keep it that way, until they are almost at the door of Yeonjun’s rooms. His are closer to the courtyard than Taehyun’s, which are all the way at the furthest point of the building. He offered to walk his husband to his rooms, but now that they are coming close to Yeonjun’s, it is becoming obvious how impractical of an offer it was.

And perhaps his husband feels it as well, because he starts walking slower as they approach the doors.

“Your preheat has come,” he says carefully, keeping his voice quiet.

Yeonjun nods. He is not sure there is much to be said – there is no denying it, with the way his scent has bloomed sweet, the permanent flush in his face.

“I know I said I would like to spend time with you, but with the proposal—”

He trails off, and Yeonjun gives him another brief nod. Taehyun sighs through his nose.

“How long do you think?”

“A few days. No more than five.”

His husband swallows. “I… perhaps the day after tomorrow.”

Yeonjun nods. He does not want to think about spending time with his husband. About him having to get used to even being around Yeonjun with the slightest hint of heat to him. It makes him sick. But it will be for the best. But not tomorrow. He gets tomorrow to himself.

“I forgot how—” Taehyun stops himself, and never finishes his sentence. Yeonjun does not push him to.

He looks behind them, at where Soobin walks at the front of the group of Yeonjun’s ladies with Miyeon and Beomgyu at either side of him. Perhaps the captain had a point about being involved with politicians. Yeonjun wonders if husbands of all professions have as little time to spend with their wives as the prince has had – then again, other wives’ husbands are not reluctant to spend time with them out of some misguided sense of chivalry. Other alphas do not avoid omegas they claim to be in love with.

“I will walk the rest of the way on my own. Thank you for keeping me company.”

Yeonjun comes to a halt before the door of his own quarters, and does not argue or complain.

 

.

 

The next day is exceedingly warm, and a restless thrum in Yeonjun’s preheat-addled chest urges him to spend time with his ladies outside. Unfortunately for them, the garden was not built to have the occupants of the house spend much time in it, being much better suited for the aimless ambling through it that Yeonjun and his ladies have used it for so far. With the help of Lord Hansu, so readily summoned by his wife, they manage to make arrangements for them to spend time in the garden with some shelter and seats and tables brought out from the inside. They fetch instruments and refreshments, and Yeonjun hides out underneath a parasol, reading through the summaries of his husband’s inheritance after his father while his ladies amuse themselves with music, games or reading. Beomgyu sits at the pond again most of the time, sometimes with another lady and sometimes not. Whenever he is alone, between one glance at him and the next, Yeonjun spies him with his spirit mirror in hand again.

At one point, he is approached by a servant child, and as Yeonjun watches them speak, a small frown crosses Beomgyu’s face before he dismisses the servant with a few more words. Then he tucks his mirror under the sash at his waist, and rises from the pond to join the ladies gathered around Chaeyoung. He does not look in Yeonjun’s direction, and Yeonjun’s affliction has him too lethargic to stand up and approach him on his own.

For a while, Dayeon is there to keep him company, but gives up eventually – Yeonjun can tell she is interested in the documents he is perusing, but he is disinclined to share much about them at the moment, and the dichotomy makes any conversation awkward and stilted. Later on, Omega Hayeong sits close to him, a white silk pin holding his hair in place on one side. He asks many questions about their home court in a hushed, shy voice, and Yeonjun responds, admittedly somewhat tiredly.

Once Hayeong’s questions dry up, a prolonged silence settles over them, before Hayeong squirms in his seat and speaks up again, even more softly than before.

“Your Grace…”

“Yes, my dear?”

“My mother…” Hayeong pauses again, discomfort obvious in his voice, and Yeonjun looks up from the documents he had been staring at unseeingly to study his face. It is drawn, and his eyes are averted, jumping restlessly from tree to tree in the distance. “He has been insistent that I…” the young omega looks down at his hands, folded politely in his lap. “He wants me to pry into your affairs. As tactfully as I can, of course, but…” Hayeong shakes his head and looks up, looking at Yeonjun while keeping his eyes politely lowered. “I do not wish to do so. Not surreptitiously.” He presses his lips together, and raises a hand to the white silk flower in his hair. “You have been kind to us. I do not wish to be a spy at your table.”

Slowly, Yeonjun realizes his lips have fallen open in surprise, and he allows himself a pause to wet them and pinch them together while he chooses his next words carefully.

“I appreciate your honesty, Omega Hayeong,” he says gently, the softest he is able to make himself sound while his heart flutters in his chest. He looks away, at his ladies sitting in the grass singing songs – at Beomgyu whose arm has slipped into Miyeon’s, or maybe the other way around, as they sway together to the rhythm. He looks down at his own knees. “And I appreciate the respect you afford me and my family.” Then he looks back up at Hayeong, whose head has lowered, obscuring his face from Yeonjun’s eyes with a curtain of dark hair. “But I hope we both know your mother will not appreciate me knowing this. He might not look as kindly at your principles as I.”

To his surprise, Hayeong only nods, firm and resolute, as if he already considered this before he ever spoke up – Yeonjun hesitates in his stead; as kind, as principled, as honest as his choice was… is this not disloyalty? A lack of filial piety?

“Of course, Your Grace. I understand.” He lifts his head, looking out towards the trees again. “You may do with my admission as you see fit.”

Yeonjun lowers his head to obscure his own frown with his veil – this young omega just carelessly, boldly put his fate squarely in Yeonjun’s hands. He could ruin him before his mother with a single sentence now.

But to whose benefit?

To whose enjoyment?

The Kang children both seemed to him before like shapeless shadows following behind their mother. Still formless in their youth, impossible to see beyond Lady Sangjun’s strong personality towering over them. But there was more to them, was there not? Just like Yeonjun himself did not emerge from nothingness once he came of age. He was young once, learning to understand who he is, who he is meant to be and how he is to achieve it. He had ideas, and dreams, and ideals.

And Alpha Taeyul dreams of adventure, and Omega Hayeong seems to believe honesty to be so universally virtuous it overcomes considerations of strategy, of loyalty – of common sense.

He shakes his head and picks it back up. “What does your mother wish to know?”

Hayeong’s head tilts to one side. “Anything he can – he is unsettled by how little your husband has told father about your stay. We do not have many friends in the City – we do not know much about what goes on there, if we have reason to worry. And he is…” he breathes out an odd sigh, half amused half frustrated. “Beyond curious about the standing of Omega Beomgyu, because of…”

“Because of how fond my husband is of him.”

Yeonjun’s eyes wander to Beomgyu again, only to find his face turned towards them already – he cannot see Beomgyu’s eyes, and is unsure if Beomgyu can see his, but after a moment Beomgyu looks away nonetheless as if his curiosity were satisfied. Perhaps he had heard the sound of his own name just now. Perhaps he heard Yeonjun’s own words as well.

Hayeong does not respond, but he does not have to. Instead, he asks, “Are they related?”

He covers his own mouth with a sleeve to hide his half amused, half incredulous reaction. “Hardly,” he says lightly once he has composed himself. “Omega Beomgyu is a foreigner. He has no ties to any of the Empire’s noble houses.”

“A foreigner?” Omega Hayeong seems shocked, although his expression of surprise quickly morphs into a more thoughtful one. “We have noticed that his speech sounded strange sometimes, but we assumed he was from the provinces.”

Yeonjun worries at the inside of his cheek. The Golden City is indeed an imperial province now, is it not? He wonders what it looks like now; if the golden paths of it have been torn up by imperial greed and replaced with cheap gray stone. If people live in fear of the Empire’s yoke, or if they made peace with it. If in the streets of it, somewhere, there is an omega and her mother who mourn for a palace servant called Kai.

To his surprise, when he takes too long to answer, Hayeong carries the conversation further on his own instead of waiting for him to clarify. “How has a foreigner come to join the court of His Highness?”

This; the question he has been waiting for – the one which can only be replied to with a lie, or with the truth that pains him to admit. A little ways away from them, Miyeon looks over at Beomgyu and Yeonjun spies an impish smile on her lips before they shift to form a few words that make Beomgyu’s shoulders shake in what seems like amusement. Yeonjun is better than this; his love is greater than his shame. It has to be. The prince will stand behind him. If he can believe anything, it is this.

He looks at Hayeong, and despite his veil helping obscure his face, he puts in effort to keep his expression as placid as possible nonetheless. “He was taken prisoner on conquest, and no ransom was offered for his safe return, so his service as a concubine was offered to my husband by His late Imperial Majesty.”

If Hayeong was shocked to hear that Beomgyu was foreign to the Empire, then Yeonjun would struggle to explain the emotion that crosses his face at Yeonjun’s admission. Something beyond shock, as he visibly struggles to reconcile everything he knows about concubinage with the image of Beomgyu living peacefully among Yeonjun’s ladies. Eating with them, laughing with them, sitting with them. Being given respect and comfort like any other noble omega. Being spoken to gently, affectionately by the prince. With genuine worry. With care.

Miyeon looks in their direction briefly. Beomgyu does not.

“Then he is…” Hayeong does not finish his sentence. He gazes at Beomgyu, who still sits calmly at Miyeon’s side, his arm in hers. Then he looks down at his own lap. “I was not permitted to attend the ceremony – I never saw his face.”

Yeonjun reaches for his drink to mask his own surprise. He did not realize – if Hayeong is a member of the Imperial Court, then he has obviously heard of the prince taking on a concubine. It was, after all, in part a gesture offered to impress the Court at large, and show that the prince was still in his father’s favor. Of course Hayeong has heard of it, even if he did not see the actual ceremony take place.

“You are not yet of age,” he says mildly, for something to say more than anything else. An omega who has not yet reached maturity would not be permitted to attend a claiming ceremony – it would be far from appropriate.

Hayeong nods quietly. “And I heard that they left the Court in a hurry afterwards because of your—” the boy looks at him with wide eyes; the scent of Yeonjun’s preheat lingers between them, sweet and stifling, unmistakable. The rumor of his pregnancy reached even this young, insignificant courtier then. “Illness.”

Yeonjun drinks his sweet drink slowly. It tastes of honey and berries, and the sweet taste sticks in his throat. He wishes they were permitted wine again. “Indeed. The prince was most kind to wish to attend to me at such a difficult time, knowing how important his presence at the Court has been all these years.”

He imagines it – what it would have been like, to be given the news of Beomgyu’s claiming through a letter; how he might have felt, knowing of his background, of his name, but never having seen him, never having met him. Knowing nothing of his strange character, just of the rumors of his beauty. He imagines the letter he would have received from his aunt then – imagines the words she’d use to inform him of the rumor that would have no doubt spread through the Court of him not having consummated his new bond. Or worse, the rumor of him doing so. Doing so happily. Dutifully. Passionately. Reluctantly. Violently. Kindly. The husband Yeonjun believed he cared for so much, and the omega he has come to love. Alone at the Court, without him. Drawn to each other at the same time as their oddities kept them apart. Taehyun’s sense of duty; Beomgyu’s belief in the inevitability of his own suffering. Anything could have happened – they could have brought the prince back to his house in a coffin after Beomgyu attacked him in a fit of misplaced fear; he told Taehyun to his face he knew he was capable of it. Beomgyu could have given birth to Taehyun’s heir without Yeonjun ever having seen his face; without him ever having felt his husband’s touch in his heat again.

It was humiliating, watching Beomgyu step out of his husband’s carriage that day – beautiful, graceful and held in chains – but now, Yeonjun has come to apppreciate the wisdom of Taehyun’s decision. Having seen him travel with Beomgyu at the edge of heat, having lived through what he had lived through, having come to understand at least a shred of the fears that bind them… Taehyun did well to make the decision he did, even though the position it put them all in politically was less than ideal. Politically, it was a sacrifice. Personally, it was a service to all of them.

“He seems to be a very kind man in general,” Hayeong offers politely, but there is an odd tone in his voice that brings Yeonjun back out of his musings. To his surprise, his words are not laced with disdain, surprise or dishonesty. There is a hint of awe; of a strange reverence. If Yeonjun was in any way inclined to believe Hayeong admired his husband as an alpha, perhaps he would assume that the boy has come to develop some sort of childish infatuation with him, but nothing the omega has done so far has given him reason to believe so.

As it stands, Yeonjun is not quite sure what to make of Hayeong’s tone. He watches as the young omega touches the silk flower in his hair again, his eyes politely averted to his own lap. Yeonjun wonders if his paint hides a hint of a blush.

“You spend most of your time at the Court then,” he says lightly, conversationally, and watches Hayeong’s hand twitch away from the pin at the sound of his voice.

“Yes, Your Grace. I am getting my education under the mentorship of the lady Ahn Chaeju. She is a dear friend of my mother’s – I am only here to spend some time with my family in reverence of His late Imperial Majesty’s passing. We are members of the Kang family, after all.”

Yeonjun suppresses a smile. He can recognized a rehearsed line, words that were impressed upon him by someone else that he has committed to heart, but he cannot hold it against the boy – this is how they are educated. They are taught the right things to say, and they repeat them over and over until they come to believe them. To understand what they are saying, why it is expected of them.

“Of course,” he nods seriously instead, lifting his cup for another drink. “I see much of my husband’s noble blood in both you and your brother, Omega Hayeong.”

Hayeong politely covers his mouth and lowers his head. “You are too kind, Your Grace.”

Always full of empty platitudes, all of them. Yeonjun leans his heavy head in his palm briefly, somewhat impolitely. “You are to come of age soon, yes?”

“Next year, Your Grace.”

He nods slowly, then rises to sit more politely again. He looks at Hayeong, and tries to see himself – he was his age when he was betrothed to the prince. Old enough to think about his future as an adult, young enough to still have romantic notions of what it would look like. He could ask if Hayeong has many suitors vying for his hand in marriage; if he was promised to be in the service of another lady, if his mothers’ attempts to show her sons’ best sides are ploys made in hopes of Yeonjun and the prince finding secure futures for them of their own accord.

Instead, he asks, “Have you had occasion to participate in the maidens’ dance during the spring festival?”

And if Hayeong is in any way surprised by the change in topic of coversation, he does not let it show. “Ah, I have, Your Grace. I danced at this year’s festival.”

They were the same age then; at the very bring of adulthood. Their last spring as children, their last carefree spring festival, spent celebrating the beauty of their maidenhood – the blossoming of the buds they were into the flowers they would grow up to be. Yeonjun’s heart seizes with a tender nostalgia. His feet hurting and skirts flying; the warm sun and the smell of food, flowers and fruit. The prince’s firm voice announcing their engagement. The silvery shawl with a fox on it, and the prince’s arm under his hand, still thin with boyish wiriness, but clad in the finest fabric. The excitement in his breast; the promise of such a bright, bountiful future.

This is it; the future he was promised. A sunny day in the garden of an estate his husband inherited, spent in peace, in comfort, in the presence of a bountiful entourage of noble ladies. Surrounded by wealth, by beauty – on the brink of a heat which would be spent in his husband’s arms. Everything he wanted, within the grasp of his hand.

And yet nothing is the way he expected it to be.

“I hope youe enjoyed the experience, my dear – I have such fond memories of participating in the dance myself.”

Haeyong looks at him oddly. “Indeed, Your Grace. I was honored to be chosen as one of the dancers this year.”

Yeonjun gives him a magnanimous nod. “I am sure you were among the most graceful of them. It is a shame I could not see you dance it myself. We do not keep this tradition at our own court – obviously we do not have the same wealth of young maidens to participate that the Imperial Court has.”

“Ah, that is a shame, Your Grace,” Hayeong says politely, yet with some degree of sincerity. “If you wish, I could perform it for you someday during your stay. I believe it has not yet been so long that I have forgotten the steps.”

It brings a genuine smile to his face, and he picks up his head to make sure Hayeong can see it clearly through his veil. “That is a lovely offer, Omega Hayeong. I would be honored to see you dance.”

Hayeong covers his mouth. “Not at all, Your Grace.”

The smile does not leave him afterwards – Hayeong is sweet in his boyishness; Yeonjun would be honored to have a child as warm as him someday.

They sit for a moment in companionable silence, but the longer it lingers around them, the more Yeonjun notices a restlessness to Hayeong’s manner. He refills Yeonjun’s cup politely, but does not drink himself, and adjusts his own robes many times with his lips thoughtfully pursed. Yeonjun sighs to himself. That was not the end of it, then.

“You wish to say something.”

Hayeong looks shocked that Yeonjun noticed anything amiss, which threatens to make Yeonjun laugh, even as he worries about the topic that was still lingering on the young omega’s mind. It must be something to do with Beomgyu, surely. Something about his accommodation, his treatment in their household. Something about his duties to the prince.

“Ah, I—” Hayeong looks away completely, turning his face away. Surely he his blushing under his paint now. His hands gather fistfuls of his own robes. “I was merely thinking about the spring celebrations, Your Grace. I was thinking that… it is quite unfortunate that I have not seen you dance at the festival. I was only brought to the Court once you and the prince have left it to establish your own.”

The words startle Yeonjun in a way he does not expect. The seven years he had been married for have always in his mind been an abstract stretch of time – a period both unthinkably long and short enough for them to be a young couple still in the eyes of old wives. So many things can change, within a lifetime at an alpha’s side, he was told whenever he complained of something about his marriage. His husband is never home now, his husband shows no interest in siring children now, he never spends time with his wife when in his household now, he does not tell his wife what goes on at the Court now, but later. Later, everything might change.

Six years was enough for Yeonjun to begin to doubt; but perhaps seven was the magic number. Taehyun is more present than ever, more open than ever, willing to conceive children like they should, to spend time with him. And he is further from Yeonjun’s grasp than he ever was. So many things can change within a lifetime.

They married while Hayeong was a child, and now he is about to be a man. They’ve spent much of this omega’s boyhood spinning in aimless circles around each other; wasting time that could have been spent growing strong together. They could have been something great. Could have been – now they have been reduced to a life at a knife’s edge.

“Oh, my dear, I am sure my dance itself was nothing special – it is merely the memory of it that seems golden in my mind.”

He pats himself on the back for bringing himself out of his dour thoughts enough to offer another polite phrase, only to be startled when Hayeong immediately answers with, “That is not what I heard, Your Grace.”

Gazing at the boy in surprise, all Yeonjun manages to say is, “Pardon?”

And perhaps Hayeong thinks that he spoke too boldly, because he covers his mouth shyly, tilting his head away. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect.”

“What did you mean, then?”

Oddly, Hayeong seems briefly hesitant to reply for a long moment before acquiescing. “Your Grace, I do not know the extent to which you are aware, but the story of your engagement to His Highness is one often told among young omegas of my age.”

Yeonjun, who was not aware to any extent, freezes in his seat, his breath stilling. “Is it?”

Hayeong nods his head slowly – Yeonjun notices Miyeon looking over at them again; she and Beomgyu are the two sitting the closest to them, the ones most likely to hear their conversation. Miyeon has always found Yeonjun’s story appealing, and often asked the other ladies who were present for the unravelling of it to tell her about their second-hand experience of it, but Yeonjun never assumed that anyone at the Imperial Court itself would share in the sentiment. He assumed it lost all luster once he was gone, whisked away from the court and deposited in a provincial estate far from the eye of anyone who would care about his old title of the jewel of the court. After they left, everyone only ever spoke to him with the respect due to him in his station, only every now and then referring to his old renown as flattery. But Hayeong says the young omegas still speak of him? Is he spoken of as a myth, as a story of whimsical romance? Perhaps the appeal is obvious. A beautiful omega with nothing to his name, and a prince who had everything except for interest in the members of the gentler sex, at least as far as the rest of the Court knew, until he boldly arrived at the spring festival with said omega on his arm, draped in a token of his favor. It was all so fanciful on the outside. And on the inside, Yeonjun had to hear every day of how fickle the prince’s attention may prove to be, and Taehyun surely heard with the same frequency how unworthy Yeonjun was of his time. Of his gifts, of his attention, much less of his name.

And nevertheless, they married.

Perhaps there is indeed a sense of romance to it. There certainly was romance involved on the prince’s side. Taehyun loved him, after all. Was in love with him. He fell for him from afar, and only approached him with the most serious of propositions. No idle courting; no gambling with his virtue. Only single-minded intent to make him his wife. Because he believed he loved Yeonjun, and would love Yeonjun and would never stop loving Yeonjun. Because he believed that Yeonjun was worth the fight that it took for everyone to approve of their marriage.

Yeonjun covers his mouth, overcome with a strange emotion. Surely his preheat is making him sentimental; he should not be thinking like this.

“It is lovely after all, is it not? The Emperor’s son, finding a wife in a noble omega from the far south. Regardless of dowry, of the tradition of his house. The most beautiful omega to ever grace the Court.”

The eyes Hayeong looks upon him with hold the same reverence that was in them when he spoke about the prince’s kindness, and Yeonjun understands now. To Haeyong, they are legends. Characters in a romantic story he has been hearing since he was young. Examples of the idealized future every young omega hopes for. To be loved wholeheartedly by someone wealthy, who wishes nothing more than to marry them and make them comfortable. Who cares little for money, or title, or politics when it comes to choosing a wife. Who would treat them kindly and show them off proudly. A husband who is neither cold nor hot-headed. Neither passive nor agressive. Who any parent, guardian or mentor would approve of. Handsome, and intelligent and rich.

His heart hurts for Hayeong; for himself. It should have been what the omegas of the Court no doubt see it as – a flawless romance. A beautiful marriage. Two people boundlessly devoted to each other, enjoying a comfortable life, not a worry in their minds, nary a cloud on their horizon. It should have been perfect.

But perhaps it never could have been.

“Every spring festival, the ones who were present for it tell us about the moment His Highness announced your courtship publicly – how surprised everyone was; how the elders expected the Emperor to intervene, but he never did – because even he had to believe in the union that was meant to be. Even he was impressed by your virtues. By the spell you have put over his son with your grace.”

That’s the way they tell it – sweet and uncomplicated. No omega expects to be looked upon with disdain by their father-in-law until their dying day. No child takes into consideration the loss of face it would be, to admit that his child’s courtship was an act of rebellion, and not a calculated decision. Just a foolish action taken by a boy. An unwise spiral of madness an alpha drew an entire household of people into with him – one that seems to inevitably lead to a somber end.

Hayeong speaks with hushed excitement – Yeonjun does not speak up to interrupt.

“They talk about how you danced the maiden’s dance, even though everyone already knew you were to be the prince’s. About how his eyes were only on you. About how he—” Then Hayeong interrupts himself, covering his mouth again and looking away. Yeonjun frowns, confused.

“How he what, Omega Hayeong?”

The young omega refuses to look at him again. “Ah, perhaps this is not a comment appropriate for your ears, Your Grace,” he says sheepishly, and some of Yeonjun’s melancholy dissipates in favor of amusement.

“Is that so, my dear?”

Hayeong nods vehemently, lifting his hand to fidget with the flower in his hair.

Making his voice as kind and gentle as he can, he leans forward to coax the boy to speak. “Ah, but do I not deserve to hear how my husband is spoken of among the youths of the Court, Omega Hayeong? Surely nothing they say is meant to be disrespectful of our prince.”

“Of course not!” Hayeong rushes to say, almost too loudly, and Yeonjun sees few of the ladies looking over at them curiously before thinking better of listening in on Yeonjun’s private conversations. Beomgyu’s head tilts to one side, but he does not shift to look at them. “We only speak of him in admiration, Your Grace, I assure you.”

We do. Yeonjun cannot help but smile.

“I believe you, Omega Hayeong – but since it is so, why not share it with me? You have piqued my curiosity – surely you will not leave me hanging like this.”

“Ah.” Hayeong sounds reluctant, and Yeonjun sees Miyeon’s head turn towards them, as if she can sense the omega’s resolve breaking. “Your Grace, you must understand that I myself have never spoken of your husband in this way. It is only… some of the older omegas I am acquainted with… they sometimes speak quite boldly of certain issues, and I…”

Now Beomgyu’s head turns to Hayeong as well. It seems they all sense where this is going.

“Certainly, Omega Hayeong. I understand these are not your own words. You were not present on the day, after all.”

“Exactly, Your Grace.” Hayeong rushes to agree. Now Yeonjun spies the pinkness, wherever the paint is thinner or where it does not cover his skin. The young omega is perfectly flustered, his mild, powdery scent taking on an oddly sharp note in his distress. “These are not my words at all.”

Yeonjun nods indulgently. “What else is said of the prince, then?”

“That…” Hayeong pauses and bites into his lip, and for a moment Yeonjun worries he will need more prompting, but he recovers swiftly enough and finishes his sentence. “That he watched you dance a maiden’s dance with the eyes of an alpha who knew it would be him who would claim your maidenhood when the time came.”

From the corner of his eye, Yeonjun sees Miyeon’s hand coming up to cover her mouth. It is a scandalous thing to say, even about a married man – not that an alpha is not meant to aspire to claim omega bodies, but it is not something spoken about openly like this. To imply that Taehyun’s mind was already in the marriage bed while there were still two years that had to pass before they could marry…

But Yeonjun understands. It pleases a young omega’s mind – to think about handsome alphas’ desire for their bodies. It amuses and excites them – Yeonjun was not any better when he was a boy. He, too, spoke of preposterous things with his fellow omega friends in a hushed voice, huddled together away from the watchful eyes and ears of chaperones. He, too, dreamed about being touched, taken, desired. Kissed and petted and pleased, embraced ardently or tenderly. He dreamed about his wedding night, about the beauty of surrendering his body to another. Of course Hayeong’s friends would as well. Of course Hayeong would. It is only human of them – and them talking about the prince’s desire for Yeonjun does not mean they would desire Taehyun’s touch themselves. It its the principle of it; the concept of it. An alpha who wants; so obviously it is noticeable to anyone around them. Yeonjun used to enjoy inspiring that in alphas – he liked being wanted. Admired. Lusted after, even. The part of him that has never felt like he was worthy of being the jewel of anything thrived under that sort of attention; loved to see the need in the alphas’ eyes.

Then his husband’s eyes fell upon him, and…

Taehyun said he loved him; and with the love that blooms between an alpha and an omega, a measure of desire is inevitable, is it not? Unthinkable as it might have seemed to Yeonjun only months ago, perhaps this is not just a rumor – not a baseless, pretty story. Perhaps Taehyun wanted him, back then, the way an alpha would an omega. Bodily. Unwisely. Unchastely. The same part of him that melted with every sight of Yeonjun’s bare skin – perhaps it saw him flaunting his maidenhood and thought about ridding him of it. Perhaps it was obvious to anyone who bothered to look – perhaps everyone did. Everyone but Yeonjun.

“Oh,” Yeonjun breathes out, suddenly breathless, chuckling a bit emptily. “The stories children tell.”

“I apologize, Your Grace.”

“No need, Omega Hayeong. It is good to know how our family is spoken of among you young ones.”

“Again, Your Grace, we mean no disrespect—”

“Yes. All is well, my dear, I believe you.”

He feels off-balance, suddenly unsure of himself. He speaks to Hayeong with only half his mind on the words leaving his mouth. Perhaps the foggy haze of preheat is making him linger on useless thoughts needlessly. What is an alpha’s wanting eye on him? Nothing he does not have experience with. His husband wants him, has wanted him, may still want him in the future. Will be helpless against wanting him soon, if they are fortunate. Taehyun told him this. Yeonjun knew it, and took advantage of it liberally. He simply falls for him, every time. Dancing in the courtyard, or draping himself over the prince’s bed. Whether Yeonjun is his or not. No matter the prince’s mood; no matter how ugly Yeonjun feels when he does it. Taehyun always finds it in him to see the beauty in Yeonjun’s body. To see the omega past the flawed man wearing his body. To see his mate, and respond to his call. He always has.

Yeonjun’s mating mark itches. Hayeong’s face changes entirely as he looks away, towards the entrance to the building proper.

With his hand over his heart, the pads of his fingers brushing the neat scar that sealed his fate, Yeonjun follows his eyes to catch the sight of Soobin and his husband crossing the threshold into the garden. He barely smells the amber past the familiar scent of warm spices. Potent and strong, with nary a hint of staleness to it. The two alphas are distracted by their conversation as they approach the fork in the path, but Taehyun looks up as soon as they come to a halt by the bed of forsythias.

Their eyes meet. Yeonjun tries to imagine the eyes he sees filled with need; filled with love. But they flit away from him and towards Beomgyu, who rises to his feet along with the rest of the ladies and Omega Hayeong. Yeonjun is the only one who remains sitting. Taehyun and Soobin exchange a few words, then start walking again, rounding the forsythias to step onto the grass and approach them where they rest near the pond.

The ladies bow deeply, and Yeonjun inclines himself in his seat.

“Wife, ladies, Omega Hayeong. I see you are enjoying this beautiful day.”

There is nothing in particular in Taehyun’s tone. He seems in relatively good spirits; he does not reach for Yeonjun’s hand to scent him in greeting.

But Yeonjun offers it, eyebrows raised in silent question as he extends it to his husband. “Indeed, my prince. I thought it would be a shame to waste this weather by spending it inside.”

His husband looks around at the gathered company – everyone remains on their feet, and everyone’s eyes are on him. He takes the few steps to reach Yeonjun and gently takes hold of his fingers. “It seems you and Captain Soobin are of the same mind on this topic, wife,” he says before leaving a kiss on his knuckles, matter-of-fact, as if it was the easiest thing to do between words. “Perhaps he should join you for the day.”

And yet, he keeps the actual scenting as brief as he did previously – their scent glands barely touch before he pulls Yeonjun’s hand away, and his eyes narrow briefly at the contact with Yeonjun’s scent – not quite a wince this time; perhaps this means that the exposure has been helping him withstand it.

Yeonjun turns a smile in Soobin’s direction, who wipes a look of mild concern off of his face to return it. “We would love to have him, should he decide to.”

Soobin bows a little. “It would be my pleasure, Your Grace. But please, you must insist that His Highness stay a while as well. I came to see him after lunch, only to be told he has neither eaten, nor left his study since the morning. I insisted he see sunlight today. Please talk some sense into him.”

Taehyun lowers his head bashfully as Yeonjun’s ladies poorly hide their amusement. He waves a hand restlessly. “I believe, Soobin, that I am seeing sunlight as we speak. There is no sense to be talked into me; I merely became absorbed in my work.”

His work. Yeonjun should be asking about his progress with his proposal, but he finds that he does not care. Not right now; not with his mind filled with old memories; with it muddled with an oncoming heat. He only thinks of his mate, of his husband, of his Taehyun, foregoing anything and everything in favor of his work as he always does.

“As soon as you brought this to my attention, I agreed that it would be best for me to leave my work behind and take a walk.”

“Only to speak of nothing but your work on our way to the garden.”

Beomgyu’s laugh is distinctly audible among the titter of Yeonjun’s ladies. Taehyun seems to hear it as well, because he glances in their direction.

He smells vigorous. Alive. Healthy. He has not smelled this good in such a long time.

“Have you still not eaten, then?”

His husband seems surprised when he looks at him. As if he did not assume Yeonjun would care; maybe he has given him cause to, by now. “Not since breakfast, no.”

And things seem so easy, so simple and straightforward, when his overly sensitive nose can smell nothing but spice around him, cutting like a knife through the haze, giving him such perfect clarity. He gestures to the seat next to him. “Then sit. I will have something brought for you.”

Omega Hayeong politely steps away from the seat next to Yeonjun he has been occupying. Taehyun shakes his head. “That is not necessary. I will not interrupt you and your ladies’ rest any more than I already have. I will leave the good captain in your care, take a short walk and return to my rooms.”

Soobin opens his mouth to say something, but Yeonjun is faster. “Nonsense. Sit. Enjoy the company. Lady Chaeyoung will play the flute for you, will you not, my dear?”

“It would be my honor, Your Highness,” Chaeyoung agrees quickly with a bow.

“And you have not yet had the pleasure of hearing Omega Hayeong sing, either. Please, my prince. To ease our good captain’s mind if not mine.”

His husband looks at him oddly. Has he said something uncouth? Was his offer not perfectly lovely? Bubbly? Sweet? Is it wrong of him to ask his husband to stay? Is it impolite of a wife to interfere with their husband’s work? To imply they needed rest? Is it not the lot of a wife to create the perfect respite for their husband when they require a break from their burdens? Is his bosom not ample enough for the prince to rest his weary head upon?

Taehyun looks at Soobin, who nods at him encouragingly, then at his ladies. Yeonjun only watches him, and wonders if he is searching for Beomgyu’s eyes again. Then he sighs, and nods.

“Very well. I will take my moment of rest in your lovely presence, my ladies, if my company shall not be a burden to you. But.”

Yeonjun holds his breath for the other shoe to drop. His alpha will say something terrible again; do something terrible again; hurt him again.

“Omega Hayeong, please do remain in your seat – I do not wish to take it from you. I believe I have done enough sitting around today already – I will be happy to stand.”

Oh.

“Your Highness, it is quite alright, I—”

“I insist, Omega Hayeong. Please.”

Taehyun looks firm, but kind. Yeonjun wonders what kind of father he could one day be, if he is to live to see his child be born. Would he speak to their child just like this?

“You are too kind, Your Highness,” Hayeong says in a small, awed voice as he takes his seat next to Yeonjun again.

“Not at all, Omega Hayeong,” Taehyun replies, but his eyes are on Yeonjun, but as soon as Yeonjun meetss them, he looks away again. “You may take your seats as well, my ladies – no need to stay standing on my behalf. You too, Captain.”

“Ah, you wish to outdo me, Your Highness,” Soobin says jovially while the ladies shuffle to arrange themselves across the grass again. Chaeyoung grips her flute unsurely. “But if you are enough of an alpha for your feet to never get tired then surely so must I be.”

Some of the ladies laugh again. Taehyun smiles genuinely, and shakes his head at Soobin. “I have said nothing of the sort, my friend.”

“It was implied by your words, Your Highness,” Soobin retorts immediately.

“Not everything must be a competition.”

“Between two men who have known each other as long as we have, Your Highness, perhaps it is the only way for us to not grow weary of each other.”

Taehyun huffs through his nose in amusement. Yeonjun looks over at Hayeong, who watches the two with sparkling, fascinated eyes. He tries to catch Beomgyu’s gaze, but it is stuck on the two alphas as well.

Yeonjun motions for a servant, and asks for a light lunch to be brought out for the prince, along with two chairs for both of the alphas. It is his duty to presume his husband’s needs before they arise, after all.

 

.

 

“I believe we should take Miyeon with us,” Beomgyu whispers while fussing over the shroud covering Yeonjun’s hair as they get ready for dinner.

They spent a perfectly agreeable time with the prince, who only stayed long enough to finish the lunch Yeonjun all but forced him to accept before leaving for his study again, then whiled away the rest of the afternoon with Soobin, making merry and sharing stories. Today, Lady Sangjun did not attempt to join them, perhaps to allow Hayeong to gather information for him on his own, and Lord Hansu and his alpha son remained nowhere to be seen as well. Only as the evening grew late did a servant come by to reaffirm the prince’s invitation to dinner, and Yeonjun’s stomach, as loose and hazy as he felt while gripped by his preheat, tangled itself into knots immediately. Taehyun only reiterated that he wanted to see him for dinner – he sent no news of the proposal, whether it was finished, whether he found it done to his satisfaction or only thought it was the barest of drafts. No word of it at all. All Soobin could tell him was that the prince seemed to struggle with the part of it where he would have to convince his uncle to agree to accept his proposal much more than he struggled with the legal side of the proposal itself, and while unsurprising, that did not do much to ease Yeonjun’s mind.

And now little remains but to finish pretending there is much dressing up for him to do while still bound by the strict rules of mourning, choose a lady to bring along with him and Beomgyu and face whatever the situation is. This, too, brings him little peace.

“Somehow I find it unsurprising that she would be the one you would choose,” Yeonjun remarks lightly, teasingly.

Beomgyu huffs unhappily. “I do not only say this as her friend – I enjoy her company for a reason. She is bright, and often sees connections in things I myself would never have thought of. If there is a lady among these who may serve as more than a silent witness to what the prince has to show of his proposal today, it is Miyeon.”

Yeonjun sighs to himself while Beomgyu moves away to fetch his veil, and watches Miyeon through the reflection in the mirror before him. She is holding a conversation with Eunbi and Dasom with her veil flipped away from her face, animated and smiling while she tucks her hair back under her shroud where it slipped out as she speaks. She is young and often naive, but she can also be cunning, bold, intelligent. If anyone would speak up if something the prince said would not make sense, it would be her. Perhaps only later, in Yeonjun or Beomgyu’s presence, but she would. If someone was to believe in the merits of the prince’s idea, as preposterous as it is, as painfully idealistic as it would be her.

It will have to be her.

His view is obscured by Beomgyu’s body, as he fixes Yeonjun’s veil in place again over his freshly repainted face. He gives Yeonjun a small smile, barely visible behind the fabric covering his own face. Veils are so bothersome, when they stand between him and Beomgyu’s lovely face as often as they do now.

“I agree.”

Beomgyu smiles wider, then turns around promptly towards the vanity instead, touching a finger to one of the white silk flowers of the headpiece Taehyun gifted him the day before and raising his voice again. “Would you like to wear His Highness’ gift tonight, Your Grace?” He throws and innocent look at him, but Yeonjun catches the playful undertone to it. “I am sure the sight of you enjoying it will put him in a good mood.”

“He seemed happy to see Omega Haeyong wearing his flower today!” Dasom points out from where she stands with the two others, smiling at Yeonjun through the mirror as well. “Surely seeing his gift on you will only bring him more joy.”

Yeonjun bites the inside of his lip. Surely it would – but is that what he wants? To be agreeable tonight? To be pleasing? He promised to be harsh; to be critical – to provide the strict scrutiny Taehyun’s proposal needed to go through to be enough to convince his uncle. He promised to be terrible; for Taehyun’s own good.

He looks at the vanity, perfectly devoid of all jewelry except for the headpiece itself. No red paint, no gold. Simple pins and colorless clothes. Obscured faces and hair perfectly tucked away from view. A whole year of deep mourning awaits them, for a man Yeonjun is never going to miss. This shred of beauty, in all its measured, modest glory – a token of his husband’s affection, of his favor, like the silver scarf, like his name and title draped over Yeonjun like a blanket. A coronet of white flowers, for the Princess Consort of Prince Kang Taehyun. A reason to smile on a day which should only be filled with sorrow. A way out, an excuse. A reprieve.

He looks at Beomgyu, who left his own while silk pin behind today. A sanctuary; a place to lay his head. A source of peace, of comfort. Someone who makes him feel so secure in these unsure times. At his side, holding his hand – even a rainstorm is as placid as a summer day. And Yeonjun needs this now, more than ever. And he can have it. Taehyun let him have this – something that should have, by all rights, been his. Just like Yeonjun should—was—is—could be his as well.

“I’ll wear it.”

Impolite in his distraction; looking at Beomgyu with eyes he hopes none of the other ladies can see. Feeling desperate in his hollow chest; craving comfort – a sense of belonging.

The headpiece fits perfectly onto the seam between his covered hair and the veil and yet the weight of it, after maintaining strict modesty, feels so terribly odd on his head. He feels like a bride on their wedding day, not yet ready to be taken from their house and into their husband’s, feeling the weight of the wedding coronet like the weight of the world. By all accounts, nothing is to shift today – after this dinner, they will be no closer and no further from securing a safe future for themselves. And yet, Yeonjun feels as if nothing should ever be the same again after today.

 

.

 

In stark contrast to the modest, limited wife’s quarters that could not rival the comfort Yeonjun enjoys at his own palace, the quarters of the master of the house are spacious and splendidly decorated. Gold lines the coffered ceiling of the waiting room, the tea table to one side is wide enough to seat as much as six guests at once, and the lit lamps reflect in a dreamy shimmer off of the gemstone inlaid in one of the walls to serve as the eye of the tiger depicted as if leaping across the room, larger than life and imposing. A Kang family banner is draped directly across from the door, imperial purple and gold, staring down Yeonjun and his ladies as they wait politely. Taehyun was not waiting for them when they arrived this time – the servant assigned to these quarters, and by extension to the prince himself, a sour-faced beta without a single hair on his round head, came to inform them as they arrived that the prince would join them as soon as possible.

Yeonjun, not used to having to wait long for his husband’s attention, waved off all offers of tea or refreshments and refused to sit down, but now he regrets it the longer he has to stand there with his hands politely folded, feeling as cowed as the architects of these quarters no doubt meant for them to make visitors feel. Small and insignificant, in the middle of all this opulence. Having to wait for the prince like one of his subjects whose time he has little regard for. Like he does not matter to the prince. Like he—

“I suppose His Highness must be absorbed in his work again,” Miyeon notes quietly, and Yeonjun breathes out a lungful he did not know he was holding before.

“It seems so,” Beomgyu replies in a tone just as hushed. Yeonjun does not shift to look at either of them.

When Taehyun finally arrives, it feels like wind sweeping in through an open window – a flurry of motion, air so entirely unlike the one the three of them have been lingering in this entire time flooding in along with the prince. Again, just like in the garden, he seems lively – he opens the door with a firm hand, strides to stand in front of them with his back straight, returns their bows with a sure, polite one of his own. His spice is strong and warm, and he is smiling with a measure of polite, apologetic awkwardness.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting, my ladies – I am afraid I was so excited by the news of your arrival, I ruined a perfectly good set of robes with a pot of ink. I hope you will excuse my attire for the evening.”

He is dressed entirely in white, from his undershirt to the hem of his pants. Even the fine embroidery on his color is of nearly the same hue as the fabric it decorates. He cuts a strange sight like this – it seems more fitting of some magical occasion than a simple dinner they were to discuss politics over. Along with the fire behind the prince’s eyes that seems so unfamiliar to Yeonjun now after having seen him so muted and unhappy for so long, it throws him entirely off balance, and leaves him strangely untethered.

“My ladies and I understand – it is no bother.”

Behind him, Miyeon and Beomgyu incline their heads to show their agreement.

Taehyun smiles. “I appreciate your indulgence.” Then he reaches out, unfolding one hand from behind his back to extend it to Yeonjun. “Please.”

Yeonjun does not react immediately. So far, it was always him extending the offer of scenting, but now Taehyun does so with such a simple, unwavering confidence that he himself hesitates in the face of it. There is no apprehension in Taehyun’s eyes – no reluctance; no worry. Whatever mood has taken over him has him believe wholeheartedly that he has nothing to be afraid of, that Yeonjun’s preheat scent will cause him no pain this evening – and as strange as Yeonjun feels laying his hand in the prince’s on the alpha’s own terms, not in control of the situation for once, he cannot help but be curious to see if his confidence is justified.

His husband presses Yeonjun’s wrist to his neck, and tilts his head as if to cradle it close. Then, without pulling away, he says. “I believe I have been finding your scent invigorating.”

Taehyun’s eyes are wide when Yeonjun reluctantly meets them – open and imploring. Asking him to read between the lines. He finds his scent invigorating. Yeonjun has been scenting him with his preheat scent, and Taehyun has been livelier. Happier. Lighter. After all the fear and the hesitation; the anguish, the tears, the painful avoidance – the scent of Yeonjun inching towards the edge of heat makes his husband feel good.

He does not know what to answer, and it seems it shows on his face, because Taehyun’s open expression falters and schools itself into something more proper of an alpha of his standing. He takes Yeonjun’s wrist away from his neck and mimes a kiss to his knuckles without touching the skin before letting him go.

“You give me strength in these difficult times. You always have. I am grateful.”

The words are proper, but the meaning of them tender – Yeonjun is glad he cannot meet the eyes of his companions still standing behind him. Witnessing this. Beomgyu is seeing this; hearing this. Hearing Taehyun speak about the comfort of his mate’s scent in front of his lover. What is Taehyun thinking?

But he only has eyes for Yeonjun, who averts his to the floor by the prince’s feet.

“It is a wife’s duty to be their husband’s comfort,” he says as levelly as he can.

And perhaps he shirked this duty most of all – but Taehyun asked him to, did he not? He would have seen it as Yeonjun pretending to love him; to care for him more than friendship and duty dictated. It would have pained him – or so he said.

“Yet I remain impressed at the skill with which you carry it out,” Taehyun responds lightly, almost thinly. As if he did not mind if no one heard his words at all – as if he only spoke to himself.

“I believe we have business to discuss tonight,” Yeonjun says firmly without looking away from the floor. Still, from the corner of his eye, he sees his husband cast a glance behind him at the two ladies, his eyes lingering on Beomgyu just a moment longer than they do on Miyeon.

“Indeed we do. I hope you are well enough to occupy yourself with such matters – it was brought to my attention that your current condition might make it difficult for you to strain yourself in this way. I will strive to make this as comfortable for you as possible.”

Yeonjun finds himself scowling, unable to keep his face placid and ladylike as he looks up at his husband. He wants to treat him gently in his preheat now? To be mindful of his needs? And most importantly— “Brought to your attention by whom?”

Did the prince discuss his condition with Lady Sangjun? Did he ask any of his ladies surreptitiously without him noticing? Did he—

“By the Captain, of course,” Taehyun answers as if it was obvious, as if he were surprised to be questioned in the first place. “He visited me earlier on his way from the gardens and… imparted some of the wisdom he has gained from sharing a household with an omega for many years upon me.”

He cannot get himself to stop frowning – by all accounts, Taehyun has shared a household with an omega for many years as well; but he never learned. He never had to. It was never relevant to him, how much his wife was capable of in preheat, how he felt, what his symptoms were. All Yeonjun’s preheat was to Taehyun was his cue to leave again. And now he claims to find it invigorating. Now he wants it staining his own scent. Now he values it. Now that he barely retains any claim to it.

“Whatever would we do without the Captain,” he says sharply, curtly. Impolitely. Behind him, Miyeon shifts audibly. She must be confused; Beomgyu does not seem to share the sentiment.

The prince looks away from him. “Indeed. His help has been invaluable – either way. I invited you here to share a dinner table. I believe that would better be done in the room properly suited to it. Please follow me.”

If he is hurt by Yeonjun’s coldness, he does not show it, and his scent barely wavers. He folds his arms behind himself politely, and his servant opens the door for him without needing to be prompted. Yeonjun follows, and Beomgyu and Miyeon trail after him.

The corridor is somewhat spacious yet unassuming, but the tea room is as impressive as the waiting room was. A high ceiling, carved pillars lining the doorway and on their right, a wall lined with a slab of dark wood with the Kang family name carved into it meticulously, the strokes of it painted with gold. The prince looks at none of it as he strides to the head of the long table occupying the room, to the similarly intricately carved seat meant for him – he is used to the splendor; disaffected by it. Miyeon looks at all of it in wonder; Beomgyu’s hand hesitantly reaches to the vines carved into one of the pillars.

“Take whichever seat you please; I need not be served today.”

He pauses next to his seat, but instead of looking at them he seems to study the table laden with food. Miyeon and Beomgyu look at Yeonjun to wait for instruction.

“You two may sit at either side of me, then,” he prompts them, and they both bow their heads in acknowledgment.

As if he were waiting for Yeonjun to decide to speak up, the prince then calls for his head servant and dismisses him politely for the end of the night with an assurance that he is satisfied with their dinner arrangements, and will be able to help himself with everything else.

The bald man throws a strange look at Yeonjun and the ladies, but leaves them without a word of complaint. Taehyun shakes his head when the man disappears through the servants’ door – he noticed as well, then.

“I wonder why he was chosen as the head of the master quarters,” the prince quips, and offers them a smile. “And odd fellow, to say the least – perhaps I should inquire with the lord steward one of these days.”

Yeonjun leads his ladies to the table, and Taehyun finally sits down. “I suppose he must have impressed Lord Hansu somehow.”

“Surely,” Taehyun agrees with a tone which implies that he doubts his own words, then seems to startle and gestures widely to his right, where a small square table sits against a plain wall lined with Kang family banners with a single red pot atop it. “Also – Omega Beomgyu. I had the dish you requested prepared for you. I hope it is to your satisfaction. Please do make use of it at your leisure. You will not be disturbed or interrupted.”

He turns to Beomgyu, who looks unsurely at Miyeon and Yeonjun before dropping into a small bow – for once, it does not look force or unnatural. Perhaps Beomgyu is genuinely grateful, even though he seems a little surprised at having the attention shifted to him. He does not thank the prince or say anything, but Taehyun does not seem bothered by it.

“Would you like to make your offering now?”

Miyeon looks at Beomgyu curiously. Beomgyu stays bent in his bow. “Yes.” His voice is sharp and firm. He still does not offer a word of thanks.

“Please do. The rest of us may sit here, eat some. I do not intend to force you to forgo food in favor of conversation – please do eat your fill, my ladies.”

Beomgyu bows deeper, while Miyeon and Yeonjun offer bows of their own. Yeonjun tries not to stare while Beomgyu makes his offering on the other side of the room – to not look over when he hears him knock on the back of his spirit mirror. Miyeon is not as successful as he is, and neither is Taehyun. As much as the prince tries to mind his business, Yeonjun catches him many times with his eyes on Beomgyu’s back while he chews his mouthful. There is nothing strange or untoward on his face, however. If anything, Yeonjun struggles to ascribe a particular emotion to his expression – it is almost as if his eyes rested on Beomgyu inadvertently, with no particular intent. He was just the most eye-catching thing in the room.

Eventually, Beomgyu joins them at the table with the pot – it is filled with a dish of dark noodles and broth with a strong smell that unsettles Yeonjun’s sensitive nose somewhat, but he would rather bite his tongue off than speak ill of Beomgyu’s offering of food to his late lover, so he says nothing.

This must be why Beomgyu was approached by the servant earlier in the day, Yeonjun realizes as he watches Beomgyu prepare himself a serving of his offering. Taehyun promised to ensure he can offer whichever food he chooses to, so he made sure it would be available for consecration. It was thoughtful of him; kind. When Beomgyu looks at Yeonjun unsurely, he gestures to the table before him, and Beomgyu takes it as the prompt to serve him some as well that it is. The prince extends a bowl as well, and Miyeon, not to be outdone, asks Beomgyu for the pot to eat some too. It is obvious she does not quite understand what is happening, but seems bright enough to understand this is somehow important to Beomgyu, and cares enough to participate. It is sweet of her, and from Beomgyu’s fond expression, it is obvious that he thinks so as well.

They have eaten a few bites each when Beomgyu raises his eyes to the prince’s chest. “If anything is left, you should share it with your staff.”

He would want it this way, is unspoken but obvious at the tail of it. To be kind to servants in Kai’s memory – it seems almost painfully appropriate.

“I will ensure it is done.”

Miyeon’s eyes flit back and forth. Beomgyu speaks to the prince boldly, like an equal, without cowering, without fear, without his voice fading in the slightest, and the prince allows it. Treats Beomgyu like he would Soobin – like a friend.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Beomgyu says, finally, and there is a teasing, playful edge to it.

But Taehyun only inclines his head politely. “It is the least I can do.”

Beomgyu scoffs a little, but it seems more unamused than disdainful. Silence follows, and Taehyun looks at Yeonjun, his eyes lingering on him for a long time before wandering away from the present company altogether. He stares off at the large carving of his family name, and appears to become lost in thought.

They should be discussing politics – Yeonjun knows this, knows it is crucial, that it might be vital to their future, to Taehyun’s very survival – but he cannot bring himself to broach the topic; to break this companionable silence. They eat, and Taehyun thinks, and Yeonjun watches his husband, studies his profile, his lips, his neck, the line of his shoulder. He has changed so much since his boyhood – since Yeonjun first met him at his introduction to the court; since they became betrothed. Taehyun grew up handsome, and strong, if not overly broad. He looks like nothing Yeonjun ever remembers dreaming of, but he has never thought to find him lacking in any way. He is not the tallest alpha; not the strongest alpha; he is not rugged or wisened, or overly dainty of face in an omega-like manner. He is just enough – just so. Perfectly suited to stand by Yeonjun’s side, to be beholden by Yeonjun’s eyes, to be touched by his hand, to be held against his body. Yeonjun’s alpha, before he even became a man, his mate as long as he could have been anyone’s. The way he wished to be – suited to Yeonjun’s comfort; to his protection; to the furtherance of his happiness.

Yeonjun’s from the tip of his nose to the soles of his feet. As Yeonjun’s as Yeonjun was Taehyun’s. Body and soul.

Taehyun loves him; Taehyun has always looked upon him with desire; Taehyun finds him comforting. Encouraging. Invigorating.

“We should discuss my proposal in my study after we eat. This setting—” the prince’s voice trails off and he shakes his head. He looks at Yeonjun directly, and he forgets to avert his eyes. Nonetheless, a wry smile twitches at his husband’s mouth. “It does not seem appropriate. Why worry ourselves over a blessing of food? Besides,” he looks away again, back to the Kang seal on the wall. “My study has wine. The ladies will excuse my reliance on my vices, will they not?” His eyes flit between Miyeon and Beomgyu. Miyeon is wide-eyed with surprise, and does not move a muscle to react. Beomgyu looks away from Taehyun completely. He looks at Yeonjun, who purses his mouth. “An alpha of my standing often has need for crutches such as these. We all succumb to something.”

Yeonjun breathes out sharply through his nose. “May I ask you not to drink tonight?”

Surprise crosses his husband’s face, but he does not give voice to it. “You may,” he agrees mildly, and looks away again.

Yeonjun only stares – perhaps a part of him expected argument; expected sarcasm or the reminder that Yeonjun never stopped him before when he found him drinking during the mourning period before. They shared wine before, even. Yeonjun never showed displeasure with his drinking beyond small comments before – he did not think Taehyun’s drinking was worth more than that before. It was not much of an issue – Yeonjun found it distasteful, unworthy of his husband, but nothing more. Today, the thought of Taehyun drinking feels out of place; inappropriate. Drinking heavily was something that other Taehyun did. The miserable Taehyun; the bitter, stale, crying, weak, crumbling Taehyun. This Taehyun, this lively, warm, strong, kindly Taehyun, should only be getting drunk off of Yeonjun’s scent.

“But we will gladly join you in your study; perhaps you are correct that it is better suited to our needs.”

Taehyun inclines his head in acknowledgment without looking at him. Yeonjun’s chest burns oddly, and he tries to soothe it with mouthfuls of food that barely satisfy.

 

.

 

As they enter the study, Yeonjun wonders if he did not underestimate his husband when he took his words at face value. He thought he spoke honestly, when he said he was not inclined to discuss business over food, but as Yeonjun looks around the room, he realizes the obvious lack of other doors – the only access point is the door to the hall, easily visible from the wide writing desk. Eavesdropping on their conversation here would be difficult, especially if they keep their voices down. Perhaps he should be impressed.

Out of all the rooms, the study is the least impressive one. Barely decorated, with the heavy, carved furniture being the greatest display of status about it. A writing desk on a wide mat that could sit as much as four people around it, a reading seat, cabinets and nestled against the furthest wall, a playing table, with pots of playing pieces neatly settled on the seats. Above it hangs altogether the only piece of decor in the room – a simple banner made of undyed fabric, with the words “bamboo, peony, chrysanthemum” drawn on it in neat calligraphy. Flexibility, wealth and longevity.

Yeonjun sees Miyeon’s eyes be drawn to the playing table immediately, and what grew rigid in him during the dinner softens again. Even as he turns his attention to the prince, he manages to smile.

“Are my ladies allowed to make use of your playing table while we discuss your proposal, my prince?”

Taehyun seems surprised by the request, but in no way displeased. He picks up a carafe of wine off of his writing desk and sets it aside – Yeonjun’s only comfort is that he did not smell of wine in the slightest earlier. Perhaps it was only there out of habit. “Of course. Does Lady Miyeon play?”

“She does,” Beomgyu answers for both Miyeon and Yeonjun, lifting his chin proudly. “I would say she plays with almost as much skill as I do.”

There is a provocation to his tone, but although Miyeon pouts at him unhappily and her lips twitch with the need to retort, she does not. Taught a little too well to keep herself quiet while attending Yeonjun’s visits with him; to stay as unassuming as possible. Yeonjun wishes she would not – he knows her, and knows meekness is not any more part of her nature than it is of Beomgyu’s.

“She would tell it otherwise, of course,” Beomgyu adds when Miyeon does not.

Taehyun’s eyebrows lift, surprised and obviously curious. “Have you defeated Omega Beomgyu in a match before, Lady Miyeon?”

Miyeon seems uncomfortable with being addressed, but in the end she mirrors Beomgyu’s proud posture, raising her own chin as well primly. “Of course I have, Your Highness. I would say more often than he defeats me.” Her voice is muted compared to what it usually is, but it does not waver.

Beomgyu huffs. “I would say that were you as brilliant a strategist as you claim to be, dear Miyeon, you would have thought to keep a tally since the very start, so we would know this for certain.”

The prince smiles, but does not interrupt the conversation. Miyeon looks at Beomgyu, wounded in a playful, friendly way.

“Was it then a feat of strategy on your part to not bring this oversight to my attention, so you would always be able to appeal to ambiguity?”

“What if I have done so in an act of friendship? We may both benefit from an ambiguity in this topic.”

“Ah! I would prefer a certain loss to an ambiguous victory – I would rather have a goal to strive for than an empty possibility.”

It is obvious Miyeon forgot herself for a moment – she spoke childishly, and reacted rather loudly, but Taehyun still looks nothing but amused at the sight of their argument.

“I have to say, Lady Miyeon,” he interrupts their argument nonetheless, “that I am quite impressed. I myself was never able to carry a match against Omega Beomgyu to a victorious end. You have my admiration.”

With wide eyes and a stiff back, Miyeon bows with unnecessary politeness. “Oh, thank you, Your Highness. I am honored.”

Taehyun sighs at the sight of it – it is obvious he is disappointed to see Miyeon freeze up again. “Perhaps I would be doing myself a disservice letting the two of you play against each other, then – if Omega Beomgyu only continues to hone his skill against yours, perhaps I will never be able to defeat him.”

Something confident, something self-satisfied, something playful, crosses Beomgyu’s pursed mouth. “Does that scare you, Your Highness?”

The prince takes a deep breath before responding. His hand brushes the wine he set aside as if he regretted the decision to forgo it today. “It should, Omega Beomgyu. I believe it should.”

Obviously satisfied with the answer, Beomgyu takes Miyeon’s arm to lead her to the playing table, while Taehyun takes a seat behind the writing desk, and motions for Yeonjun to join him. Instead of sitting across from him, Yeonjun chooses to sit closer to his side, with full view of the playing table before him. If Taehyun finds anything odd about it, he gives voice to none of his concerns.

He opens the desk, takes out a roll of paper, and hands it to Yeonjun. “Here. Read through it. You need not pay much attention to the wording – I strove to speak as clearly as possible, but other concerns came first. Please consider this only a draft.”

Beomgyu looks over at them curiously as Yeonjun unwinds the roll. Taehyun, for his part, occupies himself by watching the ladies play while Yeonjun attempts to pay attention to the reading despite his foggy mind. He wishes he could simply take the scroll and hand it to them – that they could read it for him, to him, so he could push this burden at least partially off of his own shoulders. If he asked to be read to, he believes that the prince would not disallow it. But it would be a show of weakness – he is already weak enough as it is.

So he skims the pages himself. They read somewhat like the writings of a madman – some strokes quick and careless, the characters barely recognizable, some meticulously drawn in a way Yeonjun has rarely seen his husband’s handwriting look. Simple phrases and legal jargon. References to support the validity of his law, other laws, philosophical writings, their own experiences. The fate of the house Seop. Dozens of childless widows, during wartime, during famine. Courtyards of temples filled to bursting with helpless people. A burden on the Empire – and, implied if not outright stated, a burden on the consciences of imperial statesmen, should they be in possession of those.

In the end, the prince’s plan comes down to a simple proposition. A revolutionary idea, posed as a simple, painless addendum to a law that already exists.

“This is how you intend to legalize our right to hold property? By reforming the law of inheritance?”

Beomgyu’s head turns to them immediately, but so does Miyeon’s. By all accounts, they should be trying to ignore them, but neither of them do. They are staring at him, and he cannot help but exchange looks of surprise with them. The prince nods firmly.

“Making a law giving you the right to property that would stand on its own would only make it that much easier to tear down if at any point our influence faltered. This way, it can be embedded in the imperial code. Reinforced and supported by laws that came before it. Suggesting a change to the law of succession was bold enough already – and even that change only rests on the combined will of the entire Kang family to have it be passed. My uncle will not stand behind me on this – I have no illusion of it. But he may permit it, if I am able to convince him of its merit.”

“So your suggestion is that omegas may gain possession of property only by inheriting it,” Beomgyu assumes, but given what Yeonjun just read, he has grasped the gist of the proposal.

“For now,” Taehyun says, a bit vehemently, a bit defensively. His white-clad chest rises and falls heavily as he leans on his writing desk. “There are limits even to the impossible, Omega Beomgyu. I must tread carefully.”

Instead of arguing back, Beomgyu offers a small shrug and looks away – it seems that this time, he does not disagree.

Yeonjun frowns. “It is a bold idea, but how would it benefit the dowager? His late Imperial Majesty’s property has already been divided and alloted to his heirs. This would not give her any claim to any of his inheritance.”

“A proposal this unprecedented will need to be supported by the appearance of total commitment to it – the Council, the Court, the Empire will have to see how serious we are about implementing it – so, to show my sincerity, I will cede a portion of my inheritance to her as my father’s widow.”

He goes through the documents in his mind. The volume of the Emperor’s second inheritance was not overwhelming – the vast majority of his property was passed down along the house seniority line. There was an ample amount of money, some physical items, this estate and some holdings which would make for a comfortable income from taxes, close as they were to the heart of the Empire. Most of it was probably made up of the combined dowries of Taehyun’s mother and the dowager herself.

Suddenly, he is glad he asked for the documents in the first place. “What portion?”

Taehyun looks at him directly, defiantly, as if he expects Yeonjun to disagree with his decision already, and it strikes Yeonjun in that moment – the implication of so many of the things his husband told him; so much of what he has shared about how he sees their marriage, Yeonjun’s commitment to him, Yeonjun’s interest in all this.

He has always believed that wealth was Yeonjun’s only interest. All shows of loyalty, of care, every action, every decision. In the pursuit of riches. Of material comfort. It was what he promised, because he assumed it was what Yeonjun was after. He thought Yeonjun was greedy; hungry; avaricious. He still does.

“Half of the monies, this estate and the lands surrounding it. A place to live and a source of income – enough for her to live out the rest of her years in perfect comfort.”

“Half?” It is sizable, but perhaps—

“We already know the dowager will not be swayed by what she knows to be a pittance compared to the wealth we actually hold. We need to convince her as well – not to act against us anymore. Not to sic the Lees on us, or throw her lot in with the Moon. It will be an option for her to know peace, without needing the help of anyone else. If she decides she had had enough of politics, she can leave the Court altogether and never look back.”

“What if she does not? What if she is unconvinced by your gesture?” Beomgyu speaks up without looking away from the board, and Taehyun answers without looking over at him, staring at the desk in front of himself instead.

“Then… then the Court will watch as she rejects an exceedingly generous gesture of filial loyalty offered by a son she has already cruelly rejected once, as she takes his property which she should by no means have any right to hold, and only proceeds to undermine him in return. And they will make of that what they will.”

It would make the Dowager look terrible; petty and ungrateful. It would crush her reputation of an honorable omega. If it does not ouright flatten the advantage her title of the dowager gives her, then it will diminish it; mute its luster. Yes, she is the Empress Dowager, but look at her actions – what will people think of anyone who stands behind her?

Every freedom is just another length of rope – there is a cage outside every cage they manage to escape. They will never truly be free. Not the omegas, not the alphas, not the nobles, not the commoners. There is always something else holding them back; keeping them in line.

“How cruel of you,” Beomgyu says lightly – it is obvious he does not mean the words seriously.

“I did not write those laws, Omega Beomgyu,” Taehyun responds, his tone entirely flat. “I wrote this one.”

Beomgyu offers another shrug, and makes his move in the game. Miyeon is chewing at her lips, so hard that she has nearly stripped them bare of paint. It makes Yeonjun wonder if she is trying to concentrate on her strategy, or to bite back words she does not yet dare say.

“And if it is to be passed, it must convince everyone,” he says, as uncompromising as he can. This is not a trifling matter; they cannot let themselves be carried away by the prospect of an easy solution to their issue. “Not only the dowager, but your uncle. The entire Council. I believe you may have Lord Seo and Lord Jung’s unquestioning devotion, and the cause may appeal to Lord Na, but what of Lord Yeun? He has been longing for a reason to abandon you and band with the other lords against you. What cause would the others have to support this law? What do the Lee, the Song, the Hwang have to gain?”

The prince sighs deeply, as if Yeonjun’s reason is tiring to him, but before he can argue back or Yeonjun can complain about his reaction, Beomgyu’s voice rings out instead.

“Speak your mind, Miyeon. Go ahead.”

Yeonjun and Taehyun both look to Miyeon, whose lips are pink with blood by now from being worried at constantly. She looks between them guiltily. One could have expected her to be angry with Beomgyu for drawing attention to her obvious need to say something, but instead she just seems to feel bad about making it obvious in the first place. Yeonjun feels for her, painfully so. Miyeon did not go through an imperial education, but she understands the trappings of it by now. She knows that a lady her senior, a lady with a stricter education, would never have made their feelings so clear.

“Please, Lady Miyeon,” Taehyun prompts, gesturing towards her openly. His voice is gentle, as if he realizes her reluctance and understands that asking her to overstep the boundaries of what a lady is usually allowed will require some coaxing. “Feel free to speak.”

“I…” Miyeon’s eyes go from the prince, to Beomgyu, to Yeonjun, where they linger until Yeonjun nods his own assent. It feels strange, to be the final hurdle for her to overcome. As if Miyeon cared for his approval more than the prince’s. With Yeonjun’s nod, Miyeon looks towards the prince again. She does not look at him directly, perfectly proper, but addresses her words to him regardless. “It seems obvious to me, Your Highness. Any alpha with some foresight would be a fool not to take advantage of this opportunity. There is little to lose and much to gain – if the honorable lords of the Imperial Council have any regard for planning ahead, they should not oppose this decision.”

Taehyun seems taken aback, just as much as Yeonjun himself feels. Perhaps he expected Miyeon to speak up against his tactic, not in favor of it.

“Whatever do you mean?” Yeonjun asks, because he truly fails to grasp how this could benefit anyone but the omegas themselves. Of course he wants them to be provided for, for widows of all backgrounds to have the means to take care of themselves upon their husbands’ passing, but what use is that to alphas only concerned with the advancement of their own houses and interests?

“Well, Your Grace,” Miyeon hesitates again, but this time it seems as if she is only searching for the right words to say. “I understood your words to mean that His Highness means to propose that omegas take a portion of their husband’s inheritance should they survive them?”

Taehyun nods instead of him. “I suggested they be alloted a portion of the second inheritance.”

“The second inheritance?” Beomgyu asks, frowning.

Ah; Yeonjun never even considered this. The law is surely different in the Cities – perhaps they know no such distinction in the first place.

“It is the portion of the inheritance meant to be inherited by the alpha descendants of the deceased,” Taehyun explains, patiently, unbothered by the fact that he has to in the first place. “Children, grandchildren and the like, according to the way the law is written at the moment, along the immediate family line. What we call first inheritance, is what is passed down along the line of house seniority. This is why I have no claim to the Kang ancestral home, or any right to hold our oldest titles – upon the passing of the head of the house, they are passed down to the next eldest member of my house – to uncle Jeongyul. And, in turn,” he sighs again, lowering his head. “This division of inheritance means that should I die now, without any heirs eligible to take my bequest up in the second inheritance, it will all be taken as first inheritance by the head of my house, even though I hold none of it in the name of the Kang family.” He shakes his head and picks it back up. “My father made sure that all his gifts to me were bestowed upon me, personally, so none of it would have to go back to the main family, and would stay part of our line’s property. He wanted to make sure I did not have to rely upon the goodwill of my uncle’s side of the family. Yet here we are.”

Yeonjun and Beomgyu look at each other. If Beomgyu did not understand their need for issue before, then he certainly must now.

“But this division works in your favor in this matter,” Miyeon points out, obviously much less affected by the prince’s somber words than the rest of them. “Specifying that the widows may only take up the second inheritance ensures that there will be no concern about a widow inheriting a house’s ancestral properties and bringing it with them to another house entirely. The most important holdings will not be in danger of being lost.”

She has a point, but it does not ease all of Yeonjun’s concern. “But all of the rest of it will be. Houses and lands and dowries – most people in the Empire only hold property in the second inheritance.”

“Which is where the advantage comes in,” Miyeon replies promptly, quick as a whip, prepared for the argument before it is made. “What an incredible change it could make to the politics of marriage – for a family to have a guarantee of a return of their investment, should the husband of an omega they married off die young or childless. The family could gain back at least a portion of the dowry, and use that to arrange another marriage, or buy the omega in question the assurance of a comfortable existence without them being a burden on their family. It is as if—” she reaches into her pot of playing pieces. “It is as if in the game, at any point there was a random chance of one of the opponent’s pieces turning into your own. The great families must so often expend so much just to gain shreds of influence, just because everyone knows they can afford it. Plentiful dowries and splendid wives married off into houses that then live off of the money given to them by the wife’s family and in return, they gain a tenuous claim of influence on someone else, a livelihood for an omega relative. With this, they could start regaining what they have given out instead of always having to reach for more themselves. Marriages between houses of unequal backgrounds like that of Your Grace and His Highness could become that much more beneficial for both sides.”

Yeonjun pouts thoughtfully. “If nothing else, perhaps the Lord Yeun could be convinced by this – all of the omega siblings he had married off just to ease his own pocket and ingratiate himself with the great families could suddenly stand to inherit sizeable property.”

“And if they die childless, all of the property will go into the ownership of House Yeun,” Beomgyu says, somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Any skilled politician could take advantage of this,” Miyeon adds with unwavering confidence.

“Then the question would remain whether the Imperial Council is seated with skilled politicians, or thoughtless demagogues,” is Taehyun’s wry reply.

Miyeon covers her mouth to hide her reaction, but her eyes seem amused.

Yeonjun chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “If we put the proposal before the council before it is ready to pass votes, it would give us time to extend all our assets to put this thought in their minds. We already know the network we have at our disposal from when we tried to influence the Court during your vigil – there are people with their mouths to the ears of the other lords councilor that we could appeal to, or people who know people who can put the right word in. If there is genuine merit to the proposal, surely it will help the good word spread all the better.”

Taehyun nods, looking off into middle distance as if he is not seeing anything at all. “It would give us the most part of the year. Lord Yeun will listen to Lord Na if not to me, and Lord Yeun has friends in all the right places.”

Yeonjun scoffs. How fortunate for them, to make friends of spineless men who would seek the favor of anyone in power. “I could speak to Lady Nayoon as well, hint at a rumor of your proposal so it would reach her husband, and the Lee and Moon families in turn. I believe she would even spread the word willingly.”

Nayoon is sympathetic to their cause, after all – and Myeongjin need not know that her bringing information about the prince’s intention to him only serves to the prince’s benefit. Then Nayoon gets to be a useful wife, and Taehyun’s proposal comes this much closer to being passed. And everyone benefits from it in the end.

“What of your uncle?” They look to Beomgyu, who looks Taehyun in the eye directly, heedless of Miyeon’s presence. “From what… His Grace has told me of his temperament, I understand he is not very likely to take anything you say on its merit.”

“That, he is not,” Taehyun allows, and his jaw sets briefly. “But we may have the tentative friendship of the only person he may still listen to.” He looks at Yeonjun then, and his eyes are wide, unhappy again but determined. “We may have the good word of Iseul, if we explain the matter to her the way we have discussed it here. If you appeal to her.”

Yeonjun shifts his eyes away, embarrassed. It would stand to reason, but Beomgyu has not seen the way Iseaul treated him the last time he was at Court, and neither has Miyeon. Yeonjun would not be quick to share the tenor of their conversations with much anyone. “Why me?”

“Because she is fond of you,” his husband replies vehemently – it is obvious he does not for a moment believe that Yeonjun does not understand what he is talking about. “Infinitely more than she is of me. In ways she would never be fond of me, even.”

He shakes his head, pained, embarrassed. Beomgyu straightens up in his seat.

“Has His Grace found a new admirer at the Court?” He sounds amused, but it only makes Yeonjun’s chest seize painfully. He did nothing inappropriate. He indulged no advances. He was perfectly virtuous. Iseul only cared for him in the extent that he was a weapon to wield against her cousin. That is all.

“It is nothing of the sort,” he insists.

“It is something of the sort,” Taehyun retorts curtly, but he seems more disdainful than angry with Yeonjun. “But aside from working in our favor, it need not matter to us much. My cousin may think at night of whoever she pleases.”

“Taehyun.” His heart flutters in his chest with panic. He should not be using his husband’s name, but he is being impolite. Ridiculous. Rude. Miyeon’s mouth is covered again – Beomgyu only looks more amused. Yeonjun feels painfully exposed in front of the lot of them.

But his husband only waves a hand. “She is not the first nor last one to find you charming, wife, you know this better than I do.”

“What you are implying—”

“Reflects poorly upon her, not upon you,” Taehyun cuts him off, even if it is with the words he may have needed to hear the most. “You were cursed with a beautiful face – she was cursed with the family affliction of an insatiable hunger for things that do not belong to us. The blame is on her.”

Yeonjun stares at his husband – there is more to his words; implications behind implications. Of course she would be taken with Yeonjun – who would not? Taehyun is.

“And you mean to use her affection for your wife to your political advantage?” Beomgyu sounds delighted. Of course he would. “You have become jaded since I last saw you, prince.”

Something odd lingers in Taehyun’s eyes while he turns them to Beomgyu – Yeonjun is sure he does not like the look of it. “They say the death of one’s father changes a man.”

Beomgyu raises an eyebrow. Yeonjun thinks of the letter, of the poem he never got to read. What exactly did they say? “They do say that, Your Highness,” Beomgyu concurs.

Taehyun looks away, but Beomgyu’s eyes linger on him. Amused, delighted – fond. Yeonjun’s heart drops at the sight of it.

“Have you found my proposal acceptable, then?” The prince asks with his gaze aimed at a plain wall away from all of them. His fingers flutter, as if restless for something. A cup of wine, surely.

Yeonjun, who has been worrying at the paper the entire time, lays it back onto the writing desk. “It sounds as mad as I expected it to. Foolish. It is arrogant of you to assume you have the influence to convince everyone of its merit, or that it will be enough to resolve the matter of the dowager. Your uncle will never allow this – you are ripping an arm in half to remove a splinter.”

But instead of growing bitter at his words, his husband’s scent grows stronger. Warmer. He huffs, and his eyes narrow as he lifts his chin. “So you agree with me presenting it to the Council – a version of it more skillfully worded, anyway.”

He folds his hands in his lap primly. “I believe you will do as you see fit. You always have. You seem to trust that you may be successful. I will follow your lead, as I always do.”

Taehyun looks at him, seriously but not unkindly. “What do you think, Yeonjun?”

He glances at Miyeon. Her eyes are narrowed now, her mouth still politely covered. They are showing too many cracks. Letting her see too much. If the other ladies find out… if everyone does… he will have to have Beomgyu swear her to secrecy about this. He closes his eyes.

“I think Lady Miyeon’s arguments seemed apt. There is a chance the rest of the council may find them just as convincing.”

“And the dowager?” Taehyun insists.

He does not open his eyes back up. “Refusing a boon like this would ruin her – her touch would be poisonous to the reputation of the other families if she searched for other allies in her rebellion against you. But I doubt she would. If we convince Lord councilor Lee, he will be as good as an agent on our side to speak some sense into her. She will listen to her own family.”

“Would you?”

Now, he looks at his husband again. The question is an insult, but from his husband’s face it is obvious that it was not meant as one. “You know the answer to that. You already do.”

He has chosen the Kang over the Choi already. Openly, perhaps recklessly.

“What makes you think she will listen to the appeal of her family, then?”

That the dowager hated her husband and everything to do with him, while Yeonjun…

“I am not the dowager. I would never have put myself in her position in the first place.”

Taehyun studies his face. He seems disbelieving to some extent – perhaps to him it seems that he and the dowager are one and the same. Perhaps he is more correct than Yeonjun himself realizes.

“What does Omega Beomgyu think, then?” The prince asks eventually, once he has looked his fill of Yeonjun’s countenance.

Beomgyu rolls a playing piece between his fingers. “It seems as close to freedom as anyone can get – and if she only stands to lose by rejecting it…” he shrugs. “She may have no other choice but to enjoy the benefits that come with being outplayed in this way.”

Taehyun nods. He winds the fingers of both his hands together, and rests them on the writing desk, leaning over them. “Then it is decided. This proposal will be offered at the next meeting of the Emperor’s council. As soon as possible, to give us the most time we can get to sway minds in its favor.”

Everyone inclines their heads in response, even Miyeon. For a long moment, Beomgyu and Miyeon focus on their game, and Taehyun and Yeonjun watch them quietly. As they observe it, Beomgyu slowly comes to control the board, cutting off more and more of Miyeon’s options of fighting back.

Beomgyu encircles another group of Miyeon’s pieces, and while the lady moves to remove them from the board, Beomgyu looks away from the table to look at Taehyun, not quite smiling, but with something lively behind his eyes.

“Good luck, prince.”

 

.

 

Once Miyeon leaves, and the two of them are alone for the remainder of the evening, Beomgyu seems bright; excited. He embraces Yeonjun tightly, presses close to his body and showers his face with kisses. Smiles seem to come easy to him, there is a lightness to his breathing. He buries his fingers in Yeonjun’s hair, climbs on top of him in his bed, and presses his lips to every inch of his face, of his neck, all alongside the collar of his underclothes. And all Yeonjun can say, as unsettled, as relieved, as afraid, as tumultuous as he feels, is Beomgyu, Beomgyu, Beomgyu.

And Beomgyu says you’re brilliant, you’re beautiful, you smell so sweet. Like Yeonjun’s preheat smell only fuels Beomgyu’s joyful madness – like an alpha who would be helpless to his body, but Beomgyu surrenders his sanity with such happy thoughtlessness.

He puts his hands on Yeonjun’s bare thighs, slipping his palms under the hem of his clothes, and says I want you, then he takes Yeonjun’s hand and presses it to his own breast and says have me.

And Yeonjun has worries; fears; insecurities. There were a hundred things on his mind and few of them lighthearted, few of them pleasant. His body is readying him for something that terrifies him, but it also has him burn with the need to have Beomgyu’s bare skin against his own, everywhere it could feasibly touch. To have his mouth and his hands and to feel his smile against the fever flush of his own pleasure. He wants to complain, to scream, to cry, but he wants this more. Crushed fruit and sweet citrus intertwining, choking him, invigorating him, driving him mad. The faintest touch of spice trailing at the edges of it, making it painful, making it perfect.

Beomgyu’s hand in his, and a litany of pleas and compliments. He is beautiful. He needs this. He is perfect. He wants this. He is so warm, so sweet, so soft.

He is afraid.

He tears himself away from Beomgyu, skittishly, restlessly, and Beomgyu stays frozen where he was, staring at him with wide, concerned eyes. Tears have sprung into Yeonjun’s own as his mind spiralled, and they rush down his face now, as he huddles in on himself, naked and shaking, nearly at the very edge of his bed.

“I—”

Beomgyu does not urge him to explain. He waits, and does not move, and does not, even for a moment, look away.

And the longer he looks at Yeonjun, the more he feels comforted, and the less desperately his own fingers dig into his flesh, and the easier it is to breathe, and the less his chest hurts. Until he can bring himself to speak again.

“Beomgyu, I’m scared.”

“Of what?” Sensing that Yeonjun is better, Beomgyu finally shifts, picks himself up to sit, but does not come any closer. “How the proposal will go over?”

Yeonjun shakes his head, then shrugs. His mind is a mess; the preheat, the stress, Beomgyu, the prince, Hayeong and Soobin and Iseul and the Emperor. There is so much, all around him, all the time. Tears brim over and gather at his jaw, tickle as they slide down his chin, drip down onto the backs of his own hands like droplets of cool rain. He is so exhausted; so drained. Wrung out and battered.

“Everything. Our future. The—” He hiccups, sobs. Wipes the tears off his chin and presses the heels of his palms to his own eyes. “The heat. I’m afraid, Beomgyu. I don’t want this. I don’t want this anymore.”

Beomgyu sighs, but he sounds sad rather than exasperated or frustrated with Yeonjun’s childish fickleness. “You don’t want to have him because you have to.”

Yeonjun bites into his lip hard.

“You don’t want him to have you because he has to.”

He cries harder, guilty, caught.

“He has been taking your preheat well – what he said today—”

“He wants me,” Yeonjun says in a thin, barely there voice.

“He wants you,” Beomgyu repeats, matter-of-factly, as if it were not his own lover he was speaking about. “He more than wants you. He likes you, loves you, cares about your opinion. About your happiness. Your feelings, even, now that he was made aware you are in possession of those as well.”

It makes him laugh, and he is finally able to uncover his face again. Beomgyu smiles at him faintly.

“He had a point,” Beomgyu continues, “About everyone being charmed by you. You seem to have a strange sort of magnetism that makes everyone around you so invested in your happiness in such short a time.”

Yeonjun shakes his head.

“No, you do. Him, and I. Alpha Soobin and Prince Iseul and your lord steward, and every single lady of yours, Haewon, Kyunsang, Omega Hayeong. You as much as look in someone’s direction and they are lost. And yet you worry about losing everyone, all the time.”

He looks away. Beomgyu comes closer, and lays a gentle hand on his knee, stroking the inside of it with his thumb.

“I will be with you, no matter what happens. If he comes to you and you wish to reject him, I will defend you with my life. If he comes to you and you want him to stay, I will love you afterwards the same I have loved you before. If the prince fails, I will love you. If he succeeds I will love you. If he lives. If he dies. If you betray him, if you don’t. I will stand by you – no matter what happens. And if you cannot bring yourself to trust him, if you cannot trust yourself, then trust me.”

“You like him.”

Beomgyu’s eyes widen. Then he scoffs, and looks away. Yeonjun thinks it to be answer enough, but he offers his words as well. “He is… harmless. Toothless. I was stupid to ever be afraid of him.”

“He is capable of terrible things, Beomgyu. You know this.”

To his surprise, Beomgyu shakes his head. “Thoughtlessly, perhaps. Consciously?” He does not answer his own question. He drops his eyes to the sheets. “I find him… amusing, now. A puppy of an alpha. He just…”

“Pleases you?”

Their gazes meet. Beomgyu scoffs through his nose, but his expression is not disgusted. Not appalled. Not anything that would convince Yeonjun otherwise.

“The way watching a child play pleases a soul,” Beomgyu says but to Yeonjun it sounds too careful. Too deliberate. He is dancing around the core of the issue.

“But he is not a child – he’s your alpha.”

And Beomgyu’s eyes flit away. “In name only.”

And Yeonjun’s go to the scar on Beomgyu’s wrist. “He marked you.”

“And you did not, and yet I’m yours.”

Yeonjun’s heart softens a bit, but it only brings more tears to his eyes. “I miss his touch – I wish he never elected to take it from me.”

Beomgyu nods. “I understand – I miss Kai’s sometimes as well.”

He bites his lip hard. Thinks of Taehyun touching him, kissing him, slotting his hips in between his thighs. “Have you ever thought of the prince’s?”

To his relief, Beomgyu winces with distaste. “In mad, heat-induced dreams. In the painful ones, it felt just like my husband’s. In the foolish ones, it felt just like my Kai’s. I know he is neither of them. Never could be – for what it is worth.”

“Would you still let him have you? Give him a child, if necessary?”

Beomgyu grows even tenser. He curls up on himself a bit, shrugs with stiff shoulders. “Perhaps. For your sake, if it cannot be helped. My body… does not mean the same to me as it does to you.”

“You would give it more freely.”

The words seem to pain Beomgyu, and he presses his cheek against one of his knees, looking down at the sheets unseeingly. “It is mine; to do with as I see fit. A tool – for pleasure, for birthing children, if I choose to. There is no sanctity left to it – it would be foolish of me to pretend that there is. As long as it is I who chooses how to use it, I will be satisfied.”

“Beomgyu—”

“What do you wish to hear, Yeonjun?” Beomgyu speaks bluntly, but it is obvious he strives not to make his voice unkind. “What words would please you? I told you – I am ready to do what need be done. I have done enough crying about what I’ve had to have inside me. I’ve lamented being born with this body enough. I have resolved to use it to my advantage now, and yours, because I love you, and wish for your safety and happiness.”

“I wish the same for you as well,” he assures, choked up and raspy.

Beomgyu nods. “Then there is no argument to be had. We love one another – we will see our future through no matter what it brings. It will be ours – one way or another.”

Yeonjun nods back. “One way or another.”

A smile cuts through Beomgyu’s serious, somber expression, and he picks himself up to move closer to Yeonjun to press a lingering kiss to his lips, then to one corner of his mouth, then to the other.

“I was hoping to have a more pleasing evening with you tonight, but this is just as well.”

Yeonjun holds onto the side of his face, and gazes into his eyes tenderly before giving him a kiss of his own. “Every evening with you is a pleasing one.”

And in response, Beomgyu pulls at him until he can climb into his lap.

 

.

 

Yeonjun wonders if everyone can tell – if they all see how relaxed he is, how pleasantly sluggish, in a fairly good, steady mood, and instead of assuming that it is a symptom of his oncoming heat, they see past it to the sordid truth. That his peace on this day was hard won with Beomgyu’s lips, and his fingers, his scent and love and attention last night. That Beomgyu took all his fear and turmoil and apprehension and wrung them out of his body, bit by bit, until he was clean, until he was exhausted, until he was satisfied. He wonders if they can smell citrus on him; if they can see marks he knows Beomgyu’s mouth did not dare leave behind. He smiles at his ladies at breakfast, at Lady Sangjun and Omega Hayeong in the garden, and he wonders if they can see right through his pleasant, dignified persona, right to the wanton, terrible thing underneath.

Today, he does not care what the answer is, and perhaps for that, he has more to thank the preheat than Beomgyu’s thorough love.

The prince promised him to try to spend time with him today, but perhaps he changed his mind, because he is nowhere to be found all morning. He does not come to breakfast, or wait in the garden, or stand in the inner courtyard to intercept them on their way back. What they do encounter in the inner courtyard, however, is noise. Shouting and the clashing of swords. The distinctive sound of officers yelling out orders.

They all startle for a moment, staying still in the middle of the courtyard, but none of the guards stationed at any of the doors seem rattled. Not an actual battle, then. Training?

“We should go see what this is about,” he suggests to his entourage, and receives no word of disagreement, but no word of explanation from Lady Sangjun, either. Whatever is going on, he was not given notice of it, either.

They make their way inside and all but huddle in one place so they would have the best vantage point to observe the scene in the courtyard as the main doors are slowly opened for them. And what a scene it is – it is another sunny day, and the pale stone paving of the courtyard is completely bathed in brilliant light, except for the long stretches of shade provided by the ash trees, occupied selfishly by the officers, clad in full ceremonial armor, who have taken shelter from the heat. The rank and file soldiers, the poor, poor alphas, are all standing under the full force of it, dulled training blades out, dispersed around the courtyard in pairs and all engaged in sparring, with some of the lower-ranked officers miling between them, shouting criticisms, insults, encouragement.

Training, then. But why now?

As the door opens fully and they step out to the top of the staircase, a gasp sounds somewhere behind him, and he turns his head slightly, to see Hayeong pull at Lady Sangjun’s sleeve, pointing down at the alphas below them.

“Mother! Look.”

Yeonjun follows the direction of his hand to the slender, boyish shoulders of Alpha Taeyul, stripped down to his undershirt like most of the soldiers. There is a sword in his hand as well, and he wields it with obvious skill as he battles a young soldier who is nonetheless obviously the boy’s senior, who seems much more winded than Alpha Taeyul himself. He is not only passionate about swordsmanship, then. There is true skill behind his enthusiasm. Talent. One that is to be wasted, because there is nothing anyone can do.

He sees from the corner of his eye as Lady Sangjun shakes with emotion, obviously deeply upset by the sight of his son sparring with common soldiers, but before he can do anything, a voice rings out above the din of the swords.

“Halt!”

The word is immediately repeated in a cacophony of voices as all the officers repeat it to make sure all soldiers hear the order, and everything in the courtyard, the assortment of fabric, metal and skin in motion, comes to a stop. In contrast to this, one of the figures that was taking shelter in the shade begins to move in long strides towards the stairs.

“At attention!”

Another wave of orders, and the sea of alphas before them all shift to stand perfectly straight, sheated weapons at their hips and their chins raised. The figure crosses into the sunlight, and Yeonjun recognizes Soobin under his helmet. The tassels on the sheath of his ceremonial sword flutter with the swift pace he has adopted, and in the relaxed atmosphere Yeonjun has come to associate with the estate, it seems almost amusing to him. The spring sun glistens off of the metal on his helmet, as if this were a battlefield, and not a lovely morning in their temporary home.

“Rest!” Soobin orders as he comes to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, facing the group of them. Behind him, the soldiers adopt a more obviously comfortable position, but the do not disperse, or move from where they stood. Sweat drips off of most of them, but they show no visible signs of discomfort. Alpha Taeyul stands among them, his sword sheathed as well, not quite holding the same pose, not quite standing out.

But someone moves – all the way across the courtyard, there is a glimpse of motion that Yeonjun looks away from Soobin to track with his eyes, only for his attention to be stolen back by Soobin addressing him directly.

“Your Grace.”

“Captain Soobin – you need not have stopped on our account; we did not mean to interrupt you. We were merely curious as to what was happening here – we heard you from the inner courtyard.”

They both have to raise their voices to speak to each other clearly from opposite ends of the stairs, and as a result, their voices echo through the walled-in courtyard.

“We apologize for interrupting your morning with the noise, Your Grace, ladies.”

“Not at all, Captain – but I wonder why we were not given notice that you would be training today. We could have come to encourage you and your soldiers much earlier.”

Soobin casts a look behind him, and his gaze meets Alpha Taeyul’s. “I am afraid it was an… unplanned matter. We have only decided upon it this morning over breakfast.” He looks at Yeonjun again, and his face winces with apology. “Had we known in advance, you would have been informed.”

“I take the blame for this entirely,” Taehyun’s voice rings out across the courtyard, and Yeonjun’s eyes are finally drawn to the figure weaving through the soldiers on its way to them again. “I encouraged this vehemently, for entirely selfish reasons.”

If Taehyun seemed lively the day before, today he glows. Bright-eyed, red-lipped. With messy hair that sticks to his neck with sweat. With sunlight gleaming off his bare chest that he makes no attempt to hide in front of the gathered ladies. He looks like a boy, youthful, light-footed and smiling.

Yeonjun finds looking at him painful, but he would find looking away from him even harder, so look at him he does. “And what would those be, my prince?”

In the mess of sweaty, agitated alpha scents, he finally finds the pleasant note of warm spices, and he clings to it for comfort as the prince proceeds towards Soobin’s side. “That I have not gotten to wield a sword in months. Captain Soobin does me the pleasure of sparring with me sometimes to keep me sharp, but with the times the way they are…” He tosses his head, as if careless, as if he was not speaking of any grave matters at all. “I have been neglecting the training I sorely need, lest I become one with the seat at my writing desk.”

Yeonjun’s ladies titter with amusement. He himself does not think he smiles.

Taehyun does not seem to mind; he comes to a halt next to Soobin, and brings one hand to rest on the hilt of his sword – it seems like a simple training blade, just like the ones his soldiers are carrying. No bells, no whistles – mourning pants and soldiers’ boots, a bare chest and a plain blade – if ever the prince could be passed off for a commoner, it would be at this moment.

To Yeonjun, he still seems royal – in his speech, the way he carries himself. The scar on his chest from Yeonjun’s own teeth and his golden, perfect confidence.

“I am afraid we stole the Alpha Taeyul from his studies to join us as well – I hope the honorable Lady Sangjun forgives us.”

Yeonjun can see the sudden relief in Taeyul’s posture – can feel the shift in Lady Sangjun behind him. Still rigid; displeased – but now politeness dictates that she let go of her anger completely, as to not act in opposition to the prince.

“Of course, Your Highness – I appreciate the wisdom of your decision. I only hope you have found the company of my son to your liking.”

Taehyun does not answer immediately. He looks behind himself at Alpha Taeyul, who reciprocates his look unsurely, before turning to Lady Sangjun. “Quite,” he says eventually, then smiles and inclines his head. “It has been an honor. I believe you have nothing to worry about when it comes to the future of your family, Lady Sangjun. It seems to lie in capable hands.”

Alpha Taeyul’s reaction is boyishly sweet – he seems so exceedingly grateful for being spoken of well in front of his mother that he looks to be on the verge of tears.

Lady Sangjun bows perhaps too deeply. “Thank you for your kind words, Your Highness.”

Taehyun inclines his head slightly. “Not at all, Lady Sangjun.” Then he looks over the gathering of Yeonjun’s ladies, before looking directly at Yeonjun again. “Wife – will you be joining us now, then? I believe we would be glad to have you. The presence of charming ladies may yet prove motivating to the troops.”

Yeonjun feels his heartbeat in his chest, childishly restless. Would the prince find his presence motivating? Would he want Yeonjun to look on as he spars, as he shows off his prowess with a sword? Would he want Yeonjun to be proud, to be afraid for his safety during such dangerous a pastime, would he look at him with the same bright eyes and ask for his approval?

A small scoff behind him brings him out of his childish thoughts. Beomgyu, who no doubts has many thoughts about the notion of ladies being used as something pretty for alphas to look at; someone to show off for.

“Perhaps it would be better if we did not – we may prove to be even greater a distraction than we have already been.”

Once again, Taehyun takes his time reacting. He keeps his eyes on Yeonjun, then lowers them to somewhere non-specific and nods his head. “Very well – do as you see fit. But first, please—”

Unexpectedly, he starts climbing the steps, and Yeonjun does not find the words to stop him until he is right before him. Where he seemed like a mirage of skin and sweat and spice before, now he seems painfully real and solid, standing in front of him. His scent is potent, and vigorous, and strong, and the mating scar on his chest shines like a beacon drawing Yeonjun’s eyes to it. Half naked and unashamed. Who is he? Surely not Yeonjun’s reserved, overly polite husband.

“We have not greeted each other yet today. We should remedy that.”

Asking for his scent again openly, instead of waiting for Yeonjun to offer it. Instead of taking it reluctantly; instead of hesitating. A terrible thing at the back of his mind tells him that if he were to deny the prince the privilege of it today, he would take it well, he would be composed and dignified in the face of it, and Yeonjun’s heart would break seeing it happen.

With his mouth pursed behind his veil, he extends a hand, and watches the play of muscle in his husband’s arm as he wipes sweat off his neck before bringing Yeonjun’s wrist to it. There is so much more muscle to him than it looks like there should be when he is clothed; what seems lean and unassuming about him under his robes is firm muscle and sinew. He still seems thinner than he was before – it reminds Yeonjun of how broken he seemed, not that long ago. Where did that pain go? Will it return as soon as the intoxication of Yeonjun’s preheat scent is gone? His eyes are drawn briefly to a long scab along his forearm where he cut himself to make the blood sacrifice – at least this seems to have all but healed already; the wound is perfectly clean, and seems to cause the prince no issue.

Taehyun closes his eyes when Yeonjun’s scent gland meets his own. He rolls them together, to the tune of pins and needles running up Yeonjun’s arm. He recalls all the little things Taehyun used to do – bring Yeonjun’s scent gland to his lips. Hold Yeonjun’s palm to his own cheek. Rub the back of his hand, hold it so gentle in his. Kiss him; his husband used to kiss him.

Yeonjun used to ask for it so carelessly – he saw it as a game between the two of them; he did not even dream of his husband’s affection for him being as sincere as it was. As deep. As serious. What were lighthearted, chaste kisses between distant yet affectionate spouses to Yeonjun were the tiny shreds of satisfaction keeping the prince’s hope alive all these years. How cruel was it of Yeonjun, to offer him those time and time again, to demand Taehyun do that do himself?

Kiss me, he think at his husband today with all his mind. Ask to kiss me. Demand it of me. Command me to.

Taehyun squeezes his fingers ligthly before letting his hand go. Then, in a quieter voice, he says, “I promised to spend more time in your company. Will you be spending your afternoon in the garden again?”

And there is no need anymore, is there? They know now, that Taehyun is not repulsed by his scent. Not terrified of coming close to him. He seems to feel no distress at all, even the distress he should. Perhaps that should worry them. Perhaps it should worry Yeonjun, specifically.

Instead of answering the question he is asked, Yeonjun replies, “Join us for lunch – in the dining hall.”

The prince looks back and forth between the gathered ladies – Yeonjun cannot quite tell what he is thinking. “How about the tea room in my quarters? It seems too spacious for me to never host anyone in them.”

“If you wish,” he acquiesces without a complaint – does it matter? It feels like it does. It feels so incredibly important, when coming from the lips of his alpha.

Taehyun nods, and looks at him briefly. “Then I will see you and the ladies at lunch. Please do enjoy your morning, all of you.”

He gives them a curt bow, and turns around to walk back down the steps. Yeonjun watches him leave with rapt attention – he is familiar with his bare back as well, somewhat less than his front, but it is not an unknown sight to him, either. He knows the lines of it, the dip of his spine and the span of his shoulders. He knows the strip of white stretching from his right hip towards the middle of his back – an old sparring scar, one that he has had since before they were married. To Yeonjun, it has always been as fundamental a part of him as his arm or his nose, but today, he does not enjoy the sight of it.

Today, he raises his voice to say, “Your Highness,” and his husband turns around, halfway down the steps, with his eyes narrowed in something that seems like displeased surprise. Yeonjun agreed he would not call him that anymore. It seems that he lied. “Please be careful.”

Taehyun looks him up and down, looks somewhere over his shoulder, possibly trying to catch Beomgyu’s eyes, then lowers his head, halfway turned away again as he replies. “I will, my love. Be well.”

And Yeonjun does not prompt his entourage to leave until Taehyun gets lost to his eyes again, and is nothing but a blur walking through the perfectly still rows of soldiers. He passes by Soobin without a glance or a word in his direction, and Soobin’s eyes turn to Yeonjun. There is something odd in them that Yeonjun does not feel like addressing. He nods at Soobin by way of goodbye, and leads his ladies away.

Beomgyu tries to catch his eyes as well, but Yeonjun avoids them.

 

.

 

The soldiers’ training proves to be a popular topic among Yeonjun’s ladies that morning, and the longer their conversations about it carry on, the more Yeonjun comes to believe that he had done his ladies a disservice by not letting them watch it take place themselves. It is amusing, to see all the angles they approach it from – one could assume that the interest of young ladies all but precluded from finding themselves partners would stray more often than not to the blatant display of alpha physicality that it was, but their discussions flow fluidly from one thing to the next – the wisdom of carrying out training in a sunny courtyard on a warm day; whether sword techniques seem to vary between what the troops are taught here in the north as opposed to in their home; how amusing it was to see Captain Soobin in his parade best doing very little but take shelter from the sun and watch his soldiers spar; Alpha Taeyul’s skill with a sword; the vague memories the ladies who grew up at the Court have of seeing the prince demonstrate his in public. There is the occasional mention of dashing good looks and bare chests, the charm of battle scars and a firm arm holding a sword – but they get about as much attention as anything else, interspersed in little swells of interest as the ladies make their meandering ways from one topic to another.

At some point, in the middle of merry conversation, Lady Miyeon takes her parasol and positions it like a sword above her head in a surprisingly true imitation of an actual swordsman and Beomgyu, always so quick to indulge the youngest lady when it comes to entertaining themselves childishly, points his own at her boldly. They play out a series of strikes, not unlike a scene from theater, and wood strikes wood loudly as they do, joining the sounds of metal still coming from the front courtyard.

Dasom laughs the loudest of all of them at the display, clapping at it. “Ah, moved on from wielding hairpins to parasols now, have you, Lady Miyeon?”

Miyeon takes it for the teasing jab it is, smiling at Dasom proudly as she settles her parasol daintily on her shoulder again. “In the absence of a sword, Lady Dasom, a lady must do what they can.”

“And it is as cowardly of them to not let you wield a sword, Lady Miyeon, as it is to not let you gamble with dice,” Beomgyu says resolutely, twirling his parasol around so quickly it seems like a nervous gesture.

“Oh, they all fear me,” Miyeon jokes back, drawing herself up tall despite her rather average stature.

“I believe they fear all of us,” Beomgyu argues, looking around at the gathered company. “After all, the voice of someone wielding a sword is that much harder to ignore. Perhaps they fear us making ourselves heard.” The words seem perhaps too harsh, and Beomgyu seems to realize it, because he shakes his head and casts his gaze off into the distance. “Could you imagine? An uprising of wives – a revolution of the ladies.”

This is spoken much more jokingly, and most of the ladies chuckle accordingly. Yeonjun, wanting to join in the conversations, offers a thoughtful pout.

“Perhaps many husbands worry they would not make it through the night, should their wives be given weapons to hold.”

Miyeon laughs, perhaps too boisterously. “Oh, Your Grace, perhaps His Highness does well to keep his skills with a sword sharp, then?”

Beomgyu casts a look at Yeonjun, one framed with raised eyebrows and curiosity. Yeonjun has never held anything more dangerous than a cooking knife in his hand – even as a boy, he never played with wooden swords with his alpha cousins, despite being invited to join. He has never had thoughts of violence. But perhaps Beomgyu would be inclined to judge Yeonjun by his own measure.

“Would he deserve such a fate?” Hayeong speaks up to the surprise of much everyone, and he blushes when everyone’s attention turns to him. “I mean, he seemed lovely this morning, did he not?” Yeonjun can all but see the vision of his husband, half-unclothed and bright, enter the young man’s mind before he covers his mouth as if he could push the words back down his own throat. “I mean… he… he spoke to you so pleasantly, Your Grace. That is all – surely it would be a shame to lose him.”

Yeonjun’s ladies look at him expectantly, while Lady Sangjun throws his son a withering look for speaking up in the first place. All Yeonjun can think of is the prince’s voice, calling him his love again. Sober, this time – but not any less careless than the first time. Selfish; what a selfish thing to call him. But to the eyes of a child, to the eyes of Hayeong who believes their story to be one of sweet romance and true adoration, it must seem so perfect. So lovely. So beautiful.

“Ah, you do not know marriage, Omega Hayeong,” Beomgyu speaks up for him before he can find the words to respond, and the attention of the group shifts to him, instead. He almost never brings up having been married in open company like this. “A wife is much like a tax official – always counting up debts that they are owed, and believe me, as the years go by, every husband finds themself in their wife’s debt, sooner or later. The only true question is how willing they are to pay one back without enforcement.” He turns his lovely eyes to Lady Sangjun, who seems a little disgusted – since Yeonjun shared with Hayeong that Beomgyu is a concubine, he has been regarding him differently; more coldly; more unwilling to even look at him. “Is that not correct, Lady Sangjun?”

Hayeong looks to his mother, who purses his narrow lips, seemingly unwilling to answer. Yeonjun lifts his chin.

“I would take note of Omega Beomgyu’s words, Omega Hayeong – he was once a wife as well. His experience on the matter has been invaluable to me myself.”

The boy’s wide eyes turn to Beomgyu, who gives him a small, proud smile. Hayeong seems in awe – perhaps he had never heard of widowed ladies ever becoming concubines in the first place.

“But— your husband—”

“Has been dead for many years now,” Beomgyu responds curtly without losing his smile. “Through no fault nor merit of His Highness.”

“But that is terrible!” Hayeong’s voice is high and stricken, and Beomgyu watches with amused condescension as the young omega covers his mouth again.

He twirls his parasol in the other direction, and only replies, “To some.”

 

.

 

Beomgyu’s brief interaction with Omega Hayeong spins Yeonjun’s mind in wild directions – after all, even if an heir to Taehyun’s name is born of the joining of him and Yeonjun, the intention is for Yeonjun to raise them with Beomgyu at his side. As a wet nurse, as a second mother, or merely as the mother’s dear friend and confidante. What motherhood does Beomgyu have to offer? He indulges Miyeon’s games, encourages her with his rivalry. He bestows his wisdoms as an elder, as someone wisened by life liberally. He challenges and teaches, he can be both whimsical and strict. Tender and affectionate one moment, and sober and reasonable the next. Perhaps he would be the perfect mother, even though from what he says, he has barely known the love of one. He would love his child sweetly, spoil them, play with them, encourage them, but he would not tolerate behavior he would deem unacceptable – he would teach lessons just as shrewd, just as blunt and jaded as the ones he strove to teach Yeonjun.

And he would nurture a child just like him – with a brilliant, open mind, but one far from naïve.

The thought makes his heart so tender, he forgets to dread having to meet with his husband for lunch entirely. He dresses for it, repaints his face carefully, dons his pretty headpiece of white flowers, but his mind is on Beomgyu. With a child on his hip; a child’s hand in his. Smiling as he plays with them; talks with them; sits with them. Not infrequently, his mind wanders in odd directions too, to a Beomgyu whose scent would shift to accomodate another. To a Beomgyu who would grow plump and swollen, aching and glowing. To a Beomgyu who would carry a child.

But that will not happen – not if Yeonjun can help it. He will not allow it; he will not allow Beomgyu to let it happen to his body for Yeonjun’s sake. Motherhood should be beautiful; motherhood should be craved, wanted, treasured, adored. It is a privilege, not a burden. It should never be a burden. It should not be a sacrifice for anyone’s sake.

These are the thoughts his mind is filled with as they enter the prince’s quarters – children, motherhood, pregnancy. Beomgyu.

This time, Taehyun is waiting for them already in his waiting room – fully dressed now, but flushed. He seems freshly bathed, pristine, with wet hair and clean, unmuddled scent.

Sweet fruit and warm spice entwine, like a warm drink that comforts through winter. Would their child inherit Taehyun’s note of spices? Or Yeonjun’s tone of fruit? Or will their scent be lighter, fresher, more carefree than either of them?

Yeonjun looks at his husband’s face, and is surprised by the somber expression on it – Taehyun has been so joyful lately; what is on his mind?

He offers his wrist before Taehyun can ask for it. His husband accepts it like a man resigned to his own sordid desires. Like the comfort he finds in Yeonjun’s scent pains him even as he needs it too badly to refuse it. What happened? He does not ask, and Taehyun does not offer. He invites Yeonjun and the ladies to the dining room, and they follow him there, spreading out along the wide table. Yeonjun hesitates to assign a lady to Taehyun’s service, and the prince reaches for his plate, somewhat uncouthly, before he decides which one to give the honor. Yeonjun drops his eyes to the table. There is a bright red pot resting on it again, and Beomgyu claims the seat in front of it without asking. He does his ritual, quietly, as inconspicuously as possible, and uncovers the pot to share the blessing of sweets inside it with the ladies around him. At his side, Dayeon prepares him food without needing to be prompted. Yeonjun whispers her a few words of gratitude once she is done.

The prince stays relatively silent as he eats. He watches the ladies make their usual light conversation, joining in now and then with polite contributions of his own, but he slips from one conversation to the next without engaging fully in any of them. He does not look in Yeonjun’s direction.

And Yeonjun wonders; what Taehyun is feeling, what he is thinking. He smells faintly bitter, but not overwhelmingly stale. Unhappy, but not miserable for once. Has he, if only for a moment, contemplated his part in this sordid duty? Has he thought of fatherhood at all? How does the thought of it make him feel?

Taehyun, he wants to say, but instead he says, “My prince.”

And the room goes silent out of respect.

“Yes.”

“I have a question, perhaps an odd one, but the matter has been on my mind.”

Beomgyu and Yeonjun were both taken from their homes while young, to enjoy strict education. As far as Yeonjun knows, Taehyun has never really lived in the Kang ancestral home in the first place. He was born, raised and educated at the Court, with his father and mother always at his side.

“Go ahead.” Taehyun shows no sign of distress or displeasure – he shows no sign of anything.

Even though they have spend much of their childhoods in one another’s close proximity, Yeonjun has never really known much about his husband’s – only as much as he and Soobin shared in lighthearted anecdotes from their youth. He never knew what Taehyun’s life was like at his parents’ side; of his mother’s affliction or his father’s temperament. Only now that he knows much more than he used to, does he truly realize how little Taehyun spoke of his upbringing.

“I know that you were cared for by Master Minhyuk for much of your childhood, but you have never spoken to me of anyone else who raised you – a nurse, a mentor or a teacher. Surely there must have been someone. Your father was surely too occupied with his station to educate you himself.”

Most noble children had someone of the sort. Outside of tutors and teachers who taught them letters and manners, there tended to be someone close to them – someone with much care and investment in their future, with love for them, even. Yeonjun had his nurse when he was a boy, a kindly old omega who served as his personal servant, teacher and companion when necessary, and his aunt at the court, who acted as his mentor, protector, sponsor and chaperone.

His husband looks at him – placidly, searchingly – then nods his head and lowers his gaze again. “Of course,” he says simply, curtly. “Of course there were. My mother and father certainly did not tend to me at all hours of the day themselves.” The words seem dismissive, but his tone does not. He almost mumbles as he speaks, as if the words were not entirely worthy of being enunciated properly. “I suppose the lack of reference to any one of them was not as much a matter of scarcity as a matter of abundance.” Taehyun picks up a cup of flower-infused water and brings it to his lips with another long look at Yeonjun, but fails to actually drink. “There were many that served as my caretakers throughout the years – too many for any of them to be of particular note.”

Yeonjun watches with raised eyebrows as the prince finally takes a polite drink and sets his cup aside. “Were you a difficult child to raise, then? Was that the reason why so many caretakers were needed?”

With a huff, the prince’s careful neutrality breaks under the weight of a small smile. “I suppose you had better ask Minhyuk about that – I believe he would have much to say on the matter, very little of it flattering.” The gathered company rustles with amusement, but Taehyun’s face slowly loses its joviality again. “But no – as far as I know, it was not an issue of necessity, but a calculated decision on Father’s part.”

His own face crumples in confusion. “To what end, possibly?”

Taehyun looks at him directly, thoughtfully. “Have you ever heard of the tales of Lady Yunseo? The Green Lady Seoyoung? Of Madame Hong?” He casts a look around the table, at the curious eyes of Yeonjun’s ladies, and sighs, leaning back in his chair, resting his hands on the armrests. “All tales of wet nurses so influential on the alphas they lent their breast to, that in their mind, they overshadowed all other mentors; all other influences; all other loyalties. The Master Hwa Gunwoo, who became the puppetmaster of the young lord he mentored, and all but ruled his lands for him until the master himself died of old age. The Master Yon Ilseong, who stoked a war by speaking to a young emperor Kang Cheongyul and nearly brought the Empire to ruin. You may not have heard of all of them, but my father certainly did, and he believed himself to be a diligent student when it came to the failures of others.” Something tugs at the corner of the prince’s mouth, altogether mirthless. “He abhorred the idea of his own child being taken from him in this way by a nurse; by a wiseman. He wanted me to understand where my loyalties were to lie, from the day I was born, to the day I died. So he made sure nobody was kept around too long – at least until I was old enough that he trusted me to understand that the only alpha I was to look up to was he himself – no, that the only person I was to look up to was he himself. That he was the only person who was to matter to me. Not any caretaker, no teacher, no mentor, not even my own mother – she could not be trusted. She was against us, like everyone else was in his eyes. All of them, distractions – from what really mattered. Our own advancement. Our future. Our interests.”

Yeonjun stares at him – at the look of disgust on his face, the note of derision in his tone. Open – more open than it should be; reckless, thoughtless with something desperate. The same resentment that made Beomgyu speak so bluntly about the death of his husband, surely. The aimless anger Beomgyu spoke of – there is no one left to blame but the memory of a harm that was done long ago.

And it was harm, was it not? To take a young child and since a tender age impose upon them a philosophy of solitude. Of isolation. To make yourself their only haven in a world of no certainties, no permanence, only to ensure that they would be absolutely loyal to you. But it did not work, did it? Taehyun cared, about many people aside from his father. He cared about many people his father never approved of him caring for in the first place. His mother. Soobin. Yeonjun himself. All of them were forbidden, if Taehyun is to be believed, but in the same breath, Yeonjun knows his husband would call them the most important.

Perhaps that was just it – these rebellions, these connections; perhaps all that his father’s attempts at making him feel alone caused was that he clung all the more strongly to everyone who somehow reached out to him through the bars of this arbitrary cage. His mother, whose connection to him could not be denied no matter how desperate his father was to sever it. Soobin, who offered him true friendship and sincere company. And Yeonjun, who… whose very existence spoke to the prince. Who spoke to the alpha inside the prince, and its need for a mate. For a companion who would soothe both body and mind.

When Taehyun spoke to Iseul, he spoke condescendingly of the royal family not understanding the meaning of friendship. Of true, genuine connection with no ulterior motives. Yeonjun thought then he understood the implication, the need for caution when one is constantly surrounded by those who would take advantage of their kindness, of their favor, to further themselves before discarding them again once they served their purpose at best, or betraying them at worst. But perhaps there was more to it – perhaps there was always more to it. The same paranoia that gripped Kang Jeongyul, spread through the family like a disease. The fear of outside influences, the reluctance to regard anyone outside of the family as anything but a tool or an enemy. Somewhere in there blood, alongside the wit and the slender frames. With the royalty of their manner and the shrewdness of their character. Perhaps a madness in itself, or an abundance of reason. An adage repeated so many times it loses all sense, all meaning.

And Yeonjun feels ill at the thought of it – of it being done to anyone; of it being done to Taehyun. Of it being repeated with his own child.

“What of,” he speaks up, and his own voice sounds weak; broken by the weight of the prince’s confession. He spoke it so bluntly – so openly. In front of all of Yeonjun’s ladies. “What of Master Minhyuk, then? He has been with you since your early childhood, was he not?”

The prince nods with a huff. Yeonjun casts a subtle look around the table – the ladies watch him with some apprehension on their faces. Some with something like concern, some with something like pity. Lady Soojin is frowning; Beomgyu is stone-faced but obviously riveted.

“Indeed – Father…” Taehyun shakes his head. “He never saw Minhyuk as a threat to himself. An unlearned beta who would clothe me, feed me and wrangle me to make sure I attended my lessons and washed my hands? How could I possibly form a bond with a man who is nothing but the spoon bringing rice to my mouth? The whip urging me to hurry to my appointments?” He pouts, and huffs again – scoffs. “I believe in some way my father had a somewhat childish view of affection. He believed it to be a phenomenon of nature very much the same way a river would be – that it would occur inevitably, but if one built a path for it to follow, it would flow perfectly according to his design, exactly the way he wanted for it to.”

The prince never spoke this disrespectfully of his father in a setting this open – before this many people from outside of his family. Yeonjun’s ladies seem a bit appalled – is this how the prince chooses to be? Still wearing his mourning clothes yet already speaking ill of the dead?

But can Yeonjun blame him? He never blamed Beomgyu for his bitterness. For the disdain he spoke of those who wronged him with. Is Taehyun not to be afforded the same grace, merely because his transgressor was the Emperor himself? Because it was his own father?

“Rivers spill outside of their beds all the time,” Beomgyu says loudly, but gently, as if only voicing an insignificant stray thought. “A judicious man always expects a flood to come one day when building his house at the shores of one.”

Taehyun looks at Beomgyu, and his eyes are sober; somber; serious. He leans his cheek on the knuckles of one hand as he regards him. “Indeed. One would think a wise man would be in possession of the same foresight.”

“Wise men can often become blinded by their own intellect,” Lady Soojin says quietly, yet the words do not get lost in the quiet dining room. Nobody is eating. Everyone is watching the prince, studying him. Perhaps seeing him for the first time through entirely new eyes.

The prince shifts his eyes to him, and gives him a slow nod. “Well said, Lady Soojin.”

“Do you not intend to raise your own child the same way then?” Dayeon speaks up then. It is as if Yeonjun’s ladies suddenly woke up with the sound of Beomgyu’s bold voice, one by one.

Although she is on the prince’s other side from Beomgyu and Soojin, Taehyun does not shift his cheek away from his hand, only casts his eyes in Dayeon’s direction. As if the question did not matter to him in the slightest, was not worth moving his head for. “No, Lady Dayeon,” he answers, perhaps too harshly. Dayeon immediately looks away in discomfort. “I would rather my child loved me of their own accord, not because I have stripped them of any other option.”

“You loved your father, then,” Yeonjun says, just as gently as Beomgyu spoke – it is merely a thought spoken out loud.

Taehyun looks at him, and his gaze is followed by a gust of stale spice. “Of course I loved my father, wife. I was a son of his blood. His pride and joy. Perhaps the only one he had in this world.”

And Yeonjun can think of nothing but the severe way his father spoke to him. His anger. His frustration. His disgust at the way Taehyun behaved himself, in his father’s eyes recklessly, foolishly, in complete disregard of everything his father had ever done for him. And his father had done much – he had done things for Taehyun most Emperors would not dare. Put a boy on his advisory council. Give him estate and money and title to hold in his own right instead of merely using him to keep up Kang family property. He had one true alpha heir, and he poured everything he had into making him the perfect one. Education, money; careful, shrewd, cold-blooded strategy. Harsh lessons and an infinite patience with his failings. In the Emperor’s own eyes, surely he was the perfect father. Infinitely wise, infinitely kind. Indulgent but strict where it mattered. Cold but generous.

Yeonjun looks away, and Taehyun looks to his own lap.

“His Imperial Majesty loved you dearly, it was obvious to anyone who saw the two of you together,” Dasom says gently, and it is so obvious that she is attempting to be kind and encouraging that the sound of it is almost painful to Yeonjun.

And Taehyun, who seems to grow even staler as his eyes do not leave the rough fabric of his own mourning robes, seems to feel much the same. “Thank you, Lady Dasom. It is very kind of you to say.”

There are tears in the prince’s eyes – obviously, visibly. Have they ever seen him lose composure before? He always kept his cool around his subjects. But now. With this…

“Husband.”

Not my prince. Not Your Highness. Not Taehyun.

Taehyun looks at him with brilliant, pained eyes.

“Please wait here a moment. I will return promptly.”

The prince blinks hard, and a tear worms its way out the corner of his eyes. “I… of course. Please.”

He stares at Yeonjun in confusion, and he attempts not to lose his courage as the entire room’s attention turns to him as he stands up, neat and proper, and offers his husband a small bow before leaving the room. The guards stationed in the corridor today look at him oddly, but he ignores them as he strides confidently into the prince’s study. There is a pile of paper on his writing desk, haphazardly arranged – correspondence, or notes for his proposal, surely, and atop it, something Yeonjun never assumed he would see again.

A neatly wound wreath of white flowers. The one Taehyun made while waiting for Beomgyu – the one Beomgyu giften him in return. Innocently resting on the prince’s desk like a pretty paperweight. Yeonjun’s throat tightens, but he cannot lose this sudden stroke of bravery now; not because of this.

He walks past the desk, to the cabinet, to a delicately decorated carafe. He takes it along with the cup resting upside down atop it like a makeshift lid, and takes it out of the study, carries it all the way to the tea room, which is just as silent as he had left it. The ladies stare at him, most of them uncomprehendingly, but there is recognition in Beomgyu’s eyes; in Miyeon’s. In Taehyun’s.

His husband stares at him miserably; needily; hopefully. Pathetically. And Yeonjun rounds the entire wide table, just to sit at his husband’s side, as if getting ready to serve him. Taehyun smells even worse from up close – bitter and stale and miserable.

Yeonjun pours a cup of wine – it is fragrant; unmistakable. Everyone present will know of this breaking of the mourning traditions.

“I thought you did not approve,” Taehyun says at a whisper, confused, unsettled.

Yeonjun holds his eyes as he lifts the cup to his own mouth to take a sip, then offers it to him. Like a cup shared at a wedding. Like two lovers sharing wine in private. Like a husband and wife, drinking together, like the two of them did so many times now.

A shared sin, before the ladies gathered before them. Blame equally shouldered. As it should be.

Taehyun takes the cup from his fingers, and presses his own lips to the white stain left behind by Yeonjun’s own. He does not take his eyes off of Yeonjun’s as he does. His scent shifts again; it begins to clear, as he finishes the cup, looks at the empty bottom of it, and hands it back to his wife.

“More?” he asks, but Taehyun shakes his head.

“No, wife, thank you.”

Yeonjun puts the cup upside down on the carafe, the way it rested before. He takes a deep breath of still slightly bitter spice. His throat catches on it, the feeling of it in his lungs upsetting.

Against his better judgment, he keeps one hand on the carafe but offers the other one to the prince. Taehyun stares at it for a long moment, then looks at Yeonjun, and when he does not withdraw it, he takes it in his own.

And instead of scenting him, he kisses Yeonjun’s wrist. His lips are wet, and the kiss lingering, drawn out. Not a brief peck, but not something untoward and overly intimate, either. The prince closes his eyes, and breathes in with his lips on Yeonjun’s skin. Then he turns Yeonjun’s hand and kisses his knuckles, his lips actually touching them this time, but this kiss is fleeting, and over before Yeonjun can truly register it.

He squeezes Yeonjun’s fingers, carries his hand back away from his own body, and lets it go.

Yeonjun watches his throat bob with a swallow. Then a brief, pained smile crosses his face.

“I believe I am done embarrassing you now,” he says quietly, but surely most of the ladies hear him, anyway.

He cannot think of anything to say – he should deny it; say something compassionate, something polite.

“Thank you, wife,” Taehyun adds when Yeonjun says nothing yet fails to move away. “You were perfectly lovely, as always.”

It is spoken warmly, but to Yeonjun the words feel like a shove – they are meant to push him away; to put distance between them again. And Yeonjun does not want it there. Not now. Not today. Not after this. Not when his mate’s scent is only just beginning to heal.

So he does something unwise; something reckless, something so selfish.

He leans over the arm rest of his husband’s seat, presses his palm to Taehyun’s cheek and kisses him on the lips.

The prince startles, rears back in surprise at the gesture. His scent spikes oddly and he gasps, and every breath that comes from him afterwards comes ragged. His eyes glide down Yeonjun’s body. Yeonjun notes something oddly sweet in the air, then something ticklish, stinging.

Pepper.

“I believe this is unwise in polite company at this time,” the prince rambles out, still leaned away from him in the seat. Yeonjun sits back on his heels, stunned, breathing hard himself.

“I… I forgot that I am afflicted. Forgive me.”

Taehyun clears his throat loudly, and turns his entire face away from Yeonjun as he shifts in his seat. “You are forgiven, but, please.”

“Of course,” Yeonjun says flatly, quietly. Pepper lingers around him, such a sweet answer to the sugar crusted over his own scent. It hurts to see his husband reject it. To force him to ignore it. To force himself to ignore it. “It will not happen again.”

His husband gives a single nod without looking at him. Yeonjun sits the carafe on the table before him, and rises from the seat he took next to the prince to return to his own.

Beomgyu’s eyes are on him, even though his husband’s are not. Between the two of them, Yeonjun could choke on his own bitter guilt.

 

.

 

“We should speak privately.”

Yeonjun thinks he looks afraid, because Taehyun’s expression turns warm and reassuring as he stares at him with wide eyes. The ladies watch Yeonjun carefully. They were just getting ready to leave, Taehyun followed them to his waiting room and now they just gathered to say their goodbyes.

But it is not yet to be; because Yeonjun is petty and disobedient, but he will not tell his husband no today.

“Yes.”

The ladies bow, one by one. Beomgyu hesitates. Taehyun meets his eyes, and it seems as if he is asking for permission. Yeonjun cannot see Beomgyu’s reaction behind him.

Still, he says, “Leave us. All of you.”

And he does not cast a look at his lover as he and the ladies vacate the room, until it is only him and the prince again, two people alone in a too-large room. Still, they remain close, just a few steps away from each other. Taehyun does not look, or wander away. He is completely, totally, focused on Yeonjun.

He smells neutral now; most traces of bitterness or pepper are gone now. His scent is muddled, but not unpleasant.

“Thank you,” are the first words out of his mouth. “I do not know what I would have done, had you not intervened.”

Yeonjun looks away immediately. “I did what I had to do.”

His husband shakes his head. “You were under no obligation to comfort me. It was an act of kindness on your part, and you know this. So thank you.”

He shrugs his shoulders. Taehyun’s chest heaves with a deep breath.

“And I apologize – for reacting the way I did to your closeness. I…” he shakes his head again, more vigorously this time. “I suppose I became cocky, with how… easy it has been to be near you like this. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. I forgot myself. I forgot to control myself; keep myself in check. And I embarrassed you again, in front of everyone. It was my fault entirely.”

Yeonjun looks down at the floor beside himself. Licks his lips. Tastes warm spice on his tongue. “I was the one who kissed you.”

Seemingly uncomfortable, Taehyun crosses his arms in front of his chest. Yeonjun imagines it bare again, corded muscle, scars, warm skin pale from all the hours spent bent over his writing desk. “I do not begrudge you the urge; I understand it.”

He closes his eyes against the wave of something those words make him feel. A restless itch. A warm satisfaction. Discomfort. Something in between all of those things. “You feel the urge to kiss me?”

His gaze meets the prince’s directly. Taehyun looks at his lips, then meets his eyes again. “More often than I do not, especially with you as close as you were.”

Then kiss me again, Yeonjun’s instincts urge him to demand; to beg if his request is not granted. “Taehyun.”

“What?” His husband scoffs, oddly lighthearted. “It is uncomfortable; not untrue.”

He bites hard at his lips. Taehyun looks at them, then looks away finally.

“I am sure Omega Beomgyu forgives you as well.”

Yeonjun purses his lips. “I told you I had his permission to stay a wife to you with all that it would entail.”

Taehyun shakes his head. “And he has my permission to be as possessive of you as he chooses to. But some things cannot be helped.”

“You think I kissed you because you are my alpha?”

Did he? Was his action entirely fuelled by the oncoming heat? He does not believe that – he does not want to.

The prince winces. “Because we are mated, yes.”

And Yeonjun is not sure what possesses him to do it, maybe some desperate urge to be understood, because instead of letting his husband believe this blissfully, ignorantly, instead of becoming petty and clamming up, he says. “You were dismissive of me. I wanted you to…” he pauses. Pay attention to me more? Acknowledge me?

“I did not mean to be.”

“Yes you did – I comforted you, and you were done with me, so you dismissed me.”

Taehyun looks hurt when their eyes meet. “I meant to show you I was well; that your assistance was not needed.”

“What if I wanted to stay at your side?”

“Did you?”

Yeonjun falls silent. Taehyun unfolds his hands and refolds them behind his back instead, stretches awkwardly in the silence, shifts on his feet.

“This is not what I asked you to stay behind to discuss.”

Yeonjun lifts a hand to his head, pressing the tips of his fingers to his hairline. “What is it, then?”

Taehyun sighs. “Perhaps what this is is the worst time I could have possibly chosen to say this.”

And the wryness of his tone lightens Yeonjun’s mind a little bit, and he finds it easier to breathe. “It seems we become distracted too easily.”

A smile tugs at his husband’s mouth. “It seems that way.”

Yeonjun folds his hands in front of himself again. “Go ahead.”

Taehyun’s eyes flick back and forth as he considers his words. “First, I need you to not misunderstand me – not to take it as anything else than it is: an offer made to you in friendship.”

He clicks his tongue. “I will not like this.”

And to his credit, Taehyun smiles again as he shakes his head. “You will not.”

“So why say it?”

“Because I have to. Because it is imperative to me that you consider it.”

Yeonjun shakes his head. “What, then?”

“Yeonjun, if—” the prince pauses, having thoroughly startled him by using his name so bluntly again. “If we put our faith in my proposal. If we think it in any way viable.” He cocks his chin. “You do not have to give yourself to me this heat.”

And Yeonjun understands now the need for such wide a preamble. Because Taehyun knows now that his first thought will be that Taehyun wants to get away from having to take him; that he does not want him; that he finds him disgusting. But for his own sake, and for Taehyun’s, he tries to look past the stab in his chest, at the reality of his situation.

If Taehyun’s law is to be accepted by his uncle, if it comes to be passed – ifs so broad, so unthinkably tenuous that they are barely worth consideration – then, and only then will it be safe for Yeonjun to keep his heat his own. To not bear children. To stay as far away from his husband as he thought he wishes to be. As far away as Taehyun wants him.

But there is an option, a hope, tenuous but with some weight behind it. Of Miyeon’s faith, of Beomgyu’s, of Taehyun’s. And so, so reluctantly, of his own.

Taehyun must see his resolve breaking, because he takes a half-step closer, speaks a bit more vehemently. “If you change your mind tomorrow. If you change it as soon as your heat starts. If you change it while I’m in your bed, while I am halfway inside you—” the prince obviously flusters himself with the words, and Yeonjun would find it amusing if he was not affected as well. “I want this to be your guarantee. Your way out. At any point. You change your mind, and we choose to trust in the wisdom of the council.”

“And you trust yourself to do that – just like that? Just to stop whenever you choose to, after all the fuss you have made about not trusting yourself to resist me?”

The prince looks down, at Yeonjun’s neck, perhaps; at his lips. “The way your preheat has been progressing has had me reconsider some things – perhaps I misunderstood myself, or misunderstood the nature of a mating bond. I do not feel the way I always thought I would; or the way I always feared I would. Between all the horrid options my own mind provided me of what this would feel like, to be close to you like this, it seems that the truth is to be the most merciful out of all of them.”

That he feels energized. Comfortable in his skin. Confident. An alpha glowing with the knowledge of the sweetness that is ripening itself for him to devour soon. To take. To overwhelm. To cherish.

He looks away again, at the leaping tiger beside them with its brilliant gleaming eye. “You do not feel the way you did around Omega Beomgyu, then.”

Taehyun’s eyes leave Yeonjun completely, or perhaps settle at the hem of his robes, at his feet. “No. Perhaps he was right, and my resolve when it comes to you is altogether different than my resolve when it comes to him. Or it is merely…” he shakes his head. “That our bond was never sealed. So while—” he cuts himself off abruptly, and looks up into Yeonjun’s eyes, who meets them reluctantly. “While what comes to mind with his scent around me is all the pain and devastation I could cause to his body – all that my instincts urge me to do, all that the alpha inside me feels when it is you is…” He huffs, and lowers his eyes again. “Forgive my alpha the foolish notion, but that you are mine. That you are healthy, and beautiful, and perfect. And that I am perfectly suited to you. To soothing you. To pleasing you. I feel… fulfilled, in a way, in the knowledge that it will be my time to be needed soon. And while I may think otherwise, my insticts believe singlemindedly that I could never possibly fail you in that regard. I can make you feel good. I can take all your pain away. I—”

Pepper again. On his tongue and in the air. The sugar in his scent coils around it, the fruit of it ripens.

And Yeonjun thinks about being full. Being sated. The prize, his reward for seven years of faithful service, of unwavering, unreasonable, undeserved loyalty, oozing out of him. Dripping down onto sheets drenched in slick and sweat. Undignified, unpleasant – only grand in theory, only significant in the implications it may have for their future. So tasteless, so messy, so filthy in its physical nature. Taehyun, all over. Useful and useless. And the only line between the act being something wanton and being something perfect the result of it. His husband enters him the same, whether he fathers a child or not. Holds him. Bites him. Spills all over him.

His mind is full of it now – and surely, with the way the prince’s eyes linger on him, intent but unseeing, with the smell of him in the air, his is as well.

“You trust yourself with me now.”

He nods. “I will not fail you. It is not an option.”

Cocky, now – with something Yeonjun’s scent fills him with. Confidence, possessiveness. Devotion, maybe.

And his scent in turn fills Yeonjun with something that has him stepping forward boldly – and for once, the prince does not back down at the sight of it.

“You will not fail me.” His lips feel numb. He feels desperate and hazy.

“No.”

“You will sire a child, then.”

Taehyun does not answer, only swallows. Yeonjun comes even closer – too close. Inappropriately close. Or perhaps just close enough for a wife. Should spouses not be able to taste one another’s breath? Feel one another’s warmth? He believes now they should. The want that makes his teeth hurt, his chest ache, his sex throb, makes him believe they must.

“Because that is what I want. What I need. To be so full of you until there is no doubt – until either we produce a child, or I will know that you are just as impotent as you seem. I want you to make me believe you are an alpha again. Show me. Show me you are capable of more than childish fumbling. Of using your mouth on me because you are afraid to take your cock out. Because you are afraid you are not enough to please me. Because you are not, and we both know this.” He does not mean a word of it. But it feels right, it feels exciting, it feels heated on his tongue, and he can taste the way his husband responds to it. The lick of flame where there was a smoulder. A rush of pepper where there was a faint trace of it. A blaze in his eyes where there was a glow. “You do not deserve to father this child.” He wants the prince to show him that he does. “You don’t deserve to touch me. You are not worthy of being my alpha. Of being my lover. Of being in my bed at all.”

“I will,” Taehyun breathes out between one heaving pant and the next.

“You will?” He tilts his head. Like this, there is a fraction of a moment between them and falling into a kiss. Into an embrace. Into each other. “How? With what? I’ve seen you. I’ve seen your body before – I’ve seen your pride. It is barely enough to impress a child – how would it be enough to impress me?”

He gives Taehyun’s loins a scornful look, but when he raises his eyes to the prince’s again, he is met with something warm. Something fond. Amusement.

“You enjoy this. Berating me like this.”

And, caught, all he can do is look away, but all it does is bare his neck for his husband to see – Taehyun’s eyes linger on the source of his sugary scent, and he feels himself shivering. “I enjoyed it more when it was enough to make you act.”

His husband swallows again. The inside of his mouth must be coated with the smell of them. Crushed fruit and peppery spice, all around them, heavy and suffocating. Insistent.

“Is that not a convincing enough show of my self-control?”

“I thought you said you did not have any around me.”

Taehyun licks his lips. “It would not be the first skill I have mastered for your benefit.”

And Yeonjun stares at the wet sheen coating the lips he remembers so vividly doing terrible and wonderful things to his body. “You frustrate me.”

“I know. I feel the same.”

No he does not. If he felt anything as crushing as what Yeonjun does, it would be him diving across the slim distance separating them to press their lips together. It would be Taehyun’s hands gripping at Yeonjun’s clothes, and not the other way around. He reciprocates the pressure of Yeonjun's lips, but keeps his hands behind his back. He breathes hot and ragged over Yeonjun’s chin, but does not move back in to kiss him more. His eyes are shut when Yeonjun pulls back. He does not open them, but he hears Taehyun forcibly level out his breathing. Careful. Measured. Still as a statue.

“Do you feel reassured now?”

Yeonjun feels insulted – by the question; by this very situation. But he nods as Taehyun opens his eyes again. His husband nods back.

“I apologize.”

He bites his lip hard to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “For what?”

“For what my scent has done to you – perhaps it would have been wiser for us to stay as far apart from one another as we could until it was time, as soon as I realized the scent of you pleased me.”

But all Yeonjun hears is that his alpha was pleased. That he enjoyed his company; wanted it; craved it.

“No. I want to please you.”

“See? In your right mind you would have said nothing of the sort.”

“I would have meant it, and you never would have heard me.”

“Go, Yeonjun. Omega Beomgyu waits for you.”

Instead, Yeonjun leans in to kiss him again, and Taehyun, to his credit, allows him to. Again, and again.

“Give him two for every one you gave me.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. Their faces remain close. “Do not tell me what to do with my own lover.”

And the prince’s breath hits Yeonjun’s face as he hufs. “This sounds more like you. Are you feeling better?”

“I was not unwell.”

“Whatever you say.”

Yeonjun meets his eyes, with barely any space between them. Taehyun’s are steady, and firm, and terribly warm. Taehyun loves him, adores him, wants him. He would take a hundred kisses without putting his hands on him if it made Yeonjun believe that he could be trusted with his body, that he would never violate it, never sully the questionable sanctity it still retains.

Taehyun nods. Yeonjun nods as well.

“Have a pleasant afternoon, wife,” his husband says mildly.

And slowly, Yeonjun lets go of the jacket he has been clinging to so desperately.

“Likewise, husband.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun flutters a fan to cool his burning cheeks. The warmth of the day intertwines with the warmth his own body produces, and makes him feel sluggish and uncomfortable. He has been sitting down throughout the afternoon more often than not again – and the few times he stood up to join his ladies in some activity, small trickles of slick have poured out of him, unbidden. His heat is coming on mercilessly, bringing with it the usual inconvenience and discomfort. He is only glad nobody is asking him to mask his scent at this estate – if he had to suppress his scent now he thinks he might spend the entire day emptying his insides and crying in his bed. As it is, he has pleasant company to his misery. His ladies and Omega Hayeong, who teaches them games young omegas play at the Court these days, regales them with gossip about people they have never met and amusing or flustering stories of lovely and disastrous courtships, rivalries and friendships.

It seems to Yeonjun that he has bloomed in the company of Yeonjun’s ladies, slowly blossoming from the shy bud hidden behind his mother’s back into a flower standing entirely on his own – and perhaps this is the way he has always been, the way he always is, at the Court, in the presence of his friends or of the lady Ahn Chaeju. Wherever his mother is not there to smother him. Smiling and shy in a boyish way, joyful but somewhat reserved. So terribly interested in matters of romance when it comes to others, yet tight-lipped and bashful when asked if he has been courted himself. A lovely child, who will one day make a lovely wife.

Yeonjun should ensure it – or rather, he should ensure that Taehyun ensures it. Sponsor Hayeong’s dowry, or suggest a fitting match. Yeonjun would prefer the former to the latter – Hayeong deserves the benefit of choice, knowing he has ample dowry to offer; something not many omegas from families like Hayeong’s are afforded. Something Yeonjun himself would have struggled with, were he not so lucky.

Or he would have married Myeongjin, and suffered the same fate as Nayoon. Or not suffered at all, trained by his aunt too well to see an issue, to raise a fuss, to complain. And he would think disdainfully until now about omegas like Beomgyu, perhaps even Miyeon, or Nayoon herself. He would be strict, and bitter, and raise unhappy, sheltered children. He would smother them just like Lady Sangjun smothered his, and they would grow to either fear him or despise him. Or both.

“Your Grace.”

He looks up from his distraction to the tall figure of Soobin. His parade clothes are off now, replaced with his regular officer’s uniform, and there is no particular expression on his face aside from a polite, friendly affect.

“Captain Soobin! To what do we owe the pleasure? Come, sit!”

“It is a nice day, Your Grace,” Soobin says mildly, taking the seat next to him. “And you are the only one wise enough to take advantage of it in its entirety.”

They are too close, perhaps. Too close for an alpha and an omega who are not involved while the omega is approaching heat, but Soobin seems entirely unbothered. If Yeonjun’s scent is too potent, unpleasantly stinging to his nose, then Soobin shows no sign of it, and it is more than obvious, from the steadiness of his scent, the disaffected manner he sits with, that he is not tempted by it in the slightest.

Yeonjun should have known – should have noticed. It seems so obvious now that he knows what signs to look for.

“I am well-known for my good judgement and wisdom,” he says with a playful haughtiness, and Soobin smiles in return.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

His eyes flit accross Yeonjun’s face, taking in his hot cheeks, the sheen covering his eyes, his weak grip on his fan, and his brow furrows. He seems concerned for Yeonjun, but this is normal. This is how it always is. So he rushes to say something to distract from his affliction.

“We missed you at lunch today.”

Taehyun mentioned something about Soobin spending the time going over his observations of their training with the troops instead. Yeonjun did not envy him – out of all of Soobin’s duties, standing before rows upon rows of alphas having to yell at them about all their faults perhaps seemed the most distasteful. It could not have been easy for someone of Soobin’s character, but he seems well – perhaps he took time to rest before joining them.

Soobin hums neutrally, and casts a look off towards the willows lining the pond. There is almost no wind, so the branches are as still as the air around them. “With all due respect, Your Grace, that is not what I have heard from your husband.”

Yeonjun stills, the motion of his fan pausing, then he presses the edge of it to his nose, hiding the bottom part of his face. “Well, perhaps any unpleasantness that entailed could have been avoided if you were present, Captain.”

With his eyebrows raised all the way, Soobin casts a doubtful look at Yeonjun, who only watches him with wide eyes without showing any more of his face. “Your Grace, I believe myself to be His Highness’ closest friend, but that does not mean I have any sort of magical influence over his emotions – I believe he would have been just as upset about his father’s passing were I present than he’d been when I was not.” He looks down at his own lap, wringing his hands atop his thighs. It is a strange un-alphalike manner – his shoulders are not set wide and impressive, his hands not laying on his thighs or knees, still and dignified. He holds his hands together in his lap as a lady, rubs them together like a boy. “If anything, Your Grace, you would have an easier time achieving that with your mating bond with the prince.”

And he did, did he not? Take advantage of their mating bond, of their many years of marriage, to find a way to soothe his alpha and ease his pain somewhat. Soobin is not wrong – perhaps Yeonjun himself just wishes it were different, so the duty would not have to fall to him.

Yeonjun’s fan snaps with a perhaps too forceful flick of his wrist, as he takes it away from his face to flutter it and cool himself down again. He looks off at the ladies, gathered in small groups now – Soojin is speaking with Hayeong one-on-one, his rather stoic demeanor obviously somewhat softened by his younger relative’s childish loveliness. Dayeon, Chaeyoung and Eunbi are sitting in a circle, all of them holding onto the botton of Chaeyoung’s robes, seemingly discussing something about them. All three of them are wearing the prince’s flower pins, nestled neatly above their ears like favors tucked there by lovers. Dasom, Miyeon and Beomgyu are closer to the pond, Miyeon and Beomgyu on their feet, walking from tree to tree and tugging at the branches of them, while Dasom sits at the edge of the pond and watches them with amusement, saying a few words here and then.

It is a lovely scene, and Yeonjun wishes he could be a part of it, even as he realizes that he is not in much of a condition to be part of anything.

He taps the tip of his own nose with the fan again. Fluttering it with Soobin at his side inevitably sends little shivers of amber his way, and he is not sure how to feel about his own lack of reaction to it. There is a distant discomfort to it, but nothing so strong that it would truly unsettle him – or excite him, for that matter. Taehyun’s spice has his spine crawling from across the room, but Soobin’s amber leaves him cold an arm’s length away. It is inevitable – with the mating bond, with the platonic nature of his and Soobin’s relationship – and yet, it feels like it should change something about the way Yeonjun thinks about this. About his relationship with alphas in general. About Soobin. About Taehyun.

“Is that all the prince told you about then?”

When Soobin looks at his face, Yeonjun does not turn in his direction, or hide his face from view this time. He lets him look his fill of it – the flushed, carefully controlled plains of it. Not a twitch of emotion out of place.

“No,” Soobin says eventually, looking away. He shifts his hands to his own thighs, scraping the heels of them down his thighs firmly. “He also expressed a wish that he were born like me, which, to be honest, I believe to be terribly selfish of him, even as I try to understand where the sentiment is coming from.”

Yeonjun turns to Soobin immediately, lashes aflutter in surprise. “Pardon?”

The captain shrugs. “It is not uncommon of him. He has said this many times before in my presence.” With a sigh, Soobin tilts his head back, looking up at the underside of the paper parasol keeping the sun from pouring down on them directly. It is intricately decorated, and for a moment, Soobin seems distracted by the careful strokes it was painted with. Then, he continues. “Sometimes I do think he would be happier, were he born a beta.”

Yeonjun feels taken aback by the words – they are not something he had ever considered. Nothing he ever thought of in the first place. “I cannot even imagine,” he admits.

Soobin presses his lips together, his soft face folding adorably with the expression despite its seriousness, and looks over at Yeonjun. “I often think that he could have just been some great court philosopher, going around the Imperial Court from noble to noble, spreading the good word of his teachings, sharing his wisdom with others. To their pleasure or their chagrin,” A smile twitches at his mouth that Yeonjun reciprocates, but he looks away quickly after that. “He probably would have still fallen in love with you regardless, but he may not have been as tempted to claim you for himself as he was as an alpha.”

Yeonjun lowers his eyes to his own hands. His mating mark throbs. “If he were not an alpha, he would never have succeeded.”

He knows this, more clearly than anything. He could have never been satisfied with a beta’s hand in marriage. With the life of a beta’s wife. At least not back then – not when he was young. He wanted something better; something grander. He wanted a spouse who was their own master, someone worthy of being Yeonjun’s master in turn. Someone with prospects of some impressive position. Someone impressively wealthy. Someone impressively handsome. Someone wise? Someone with ideals worth admiring? It could have never appealed to the child Yeonjun was – he never would have found the beauty in a noble sentiment; in a shrewd mind. Neither of those were an impressive coat he could drape himself in in front of the rest of the Court – something he could brag about; something that could shield him from the evil eye of others with its luster.

“That would certainly simplify the matter as well,” Soobin allows with no particular inflection.

Yeonjun looks directly at him again – he seems thoughtful, perhaps a little sad. “Do you think it would have been better for us to never have married in the first place?”

And Soobin reciprocates his look – they are looking right at each other, their eyes meeting, and it is improper, but nobody is watching. “I believe I do not get to make these sorts of judgments about a marriage I am not a party to, Your Grace.”

The answer is both perfectly reasonable to him yet so unsatisfying. Yeonjun bites his lip hard and looks away from Soobin again, and the captain follows his gaze to the edge of the pond. Somewhere along the way, Miyeon has found a longish, firm branch, obviously not from any of the willows, and she waves it around the same way she wielded the parasol earlier, like an actor, like a swordsman, before handing it to Dasom and prompting her to imitate the motions herself. Dasom does so, with the reluctance of an adult woman engaging in a childish game, but smiling and laughing as she does so – she seems more talented at twirling than lunging, but with her modest robes and long hair swirling around her like a whirlwind of black and white, there is something lovely to her technique as well. Certainly more of a performer than a fighter, but it seems to suit Dasom’s nature more.

She points the tip of the branch at Miyeon, loudly challenging her to a fight to the death, and the rest of the ladies look over at the scene with indulgent amusement.

“You seem to find yourself faced with rivals no matter what you do, Lady Miyeon,” Beomgyu says, grinning, observing the two from a short distance away with his arms folded.

Miyeon presses the back of her hand to her forehead, letting her posture sag dramatically. “What a terrible fate, Omega Beomgyu!”

Yeonjun hears Omega Hayeong laughing among the measured chuckles of some of the ladies. Next to him, Soobin huffs in amusement himself.

“Perhaps we should spare some training blades for your ladies,” he says once things have settled down again, and Miyeon and Dasom have become involved in finding another proper ‘blade’ for Miyeon to wield for their duel. “So they would not have to spar with sticks like little alphas.”

He could imagine it – the excitement in Miyeon’s eyes. In Beomgyu’s. In Dasom’s, even. “Ah, we should not tempt them like this, Captain Soobin.”

After all, this is all it could ever be – silly, childish games. Yeonjun could not actually allow his ladies to carry swords. To train and spar and improve their swordsmanship seriously. It would be improper – it is simply not done.

With a sigh, the captain sits back, letting his head fall backwards again, facing the sun seeping through the painted paper above them. “I would not be surprised if most of them had more discipline than half of my actual soldiers. Some of these man are—” he sighs again, even heavier. “Less than suited to the profession.”

Yeonjun feels a smile tug at his mouth, and he leans back a little himself, imitating Soobin’s leisurely posture. “Is that what you concluded after today’s training, Captain?”

Soobin grunts. “I have known this for a while, but my findings have not been disproved by what I have seen today.”

“How have you come to organize this morning of training, anyway? What prompted you to?”

The captain tilts his head in Yeonjun’s direction, looking at him through the corner of his eye. “Well. It just so happened that our prince was not any more immune to a boy’s disdain than I was.” He huffs, and looks away again. “We were having breakfast with Alpha Taeyul – His Highness wanted to show him a bit of favor out of goodwill towards his parents by spending time with him – and he seemed… doubtful, should I say? About the both of us.”

They exchange amused looks. Yeonjun has spoken to enough immature alphas in his time to be able to imagine the sort of wry skepticism that a young alpha may feel towards alphas like Soobin and the prince in particular. It was not much different during their own youth. Taehyun got more respect and admiration from his elders than his peers as a boy, and Soobin was never suited to the taste of most alphas in general.

“He seemed to find the prince’s choice of conversation quite unengaging – he truly seems to care little for matters of state and politics, for books or for his studies in general. And he was just as unimpressed with me today as he was before – in his eyes, I am someone who has grown comfortable and complacent in my cushy post of the head of the guard.” He offers Yeonjun a wry smile. “I believe his words were that I ‘could not intimidate a child’ – which I suppose he proved by his own lack of apprehension in my presence. By being bold enough to say what he did.”

“Surely he was not allowed to get away with speaking to you like this,” Yeonjun prompts, but he finds that he is more amused than appalled. More delighted by Taeyul’s rash boldness than insulted on Soobin’s behalf.

“Ah, we were not inclined to use our time with Alpha Taeyul to argue with a child just to defend our honor.” Soobin waves his hand, then uses it to support his chin as he continues. “Instead, His Highness simply told him that that is the purpose of keeping soldiers at one’s side – to intimidate people for you, while you remain unassuming and your own strength hidden, to be nothing but a speculation for your opponent to work with.”

Yeonjun hums, tapping his lips with the fan. “Those seem like wise words.”

Soobin chuckles. “Indeed – yet they were not impressive to Alpha Taeyul in the slightest. ‘What strength?’ he said, and he proceeded to list us all the wonderful accomplishments he has amassed as a swordsman despite his youth, and all the names of the master swordsmen who have taught him or seen him spar and heaped praise upon him and his talents. And of course, we had no option but to bow our heads and admit that his aptitude seemed undeniable, and surely admirable.” Soobin shakes his head. “And he asked our good prince, ‘Have you any accomplishments of the sort?’ and our prince said, ‘No, but I am a trusted advisor of the Imperial Council.’” With his eyes lit with amusement, he turns them to Yeonjun, to share the humor of the experience. “And Alpha Taeyul asks, ‘What worth does a seat on the council have, when a sword is pointed at your heart?’ and His Highness, with his patience surely running oh so thin, replies, ‘The worth of all the gold it earns me that I can expend to be surrounded by soldiers at all times.’”

It makes him chuckle, and Soobin’s eyes narrow with his own laugh. So impossibly petty and childish – it seems that Alpha Taeyul is determined to give his elders no rest at all. No respect that is not earned.

“Surely Alpha Taeyul was not convinced by this answer.”

“Of course not!” Soobin responds vehemently, making Yeonjun smile again. “He merely proceeded to doubt the prowess of the prince’s guard next. If they were trained by me, in his estimation, then surely they could not be very menacing at all – a lazy commander can only produce more lazy soldiers to follow him. How impressive could they be? With me leading them?”

“Is that why you called them all in for training? To show them off to Alpha Taeyul?”

And Soobin seems more amused by his own childish behavior than ashamed of it. “Yes! We wished to show him we were worth more than he thought, but I suppose we were the ones to be taught a lesson instead. A boy of all of seventeen? And he kept up, every step of the way. He could have sparred with the best of them. I believe that is what spurred the prince himself to join the training.” The captain’s face pinkens a little, and Yeonjun watches it happen curiously. “I believe he felt somewhat humbled by the sight of him. A nobleman, a boy, who could fight as well as a soldier would. How does that reflect on our prince, were he to show himself to be entirely unimpressive as a swordsman?”

Yeonjun leans in, fascinated. “Did he?”

Soobin shakes his head. “Of course not. Our prince has little time for proper training, but he always took well to matters of athleticism. Of physical prowess, you could say.” He glances at Yeonjun, and shrugs. “He is nowhere near Taeyul’s talent, but he keeps up well. And he enjoyed the challenge – he always does. I believe it does him some good, to strain his body rather than his mind every now and then. So I did not urge him to stop, even once Taeyul has obviously grown bored of observing the prince’s swordsmanship.”

He nods – he’s inclined to agree, despite the small amount of danger involved in letting the prince spar with the troops. Training blades are dull, but not harmless. He could be injured, still. But he was not – he seemed perfectly healthy at lunch. More than that; he seemed elated while the training itself was going on. Surely he did actually benefit from it.

“Were you successful in impressing the alpha Taeyul, then?”

Soobin laughs with another vigorous shake of his head. “Of course not – I do not believe the boy is capable of the emotion in the first place from what I have seen of him at this point. But,” he grows a bit more serious, and inclines his head to emphasize his words. “He did seem to suddenly change his tune in the way he spoke to us, after His Highness praised him to his mother. Afterwards, he seemed much more agreeable.”

Yeonjun pouts thoughtfully. “Why did he, anyway – speak so highly of him, if Alpha Taeyul had been nothing but dismissive of him?”

The captain offers another shrug. “He did not share his reasoning with me, so my guess is as good as yours, but Alpha Taeyul has always seemed… strange, when the topic of his mother was in hand.” He makes a displeased face, tight and frowning. “I believe if Alpha Taeyul is intimidated by anyone, it might be the lady Sangjun.”

Yeonjun reciprocates the frown, pressing his fan to his face again. “He seems to have great expectations of his son,” he says quietly without taking it away.

Soobin sighs. “Indeed. Expectations of this magnitude can have… an effect on a man.”

And Yeonjun’s thoughts stray to his husband again. Demands of flawless loyalty, of grand accomplishments, of perfection. Heaped on the shoulders of children, of boys and girls, alpha and omega alike. The pain of firstborn alphas that neither Yeonjun or Soobin could ever know, but could come close to understanding, if they tried, if they were willing to hear, to see what happens right before their eyes.

Yeonjun lets his eyes wander away to the clear blue sky. “Perhaps his plight felt near to our prince’s heart.”

And Soobin follows his eyes, squinting at the brightness. “Perhaps it did.”

 

.

 

“Will you take him up on his offer?”

Beomgyu is straddling Yeonjun’s legs, but with the way he has settled, they are barely touching anywhere, his body too far away for Yeonjun’s comfort. His underclothes are rucked up all the way to his hips, exposing his thighs, and they are falling off of his shoulder on one side, coquettish and distracting even as it is involuntary on Beomgyu’s part.

He looks at Yeonjun with bright, curious eyes – perhaps he does not mean to be a distraction. Or means to be less of one than he is. As it stands, Yeonjun can barely get himself to speak. His coming heat clouds his mind too badly; his body aches, with excessive warmth, with need. Beomgyu has to smell, has to sense how badly Yeonjun needs him, yet he does nothing. He stays perched over Yeonjun’s legs and makes no effort to soothe the burn.

“Yeonjun.” He was staring too long without responding – should that not tell Beomgyu everything he needs to know?

“No.”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows jump up. “No?”

“No,” he repeats a bit firmer, narrowing his eyes. “You know how badly I want this.”

Beomgyu leans back, and his clothes slide further up, and his body lays itself out for him to see, the fabric molding to it like second skin, and Yeonjun’s lips grow numb with the sight. “I know how badly you wanted this, before everything that happened.”

“Nothing changed.”

Beomgyu’s head tilts to one side. His hair swings to follow the motion, flowing off of his shoulder like water pouring down his skin. “Nothing?”

“Not about this.”

“You have no doubts about it being him, then. About him taking you with the purpose of progeny only.”

“He won’t.” He knows this now. Understands it. Between his eyes and the pepper and the kisses, it became ingrained in his mind.

“No?”

“No.”

Beomgyu takes a deep breath. His chemise falls further off his shoulder. His eyes come to rest somewhere around Yeonjun’s waist, and stay there. He does not respond.

“Does this bother you?”

He raises one hand to toss the rest of his hair over his shoulder. It shines with gold in the light of the lamp. He still does not raise his eyes to Yeonjun’s. “By all means, it should.”

“But?”

“My hearts says I should be wallowing in tears. That I should be raging, or afraid for you.” Beomgyu settles a hand on his own stomach, and Yeonjun’s eyes are drawn to it, helpless against the urge to follow it. “My reason says neither of us have any need of fear.”

“And as a result?”

Finally, Beomgyu looks up, but Yeonjun’s eyes are fixated on his fingers curling in the fabric covering his abdomen, and do not meet his. “I fear that in the absence of a concrete feeling to focus on, I find myself feeling nothing at all.”

And Yeonjun, strangely stung by this, looks away. “I see.”

“The only thing I know is that I want to stay close to you as long as I can.”

Yeonjun nods. “You may.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Beomgyu reciprocate. Finally, Beomgyu leans forward again, closer to him at last, and lays a warm hand on Yeonjun’s thigh. He can smell himself responding immediately, too much for such light a touch, but he had been craving this entire time, his mind has been full of Beomgyu, his body and the wonders of it, and he finally, finally touched him as a lover would. Beomgyu’s mouth twitches to one side.

“I will miss you.”

Yeonjun widens the space between his knees, just a little bit, as much as he can with Beomgyu’s thighs on either side of his legs. “He won’t be with me the whole time.”

He does not want to have to miss Beomgyu. He does not want to find out if he would not miss him at all, with his mate right by his side to distract him.

“He should be.”

“He won’t.”

“Will you not let him?”

The thought of not seeing Beomgyu at all during his heat hurts. It aches and stings and agitates. Beomgyu sighs through parted pink lips, licks at the bottom one and bites into it. He scoots closer to Yeonjun’s body. “Yeonjun.”

“I want you.”

Beomgyu huffs in amusement, then sniffs the air dramatically. “I am aware.”

His hand pets up and down Yeonjun’s leg. He shudders, and Beomgyu pinches his lips together.

“I mean, I want you there. In my heat.”

Beomgyu’s eyes lower to Yeonjun’s lap. It is not visible how affected he is, but it is stark in the air around them. “I—”

“He offered it. When he first— when he gave me up.” He reaches down, and covers Beomgyu’s hand with his. The touch of skin on skin feels electrifying, innocent, chaste as it is. “He said that you may be present during my heat, if I need you.”

Beomgyu meets his eyes. He breathes a bit harder. The hand on Yeonjun’s leg squeezes lightly. “He wants me to watch him fuck you?”

Yeonjun shakes, and pouts, and whines, shifting his legs with sudden restlessness. “Beomgyu. That’s not what this is.”

But Beomgyu just lets go of his leg to come even closer, until he is on all fours above Yeonjun’s sitting form, their faces close, with honey and sugar swirling between them. “No? It is what is sounds like.”

“It is not…” Yeonjun bites his lip, and Beomgyu watches his teeth sink into it intently. “You’d be there for me, not for him.”

“Yes?”

He nods slightly. “You… you could leave while he…”

Amusement glimmers in Beomgyu’s eyes. He brings one hand up to rest it on Yeonjun’s hip, and Yeonjun suddenly cannot breathe. “While he?”

Yeonjun shifts under him, restless. He is sure he leaves a small puddle in his wake when he moves his hips to sit up. “You can be with me while he rests.”

Air rushes out of Beomgyu’s nose with a sharp breath. “You want me to be the Kai to your Beomgyu then?”

Yeonjun has to look away. His chest hurts.

“Yes,” Beomgyu says then, startling with how resolutely he speaks.

His eyes shift back to Beomgyu immediately. Unlike his firm words, he does not seem firm. He seems shaken, hesitant, worried. Nervous. “Yes?”

“I will… I will consider it, at the very least.” Now his voice wavers, but Yeonjun does not care. Beomgyu might. Beomgyu would. Beomgyu wants to.

Yeonjun nods, perhaps too fast, perhaps with too much enthusiasm, because despite Beomgyu’s obvious apprehension, he smiles, follows the motion of Yeonjun’s head then moves forward to press their lips together. And while that should be something between them, something only for them, as Beomgyu moves away to shift the angle and kiss him again, he pulls back to say.

“He said…”

“Hm?” Beomgyu seems startled by the interruption.

Yeonjun swallows hard. “He said. Taehyun said—”

Beomgyu’s breath hits his lips. “What did alpha say?” Playful, teasing, just a little disdainful.

When Yeonjun pouts, their lips almost meet. If he was feeling any differently than he feels now, he would refuse to respond just out of principle. As it is, he wants Beomgyu to know too much to play coy about it.

“That I should kiss you twice for each time I kissed him.”

And unfortunately, luckily, terribly, delightfully, Beomgyu grins. “Is that so? A romantic soul, this alpha of yours… how poetic of him.”

Yeonjun reaches out to hold his waist. Beomgyu tilts his head further. “How many, then? How many am I owed?”

He tries to think back, to the first kiss, reciprocated but stiff, and then the multiple, insistent ones. He chews on the inside of his cheek hard.

“Eight?”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows rise. “You kissed him four times?”

He squeezes his fingers on Beomgyu’s sides. “And once… once before your eyes.”

“Am I not owed for that one, then? Because I was there to see it?”

Yeonjun lowers his eyes to Beomgyu’s lips. “No, I— ten. Ten, then.”

Beomgyu huffs, and smiles more gently, lifting one hand to cradle Yeonjun’s cheek. “You both truly think my heart to be so fragile? That I demand retribution for a simple claiming of the lips?” He brushes their lips together, gently, briefly. “Do you measure me by your own? Would seeing me do this,” he presses his lips to Yeonjun’s harder, and Yeonjun reciprocates the kiss helplessly. “Torture your prince, were he to see it? Would—”

He falls silent. He breathes hot against Yeonjun’s lips.

“Say it,” Yeonjun prompts, and lets his eyes fall closed.

“Would it torture you if he kissed me?”

Yeonjun does not respond – he imagines it instead. Beomgyu’s lips close around his own bottom one, and he thinks about the familiar sight of them, petal pink and soft just like they are now, pulling at his mouth, pressed against another painfully familiar pair. Nipping at each other. Pulling and pushing. Warm spice and citrus.

“Beomgyu,” are the only words he is capable of forcing out of his throat, and Beomgyu takes them, takes the smell of his arousal for the answers they are.

He claims his ten kisses, on a trail down over Yeonjun’s chin, down his throat, over his chest, between his breasts that have finally somewhat filled in, framing his face in a lovely way as he presses his lips to the valley between them, down over his stomach, his hips, to his thighs. Ten perfect, wet, lingering kisses on his skin. Yeonjun feels like he buzzes with them; thrums with them. He feels them all the way under his skin like a trail of stings.

Beomgyu’s hair tickles his skin while his palms smooth down Yeonjun’s thighs, and he slips between them, perfectly practiced, but instead of leaning down to put his head in between them, instead of reaching down with his hands, he moves in with his body, slotting their hips together in a familiar way, settling his thumbs in the dips of Yeonjun’s hip bones. His head stays bent over, obscuring his face with the curtain of brown silk hair, but Yeonjun can see through them the flush in it. Beomgyu’s chest heaves as he pulls Yeonjun tighter against him. As he sways his hips. Closer, then away. Back and forth. Yeonjun knows he leaves wet stains on Beomgyu’s skin, can hear the sound of them parting, of coming back together. It is the only sound in the room aside from the heavy breathing. Beomgyu makes no sound, and Yeonjun feels too frozen by the oddness of it to react himself. It is not unpleasant; not unpleasurable. Beomgyu’s bare skin rubs against a tender part of him with each press of them together, each small swivel adding a pleasurable hint of friction. But it is not enough to satisfy; it is a tease, a provocation, a promise Beomgyu can never fulfill.

Yeonjun finds one of Beomgyu’s wrists blindly, and digs his fingers into it. Tears gather in his eyes, frustrated, vulnerable, tender in his chest.

“Beomgyu.”

But he only hums in response and presses them together again, grinds in, pulls Yeonjun tighter against him.

“Beomgyu.”

His head tilts up, just a little. Red face, wet lips and equally brilliant, tear-filled eyes.

He says the only thing that still makes sense to him. “I love you.”

And Beomgyu nods, quickly, desperately, and his hands slowly let go of Yeonjun’s hips before Beomgyu collapses down on top of him, buries his face in Yeonjun’s chest, rubs his heated cheeks against his own warm skin. For the longest time, he remains silent, then he sobs. Once, twice, three times. Yeonjun runs his fingers through his hair, pulls it away from his face, ignores the dampness of it.

He fits his hand behind Beomgyu’s ear once he has cleared it of messy brown hair, and repeats, “Love you.”

Beomgyu shifts up his body again, to bury his face in Yeonjun’s neck. Yeonjun’s eyes fall closed; overwhelmed with the sensation again. Flooded by citrus. Coated in it. Feeling it sink into his blood.

“Love you,” Beomgyu’s lips press into it. “I love you.”

And Yeonjun realizes he is a selfish lover, pushing Beomgyu onto his back to be the one in charge of his pleasure for once. He finds himself in his position so rarely – hardly ever since Beomgyu’s heat. It is not what he is used to; he is used to his partner’s pleasure being incidental to his, or rather a direct consequence to it. He is used to pleasing by showing how pleased he is. By being open and vulnerable and available, by taking whatever he is given flawlessly, tirelessly, beautifully. He is good at whining, sighing, moaning, squirming. He is clumsy with his fingers, and awkward with his tongue. He does not always take his time when he should.

But Beomgyu holds him close, so close it hurts a little and he nods in response to every heated word that falls from Yeonjun’s lips, and he can sigh, whine and moan with the best of them as well, he trembles and twitches and his breath scatters through Yeonjun’s hair, shaky and hot and he tastes like honey all over. Yeonjun is imperfect, but Beomgyu accepts his flaws perfectly. Wonderfully. In such a lovely way.

He meant to show Beomgyu he is loved, but he feels loved instead. Held close in the afterglow, in the vice grip of Beomgyu’s thighs. With fingers in his hair and sweet words in his ears, with a hand smoothing down his back and lips mapping out the planes of his face. Loved, all over. Head to toe. Enveloped in sweet, comforting citrus.

 

.

 

Yeonjun is on his bed, pulling apart the braid he has wound his hair into for sleep. He feels too warm, and he still smells of Beomgyu. This should worry him, but it comforts him instead. Beomgyu stands by the narrow window with his arms crossed, looking out as discreetly as he can without being seen standing in Yeonjun’s bed room. Today, the sky is overcast and the light streaming in through the window wispy and pale. It makes Beomgyu seem older, less lively and more wisened. He is wearing the white flower today, tucked into the side of his head, keeping the fabric covering his hair in place.

“You may think that I repeat myself when I say this,” he says after a long moment of silence, then glances over his shoulders and smiles slightly. Tiredly. They were awake for entirely too long last night. “But I met your prince this morning.”

Yeonjun pauses with his braid only halfway undone, staring at his lover uncomprehendingly. “Taehyun?”

Beomgyu’s eyes narrow playfully. “Do you lay a claim to any other princes?”

He looks away with a pout, to Beomgyu’s obvious amusement, and focuses on his hair again. “Where? Were you in the gardens again?”

“Not this time,” Beomgyu admits, and he comes closer, until he is close enough to lean on one of the posts of Yeonjun’s bed. “I did not meet him in a hallway, either.”

Yeonjun casts another curious look at him, and Beomgyu crosses his arms again.

“I met him in the servants’ corridors.”

He feels his own head tilting to one side in confusion before he can control his own reaction. His hair tugs out of his own grip. “Pardon?”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows rise as if to emphasize his own words. “I took the route Haewon taught me to use when we came here – through the door near the kitchens, along the outer wall of the building where the hallways are the least used. But that is where he was. By the eastern side of the building, near where his rooms are. I have never seen anyone use that corridor in all the days we have spent here so far, but he was there today.”

“Why?”

The shrug Beomgyu offers in response feels somewhat forced. “He did not volunteer that information to me. In fact, he acted as if there were nothing strange about us meeting one another there in the first place.”

Yeonjun frowns, taking hold of his hair again to continue his work, more slowly this time. “Did he say anything at all?”

Beomgyu lifts his chin. “He asked me if I was headed to your rooms, and when I said yes, he told me to wish you a good morning on his behalf.”

His eyes lower bashfully, even though there is nothing untoward about the message. It feels strange, to hear words like those from his husband from his lover’s lips. It feels like it should not happen. Like it should not be appropriate. But there is nothing wrong with it, nothing odd, nothing improper – no deeper meaning but what Yeonjun ascribes to it in his childish desire to have his husband speak tenderly to him again.

“Oh.”

A smile tugs at Beomgyu’s mouth. “I will admit, I was taken aback enough to let him slip by me without questioning him. Perhaps that was his intention all along.”

Yeonjun finishes undoing his braid, and runs his fingers through his hair. “Perhaps.”

“He seems to have meant it, if that eases your mind.”

He pinches his lips together. It does; it should not, but it does.

Beomgyu rolls his eyes, but moves closer to press a kiss to Yeonjun’s temple, and take the hair brush off of the tray of toiletries next to him. “Here. Let me help you brush it out.”

 

.

 

Lady Sangjun watches Yeonjun with a strange expression on his face throughout the entire breakfast. His lips are pinched, eyes narrowed and on Yeonjun far more often than they rest on any food laid out before them, or on Lady Sangjun’s own son who sits by his side for that matter. Yeonjun feels uncomfortable under the scrutiny of it. He is reasonably certain that the potency of his preheat scent overwhelms any citrus that may still be clinging to him, and he knows his appearance is impeccable, despite his fatigue, despite what he was occupied with all night last night, but the intensity of Lady Sangjun’s appraising gaze makes him doubt everything regardless. Perhaps he has slipped up; perhaps he faltered. If it could happen at any time it would be now, weighed down by oncoming heat, permanently hazy and distracted.

But instead of asking pointed, disquieting questions, instead of scolding or insulting, instead of doing anything Yeonjun fears he might, as the breakfast slowly winds down and the food has mostly disappeared with their tireless efforts, he speaks up to say:

“Your Grace, I have been asked by my husband to inquire about the arrangements you will require for your heat.”

And Yeonjun almost chokes with relief after how tightly he wound himself up with his own gloomy thoughts. This household does not know him – this lord steward does not know his needs, and neither do any of the servants except for his Haewon.

“There is a heat room available in the building, but it is quite old-fashioned, and has not been used in a very long time.”

He finds himself taken aback again, for an entirely different reason. “A heat room?”

“Yes,” Lady Sangjun nods primly. “Are you not familiar with them, Your Grace?”

“Oh, I am,” Yeonjun assures. They are old-fashioned, and no one of Yeonjun’s age still makes use of them, but Yeonjun’s ancestral home was old enough to still have one, and his grandmother was old enough to have still made use of it. “But I have not heard of anyone using one in quite a long time.”

“My mother used to,” Soojin offers, seeminly taken aback himself by the sudden reawakening of the memory. “It was not quite in fashion at the time anymore, but she assured me quite sincerely of the benefits of it.”

“What are those?” It is Dayeon who asks, rather than Yeonjun himself. She seems genuinely curious.

Soojin offers a small tilt of his head. “Well, according to my mother, they are more natural to an omega than the current imperial custom of spending a heat in one’s bed room. The rooms are small, to make the omega feel safer, to make the nest easier to defend, the part meant for sleeping is lower than the floor itself, to make the nest feel like a burrow. They used drapes which did not have to be taken down and put back up, and would often retain the right scents, making the heat room even more comfortable with repeated uses. A proper division between nest and the rest of the room helps the omega process any necessary visits without overly agitating them… they simply seemed perfectly convenient.”

“Why would they ever go out of fashion then?” Eunbi asks, pouting slightly, looking between all of the omegas in the room for an answer.

Beomgyu sniffs primly. Yeonjun can already imagine the answer he is poised to give. “It sounds like they were convenient for omega bodies, not alpha pockets.”

Lady Sangjun pinches his thin lips together so hard they disappear, gazing slightly to the side of Beomgyu as if he was not even worth looking directly at. “With the progress we have made in medicine, in the comfort of our furniture, they became unnecessary excess. A bed room suffices just as well.”

To his credit, Beomgyu is not cowed in the slightest by the lady’s disdain. “Why are you offering His Grace the heat room, then?”

Another nearly aggressive pinch of Lady Sangjun’s lips. “As part of my husband’s request.”

Beomgyu scoffs too loudly. Lady Sangjun frowns deeply. Yeonjun sighs.

“I have never made use of a heat room before,” he says firmly, determined to shift the conversation away from confrontation. “I do not know if I would find it comfortable.” I am perfectly comfortable the way I am now, he means to say but cannot force the lie past his lips. None of his heats as a married omega have been comfortable since the first one.

“Could we see it?” Eunbi asks, speaking perhaps too enthusiastically, hastilly adding, “Even if you do not choose to make use of it. I would… be fascinated to observe a piece of history like this.”

“I would second Lady Eunbi’s request,” Beomgyu joins in, leaning forward in his seat to look towards Yeonjun. “It would be interesting to me to observe this remainder of an antiquated imperial custom as well.” He throws a brief, impolite look at Lady Sangjun with the word antiquated, and Yeonjun finds himself caught between frustration and amusement.

He bites his cheek, and looks at the lady himself, who now looks carefully neutral and dignified again. “Would that be possible, Lady Sangjun?”

If anything, Lady Sangjun seems confused by the question. “Of course, Your Grace. This is your husband’s estate.”

Right. Unused as they still are to spending time here, this estate is theirs. They are the masters of it, not Lord Hansu’s family.

“Right,” he says out loud as well, breathy and light. “Then let us visit the room after breakfast.”

Lady Sangjun offers him a small bow, and Eunbi nods in thanks. Beomgyu’s eyes are on Yeonjun, but the expression in them is inscrutable.

 

.

 

Predictably, the heat room is situated halfway between the wife’s and the husband’s quarters. Predictably, as they make their way to it, they come upon Taehyun, headed in the other direction. All Yeonjun can think of as he approaches them is how unused they are to chance meetings like this. In their household, their quarters are on opposite sides of the palace, and make it all too easy for them to avoid one another. Here, in this smaller, older household, they suddenly see one another all the time.

And Taehyun does not mean to avoid him here. He decided not to avoid him here.

“My prince!”

“Wife. My ladies.”

They exchange polite bows. Yeonjun does not extend a hand to scent and Taehyun does not ask for it.

“I was just heading to the gardens to meet with Captain Soobin. Would you care to join us?”

And Taehyun wanders the household now. Openly, not disappearing and reappearing like a phantom, gone more often than he is present. He walks in the garden and shares meals with others. Takes trips to town that have nothing to do with politics and swings a sword in the front courtyard.

Yeonjun cannot help but wonder if Taehyun being in the servants’ corridors this morning has anything to do with his elusive nature at their home. If he uses them to get around at their household as well, no wonder he is barely to be seen anywhere unless he wants to be.

It seems childish to him. An alpha should not be hiding in their own household. Sneaking around like a thief. It is not his place. He should walk every hall of it confidently, with his head held high, as he does now.

He inclines his head politely. “We were headed elsewhere at the moment, but we can join you once we are done.”

“Oh.” The prince glances down the hall behind himself. There is not much there. Empty bed rooms, and those occupied by some of the Kang family, and the one belonging to Soobin. And, of course, his own quarters. “What is your business?”

The question is more one of confounded surprise than a demand. Taehyun seems at a loss as to what they could possibly be doing, and Yeonjun does not blame him for the confusion. He is not excited to explain himself, but he feels that it would be childish of him to hesitate. The matter of his heat, of heats in general, is as much the prince’s business as it is his. Or should be.

“Our good lord steward and his wife offered me the option to make use of the heat room this estate still has available. We were meaning to take a look at it – some of my ladies have never seen one before.”

Taehyun’s mouth opens slightly as he takes the words in. His head tilts back slightly, as if the shift was necessary to help the meaning of them sink in.

“Have you ever seen one, Your Highness?” Beomgyu seems a little too eager to ask – as if he can predict the prince’s flustered response, eyes shifting away from the group of them immediately, cast at an empty wall somwhere to the side of them.

“Of course not,” he responds with a measure of reluctance. “Our palace does not have one. Perhaps not even the Emperor’s quarters do. I have never heard of one being used during my time there, in any regard.”

Yeonjun swallows, mouth a bit too full of the smell of spice. “Would you like to join us, then? We only mean to view the room briefly. We may not leave the Captain waiting too long.”

With a deep breath on his part, the prince looks at him, strangely intently, and Yeonjun remembers to avert his eyes too late for them not to meet his husband’s. “Why not? Perhaps this could be educational for me. It has been brought to my attention that I am somewhat lacking in my understanding in the needs of your kind. Perhaps viewing something made to accommodate them could help me grasp what they are in the first place.”

He can hear the suppressed sound of Beomgyu’s amusement behind him. He chews his own cheek. Dayeon is looking between the three of them as if looking for some explanation for their behavior. They are being too obvious; too obviously intertwined. They need to keep themselves in check, and their business politely away from view.

Yeonjun would recommend him a treatise on nesting behavior, if there even were such a thing – he assumes there is not. Most scholars are betas, and would have little interest in observing the mating cycles of omegas. And most alphas assume themselves perfectly versed in them, just like the prince did – limiting their understanding to the part when it is their time to open their pants and take advantage.

Or assuming things simply because of a childish misunderstanding of something they saw or smelled many years ago.

“If you believe it may be helpful,” he says mildly, then half-turns towards Lady Sangjun. “They are near, yes?”

Lady Sangjun inclines his head. “Third door on the left behind His Highness.”

Taehyun turns on his heels to look behind himself, as if surprised to have been walking past the room this entire time without noticing. “Oh? How unassuming.”

Indeed – the third door looks exactly like all the other doors. There is no insignia adorning it, no painting on the doors or carving in the wood of them. If one did not know, they never would have noticed. Perhaps the only thing out of place is how near the door is to the ones surrounding it, hinting at a narrow space behind it. Too narrow, perhaps. How small is a heat room, exactly?

The prince turns his upper body towards them. “Shall we, then?”

Yeonjun chews the inside of his mouth so hard it begins to ache. He inclines his head in agreement, and gestures at the ladies to follow. They fall in behind the prince, more inadvertently than with a particular intention. Taehyun leads the way with confident steps – overconfident, even, perhaps a bit too purposeful. Like a man who trusts himself to brave danger only if he adopts an affect of nonchalance about it.

But there is no danger, is there? Nothing terrible to confront. The prince opens the door to what turns out to be a dark, narrow corridor, and casts a questioning look at Lady Sangjun.

“The corridor is there to make sure the scents do not spill into the main hallway,” Soojin explains instead, somehow seeming perfectly nonplussed by the situation. “And do not disturb the other members of the household, or act as invitation for other alphas may the omega be alone.”

The words should, by all means, disturb or fluster any omega – they fluster Dayeon and Hayeong, certainly, while Lady Sangjun and Beomgyu seem grimly stone-faced at the sound of them – but Soojin says them matter-of-factly, with the detachment of a scholar. It seems odd. Yeonjun bites into his lip.

“Lady Soojin is the best versed in the topic of heat rooms out of all of us,” he offers in explanation. “His house apparently kept the tradition up longer than most others.”

Soojin lowers his head politely. The prince nods.

“I see. That is fortunate, is it not? To have an expert on the matter on hand.”

Soojin lowers his head further. “Hardly, Your Highness. I have never used one myself, only heard much of them from my mother.”

Taehyun lowers his own in return. “Still. It is fortunate you could join us, Lady Soojin.”

The lady offers Taehyun a bow, and the prince begins to lead them through the corridor, which is so narrow that they have to enter it one by one. Yeonjun walks behind his husband, and Lady Sangjun behind him. He thinks he smells magnolias faintly, implying Soojin may be right behind Sangjun, but he is not sure. He keeps his eyes in front, on the plain-clad back of his husband. The tight space of the corridor makes it feel like they are standing too close, even though Yeonjun maintains a polite distance. Taehyun’s warm spice seems inescapable here, and it makes his mind much hazier than it was before.

The second door feels like a relief. Stuffy as the room beyond is, ill-suited to the amount of people about to force themselves into it, it allows Yeonjun to take up position as far away from his husband as possible, and he takes it greedily, nestling himself into a corner as the ladies come in behind them.

In the context of the estate Yeonjun has come to know, this room seems odd. It is wooden, from the walls and the floors to the ceilings, but not with the same dark wood characteristic to its architecture otherwise, but a pleasant, warm, honey-colored kind of wood instead. Something in him expected the room to look dour, to look sobering and coldly dignified, just like most of the estate itself does, but this room is nothing like it. The warm color of the wood gives it a welcoming touch, like a kind embrace. There are two unlit lamps in opposing corners of it, both made to resemble lilies in full bloom. Under one of them is an empty, intricately decorated fire bowl. It is small, but obviously enough to keep the small room heated throughout winter.

While Yeonjun takes up position under the other hanging lamp, his husband goes directly to the heart – the nest, taking up the most of the room. The size of a large, comfortable bed, sunken into the floor so it would have to be stepped down into to be entered. Surrounded completely by flimsy, petal-pink curtains, obviously meant to let in the light of the lamps while still providing privacy and a feeling of security. Yeonjun’s own heat curtains are heavy, to keep his scent in and make his room feel smaller than it is, but as a consequence, his heat is mostly spent in a perpetual dusk or impenetrable darkness. He tries to imagine the light of the lamps passing through these light curtains, the slight pink tinge it would give everything inside, but all he can think of is the light stretching over Beomgyu’s skin like a thin covering of fabric, kissing it pink, flushed, lovely.

He has to look away from the curtains altogether, and studies the plain ceiling while his husband pulls them apart slightly to peek inside. Even through the fabric, it is obvious there is not much to see – if there are meant to be furs, blankets, cushions, or anything of the sort, they are not kept here. But he can imagine them – soft furs and a sea of cushions. Blankets he would toss away, having no need for them while shaking with hot fever. Gentle on his heated skin. Getting batted this way and that as he tosses and turns in his nest, restless, needy, helpless. Looking for the position that would bring him comfort. Reaching for an alpha that is not there. Crying and clawing and—

“We have kept all the furnishings meant for this room. All the linens and cushions and the like – it would be no trouble to bring them here, should His Grace decide to make use of the room.”

Lady Sangjun brings Yeonjun out of his somber musings. Right. Not this time. No crying and clawing this time, no loneliness, no helpless, pain, only—

Taehyun, rubbing the flimsy fabric of the curtains between his fingers, casting a look around. It is cramped with all the ladies lining all the walls with the effort for all of them to fit into it. Beomgyu is too close to Taehyun right now, fingering the curtains as well. “It seems lovely.”

Beomgyu seems lost in thought. Yeonjun wonders if he thinks about the same things Yeonjun did. Soft pink light, painting his lover, bare, on his back in a sea of cushions and comfort. Perfectly lovely, indeed.

Instead of Beomgyu meeting Yeonjun’s eyes, it is Taehyun, looking over at him, eyes full of something. Restraint. Apprehension. Forced neutrality.

His alpha’s chest, painted this pretty, delicate pink. His body, in this ample nest, solid and firm for Yeonjun to mold himself against, to find comfort in. In a heated embrace or an exhausted one. His back against one of the walls, shielding Yeonjun from the coolness of it, curling around him to keep him safe. Their intertwined hands, on soft furs, on top of a soft cushion. Pink light and the scent of warm spice. A small room, private, intimate. Something they so rarely were. Something Yeonjun wanted them to be. Was afraid of them being, on these terms that would be unfamiliar to the both of them. Not just lovers united by shared desire, not just spouses whose fates depended on one another – mates again, finally.

“The choice is yours.”

Behind Taehyun, Beomgyu is finally drawn out of his own head, casting a look at the prince’s back, then at Yeonjun. He gives no indication of his own thoughts and feelings – and those should not matter to Yeonjun at the moment, should they? Nobody should decide for Yeonjun where he wishes to spend his heats. If not his alpha, then certainly not his lover.

“It seems pleasant,” he finds himself saying, pushing the words past numb lips.

Taehyun nods, and looks at the fabric between his fingers. Yeonjun imagines it to be the fabric of his own clothes, recalls the familiar sensation of fingers sliding into the space between his skin and his underclothes, taking hold and pulling up. Cool fabric and the warmth of living flesh, raising goosebumps, making him shiver. Would Taehyun have him stay clothed the entire time? He was so rarely completely undressed during his heat, only ever pushing his clothes out of the way when the urge to touch himself became overwhelming. Would his alpha not want to see all of him? Touch all of him? Taste all of him?

He understands his mind has wandered too far when Lady Sangjun shifts away from him, obviously disquieted by the scent pouring off of him. His husband seems unaffected, despite the relative lack of space between them. But no – his hand is shaking. But his face remains impassive. Yeonjun looks away, towards Lady Sangjun, a safe place to rest his eyes on.

“Please have this room prepared for me.”

Lady Sangjun does not face him in the slightest. “How soon, Your Grace?”

And the question shakes him a little, because the warmth is a constant pressure all over his body, and the fabric meant to catch all unbidden traces of wetness that may now pour out of him at any time of the day, without anything in particular to provoke them, is rubbing against his sensitive skin uncomfortably, and there are too many scents in this small room and only two of them are pleasant to his instincts, and he feels parched, and dizzy, and overwhelmed.

“Have it ready tomorrow evening at the latest.”

His husband seems unsurprised – perhaps he can sense it, smell it, through some strange alpha ability Yeonjun never knew existed. Or he can simply see the merciless flush all over Yeonjun’s skin, can see the weakness and discomfort he feels all over his body in the way he holds himself.

Lady Sangjun bows politely, and yet Yeonjun feels pained. Humiliated. Everybody just watched on as he made a fool of himself.

He gathers his robes in aching hands and walks to the door without waiting for anyone. “We are leaving now. Let us not keep Captain Soobin waiting.”

 

.

 

“Lady Sangjun says this estate keeps no physicians on staff – apparently they call for the one in town when they need one.”

Yeonjun nods sluggishly, letting the words process in his mind a little too slowly. “That seems inconvenient.”

Taehyun pulls apart a rice cake with an expression of idle curiosity. “Indeed – I should ask Lord Hansu to remedy this before this estate is used permanently again.”

Hopeful words said so carelessly. Yeonjun huffs, not too fond but not scornful, either, and Taehyun smiles.

“Perhaps.” Then he clears his throat, and looks around them. They are sitting in the garden under the same large parasol, and a handful of others are placed in the grass around them, shared by Yeonjun’s ladies, the entire Kang family and Soobin. The entire household is outside for once, and the sun has peeked out of the previously cloudy sky to accommodate them, yet they have still arranged themselves so haphazardly. It is a bit undignified of a household of their importance.

“Yes?”

Yeonjun looks at his husband in surprise. Taehyun is looking at him innocently, and Yeonjun watches as he pushes his own fingers into his mouth to clean them of powder the rice cake he held left behind. He is only able to look away once he takes them out again. He clears his throat once more.

“You obviously have more to say,” his husband prompts, nothing but conversational.

He takes the opportunity to get his mind off of the thought of his husband’s fingers glistening with wetness, and nods towards the garden around them. “If you mean to make this estate more comfortable for the Empress dowager, perhaps you should have a pavilion built as well. Some shelter for her to have tea and make merry in. While not entirely uncomfortable, I am unsure if spending time outside like this is worthy of a former empress.”

Taehyun hums thoughtfully, and casts a look around them as well. “I will inquire with Lord Hansu about having that arranged.”

Yeonjun nods, firm and polite. Then his eyes go towards Lord Hansu himself, only to catch both Alpha Taeyul and Omega Hayeong looking in their direction, looking more like a pair of twins than ever before despite the entirely different looks on both of their faces. Alpha Taeyul looks for all matters and purposes as if he just swallowed a mouthful of bitter medicine, while Omega Hayeong seems entirely taken with the aesthetic of marital bliss the sight of them sitting together surely creates.

“Also.”

His husband smiles, amused and indulgent. “Yes. You have more tasks for me?”

He seems oddly relaxed to Yeonjun. It may be that it is the effect of his scent again. Happy, pleased, calm alpha.

Yeonjun bites into his lip. “Yes.”

Taehyun nods widely, and leans back in his chair instead of leaning over the table that sits between their arms like he was before. “Name your demands.”

He pouts, a little stung. “Is this amusing to you, my prince?”

“Somewhat,” his husband replies simply, as if it were the easiest thing to admit in the world, folding his hands indulgently on his own stomach. “But I assue you, wife, that does not at all mean that I am any less inclined to grant you whatever it is you would want from me.”

“Am I not allowed to ask things of you?” Yeonjun knows he is being unreasonable, but he says it anyway, and watches the prince smile again almost hungrily. He cannot look away again.

“Of course you are,” Taehyun assures him with a nod. “I enjoy you being demanding – it gives me a vision of greatness to strive for.”

Beomgyu would laugh at this, Yeonjun thinks as he bites his lips. He would smile. He would find it endearing. Yeonjun feels choked up. Yeonjun wants to hear more. See more. Push further.

“I want you to provide for Lord Hansu’s children.”

The prince’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and his perfect poise breaks momentarily as he looks at Yeonjun with widened eyes. “Is that so?”

Yeonjun nods firmly, lips pursed in determination. “I want a suitable match found for Omega Hayeong – whether we have to sponsor him, or find him the right company to find a proper match in. And Alpha Taeyul. He needs a good position. At the Imperial Court, preferably.”

Slowly regaining his composure again, Taehyun looks away with a few thoughtful nods. “I have already considered Alpha Taeyul’s future. I have a few options in mind.”

“Does any of them involve the military?”

His husband’s eyes flick towards him again, even has he does not move his head entirely in Yeonjun’s direction. “Pardon?”

“It should be something near the military. Nothing dangerous, but perhaps something… something administrative.”

Taehyun leans his cheek against a closed fist with a thoughtful hum. “The imperial military effective administers itself. He would have to join it even if he were to only oversee their accounts or be a quartermaster.” He glances at Yeonjun again, then out into the garden. “A liaison, perhaps. Someone who would make sure the Empire has oversight over the military’s affairs. I will speak to Captain Soobin about this – he is somewhat better versed in matters of military than I am.”

Yeonjun feels his chest squeeze with delight, although he is not entirely sure why. Alpha Taeyul’s future is of little consequence to him. They may never see each other again after Yeonjun leaves this estate. “Of course.”

“As for Omega Hayeong…” Taehyun straightens himself up again. “I know of particularly eligible alphas of his age from the great house of Hwang, but…” he shakes his head. “As we know, they are not entirely inclined to be helpful to me, or those I take under my wing.” His jaw tightens briefly, and then he looks at Yeonjun directly again. “The Princess consort Hwang Hyemi, however, would have a much easier time introducing him to that sort of company.”

Yeonjun feels his own eyebrows rising. “You want us to take advantage of your cousin even further?”

There might be no love lost between Hwang Hyemi herself and Yeonjun, but Yeonjun has little doubt that Iseul could convince her wife to endorse Hayeong an introduce him to her family. One way or another. But is that what he wants?

“It is an option,” Taehyun allows, then offers him a shrug. “There are others.”

Yeonjun looks away, and allows himself a small frown. He does not want them to depend entirely on Iseul’s goodwill. But if they are to be allies, is this not exactly the sort of thing they should be doing for each other?

“Perhaps it would be good to make a habit of sharing small kindnesses between each other.”

The prince takes so long to answer that Yeonjun looks to see what he is doing, but he just seems lost in thought. Then he snaps out of it without prompting, and leans towards the table again to pick up another sweet morsel to enjoy. “Yes. This seems logical.”

“Are you disinclined?” he asks, more curious than anything.

Taehyun looks up at him from the plate of rice cakes, and shakes his head. “No. And even if I were, I do not wish to be.”

And Yeonjun is not entirely sure what that means, so he leaves it be.

 

.

 

They have dinner at Yeonjun’s quarters – Yeonjun, his ladies, Taehyun and Soobin. It makes little sense, with the size of the tea room in the wife’s quarters; it would have been much wiser to go to the prince’s, but Taehyun asks to join as well when Yeonjun asks for Soobin to dine with them, and today of all days, Yeonjun feels inclined to acquiesce.

With Taehyun there, it feels natural to share the head of the table with his husband. He asks Soojin to sit by his husband’s other side, to offer him his service, and Eunbi to sit by Soobin’s, and be of help to him. Both alphas seem embarrassed to be offered service in this way, but Yeonjun’s ladies take to it with their usual grace, and somehow the ladies’ nonchalance perfectly smooths over all the awkward air that was there before. They settle into their meal easily, naturally. Beomgyu sits on Soobin’s other side and asks him too many questions about swordsmanship while Miyeon listens in from his other side with her eyes wide with curiosity. At Yeonjun’s own side, Soojin and Taehyun enter into an easy conversation about the estate and Soojin’s father’s stewardship of it. Yeonjun listens in, partially because it is simply the easiest conversation for him to catch out of all those that are going on, and partially out of genuine curiosity.

He comes to find out that the estate is not actually originally a Kang estate in the first place, and rather an old holding of the Song family that came into the possession of Taehyun’s father through his marriage with Song Mina. They talk about how stunning the choice of Soojin’s father as the steward was to the Court at large – the blatant disrespect the then-young prince Taeyul showed to the family of his new bride by not choosing a Song noble to steward the estate like was expected of him. Then, he took the insult even further – had the house stripped of all Song insignia, all decoration bearing their colors of their family sigil or the symbol of a crane they were known by.

Yeonjun thinks about the massive wooden Kang sigil in the prince’s tea room – the impressive purple banner in his waiting room. Then he looks behind himself, at the spread wings of the green and blue phoenix.

“But this stayed,” he says, forgetting himself. He was not part of their conversation – only listening in somewhat impolitely.

His husband looks at him in obvious shock with food halfway to his mouth, but quickly recovers and looks behind them as well.

“I am not sure how,” Soojin admits quietly, looking up at the phoenix as well. “If it were here before, someone would have had to disobey His Imperial Majesty’s direct orders.”

Taehyun’s spoon knocks impolitely into his bowl as he sets it down so he could turn a bit further in his seat to take a better look. “It could be new. Mother could have put it here.” He reaches out, but the tips of his fingers come short of touching it. “She may have even painted it. She had a great deal of talent at the art.”

Yeonjun, who has never heard of this, turns towards it as well. “She did? Do you have anything she painted?”

Perhaps he has seen it, but never knew it was made by Taehyun’s mother. Perhaps—

His husband swallows, and turns back to the table with a small shrug. “Some of her work seems to be part of Father’s inheritance. I was hoping to put it in my rooms at the Court.”

“Oh.” Yeonjun would have liked to see it, but he is not sure how to express it without sounding strange.

Taehyun focuses on his food again, so Yeonjun turns away from the phoenix again, reluctant.

“It is beautiful,” Soojin says, calm and measured. “It is fortunate that it was never removed.”

“Indeed, Lady Soojin,” Taehyun concurs, strangely devoid of intonation or any particular expression.

“His Imperial Majesty must have never had the occasion to come here.”

The prince shakes his head forcefuly with his mouth full, then answers when he swallows. “He never actually came here, as far as I know. Perhaps once, when he was the new owner of it, just like I am now, to give the orders to have it redecorated. But while I was alive, Father never came here with Mother and I, or alone for that matter.”

Yeonjun frowns, pushing his food around his plate unhappily. Every new thing he learns about the royal family, he dislikes.

“You must have sweet memories of spending time here with your mother,” Dayeon says kindly from Yeonjun’s other side. Yeonjun nearly forgot she was present there – she was involved in a conversation with Chaeyoung and Dasom before, and only seemed to look over towards them now, for reasons that seem to elude Taehyun and Soojin as much as they elude Yeonjun himself.

Now Chaeyoung and Dasom are looking towards them as well, and the prince seems taken aback by the sudden attention on him. He looks between all the ladies, then back down at his own food.

“I will admit I have more memories of watching my mother spend time with her ladies than of her spending time with me,” he says eventually, a bit somber, a bit pondering, before lifting his head again. “I would not see her very often when we were here. Her ladies and her spent most of their time in here, in the wife’s quarters, where I was never allowed. All I would see of her…” Taehyun glances behind himself at the phoenix briefly. “Would be during her walks in the garden. She and her ladies would spend time there, just like you do when you accompany my wife in the mornings.” He waves his hand in the air vaguely. “My nurse would take me from my room and bring me there as well, and we would walk behind them and watch them as they took their walks.”

He makes no indication that his mother would look at him. Speak to him. Play with him. Yeonjun is sure she did – she must have, to be as beloved in Taehyun’s mind as she obviously was, did she not? Taehyun would not love a beautiful ghost of an omega who never paid any attention to him. Not even if it was called his mother.

“Would they spend much time in the gardens?” He asks thinly, hoping it prompts his husband into saying more. Into speaking about an experience he had that involved her. Perhaps his mother watched him play. Perhaps he brought her flowers one day.

“No,” his husband responds simply, and there is not a hint of an unpleasant emotion in his tone at all – there is no emotion in his voice at all. “Never. Perhaps due to her frail disposition. She did usually come here to recover from illnesses, after all. It was probably not safe for her to spend a long time outside.”

Suddenly, the tea room feels too quiet. Not even Beomgyu and Soobin are talking. Maybe Yeonjun’s ladies are waiting for the prince to have another outburst, to show more emotion, to cry before them again.

He does not.

Instead, he looks at Yeonjun, and offers him a small, insincere smile. “I believe your idea to build a pavilion is wonderful – the gardens deserve to be used more.”

Yeonjun nods in polite acknowledgment, feeling dizzy. Taehyun turns back to his food and continues eating. The ladies look at Yeonjun now, unsure, but all he can do is dip his spoon in a bowl of broth and bring it to his lips. He does not have an answer for them – he hardly has one for himself.

 

.

 

The next day, he wakes up hot, stiff-limbed and exhausted. His eyes are bleary with fever as Haewon helps him to wash up gently, then helps him stand so he could change his underclothes and dress in a morning robe. By the time Beomgyu arrives to wish him a good morning and brush his hair, he has barely managed to sit back down in his fresh clothes on the bed.

“It is bad, then,” Beomgyu says with one hand still on the door, more to Haewon than Yeonjun himself.

“It is near,” Haewon responds, her voice a bit tight.

Yeonjun drops his face into his hands miserably. He believes he could cry if he would only let himself, not because of any painful emotion, but simply because of how uncomfortable he feels. His skin fits onto his flesh oddly, his stomach feels unsettled, and his limbs are heavy.

“I have not spoken to the prince about the arrangements yet. The heat room is not ready. I have not… I—I—”

A cool hand lands on his shoulder, smooths down his arm, then reaches for his wrist.

“Allow me,” Beomgyu says quietly.

Yeonjun lets him have the hand closer to him, and Beomgyu brings it close to his own face before humming.

“I cannot smell him on you just yet. We might have half a day? Perhaps even more.”

He breathes out shakily. It comforts him, despite everything. Just a little.

“Thank you.”

Beomgyu kisses the center of his palm in a gentle, lingering press of lips. “Of course.”

“Haewon please will you please…” Yeonjun shakes his head. His head swims, so terribly uncomfortable. “Please inform Lord Kang and Lady Oh. I will not be leaving my quarters today. If they wish to see me, they must come here.” He takes another trembling breath. “And… the prince. Tell the prince. Tell him to…” He glances up towards Beomgyu, and the words feel heavy in his stomach. “Tell him to come, please. Stress… it is important.”

What if Taehyun rejects him again? This is just like his previous heats. He is so terribly uncomfortable, feeling so fragile, and has need of him. When has Taehyun ever not let him down in a situation like this?

Beomgyu seems to feel his sudden fear, or smells it in the air, because he reaches out to touch his back, drawing wide, calming circles across it. Yeonjun squeezes his eyes shut.

“Of course, Your Grace. I will see to it.”

He licks his lips. They feel rough, and his tongue catches on them unpleasantly.

“There is water on your nightstand. May I be excused now?”

“Yes, thank you, Haewon.”

“Your Grace. Omega Beomgyu.”

“Thank you, Haewon,” Beomgyu repeats, and Yeonjun hears her leave.

Beomgyu sinks onto Yeonjun’s mattress next to him, and Yeonjun falls into him as if it was the most natural motion in the world. His hot cheek lands on Beomgyu’s cool shoulder, and Beomgyu’s hand comes up to pet lovingly at the other one.

“Is it bad?”

Yeonjun shakes his head slightly. “I feel awful, but it is nothing that could not be expected.”

Beomgyu does not respond – perhaps he nodded, somewhere away from Yeonjun’s view.

“Do you think…”

He does not finish his question – does not have the energy to. Beomgyu takes his fingers away from Yeonjun’s cheek, only to sink them into his sweat-damp hair instead. “He will come?”

Yeonjun shrugs as much as he manages to with his entire body aching.

Beomgyu rests his head on top of Yeonjun’s, and holds them close.

“If he knows what is good for him.”

 

.

 

Yeonjun spends a strange breakfast with his ladies – he is listless through most of it, barely has an appetite. Dayeon fixes him a plate and watches over him in an almost overly motherly way, making sure he finishes everything on it. The ladies chatter around him, but there is something forced about it – as if they know it is their duty to fill these sorts of painful silences, but they do not actually feel like talking. Yeonjun wishes they would stop, but he does not have the energy to tell them to.

They finish their breakfast without any news of the prince.

The ladies help Yeonjun dress, even though his skin is covered with a permanent sheen of sweat now, and his underclothes cling to him uncomfortably again already when he takes his morning robe off. He paints over his flushed face dazedly. Lets Beomgyu pull his hair back and hide it under a shroud of fabric. Dayeon pins his veil in place, and rubs at his shoulder comfortingly.

There are no news of the prince.

Old-fashioned wife’s quarters do not come equipped with a study, so Haewon has to have a few other servants come in to clear Yeonjun’s tea room of tables, and bring in a flute for Chaeyoung and dice to the ladies to have something to do without leaving the quarters. Yeonjun sits in the seat listlessly, and does not join them today at all. Beomgyu sits away from the others with a piece of paper and some writing implements, and at some point during the morning, he rolls up his paper and crosses the room to sit next to Yeonjun, handing it to him with a small smile. Yeonjun only mouths the word what at him, and Beomgyu’s smile widens only a little as he gestures at the paper instead of responding. At first he is apprehensive – he thinks he will barely be able to pay attention to writing. But the contents of the paper prove to be remarkably easy to digest.

It is an incredibly inappropriate poem.

About mongooses.

Yeonjun has to cover his mouth to suppress a reaction too loud for the nearly silent room. When he looks at Beomgyu again, he looks terribly proud.

It is torturous to not be able to kiss his smugness off his face – but at the very least, it does make Yeonjun himself smile as well.

At lunchtime, one of the tables is brought back in, laden with food they share more casually than they ever would otherwise. This time, Beomgyu is at Yeonjun’s side to make sure he eats.

And again, not a word is spoken of the prince.

After lunch, Beomgyu asks an innocently posed yet impish question about whether the ladies know of any popular imperial drinking songs, and Yeonjun watches with tired amusement as he is regaled with dozens of them, in bits of lyrics, bits of melody and song. Chaeyoung can play a few on the flute, and Miyeon knows many of them by heart. Yeonjun is only surprised by one of those things. Dayeon knows a few, too, and with warm eyes on Yeonjun, she adds a traditional southern one to the ones the other ladies teach to Beomgyu. It is a bit mean-spirited, admittedly, the main gist of it being about dunking drunks in the lake until they either sober up or, as the song puts it, ‘float away’, but Yeonjun has only ever heard it sung in joyful merriment. On big, happy occasions, like all the alphas drinking together on the new year. He remembers it on his father’s lips, raucous and loud. Perhaps Dayeon has the same exact memories as his own.

Beomgyu sings to the room at large in the southern language at some point, then begins to translate, until the ladies beg him to stop, half laughing and half scandalized. It is probably the bawdiest song Yeonjun has ever heard, and he cannot help but wonder where Beomgyu could have possibly learned it. It could not have been from his lovely, peace-loving gentle lover, could it?

He is still marveling at how Beomgyu managed to so effortlessly both enchant and appall an entire room when Haewon peeks into the door. She does it so subtly he does not notice her at all, and Dasom has to touch his arm gently to alert him to her presence.

“Haewon. Darling. Yes?”

He should not be calling Haewon darling – she is a servant, and she is older than him, and there are a hundred other reasons, but his hazy mind offers him no concern of the sort before he has already said it.

The servant looks at him oddly – worriedly, perhaps – but bows deeply.

“Your Grace. His Highness.”

Yeonjun’s heart leaps into his throat. “He’s come?”

Uncouth, boyish, undignified with his surprise. From the corner of his eye, he sees Beomgyu’s lips parting as well.

Haewon inclines her head. “He is in your bed room at the moment.”

Yeonjun shakes his head. Surely he heard her wrong. “Pardon? In my bed room?”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” She seems odd again, reluctant. “I… I believe it would be better if you went to see him. You will understand.”

What could possibly. What could possibly. What does Haewon mean, he will understand? Is Taehyun not well enough to stand? Has he fallen ill? Has he only come to tackle Yeonjun into his sheets?

With the help of Dayeon and Dasom, Yeonjun rises to his feet with difficulty, and they help him to the door, where Haewon takes his arm instead.

“My dears, please wait for me. I trust we will resolve the matter promptly.”

He does not believe it – not this time. But he says it anyway. His ladies sound their agreement, and Haewon helps him stumble through the corridor back to his bed room. She opens the door for him and stands aside.

And Yeonjun smells it before he sees it, before he gets the chance to hear it.

Bitterness. Pain. Sadness and misery.

Taehyun is in the middle of the room, seeming uncomfortable in the space, sobbing silently, gasping for breath. His face is flushed, his eyes red and swollen.

“Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun only called him so he would allow Beomgyu to see him in his heat again. He only meant to… he only—

“I—” the prince interrupts himself, to look sharply away, and push his palms tightly into his face. “I… I apologize I…” He clears his throat, so roughly it sounds like a growl. “I will compose myself, just…”

His hands shake. He should go to alpha. Comfort alpha. Embrace alpha. Soothe alpha. Open his arms. Open his legs. Close his mouth. Shut his eyes and think of pleasant things until it is over.

“Yes.”

Taehyun nods to himself, then takes his hand off his face. Takes a deep breath. Clears his throat again. When he turns to look at Yeonjun again, his chest rises rapidly, as if he were a panicked, terrified animal.

“Yeonjun.”

“Yes,” he says a bit more vehemently this time.

“Will you love our child?”

The question hits the silent room like a rock splashing into water. Everything seems to ripple, to rush and warp in its wake. Yeonjun stumbles into the door. Taehyun turns away from him completely, and walks away to the window.

“I cannot…” he puts one hand on either side of it and hands his head. “Yeonjun, I cannot father a child who will not be loved.”

“Taehyun…”

“I will not judge you for your answer. I hope you understand. A child that is not wanted is not a child that is easy to love. A child by a man you—” the rest of the sentence is choked out of his husband’s throat. “You do not love me. On some days, you despise me. Most days, you realize my shortcomings all too clearly. I understand. It would not be easy. It was never going to be easy.”

“Taehyun, what are you talking about?”

His husband turns around, sharply, and there is a note of anger to his bitterness now. “You wish to be a mother, but there is more to it than giving birth to my child. They will be a person of their own, and they will need you, need your love. All the more if I am not meant to live long under the rule of Uncle Jeongyul.”

Yeonjun presses his hands to his chest. It feels necessary, to protect himself, to shield himself. “Taehyun, I will not abandon our child.”

“That is not what I am saying, Yeonjun. Not in the slightest. I am not asking if you will house them, feed them or clothe them. I ask if you can love them. Will you be able to look into a face that is just like mine and find love for the human being wearing it? To see my demeanor reflected in a child’s and find it in you to adore it?”

He is crying again – tears pour down his face, but he does not reach up to wipe them. It upsets Yeonjun to see, and he wishes he felt steady on his feet enough to come over there and do it himself.

“Yes! Of course I will! It will be my child as well! Of course I can love them!” He doubted it himself; so many times he doubted it – but he will. He has to. He will break his own heart to love it. His child. His blood. It may be the only good thing to ever come of his marriage with the prince, but that would only make it more perfect. The single proof of the love they could have share. That they did share, in small doses, over such long a time. Seven years, and a single seed that took. And a beautiful flower to bloom out of it.

“Can you? You hate me.”

And Yeonjun wants to disagree, but he does not. He wants to argue with the words, but no words come to mind. Does he? Hate Taehyun? He did. He remembers hating Taehyun. He remembers kneeling on the cold stone of a shrine and thinking he did not deserve to live. That he did not deserve sadness, or anger, or joy for that matter. No forgiveness. No mercy. No kindness.

But that could never extend to the child. Yeonjun would never allow it to extend to the child.

“What kind of mother would not love their own child?”

He sees the moment that his husband’s expression shutters. He looks away, and finally wipes his tears into a sleeve. His eyes do not find Yeonjun again, and they empty slowly until there is nothing left alive in them. A stale note curls through the room.

“Promise me you will. Swear to me you will.”

Yeonjun brings his aching hands away from his chest, and curls them behind his back instead. “I promise.”

The prince says nothing else.

“I promise I will love our child, no matter who they are.” He presses his hands into the door, and manages to stand again. “If they grow up to be just like you. If they look like you, speak like you, act like you – then I will gather every shred of love I have left for you in my heart, and give it to them.”

Tears spill out of Taehyun’s eye again. He takes a deep breath, then nods. He does not look at Yeonjun, still.

“Thank you.”

He does not seem very comforted. Yeonjun aches all over. His fever makes his head throb.

“Taehyun, I have been thinking about this child since we came here. I know I want the best for them. I know I want to see them happy one day, in ways maybe we never will be – but it will not matter, in the face of their happiness. It will be all that matters. I want to help them find their way in the world, even if it leads them away from me. I already know I will cry, the day they leave my embrace, and maybe every day after that. And my tears will dry up, eventually, in the sunshine of their peace and happiness. Of their bright future.”

The prince’s shoulders loosen and his posture crumples, as if he were held up by some invisible power that suddenly left him. He nods again; tears drip off his jaw.

He steps away from the door on unsteady feet. Moving his body hurts. Every step of his feet on the floor feels like walking on a path of sharp pebbles. “Perhaps they will smile like Omega Hayeong.”

His husband finally looks at him with wet eyes as he approaches. Losing both energy and balance, he catches himself on a post of his bed, and Taehyun steps forward a few steps as if to catch him should he fall.

“Or they will be just as hard to please as Alpha Taeyul.”

Taehyun’s eyes are on his. There is emotion in them again – not pain this time. Some terrible tenderness.

He sees it, too.

“They might be like you – a morose little prince.”

He watches Taehyun swallow. “Or like you,” he says, too quiet, all but a whisper. “A beautiful thing that is impossible to hold.”

Yeonjun needs to be in his arms. Needs to be. Even though he does not feel any stronger than when he collapsed into the post, he pushes himself back away from it, and takes unsteady, wavering steps towards Taehyun, who rushes forward to catch him.

And his mate’s arms feel incredible. Like submerging his feverish body in a cool bath. His entire body sags against Taehyun’s, and his husband wavers momentarily under the sudden weight of him.

“Yeonjun. Yeonjun, you are burning up.”

He barely hears the words. He attempts to nuzzle into Taehyun’s neck, to get at his scent, at that perfect cooling balm of a scent, but his husband moves away, making him whine miserably.

Alpha wants him to suffer. Alpha hates him. Alpha will leave again.

No.

He is gathered up by a pair of familiar arms. Cradled to a familiar chest. He has experienced this before. He has seen this before, from a different vantage point – he looks at Taehyun’s shoulder, and is surprised not to find a wet spot where desperate teeth dug into him in distress. He settles his heavy head against it.

“I will take you to the heat room, yes?”

Surprisingly thin; hesitant; kind. Taehyun’s voice is so much higher than he imagined any alpha’s might be, making an offer like this.

A nose buries in his hair. Nuzzles. Breathes in deeply. Hands tighten on him, arms pull him even closer. Lips brush his cheek but do not leave a kiss.

“Please,” Yeonjun says without knowing what he is truly asking for.

Taehyun nods against the side of his face, and terribly, pulls away.

Then he steps towards the door of Yeonjun’s bed room, and his arms do not waver in the slightest.

“Haewon!” he calls, and it feels so out of place, so improper. Taehyun is being too loud. Yeonjun shuts his eyes and lets himself rest. “Open the door for us!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

you can now come talk to me on revospring!

and if you like fanfic playlists, you can check out the new official atgl playlist. actually? also shoutout to lili for inspiring it ;)

Chapter 19

Notes:

shorter chapter this time. 괜찮기를 바랍니당~

short a/n bc i am nottttttttt feeling welllll

copious amounts of sexual content in this one, sorry about that, it won't be easy to just skip past so just skim your way through it if you're uncomfortable with it and i'll see you more fully in the next chapter :)

warning for callbacks to previous discussions on touchy topics like suicidal ideation or miscarriage. nothing too long or heavy :)

stream flowers by honeywhip thank you. wish txt luck on the us part of their tour~ live laugh love.

The tips of their noses are almost touching.

They are sharing breath, and it is wet and sugary and stinging on Yeonjun’s tongue. Taehyun breathes hard; Yeonjun can barely get his own chest to expand.

Pink, pink everywhere. Across his husband’s face, tingeing the deep shadows thrown across it by the lamp light. A sharp nose. Wide, unblinking eyes. Dark eyelashes. Lips bitten raw, flush and swollen. Pink.

Yeonjun’s arms around his neck, heavy, pulling him down inadvertently. His husband is above him, so he should sink down, come closer to him, fall into him. Inevitable. Taehyun’s hand on his side, stark, stinging, uncomfortable, burning. It is the only place where Taehyun is touching him, and there are layers of clothes between them, but it is his mate’s hand, so it is enough.

Palm on his stomach, fingers curling around his waist. He can feel every inch of them, could paint them just from the sharp image of them in his mind.

Breathing in and breathing out. Staining his clothes with slick. Opening his lips on a sigh.

Pins and needles in his limbs. Anticipation. An ache in the scar above his heart. Pink.

On Taehyun’s throat, when he swallows. On Yeonjun’s forearm, when his sleeve slides down his arm. On Taehyun’s eyelids when he lowers his gaze, away from Yeonjun’s face.

“Leave us.”

A moment of silence, hesitation, but it passes quickly. Steps on the wooden floor, the opening and closing of doors. And then they are alone. Taehyun breathes in sugar and exhales pepper, and Yeonjun inhales pepper and breathes out sugar.

“What should I…”

He knows, does he not? He always knew. He knew the first time. It is ingrained into his body, engraved into his mind, it runs through his bloodstream. It rushes through his veins with every beat of his heart.

Their eyes meet again. Their noses brush together. Yeonjun swallows his own spit; his mouth watered helplessly from the smell of his husband’s need. His lips tremble as he tries to find an answer, but his mind is so hazy. He is a ball of sensations now, every touch stark and overwhelming, his alpha’s hand, his clothes on his skin, the silk cushions under him, the sweat dripping down his body. The suffocating scents of them that keep holding his head underwater, will not let his mind clear. The sounds of them breathing. The sight his alpha cuts before him, curled above him. The emotions coiling tense in his chest. Safety and need and anticipation and a hint of fear. A comfortable discomfort.

Yeonjun is used to thinking too much, but now he is not thinking at all. Boiling blood and wet thighs and an insistent throb between them.

Blank and helpless and happy and afraid.

He smiles. Taehyun is here. He is here, and he is touching him. All he needs. All he ever needed.

Taehyun frowns at the sight of it. “What…”

And once the smile breaks through the haze, he cannot stop it; the wave of joy – the trembling excitement. His face must crumple unprettily, but he his stuck behind his own eyes, and all he can see is dark eyes and such a lovely shade of pink. He unwinds one arm from around Taehyun’s neck to cradle his cheek – too thin; angular, skin and bone. So, so wonderful to him when the sharp angles of it cut into the palm of his hand, when his fingers fit against it.

“You’re here.” Barely a breath, happy, reverent. Disbelief – such joyful disbelief.

And Taehyun stares at him, eyes wide and stricken. Tears spring into them and Yeonjun ignores them as he surges up to kiss him, and the tears stain Yeonjun’s own cheeks as he kisses Taehyun harder, as he rubs their faces together, he tastes them off of his husband’s jaw, they rain on him when he kisses his neck, when he tastes his scent off the scent gland at the joint of his neck and shoulder, bitter and tingling on his tongue with pepper. It is awful and perfect and Yeonjun pushes and pulls at his own clothes to bare his chest as much as he can, rucks his skirts up until he can open his legs wide, until he can pull his alpha in between them, until he can lay back down on the cushion with the pressure he craves, the pressure he needs on the insides of his thighs as he closes them around Taehyun’s hips.

A shiver crawls up his spine, and he arches his back to ease it, and maybe he whines, maybe he moans, maybe he sighs. Maybe he has been this whole time. He pulls his alpha’s head down again, towards his chest, all but forces his lips against the scar that feels like a fresh wound under his mate’s attention. His face is wet, drenched, and Yeonjun pets Taehyun’s tear-stained cheeks gently while he licks slowly at the scar he left there so many years ago. And Yeonjun mewls with perfect pain. With aching delight.

His husband’s shoulders shudder with sobs and Yeonjun pushes at the layers of fabric covering them until he knocks most of it away, until Taehyun’s jacket is askew and the curve of his shoulder is exposed on one side, and he jolts when Yeonjun pushes his wrist into his scent gland carelessly. Eagerly. Hungrily. The real scent of his alpha, not a trace of him, not an imitation of him painted in Yeonjun’s own scent. His scent. On Yeonjun’s skin, in his lungs, on his tongue, in his blood, inching like a touch of fingers up his spine until it reaches his skull and Yeonjun’s mind sings with it. The brilliance of it. The warmth of it, the comfort of it.

He is so happy. He rips his underclothes trying to show more of himself, a small tear somewhere near his shoulder and he does not care. It digs into his skin painfully when he pulls at it hard to free his breast, to show the small swell, the unusual heaviness of it off to his husband. To offer it to him like an exotic delicacy. To try and entice him to put his mouth to it, to lap at it with his tongue, to hold it in his own hand, lay the claim to it that he is owed. And Taehyun follows obediently, sucks the nipple between his lips then squeezes the flesh under it between his teeth, and Yeonjun thinks he laughs breathlessly and grips at his husband’s hair and sighs and squirms as is his right.

And Taehyun’s hands shake when he undoes his pants, and his face is flushed from all the crying, and he will not stop. He takes himself out of his pants, and he brushes the inside of Yeonjun’s thigh, a little greeting, a little ritual, and Yeonjun is elated but he sobs, too. He wants to scream, howl, growl, yell with ecstasy the first time they touch, slide against each other, indecently wet, slippery, hot, ticklish with the tease of it. Familiar but so new. Is that what he felt like the first time? He does not remember. He could never remember – he only remembered what his husband felt like inside him.

He cries. Overly sensitive, twitching, wanting, and tears slide down his temples. Taehyun’s hand finds his, and their fingers slot together, and they land somewhere next to Yeonjun in the cushions when Taehyun leans into him.

Taehyun hovers above him, and their hands are sweaty in each other’s grip, and they are on the verge, poised to be joined, poised to reclaim each other. Give into each other. Give into the need that is somewhere in both of them. And Yeonjun relaxes. All tension drains out of his body and his limbs loosen, happy and satisfied. Trusting his husband fully not to let him down. Not this time. Not him. Not like this. And tears sting his eyes and tears drip onto the fabric still covering him off of Taehyun’s chin, and Yeonjun tilts his head back and arches his back and writhes, to show he wants it. That this is exactly where he wants to be – under his husband, leaking and crying and reaching out for him blindly to get him to push in. His feet slip on the fur under them with the effort. His fist closes uselessly in a hanging lapel of Taehyun’s jacket. Even helplessness feels enjoyable, with his husband against him like this.

“Give it to me. Are you scared of me? Are you scared it won’t take? Do it. It’s yours. It’s—”

He is not sure which words work; which ones spur Taehyun on, all he knows is that they choke out of his throat as soon as Taehyun gives in and slips inside of him. And then he cannot stay quiet, cannot stay still. Between one stroke and the next, he wants to turn around to lay on his front, to take it better, to make it easier to meet the motion of Taehyun’s hips with his own, he wants to curl around his husband, whine into his shoulder. Wipe his happy, overwhelmed tears on his clothes.

But he is not allowed – he is held down, none too gently, by the hand Taehyun keeps a firm grip on, by the hand that comes to hold onto his hip, that presses down to keep him in place, exactly where his alpha commands him to be, in a way that makes his ears ring. He has never been happier. Clothes pushed haphazardly out of the way. Everything wet with tears and sweat. The meeting of their hips so imperfect – rushed. He is taken more efficiently than pleasurably, with less regard for his own enjoyment than usual, but there is a sweetness to it that makes something burn even hotter in his abdomen. So wanted. So needed. So messy, so imperfect. Feverish and thoughtless, with messy hair and the paint on his face smeared everywhere, and his alpha still wants him. Craves him. Hot and hard with desire for him. Merciless with his hips, generous with his tongue when he bends down over him to mouth at his mating mark again. Yeonjun holds his face, wipes spit off his bottom lip.

He is perfect to Yeonjun, in this moment, right now, and Yeonjun wonders if he knows it. Wishes he had words, any words at all to say it. Instead he cries and moans and whines like he is complaining, like this is not exactly what he wanted all along. His husband’s hand shakes in his, and Yeonjun knows he will pull away before he does, because he knows what it means.

The torn fabric of his underclothes on his shoulder pulls taut again and snaps, tugged down his front. Taehyun’s face rests in the center of his chest, heaving heavy, hot breaths against it, one hand cupping his breast, squeezing it roughly and Yeonjun remembers with stark clarity lying on the wooden floor of Taehyun’s front room at the court, hard wooden floor under his back, Taehyun’s forehead on his chest, their hips pressed together. The angle was better then, but Taehyun did not want him then. He wants him now. Taehyun shifts the hand on his breast to his hip, and Yeonjun uses all the energy he has left to shift them up past the rough grip. Come closer; take him in deeper. Run his hands down his husband’s spine under his clothes until he shudders again, and Yeonjun purrs with satisfaction, and Taehyun presses his cheek against Yeonjun’s mating mark and his knot finally catches.

There is a rush of delightful panic. He forgot this feeling; he missed this feeling. He fists a hand in the hair at the back of Taehyun’s head to steady himself through the sudden need to get away, or to push closer, to squirm, to run. Pleasure-pain and then a perfect pressure. A fullness he cannot help but shift his hips to explore, to enjoy, and he makes noise he knows is unbecoming of him, but it all gets buried under the groan his alpha lets out as he spills into him. Yeonjun thinks his heart might burst. All his. His. His alpha. His prize. His reward for his sweetness, for his loyalty, for the faithful gift of his body. The twitching that won’t stop. The stutters of his husband’s hips. For him.

The fingers finding the place where they are joined, prodding around it, until they reach for the right spot to rub, to flick, to tease at until he seizes. For him as well.

Lips on his chest, palms soothing his hips, sliding under his clothes to make him shiver when they touch his bare sides. For him.

Intertwined fingers, and kisses on his wrists, on the backs of his hands, on his fingers. For him.

An embrace, full, exhausted, their chests together, their faces buried in each other’s necks. For them, perhaps.

Yeonjun runs the tip of his nose over his husband’s scent gland and enjoys the shudder he feels all over his own body.

“Tell me you love me,” he says.

And Taehyun does not. Yeonjun sinks his teeth into his scent gland in retaliation, hard and bruising. Taehyun wipes his tears on the side of Yeonjun’s neck, and pets lovingly down his bare thigh.

 

.

 

Taehyun sits on the floor of the room with his feet in the nest. Yeonjun watches him unhappily – he teeters on the edge, half-out and half-in. The curtains drape over his bare back, the only thing keeping Yeonjun from complaining bitterly. They are looking at each other, but saying nothing. Yeonjun is lying on a pile of cushions, stripped down to stained, sweat-soaked, torn underclothes. He is frowning. Taehyun is not. Taehyun does not look like anything at all.

Yeonjun can think better now, clearer now, but he chooses not to. He is exhausted. His alpha is near, reluctant as he seems to be so. He wants to rest.

“You need water.” Taehyun rekindles the same argument they had before tiredly. He tried to leave the nest, to fetch a physician, to ask for toiletries, to take his clothes off outside of the nest, and Yeonjun hissed and spat and cried until he acquiesced and stayed.

He shakes his head.

“A washcloth.”

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches in annoyance, but he shakes his head. There is dried slick and seed all over his thighs, but he would rather have this discomfort than that of his husband abandoning him to recover alone. This is suitable. This will do.

“You must still be in pain.”

For once, he is not lying when he shakes his head. He feels feverish and tired, but nothing hurts. Terribly, awfully, nothing hurts. He stares at the mark he left on his husband’s shoulder – a blossoming bruise. Perhaps he is in more pain than Yeonjun himself is.

“Do you not need the tea?” Taehyun sounds young and unsure; lost. His hands hang between his knees – the same hands that held Yeonjun just a short time before, the hands that held him down, the hands that held him steady.

Yeonjun buries his face in a silky cushion – all the cushions are orange, and with the pink of the curtains they make the nest glow with the warmth of a sunrise. “This is what the tea does,” he mumbles against it.

It is not entirely true – the relief brought on by the tea is heavy and numb. Sluggish like an illness, not like the fatigue of a night well-spent. This is better. More natural. His mind feels clearer.

“Pardon?”

Reluctantly, Yeonjun turns to his husband again. “This is how the tea would make me feel. It would dull the pain, make me feel tired. Calm me down.”

“Oh.” Taehyun sounds surprised. “Then it is a substitute for…”

Knotting. “Yes.”

Taehyun looks away, staring at the curtains instead. “I did not know.”

“Neither did I,” Yeonjun rasps. He feels parched. He needs water, but he will not let Taehyun leave to get it for him. Perhaps someone will dare come inside. Haewon. Beomgyu.

Beomgyu.

He turns his body away from Taehyun entirely, and faces a wall instead. “I did not remember what a knot felt like.”

It is partially a lie – he remembered the satisfaction of it, but not much else.

He hears Taehyun take a sharp breath behind him, but he does not move, or change his tone.

“There must be something you need.”

So desperate to get away from him; Yeonjun feels sick with it, dizzy. He picks at the hairs of the fur he rests on. He remembers wishing to be like Beomgyu, to writhe and sweat in a bed of furs, a beautiful, wild thing. But he is nothing like it – he lies in a comfortable bed of cushions instead, hidden modestly behind flimsy curtains. They are not the same – they were never the same.

“I wished to ask you whether you would allow me to see Omega Beomgyu in my heat before it started.”

A wave of spice – of interest? Yeonjun closes his eyes in discomfort.

“Omega Beomgyu.”

“Yes.” As firm as he can despite his tiredness.

“When?”

Something itches in his nose, and he turns towards his husband halfway, only to watch him shift awkwardly, boyishly, to hide his lap from view. Yeonjun’s eyes narrow at him in disappointment. He, too? Beomgyu joked to tease him, but it came to Taehyun’s own mind as well, did it not?

His cheeks are already flushed, and it may work to his benefit now. Beomgyu. Beomgyu’s eyes on them – on a scene just like the one earlier, Yeonjun haphazard and open and needy, and Taehyun helpless, rushed on top of him. The same eyes that watched Yeonjun please himself in the last heat, the wanting, sad, intent, hungry eyes.

He collapses on his back again, and lets his knees fall apart. His arousal is a somber constant in the air, aimless, inadvertent. Apropos of nothing.

“While you rest.”

“Like now?”

Yeonjun shrugs. The fur under him is buttery soft.

Taehyun glances towards Yeonjun’s lap. “Will that not be uncomfortable for you?”

He narrows his eyes at his husband again. “I want to see him.”

To his credit, Taehyun seems chastised. He hangs his head, then looks at the curtain on the other side of the nest entirely. “Do you think he would mind tending to you?”

Yeonjun studies his face. It seems placid – unchanged. “Tending to me?”

His husband nods, then lowers his eyes to his own feet. “Carrying out your attendant’s duties. I could— I could ask for him to be given Haewon’s duties. Dressing you, bringing you food and water. It would give him easy access to you, and if the order comes from me, it will not be questioned.”

He looks up at Yeonjun eventually, and Yeonjun reciprocates his steady gaze while he considers his words. It seems convenient – too convenient, perhaps.

“The Kangs know Omega Beomgyu is a concubine,” he mumbles out. Was Taehyun even aware? Did he care?

Taehyun’s eyebrows twitch upwards. “Do they? I did not tell them a word of it. I rebuffed Lord Hansu quite firmly when he tried to press for information on his standing at our court.”

“I told them,” Yeonjun says bluntly without hesitation, and only wavers a little when his husband’s eyes narrow at him in displeasure. “I told Omega Hayeong, knowing he would run to his mother with the information.”

Displeasure shifts closer to disbelief. “Why would you? He had the opportunity to be looked upon as an equal; to escape the weight of his standing, at least for a little while.”

Of course that is what Taehyun would have wanted; of course he would be tight-lipped for Beomgyu’s benefit.

“I spoke to Omega Beomgyu, and he said we should not avoid the truth if confronted, so I did not.”

Taehyun tangles his own fingers together loosely. “Omega Beomgyu said that.”

Yeonjun nods his head sluggishly. “With the implication that if I want him to be treated any better than a concubine ought to be in the Empire, I should simply use my status to demand it.”

His husband’s eyes lower, slipping away from him, and there is an amused twitch to his mouth. “Of course. I suppose I would not expect any different from him.”

And despite every torrid circumstance of it, Yeonjun’s own mouth nudges into a smile as well. “Of course.”

Taehyun curls into himself slightly as he seems to consider their situation, then lifts his eyes again. “Do you worry about appearances should I ask for him to tend to you?”

Yeonjun averts his own eyes to the ceiling to take his time to think about it. There could be implications. Assumptions. Conclusions. That Taehyun needs Beomgyu to be satisfied. That Yeonjun does. That they would please him together? Please each other?

His mind runs too far with the thought and he turns away from Taehyun again, just to clear his mind.

“We might break Omega Hayeong’s heart,” he says too lightly, too casually.

“Pardon?”

Yeonjun tangles his fingers in the fur again. “He has a very romantic view of the relationship between us.”

“I see.”

“He believes we were allowed to marry because your father saw the love between us as too powerful a force to fight against.”

His husband laughs, but it sounds more like disdain than true amusement. “That is not quite how it went.”

Yeonjun lets his head sway in something that could be both a nod or a shake of his head. “So I understand it.”

“I had to place my father in a situation where he faced losing his perfect heir entirely in favor of a concubine’s child who was raised nowhere as deliberately as I was before he finally acquiesced to the wedding taking place,” Taehyun says easily, matter-of-factly – as if it were something Yeonjun knew already, or something that should not matter to either of them in the slightest. When Yeonjun turns to look at him in disbelief, Taehyun’s mouth twitches in a small smile, and he shrugs his shoulders. “He believed for the nearly two years of our betrothal that I would grow tired of you before I became a man.” He stretches his arms out and rolls his shoulders. With the ripple of muscle, Yeonjun’s eyes are once again drawn to his mating mark. It is just as neat as Yeonjun’s own – neither of them flinched in the slightest when marked, too aware of all the eyes on them during the ceremony. Everyone important enough at the court to watch the two of them strip down to their waists before each other and sink their teeth into one another – family members, the entire Imperial Council and their spouses, generals, officials, lords and ladies. Yeonjun remembers telling himself so firmly that he is beautiful – that he had been told his entire life that he is beautiful, so he would not curl his shoulders in, would not slouch and embarrass himself by showing shame at having his entire chest exposed before so many eyes.

He remembers looking at Taehyun, and seeing this odd, wonderful peace in his newlywed husband’s eyes – in the eyes of the alpha who would, in only a few more breaths, become his mate. Yeonjun was near trembling in anticipation, with nerves, with excitement, with the apprehension that lingered at the edge of every happy thought. And Taehyun looked like he was exactly where he had to be; where he wanted to be – like it was his right to be there in that exact moment, kneeling with Yeonjun before a crowd, half-naked and about to bind himself to another person for life. To bind himself to Yeonjun for life. Determined and self-assured. Happy, somewhere behind it, even. Satisfied. He won. He played Yeonjun, Yeonjun’s aunt, the Emperor himself, and he won himself the bride he wanted. The omega he fell in love with.

At the time, Yeonjun found it reassuring – took comfort in it. He was unsure, so he let his husband be sure for him. All he had to do was hold still while he was claimed; keep his jaw tight when claiming Taehyun back. And Taehyun did not let him down back then.

“He misunderstood me; and he misunderstood you. I believe it was his own fault for not paying you enough attention. If he looked, he would have seen.”

“Seen what?” Yeonjun is not sure what great effort Taehyun perceives from Yeonjun’s side of their betrothal. All Yeonjun did was sit pretty and wait for his betrothed to become old enough to claim him officially.

“Someone more than worthy of holding onto; of waiting patiently for.”

He turns away again, suddenly shy, suddenly anxious. Taehyun does this to him again – says such ardent words so recklessly. Inconsiderately. What is Yeonjun to do, in the face of them?

He was taught since his boyhood never to take words like these seriously; never to let them sway him. He was told they mean nothing, less than nothing. Adoration is only worth as much as the air expended to express it. Affection is fleeting. Attraction is a tool, a double-edged blade. A young alpha’s love is like a cherry blossom, sweet and pretty for the handful of days it stays in bloom for – and then it floats away with the wind.

Pink. On the back of Yeonjun’s hand, tinting everything around him. He flutters his fingers as if it were a fog, a haze lingering around him. Pink like a cherry blossom – the mirage of being loved. Of being desired. Of being adored.

“I hope for your sake our child is nothing like me in matters of love,” Taehyun continues just as lightheartedly. “Or, if they are, that they choose a much more reasonable target for their affections.”

Because that is what Yeonjun was – unreasonable. Foolish. An act of rebellion, perhaps, but one carried out with absolute sincerity.

“Why for my sake? You will be the father – you will have to do just as much, if not more forbidding than I will, should our child wish to marry unwisely.”

Pink, on the back of his eyelids, when he closes them just as Taehyun answers, “You are much more likely to survive the next eighteen years than I am.”

Ice, in his chest when he breathes out sharply. “It upsets me when you talk about yourself dying like this.”

A thin note of staleness, stark in the air when he breathes back in. “I know; I wish the thought upset me as well, instead of bringing me this much peace.”

He opens his eyes. He is in a warm, comfortable nest, surrounded by the smell of himself and his alpha, and Taehyun has never wanted to leave him as definitively as he does now. “You want to die.”

“I do not think I do; but it seems like so simple a solution to all my problems.”

Yeonjun clenches his fist on top of the fur. “You will not die – we will not allow it.”

His husband sighs quietly. “If that is the goal you set for yourself, I believe you may succeed. I will not stand in your way. I will do what you find necessary.”

He brings his hand to his chest, runs his thumb over his mating mark. “Would you live simply because I did not wish for you to die?”

And it takes Taehyun a long time to answer. “I believe I would,” he says eventually. “I have always found your happiness a worthy goal to shape my life around. Perhaps I can make it my reason to survive as well.”

Yeonjun takes a shaky breath. “Go call for Omega Beomgyu.”

He feels his husband move immediately. “Yes.”

“But.”

And just as promptly, he pauses. Yeonjun has him in the palm of his hand – life and death. His happiness and his misery, his pleasure and his pain, every step he makes. Yeonjun tugs him along with the flick of a finger. And yet he feels helpless.

“Yes?”

He took too long to speak his mind. He rolls onto his back, and stares up at his husband.

It feels wrong, to be lying at his feet like this – is this how Beomgyu felt, every time Yeonjun came to visit him in his heat? This small? This undignified? Yeonjun cannot say that he enjoys this.

“Kiss me first before you go.” And after Taehyun hesitates for a mere fraction of a second, “I will not let you leave unless you do.”

Taehyun lowers himself to his knees beside him to kiss him, and this he enjoys – a canopy of alpha; of skin and warm spices. He is a shelter unto himself, better than any curtain, firmer than any wooden ceiling. It feels as if Yeonjun did not know safety until his mate was back above him. His heat is making a mess of his mind, but doing it so sweetly in this moment, he cannot help but smile, happily, thoughtlessly, and Taehyun’s spice twinges bitter again.

“Kiss me,” he demands again at another slight pause of hesitation on his husband’s part.

And Taehyun kisses him gently, sweetly, and Yeonjun bites at his lips, as if this were a playful occasion. Like Taehyun kissed him deliberately; willingly. Like they wanted each other joyfully, passionately.

Like he was Beomgyu.

“Scent me,” he demands next, a requirement he failed to give before but which feels so imperative when their lips part, and he pushes his husband’s face towards his neck.

Taehyun huffs against his skin before he presses his own into it, and it sounds strange; amused, but with a sardonic hint to it. Something a bit bitter about it, something a bit bitter about his scent when it rubs into Yeonjun, sinks into his skin. The sweetest, ripest fruit, stained with bitter spices. It is still perfect to him, because it is Taehyun.

“I will go call for him now,” Taehyun says quietly with his lips still against the source of Yeonjun’s scent. He smells better now; milder. Despite everything, Yeonjun’s scent calmed him as well. “I am sure he will not take long.”

Yeonjun nods as he pulls away without saying anything, his mind swimming pleasantly. Exhausted, fulfilled, and coated head to toe in alpha. He can be alone for a moment now. Just a moment.

 

.

 

Beomgyu knocks on the door frame before he enters. Taehyun seems startled by the politeness, back to his seat at the edge of the nest with his back to the door. He nearly jumps at the sound of it, and when he turns to look at the door as Beomgyu pushes it open, the curtain coats his face like an imitation of a veil.

Yeonjun watches Taehyun watch Beomgyu, as he crosses the other side of the room from the door to the corner under the lamp with a small table in his arms and sets it down with a small huff of effort that is nevertheless loud in the silent room. Taehyun looks at Beomgyu like he is a ray of sunlight on a gloomy day; like he was never gladder to see anyone in his life.

He cannot stand looking at it, so he looks at Beomgyu instead. Beomgyu kneels in front of the table with his head lowered – his veil obscures his face entirely. His hands are primly folded in his lap. His posture seems rigid; strange.

Citrus wafts over, thin and indistinct through the curtain. It gives nothing away.

“I brought drinking water, and some light foods, some warmed water for washing.”

Neither does his tone. Perfectly restrained, perfectly neutral. Perfectly nothing.

“Thank you, Omega Beomgyu,” Taehyun says in this odd voice without taking his eyes off of him. Does Beomgyu know how intensely the alpha is watching him? Can he see it? “I will leave you, so you may tend to my wife comfortably.”

Beomgyu nods slowly, like his head is pushing through water. What is it? What has him acting so odd? What has Taehyun acting so strangely?

Then finally, Taehyun’s eyes leave Beomgyu to turn to him, and his alpha moves almost too fluidly. On the edge of the nest one moment and in the center the next, draping over him, kissing him, a thumb on his chin and a forefinger on his cheek just keeping him wherever alpha wants him. It is pleasant, mindless. Yeonjun almost does not kiss back at all this time.

His husband studies his face with narrowed eyes. “Scent?”

And Yeonjun cannot remember if he was going to ask before Taehyun offered, but now he nods gladly, and bares his neck completely to receive him. He feels docile now, weak and needy, nothing like his forcefulness from earlier. He wonders why; he himself cannot quite fathom. Something about Taehyun leaving him now after already kissing him and scenting him before, offering to do the same again. Some perfect satisfaction that softens him to his bones. Taehyun leaves a strangely delicate, small kiss on his scent gland and Yeonjun feels it like a chill up his spine, like a tickle behind his ears. He lets out a small sound, and only then remembers that they are not alone.

Beomgyu. Beomgyu need only turn his head to the side to see. To watch as Yeonjun melts for his husband completely, as his eyes roll back, as his palm slides, futile, over Taehyun’s skin before falling back down into the cushions.

“Please do rest,” Taehyun says to him quietly, privately, before standing up and leaving the nest.

Yeonjun watches him go, stares at his bare back as he slips through the curtain and heads straight for the door without casting a single glance anywhere else, not back towards Yeonjun, or to the side towards Beomgyu.

“Prince.”

He strides with so much determination and confidence, he nearly stumbles in his haste to stall in place at the sound of Beomgyu’s voice. “Yes?”

Beomgyu shifts, finally moving, turning halfway towards Taehyun. “I brought two washcloths. Are you not in need of one?”

His lips falling open, Taehyun looks down at himself. His pants are retied, stained with slick, and so must his skin be underneath the wet patches. It must be dried all over him, crusted in his hair. He must be uncomfortable. It seems in this moment the thought never occurred to him, either.

“I—” Taehyun casts a look towards the nest, then shakes his head. “Wet it, and hand it to me.”

“Pardon?” Beomgyu seems so taken aback by being given an order that he forgets to be dismissive.

And Taehyun seems to realize his mistake promptly enough, reaching out a hand and inclining his head to offer some measure of politeness. “Please, Omega Beomgyu, would you hand me a wet washcloth?”

With all the time he had to compose himself, Beomgyu tilts his chin up defiantly. “Why? Come here to fetch it yourself. You can use the basin.”

Taehyun’s shoulders shift as if in discomfort. “Toss it to me, then.”

Beomgyu’s eyebrows travel up his face, his expression open with naked curiosity. “What is it, princeling? What are you afraid of this time?”

Taehyun only extends his hand further, more insistent. “If you want me to have it, Omega Beomgyu, give it to me. It is hard enough to leave as it is, without any more steps between me and the door.”

And as Beomgyu casts a surprised look towards Yeonjun who has not moved an inch since Taehyun left him behind, Yeonjun feels a warmth spreading through his chest. A tingle in the tips of his fingers.

“You find it difficult to leave?” Beomgyu sounds half surprised, half fascinated – in response, Taehyun frowns at him.

“Of course. He is mine,” Taehyun’s mouth twitches unhappily as soon as he says it. “My responsibility. I know this with everything I am. Of course it is difficult to leave him behind.”

Beomgyu’s hand comes up to his own chest, curls into a fist. He looks up and down Taehyun’s body – despite his state of undress, they do not linger anywhere, searching in a much different way than an omega’s might. Beomgyu said his husband would leave him between the peaks of his heat, to work, to occupy himself with something else until it was time to try for a child again – and here Taehyun is, talking about how impossible it is to walk away from an omega in heat.

He takes perhaps too long to process the words – it is obvious to everyone in the room how deeply affected he was by them. When he turns away from Taehyun again, perhaps they both expect Beomgyu to dismiss him, to mock him again, but instead he wets one of the washcloths and wrings it out, measured, unhurried, then stands up and walks over to Taehyun to stand right in front of him. Too close – Taehyun must smell like a mess of heat and alpha, but Beomgyu does not even flinch.

“You seemed to have no such qualms when it came to me – perhaps it is not a matter of instinct at all?” A little mocking, a little pointed. Beomgyu offers the washcloth into the slim space between them, and Taehyun takes it without allowing their skin to touch in the slightest.

“I did,” he says firmly, and if it were spoken any less confidently, perhaps it would have come off as defensive. “It was just as hard to leave you behind, Omega Beomgyu. Did my wife not tell you? He had to assist me just to make it past the threshold.”

Beomgyu’s eyes narrow. Was he never told? Yeonjun can barely remember now. Surely he was – was he not? Perhaps it felt like it did not matter – like it should be inconsequential to him. Taehyun’s instincts towards him were none of Beomgyu’s concern, as long as Taehyun managed to suppress them.

“Alpha wanted to stay at my side?” More mocking this time. Yeonjun can imagine the sour note in the air although it does not reach his nose in reality. Beomgyu is agitated – angry?

And Taehyun’s fingers clench around the washcloth, and water drips down his forearm, over the scab that still cuts a dark path across his skin there. “Alpha did – but I knew better.” Taehyun draws himself tall, princely, alpha-like, but he has nothing to tower over Beomgyu with – no advantage of height, little by way of broadness. Against anyone else, he might hold his indomitable pride over their head, but not Beomgyu. Beomgyu’s own could overshadow his any day – what he is left with is the appearance of a small man trying to appear larger than life; a cub trying to roar like a grown tiger. Pathetic, and afraid. “May I leave now?”

Beomgyu’s quicksilver eyes study him again – flitting restlessly, looking for something and either finding too much or nothing at all. “I thought leaving pained you deeply.”

Taehyun folds his arms behind his back. It puts his mating bite on display, and Yeonjun spies Beomgyu’s eyes falling to it, catching on it, resting on it too long. “They say bitter medicine is better swallowed quickly, Omega Beomgyu.”

And this time, Beomgyu’s voice comes out softer, thinner. “I am sure they say many such wisdoms, Prince Taehyun.”

Yeonjun watches his husband’s chest heave with a deep breath. “I feel the same,” he says then, nonsensically, and Beomgyu’s eyes widen as they shift up to meet Taehyun’s. “Pay it no mind; the scents confuse us.”

But Beomgyu seems to know exactly what Taehyun means, because he looks away from him, and takes a firm step back.

Taehyun nods his head awkwardly. “I will leave now. Please make sure my wife is given a drink of water. He needs it.”

Beomgyu nods just as strangely, his body just as tense as before. He does not bow as Taehyun leaves. His chest rises and falls rapidly.

Yeonjun watches Beomgyu recover from the confrontation, and waits for Beomgyu’s eyes to fall on him. It takes too long, entirely too long for Yeonjun’s comfort when he has to watch his lover linger outside the nest instead of sharing it with him. Beomgyu breathes, then unpins his veil and tucks the fabric into his sash. His palm closes over the stretch of fabric closer to his hip, where Beomgyu has been carrying his spirit mirror. He swallows heavily, and shakes his head hard.

Only then does he look at Yeonjun, and offers him a small smile. It seems insincere, but all the sweeter for it – a smile that was only conjured for Yeonjun’s benefit. To comfort him a little.

“You look well. How do you feel?”

The words carry through the room with a simplicity that was not present in it before, and Yeonjun takes it in gratefully, lets his head fall back, tilting up to the ceiling again as Beomgyu steps back to the table to gather his tools.

“Floating,” he says easily, honestly, and Beomgyu’s chuckle in response seems just as grateful as the gladness in Yeonjun’s own chest.

“They said you were not in need of a numbing tea,” Beomgyu carries the conversation through bringing the table to the edge of the nest so it could be accessed easily from the inside. He still does not come in.

They. Taehyun said it, did he not?

“I am not in any pain.”

When Yeonjun looks over, Beomgyu is shedding the fabric covering his hair, letting it pool on the floor, shaking the braid underneath around like a tail wagging behind him. “Good; you deserve some peace.”

Yeonjun stares at Beomgyu’s braid, imagines pulling all of it loose, covering himself with silken brown hair, like a smooth, flimsy blanket. Then Beomgyu steps into the nest, too clothed, too sharp, and Yeonjun gasps for breath. Beomgyu smells a little sweet and a little sour. A touch of honey and a touch of tangy lemon. Arousal and agitation and Beomgyu, simply Beomgyu, citrusy and mouthwatering and heart-stopping and leaning over him just like Yeonjun’s alpha did.

“You gave us all such a scare; I was worried for you.”

Hushed and honest. Yeonjun surges up to return the soft kiss the words come with.

“It took us both by surprise; I did not know I was so close.”

Beomgyu’s eyes do not meet his as he brushes Yeonjun’s hair away from his face. “It was fortunate he was there; so you could be brought here safely.”

Yeonjun does not respond to that – they both found themselves in that circumstance now; carried in their alpha’s arms to their nest, to safety in the throes of heat. Yeonjun does not imagine they felt the same about it; he saw enough of Beomgyu’s crying and thrashing when he was the one being carried to know this. He himself went peacefully. Calmly. Happily. He trusted his alpha – of course he trusted his alpha. His arms were always dependable. Rarely there, but always strong enough to hold onto him.

And Beomgyu trusted him as well, or so he said, and therein laid the issue.

Taehyun said he felt the same, and Beomgyu required no explanation. Yeonjun stares at him intently, as if he could figure out the meaning of the words with his eyes alone, even as Beomgyu shifts away from him to fill a tall cup with water.

“You should drink first. You must be parched.”

He nods, even though Beomgyu waits for no confirmation. He helps Yeonjun sit up, and keeps supporting his back gently as he downs the cup sip by sip. Yeonjun was already calm, but it feels soothing nonetheless. His head clears further with it, and once he is done, he wraps his arms around Beomgyu and just holds him, in a tight, firm embrace.

Ever so slowly, the sour note leaves Beomgyu’s scent, until he is just citrus and sweetness. Yeonjun’s lips twitch with the need to bury himself in his scent gland – to complete that blend of scents he recalls so clearly. Spiced wine and citrus. It is there, coming together imperfectly around them without Taehyun around to strengthen the spice lingering in the air, without Beomgyu staining Yeonjun’s skin as well.

“You smell happy,” Beomgyu says quietly, thinly, and runs his hand down Yeonjun’s back. Yeonjun pushes his eyes into Beomgyu’s shoulder and nods against it.

“I am.”

And Beomgyu’s scent shifts oddly, unpleasantly, and he lifts another hand to pull away stray strands of hair that have stuck to the side of Yeonjun’s face and neck with sweat, then traces the shell of his ear. “Perhaps I cannot be the Kai to your Beomgyu after all.”

Yeonjun lifts his head to look at him with a small frown, more one of confusion than displeasure. Beomgyu looks at him with tender eyes, and keeps messing with his hair, smoothing it down until surely there is not a strand out of place. “What do you mean?”

Beomgyu’s hand goes to his sash, to cup the spirit mirror again, and his thumb taps the tip of Yeonjun’s nose, then lowers to his lips. “I do not remember ever being happy in my heat. Sated, yes. Calmed. Numb. Never happy.” A line down the center of his lips, a dot on one side, then a dot on the other. Yeonjun shakes with the reminder, with the fact that Beomgyu remembered the gesture in the first place. “Not unless he was in my arms.”

Yeonjun tightens his arms around Beomgyu’s shoulders. “You are in my arms right now.”

Beomgyu smiles thinly. “But my presence is not needed, is it?”

“It is wanted,” Yeonjun retorts firmly and presses even closer. Does what he has wanted to this whole time – dives into Beomgyu’s neck, to stamp his own scent into him. Pulls at Beomgyu’s collar to expose more skin, rubs his cheek all over him. Rubs his own neck into Beomgyu in return. “Beomgyu. I want you here.”

And Beomgyu shivers with the feeling, but he pulls Yeonjun’s face away from himself, gently but firmly. It settles between them – the peace; the safety of it. Sugared fruit and spices, honey and citrus. The bountiful, succulent meal they make all together. Comforting. Relaxing despite everything.

“I know, Yeonjun,” Beomgyu assures him at a whisper. “I know you do.” He presses their foreheads together, and closes his eyes, but Yeonjun keeps his own open, keeps them on the blurred image of Beomgyu right there in front of him. “But I did not think it would be like this. I did not think you would be like this. I thought you would need me. That there would be a pain I would be suited to soothe. Whether he left you unsatisfied or saddened. A large pain or a small pain. I thought I would be comforting. I thought you would need me… especially when I was called for.” Beomgyu’s thumb smooths down the side of his neck. “But I am just someone you have too much affection for to not see me for as long as your heat would require, aren’t I?” He brushes their lips together blindly, barely a kiss at all. “You want me here because you love me.”

Their eyes meet again, and Beomgyu’s citrus is bittering. His eyes are large in their sadness, almost pleading, intent, bright with some sharp emotion. Imploring. He needs to hear it – that he is right; that Yeonjun’s need for him in this moment is selfish; sentimental.

So he nods – admits it. He is happy; full of alpha, coated in alpha, and now his lover’s scent is a happy veil over it all, refreshing citrus that makes it easier to breathe. Alpha is a lifeline, the air in his lungs, and Beomgyu is a sweet haze, a cool blanket over his heated body.

“I just wanted to see you. And he wanted to—” Yeonjun pouts a little, suddenly unsure. Beomgyu’s eyes drop away from Yeonjun, and to the mating mark exposed on his chest by the underclothes that sag down his chest now that he has sat up. His left breast is barely covered, the fabric keeping his nipple away from view almost more of a provocation than a modest covering. Beomgyu would only have to nudge it away to see all of him, but he does not. He only looks, at the mating mark, at the tease of bare skin, then at the scar again. Yeonjun squirms where he sits, restless, permanently wet between his thighs. “Care for me. I suppose.”

That was what it was, was it not? An attempt at caring. Tending to. Meeting Yeonjun’s needs, the base ones and the more complex ones as well. His need for water and his need for his lover.

Beomgyu looks at Yeonjun’s face again. His eyes still seem so melancholic.

“I would not let him leave to get me water, but I let him leave to go get you.”

A smile twitches at Beomgyu’s mouth, but instead of urging him forward, to kiss Yeonjun again, to touch him, whatever he feels has his eyes flit away again, towards the curtains, the low table beyond them. “Oh, he must be so jealous of me, for me to be something you crave more than water.”

“More than air,” Yeonjun insists, lighthearted and exaggerated as it is, reaching for Beomgyu’s hand.

Beomgyu lets him take it, but does not squeeze it in his own. He looks at their hands, then at Yeonjun, his eyes lowering to his chest again.

“Your clothes are torn.”

Yeonjun squeezes Beomgyu’s hand hard. “Half by my own hand.”

Beomgyu’s teeth sink into his own lip. “Did you resist? Did he?”

His lips tremble. Open, then squeeze back shut. Beomgyu watches the hesitant motion of them, intent, the citrus of him muted in the air.

“He hesitated.”

“But he did his duty.” It is not a question. Beomgyu must be able to smell it everywhere in the nest; perhaps he sees the stains left behind, even.

Yeonjun nods anyway. He shifts again – he needs to wash himself, wipe the remains away. His skin itches uncomfortably for the first time, now that his mind is more clear, now that he is more aware of himself. Stained indecently, his clothes torn, sweaty, flushed. Whorish. As if he were the concubine. A sweet, seductive thing to be defiled and then set aside again.

Beomgyu breathes in shakily, and does not breathe out any steadier. He pulls away from Yeonjun, to bring the washcloth and basin into the nest. “Here. Do you need help? Or would you rather do it yourself?”

When thinking about inviting Beomgyu into his nest in his heat again, Yeonjun imagined Beomgyu wiping away his sweat, kissing away his flush, running his hands over his skin. Now that he is here, he hesitates, brings one hand to where his underclothes are sagging on his chest and grabs onto the fabric, holds it up, higher over his breast, oddly modest and unsure.

He is not sure why he feels this way – not with Beomgyu of all people. Something about Beomgyu’s demeanor, about the hesitance that plagued it since he stepped foot into the heat room. It has Yeonjun feel unsure in a way he did not before. And it is a strange feeling, for everything to feel so natural and pleasant with his husband in his arms, while he and Beomgyu teeter so uncomfortably on the edge of something Yeonjun cannot quite grasp. There is a tension, something that remains unspoken. Beomgyu is uncomfortable with how good Yeonjun’s husband makes him feel, his own experience clashing in his mind with Yeonjun’s, but if that were all…

I feel the same, Taehyun said.

And there is really only one way for them to feel that would have the both of them this off-balance. That would anger Beomgyu and have Taehyun act so curt towards Beomgyu. That would have Beomgyu so uncomfortable with the evidence of Yeonjun’s satisfaction. His pleasure. The remains of his alpha’s own pleasure on his body.

Drawn to each other.

They felt drawn to one another, attracted. Taehyun’s omega right in front of him with his mind so singularly focused on fulfilling his omegas’ needs – Beomgyu’s alpha, right before him, strong and handsome and smelling like slick, like sex, like virility. Yeonjun happy and satisfied in his nest, all the proof Beomgyu could ask for that his alpha could. That his alpha would. And then Taehyun went and told him to his face that he felt the same instincts, the same responsibility towards him. If Beomgyu needed him, this could be him. A painless fever. A happy peace somewhere inside him. A mess between his thighs.

He keeps one hand holding up the fabric of his underclothes, but he reaches out with the other. A strange, shivery feeling comes over him. Beomgyu is sad, and upset, and beautiful, and lets Yeonjun have his hand so innocently. Does not follow the path of it, even when Yeonjun rests it on one of his bare knees. When he draws it up further, guides it to the inside of his thigh. He keeps his eyes on Yeonjun’s, and some of the sadness in them softens, even as his fingers meet fresh, sticky slick smeared on his thighs. Then his face twitches as he seems to realize. Yeonjun brings his hand all the way between his legs, guides his fingers inside himself. Still loosened, still stained. Urging Beomgyu to touch, to feel. Squeezing around him. Rubbing at his wrist. Encouraging.

His eyes narrow with the pleasure of it, with the thought. Beomgyu feeling what Taehyun did to him, the tips of his fingers staining with Taehyun’s release, citrus rubbing against his skin with the motion of his hand, to be found there by his husband when his face so inevitably finds its way back between Yeonjun’s thighs. And it will feel like—it feels like—

“Do you need him again?”

He shakes his head hard. “No. You. Just you.”

They are not the words he wants to say, but no real words come for him to give voice to the thoughts in his mind. They are not thoughts at all, just feelings, just the memory of scents, of sensations clashing in his mind, Beomgyu’s body going taut with ecstasy under Yeonjun’s hands, his husband’s teeth sinking into skin. Twin firm grips, twin sighs. Honey and pepper.

“Yeonjun, I can’t—”

Beomgyu seems genuinely apologetic, and Yeonjun finds him so, so sweet. He pulls at Beomgyu’s hand, until Beomgyu’s fingers slip back out of him, and with his mind clouding over and his stomach cramping and his veins slowly filling with fire he runs his thumb over Beomgyu’s scent gland on his wrist and urges him to, “Taste it.”

And Beomgyu looks at him with such endearing sadness, such a pretty pity in his eyes, and Yeonjun smiles when he sees it and pouts when Beomgyu’s hand does not lift to his mouth but goes to the basin instead, stained fingers so wastefully washed clean with the water as Beomgyu wrings the other washcloth out and brings it to Yeonjun’s face, wiping at his cheeks with motherly care.

“We wasted too much time. I will bring him back to you. The water should cool you down a little. I will bring fresh clothes when I come back. And I will actually clean you up.” With his mouth pinched with something sad Yeonjun can barely focus on, Beomgyu presses the cloth firmly into Yeonjun’s cheek. He was telling the truth – wherever the water clings to his skin, the air around them makes it feel pleasantly cool. Yeonjun feels the sensation so sharply, as if it were a prickle of needles instead. “I’m so sorry, Yeonjun. I’m sorry.”

Yeonjun covers Beomgyu’s hand with his and smiles at him gently, but it does not make Beomgyu’s frown go away.

 

.

 

This time, Taehyun does not hesitate, and he keeps his promise he made on that wooden floor of his front room. With Yeonjun’s hips settled in his lap, supported by his arms, and he takes his time this time around, nothing perfunctory about it, nothing distant, the only distance between them the terrible stretch of air between Taehyun’s lips and Yeonjun’s skin whenever they are not pressed together, whenever Taehyun does him the awful injustice of not touching him everywhere all at once. Yeonjun does not pull at him this time, does not demand, has no need to. He grips Taehyun with his legs, locking them together as tightly as he can with the state he is in, he cries out his name, sobs it, squeals it when they lock together, and he kisses the side of his husband’s face as the high dies down, when he is filled again, and his skin tingles with the excitement of it.

He embraces his mate, both arms holding him close, the closest they can possibly get, bare chest to Yeonjun’s barely covered one, and everything smells like spiced wine and citrus, like slick and seed and need and satisfaction, and his eyes squeeze shut in perfect happiness as he mumbles, “I’ll have your baby,” into his alpha’s shoulder with the trembling joy of a young omega who has no idea what those words mean yet. What motherhood even is.

And Taehyun whines against him, a high, helpless sound, and Yeonjun rocks his hips even though the two of them are still stuck together too tightly to do much else than shift against each other slightly, and everything feels ten times as big, every sensation ten times as sharp, and Yeonjun grips at Taehyun’s shoulders helplessly, hands slipping off of sweaty skin as if were Taehyun rushing him to another swell of pleasure and he was not doing it to himself. He feels his husband twitching inside him, but nothing comes of it, he has nothing more to give, and somewhere deep within his chest, somewhere terrible and primal that makes him so terribly sad, but then Taehyun’s head dips down, his lips close around Yeonjun’s exposed nipple, his tongue flicks at it playfully, and it is perfect again, sharp and golden, and Yeonjun is bathed in a pink sunrise, slathered with spices, he is knotted and happy and his fingers are buried in his mate’s sweaty hair and his thighs twitch and tremble when he comes with the thought of leaving this nest with a child in his womb at the forefront of his mind.

Their baby. Their young. Sweat and tears and a proof of their passion for each other, of their love for each other. Another scent melding with Yeonjun’s own. A child.

Taehyun kisses his way up his chest afterwards, to the hollow of his throat, then brushes his teeth lightly across his windpipe.

Yeonjun breathes out shakily, and waits for a kiss to his mouth that does not come. His alpha buries his face in Yeonjun’s shoulder.

 

.

 

They are still in each other’s arms when Beomgyu knocks. Yeonjun cannot bring himself to stop running his hands up and down his husband’s arms, feeling his skin, the muscle underneath, and he buries his face in Taehyun’s chest at the sound, even though he realizes at this point it is his Beomgyu’s sweet face behind it, he does not want to lose this. He wants Taehyun’s skin within reach, wants to keep his scent close enough to taste it in the air. He wants Taehyun close, in general, all the time, forever. Never more than an arm’s length away. Over him, preferably. Inside him, as often as their bodies can possibly take. And over and over and over again, like that first time. Like it should always have been.

“One moment,” Taehyun says loudly, his voice tight, and Yeonjun starts whining before Taehyun even gets the chance to start pulling his face away from his own chest, and he is so gentle with Yeonjun, holds his chin so carefully and peppers his lips with close-mouthed kisses so tenderly, rubs his wrist into Yeonjun’s neck with thorough care that makes him purr and tear up at the same time.

When he pulls away, Yeonjun’s breath hitches. “Alpha, stay,” he blurts out before he can think better, before he manages to think at all.

But Taehyun does not acknowledge it – he slips through the curtains and out of the nest, going all the way to the wall on the other side where he laces his pants up with obviously clumsy fingers while leaning against it heavily. Even to Yeonjun’s pained eyes, he looks exhausted, in a way he did not seem to be while they were still touching.

“Come in.”

Beomgyu steps in, but without the small table in his arms this time. There is fabric thrown over his arm, and a cup and a plate in the other, and instead of crossing the room primly again, his eyes zero in on Taehyun, something a bit cold and severe in them as he approaches the alpha and extends his hands towards him.

“Food, water and a change of clothes. I left you more water and a fresh washcloth in the hallway.”

Taehyun stares at him. Beomgyu’s veil is already off this time, tucked into his sash. He must have done it while waiting for them to be done – it leaves his face open, easy to read but still hard to make meaning of. He speaks to Taehyun if he is scolding him, but his actions themselves are caring.

“He needs his alpha not to collapse on top of him,” Beomgyu says curtly, and Taehyun finally nods, reaching out to take the clothes first – nothing but a pair of muslin underpants. Nothing else is needed, is it? He has not worn anything but his pants since he shed his clothes after the first knot.

Taehyun takes the cup and the plate as well, and bows slightly, politely, still supported by the wall next to him. Beomgyu folds his hands in front of himself, perfectly ladylike, and tilts his head slightly. The shroud covering his hair and the collar of his robes hide his neck from view almost completely, but Taehyun’s eyes slip towards it nonetheless, inappropriate, telling.

Drawn to each other.

“I also left you a book, in case you got bored listening in on us in the hallway.”

Delivered so lightly, yet so obvious a jab. Yeonjun watches intently as his husband falters, looks away at the wall he is pressed against, as he slowly picks himself up to stand on his feet properly. “I did not mean to spy on you.”

“No?” Beomgyu’s tone seems to leave no room for dishonesty. Taehyun seems to feel the same, because his response is firmer than his words were before.

“No. But I cannot leave, either.” His eyes meet Beomgyu’s then, and they hold, earnest meeting stern and locking against each other, like the clashing of horns of two stubborn animals.

Beomgyu’s mouth twitches to one side – not quite a smile, not a sneer, not quite anything in particular. “Read your book then, prince.”

As if he was speaking to a child.

And to Yeonjun’s surprise, Taehyun tilts his head back, lifting his chin, almost challenging, as he replies, “Do you think I can focus on reading with the two of you just past that door, Omega Beomgyu?”

One of Beomgyu’s politely folded hands clenches into a fist. “Control yourself, alpha.”

“I am,” Taehyun responds without hesitation. “Believe me, I am.”

And Beomgyu wavers – his eyes flit back and forth, but they never stray anywhere inappropriate, until they catch on Taehyun’s again. “Go, then.”

Taehyun bows to him before he complies, and for once, Taehyun seems to be the one doing the mocking. The one with the air of playful disdain. Yeonjun stares at him fascinated as he slips past Beomgyu and to the door, where he seems to pause before stepping in without closing the door. Meanwhile, Beomgyu stands where he stood, motionless. Contemplative.

He is drawn out of the stupor by Taehyun striding back into the room with perhaps too-firm steps, holding the same table from before in his arms, setting it on the edge of the nest with a long look towards Yeonjun, still lounging in it comfortably. Something in Yeonjun warms with it – with Beomgyu around, alpha still looks at him. Still thinks of him.

Beomgyu stares at Taehyun’s bare back, as he lingers on one knee on the floor, then as he picks himself up, his eyes only leaving Taehyun’s skin when Taehyun looks over his shoulder at him.

“It is heavy. You are welcome.”

Then he leaves again, just as brisk, to Yeonjun’s eyes so obviously rushing through the motions to use all the bravery he has within himself to move his body away from the nest, away from the two of them. He wonders if Beomgyu sees. If he understands what it means. If he cares at all.

Beomgyu stares at the door, then lets himself fall into the wall as he looks at Yeonjun from across the room. Yeonjun is peaceful, and happy, and tired.

“I will feed you this time,” he says firmly, as if Yeonjun asked, as if Yeonjun cares in the slightest through the perfect peace his mind swims through at the moment. “I promise.”

 

.

 

Beomgyu feeds him as he promised, helps him change out of his stained clothes and into fresh ones, he washes him, helps him drink water, braids his hair, holds him. Yeonjun feels like a child, like a helpless, small thing, held in the circle of Beomgyu’s arms, the other omega plastered to his back, touching him everywhere, and it is comfortable despite all the fabric between them, despite the scratchiness of the mourning robes Beomgyu is still forced to wear.

“Have you slept yet?” Beomgyu asks against his shoulder, and he shakes his head.

“Not a wink,” he admits, and there is something funny about it to him, although he cannot quite pinpoint what. The pressure of Beomgyu’s arms around his waist is too comfortable. Perhaps he could sleep, now. Perhaps he is finally settled down enough to do so.

“You should,” is Beomgyu’s quiet answer, and his lips find the edge of Yeonjun’s hair behind his ear and press into the skin there. “You have to rest.”

“I don’t want to waste my time with you,” Yeonjun means to answer, but somewhere in the middle of the sentence his mind begins to drift, and he is not sure he reaches the end of it at all by the time consciousness slips away from him.

 

.

 

“He is asleep?”

“Mhm.”

“Thank you.”

“Why are you—”

“He will not be for long.”

An insistent throb between his thighs. Slick sticking them to Beomgyu’s, still slotted against his. Fire in his veins, fever gripping his mind like a vice, leaving only enough space to think about the aching in his sex, the growing tightness in his stomach. Need.

“You can tell?”

There is no answer. Yeonjun’s hips squirm against Beomgyu’s, rubbing into him as if there were any interest he could stir up with the motion. Beomgyu’s breath hitches, anyway. A slender hand presses into his abdomen, and he whines softly. Tiredly.

“You should go.”

“I—”

Beomgyu’s chest rises and falls against Yeonjun’s back, heavy, unsettled.

“Unless he wants it otherwise.”

Silence again. Then Beomgyu starts to detach from Yeonjun, shuffling away, and Yeonjun whines more, scoots back to press back against him, and Beomgyu huffs in tense amusement as he rubs at Yeonjun’s back while still moving away from him.

“Shhh, don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

He will. Yeonjun knows this. Even in his mind prone to black thoughts wrapped in the crushing grip of heat he knows that Beomgyu will rest against him again. Something in his scent. In his voice. In the way he touches him. Yeonjun nods against the cushion his head rests on, and Beomgyu leans down to kiss his cheek, then leaves another kiss on the hinge of his jaw that has Yeonjun’s lips parting on a sigh. Beomgyu’s hand that rubbed his back squeezes at his waist and Yeonjun shivers and has to shift his entire body with the happy discomfort, with the shocks the touch sends all over his body.

Yeonjun rolls over his back, and blinks up at Beomgyu, who looks down at him longingly. He feels a pull, somewhere in his chest, but with a prolonged cramp in his abdomen, it is washed away with a wave of need, buried somewhere behind the part that sobs out a wail for his alpha.

And for a moment, it is the three of them together in the nest, as his husband shifts past the curtain as well, hand at the tie keeping his pants tight around his hips, not pulling at it yet, but waiting there impatiently.

“Omega Beomgyu. Please.”

Honey, and pepper, and sugary fruit somewhere behind it that Yeonjun barely pays attention to. Spice and citrus. He lets his body go limp, lets his eyes close. It will be okay. Everything will be okay. He will be taken care of, because they are here. Both of them. One, or the other. Both of them.

He thinks his lips come to rest in a smile. This time, no bitter shift of either of his lovers’ scents follows it.

“Yes.”

Spice moves closer while citrus moves away. Yeonjun opens his eyes to a canopy of alpha, smiles wider at the sight of it. Taehyun pulls his pants loose, with his eyes focused solely on Yeonjun before him.

Beomgyu lingers in the gap between the curtains. Taehyun dives down to kiss Yeonjun’s neck, and his eyes shut against the wave of joy he feels when his alpha’s lips finally brush his skin. When he opens them again, Beomgyu is gone.

 

.

 

Taehyun falls asleep in his arms. One moment he is stroking down Yeonjun’s bare hip, having finally, finally stripped him of his underclothes completely in his passions, and the next his hand goes still, fingers curled in a light grip, his face pressed against Yeonjun’s clavicle, heavy and warm on top of him. Yeonjun pets his cheek, his shoulders, runs his fingers through his hair, but he does not stir. He flicks his chin but he does not stir. He flicks at his nose, light, playful, but his husband does not do more than sniff in his sleep. They are skin to skin, stuck together with sweat, filthy, too-warm and Yeonjun’s chest is so full with it. With an armful of alpha, of husband, of mate. He leaves a kiss on Taehyun’s hairline, then lays back with his eyes closed.

He does not wake up when Beomgyu knocks, when Yeonjun invites him in, or when Beomgyu steps inside. He does not wake up when the legs of Beomgyu’s table hit the floor outside the nest, or as he leaves and comes back inside with the food he brought for Taehyun, and lays it out next to Yeonjun’s.

And Yeonjun need not explain that he does not want to wake him, that he does not want to let him go, that it is so important for him to hold his husband like this, to feel him breathe peacefully in his deep sleep, run his fingers along his spine. Be his pillow. Be his comfort.

“Should I leave?” Beomgyu asks unsurely, his voice so much thinner than it usually is.

Yeonjun shrugs the shoulder his husband is not resting on. Beomgyu takes his veil off, and slips through the curtain to sit where Taehyun liked to sit before – right on the edge, half in and half out. The pink fabric kisses his back, drapes over it like Yeonjun wishes he could, if doing so did not mean unwrapping his arms from around his husband.

And they look at each other. Beomgyu looks at Yeonjun thoughtfully, and Yeonjun looks at Beomgyu lovingly, and he holds his alpha tight, and at some point Beomgyu’s eyes lower, to watch Yeonjun run his hands over Taehyun’s skin.

His scent does not shift when he does, but perhaps that should worry Yeonjun more. Beomgyu takes off his shroud and tosses his braid over his shoulder, and Yeonjun watches it with quiet fascination.

“Your ladies worry about you,” he whispers with his eyes on Taehyun’s bare hip. “I assured them you are better than ever.”

Yeonjun nods silently.

“Dayeon seemed more relieved than anyone,” he adds, and looks up into Yeonjun’s face with a small smile.

He smiles back, filled head to toe with warmth.

 

.

 

Beomgyu leaves before Taehyun wakes. He only rouses with the heat of a rising peak of Yeonjun’s need starting to build under his cheek, somehow so attuned to Yeonjun’s needs that he awakens before the pain can really set in, and the first thing he does as soon as he is conscious is close his lips around the skin over Yeonjun’s scent gland on his neck. Yeonjun undoes his pants for him, Taehyun’s hands make their way up from Yeonjun’s hips, over the plane of his stomach up to his chest, where they squeeze, pinch, grab at him almost too roughly, but it just sings pleasantly at the back of his brain, and he grabs his alpha just as roughly in return, his back, his backside, his hair, and he mewls and laughs and while Taehyun is too busy pushing his clothes out of the way, he flips onto his front, so he can arch his back and press against him invitingly. To him, they seem to fit together perfectly. He moans when fingertips dig into his thighs and he feels perfect. He feels beautiful. His alpha leaves bite marks all over his back and he feels so desired. He holds Yeonjun’s waist tightly while the knot stays in place, and Yeonjun works his hips against him again, brings his hand to his own face and bites at his fingertips, pushes them between his lips, laps and sucks at them, and Taehyun lets out sweet high-pitches noises, groans and gasps against him.

And Yeonjun feels golden. Gilded.

When the knot finally comes down, Taehyun lays a tentative, hesitant hand on his hip and pulls him closer instead of away. He has gone softer, but not entirely limp, but he attempts to push the half-hard length of himself further into Yeonjun anyway. Grinds into him, rolls his hips. Yeonjun’s eyes fall shut, and he just focuses on the feeling of it. The slow work of his husband working himself back up to hardness, assisted when he teases Yeonjun with his fingers again just to feel him flutter and squeeze at him. The fingers that come to hold his face, the thumb that flicks his lower lip that seems to slip into his mouth inadvertently and which he holds between his teeth, licks at playfully with the tip of his tongue. It is loud in the quiet of the room; it is greedy; it is overindulgent. His husband takes his hand away from Yeonjun’s mouth when he tips them over, pushes Yeonjun’s face further into the fur they are resting on, and his forearm presses almost uncomfortably into Yeonjun’s throat, but he does not complain or push it away. He does not touch Taehyun in return, does not touch himself. He closes his hands into fists, listens to his husband’s tired noises of desperate effort, and he takes what he is given.

Taehyun has almost nothing to give him when he finally spills inside him, more of a drip than anything else, just as tired as his ragged breath on Yeonjun’s naked shoulder, and his lips are messy and wet, and he drools across Yeonjun’s back as he kisses and bites his way down it again, until he pushes Yeonjun onto his back and trails his lips down his stomach instead, until he brushes his hand across the inside of Yeonjun’s thigh and pushes his face between his legs again, so familiar, so practiced, teasing and pleasant and loving and easy, and their fingers come to tangle together on one side while Taehyun clings onto his thigh with the other hand, and Yeonjun uses his own to muffle his voice with when it threatens to pitch into a scream.

And his alpha soothes his thighs so carefully while Yeonjun comes back into himself once Taehyun is done with him, and he helps Yeonjun drink water, and they sit in the nest together while they eat and soothe their parched throats some more. But they do not speak, just watch each other, just like he and Beomgyu did, and Taehyun’s eyes catch on the oddest things, on Yeonjun’s hand bringing porridge to his mouth, on Yeonjun’s ruined braid shifting across his back, on his knees, on his bellybutton. And Yeonjun chews his lips and watches Taehyun eat plain rice like a man starving and he feels loved.

Messily, desperately, painfully loved.

Tell me you love me, he thinks at his alpha until his head hurts. But Taehyun does not.

 

.

 

 

“We should have two children,” he says eventually when they have settled back down. They are not touching, and their heads face different directions, but it still feels good. Taehyun is present, and nothing hurts. Beomgyu should have been here already, but he left his table behind, left the food, so perhaps he understood that he would not be needed. Yeonjun plays with the ends of his own hair while his husband watches him through exhausted eyes. “Three. Four. I want omegas.”

Taehyun’s mouth twitches, barely there but present. “Of course.”

“I should have heirs to my legacy,” he says haughtily, then tosses his hair back dramatically, playful, lighthearted. “Of the most beautiful omega of the Court.”

“Yes,” Taehyun says quietly. Perhaps his expression is smiling, even though his mouth might be too tired to truly form the expression.

“Do you want alphas? They say all husbands do.”

But Yeonjun’s husband shakes his head. “I do not know how to be a father to one. It concerns me.”

He studies Taehyun’s face, the lovely plains of it, the exhaustion in it. The sincerity. “Do you know how to be a father to an omega?”

“No,” Taehyun admits without hesitation. “But they would need me less than an alpha would.”

Yeonjun finds himself pouting. “They would still need you.”

Taehyun nods, just a slight, barely-there motion of his head. “And I would strive to meet that need. I think I can be loving. Protective. Provide for them.”

He drops his eyes to a cushion, brings it close to his chest. He feels no shame in front of his alpha, not at the moment, but he squeezes it tightly to his breast, anyway. “But you would love an alpha as well.”

To his relief, Taehyun does not hesitate to nod again, this time more vehemently. “Love them, yes. Advise them as a noble. Teach them as a scholar.” His lips move fruitlessly around empty air for a moment. “To help them learn how to be an alpha…” His chin twitches to the side, and he shakes his head. “Omega Beomgyu may know more about the issue than I do.”

It makes Yeonjun breathe out in amusement, is obviously meant to, but he shakes his head. “You are here now.”

His husband clenches his jaw and nods, then finally looks away, at his own finger tapping something out blindly on a stretch of dark fur. The pink is dim; one of the lamps has gone out without anyone tending to it. They will need to ask Beomgyu to remedy this soon. The cherry blossom haze is going away, the petals are wilting, but Yeonjun still…

Drags himself across the nest, limbs aching but determined. All but throws himself against his alpha, holds his face tightly and seals their lips together. Kisses him firmly. Deeply. Passionately. Groans, purrs into it the very moment Taehyun’s hands touch him in return, more hesitant, more unsure, holding lightly onto his ribs. He plays with his husband’s tongue, bites his chin, and then he presses the tips of their noses together and tells him, “I love you.”

And in his mind’s eye, Taehyun kisses him back with the same desperate passion before saying it back to him.

In his reality, Taehyun’s shaky exhale skitters across his lips, and his alpha looks away.

Yeonjun curls into his chest anyway, and Taehyun holds him, anyway, until another peak wipes Yeonjun’s mind clean again.

But he says nothing, nothing at all in return.

 

.

 

“The scar. The one on your back.”

Beomgyu is halfway in the nest, half outside it. His hair glistens like brown silk in the light of both lamps shining bright again. The curtain is closed around his hips, his feet are in the nest, but his chest, his head and his arms are outside still, his eyes on Taehyun’s retreating form that so obediently comes to a stop with the sound of his voice, as Taehyun turns to face him again.

“Yes. What of it?”

“How did you come to it?”

Taehyun seems taken aback by the question. He raises his hand to cup the back of his hip with his palm. “Sparring incident.”

Incident. Not accident. Beomgyu tilts his head, and his hair swings with the motion, boyish and delightful. His entire posture is strangely relaxed. Youthful. Lighthearted.

Flirtatious?

“Did Soobin do this to you?” Beomgyu sounds, as usual, delighted by the thought.

Taehyun’s mouth thins out briefly, and he shakes his head. “No.” His hand moves, as he obviously traces the line of it with his fingers. “It is old. I was just a boy then – I sparred with just about anyone who would give me the time of day.” He lifts his chin a little, a bit challenging – inviting Beomgyu to mock him. “To prove to myself I was a skilled swordsman, and my tutors were not merely eager to praise the Emperor’s son emptily just to keep their positions.”

Beomgyu’s eyes lower from Taehyun’s face to his hip, as if he could see the scar for himself, instead of being faced with the planes of the alpha’s stomach and the curve of his hipbone instead. “You were not as skilled as you thought, then,” he says, so deliberately rising to the challenge, and his eyelids do not lift all the way when he looks back up at Taehyun. Looking at him through his lashes. Provocative. Coquettish.

Taehyun folds his hands behind his back firmly, and it makes his shoulders square, makes them look wider, makes his chest look firm and solid, makes the muscles of his arms shift, tensing up. It makes him look all the more alpha-like and appealing. Yeonjun wonders if he knows that, or if the posture is simply too deeply ingrained in him by now for him to consider what it must look like when he is bare-chested. “I was more skilled at sword techniques than actual sparring. I understood swordsmanship better than my opponent.” He licks his lips, and Yeonjun is too busy watching the movement to notice if Beomgyu does as well. “It was a lesson hard-won on my part. Unseemly amounts of blood just to learn to make sure I know who I am fighting against before I draw my blade.”

For a moment, Beomgyu’s eyes narrow, then they widen and his petal lips drop open. “You were stabbed in the back?”

Taehyun’s shoulders ripple with what seems to be a reluctant shrug. “Slashed, rather. I considered the bout over, while my opponent did not.”

A laugh of disbelief forces rattles Beomgyu’s chest. Yeonjun frowns. He did not know this. He was never told this. He thought it was an accident, something born out of the boyish recklessness of young alphas. Some misguided attempt at a maneuver that was painfully ended by the edge of a blade. Not an injury intentionally caused, with a blade sharp enough to draw blood, no less.

“Who?” he finds himself demanding, even though this conversation did not include him. Even though it need not have included him. His husband looks at him, obviously thrown off-balance. “Who did it to you?”

Beomgyu’s eyes are on him as well – he seems surprised that Yeonjun knows as little as he himself does.

And Taehyun looks from him to Beomgyu, to the wooden floor before him, before he looks at Yeonjun again, and there is something shuttered, defensive about his voice, about his demeanor when he says. “My cousin. Prince Iseul.”

Yeonjun stares at his husband. Beomgyu laughs again, and it sounds painful, as if the sound had to force itself out of his throat.

“Your cousin? The one whose friendship you mean to rely on for your proposal? That cousin? That Prince Iseul?”

Taehyun’s shoulder twitches in not quite a shrug. “She was a child; so was I. We were taught to see one another as threats. To distrust each other.”

Beomgyu scoffs. “And she decided to earn your distrust, then. By striking you in the back like a coward.”

“She was a good disciple of her father’s,” Taehyun says firmly, severely. Yeonjun does not understand; he has seen them speak to each other, regard each other – none of what he has seen of them would make Yeonjun think Taehyun would defend her like this, before anyone. “As was I. She bested me. She knew who she was dealing with – she understood my strengths, and my weaknesses. That she could not defeat me with her skill, but she had twice my cunning.”

Away from Taehyun’s view, one of Beomgyu’s hands curls, his fingers tightening. “She could have maimed you – and you respect her for it?”

“Cowards can kill you just as easily as brave men can, can they not, Omega Beomgyu?”

And to Yeonjun’s surprise, Beomgyu seems to not have a witty answer ready for those words.

“Much easier, even – because you may never get to know they are about to do it, until they do.”

And still, Beomgyu does not reply.

Taehyun cocks his chin. “I believe it is time to lay old resentments to rest. I have nursed these wounds for years to no avail – and Iseul’s friendship may be more beneficial to me than any petty revenge I could take on her now. I know to watch my back around her now – she taught me that. And with this knowledge, with this wisdom she imparted on me, perhaps I am safe to consider her a friend now. If that is what she may deign to consider me.”

“Or just an alpha holding the arm of the omega she fancies,” Beomgyu tosses back, but it sounds childish, petty in the face of Taehyun’s measured words.

“Is that what I am to you, Omega Beomgyu?”

The air in the room shifts at the words. The eyes of the two of them meet, their gazes locking into each other, holding, looking for something or waiting for something, perhaps having a silent conversation Yeonjun is not privy to at all. Beomgyu’s face develops a familiar stony expression. Taehyun looks oddly self-satisfied.

Then he turns around, and steps outside through the open door. “Do take care of him well.”

The door closes, and Beomgyu hisses at it, snaps his teeth at it.

“Order me around,” he spits, but somehow Yeonjun feels he does not mean it. It is an affect, a performance for Yeonjun’s eyes, perhaps for his benefit. “Puny little alpha.”

There is something strange about him, however, when he finally climbs fully into the nest, to embrace Yeonjun in greeting, to help his eat and drink and wash himself. Something that rests between the two of them, keeping Beomgyu’s thoughts from being entirely with Yeonjun. They speak in hushed tones, and Beomgyu tells him about the goings-on in the household, or rather the lack of them, the sheer boredom of Yeonjun’s ladies who feel aimless in his absence, in a sleepy little estate away from everything of note, with no courtiers to engage with, no business to attend to, no one to speak to but each other. They read books together, play dice, compose songs and hold pointless conversations, and Beomgyu seems to float in and out of their company, always hesitant to be too far from the heat room in case he is needed again.

He lets Yeonjun rests his forehead on his chest, allows Yeonjun to part his robes just enough to feel the warmth of him through his underclothes when he does so, and winds Yeonjun’s hair around his fingers as they rest. And he does not think of him.

He kisses Yeonjun back when he comes up to press their lips together, and it is obvious that Beomgyu is not thinking of him.

Yeonjun winds his arms tight around Beomgyu’s waist, and the edge of the spirit mirror in Beomgyu’s sash digs into his arm uncomfortably. And Beomgyu’s thoughts are not with him.

 

.

 

They are still tightly intertwined when a knock rings out. Taehyun has never knocked before, and they both shift to look at each other at the sound, startled.

“Yes?” Beomgyu is the one to find his voice first. His eyes are wide, stuck to Yeonjun’s as they wait for the answer.

“I need more water, may I?”

Their breaths collide as they both huff at the same time – no emergency, then; nothing to panic about. Beomgyu’s look of curious surprise melts into something softly questioning, and Yeonjun shrugs his shoulders and hides his face in Beomgyu’s chest again.

“Come in.”

The door opens somewhat awkwardly, and Yeonjun does not look up to watch his husband enter, just imagines the tension in his limbs as he makes his way across the room slowly, lets himself wonder where his eyes wander, if he allows them to wander at all. He tries to picture how they must look, two omegas wrapped in each other’s arms, one completely bare and the other completely clothed, Yeonjun’s face buried in the loosened collar of Beomgyu’s robes, all but pressed between his breasts. There is barely any swell to them at this point, but still, when he shifts his face in his warm hiding spot, he is met by softness.

His arms tighten around Beomgyu. Beomgyu’s hand rests on the back of his neck, teasing at loose hair that slipped out of his braid. It is pleasant, and the room is silent and warm and smelling of comfort as Taehyun’s steps still when he makes it to the table holding the pitcher of water. He has to kneel at it to be able to access it comfortably, and the sound of pouring water is loud even through the curtain. The thunk of the pitcher hitting the top of the table again. And then… and then…

If Yeonjun expected Taehyun to leave immediately, he would be disappointed, but he is not sure he did. There are no muted steps of bare feet on the wooden floor. No shuffle of the door. No sounds of water being drunk, even.

He lifts his face from Beomgyu’s chest, and finally looks over. As his head moves, Beomgyu reaches for his robes, to hold them in place over his chest and hide the underclothes underneath. It seems like an overly bashful gesture for someone like Beomgyu – Yeonjun would have expected him to be bold about his state of undress; to rub the alpha’s own involuntary reaction to it in his face. Beomgyu knows he is desirable – knows he could always use that to his advantage if he wanted to – and usually, he holds this over the heads of others gleefully.

But today, he hides himself away from view.

Perhaps the reason for it is what meets Yeonjun’s own eyes when he turns towards his husband – a pair of large, dark, contemplative ones, singularly focused on the two of them. Taehyun is watching them, on one knee on the floor again, a cup in hand, nowhere near his mouth, not poised to stand up again in the slightest.

When Yeonjun turns, his alpha’s eyes shift towards him, focus on his face, then slide down, over his throat, drawn to all the skin he has exposed by tilting his upper body away from Beomgyu. Yeonjun’s spine tingles with it. Desirable. He can be desirable as well.

Then Taehyun’s eyes move on to Beomgyu, and they seem to darken, before Taehyun finally lifts his cup to his mouth to drink, shielding his face from view partially. Beomgyu’s own expression is flat, his eyes unwaveringly on Taehyun but betraying no emotion. Whatever he feels, he is unwilling to share it, but citrus is bright and brilliant around them – perhaps potent enough to waft through the curtains, even. To tease at their alpha’s nose, tickle at his instincts. Two pretty things that the basest part of him knows belong to him on some fundamental level, all tangled up in one another, comfortable, inviting with their scents, with the softness of their bodies. A nest of plush, warm, pretty omega for him to rest in. He could slot in between them, every narrow plane of him all the better for how close it would allow the three of them to be. Beomgyu, only the narrow stretch of Taehyun’s hips away. Beomgyu’s eyes, blinking at him from across Taehyun’s shoulders, eyes narrowing playfully, nose scrunching with some silent joke only the two of them would understand, and they would smile at each other and intertwine their fingers on top of their alpha’s stomach, perfectly comfortable, perfectly happy, perfectly content.

Yeonjun turns again to look at his alpha who is still staring at them silently. He can see it too, can he not? The three of them, in the pink and orange sunrise glow. That old look in his eyes, the one from his and Yeonjun’s wedding day, settled into them again with two omegas curled up against him – knowing this is where he wants to be. Where he ought to be. Another golden victory for Imperial Prince Kang Taehyun.

He wants it, he decides. The smell, the sight, the feeling of it. Both of the men he loves, satisfied. Happy by his side. At one another’s side. It is within his reach – everything he needs is right here. Beomgyu, and alpha, and an ample nest for them to enjoy, made so comfortable for them by Yeonjun spreading his heat scent all over it, making them rub their scents all over it. Arousal and sleepy contentment and agitation and anger and all of it them. All three of them. Spiced wine with a tinge of lemon.

All he needs to do is make Taehyun come closer. Come into the nest again. Curl up with them, between them, over them, wherever. The nest needs alpha. Yeonjun needs alpha. Beomgyu needs alpha.

He turns away from Taehyun to face Beomgyu again, unwinds an arm from around his waist so he can hold the back of Beomgyu’s head instead, and moves in to kiss him. He nudges their lips together tentatively, then more firmly, not content with modest kisses as soon as it becomes clear that Beomgyu will not attempt to avoid his mouth. He licks, and bites, and nudges Beomgyu’s lips open, dives in deeper, feeling light and lithe and free, twisting his body to better fit their mouths together, to make the sight more appealing. To lay Beomgyu out on that cushion, for his husband to enjoy. For alpha’s amusement – to entice him. To make him come closer.

Would it torture Taehyun to see them kiss one another? No, would it torture Taehyun to see them exchange heated kisses without him right next to them? Close enough to touch, to taste, to smell honey blooming under Yeonjun’s attention. Starting to pour from in between Beomgyu’s lips, staining the tip of Yeonjun’s tongue, staining Beomgyu’s own thighs, the air between them.

Yeonjun digs his fingers into Beomgyu’s waist, and Beomgyu’s leg comes up as he squirms at the ticklish feeling, gold-tinted skin peeking out from under modest robes with the motion. He cannot see his husband’s eyes resting on it, at the tease of it, the promise of it, but he can imagine it. Dark eyes meeting gold skin. Dry-mouthed when Yeonjun smears their lips together messily just to feel the spit-slick glide of them together. Tongue-tied when Yeonjun dips his tongue between Beomgyu’s teeth, teasing, coaxing. When Yeonjun smiles into the kiss. When Beomgyu frowns into it. When pepper slithers in through the curtain like a curl of smoke, like steam oozing out of a cup of hot tea.

And Beomgyu’s frown melts into something wide-eyed and tortured, and Yeonjun remembers where he is, who he is, long enough to stop kissing him and nuzzle into his cheek instead. Beomgyu pets the hair at his nape and rubs his back. Feet shuffle across the wooden floor, and a door snaps shut. They hear something tumble to the floor on the other side. Muted cursing.

Beomgyu squeezes the back of Yeonjun’s neck.

“Do not do that again.”

And although he is too hazy with heat to trust himself fully to keep that promise, Yeonjun nods.

 

.

 

Yeonjun feels strangely aware of himself through the next peak. As if positioned slightly outside of his own body, he feels the boil in his blood, the arousal, the itch in his scent glands, the squeeze in his chest that calls for alpha, but he does not feel as taken over by it as he did before. He lets Beomgyu leave his embrace with a brief, chaste kiss and accepts his husband into it instead with something approaching cold efficiency. Something feels strange, as his body settles with Taehyun’s scent, as Taehyun leaves a wet kiss on his throat, as he touches his thigh lovingly.

“Did you…”

His husband sighs against his clavicles. “Hm?” His hand is atop Yeonjun’s thigh now, and he squeezes at it, gentle even as his lips will not stop trailing paths across his chest. He latches onto a breast again, pulling at it almost too sharply. He does enjoy Yeonjun’s chest swollen, after all.

Is he listening at all? Yeonjun flicks his ear, staring at the crown of his head through half-lidded eyes. Pleasure still runs through him sharp and electric, but he feels somewhere beyond it. Above it.

“Like it?” His voice is breathy; is it seductive? Maybe to his husband’s ears, so attuned to accepting him; so used to wanting him. “What I gave you?”

Taehyun lets his breast slip out from between his lips, but he does not immediately raise his head. He breathes hard against the skin that is still coated in his own spit, and the sensation pulls at Yeonjun like a tether, trying to pull him back down into his body, back into the haze.

Then his husband lifts his head to look at him somberly, and Yeonjun is safe again. Wiping his own breast dry absentmindedly, wiping spit into the fur under him. Distasteful. Disgusting. Heat is always so—

“Gave me?”

Yeonjun hums an assent. Taehyun’s hand flexes on his thigh. There is sweat on his neck, on his shoulder. His abdomen is clenched, the crotch of his pants straining. He must be aching for it, just as much as Yeonjun’s body is, and yet here they are, talking instead.

His jaw clenches, and he shifts, using Yeonjun’s thigh for purchase as he raises himself taller, as he lets himself tower over his wife, as his eyes ever so slowly empty out in such a familiar way. But no bitterness comes with it.

“You think I wanted that?”

And the words are sharp, but his scent is not. Yeonjun nods. It is the right answer. Yes, Taehyun, I think you wanted it. I think it makes you tremble like you are an innocent maiden touched for the first time to think of the two of us locked at the lips.

It makes Yeonjun tremble. It makes Yeonjun feel wild. Unrestrained in a way he thinks he wishes he were all the time.

“You think I can think about him at all with you like this?”

Yeonjun’s jaw draws tight. He does. Every time. Every time Beomgyu comes, he comes in pulling at a thread that brings Taehyun closer to him. Breaking his reservations down bit by bit, perhaps unwittingly. Perhaps unthinkingly. Perhaps Beomgyu is following blind instinct as much as the two of them are. The pull is in his blood, and the smell of heat makes it nigh impossible to ignore.

He nods.

“You think about him,” Taehyun says firmly, bitingly, but his scent is still not scalding. He pushes his hips into Yeonjun’s, sharp, the thin fabric between them doing little to obscure the hardness beneath it, all the less when Yeonjun’s slick pours out of him to meet it, to welcome it, to prepare for it. “Even when we are like this. You touch me, but you think about his body, do you not?”

The pull—the tether. Yanking him down into his body. A hot flash, tingling skin. His husband nestled against him, fitting into him perfectly. Naturally. Meant to be there, resting in the most wanton of embraces.

“His hands, and his skin – to make this more bearable.”

It is a strange sensation with the fabric between them. Tugging, not entirely comfortable, but perhaps that is the point. When Taehyun shifts against him, rubs into him but does not push inside, does not untie his pants, does not strive to make Yeonjun more comfortable in any way, but brings him pleasure regardless. Punishing, but not cruel. Teasing? Scolding, perhaps. Like the words that sound severe while Taehyun’s scent remains warm and peppery.

The hand on his thigh shifts higher, smooths over the inside of it, slips in between where their hips are joined, to touch the skin where his hip and thigh meet, feel at the tautness there, push his legs wider apart. “You wish this were him, do you not?”

A steady grind of Taehyun’s hips, and, strangely off-beat, strangely incongruent with his tone, as if not connected to anything else happening at all, a gentle pet of his thumb over Yeonjun’s skin, right next to where his touch where would be needed the most, but doing nothing to soothe, but also nothing to aggravate. Strangely Taehyun in its nature. Nonsensical but oddly warm. Oddly loving.

“That he could have your heat instead. I make love to you with all I have and you…”

Taehyun’s eyes narrow. His hips stutter, and come to a halt. Yeonjun watches him with wide eyes, lips parted. Has he done anything? Said anything at all? Perhaps he has been making noise this entire time, but he does not remember. It is not important. Taehyun is important. Alpha is important. Undoing the tie of his pants, tugging them out of the way. Lining up and pushing in, all the way, until they are flush against each other again, his alpha pushing and pulling at his thighs to press them closer to his body, and it aches a little, makes it a little hard to breathe but in such a heady way that he cannot bring himself to think, much less mind.

Then Taehyun’s palm finds Yeonjun’s lower abdomen and presses down, somewhere between his hipbones. The pressure is immediately uncomfortable, and he panics a little, squirms, but the panic is electric, perfect, and he knows Taehyun knows how he feels, because he can feel the squeeze of Yeonjun against him, can taste the sugar. Can see the signs he has learned to read so well, infrequently as he got to do so over the years.

“This. This is the only thing you should be thinking about.”

Taehyun lets up, just to take Yeonjun’s hand and press it in along with his. Yeonjun feels his own muscles squeeze, with one careless, hard snap of his husband’s hips after another. Beomgyu likes to call it fucking, and at this moment, Yeonjun is inclined to agree. There is something about it, something too vulgar to be referred to in a genteel way, something immediate, and honest, lacking decorum, lacking polish. A cock sliding into a cunt, an alpha fucking an omega. Yeonjun, being fucked by his husband in a heat nest with his legs pushed towards his chest and their joined hands pushing against where his womb is, where—

“Here. This is where our child will be, once I am done with you.”

Nodding, and tears in his eyes, and shifting his shoulders as he fights the part of him that wants to squirm, to get away, to run. It is a constant thought at the edge of his consciousness, past the burst of emotion in his chest and the mess of sensation in his lower half. Panic and fear and apprehension and everything that should be pushing him away from his husband, away from Taehyun, untangling the mess of puppet strings and leashes and promises and responsibility and harsh lessons they learned as children on the wrong end of a switch, through the sting of a palm of a hand of someone beloved who meant well. They need to let it all go. They should let it all go. They should let one another finally go.

But here they are, making a baby. Taking something awful and trying to make something wonderful from what is left of it.

And Taehyun smells good, he smells aroused and strong and steady. Yeonjun is everywhere, in pieces, helpless and afraid and so terribly pleased by this. So lost in the feeling of it.

“Are you here? Are you with me?”

He nods vehemently with his eyes squeezed shut. Taehyun huffs, with effort, or with amusement, Yeonjun can barely tell.

“Who are you with, then?”

He lets the words swim through his mind until he forms an answer he knows he can push past his lips, let roll off his tongue. Taehyun’s pace slows somewhat, as if to accommodate. To make it easier for him to remember his name.

But instead, Yeonjun says, “Alpha.” and his husband lets out a long breath and responds, “Good enough.” before leaning over his body, bending it so uncomfortably with the motion that Yeonjun whines against the peck he presses into Yeonjun’s lips.

His hips are still. Yeonjun gasps for breath. He opens his eyes to his husband’s face, an it seems oddly handsome to him in this moment. It feels like looking at a beautiful stranger, the angles of him new and wonderful. A curve to his lips, the line of his nose. Dark eyebrows and a pair of even darker, lovely eyes. Eyes that regard him so tenderly.

“Are you comfortable?” Whispered against his lips. Yeonjun can barely breathe like this. His muscles ache. He aches between his legs, in his chest, his thighs burn with the strain.

He shakes his head, and his husband’s mouth twitches. He wonders at it, until Taehyun’s next words are, “Do you mind?” and he understands.

He shakes his head again, and Taehyun gives him another kiss, longer, harder. His lips are hot and dry. Yeonjun loves him.

Hooking an arm under one of his knees, Taehyun picks up the pace with his hips again, lifting his body away from Yeonjun, easing the strain but too far to be kissed now. Yeonjun puts his hand over Taehyun’s heart instead, pressing tightly against his chest, feeling it rush beneath his palm.

And it is enough.

 

.

 

Yeonjun is sated. Hazy. He wonders how long he has been in heat for – he cannot tell; cannot imagine. Two days, maybe? Perhaps three. Perhaps that is why the fog of heat lost grip on him earlier. It is advancing, and slowly it will start letting go, and then, his thoughts will be his own again. His actions will be his own again. His body may feel like a part of him again, and not a beast of its own he can barely tame.

Or rather, his body will retreat, back into the back of his mind, easy to repress, to refuse to listen to, to refuse to obey, instead of being such a distinct part of him that it is now. Perhaps it is his more than usual, now. Not letting him pretend it belongs to someone else, that the urges and needs of it are anything but his own. It is uncomfortable, to be this aware of himself. To think of himself this way. He has spent so long repressing himself, denying himself, ignoring his instincts that…

He is an omega. He knows this. He lives it, breathes it, embraces it. He is beautiful and gracious and pleasant and stoic and whatever else they tell him to be. That is what he was taught. He folds his hands in front of himself instead of behind his back, paints his face, covers himself in jewelry and wears skirts. He is deferential to alphas and does what his husband requires him to, keeps his voice down and his face neutral or smiling.

And he plays the role wonderfully – that is what he has always been told. Modest and virtuous and polite and pretty and engaging and charming but not too much, never too much. Perfectly pleasing.

But when does he get to feel like an omega, without the implements, without someone to perform for? When does it get to be the skin holding his flesh and bones together, when does it get to be a true aspect of him, instead of a cloak he pulls over his shoulders every morning? When will it become something comfortable? Something inherent? Something he does not need to keep pushing away, over and over for both the sake of himself and others?

He has been through dozens of painful heats, steeped in rejection, in abandonment, full of barely satisfying relief, the artificial haze of herbal teas, a lack of privacy, a lack of comfort. Always having to pull himself together in the midst of it, control himself, be composed again, be proper, no matter what he was going through. His heats were an ordeal, an inconvenience, an illness that would keep seizing him again and again mercilessly – his omega nature, just a reoccurring pain.

Motherhood eluded him too, deliberately even if not from his side of the equation. He, he listened gladly to stories of it – to painful, beautiful, happy and sad tales of mothers, young and old, and from their words he painted himself this vague idea of what it entailed, distant and impersonal, never quite including him in his own thoughts of it. It was something faceless, formless, tasteless. A vague, scant idea of motherhood, somewhere far off in the future. Something that happened to other people, something other people experienced. Something some other Yeonjun, some Yeonjun who was wanted, some Yeonjun who was accepted, some Yeonjun who was omega enough to conceive would experience. A better, sweeter, prettier version of him. Someone who felt the way he was supposed to, instead of putting on an act all the time.

The only thing really tethering him to the omega inside him was his mate, his alpha, and what a mate he made – a mate Yeonjun could never allow himself to crave, to need, for the peace of his own mind. Everything that was still omega inside of him wanted to cling to him, to hurt for him, to wallow in misery without him, but Yeonjun could not afford to, could he? That would have been a terrible life to live. He would have let his family down. He would have let Taehyun down. He would have let himself down. So he had to learn to grit his teeth and bear it – accept that his mate did not want to be needed. Did not want to be loved, or served, or submitted to. That he did not want Yeonjun to be an omega to him unless they were in bed together. The only time he really got to breathe. The only time he got to let go. The only time his alpha helped him feel like the omega his body said that he was.

Lying on his front with his face buried in fur, he turns his head to look at him – Taehyun is on his side next to him, and they are not touching anywhere, but his eyes are on Yeonjun, and somehow, in this moment, it feels almost more intimate than if they were wrapped tightly in each other’s arms. Taehyun’s eyes are tired, but not upset, not melancholic for once, and Yeonjun wants to despise him for this. For making him feel like this.

He is getting to taste a real heat after seven years of pain and artifice, and it is so painfully pleasant. Being shown love from two sides, granted pleasure generously. Paid attention to. This is what Taehyun has been keeping from him. This feeling. The warm satisfaction in his chest. This feeling of security.

Because his mother suffered and bled through her heat. Because he was afraid of making Yeonjun suffer through the same. Because he tasted Yeonjun once, in their marriage bed, and found him lacking, or perhaps did not find him lacking at all.

Holding the moon. Sinking is teeth into it. Trampling over it. Crumbling it to pieces in his hands. Years of repressed desire, unleashed on Yeonjun’s body at once, in the blinding daze of a rut, spurred on by the sweet smell of heat. Scratches and bruises, skin rubbed raw, red and swollen. Sweat and semen and slick and spit and blood. Everything disgusting, distasteful, awful about it, abound in their big, comfortable marriage bed. Their first time as mates, belonging to each other, in such an awful, overwhelming, crude way. Beautiful and terrible at the same time.

Taehyun was barely a man for a moon’s length when it happened. If he thought, when sinking his teeth into Yeonjun’s chest, that he could be better than any other alpha, take his share of his omega’s body gently, respectfully, generously, in some pretty, clean, restrained way, then he had let himself down. He failed himself completely. Perhaps that terrified him – even as he held onto some hazy memories of it so lovingly. Perhaps he was horrified. With himself, with what he has done. Every bruise, every tinge of blood in Yeonjun’s scent that he regarded as a reward for his patience, as proof of being a good wife to his husband, a proof of a weakness of character to his husband. A sign that he might, after all, be no better than the others – perhaps he might even prove to be just like his father.

A bad alpha, with bad blood. Unclean, unworthy. Born wrong. Born mad. Born to be a coward, to be a tyrant, born to cause shame and pain wherever he went.

Taehyun’s arms rest between them, close to his chest. Not even Yeonjun’s wishful thinking could convince him he is reaching out for his omega. Yeonjun untucks one hand from under himself to stretch it across the space separating them – to cradle his husband’s cheek with it. His cheekbone cuts into Yeonjun’s palm again. He needs to eat more; take better care of himself. Yeonjun has not been taking care of him well enough.

He stares into his husband’s eyes, and looks for something, but he is not sure what it is, only that what he finds is like a hook sinking into his stomach, pulling him closer, and he feels almost helpless against the urge to follow his hand across the gap between them and press their lips together.

He kisses his husband on the lips, locks their eyes from up close, and tells him, “I love you.”

And Taehyun does not flinch, his eyes do not waver. When Yeonjun kisses him again, he kisses back. When Yeonjun’s palm leaves his cheek to travel down his body, he does not nudge it away. When Yeonjun kisses his bruised scent gland, when he nuzzles it, when he tangles his fingers in the tie keeping his pants in place again. He allows it.

Silently, willingly. Somehow omega-like in his demeanor. Long-suffering, receptive, quiet. Stoic.

Yeonjun thinks about it, with his nose pressed into Taehyun’s neck, with his fingers reaching up again to trace the muscle of his husband’s chest, brushing across a nipple without paying it much attention. Taehyun, soft where he could be rough. Gentle where he could be harsh. Taut stomach, coarse hair. Strong arms that tense up and flex when Yeonjun fits his hand against Taehyun’s cock through his pants, limp and perhaps unimpressive like this, but Yeonjun finds he enjoys touching him like this. Searching and purposeless. Intimate?

He moves his mouth away from Taehyun’s neck to peck at his lips again. “Taehyun, I love you.”

Taehyun has done awful things – to him, to Beomgyu, to others. He ruined an entire city. He ruined Yeonjun. Broke apart everything he has ever thought of himself, everything he believed himself to be.

And yet in this moment, the worst crime of his to Yeonjun is that he does not say it back, even though Yeonjun finally believes that he would mean it if he did.

Yeonjun looks down between them. Dark fur, orange cushions, the pale fabric of his husband’s pants, Yeonjun’s hand clasped onto it indecently. He shifts to hold Taehyun’s thigh instead, like he thinks he would Beomgyu’s, if he were here.

“Was I your only one?” He asks quietly, thinly. Did he ever ask? He only allowed himself to doubt it sparsely, and did not bother to recently. It seemed preposterous. And yet…

“Hm?”

Finally, Taehyun makes a sound, and it is not one of pleasure, it is not a confession of love, just a small, confused noise.

“Your only lover.”

His husband’s eyes narrow, his face drawing up into a wince. Offended. Disgusted. “Of course.”

He studies Taehyun’s face. He believes him, but it only brings more questions. Yeonjun is a selfish lover; lazy lover. He is more of a spectacle than a skilled artisan. He is spoiled, as Beomgyu put it. He has never had to put his mouth to work for his husband’s benefit. Never had to work for anything at all, just let himself be ravished happily.

Does that mean Taehyun does not know what it is like? To have pleasure delivered to him, to have his lover focus on him? Yeonjun has always strove to have his alpha enjoy himself, but it is not the same, is it? To rile him up into action, into breaking past his inhibitions, instead of taking action himself. Would Taehyun enjoy that? Being pleasured. Being taken care of. Do alphas even crave something like this?

“Why?”

Yeonjun holds his cheek and kisses him again instead of answering, then lowers his head to his husband’s chest, to lick at his nipple, attempt to suck the bud of it into his mouth. He likes it less than putting his mouth on Beomgyu’s chest, but it is good enough.

“Is this pleasant?”

His husband’s arm finally moves; he brings a hand to the back of Yeonjun’s head, fitting it behind his ear. The touch is light and tentative again. Unsure. “Not particularly.”

Yeonjun huffs in frustration and bites it instead, and Taehyun flinches. He moves lower to leave a kiss on Taehyun’s stomach, right under the meeting of his ribs, then sink his teeth into the flesh of his abdomen, eliciting another twitch. Taehyun makes no sound of pleasure, but no sound of protest, either. All he offers Yeonjun are small hitches of his breath, and a peppery tinge to his scent the lower on his body Yeonjun travels. He reaches for the tie of his pants again, and now he pulls at it, tugs it loose, and Taehyun’s hips shift in response to the fabric going slack around them, nudging towards Yeonjun, the motion seeming involuntary. Natural.

He pushes the fabric down with his chin, buries his face in the exposed skin and hair. It smells like them, like alpha and heat and sex.

“Why do you never take them off?” He asks without lifting his head.

“Hm?” Now Taehyun sounds distracted. The hand on Yeonjun’s head is gone.

“You don’t take your clothes off while you’re with me.” Blunt and impolite. Taehyun breathes in sharply before he attempts to answer.

“I am—” is all he gets past his lips, before Yeonjun begins to tug his pants down his legs carelessly, and he falls silent again. Yeonjun tips him over onto his back, strips him, then crawls away on his hands and knees to toss the pants out through the curtains, letting them fall somewhere outside the nest carelessly.

“No more. I will not stand for this.”

And Taehyun chuckles. He watches Yeonjun make his way back to him with warm eyes and he chuckles. “Omega Beomgyu—”

“Has seen a naked alpha in his life before,” Yeonjun cuts him off, so impolitely, so uncouthly. He sits down next to his husband’s hip, and stares at his bare lap. Studies it. Has he ever truly looked at it before? He cannot remember now. Perhaps he never felt as unashamed as he does now. An alpha’s pride seems so unimpressive, limp and resting in a bed of dark hair. Wrinkled skin and veins. Perhaps Yeonjun’s breath should still as much as it did when he saw Beomgyu’s bare body for the first time, but it does not.

“I would doubt he wants to do so again,” Taehyun says, and his voice is measured and calm. He does not feel shy, either, under his wife’s cold scrutiny. Does not move to cover himself up, does not shrivel, does not wilt. This is him, all of him, on display and unafraid.

Yeonjun lets his head drop to one side. He reaches out, fits his hand under Taehyun’s knee, and pulls it up, guides him to bend it partway, and Taehyun follows the motion, easy and pliant. The muscle in his thigh shifts with it, and Yeonjun watches it, fascinated. “You enjoyed it. Watching me kiss him.”

Taehyun adjusts himself slightly, shifting his shoulders, pushing at the cushion under his head. “You of all people should know the rumors of me being cold-blooded are less than accurate.”

He takes his hand off of the underside of Taehyun’s knee, and rests it on top of it instead. “You were not disgusted.”

“By love? Why should I?”

Yeonjun looks at him intently. Taehyun returns his gaze firmly. Almost challenging. It reminds him of Beomgyu.

“Were you jealous?”

And Taehyun breaks eye contact, lets his head fall to the side. “It seems an unfair question to ask of me.”

He leans over, takes his hand off of Taehyun’s knee just to press a kiss to it, like an apology, but his words are anything but. “Were you?”

His husband looks at him again, and his eyes are slightly narrowed, but his scent is not terribly agitated. He is uncomfortable, but not angry. “I told you – your heat scent tells me you are mine. Your pleasure is my pleasure. What pleases you, pleases me.”

Yeonjun strokes his thumb over the inside of Taehyun’s knee, presses another kiss to it. “Is he yours?”

Taehyun’s throat jumps, but his eyes do not waver this time. “In the eyes of nature, always.”

“And what pleases him pleases you.”

This, Taehyun offers no answer to, and Yeonjun shifts his lips further up his leg, to a stretch of thigh just under his knee. He brushes his lips through the hair there, just to feel the friction against them.

“Never do it again,” his husband says instead, and Yeonjun looks up curiously into Taehyun’s serious eyes. They are nowhere as stormy as Beomgyu’s were, expressing the exact same sentiment. Neither tortured, nor afraid, nor pleading. Sober and earnest and firm.

Yeonjun nods with his cheek pressed against Taehyun’s thigh, then lets himself fall back down into the cushions, terribly tired all of a sudden. He rests his head on Taehyun’s hip, his hand on the joint of hip and thigh. His skin feels cool against Yeonjun’s hot cheek. Pleasant. Taehyun’s fingers come up to his neck, to brush loose strands of hair off of it, then rest against his scent gland that tingles pleasantly with the touch.

“I love you, Taehyun,” he says again, almost defiantly, the knowledge that he will not get an answer making him bold.

And his husband sighs, drags his thumb down the line of Yeonjun’s jaw, and replies, “I love you, Yeonjun.”

 

.

 

The nest smells of spiced wine and citrus. It is the third day of Yeonjun’s heat, and he is calm, tired but peaceful. He is washing himself today, wiping himself down between bites of food. The three are in the nest together, but the atmosphere is odd. Taehyun is still bare, sitting on the very opposite of the nest from Yeonjun, near the corner of the room, a cushion in his lap and a nearly untouched bowl of broth in his hand, resting on top of it. Beomgyu is sitting on the edge of the nest again, completely past the curtain this time, running his hand over his newly freed braid and staring at Taehyun, who is avoiding his eyes.

“You said you would study it – did you do so at all?”

The alpha licks his bottom lip. “Sporadically. I gave up eventually.”

“You gave up.” Beomgyu’s affect is flat, unimpressed. He smells somewhat agitated. Not playful in the slightest.

Taehyun shrugs and lifts the bowl to his mouth, but it seems to Yeonjun that barely any of the broth makes it past his lips before he lowers it again. It frustrates Yeonjun to see – he needs to eat more; but he does not choose this moment to speak up about it. “It seemed pointless.”

“Pointless.” The conversation seems to be composed entirely of Beomgyu repeating Taehyun’s own words to him in a harsh tone. It would be amusing if Beomgyu did not seem upset.

He failed to arrive between the last few peaks. He said he was sleeping. Yeonjun has his doubts.

Taehyun nods. Yeonjun presses a wet washcloth to his own neck, and he wrung it out so poorly that water begins to run all over him, droplets chasing each other down his flushed body. Both his husband and his lover look over to see. It would be lovely, if they did not seem upset.

Their alpha has not looked at Beomgyu at all since he arrived.

“I believe I have come to understand our situation without the need for books,” Taehyun says with his eyes still on Yeonjun. “It seems much simpler to me than we presumed it to be.”

“Is that so,” Beomgyu responds curtly. His eyes are on Taehyun again, and his gaze remains unreciprocated.

Taehyun drinks his broth, then leans back against the wall, tilts his head up towards the ceiling. The line of him draws taut and perfect, captivating to look at, and Yeonjun wonders if he knows that. If he is aware of what he looks like to them. “You said you find each other’s scents uniquely comforting.”

“Yes,” Yeonjun replies for the two of them. He is just as focused on his husband as Beomgyu is, now.

“And I find the blend of you comforting. Reassuring.” He shrugs his shoulders, lets his head roll to the side, to look at Beomgyu. “From the first moment I caught the scent of you together, I knew that my wife was safe with you. That my wife would be happy with you.” He pauses, and his shoulders twitch again. “That you would be happy and safe with my wife. And the alpha in me was settled. What is there not to understand?”

“Why would we be affected by each other’s scents, then?” Beomgyu’s voice has lost some of its sharpness, but he still sounds unimpressed.

Taehyun moves his head to look between the two of them. His eyes never quite reach Beomgyu’s face. “You are well-suited to each other. If alphas and omegas can find one another uniquely lovely, why could the two of you not as well?”

The words are oddly romantic, for the practical, simple way they are said. Matter-of-fact.

“Are you a child? What are you talking about?”

Taehyun lowers his eyes to his own lap. “Did you not find your late lover’s scent comforting? Relaxing? Surely you—”

“Do not speak of him to me like his,” Beomgyu spits, sharp and with a rush of bitterness in the air. “Do not use him against me like this. You—” He seems to cut himself off, then scoots backwards on the wooden floor, pulling himself further out of the nest, sliding through the curtain and to his feet. He does not leave the room, but he stays with his back to them, lifting one hand to his face and the other to his sash. His shoulders shake.

Taehyun takes the cushion off his lap immediately, laying the bowl of broth on top of it, careless when it tips over and spills all over it immediately. He rushes to Beomgyu, through the curtain and out of the nest, and Yeonjun observes the painful tug in his chest at the sight of it as if from far away. Both of them, leaving the nest without caring about how he feels. Perhaps the only time Taehyun has left the nest without kissing and scenting him, since he first made it clear it was what he needed to not feel abandoned by him. Now he forgets all about it, rushing to his other omega, eyes wide with concern for him.

“Omega Beomgyu. I apologize. I did not mean to – I meant no disrespect to his memory.”

And it is an odd sight. Beomgyu, clothed, hunched over himself, shaking, and Taehyun straight-backed, open and sincere, naked from head to toe before him, both of them heedless of the fact, distracted by emotion.

Then Taehyun does something preposterous. He kneels.

“I will never speak of him again. I promise you, Omega Beomgyu.” Then he bends at the waist in a bow. He does not hold himself up with his arms, and Yeonjun can see the strain in his muscle as he holds the position regardless.

Beomgyu growls, and his leg moves almost as if making an aborted motion to kick. His fingers squeeze at his sash, and his other hand comes down to pull the mirror hidden in it out, holding it up in his clenched fingers like a weapon, like a threat.

“I wish I could claw your eyes out with this! Cut your tongue out so you could never say his name again! How dare you?!”

Taehyun does not defend himself, but it only seems to agitate Beomgyu more, and he screams, drops to the floor as well, starts pounding his fist into the alpha’s back until Taehyun drops all the way to the floor, bent as if in a deep, polite bow. Taking blow after blow. Beomgyu sobs, and Yeonjun is finally spurred on by the sound of it, across the nest and out of it, to wrap his arms around Beomgyu, to pull him away, and Beomgyu cries and trashes and kicks out, only nearly missing Taehyun’s head with his foot. The alpha does not move. His hands are fisted next to his head, his forehead to the floor. His face is pulled tight where Yeonjun can see it.

Yeonjun himself can barely hold onto Beomgyu, not with how hard he thrashes against his hold. He cries and hisses and growls and spits. Yeonjun does not know what to do. He is not sure what happened in the first place. Beomgyu arrived agitated. Perhaps he had been agitated ever since Yeonjun kissed him in front of his husband. Perhaps he became agitated the moment Taehyun carried Yeonjun out of his bed room in his arms.

Beomgyu is not taking this heat well. He has not been taking it well since the start, and Yeonjun has been overlooking it this whole time, has he not? So happy to be taken care of, so delighted to be kept company by the two people he wanted by his side the most, that he ignored Beomgyu’s distress completely.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, a little desperate but sincere. “I’m sorry Beomgyu.”

And somehow, Beomgyu’s thrashing quiets a little. Becomes less violent – but he cries harder.

“I’m sorry, love, so sorry.”

He buries his face in Beomgyu’s shoulder, kisses his scent gland, and the thrashing calms down until they are just rocking together, swaying back and forth. Beomgyu cries, and Yeonjun coos and apologizes. He cries so painfully, so heart-rendingly sad, bitter and miserable. Like his heart is being crushed to pieces in his chest. And perhaps it is. Perhaps a part of him is dying, or he has just thought to mourn a part of him that was already dead. His scent almost hurts to take in, and Yeonjun holds him all the more firmly for it.

“I love you, I’m sorry. I love you.”

Taehyun stays still for the longest time, but both of their eyes fall to him as soon as he raises himself on his hands. He looks at them tentatively, through narrowed eyes, expression pained. Beomgyu’s fists left a few red welts behind across his back, but perhaps the scent of Beomgyu just hurts him at least half as much as it does Yeonjun.

And his eyes lift to Beomgyu’s face, and Beomgyu hiccups, and, to Yeonjun’s mind impossibly, says, “I’m sorry.”

And Taehyun’s posture changes completely at the sound of it. Loosens. Sags. His eyes drop to the floor, somewhere by Beomgyu’s haphazardly sprawled knees. Then he nods, walks over to them on his knees. Beomgyu seems to forget to keep crying. Yeonjun stays presses into his shoulder, watching his husband carefully, curled around Beomgyu tightly, protectively.

“Let me,” Taehyun says, and Beomgyu says nothing in response, but his head falls back, his lips drop open. He tilts up for a kiss perfectly.

But instead, one of Taehyun’s hands lifts to Beomgyu’s forehead, pushing his hair away from it so he can press his lips to it, lingering, before pulling back and meeting his eyes, urging him to understand his message with a nod.

And Beomgyu stares at him silently, then raises his hand and slaps him across the face.

Nothing gentle; nothing playful. A strike that resounds sharply through the room, that sways Taehyun to the side, that blooms red across his cheek. Beomgyu’s hand hangs in the follow-through, as if poised to shield him should Taehyun retaliate. But of course Taehyun does not. He would not.

“This is your fault,” Beomgyu says, and his voice is wrecked with emotion, but his tone is rigid. Sharp and accusatory. But his scent is not angry. A little bitter and a little bright.

Taehyun covers his cheek with his hand and nods. “I know.”

“You don’t have the faintest idea,” Beomgyu retorts in his usual mocking tone, but the words are followed by motion, unforeseen by Yeonjun, by Taehyun, perhaps it even comes as a surprise to Beomgyu himself, when he dives forward to kiss Taehyun on the lips.

Beomgyu’s arms slipped free from Yeonjun’s grip, loose and aimless on Taehyun’s shoulders for purchase, and a messy meeting of lips. One pulse, next and another, almost as if to ensure it is not seen as accidental. Yeonjun cannot see Beomgyu’s eyes, but he can see Taehyun’s. Wide and startled, perhaps even afraid.

Caught in a torrent he does not understand, and that feeling Yeonjun can understand completely. Beomgyu is not for the faint of heart.

Taehyun does not reach out to hold him. Beomgyu does not move in closer for another kiss. He lets himself fall forward, into Taehyun’s body, and his arms on the alpha’s shoulders curl around him. He embraces Taehyun, sobs a little when their chests press together. The alpha stays motionless in his hold.

“Put your arms around me. Do it.”

The words are an order, but the sound of them is a choked grumble. Taehyun’s lips move oddly, not frowning, not forming a smile. He looks at Yeonjun unsurely, and he nods. Beomgyu knows what he needs. He always seems to understand his own needs, even if he dislikes them, unlike Yeonjun.

Taehyun wraps his arms around Beomgyu’s middle, and Beomgyu sighs into the embrace. Yeonjun watches as his husband’s head tilts slightly into Beomgyu’s.

“Are you stupid?” Beomgyu says eventually, but his tone lacks bite completely this time. “What is this, then?”

Taehyun’s eyes slip shut. His hands on Beomgyu’s back curl into fists. “I am your alpha.”

Beomgyu scoffs. “I have never felt like this in my husband’s arms.”

Yeonjun’s stomach feels heavy, not with heat, and not with jealousy. With sadness for Beomgyu, who finds the comfort of his alpha’s arms so extraordinary.

Then Taehyun looks at Yeonjun, questioning, searching, and Yeonjun nods again, picks himself up and comes closer, to press against Beomgyu’s back, rest his cheek between his shoulder blades.

And Taehyun says, “Shall I hold you tighter, then?”

 

.

 

Taehyun know it is time before Yeonjun does, and he is the one to urge him back to the nest, slipping in first himself, and insisting that he follows when he hesitates.

“You can either come here, or I will bring you here. Choose, Yeonjun.”

Beomgyu watches the interaction with exhausted eyes. He seems calm, but tired. Stained with that peace that the joining of their scents brings – the peace Taehyun seems to believe does not mean much of anything.

Yeonjun raises his eyebrows at Taehyun, who huffs.

“Would you rather have me tire my arms out now, or would you rather have them strong when they are needed?”

There is something golden in Taehyun again, something Yeonjun recognizes now. An alpha’s satisfaction. Taking care of his omegas. Calming them. Keeping them safe. Being the alpha they need him to be. It fills him with something, some confidence that Yeonjun finds he loves to see within him. It coats over the cracks, fills them in with gold. And his husband shines all the brighter for it.

He does come closer, drags himself across the floor even as the cramping starts up again, insistent, wetness seeping out of him in full view, his eyelids lowering as it becomes harder and harder to keep his eyes fully open as his mind clouds over.

“Are you saying your arms are not strong enough?”

He hovers in the open curtain. Taehyun kneels in the nest, eyes only on him, bright and confident again.

“I can show you exactly how strong they are. Just come here.”

Yeonjun stares at him. He remembers being held up against walls, in the air before he was rested back down somewhere. Feeling light, feeling boyishly delighted somewhere in his chest. Like the trysts he always dreamed of, but in the arms of his lawfully wedded husband. Rare, but better than anything. The memory brings with it a tingling, and Taehyun seems to see him waver, seems to sense his mind leaving him even further, because he comes closer instead of coaxing Yeonjun in any further, takes him by the waist and shifts him from the edge of the nest and into his lap, letting Yeonjun nuzzle into his neck while he runs his hands all over his skin, soothing the feverish burn away.

It is both pleasant and ticklish, and Yeonjun loses himself a little in the feeling, finds himself heedless of anything else when he reaches for his husband’s face to kiss him, for his hand to guide to his breast to squeeze at it. And Taehyun kisses him back, obedient, even though he shifts his hand back to Yeonjun’s waist instead as soon as he is done pressing Taehyun’s fingertips into his own skin.

Mindful, perhaps, where Yeonjun has gone mindless again.

And Yeonjun should be telling him love you, love you, love you, but perhaps he is a bit too aware of himself as well, because he says none of it. He just kisses his husband hard and whines and complains when Taehyun tries to lay him down on his back.

He clings to his shoulders, mumbles, “I want to be close to you,” into the bruise over Taehyun’s scent gland, and his alpha melts and relents.

Taehyun takes him with his face buried in Yeonjun’s neck, with Yeonjun sprawled over his lap, Taehyun’s hands and arms tight on his hips, guiding him around, lifting him up so his alpha could push up into him, bringing him down against him to get them as close as possible again, barely pulling out of him the entire time. He sweats with the effort, and it is imperfect and Yeonjun does little by way of helping, content to be pushed around, only grinding his hips against his husband when they lock together again. All Yeonjun does is whine and mewl and cling to his husband, tear up with pleasure and dig his nails into Taehyun’s skin too hard.

But Taehyun does not complain, does what is asked of him, gives Yeonjun exactly what he needs and then holds him just as close as Yeonjun wished to be held. He takes Yeonjun’s hand and kisses his palm, rubs his face across his shoulder. Touches his stomach when Yeonjun starts to grind against him, squeezes his waist when he tenses up, licks at his scent gland when he needs help tipping over completely. He kisses his clavicles and catches his breath.

“Can we lay down?” He asks then, and Yeonjun nods, and they shuffle around to figure out a way Taehyun can lay back with Yeonjun still resting on his chest in a way that would be comfortable for the both of them. The knot keeping them together is softening already, but Yeonjun does not rush to move away. His husband’s chest is comfortable, and smells of warm spices.

And citrus. It also smells of citrus.

Taehyun strokes a hand down his back, from his shoulder blade to his waist, and keeps his arm around him. Then he looks up, and away, and Yeonjun follows his gaze lazily.

To Beomgyu, sitting in a heap outside the nest, looking at them.

He reaches out a hand. Beomgyu looks at it, then at Taehyun – Yeonjun feels Taehyun’s nod under his cheek, the tension and release of the muscle in his neck. Beomgyu comes closer, reaches through the curtain, and tangles their fingers together.

Yeonjun smiles. Beomgyu does not quite reciprocate. He leans closer, and kisses Yeonjun’s wrist.

“I should bring you water. I will be back.”

Yeonjun whines, pouts, but Beomgyu only smiles and kisses his wrist again.

“I promise,” Beomgyu insists, and Taehyun pushes his face into the side of Yeonjun’s at the same time, and he relents and releases his tight grip on Beomgyu’s fingers.

“Quickly,” he says, and he sounds petulant to his own ears.

Beomgyu smiles again. “I’ll try.”

And Taehyun distracts him by trailing kisses down his forearm while Beomgyu walks away, and Yeonjun feels so taken care of. So beautiful.

 

.

 

Beomgyu returns with a dish of meat and rice for Taehyun, and porridge and fruit for Yeonjun. Taehyun kisses Yeonjun goodbye as he ought to, but lingers on the floor outside the nest as he eats, and Beomgyu does not mention it, does not mock or tease him about it. He holds Yeonjun against his side and helps him eat. Yeonjun feels tired and sleepy, and leans against Beomgyu gratefully while he eats. Once he is done with his dish, Taehyun leaves for the hallway without saying a word. Beomgyu finishes helping Yeonjun eat, and then kisses the side of his face while he rests.

He thinks he might fall asleep, but there is a tension in Beomgyu’s body that makes him hesitant to relax fully. It seems that he has something on his mind, but he wastes opportunity after opportunity to speak up, choosing to kiss Yeonjun instead, to fetch him a washcloth and bring him more water, to loosen his robes, to kiss the top of Yeonjun’s shoulder.

But as soon as Yeonjun opens his mouth to speak up first, he says, “He is good to you.”

And it sounds like half a statement, half a blunt question, so Yeonjun nods in response.

“Has been,” Beomgyu adds, and Yeonjun nods again.

Beomgyu drags his nose down Yeonjun’s arm, then kisses his bicep.

“They said this would be my life. That I would always be either speared on his cock or pushing out his children.”

He peers up at Yeonjun, and Yeonjun looks back at him, unsure of his own expression. Is that not a terrible thing to say to a noble prisoner? A crude thing for a common soldier to hurl in a high-born omega’s face. Was Beomgyu truly an enemy to the Empire, to deserve disrespect and humiliation? The Empire chose to subjugate them – they did nothing to provoke it.

Beomgyu buries his lips in the crook of Yeonjun’s elbow, rubs his face back and forth on the inside of Yeonjun’s arm. He laughs to himself, and it barely sounds amused, but does not sound insincere, either. “And here I am, sitting by as you subject yourself to the fate that should have been mine.”

Yeonjun bends the arm Beomgyu has nestled his head into, cradling him between his arm and forearm, resting his hand on Beomgyu’s smooth hair. “It is no sacrifice on my part.”

It was supposed to be a sacrifice on Taehyun’s. But has it been? Has Taehyun been suffering through this?

“I know,” Beomgyu says quietly, contemplative. “Strange.”

He laughs at his own words then. Yeonjun pets his head the best he can manage with them like this.

“I thought that having children voluntarily was a privilege of the low-born.”

Yeonjun huffs in amusement. “Noble parents love their children just as much as common ones.”

Beomgyu lets out a small hum, and rubs his face back and forth again. “Once the child is born, they are left with no choice, are they?”

The words are lighthearted, joking, but they sit heavy in Yeonjun’s chest. Taehyun asked him, felt the need to ask him, if Yeonjun could love a child born of him. Because he did not consider it a certainty. Because he saw a world where seeing his child grow up would cause Yeonjun nothing but pain. Where he would shun their child because of their father. Perhaps he thinks that is why his mother would not pay him any attention when they were here together. Why she would aggravate her own illness and leave him forever.

And Beomgyu would understand this, would he not? He was afraid of the child that grew and died in his womb as well. Afraid he would struggle to love it. Angry at it. Hateful of it. Because of the father, because of the circumstance of their conception.

“Perhaps.”

Beomgyu lifts his head and looks at him directly. He may see right through Yeonjun, he may not, but he kisses him regardless. “You’ll be a good mother.”

“Will?”

Beomgyu glances down at Yeonjun’s stomach, rests his hand under his bellybutton. “If he is only impotent in the metaphorical sense of the word,” he jokes, and Yeonjun laughs.

But then the thought sticks with him, and he covers Beomgyu’s hand with his. “He may be.”

Beomgyu nods.

“Conceiving outside of heat or rut is not impossible, but we never did.”

“It is improbable,” Beomgyu allows, and something warms in Yeonjun with the thought that he would strive to give Yeonjun hope about this.

“For seven years,” Yeonjun adds, and Beomgyu looks at him with a hint of pity.

“Highly improbable,” he says then, and they exchange smiles.

Yeonjun’s head lulls to one side. “The wives said it can take weeks after your heat for your scent to shift.”

Beomgyu nods, and does not say anything. Does not offer his own experience.

“It could be time for your heat by the time we know.”

Beomgyu pulls his own bottom lip through his teeth, and breathes out heavy through his nose. “What if you have not conceived by then?”

Yeonjun squeezes his hand tightly. “Then Taehyun’s rut. My next heat. I do not intend to surrender him to anyone’s executioners. There is time.”

“What if you can’t?”

There is no heaviness to Beomgyu’s question, but Yeonjun feels it like a weight in his stomach, anyway. “Then we can’t. Things like that happen all the time. Everyone thinks it already has.”

He watches Beomgyu swallow. “You won’t ask it of me, then.”

Yeonjun shakes his head. “No.” He runs the hand that rests on Beomgyu’s up his forearm to his elbow. “And I do not think Taehyun would be willing to agree to it, either.” He rubs the skin on the inside of it with his thumb, tentative. “He seems to fear an unwanted child more than anything else. More than his own death, even.”

Beomgyu’s bottom lip pushes out as his expression turns thoughtful. “You would think he has not had a single happy day in his childhood, the way he speaks of it.”

He glances at the door, and hopes Taehyun cannot hear this. He squeezes at Beomgyu’s elbow. “He was happy making flower crowns for his cousins with Soobin.”

It makes Beomgyu huff with amusement, and he tilts his head to one side, offering Yeonjun a sly smile. “And I assume he was happy when announcing to everyone that you were to be his bride.”

Yeonjun plays along, lifts his chin proudly. “Who would not be? A beauty such as I.”

Beomgyu laughs, and slips out from under Yeonjun’s touch to raise himself on his arms, to let his eyes wander down Yeonjun’s body indulgently. “Indeed. An incredible omega to snatch out from under everyone’s noses.”

And Yeonjun lifts his hands away from his body to put it on display, and his heart beats hard in his chest. “An incredible omega for you to snatch out from under his.”

Beomgyu looks at him strangely, something calculating about his eyes, then hums, and leans over to kiss him. “I seem to be talented at snatching omega hearts.”

Yeonjun pets his cheek, not allowing him to move back away. “You do. Miyeon and Dayeon both seem quite taken with you.”

It makes Beomgyu smile genuinely, which makes Yeonjun smile back. “I am, after all, delightful company.”

He presses his thumb against the tip of Beomgyu’s nose, watches him scrunch it in return. “You are.”

“Oh, you must be in love with me, Your Grace, to reply this way so easily.”

“I am.”

And Beomgyu’s lips split with a wide smile, and so do Yeonjun’s, and their teeth clack together in their happy eagerness to press their lips together again. And Yeonjun is warm and content.

 

.

 

The fourth day of heat, Yeonjun feels too aware of himself again. He still takes his husband dutifully, but he barely enjoys it, he rests on his knot calmly without squirming, he cleans himself off before Beomgyu even comes to knock on the door, and he does not urge Taehyun to keep touching him, and Taehyun does not try in return. Yeonjun runs his hands over his own legs as if only now regaining feeling in them, rebraids his hair, tries to think about important things, about political moves and manipulating the public opinion at the court, about lords and ladies and things that are not his body and the things it wants.

Pushing it down is like a familiar, painful exercise. It feels like tracing a scar he has had his whole life. Perhaps he is wrong to try and do so again. To look away from his alpha while they are sharing a nest. To wander elsewhere with his mind.

But he knows why he does so – people like them are scarcely afforded rest. Especially in times like these.

Beomgyu knocks and strides in without waiting to be invited, and on the tray he brings with him on this day is a painted carafe and two cups.

“Wine?” Taehyun asks before Yeonjun can.

“Yes,” Beomgyu confirms in a curt, prim voice as he sets the tray down and looks between the two of them. “I believe you may need it.”

The two of them exchange looks. Yeonjun draws his legs up, curling up defensively on instinct. Taehyun’s shoulders lower tiredly, and his scent takes on a slight stale note.

“What is it now?”

Beomgyu unstacks the cups he brought, and pours two modest cups of wine. “A delegation from the Imperial Court is on their way here, they say. Sent by the Imperial Prince Kang Jeongyul.”

Taehyun’s jaw sets, and he huffs through his nose. “Uncle’s lapdog, coming to see if we lied about the heat.”

Yeonjun clenches his hands into fists. “But we did not, so we have nothing to fear.”

Taehyun gives Beomgyu a long look. “Do they know who is coming?”

Beomgyu shakes his head. His hands are folded in his lap, palms up, polite. He looks the best composed out of all of them. “They were not announced. Only their benefactor.”

Then Taehyun looks to Yeonjun again. “If it is my cousin—”

Yeonjun looks a him sharply. “Does she not have better places to be? She is the heir apparent now.”

Taehyun tilts his head. “Than wherever you are, smelling of heat and surely wanting for an alpha? Perhaps not.”

He purses his lips. “If you want her friendship, Taehyun, perhaps you should stop assuming the worst of her.”

His husband clicks his tongue and looks away, but he does not argue back.

“Jealousy does not become you, little prince,” Beomgyu says teasingly, and smiles in the face of the frown Taehyun sends his way.

“Are you not bothered?” he asks, studying Beomgyu’s face through his veil.

Beomgyu inclines his head slightly. “Believe it or not, prince, but I do not feel particularly threatened by any alpha. I do not believe one would be a suitable substitution for me – surely you would understand why.”

Taehyun’s arms flex, the only motion he allows his body at all. “Then you would understand why I would be.”

Even through the veil, Beomgyu’s delight is palpable. “Because you feel replaceable? Do you truly worry your wife would abandon you for your cousin?”

The alpha’s lips waver. “No…” he replies, but he does not sound sure of himself. Then he shakes his head. “It is not about what my wife wants. Just the thought of her wanting him disgusts me.”

Beomgyu lifts his chin, and his veil molds against it, catches on the curve of his lips. “Are my fingers not worth as much as a cock would be in your mind, then?”

It is a good point, but Yeonjun hates the sound of it regardless. How should Beomgyu desiring him be any different from an alpha doing so? Is Beomgyu’s love or his desire any less real?

“Can you push a child into someone with them, Omega Beomgyu?”

And Beomgyu’s lips part on a laugh. “Try as I might, I have not managed yet, prince. Perhaps I must simply try harder.”

“Perhaps you should,” Taehyun shoots back, then, to everyone’s surprise, rises to his feet, suddenly too tall in the nest. “I should go prepare for their arrival.”

Yeonjun blinks at him, uncomprehending. “You mean to leave? Completely?”

Taehyun nods, firm, decisive. Unhesitating. “While Omega Beomgyu makes his valiant effort.”

Beomgyu snorts – when Yeonjun looks at him, his eyes are still solely on Taehyun. On the prince. “Are you scared you will learn something?”

“I worry my uncle’s spy might. I have left this household a mess before we came here. Perhaps that is what they were hoping for – to catch me unawares, buried up to my chin in omega while they make their move.”

“And you are not?” Beomgyu sounds terribly amused.

Taehyun looks at Yeonjun, who clenches his jaw immediately in case his chin was trembling. “Must I be?”

And Yeonjun shakes his head side to side without thinking about it. Before he has time to feel any sort of way about it.

“There it is, then,” Taehyun offers Beomgyu, a little mocking. Where he developed this affect, Yeonjun is still not sure.

Beomgyu pouts his lips. “I will hold your wife for you then, prince. If you insist.”

And Yeonjun holds his breath, some petulant, childish part of him wanting to hold it forever if his husband does not remember to kiss him goodbye on his way out. He would starve himself of air, waiting for what he is owed. But he does not have to. His husband kneels before him, presses a kiss to his lips and a wrist to his neck, and Yeonjun does the same to him.

They look at each other, then, and Yeonjun sees Taehyun hesitate. Sees him waver, notices the apprehension in his eyes.

He says, “Be brave.” and Taehyun begins to say, “I would ask you to kiss me for courage,” but he never reaches the end, cut off by Yeonjun doing exactly that. And he repeats, “Be brave.” and strokes a thumb over his alpha’s cheek.

And his husband looks at him tenderly, then looks away, and the prince stands up, straight-backed and regal despite his state of undress, and slips through the curtain on the other side from where Beomgyu is still sitting by his tray of wine. Before Taehyun can stride past him, though, Beomgyu extends it to him, which gives him pause.

“For courage,” Beomgyu explains, a mocking little lilt to his voice.

Taehyun takes it, and drinks it down without their eyes ever leaving each other’s. Then he sets it firmly back in Beomgyu’s palm, and leaves through the door. Beomgyu looks after him with a small smile on his lips. He watches the door to the hallway until they hear a fainter, second sound of doors opening, and only then does Beomgyu shift his smile to Yeonjun.

“Fool,” he quips, then picks up the second cup of wine and drinks it himself.